an aristocrat – dependability, of a kind different from, say, Tzerlag’s, but quite certain all the same.
Being of the third estate, Haladdin had always had a lukewarm view of aristocracy. He could never understand how one could be proud not of the actual achievements of one’s ancestors, whether in work or war, but rather of how far one could trace their genealogy, especially since most of those “noble knights” had been nothing but (to call a spade a spade) lucky and ruthless highway robbers, murder their trade and betrayal their calling. Besides, the doctor had despised idlers since childhood. Still, he felt subconsciously that were the useless and immoral aristocracy to disappear, the world would irretrievably lose some of its color; most likely it would become more just, perhaps more clean, but for sure more dull, and that alone is worth something! After all, he himself was part of a brotherhood much more exclusive than any based on heredity; Haladdin knew with absolute certainty that he had been knighted by Someone much more powerful than the King of the Reunited Kingdom or the Caliph of Khand. Isn’t it strange that almost nobody realizes how undemocratic science and art are by their very nature …
The sergeant interrupted his musings by suggesting they draw for the first watch. A small desert owl drifted like a giant feather some fifteen feet over their heads, its mournful hoot reminding all the good children to go to bed already. “You crash, guys,” Haladdin offered, “I’m going to clean up, too.” Actually, this whole evening – with a fire, however well concealed, and no sentry for a while – was a major security lapse. However, Tzerlag had judged the risk to be very small, since the search for Eloar had been called off and Elvish patrols do not stray far from the highway otherwise. After all, people have to relax sometime; constant vigilance can backfire, too.
The fire had died down in the meantime – salsolas produce almost no embers, turning directly into ash – and Haladdin put Tzerlag’s ‘Khandian’ bowl into the brewing pot and took it down to the stream to wash up. He had already put the clean pot down on the shore gravel and was warming fingers numb from icy water with his breath when quick flickers on the surrounding boulders told him that the fire was building up again. Who’s still up? – he wondered, – can’t see anything against the firelight … The black silhouette by the fire was motionless, its hands stretched towards the quickly rising orange flames. The circle of light widened smoothly, illuminating their piled packs, Tangorn’s crutches leaning against a boulder, and both sleeping forms … Both?! So who’s sitting by the fire? Suddenly the doctor realized something else: he had gone on his twenty-yard dishwashing mission without any weapons. No weapons at all, which probably had just doomed his sleeping friends.
The person sitting by the fire turned unhurriedly towards the hapless sentry and made a commanding beckoning gesture. It was clear as day that had he so desired, all three of them would have been dead by now. Haladdin made his way back to the fire in a kind of a daze, sat down opposite the black-cloaked intruder – and caught his breath as if hit with a body blow: the closely drawn cowl concealed nothing but emptiness, with two dim scarlet embers gazing intently at him from the inside. He was facing a nazgúl.
CHAPTER 15
T he Nazgúl! An ancient magical order, ever surrounded by most dire rumor. Black wraiths supposedly in touch with the highest powers of Mordor; the miracles ascribed to them were such as no serious person would ever believe. Nor had Haladdin believed that, but now a nazgúl was here for his soul … Having said that common phrase in his mind, he almost bit his tongue. Despite being a skeptic and a rationalist, Haladdin had nevertheless always understood clearly that some things are better left untouched, lest one lose his fingers
Being of the third estate, Haladdin had always had a lukewarm view of aristocracy. He could never understand how one could be proud not of the actual achievements of one’s ancestors, whether in work or war, but rather of how far one could trace their genealogy, especially since most of those “noble knights” had been nothing but (to call a spade a spade) lucky and ruthless highway robbers, murder their trade and betrayal their calling. Besides, the doctor had despised idlers since childhood. Still, he felt subconsciously that were the useless and immoral aristocracy to disappear, the world would irretrievably lose some of its color; most likely it would become more just, perhaps more clean, but for sure more dull, and that alone is worth something! After all, he himself was part of a brotherhood much more exclusive than any based on heredity; Haladdin knew with absolute certainty that he had been knighted by Someone much more powerful than the King of the Reunited Kingdom or the Caliph of Khand. Isn’t it strange that almost nobody realizes how undemocratic science and art are by their very nature …
The sergeant interrupted his musings by suggesting they draw for the first watch. A small desert owl drifted like a giant feather some fifteen feet over their heads, its mournful hoot reminding all the good children to go to bed already. “You crash, guys,” Haladdin offered, “I’m going to clean up, too.” Actually, this whole evening – with a fire, however well concealed, and no sentry for a while – was a major security lapse. However, Tzerlag had judged the risk to be very small, since the search for Eloar had been called off and Elvish patrols do not stray far from the highway otherwise. After all, people have to relax sometime; constant vigilance can backfire, too.
The fire had died down in the meantime – salsolas produce almost no embers, turning directly into ash – and Haladdin put Tzerlag’s ‘Khandian’ bowl into the brewing pot and took it down to the stream to wash up. He had already put the clean pot down on the shore gravel and was warming fingers numb from icy water with his breath when quick flickers on the surrounding boulders told him that the fire was building up again. Who’s still up? – he wondered, – can’t see anything against the firelight … The black silhouette by the fire was motionless, its hands stretched towards the quickly rising orange flames. The circle of light widened smoothly, illuminating their piled packs, Tangorn’s crutches leaning against a boulder, and both sleeping forms … Both?! So who’s sitting by the fire? Suddenly the doctor realized something else: he had gone on his twenty-yard dishwashing mission without any weapons. No weapons at all, which probably had just doomed his sleeping friends.
The person sitting by the fire turned unhurriedly towards the hapless sentry and made a commanding beckoning gesture. It was clear as day that had he so desired, all three of them would have been dead by now. Haladdin made his way back to the fire in a kind of a daze, sat down opposite the black-cloaked intruder – and caught his breath as if hit with a body blow: the closely drawn cowl concealed nothing but emptiness, with two dim scarlet embers gazing intently at him from the inside. He was facing a nazgúl.
CHAPTER 15
T he Nazgúl! An ancient magical order, ever surrounded by most dire rumor. Black wraiths supposedly in touch with the highest powers of Mordor; the miracles ascribed to them were such as no serious person would ever believe. Nor had Haladdin believed that, but now a nazgúl was here for his soul … Having said that common phrase in his mind, he almost bit his tongue. Despite being a skeptic and a rationalist, Haladdin had nevertheless always understood clearly that some things are better left untouched, lest one lose his fingers
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