Elven Blade
Nick Perumov
Ring of Darkness
PART ONE
Chapter One. HOBBIT AND DWARF
Chapter Two. IN SEARCH OF A PONY
Chapter Three. WHAT'S AROUND THE BEND?
Chapter Four. BREE-LAND LESSONS
Chapter Five. ROGVOLD
Chapter Six. IN THE BARROW-DOWNS AND BEYOND
Chapter Seven. THREE ON THE ROAD
Chapter Eight. NORTHERN CAPITAL
Chapter Nine. A SMALL DWARF AND MUCH MORE
Chapter Ten. THE STEWARD
Chapter Eleven. "THE SHEATH OF ANDARIL"
Chapter Twelve. THE OLD CHRONICLER
Chapter Thirteen. THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY
PART TWO
Chapter One. THE SOUTHERN ROAD
Chapter Two. THE EMPTY LANDS
Chapter Three. THE GATES OF MORIA
Chapter Four. KHAZAD-DÛM
Chapter Five. THE HORN OF DURIN
Chapter Six. WOLF'S STONE
Chapter Seven. ISENGARD
Chapter Eight. THE SEA-FOLK
Chapter Nine. THE WIND OFANGMAR
Nick Perumov
ELVEN BLADE
The Ring of Darkness - Book One
The West will tremble, and the East will tremble.
Power, Power in the Hand.
Nine Stars - a Blue Flower,
A Blue Flower on the Blade.
PART ONE
Chapter One. HOBBIT AND DWARF
Towards evening, the clouds that had covered the whole sky unexpectedly parted, and the scarlet solar disk, as if into a feather bed, sank into the thickening mists that merged at the horizon with light, airy clouds. Against the crimson, the sharp black peaks of the Lunar Mountains were clearly silhouetted. The short hour of summer hobbit evenings was approaching, when the long day had not yet fully given way to twilight, but the outlines of objects had already acquired an inexplicable, mysterious vagueness: a tree appears as a strange beast, a bush as a dwarf hunched over in three deaths, and the distant forest seems like a beautiful elven castle. Even the evening cries of the roosters become softer and more melodious.
A light silvery mist reigned over the recently harvested fields. Spilling out of the lowlands and ravines, it spread around, turning the lonely standing hundred-year-old oaks into dark islands in the middle of a whitish ghostly sea. In the windows of the farms scattered here and there, the lights gradually went out - the owners were going to bed. An owl hooted, the swift shadow of a nightjar flashed. The gates on the Brandywine Bridge were locked. To the south, in Buckland, a hobbit watchman with a bow and a full quiver of arrows climbed the high watchtower in the courtyard of Brandy Hall. Adjusting the signal horn at his belt, he began to pace the watch platform, fenced with thick logs. A few miles to the east, the solid wall of the Old Forest, stretching far to the south and east, loomed gloomily. The watchman wrapped himself tighter in his woolen cloak and leaned on the railing, peering into the distance, which was rapidly being swallowed by the twilight. Behind the first trees of the Forest, the clearing of the Fire-break was still visible, but it too was quickly being filled with twilight. The autumn-bright stars appeared in the sky.
The watchman on the tower turned around, suddenly hearing light steps in the courtyard of the estate. A small figure, even by the small hobbit standards, slipped out of the side door, opened the stable gate and immediately darted inside. Soon the hobbit led out a saddled pony, mounted it and slowly trotted towards the road leading north. The fog quickly swallowed him.
"Well, it's a common thing, this crazy guy is wandering around at night again! - The watchman grinned and spat. - He's completely lost his mind with these fairy tales!.. He's read the Red Book, and there you have it... What, the laurels of Meriadoc the Great give him no peace? How many years have passed: it must be three centuries... And old Bilbo, and his nephew, Frodo, have gone beyond the Sea... What now? And the elves have sailed away, they say, and the dwarves have disappeared somewhere... Even people avoid us... What's wrong with him?"
The watchman's thoughts flowed slowly, lazily, like the tedious watch itself, left over from past times...
The pony trotted slowly along the well-trodden, long-known road. But was it known? The night with a powerful hand had washed away the everyday colors, giving for a time a different guise to every object and every living creature. Gnarled branches stretch out predatorily from both sides towards the rider, like snakes, trying to grab his shoulders, to pull him out of the saddle... A bush grows before his eyes, unfolds, swells - no doubt a shadow with a lantern in a disembodied, fleshless hand will now appear from the green depths. One must be able to answer. On the hobbit's belt hung a treasured Gondorian blade, taken in secret from his elders - the very one that the Great Meriadoc himself had worn. With such a weapon, there was nothing to fear - any evil spirit should flee at the mere sight of it.
Tock-tock, tock-tock. The darkness thickens; the shadows along the road line up in long rows. It seems to the hobbit that he recognizes them. Here - is it not a slender elf-warrior waving a welcoming hand to him? Or is it not a cheerful dwarf leaning on a heavy battle-axe, carelessly smoking a pipe over there?..
The hobbit had long since dropped the reins, and the pony was wandering on its own... There was nothing better than these lonely walks on summer nights, when old fairy tales and legends come to life, when you expect an attack at any moment, when your hand itself reaches for the hilt...
Under the spreading elms, the road made a sharp turn. This was the most terrible place. To the left, through the thickets, the ghostly gleam of a deep, dark pond, surrounded by a dense willow grove, broke through. Night birds always gathered here: their strange, unfamiliar to the hobbit's ear voices were especially loud. But for the hobbit frozen in the saddle, this was the jeering retinue of the Nine whistling and hooting, announcing their imminent appearance. The hobbit closed his eyes and imagined them: black horses, as if woven from darkness, in dense blinders - inside them a magical fire burns, their gazes must not be let out - they race, race through the night, the wind tears the black cloaks of the Riders, long pale swords, from which there is neither protection nor salvation, beat against their hips, empty eye sockets burn with frantic, inhuman malice, and their sense of smell greedily seeks the scent of fresh blood... In a moment the retinue will fall silent, the thickets will part silently, and the hobbit will find himself face to face with the Leader of the Black Riders. It's scary and tempting! Tempting because deep down the hobbit knew that nothing of the sort would happen, the bushes would remain motionless, and, having calmly passed this place, he would turn back to get enough sleep before a difficult day full of household chores. There would be the usual measured life, in which everything is known in advance and nothing will change and cannot change...
The pony suddenly snorted and stopped. In the moonlit gap between the trunks, a stocky figure appeared, two heads taller than the hobbit. The unknown person was wrapped in a thick cloak, so that only the hand with a long staff, held out to the side, was visible.
The hobbit's hair stood on end. A heart-chilling terror seized him, his voice failed, the cry died on his lips... The unknown person took a step forward. The pony backed away, jerked - and the hobbit, having lost his balance, rolled into the roadside grass. A hurried clatter of hooves was heard - the pony was nimbly running away wherever it could. Forgetting everything in the world, the hobbit rolled over onto his stomach and jumped up, drawing his sword. (How many times in his little room had he proudly drawn it from its scabbard, imagining that he was fighting an orc or a troll!) The weapon gleamed dimly, giving the hobbit courage.
Hey, buddy! Have you eaten henbane? Put away the blade! - a calm, slightly guttural voice came from the darkness.
- Don't come near! - the hobbit squealed, retreating and holding the sword in front of him.
- Stand still! I'll strike a fire now. - The unknown person bent down, picking up something on the side of the road. - Put away your dagger!.. By the way, where did you get it? A wavy pattern... a hilt with a catch... A Gondorian one, I suppose?
Something clicked dryly, flashed, and a thin tongue of living fire appeared. The flame quickly grew, illuminating the face of the stranger, who had finally thrown back his hood. The hobbit breathed a sigh of relief. A dwarf! A real dwarf, exactly as they are described in the Red Book! Stocky, broad-shouldered. a ruddy face framed by a thick beard, a potato nose... A heavy battle-axe at his patterned wide belt, a pickaxe strapped to his back.
- So you're a dwarf? - The hobbit calmed down a little, but did not lower his sword. - Where are you from? Where are you going? What are you looking for?
He continued to back away, and the hard branches of a roadside bush poked him in the back of the head.
- I'm coming from the Lunar Mountains. - The dwarf was fussing with the fire, adding dry twigs to the flames. - I'm looking for new ore veins. Now I'm walking through your Hobbiton, I was in Hobbiton, in Delving, now I'm going to Buckland... They pointed me to the Brandybuck estate from the other side, they say you can spend the night there...
- And why couldn't they put you up? - the hobbit wondered, sheathing his sword.
The fear passed, leaving curiosity and a vague disappointment: just a dwarf... However, even dwarves had almost stopped visiting Hobbiton now.
- The "Golden Pestle" is packed, - the dwarf replied.
- So what are we standing here for? - the hobbit suddenly remembered. - Let's go, I live in that very estate. You'll spend the night, and tomorrow you can go wherever you want. Let's go! It's not far... True, the pony ran away, what a nuisance. Now I have to look for it...
- So you're a Brandybuck? - The dwarf suddenly stood up and looked at the hobbit with sharp interest. - Well, let's get acquainted. Thorin, son of Dart, and I'm from the south of the Lunar Mountains.
- Folco, Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast, - at your service. - The hobbit bowed ceremoniously, and the dwarf answered him with an even lower bow. - We'll go now, - said the dwarf. He carefully stamped out the fire he had just so painstakingly built, then threw a heavy bag over his back and walked next to the hobbit along the road, which was once again plunged into darkness. Only now it did not seem to the hobbit either exciting or dangerous... They were silent. Thorin was the first to break the silence: - Tell me, Folco, is it true that one of the three copies of the famous Red Book is kept in your Brandy Hall?
- It's true, - the young hobbit answered, somewhat puzzled. - Both it, and much more...
He suddenly broke off, remembering his uncle Paladin's warnings: "Don't tell anyone that we have many manuscripts brought by the Great Meriadoc from Rohan and Gondor!" His uncle never explained why it was necessary to do so; he usually confirmed the weight of his words with a resounding slap on the back of the head.
- And much more what? Is that what you wanted to say? - the dwarf picked up, looking the hobbit in the face. The latter involuntarily turned away.
- Well, something like that, - he grumbled reluctantly. - Tell me, have you read these books? - the dwarf persisted.
Now not only Thorin's gaze, but also his voice revealed his extreme interest in Folco.
