Clofoel of Tranquility: Excuse me, but I had talked to him by order of the radiant Sovereigns!
Lady Galadriel: Lord Cereborn, do you see the kind of interesting picture you get when your information comes from not one, but two independent and not too friendly sources?
Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, you’re right, but I’m a little confused… This idea that the clofoel of Tranquility is connected to those… those living dead – it’s just a joke, right?
Lady Galadriel: I do wish that it turn out to be a joke. Our first priority, then, is to destroy Dol Guldur immediately, before they get ready…
Clofoel of Might: O radiant Lady, I will burn out that snake nest!
Lady Galadriel: I seem to remember that you and Lord Cereborn have already burned it out not three months ago… No, I have other, more important plans for you. I will deal with Dol Guldur myself this time: we have to knock down its walls once and for all – then it may work. Besides, I would really like to capture one of those beasties of Aragorn’s alive. How many people man that fake fortress, clofoel of Tranquility?
Clofoel of Tranquility: A few dozen, o radiant Lady, I can check…
Lady Galadriel: There’s no need. Turn a thousand warriors over to my command, clofoel of Might, I’m leaving immediately. As for all of you… Clofoels of Tranquility and the World are to continue their joint investigation; I find that their cooperative work is producing excellent results, keep it up. The dancers and the clofoel of Stars are to continue looking for the magical object that had been dropped on Caras Galadhon, but only together with the Guards, lest the finder decide to study its magical properties alone. As for you, clofoel of Might, you will remain in charge here and watch over all of them: those are really children who may set the house on fire while Mama is away. For example, clofoel of Tranquility shouldn’t play soldier with his beloved Border Guard, the clofoel of Stars shouldn’t preen before my Mirror, the clofoel of the World… do you understand me, clofoel of Might?
Clofoel of Might: How could I not, o radiant Lady?! I know these scheming troublemakers like the back of my hand!
Lord Cereborn: What about me, Lady?
Lady Galadriel: You, Lord Cereborn, are to represent Lórien’s supreme power, as usuaclass="underline" show yourself to people, sign royal proclamations, and all that…
Chapter 63
Mirkwood, south of Dol Guldur
July 31, 3019
The rain seemed endless. Fall-like cold drizzle hung in the air for three straight days; when thunder rolled, it seemed like the gods leisurely kicking water out of an enormous mattress hanging almost all the way down to earth. Over the last three days the little creek that Grizzly’s company had just run up against had turned into a raging river tossing small stones in its path. While six men were rigging a suspended rope bridge to ferry over the seriously wounded, the rest of the soldiers stood motionlessly on the bank. Icy rivulets ran down their tired faces, turning sweaty clothing into ice packs and steadily eroding whatever fighting spirit they had left. Running, standing still, and icy chills – a winning combination.
Grizzly looked at the taut rope suspending the first of the helpless wounded on chest and waist harnesses, then at the ford where crossing horsemen fought the current, kicking up coffee-colored water, and once again clenched his teeth. Rotten luck – he had not expected to spend nearly an hour crossing this creek, what with Elves already breathing down their necks. Most of his men were still desperately fighting at Dol Guldur, their only task to preoccupy the main forces of the Elvish army that had invaded Mirkwood the day before yesterday. Grizzly himself, having miraculously slipped through the tightening noose of the besiegers with a column of Mordorian and Isengardian engineers in his keep, was now going south along the highway with all possible haste, concurrently diverting the Elvish pursuit from Wolverine, who was escaping alone with papers in his backpack – what of the Weapon Monastery archives they had not yet sent down. Grizzly’s entire plan hinged on the Elves’ sending only a small contingent to chase them, one they would be able to repulse once joined to Aragorn’s forces guarding the Brown Lands portion of the highway against the real Mordorians. Everything was going all right until they ran into this damned creek… time, they were running out of time! Grizzly stood hidden by the mossy trunk of a Mirkwood fir, expecting to see silent shadows in gray-green camouflage cloaks flit through the trees at any second. Actually, he was not likely to see anything – his last experience would be a short whistle of an Elvish arrow.
“Lieutenant, sir!” One of his subordinates showed up by his side. “The escorted persons and personnel are all across. Your turn.”
That was fast, Grizzly congratulated himself; then he froze, looking at the raging river and treacherous water-slick boulders on its banks with a new, appreciative look. Well, Firstborn, just you wait – betcha we’ll get all the lost time back with interest.
“Sergeant!”
“Yes, sir?”
“How many steel crossbows do we have?..”
…Lord Ereborn and his troop reached the creek about half an hour after Grizzly’s company disappeared in the rain on its other side. For about ten minutes the Elvish lookouts spread around behind the trees and studied the opposite bank, seeing nothing. Then a volunteer, one Edoret, his sword tied up on his back, carefully entered the stream and picked his way forward between eddies and rapids, expecting a shot at any second. When the water reached the middle of his thighs, he got swept off his feet, but the Elf could swim like an otter; having luckily escaped the gauntlet of boulders, he soon reached a small backwater under the opposite bank, where large heads of yellowish foam piled up between the branches of semi-submerged willows strung with grassy debris. Edoret got out of the water, waved to his friends and halted, figuring the best way to get through the boulders without breaking his neck; the lookouts caught their breath and put their bows down – it looked safe. The field manual of any army in any world demands that the scout be given time to ascertain the situation, but Ereborn was in a hurry to catch his prey before dark and decided to save on the precautions. Five Elves followed Edoret at his sign.
When they were about knee-deep in the water, the loud call of a blue jay sounded over the creek, and at that signal a crossbow volley hit from the other side. Three Elves were either killed immediately or grievously wounded, drowned, and carried away by the stream; the fourth had his shoulder shattered but managed to get out of the water and limp back into the trees; the fifth fared worst of all – the bolt hit him through the gut and stuck in the spine, leaving him sprawled at the water’s edge. Time seemed to stop for Edoret, trapped on the enemy side: the scout had a brief moment to spy out the crossbowmen hidden higher on the slope, even managing to count them (six), and soberly figured out the time it would take him to unlimber his bound-up sword and close in on the enemy, slipping on the slick boulders all along the way. He then made the only appropriate decision: dived back into the river and let the stream carry him away. The bolt that sped after him only dinged the top of a water- polished boulder, leaving a whitish scar smelling of singed chicken and immediately obliterated by the rain.