The Last Ringbearer by Kirill Yeskov Page B

weapons to Tangorn’s books – and bury it carefully, noting landmarks. Then to prepare his own pack – water, rations, warm cloaks, weapons – and stash it on the hamada . Now for the most important task.
    Tzerlag’s idea, inspired unexpectedly by Haladdin’s outburst, was as follows: suppose that Eloar had not perished in the attack, but ran off into the desert and got lost? That would be quite likely – an Elf in a desert is like an Orocuen in a forest – and his comrades would first and foremost search for their prince (or whoever he was), and only then for the guerillas who wasted six Easterling mercenaries (no big loss). He now had to turn this preposterous supposition into certain fact.
    He took moccasins off the Elf’s feet and picked up the cut-up leather breastplate; noticed a simple silver ring on the corpse’s left hand and pocketed that, too, just in case. Then he dug a pit about two feet deep, put the corpse there and covered it with carefully smoothed sand. By itself this is a lame trick unless you create an illusion that the sand could not possibly have been disturbed. For that, we need another dead body, preferably with minimum damage; the sentry killed by Haladdin’s arrow will do just fine. Carefully Tzerlag carried the body to the spot where he hid the Elf, slit the Easterling’s throat from ear to ear and drained the blood the way hunters do with big game; then he lowered the body into the pool of blood and arranged it in a natural-looking way. It now looks obvious that the mercenary died on this spot; a normal person is not very likely to look for a body right under another one, in blood-soaked sand, unless he knows exactly what to look for.
    All right, half the job is done – the real Elf has disappeared, and now he will acquire a very much alive and fleet-footed double. The Orocuen changed into the Elf’s moccasins (damn, how can they wear such boots, without a proper hard sole!) and ran south along the foot of the dune, trying to leave good tracks where the ground was harder. He had donned the Elf’s slit breastplate like a vest and carried his own indispensable desert boots in his hands. About a mile and a half from the camp the sergeant halted; he had never been a good runner, and now his heart was pounding somewhere near the throat, trying to escape. The distance was already adequate; the ‘Elf’ will now move onto the hamada , where he will leave no tracks. The scout dropped Eloar’s leather armor about fifteen paces beyond the spot where the tracks ended; this would serve to confirm both the fugitive’s identity and, indirectly, his course (south).
    Stop and think again, he said to himself. Perhaps it’s best not to leave the breastplate here at all – too obvious. All right, what would I do if I were him? I am a fugitive who’s unsure of where to go next; looks like I’ve lost my pursuers, but now I’ll have to wander in this terrible desert for who knows how long, and it’s scarier than any human foe. It’s high time to ditch everything I can to lighten the load; this thing is not that useful anyway, if I survive I can buy another one of these in any armor shop … Sounds reasonable? Yes, quite. Why did I take it off now rather than earlier? Just had no time when fleeing, but now I’ve stopped, looked around … Sounds reasonable? Sure does. And why is it sliced like that? Because it won’t be the friendlies that find it, but rather the enemies who’re hunting me; by the way, they’re almost certainly tracking me, so it’s high time to move from sand onto gravel. Sounds reasonable? Yeah … Anyway, never think the enemy stupid, but don’t assume that they’re geniuses, either.
    He was almost ready for the sprint back – changed into his boots and chewed a bitter cola nut – when his gaze fell on the breastplate lying on the stones of the hamada like a cracked eggshell, and realization of an almost-made mistake drenched him in cold sweat. An eggshell – how did