The hobbit hesitated. Tell this strange dwarf everything? Tell him that he was the only one who had entered the Library in the last seven years? Tell him how he spent nights on end, bent over ancient folios, trying to understand the events of an unimaginably distant past? Tell him that he had earned a bad reputation as a hobbit "not of this world"? No, not now, and it's somehow awkward to say such a thing to a stranger...
They approached the gates of the estate. The pony had not yet appeared.
"Tomorrow I'll have to climb through the ravines and fields, looking for that fool," the hobbit thought gloomily, "and they'll pull my ears too..."
He became quite sad.
- Folco, is that you? - the watchman's voice was heard. - Where did you put the pony, you scoundrel?! Who else is with you?
Folco pushed the gate and entered, paying no attention to the shout. However, Thorin stopped and, bowing politely, said, addressing the indistinct figure on top of the watchtower:
- Thorin, son of Dart, a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains, - at your service. I ask your kind permission to spend the night under this hospitable roof, known far beyond the borders of your beautiful country! Have mercy on a tired traveler, do not leave him under the open sky!
- Don't pay any attention to him! - Folco hissed, grabbing the dwarf's hand. - Go, and that's it, before he raises the whole house! Come on!
- Hey, Krol, what's wrong with you? - Folco shouted to the watchman. - He's with me, and everything's fine. I hope your pipe doesn't go out while you're talking! The hobbit resolutely pulled the dwarf across the courtyard. - I'll tell my uncle everything tomorrow! Tomorrow my uncle will know everything! - the offended Krol wailed. - He'll show you...
But at that moment the hobbit and his strange companion had already disappeared into the depths of the huge labyrinth of the estate. The watchman cursed, spat... and then adjusted the straw mattress, settled himself comfortably on it, and soon the watch platform was filled with sweet snoring.
Along the long corridors, Folco and Thorin passed countless low doors to the western part of the estate. The log cabins clinging to the slopes of the hill in three tiers hung over the bank of the Brandywine, forming something like a honeycomb. Unmarried young people usually settled here until they had families.
Folco pushed open one of the doors, and they entered a small room with two round windows overlooking the river. Having seated the guest in a deep armchair by the fireplace and fanned the fire, Folco bustled about, setting the table.
In the sooty fireplace, red tongues of flame danced, illuminating the walls, a small bed, a table, and - books. Books occupied all the free space - they filled the corners, lay under the bed, were piled on the mantelpiece. Old, heavy folios in leather bindings...
Folco brought bread, cheese, ham, butter, greens, boiled a kettle and got an opened bottle of red wine from a hiding place somewhere. The dwarf ate hastily, and Folco, so as not to disturb the guest, turned to the window.
The ghostly moonlight flooded the low banks of the Brandywine, the water rolled in a gloomy black mass, in which, it seemed, even the reflections of the stars drowned. On the other bank, the sharp peaks of the trees of the Forest Domain rose, a lantern flickered faintly at the pier. Folco opened the window, and the voices of the night burst into the room: the barely audible splash of the river, the rustle of the coastal reeds, the light but continuous hum of the wind in thousands of crowns that were now living their own special, nocturnal life. And as always at such moments, the hobbit was seized by a sharp, incomprehensible longing for something unusual, wonderful, fabulous...
He imagined how Bilbo and Frodo had gone on their famous journeys; probably, they stood just like that at the window open to the night and peered into the surrounding twilight, - and in the courtyard, dwarves or hobbit friends were already waiting, and there were only a few hours left until dawn, when it was time to set off and no one knew whether you were destined to return...
A delicate cough from the dwarf was heard behind him. Folco shook himself, driving away the uninvited sadness, and turned to the guest who had finished his supper. Then they threw more wood into the fireplace and lit their pipes. - Tell me, Thorin, what brought you to our parts? We've never had any ore veins... - Folco asked.
Everything that was happening seemed to him a wonderful dream, a magical fairy tale that had rushed from the darkness of distant and amazing years. A dwarf! A real dwarf is sitting in front of him now and thoughtfully sucking on his pipe!.. The flame illuminates his round, open face, and it seems that now the gray veil that obscures his vision will lift, that if Folco now extends his hand - he will touch the amazing secrets and wonders of the Big World, about which he had only heard until now...
Sweetish tobacco smoke floated through the dark, dimly lit by the fireplace room. Outside the open windows, the night was stepping, peeking into the lit openings on the go, but now its mysterious voices did not frighten the hobbit. Maybe this meeting is not for nothing - and it will be followed by some wonderful journey, like the one old Bilbo went on - for dragon treasures... After all, it all started with an unexpected visit from dwarves!
- I need the Red Book, - the dwarf answered, looking intently at Folco.
The hobbit shuddered, as if suddenly awakened; Thorin's words puzzled him. - Why do you need it?
- I want to figure it out. I want to know how our world took its present shape, - Thorin answered. - So few changes happen in Middle-earth that the causes of many current events should be sought not so much in the present as in the past.
- What events do you want to understand? In our Hobbiton, time seems to have stopped. I don't know, of course, how it is in other places...
- There, too, many would like the course of events to freeze and life to stand still. For a very long time, it seemed to many that a golden age had come...
Folco climbed into the armchair with his feet and fixed his shining eyes on the dwarf. The latter was thoughtfully looking at the fire and habitually squinting, as if standing before a furnace, then he continued, slowly dropping his words:
- Something is wrong in our world, Folco. We, the dwarves, have felt it for a long time. But few could imagine where it was all going. The world seemed unshakable and strong, evil - overcome forever, and strange and frightening events - just annoying misunderstandings. It all started in the Mines of Moria. As you know, shortly after the victory in the Great War for the Ring, the dwarves re-inhabited the palaces of their ancestors; in the abandoned forges, as in the old days, heavy hammers began to pound; the dwarves greedily rushed into the depths of the earth, hunting for elusive ore veins. And everything went on as usual, when suddenly...
A long, mournful howl suddenly broke the nocturnal silence. A groan full of inhuman anguish rolled along the dark banks of the Brandywine and died away in the distance. The hobbit and the dwarf shuddered and exchanged glances.
A gust of wind rustled outside the windows; the shutters creaked, a loosely closed door slammed somewhere; below, under the bank, the reeds rustled dryly and lispingly, like an ancient old man. The hobbit huddled in his armchair; in an instant all his fears came to life, he remembered how he had trembled in anticipation of the appearance of the Nine on the dark road... The dwarf jumped up and rushed to the window, leaning out almost to his waist, he tried in vain to see something in the darkness. However, everything fell silent, the wind that had risen died down, a pale moon peeked out from behind the light clouds. The dwarf looked around cautiously and sat down again by the fireplace, thoughtfully lighting his extinguished pipe.
- What was that? - Thorin raised his eyes to Folco. - How should I know? - The hobbit shrugged. - The Red Book says... But no, no, that can't be! Probably some bird...
- A bird, you say... - the dwarf grumbled. - I haven't heard of such birds... I heard the same howl the day before yesterday, when I was walking past Michel Delving... And at night too!
The hobbit had nothing to say to that. After a pause, the dwarf continued:
- So, I stopped at the fact that the dwarves began to work in the old mines again. They went deeper and deeper, and then one day in one of the lower workings they heard strange sounds and a strange stirring in the depths. A scraping sound came from below, as if someone was gnawing at the stone. Suddenly the very roots of the mountains trembled. The dwarves threw down their pickaxes and rushed upstairs - but the vaults began to collapse, burying under the rubble those who dared to disturb the peace of the stone depths. Few managed to get to the surface. I myself have not been to Moria and I am telling you this from the words of my friends who fled from there. The dwarves there were threatened not only by cave-ins - an incomprehensible and chilling fear seized everyone who lived there then. This fear was impossible to overcome, the underground gnashing of some gigantic teeth extinguished consciousness, and there was only one thing left to do - to flee. "The dwarves are leaving Moria," my friends told me. They are going wherever they can, but mostly - to the Lonely Mountain in Erebor and to the Iron Hills. That's how it is, my hobbit friend. - The dwarf sighed. - And you say - a bird...
There was silence, only the logs crackled slightly in the fireplace.
Folco stared intently at the fire. The dwarf continued, quietly and with a hidden anxiety:
- No one knows and cannot explain what the matter is. Our elders dismissively waved away the confused stories of the refugees, secretly rejoicing at their misfortunes. Many of my kinsmen, who live in the Lunar Mountains, envied the wealth and skill of the Moria dwarves. Those who came to us could not stand the ridicule and scattered wherever they could. Some went to Erebor, others were taken under the protection of the King's Steward in Annúminas, and some attached themselves to the court of Círdan the Shipwright...
I tried to figure it out, I talked to many, I listened to the rocks - and finally I realized that something was really wrong in the depths. I suggested that our people go to Moria to finally understand what was going on there. But they told me that if the Moria dwarves' eyes were clouded with fear and their ears were ringing, then it was none of our business. And in general, they should have strengthened the ceilings and vaults better, and not spread all sorts of rumors... - Thorin waved his hand in annoyance. - From my father and grandfather I heard that it is in Hobbiton that the Red Book is kept, which tells about the events of the last war. The last time Moria was shaken was in those years - maybe the answer can be found in this Book?.. So I ended up here. I asked the hobbits, and they told me that the old manuscripts must be kept in the Brandybuck estate. And one directly hinted that the famous Red Book might be found there, which, probably, everyone has heard of, but no one has held in their hands. Thorin raised his eyes to the hobbit. - So, Folco, son of Hamfast, now you know everything! Help me! Is it possible that among your books there is not the one that I need more than anything in the world? Help me, and I will not spare gold for such a service!
- I wouldn't sell you the Red Book for all the gold in Middle-earth! - exclaimed Folco, and he tensed up, as if preparing to jump.
- I'm not asking for that, - Thorin answered quickly. - At least let me read it!
- I don't have the Red Book itself, - the hobbit admitted, a little embarrassed, after a pause. - There is only a copy of it, but it is completely accurate!
- A copy is good enough for me, - Thorin said impatiently. - And if the reading takes a long time, then I am ready to pay for my stay here. - The dwarf reached into his bosom. Folco stopped him.
- No, no! - he exclaimed, hastily grabbing the dwarf's hand. - Be my guest! We will carefully read the whole Book again and together we will try to find answers to your questions. Besides, I have many other ancient manuscripts. Perhaps they will be useful too.
- That's great, - the dwarf sighed with relief. - You know, Folco, I was very worried when I was coming to you in Hobbiton, - I was afraid I would run into some miser... I was very lucky!
