The Last Ringbearer by Kirill Yeskov

covering over thirty miles with a non-walking wounded? … The baron, revived somewhat by a couple of good draughts of Elvish wine, interrupted his thoughts: “Sergeant, a minute of your time? Please examine the Elf.”
    “Whatever for?” The scout was surprised. “I’ve already checked – dead as a snake skin.”
    “That’s not what I mean. I keep thinking about that leather breastplate of his that a sword can’t pierce. Please check whether there’s anything special under it.”
    Tzerlag grunted, but got up from his task and went over to the dead body. Taking out his scimitar, he stuck the blade under the bottom edge of the Elf’s armor and cut it open in one movement from crotch to neck, as if gutting a large fish.
    “Hey, look, a coat of mail! Real strange, too, never saw one like that …”
    “Seems to glow a little, right?”
    “Right. Did you know or did you guess just now?”
    “Had I known it, I wouldn’t have bought his open body trick,” Tangorn grumbled. “It’s mithril . I couldn’t possibly pierce that mail, nor can anyone else in Middle Earth.”
    Tzerlag cast a sharp look towards the baron, a pro saluting a pro. Haladdin came up, helped the sergeant take the precious scaly skin off the dead Elf and examined it closely. Indeed, the metal was slightly phosphorescent, resembling a blob of moonlight, and warm to the touch. The mithril mail-coat weighed about a pound and was so thin that it could be rolled into an orange-sized ball; when it accidentally spilled from his fingers and pooled in a silver puddle at his feet, he thought that it would be impossible to find on a moonlit night.
    “And here I’ve thought that mithril was a legend.”
    “Well, it’s not, as you can see. I think you can buy half of Minas Tirith and all of Edoras to boot with one such mail-shirt. There’s no more than twenty in the entire Middle Earth and there’ll be no more, the secret is lost.”
    “So why did he hide it under that leather fake?”
    The scout responded for Tangorn: “Because only an idiot shows his trumps. Uruk-Hai the Great’s principle: if you’re weak, show strength to the foe; if you’re strong, show weakness.”
    “Right,” the baron nodded, “and don’t forget the Easterlings. Had those carrion-eaters known about the mithril mail, they’d’ve cut his throat the first night and fled south – to Umbar, say – to become rich men there. Provided they didn’t waste each other dividing the loot, of course.”
    The sergeant gave a gloomy whistle. “Hot damn! So this Eloar really was some kinda Elvish big shot. Which means that the Elves will turn over every stone on the hamada and sift every dune looking for our band, and spare neither time nor effort …”
    He clearly pictured how it would be done, having played the role of both hunter and hunted in many a dragnet search. Most likely they’ll gather at least a hundred fifty foot soldiers and riders for the task, or however many can be found on this stretch of the highway. The mounted soldiers will first block the way to Morgai and form a half-circle against the unapproachable edge of the hamada , while the foot soldiers will move in a dragnet from the destroyed camp, checking every desert rat hole. With this approach they won’t even need experienced trackers, the superior numbers will be enough, as usual. The whole gang will be based at the nearest outpost, the only place with a large enough well; the commander’s headquarters will be there, too …
    Tzerlag knew that ‘outpost’ well – a caravanserai abandoned together with the entire old Núrnen Highway after the irrigators’ efforts had turned the Western Nürnenlands into dead salt pans. It was a large square building of clay bricks surrounded by all sorts of adobe outbuildings, with the ruins of the old caravanserai, knocked down by an earthquake, in the back, overgrown with thorn bush and serge … Wait a minute – those ruins will be the last place they’ll think of