- Not at all, - Folco objected, not too confidently, immediately thinking of his uncle Paladin.
- However, - said Thorin, - we will still have time to rummage through the parchments... Tell me about your country! I have walked through it all - I have never seen a more beautiful place anywhere. Such fat pastures, such well-kept gardens, such ruddy apples and such delicious tobacco!
- And have you traveled much? - Folco asked with envy. - Lucky you! I've never been outside of Hobbiton in my whole life...
- I haven't been to that many places either, - the dwarf answered. - I've met many people, asked many questions. Everyone has heard of Hobbiton, but few have seen it with their own eyes, - King Elessar's law is strictly enforced...
- And that did us, the hobbits, a disservice, - said Folco. - My kinsmen were not very interested in the affairs of the outside world even before, and after the victory in the Great War they finally decided that evil was overcome forever. King Elessar granted our grandfathers new lands, they had to be developed, and the hobbits forgot about everything else. Like your tribesmen, they also became too carefree... However, what does "became" mean - they have always been like that. - And why are you different? - Thorin asked. - It's hard to say. Maybe because I was taught to read very early, and it so happened that I got into our Library and did not leave the shelves until I had read all the manuscripts at least once... - Folco suddenly laughed. - I often said things that everyone else had forgotten about: about the Hobbit Militia, about the Battle of the Green Fields... At first they were touched by this, then they began to look askance, and then they disliked me altogether. I dared to have my own opinion! And often I would pop up with some historical example at the wrong time, which greatly embarrassed our elders. The past taught me to understand the present, I began to think about causes, consequences, I began to gather information, to ask passers-by, just like you. And the news from distant lands is becoming more and more alarming and incomprehensible. - For example? - the dwarf asked quickly. - On the West Road, robbers suddenly appeared out of nowhere, who had not been heard of here for many centuries. Skirmishes began between people - one village suddenly took up arms against another. Once I even happened to hear that a gang of dwarves attacked a settlement not far from the Misty Mountains! Can you imagine? The astonished Thorin just threw up his hands. - Unthinkable, - he said hoarsely. - For dwarves to attack people of their own free will, like vile orcs... I swear by Durin's beard, this has not happened since the days of the First Age! Are you sure this is true?!
- What can be said for sure in such matters? - Folco shrugged. - News from afar is rarely true, as King Théoden once said... However, the truth can only be learned from real witnesses...
Both fell silent. Thorin was thinking hard about something, then waved his hand in annoyance.
- All the same, I can't figure it out now, - he said angrily. - Tell me more, Folco!
- What is there to say, - the hobbit shrugged again. - I'm not going to list for you how many turnips were harvested in different years? You walked through Hobbiton and saw everything with your own eyes... For our hobbits now, in my opinion, the main thing is that everything should be no worse than the neighbor's. So they compete: who will have a higher fence, and the whole district watches this fascinating spectacle with tension, even bets are made. - He smiled wryly. - You can judge for yourself! What do your kinsmen care about the troubles and anxieties of the Misty Mountains? And ours, it seems, don't care about anything at all, except for food and a warm bed! Be full yourself, feed your family and guests, and a hobbit needs nothing more. But behind this moderation I see just laziness and indifference. Most believe that everything should go as it goes. But I can't do that! No, don't think I'm bragging... I just can't look at this turnip anymore!
The dwarf listened attentively to Folco's rambling speech, not taking his long-extinguished pipe out of his mouth. The wood in the fireplace was burning down. Feeling an awkward, unfamiliar emptiness after his passionate confession and trying to drown it out, Folco fussed, dragging fuel.
- What are you going to do, Folco? - the dwarf asked cautiously.
- If only I knew! - the hobbit sighed. - When you think about what a scolding I'll get tomorrow, you could howl like a wolf! I never found the pony, and Krol won't miss the chance to tattle to Uncle Paladin... - And who is this Uncle Paladin? - Oh, he's the main keeper of the memory of the valiant past of the Brandybucks! He's only busy with making sure that no one dishonors the family name...
- So what? In my opinion, family honor is a wonderful thing!
- It depends on what you mean by it! "Brandybucks shouldn't wander around at night! Let the hobbit beggars, who can't even count five generations, do that! Brandybucks shouldn't lose ponies, let the same hobbit beggars waste the family fortune. Every Brandybuck must work, so that his clan may be richer than all others and occupy its proper place - first, along with the Took clan!" It's getting to the point of absurdity: "A Brandybuck shouldn't run or walk fast, he should 'stride,' so that everyone realizes his dignity!" If he gets on my case tomorrow... I don't know what I'll do to him!
- Come on, Folco. - The dwarf reassuringly placed his hand on the hobbit's shoulder. - What do you care about his lectures? It's not his fault that he doesn't know what you've read... However, you've told me a lot, and I've told you even more. We've understood each other and now we're unlikely to be able to sleep. Maybe we should get to the Red Book? Why wait? Open the window wide, light more candles, let's fill our pipes again - and get to it!
Folco nodded silently and crawled under the bed. There was some rustling, stirring, then the hobbit sneezed loudly and soon crawled out, dragging a bound chest behind him. An oval iron ring was set into the lid, the sides were decorated with fine carving.
- By the way, Thorin, - said Folco, fiddling with the complicated lock, - where did you manage to go, after all? You started to say, but for some reason you didn't finish.
- I was in Arnor, in Annúminas, where one of the King's palaces stands, I was in the Grey Havens, I walked along the coast to the south, I crossed the Misty Mountains once... I've been to the fair in Bree, of course - four or five times, but this is the first time I'm going through Hobbiton.
- And what were you doing with the elves? - The hobbit sat down on the floor next to the chest, apparently forgetting about the lock.
- There were three of us there: me, Far, and Tror. Far and Tror are the same friends of mine who fled from Moria. They were not accepted in my homeland, and they went to the Grey Havens when they heard that Círdan the Shipwright was looking for masters for a new fortress wall...
- For what?! For a fortress wall?! Círdan?! Wow! - Folco threw up his hands.
- What's the big deal? - the dwarf was surprised. - Let him build, the city will become more beautiful... And in general, what's it to us? - think for yourself, why would Círdan need new walls? The Grey Havens have remained impregnable for I don't know how many centuries! No one has ever dared to attack him! So why would he suddenly start building new fortifications? It's as clear as day that Círdan is also worried about something, since he has taken on an unprecedented task!
- Just think! - exclaimed Thorin, slapping his hands on his sides. - How did I not realize it right away! I swear by Durin's beard, the world has never seen such a stupid dwarf!
They were silent, looking at each other. Círdan the Shipwright! The last Lord - an Elf of Middle-earth. The last remaining member of the Council of the Wise. The former master of the Ring of Fire, which he gave to Gandalf. The invincible, mighty Círdan - and he is afraid of someone! Is the threat really that great? But if it is so - can you fence yourself off from it with walls?
The hobbit and the dwarf stood by the dying fireplace. Outside the windows, the wide, restless Brandywine carried its waters to the Great Sea. Hobbiton was sleeping peacefully...
Folco suddenly felt that the walls of his cramped little room were somehow moving apart, his thought was rising high into the sky, vigilantly surveying the immense expanses of empty lands with rare, barely noticeable lights of small and scattered settlements. What is happening there, in these endless expanses? The hobbit saw the winding beds of nameless rivers below, the dark patches of endless forests, he saw the bluish-black peaks of mountain ranges against the background of the starry sky... From somewhere in these spaces, shrouded in nocturnal twilight, a shadow of a vague, terrible threat was crawling towards them. And Círdan, too, had noticed something, and, therefore, their fears were not groundless...
Folco looked around. Familiar objects, a familiar room... Unbearable! What to do? He wanted to immediately, right now, draw his sword, rush forward headlong to meet this faceless, nameless danger, to fight openly... But when, where, with whom?! The hobbit leaned out of the window, greedily catching the cool night wind with his hot chest. The dwarf stood next to him.
Somewhere across the river, in the Barns, the first rooster crowed. Folco rubbed his sleepy eyes. The excitement subsided, his gaze fell on the chest left in the middle of the room. The hobbit went to it, knelt down. The lock clicked dully. The hobbit threw back the heavy lid. Thorin's excited panting was heard over his shoulder.
From the depths of the chest, Folco pulled out a heavy bundle. He carefully unwrapped the cloth, and the dwarf's eyes beheld an ancient Book, written for preservation on parchment, in a binding of dark crimson leather. The hobbit handed it to Thorin.
- Make yourself comfortable, - he said and, placing several candlesticks on the table, pulled up a chair. - This is one of the very first copies made from the Red Book. I don't know who copied it, but here is the personal signature of the Great Meriadoc, certifying that the copy completely coincides with the original.
With both hands, the dwarf carefully accepted the precious volume and sat down at the table; Folco poked the fire with a poker, then climbed somewhere into a corner, got a jug of beer and two clay mugs.
- Thorin, but what can we do if there really is... someone gnawing at the earth?!
- I think a lot can be done, - the dwarf said, not taking his eyes off the book. - First of all, all the dwarves of Middle-earth need to believe in this. Then you can ask the King for help. He is mighty and fearless, he will not refuse to help... if only we can explain everything to him. And Círdan... and ambassadors can be sent to him... But first of all, we need to understand everything ourselves.
- Well, what if those underground ones don't need anything from us? They live their own lives, digging a tunnel somewhere... - How should I know? Maybe so... It is quite likely that there is nothing and no one there at all, and the Moria dwarves' eyes were just clouded with fear and their ears were ringing... Anyway, I intend to go there myself.
Folco nodded sadly. The dwarf will leave... He will read the Book and go on a difficult, unprecedented task... He will make his way along the night roads, stop at inns, sleep wherever he has to... He will see foreign countries, travel along unknown rivers... And Folco suddenly really wanted to go with him, to leave this quiet, well-fed life that he was sick of, to experience the same thing that the four immortalized hobbits who had traveled on a great mission through Middle-earth had experienced... Folco sat down on the bed and looked over the dwarf's shoulder. Frowning and thoughtfully moving his lips, Thorin devoured every word with his eyes. He was reading the first pages of the Book, which told of the memorable conversation of a respectable hobbit named Bilbo Baggins with the wizard Gandalf on a sunny morning on the porch of the hobbit's estate... Looking at the familiar pages, Folco did not notice how soundly he fell asleep.
The dwarf smiled at the dozing hobbit, trimmed the candle, took a sip of beer and buried himself in the Book again, from time to time writing something in a small notebook hanging at his belt.
The hours passed, the pages rustled as they were turned. The sky in the east began to gradually lighten. The roosters crowed, the gates creaked - Buckland was gradually waking up to take on its daily chores...
About another hour passed, and when the crimson-scarlet solar disk appeared over the edge of the Old Forest, the dwarf heard steps in the estate. A door slammed somewhere, the splash of water was heard, delicious aromas wafted. Thorin was distracted and thought about how best to introduce himself to the owners of the estate; with a barely noticeable anxiety, he glanced at the sleeping Folco and went to the window.
The first rays of dawn illuminated the green banks of the wide Brandywine. The sun's spears pierced the night shadows still remaining in secluded corners, and the remnants of darkness hastily fled, returning to the earth its familiar outlines and colors. Here and there, a transparent silvery mist floated over the flood meadows. On the other bank of the river, tall spruce islands blackened, still devoid of color and distinct outlines. The trills of morning birds were heard, the third roosters crowed in the nearby village and in the estate itself. The dwarf went to the barrel of water standing in the corner of the room to wash, when heavy, slightly shuffling steps were suddenly heard in the corridor and someone pulled hard on the door, which Folco had prudently bolted.
Chapter Two. IN SEARCH OF A PONY
The door did not yield. A deep bass voice was heard in the corridor:
- Folco, you scoundrel! Why have you locked yourself in? A true Brandybuck hides nothing from his elders! Do you hear me, you lazybones? Open up immediately!
Folco jumped up on the bed, not understanding anything in his sleepiness. Waking up, he stared at the door shuddering under the blows, then somehow resignedly huddled, pulled his head into his shoulders and, shuffling, went to open it.
The door flew open, and an elderly, portly hobbit with a round face lined with wrinkles appeared on the threshold. Small eyes of an indefinite color were hidden under thick, overhanging eyebrows.
- Aha! - he drawled, putting his hands on his belt and spreading his elbows wide. - Here he is, the troublemaker! Who took the pony from the stable and didn't return it, eh? I'm asking you, you scoundrel!
Thick reddish fingers dug firmly into Folco's ear and began to mercilessly twist it. Folco turned pale and writhed in pain, but did not utter a sound.
The newcomer paid no attention to Thorin, who had half-risen and already opened his mouth to greet him. He methodically pulled Folco's ear.
- Where's the pony, you lazybones? Where's the pony, you freeloader? I'm asking you! True Brandybucks must tirelessly multiply the fortune inherited from their ancestors, and not squander it like the Hobbiton rabble! In your years, I herded sheep, worked from dawn to dusk, and not once did I lose a single one! And you? What are you doing? Losing a pony! A wonderful pony, you can't get one like that for any money now! Even the Tooks didn't have such a pony! Instead of looking for the pony, which was taken without permission, you're sleeping carelessly!
Apparently, at this point in his moralizing, he squeezed Folco's ear too hard, the latter groaned dully and jerked. For a moment, the dwarf saw his eyes filled with pain, and this brought him out of his confusion.
"On the one hand, you can't just stand by and watch someone being bullied, but on the other hand, this Hobbiton has its own rules..."
The dwarf took a resolute step forward, his strong fingers, like a steel clamp, squeezed Uncle Paladin's plump hand (the dwarf guessed that it was him).
- I beg your pardon, my good sir, - Thorin gritted his teeth. - Leave Folco alone, he's not to blame for anything. I spooked his pony when we came face to face on the road at night. I will compensate you for all your losses. Leave him!
- And I'm not asking you, my dear, - the uncle hissed, unsuccessfully trying to free himself from the dwarf's iron grip. - Who are you? And I'll give this scoundrel a thrashing now for bringing some vagrants to his place! The dwarf turned purple. - I'm not a vagrant. My name is Thorin, son of Dart, I am a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains... Let him go! - Thorin roared, grabbing the uncle by the scruff of his neck with his free hand and shaking him slightly.
The latter suddenly squealed thinly and unclenched his fingers. Folco jumped aside, pressing his palm to his reddened ear. Thorin let go of the uncle and said conciliatorily:
- Perhaps we should try to understand each other? I told you my name. Now it's your turn, then I can explain to you why I ended up in Hobbiton.
The uncle's face was like an overripe tomato, but he spoke in his former confident and assertive bass:
- My name is Paladin, son of Swior, and I am now the head of the Brandybuck clan. So what do you want, my dear, why did you come to us uninvited, without asking permission?
- Oh, venerable Paladin, son of Swior, head of the Brandybuck clan, - the dwarf said with poorly concealed contempt. - I could not introduce myself properly, as I came to your parts late at night. I was walking along the road from the north and accidentally ran into a young hobbit riding a pony. The pony got scared, broke free and ran away. That's how we met Folco. Yielding to my persistent requests, he agreed to give me a place to sleep. For a fee, of course, my dear!
The dwarf shuddered again, but the uncle didn't notice. Thorin reached into his bosom, and a moment later a handful of King Elessar's golden trialons glittered in his hand.
- I also ask you to accept some compensation for the pony lost through my fault. Are six full-weight coins enough?
"With this money," Folco thought, "you could buy four excellent ponies! But would this greedy person refuse a profit..." The uncle blinked, licked his suddenly dry lips, sighed noisily... His eyes shone with an oily gleam.
- Well, of course, - he drawled, not taking his eyes off the gold, - we could, of course, accept compensation... but that's not the main thing. If the esteemed Thorin, son of Dart, a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains, claims that it was precisely through his fault... or, more precisely, negligence that the pony was lost, he is, of course, obliged to pay us its cost... But I would rather hear why the esteemed Thorin has come to us?
- I have been sent by my kinsmen to the hobbits to offer them the best and newest products of our craftsmen, - the dwarf answered with the most serious expression and winked at Folco. - We have heard that it is the Brandybuck clan that is now the most prosperous and respected in Hobbiton. - An extremely interested expression appeared on the uncle's face, he nodded importantly at every word of the dwarf. - Therefore, I hurried day and night to make a deal with you. Then you would not have to go on tedious trips to distant fairs. We, the dwarves of the south of the Lunar Mountains, could deliver everything you need right to your home and at the lowest prices... But all this is not negotiated on the doorstep!
- Yes, yes, of course, - the uncle nodded. - After breakfast, you, my dear, will be able to tell your proposal to the Brandybuck Council, which will make its decision...
- So, I hope you have given up the idea of punishing Folco? - the dwarf inquired with a gracious smile, pretending to want to hide the gold. The uncle became noticeably agitated: - My good sir, this is our business, and it is not for you, a stranger in our parts, to interfere in it... But so be it. Folco will not be punished if...
If we, say, find this unfortunate pony and I pay you... say, four coins? - If the pony is found and you... compensate us for the loss of six coins, - the uncle stated in an adamant tone. - It's not just about the pony, but also about the humiliations that will not be slow to fall upon our clan...
- What humiliations?! - Thorin was taken aback. - What do you mean, what! The neighbors will see the runaway pony with the Brandybuck brand and say: "It turns out that these Brandybucks don't have such order in their stable as they try to show! So how are they better than us, if they, like all simple hobbits, can have a pony run away? And if they are not better than us, then why should we obey them?" Now you understand, venerable Thorin, what losses our clan may suffer? No, to take less than six coins from you means to dishonor our family, the first, along with the Tooks, in Hobbiton!
The dwarf scratched the back of his head, not knowing whether to be indignant or to laugh.
- As you wish, venerable, - he said and poured a handful of gold coins into Uncle Paladin's cupped hands.
The latter watched the fall of the sparkling circles, holding his breath.
- Thank you, Thorin, son of Dart, - the uncle said respectfully, hiding the money. - Immediately after breakfast, I will gather the Brandybuck Council, and you will be able to present your proposals for trade to everyone. Wait here, if you wish. The shadow from the Black Pillar will not have time to move even one cubit before I call you. And you, Folco, run around the estate and inform everyone! Come on, hurry up!
Folco disappeared behind the door. The uncle followed him. In parting, he and the dwarf exchanged polite bows.
Three whole hours passed and the sun rose high above the Old Forest when Folco and Thorin finally met alone in the young hobbit's room. Beads of sweat glistened on Folco's forehead, he looked tired, while the dwarf looked completely exhausted.
- Phew! How your kinsmen have tired me with their chatter! - the dwarf exhaled, falling into an armchair. - It's better to swing a pickaxe all day than to listen to their stories! They ate all the time and talked with their mouths full, I couldn't make out anything... But let them be. I achieved what I wanted - permission to spend some time here, with you. I said that I need to study my future customers better. And how are you?
- My ear is swollen, - Folco stated seriously. - Well, it's nothing, we'll settle accounts with my uncle later. And what do you intend to do next?
- Now I intend to go with you to look for the runaway pony... Take provisions and a warmer cloak, maybe we'll have to spend the night somewhere...
- What?! - Folco was suddenly frightened, imagining a cold night somewhere in a dark forest, in the rain and wind. - Won't we be back by evening? - Anything can happen, - the dwarf shrugged.
They set off in search, accompanied by the curious glances of the inhabitants of the estate. Folco, whose desire and thirst for adventure had temporarily overcome his fears, could not resist the temptation to once again hang the sword of the Great Meriadoc on his belt. He threw a heavy bag of provisions over his back, following the wise hobbit rule: "If you go for a day, take food for a week."
Leaving the gate, they walked north along the same road on which they had met at night. After walking about a mile and passing the first turn, behind which the roofs of the estate disappeared, they turned right and began to make their way to the northeast, searching small groves that stood like islands in the middle of a sea of well-tended fields and hayfields, looking into shallow, overgrown with bushes ravines, asking along the way at the farms they encountered (Folco shamelessly disregarded his uncle's prohibition), but all their efforts were in vain. They had already been walking for three hours to the northeast, the terrain was gradually changing. The oak groves and copses no longer looked like orphan patches, they gradually merged into dense massifs. There were fewer farms - now there were more clearings with three or four houses, and this was the main sign of the proximity of the Border. On their way, they began to encounter more and more ringing streams and rivulets that carried their waters to the Brandywine. The hobbit and the dwarf especially carefully examined the damp ground near them, hoping to find traces of the fugitive. Deep ravines, overgrown with willows and alders, were not uncommon; the dwarf grunted, scratched the back of his head, but still climbed down, following the nimble hobbit, who immediately disappeared into the thickets.
The sun passed noon, light clouds crept in from the south, it became cooler. On the way, Folco and Thorin met many hobbits who stared at the dwarf with curiosity, but knew nothing about the fate of the missing "family property". To himself, the dwarf had already wished the stupid animal to be eaten by the wolves absent in Hobbiton twenty times.
While they were walking through the fields and along the rare country roads here, Thorin told Folco about his people, about the customs, traditions and occupations of the dwarves, he also spoke about Annúminas, recalling with delight its powerful bastions, built of gigantic granite blocks, its battle towers, whose foundations went deep into the ground, its paved streets and its strict, dignified houses. The lower floors of the buildings were occupied by countless shops and taverns, where you could buy any thing or taste any dish known in Middle-earth. On the outskirts there were many open and closed areas where strolling actors showed their art to the most respectable public; singers and musicians arranged concerts and dances right on the streets and squares; on carnival days, held every year after the harvest, the Northern and Southern Outskirts turned into a solid sea of flowers and colors...
An alder branch whipped the dwarf right in the face, he yelped and cursed. They were standing on the edge of another ravine overgrown with alders.
It smelled of dampness from there, Folco reluctantly began to descend the steep slope, heading for the stream murmuring at the bottom. Still grunting and stumbling, the dwarf followed him.
Slipping under a dense network of intertwined branches, Folco reached the bottom. A loud crackling sound mixed with unintelligible curses was heard from behind - Gorin was breaking through directly. Folco involuntarily smiled, looking up, then looked at the stream bed and on the damp, moss-covered ground he saw what he was looking for - clear traces of four small hooves, with one nail missing in the right front shoe.
- Thorin! I found it! - he shouted joyfully to the dwarf. - Let's go upstream!
Panting and puffing, Thorin emerged from the thickets. They walked along the soft, springy underfoot boggy bank, climbing over mossy rotting snags, bypassing deep, overgrown with duckweed pools, trying not to lose the pony's trail.
The tree crowns closed above their heads; the alder grove gave way to tall pines and mighty spruces growing on the slopes of the ravine. A greenish twilight reigned at the bottom, the sun's rays struggled to break through the green roof. Tufts of bluish lichens hung from the thick trunks. Magpies chattered, and sometimes the frequent tapping of a woodpecker was heard. Folco crept along, his palm on the hilt of his sword, and ancient tales came to life again in the hobbit's head. He imagined himself in Bilbo's place, making his way through the terrible Mirkwood. Tense and attentive, Folco walked and walked, looking around with narrowed eyes.
The dwarf was bored. He did not know and did not like the forest and did not know how to walk in it. Following Folco, Thorin made so much noise that if they were in the real Mirkwood of Bilbo and his companions' time, they would have been eaten long ago...
The ravine went straight to the east, and Folco became worried. According to his calculations, the Hedge should appear any minute. And where was his vanished pony rushing to? The trail went clearly along the bottom of the ravine, the horse made no attempt to turn or climb up. Folco tried to remember what kind of terrain was now on top, but could not; he already knew this part of the country poorly. All that was left was to go forward, hoping that they would be able to detain the fugitive at the very Hedge.
Their conversation somehow died down. Folco looked around more, looking and listening, while the dwarf was mainly concerned with not falling into the water.
About an hour passed like this, the sun was gradually setting behind them. When they came to a dry place, Folco, who was tired by that time, suggested a halt.
They had a quick snack and lit their pipes, giving their tired legs a rest. The dwarf closed his eyes and seemed to doze off, but Folco fidgeted restlessly on his stump. He laid his sword on his knees and drew it halfway out of its scabbard. The surrounding forest became noticeably denser and gloomier, the ravine widened, solid thickets hid its slopes from the hobbit's eyes. The birds' voices fell silent, only occasionally a light wind brought the rusty cawing of crows. Folco raised his eyes to the sky, trying to determine the time, but he could not see anything through the green vaults. On the sides, in the thickets, some indistinct crackles and rustles gradually grew, became louder and more noticeable; somewhere in the distance, the flapping of heavy wings was suddenly heard. The hobbit shuddered and drew his sword.
At the same second, he felt someone's cold, unfriendly, but at the same time frightened gaze on the back of his head. Folco could not explain how he understood this. The realization that the unknown one was also afraid gave the hobbit confidence. He deliberately stretched, yawned, even put his sword aside a little, but his right hand imperceptibly picked up a heavy and short resinous branch from the ground. The hobbit acted without thinking, as if his actions were guided by someone else's will.
The creature behind Folco stirred slightly: The hobbit desperately squinted, trying to see it, but in vain. The dwarf was peacefully snoring nearby. Wake him up? But what if you scare it away?
A few agonizing minutes passed, but then the excitement and thirst for adventure took over. Turning sharply, Folco threw the heavy snag with all his might to where, as it seemed to him, the unknown was. The next moment, the hobbit with his sword drawn was already rushing into the bushes.
Thorin woke up from the noise and crackling. Noticing something falling in the bushes, the dwarf resolutely took a fighting stance; the axe, as if by itself, flew from behind his belt into his right hand. A scuffle and some squeaking were heard from the bushes. Without thinking long, the dwarf rushed after Folco.
The branch thrown by the hobbit hit the target, knocking the observer to the ground, and this gave Folco time to cover the distance separating him from the bushes and grab the grayish-green creature floundering on the ground.
It turned out to be even smaller than a hobbit and much weaker. Folco mercilessly rubbed this creature's face or muzzle - he did not yet know which - on the moss. It squeaked pitifully and stopped resisting. But as soon as Folco raised his eyes to the approaching dwarf, he suddenly cried out in pain - his opponent had bitten into the hobbit's finger with sharp teeth.
- Hey, you, if you do that again, I'll cut your throat! - the hobbit roared bloodthirstily into the shaggy ear of the one lying down and, for good measure, ran the cold steel along his neck, covered with soft brownish down. Apparently, he understood him, as he writhed and went limp.
- Who did you catch? - the dwarf who had arrived asked business-like, shifting the axe to his left hand and lifting the one lying down by the scruff of his neck with his right. - Bah! An old acquaintance! - Thorin suddenly exclaimed maliciously, turning the helplessly dangling prisoner in the air to face Folco.
Before the hobbit, a small dwarf, a little more than Folco's elbow in height, was weakly fluttering in the dwarf's mighty hands. On his elongated, wrinkled face, tiny red eyes, now filled with fear, shone maliciously, immediately reminding the hobbit of the eyes of caught rats; a long nose with a hump, a thin-lipped mouth. Black wavy hair fell on his elongated ears with drooping lobes. He was dressed in a rather neat brown caftan and leather boots. - Do you know him, Thorin? - Folco asked. - Of course! I know their tribe well... and even very well. Now I will interrogate him. He understands our language, but he won't speak for anything, if... unless we torture him with a hot iron!
As he said these words, the dwarf stared intently into the dwarf's eyes, trying to determine whether he understood the Common Speech or not. The prisoner hung completely indifferent. The dwarf continued:
- Their tribe has lived next to ours for a long time. They settle in abandoned workings, and they don't shy away from orc tunnels, as my friends from the Misty Mountains told me. They are naturally cunning and thievish, they don't like to work, preferring to trick others into working for them. Some not-so-smart dwarves use their dexterity, but most of our people don't give a damn about them. I heard from my father that these cunning ones managed to sit out the Great War for the Ring behind others' backs, sometimes helping us, and sometimes the orcs. I met them in Annúminas, where they are mainly engaged in sniffing out and informing merchants where it is more profitable to sell this or that product, receiving a fee for it. They once lived in the caves of the Grey Mountains, but when the orcs appeared there, the dwarves submitted to the conquerors. Then they somehow imperceptibly settled throughout the north of Middle-earth... However, I will tell you about them later, but for now, excuse me, I will ask him in their language. Ite ott burkhush? - the dwarf addressed the dwarf, lowering him to the ground.
The latter was silent. Thorin shook him slightly, the dwarf's teeth chattered loudly, and he began to speak in a thin, unpleasant voice. The dwarf sternly asked him about something, he answered, and when he suddenly fell silent, Thorin's hand squeezed his throat, and the prisoner, weakly squeaking and fluttering, immediately resumed his incomprehensible story.
Thorin had his strange conversation with the dwarf for quite a long time, then suddenly straightened up and wiped the sweat from his brow with his palm; he fumbled in his side pockets, pulled out a considerable coil of rope and began to busily tie the prisoner's hands and feet. The latter whined pitifully, but did not dare to resist. Having tied up the dwarf, the dwarf put him in a shoulder bag and threw it on his back.
- Let's go on, Folco, no need to stand around... They started walking forward again through the forest gloom, constantly looking around and listening intently. The dwarf tried to step as carefully as possible and along the way retold to the hobbit, who was burning with curiosity, what he had learned from the dwarf.
- This fellow, - he patted the bag slightly, in which the prisoner was fidgeting and occasionally puffing angrily, - turned out to be in the south not just by chance, having come here of his own free will! By the way, look carefully around, there were five of them. Their camp is surely somewhere nearby...
The dwarves' camp was found quickly - in a pit under the roots of a pine tree growing on the northern slope of the ravine, they saw traces of a fire. The grass around was trampled, piles of brushwood and bedding made of chopped branches lay near the fireplace. Several cloaks, belts and small knives in black leather sheaths were also lying there.
A pot with a sharply smelling dark brew was swaying forlornly on a broken tripod. But the hobbit and the dwarf saw no bags or weapons more substantial. It was clear that they had fled from here in a hurry, barely managing to extinguish the fire. The sharp-eyed hobbit discovered traces of small boots running to the east. The dwarves who had set up camp had managed to retreat.
- They ran away without even trying to rescue their own, - the dwarf threw contemptuously, knocking over the pot with a kick.
- What should we do next? - Folco asked uncertainly of the dwarf who was busily rummaging through the surrounding bushes.
- The tracks of your pony and these subjects lead in the same direction, - Thorin replied. - Let's go after them! And on the way I'll tell you something interesting.
The hobbit glanced at the dwarf and was surprised at the change in him. Thorin's eyebrows were sternly knitted, he did not take his hand off his axe and now moved bent over, avoiding open places. Folco involuntarily became imbued with his companion's anxiety and drew his weapon from its scabbard.
- Are we going to catch them? - he asked belligerently, lowering his voice. - And then where? And in general, will you finally tell me what you got out of him?
- He lived, according to him, in a small settlement not far from Annúminas. This seems to be true, there are old dwarven workings there. They worked, in his sense, of course, for a certain rich Arnorian merchant. And then one day the youngest son of this most worthy, as the dwarf put it, man came to them and offered them a profitable deal - for a good fee to find out the shortest ways to Forlindon, bypassing Hobbiton, which was closed to others by the decree of King Elessar. According to him, they lost their way and got lost in the Old Forest, from where they barely got out...
- It's hard to believe, - Folco shrugged. - To Forlindon, as I heard, there is a good road that bypasses Hobbiton from the west...
- It's hard to believe! - the dwarf snorted. - He's lying about everything, and without blushing, it's not customary for them... And what can you do with him? You can't really kill him... And he understands that too! Try to kill him - it will be murder, and the dwarves, I heard, do not forgive such things. So his grieving relatives will immediately throw themselves at the Steward's feet, begging for protection... King Elessar tried to be just, in his kingdom the law is the same for everyone: for dwarves and men, and for dwarves... However, I'm tired of carrying him! - the dwarf suddenly interrupted himself. - Maybe we should finish him off after all? This place is remote...
With these words, he threw the bag to the ground and kicked it. A pitiful squeak came from the bag.
- Look at that, he understood! - the dwarf said with satisfaction. A long but rather coherent muttering suddenly came from the bag. - Hey, wait! - Thorin suddenly became alert. - This is a completely different song:..
The dwarf untied the bag and pulled out the rather battered dwarf, who fell to the ground like a soft sack, but at the same time did not stop babbling.
- Not so fast! - Thorin ordered, kicking him slightly again.
The dwarf rose slightly on his elbows, which were twisted behind his back, and, looking at the dwarf with fright, began to babble a little more slowly, sobbing from time to time.
Folco did not understand a word, but in the dwarf's voice he caught a genuine fear. He muttered for about a quarter of an hour, and then fell silent, huddled on the ground, showing with his whole appearance complete submission to fate.
- What is he saying, what is he saying? - Folco, burning with impatience, shook the dwarf.
Thorin suddenly sat down on a nearby snag, his face darkened.
- Things are bad, my hobbit friend, - the dwarf said with a sigh. - He said that one day an unknown horseman - a man - came to the elders of his clan at night. Who he is and where he is from, this dwarf, of course, does not know. The elders conferred about something all night, and in the morning they summoned him and four others of his clan and ordered them to secretly make their way to the south. Where do you think? To Isengard. They were instructed to find the remnants of those who obeyed the White Hand! I don't know what "White Hand" means, but the dwarf said that they were ordered to find the surviving orcs!
- What... what does that mean, Thorin? - the hobbit stammered, already knowing the answer himself, but afraid to admit it to himself and childishly hoping that everything might still turn out all right...
- It means, - the dwarf said slowly and distinctly, raising his eyes to Folco, - that someone is gathering the remnants of those who served the Darkness... Does someone really want power over Middle-earth again?
Folco grabbed his head and began to slowly rock from side to side, repeating to himself only one thing: "What will happen now?"
The dwarf's palm lay on the shoulder of the despairing hobbit.
- Get a grip on yourself, Folco! - Thorin said quietly. - We have no one to rely on. We have just learned news so important that we must act immediately. Neither you nor I know what to do yet, but perhaps if we consult with others who are able to not lose courage at grim news, we can come up with a plan together... And now, on the road! Let's look for another couple of hours - and back.
- And what will we do with the prisoner? - Folco asked, looking ahead with a fixed gaze.
The hobbit could not shake off the feeling that his whole cozy little world had collapsed in a few moments, that his homeland was threatened by a new danger and that he, a small, not very agile hobbit, who could not count on the help of any omniscient and almost omnipotent wizards, now had to fight it.
- We can't let him go now, - Thorin said thoughtfully. - We need to get to the elders, find out who that mysterious horseman was... I'm leaving tomorrow, Folco. I'll take the dwarf with me... Let's go! Do you see the pony's tracks?
They had not gone a hundred steps when Thorin suddenly stopped. - What is this fence?
Between the trees, tall logs, driven into the ground and sharpened at the top, were visible. A solid fence descended from one of the slopes, stepped over the stream with a frequent grating lowered into the channel, and went up again, disappearing among the countless trunks. They came closer, and Folco suddenly saw that the Hedge, a reliable protection of Hobbiton from the anxieties of the outside world, built by distant ancestors, had ceased to be so. The mossy logs of the fence had rotted and collapsed in several places; the grating blocking the stream was broken off on one side; the rotten core of its side supports was visible. A solid, insurmountable barrier no longer existed.
Folco had had to endure too much today, having never known real shocks before, so the broken Hedge did not outrage him too much. He only spat in annoyance, cursing under his breath the negligent hobbits who looked after it. Following Thorin, he stepped over the fallen logs - and... for the first time in his life, he found himself outside the borders of his country, dear, cozy, affectionate.
Once an empty space in front of the Hedge, it was now densely overgrown, the stream had widened, its banks were covered with small alders. The ravine had noticeably widened - it gradually passed into that flat, like a huge plate, basin, where the crowns of hundred-year-old oaks and ash trees loomed gloomily in the Old Forest.
- You're a fine lot, you hobbits, - Thorin said grumpily, - you've completely forgotten about the border... And now the dwarves have taken to visiting you.
The friends pushed through the dense bushes and jumped on the rusty swamp hummocks, between which stood black, transparent, like a mirror, water. The pony's trail had disappeared, and now they could only wander at random towards the blue edge of the Old Forest, hoping if not to find the fugitive, then at least to get to a dry place. The light Folco jumped ahead; the dwarf walked cautiously, each time probing the bottom with a broken pole. Everything around was quiet; in the stagnant air there was not the slightest breath of wind.
They stumbled upon the pony completely by accident. Out of the corner of his eye, Folco noticed some fluttering in the bushes. He stopped and, looking closely, saw the fugitive entangled in the harness. The pony, apparently, also noticed them, it jerked, trying to free itself, and neighed invitingly.
- Phew, finally! - Thorin wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. - Frankly, these forests have worn me out.
They set off on their way back, loading the dwarf onto the pony's back. Turning around, Folco cast a glance with some vague regret at the dark borders of the Old Forest. The day was fading, low clouds were creeping in from the south. In the gradually thickening twilight, the stream murmured faintly, and occasionally distant bird voices were heard. The hobbit walked ahead, leading the pony by the bridle. Thorin walked behind.
- I'd like to know who came up with the idea of gathering the remnants of the unfinished orcs?! - the dwarf asked, addressing no one in particular. The hobbit just shrugged, and the dwarf continued: - How many of them can there be, really? How many years have we been going to the Aglarond caves past those places, and nothing has ever happened... Oh, well, we'll hand the dwarf over to the proper authorities in Annúminas, let them sort it out there...
The last rays of the evening dawn had long since burned out over the Brandywine when the tired travelers finally dragged themselves to the Brandybuck estate.
On the way, the dwarf so annoyed the hobbit with his endless reasoning on the meaninglessness of the struggle for power in Middle-earth now, with a strong royal power, that Folco was incredibly glad when they finally found themselves in his cozy room, having previously handed the pony over to Uncle Paladin, who for the first time muttered that Folco might not be completely hopeless, and went to bed, having arranged the carefully tied dwarf in a corner and thrown him a pillow and a couple of blankets.
The exhausted hobbit fell asleep as soon as he was in bed.
Chapter Three. WHAT'S AROUND THE BEND?
The dwarf woke up at dawn and immediately woke Folco.
- It's time for me to get ready, my hobbit friend. It would be good to get to Bree today, spend the night there, and from there it's another five days' journey to Annúminas... Listen, would your uncle sell me some mangy pony? He's already made a good profit, maybe he'll be satisfied with that?
- We had ponies for sale, - Folco answered, splashing noisily under the washstand. - Talk to him. He's probably hanging around the kitchen while my aunt is busy in the henhouse... I'll pack you some food for the road.
The chores briefly distracted Folco from his sad thoughts. It didn't take the dwarf long to persuade his uncle. With mournful cries and lamentations, praising the virtues of the sold horse to the skies, the uncle managed to get twice the market price from the dwarf. Thorin once again carefully packed the dwarf in his bag, hung his axe on his belt, and fastened his cloak on his left shoulder with a patterned forged fibula.
The entire population of the estate ran out to see off the guest from the distant mountains.
- So we met and now we part, Folco, son of Hamfast, - said Thorin. - Thank you for everything! For the lodging, for the warmth, for the food and conversation. Thank you for taking me on a hunt for the lost pony, otherwise we would not have met the dwarf. Thank you for your keen eye and steady hand - otherwise we would not have caught him. It's a pity that I didn't get to read the Red Book properly, but life is long, and I'm sure we will meet again. When - no one knows, but let's hope! Don't be discouraged! You are a glorious people, and I immediately fell in love with you... We could have traveled together... It's a pity that you have become such homebodies...
The dwarf smiled encouragingly at Folco, bowed respectfully to the society silently staring at them, and led the laden pony out of the gate. There he turned around once more, raised his hand in farewell, mounted the saddle and soon disappeared around the bend.
The hobbits gathered in the courtyard of the estate began to gradually disperse, casting wary glances at Folco, who was lost in thought at the gate. The courtyard was completely empty when he, too, hunched over and with his head bowed, trudged to his room. Uncle Paladin shouted something to him from the other end of the corridor, but Folco paid him no attention.
In the air of his room, the smell of strong, heady dwarven tobacco was still perceptible, the pushed-back armchair still retained the outline of his mighty figure, more accustomed to the hard boards of inns than to the comfort and coziness of hobbit dwellings. Folco sighed and took the blade of Meriadoc, which was lying on the bed, in his hands to hang it in its usual place above the fireplace. And then the unexpected happened. As soon as the hobbit's fingers touched the ancient bone hilt, polished by the fingers of so many generations of Gondorian warriors, his vision blurred, and he vividly imagined the dwarf, galloping across the endless expanses. The cloak billowed behind Thorin's shoulders, a polished battle-axe glittered at his belt, and from all sides, from behind every bush, hillock or stone, dwarf archers aimed small but unerring bows at him, and there was no one to warn the dwarf, to caution him, to save him! Folco shook his head, chasing away the strange vision. It faded, but did not disappear, and then he deliberately and noisily began to move a chair to the wall to put the blade in its place.
- Folco, why don't you answer when you're called? - The figure of his uncle appeared on the threshold. - What did I tell you? Get ready, you'll take the turnips to the market with Mnohorad. Come on, come on, move it, you lazybones, do you think I'll load the carts for you too? - The uncle continued to chew something, crumbs fell on his chest, he carefully picked them up and sent them to his mouth.
"It's a pity you've become such homebodies..." Thorin's farewell wave of his hand. And his gaze, no longer directed at the hobbits remaining in their warm and peaceful nest, but at the road running into the distance, at the long and dangerous journey... What does he, a free-living dwarf, care about his, Folco's, kinsmen, who have long forgotten the tart taste of distant wanderings? And what is left for him, Folco Brandybuck? To take the famous Brandybuck turnip to the market all over Hobbiton?! And to listen to this fat, stupid Uncle Paladin?!
"It's a pity you've become such homebodies..." Folco was filled with a cheerful, reckless anger. Rummaging in the corner, he pulled out a battered knapsack with two straps, spread it on the bed and calmly began to pack. For a while, his uncle stared at him in bewilderment, and then turned purple and roared, sputtering with saliva: - Why don't you listen to me, huh?! You lazybones, you freeloader, may you be lifted up and slapped down! How dare you?! Why don't you answer when the head of the Brandybuck clan addresses you?! A true Brandybuck is obliged to be respectful to his elders and to carry out their orders without question! Immediately stop doing this nonsense and go load the carts! Without... - The uncle suddenly broke off.
Folco straightened up and looked at him calmly, without fear or reverence, but with a kind of crooked smile.
- Don't shout at me, uncle, - Folco said quietly. - I don't like it very much... and I'm not going to load any carts. Load them yourself, if you want... I'm busy.
It seemed that Uncle Paladin had lost his mind. He growled, wheezed and rushed forward, raising his hand for a slap on the way. - I'll get you, you scoundrel!..
Folco took a step back and drew his sword from its scabbard. The young hobbit stood silently and motionless, but the blade was unequivocally aimed at his uncle's stomach. The latter froze and only gurgled weakly from the fullness of his feelings, listening to Folco's unusually calm speech:
- You won't pull my ears anymore, uncle. And you won't drive me to work, and you won't torment me with moralizing, you'll stop rummaging through my things and you won't be able to order me around. I'm leaving, and blame yourself if you think of stopping me! And now, farewell.
Folco threw his bag over his shoulders, fastened his sword to his belt, calmly walked around his stunned uncle and walked down the corridor to the kitchen. He took some crackers, dried meat - a supply for several days. There was some movement behind him - Folco turned around, saw his pale uncle slowly moving into the kitchen, grinned and went out into the yard. He crossed it without hurrying, chose and saddled the best pony in the stable. Going out to the gate, he saw the people who had poured out of all the doors and his uncle hurrying towards him, who had lost his usual majestic appearance.
- Stop him: - his uncle wailed in a voice not his own.
Half a dozen of the bolder hobbits moved towards Folco, who was frozen in the middle of the courtyard, but their impulse immediately died out as soon as he opened his cloak and grabbed the hilt. In a strange blindness, he was now ready to cut down anyone who dared to stand in his way - he just didn't know how to do it. No one dared to stop him. Folco proudly jumped into the saddle, kicked the pony in the sides with his heels and rode out of the estate gate.
A gust of fresh wind hit the hobbit's face. His pony was trying its best, there was no turning back, and the hobbit had to hurry - after all, the dwarf had probably managed to get quite far away...
Behind him, a familiar sound was suddenly heard - one of the Brandybucks had foolishly started blowing the signal horn: "Thieves! Fire! Enemies! Everyone up! Thieves! Fire! Enemies!" - the ancient alarm signal in Buckland. Several horns from neighboring farms answered him. Folco saw how their frightened, uncomprehending inhabitants began to run out of the houses standing at a distance from the road. Folco grinned. At that moment, he really liked himself. What did he care about all these bustling hobbits? They had been sitting in the middle of their turnips for three hundred years, and they would sit for another three hundred. And for him - the unknown, the long road, a sword at his side, cold nights under a thin cloak... Folco involuntarily shivered, but then immediately calmed down, remembering that he had prudently taken a warm cloak with him, lined with bird down.
The pony trotted briskly along the well-kept road that wound among numerous fields and farms. It led north, to the Gates of Buckland, where the Hedge ended right at the bank. Folco had been there only once, when they, the younger hobbits, were first taken to a large fair near Hobbiton. Folco had only managed to cast a brief glance at the Great East Road, which ran into the mysterious, bluish-hazed distance. Wide, three times wider than the modest hobbit country road, it proudly pushed apart the forest walls that had fallen on it and went east, straight as a spear shaft. Somewhere out there, beyond the forest - Folco knew this - lay the newly settled hobbit lands, it was not so far to Bree, but then it seemed to him that he was standing on the very edge of the inhabited lands and that beyond the dense forest curtains to the very Misty Mountains you would not find a single living creature. The wagon train then turned long and creakily onto the Brandywine Bridge, Uncle Paladin squealed and cursed at the wagoners, stingily counting out the toll for crossing the bridge, and he, Folco, forgetting everything, stood at his full height on the sacks, unable to tear his gaze from the Great Road, which was rushing towards the horizon and gradually converging into a thin thread. He came to his senses only from a strong slap on the back of the head - why, they say, are you trampling the turnips with your feet, you freeloader! Folco shuddered, a hard and unkind expression appeared on his face, his hand almost theatrically rested on the black scabbard...
The day was clear, sunny, it was a pleasure to ride, and Folco soon forgot about everything, including the fact that he was now a homeless tramp. The road called to him, and every turn seemed to hide a completely special world from him for the time being.
On the road, Folco met many people who stared with curiosity at the young Brandybuck riding somewhere. Folco watched with a grin how the mouths of the hobbits he met opened in amazement as soon as they noticed the cloak sticking out on the left!
He did not notice how the Hedge suddenly blackened in the distance. The crowns of the Old Forest, which had been blue somewhere far to the right, somehow immediately moved closer. Folco was approaching the Gates of Buckland; soon they also appeared. The road made another turn, and the hobbit saw the wide, now open gates, the low watchtowers on the sides and the solid palisade of the Hedge stretching into the distance. Almost all the hobbits from Buckland, having left the Gates, immediately turned left, across the Brandywine Bridge. Folco involuntarily shivered: his path lay to the right.
He passed the Gates without hindrance, rode out into the middle of the crossroads, stood so as not to interfere with those going to the root of Hobbiton, and looked around.
To the west of him, on his left hand, an ancient, blackened with time log bridge, built entirely of gigantic oak trunks, was thrown across the wide Brandywine. It was wide enough - three carts could ride on it in a row. And in front of the bridge, on pillars deeply dug into the ground, a wooden shield was firmly fixed with words carved on it in the Common and Old Elvish languages: "The land of the free people of the hobbits under the protection of the Northern Crown. I command: let no man's foot cross this border, now, forever and ever, let Hobbiton be governed by the free will of its citizens according to their own understanding. And if any of the men have a need to see any of the hobbits - let him come to the Baranduin Bridge, and send a letter by hobbit post, and wait for an answer at the inn. Given in the fifth year of the Fourth Age, Annúminas, by my own hand - Elessar the Elven, King of Arnor and Gondor."
On his right side stood the Old Forest as a solid wall, it stretched along the Road for about twenty miles, and then its edge turned sharply to the south, giving way to the fields of the ancient Barrow-downs, about which ancient legends, one more terrible than the other, were still whispered in Hobbiton. Folco had heard that the area around the Barrow-downs, previously empty and abandoned, was now re-inhabited by people. Straight east along the Road should be the famous Bree, with the inn "The Prancing Pony", known throughout Middle-earth. What was happening further,
to the east, Folco did not really know, he only heard that the Arnorians had reached the Withywindle, plowing up the stagnant, fertile lands everywhere.
Folco dismounted, once again carefully inspected the harness, and adjusted the saddlebags. The guards at the bridge had been looking at him with curiosity for a long time - hobbits armed with bows and slings; this post had been preserved here for many centuries, and the profession of Bridge Guard had become a family one...
Folco involuntarily looked for an excuse to linger. The open spaces still beckoned him, but the thoughts of the unknown awaiting him ahead made him feel uneasy...
A small train of four carts, drawn by well-fed, fattened ponies, and eight hobbits on horseback, all armed - with bows and heavy clubs at their belts, crossed the bridge. They did not turn into Buckland, as Folco first thought, but moved straight east along the Road, one of the riders shouted to him to make way. Folco hastily jumped into the saddle and rode up to the front cart.
- Where are you heading, venerable ones? - he addressed the hobbits.
- To the White Downs, - answered the senior hobbit with completely gray hair. - Are you going there too? Then come with us. The road has become unsafe lately. And you here all seem to have fallen from the moon! No one wants to know anything...
The old man waved his hand and slapped his ponies on the sides with the reins. The train moved, and Folco rode next to them. The eight young hobbits on horseback at first looked at him a little warily, but then they thawed and started talking.
And Folco learned that for about two years now, strange events have been happening on the Road. Some people began to attack travelers, robbed, killed everyone without distinction - both hobbits and dwarves, and people too. The elders of the hobbit region at the White Downs brought a complaint to the Steward in Annúminas, who sent a squad. The Arnorians caught someone - and for a while it became calmer, but even now, every now and then, you can find the naked corpse of some poor fellow in a roadside ditch... Since then, the hobbits have begun to travel to Bree and to Hobbiton itself only in groups.
They rode like this for about half an hour; but then Folco realized that at this rate he would never catch up with the dwarf, and, thanking his now very talkative companions, he spurred his pony forward.
"Robbers?" he thought. "Well, let there be robbers. I may be small in stature, but I am agile and not unarmed!"
Time passed, the bridge and the hobbit train were long gone. Folco was now riding in complete solitude. Not a sound came from the depths of the Old Forest, but the further he went, the more timidly the young hobbit glanced at the impenetrable thickets, separated from the Road by a deep ditch. A kind of gray, creeping mist crawled out of the forest; it seemed heavier than air and, like milk spilled in the air, slowly flowed into the roadside ditches. It was quiet, only the hooves of the pony struck the dust dully. Time passed, the solar disk had already completely hidden behind the high ridge of the Old Forest, the Road was quickly being flooded with evening twilight. Folco urged the pony on, bending low to its mane. The evening shadows stretched their long arms after him, and the hobbit began to feel uneasy. He could not tear his eyes from the dark ranks of gigantic trees, from the pouring waves of gray mist, rising ever higher in the roadside ditches; his ears caught every sound that came from the darkness...
Folco tried to keep to the left edge of the Road, but once he had to get closer to the very edge to get around a deep puddle, and his gaze accidentally fell on a ditch full of whitish mist. At the very bottom, Folco saw a blurry dark spot. And suddenly, as if someone had torn a blindfold from the hobbit's eyes, he realized with horror and involuntary disgust that a dead body was lying in the roadside ditch.
Everything froze inside the hobbit, but from somewhere in the depths of his consciousness another thought appeared: "Whoever he was, no matter how scared you are - cover the dead flesh with earth." And before fear had time to stop him, Folco sharply pulled the reins.
A hobbit was lying on his back in the ditch. Apparently, he had been killed very recently - only the crows had had time to peck out his eyes. The body, instead of good hobbit clothes, was covered with some coarse, dirty burlap. A black, clotted wound stretched across his entire forehead, diagonally, from his temple to his nose.
Folco could not linger here for long. With every minute the dwarf was getting farther away from him; the hobbit had very little time. All he managed to do was to dig up the edge of the ditch with his sword and cover the body with damp clay. Picking up a few stones from the side of the road, Folco hastily laid out a triangle from them on the side of the road, with the apex pointing towards the head of the deceased.
Having finished and stood for a minute in silence, Folco jumped into the saddle. Time was pressing him, his duty was done, and now fear was once again bearing down on the hobbit. Involuntarily, Folco thought again of the Nine, and, as if in answer to his secret thoughts, from somewhere in the far distance the night wind brought a familiar long howl - an inhuman anguish, poured out to the night sky. Folco had already heard this howl, but then he and the dwarf were sitting in his little room, by the blazing fireplace, under the reliable protection of the old walls; here, in the middle of an empty road, flooded with ghostly night light, next to the just-buried dead body of a kinsman, this howl made Folco look around in fear. A cold sweat broke out on him. And the howl continued, sometimes receding a little, then rolling in again; the pony rushed forward, no longer needing to be urged on. Bending down to the horse's short-cropped mane, Folco looked back.
Far, far to the west, a narrow strip of sunset sky was visible. The sun had already set in the Great Sea, but the edge of the sky was still colored in greenish tones, and along the very horizon stretched a barely noticeable crimson thread. For a moment, it seemed to the hobbit that against the background of the greenish glow he could distinguish the chiseled towers of the Grey Havens - as they were described in books; the hobbit himself had never been there.
And as soon as he remembered the beautiful elven palaces on the shores of the leaden-gray bay, the ever-roaring Sea, the mysterious Beyond the Sea, where Elbereth, the Bright Queen, whose name the Immortals swear by, lives - his heart brightened, as if someone's powerful hand had pulled off the gray web of gloomy thoughts that was tightening. Folco raised his head and cheered up; he even began to quietly hum an ancient song, read in the Red Book; it was sung by the elves on their way to their forest fortresses along the ancient road from the Grey Havens. Folco sang the song several more times, but his thoughts involuntarily returned to the dead hobbit, whom he had buried on the side of the Road. Who was he? How did he end up here? Was he walking from Hobbiton to Bree or vice versa? Or maybe he was captured somewhere far from here, at the White Downs, for example, and brought here to be interrogated and finished off? Or maybe he had been a prisoner for a long time, and his unknown masters simply got rid of him when he was no longer needed, when for some reason he could not work for them? Who knows?..
In any case, all this must be told to the Bree-hobbits, to warn them to go here and bury the deceased as it should be, so that he, Folco, could look this hobbit straight in the eye when they, like everyone who had ever lived in Middle-earth, meet beyond the Thundering Seas...
Meanwhile, the night had fully come into its own, the sunset flame in the west had finally died out, but the full moon that had risen above the eastern mountains gave enough light, and the road was straight and even. The pony ran briskly forward, and, according to Folco's calculations, there were no more than one or two miles left to the edge of the Old Forest. But where was Thorin? Had he really managed to get so far ahead of him? Folco kicked the pony in the sides and at the same moment noticed a low black figure riding on horseback a few hundred paces ahead of him. The hobbit's pony broke into a full gallop; the rider in front, apparently, heard the clatter of hooves from behind. He sharply reined in his horse and jumped to the ground, the polished steel glittered in the moonlight.
- Whoever you are - stop! - the rider's voice thundered, and Folco saw him throw off his wide cloak and wave his right hand, passing it along his thigh. Now the one in front of him was ready for battle - axe at the ready, armor gleaming on his chest.
- It's me, me, Thorin! - Folco shouted, rising in his stirrups and waving his hands frantically.
The figure with the axe took a few steps towards him. They were quickly closing in, and now Folco had dismounted next to the bewildered Thorin. - Folco! My hobbit friend, where did you come from?! - Ah! I spat on everything and decided to go with you. As we were saying goodbye, you said that we could travel together.
- And what about your family, the estate, your uncle? - Nothing. - Folco laughed carelessly. - There will be someone to take the turnips to the market without me. I'm so glad I finally caught up with you! You know, - the hobbit grew gloomy, - I found a body on the road! And that howl... Did you hear it?
- Wait, wait! You found a body? Whose? Where? But sit down, let's go on, we can't go back... Bree is just a stone's throw away... But tell me!
- A hobbit. I don't know him. He was killed very recently - he hadn't even had time to get stiff. - What was he killed with?
- His head was split open - with a sword, probably... - Well, that's something, brother, - Thorin shook his head. - Dashing people are scouring the Road, so let's pick up the pace, my hobbit friend. We have no business dawdling here. Look, the Barrow-downs are already beginning...
Indeed, the forest was receding, curving sharply to the north and south. The Road broke out of the forest narrows into the expanse of a vast, slightly hilly plain. About a mile ahead of them, the road passed through a deep saddle between two hills. To the left, a barely noticeable country road snaked in the twilight, going north along the edge of the forest. In that direction, in the distance, a few barely noticeable lights flickered. Even further, the blurred outlines of a hilly, forested ridge could be guessed.
- There are hobbit settlements at the White Downs, - Folco showed his friend. - And over there, to the right, at the Green Road, live the Arnorians. Bree should be right behind the hills...
To the right lay vast fields, dotted with barrows of various heights. Fog filled the spaces between them, and now the barrows seemed like monstrous bubbles that had swollen on the surface of a ghostly sea. Folco involuntarily shivered - somewhere there, a little further to the south, lay the infamous Barrow-downs, where the Barrow-wight had captured four hobbit friends led by Frodo.
For a while they rode in silence, glancing at the Barrow-downs from time to time. The dwarf was the first to become anxious.
- Do you hear, Folco? They seem to be singing... But so nasally...
The hobbit strained his ears. From behind the hills, he heard the long, mournful sounds of some song, which was being sung by hundreds of voices. The monotonous singing filled his heart with a vague anxiety and immediately made him remember the mysterious howl of the other day... The singing was getting closer.
- Hey, let's get out of here quickly! - the dwarf, who had immediately become serious, gritted his teeth.
He turned sharply to the left and pulled his resisting pony down into the roadside ditch. Folco did not hesitate to follow his example. With difficulty pushing their horses off the open space, the hobbit and the dwarf cautiously crawled to the edge of the ditch and looked out, hiding in the tall grass. Thorin pulled his axe from his belt. Folco drew his sword.
Black silhouettes emerged from the darkness one after another. They were horsemen: they were riding real horses, long spears swayed behind their backs; the horsemen moved two by two, at a leisurely pace, heading strictly south - into the fields of the Barrow-downs. Some of them held tar torches in their hands; a whitish smoke stretched over the road. And the mournful singing continued in the same way.
The head of the column had long since sunk into the fog that hid the foot of the barrows, and new and new horsemen appeared from behind the hill. Several carts passed, followed by foot soldiers. As if someone's brush had drawn a bluish-black darkness on the gray-silver field of moonlight - so this infantry flowed in a solid stream, following the horsemen who had disappeared into the fog. The weapons did not clang, the moonlight did not play on the polished armor - everything was impenetrably black, and only the mournful singing in an unknown language broke the nocturnal silence.
Finally, the whole procession disappeared into the fog. Folco followed it with his eyes and suddenly noticed the Deception Stone, standing on the top of the nearest barrow. Its flat faces suddenly flashed with a crimson flame, as if a dark lightning had struck the top of the enchanted hill. A few minutes later, exactly the same metamorphosis occurred with the stone on the next barrow; a long chain of winking lights stretched into the darkness, the fog lit up, as if a gigantic bonfire had been lit in its depths. And then from somewhere in the south came the already familiar piercing howl. The dwarf covered his ears with his palms. Now this howl seemed to be filled with a hidden and vengeful joy, as if someone had finally got their hands on a weapon for a long-planned revenge; it mocked and laughed - being able to express it in only one single way. For the first time, the dwarf and the hobbit were truly scared.
They did not dare to move for a long time. The dwarf was the first to come to his senses.
- What kind of evil has infested the domains of the King of Arnor! - he said in a whisper. - You know, my hobbit friend, let's get out of here quickly. I don't like it here...
They led their horses back onto the Road, involuntarily bending down and trying to stay in the black shadow of the rare roadside trees. Folco looked around fearfully, the dwarf only grumbled hoarsely through his teeth. As he was getting into the saddle, he hit the bag with the dwarf with his forged boot. A quiet whimper came from the bag.
Soon they reached the edge of the ravine, at the bottom of which a small stream ran; a stone bridge was thrown over it. Some buildings were visible behind it.
The travelers crossed the bridge. Cultivated fields stretched around, fences made of poles appeared along the road, several country roads branched off to the right and left. Another half an hour's journey - and the black Bree fence loomed ahead. The road ended at the gates, which were tightly closed at night, a light flickered in the turret. The dwarf grumbled and reached into his bosom.
- There are two of us... and two ponies... two quarters of a toll for sure...
Another barely noticeable path separated from the main Road and went left, running somewhere to the south along the fence. Above the forged ends of the sharpened logs, roofs covered with shingles were visible. Somewhere dogs barked.
The dwarf rode right up to the gate and, pulling his axe from his belt, knocked loudly with the butt. For a while there was silence, then a small window opened in the gate, and someone's hoarse voice, sleepy, asked:
- Who are the werewolves dragging in their teeth? Can't you wait until morning?
- What do you mean, until morning! - Thorin got angry. - Are we supposed to sleep on the street? Here, take the toll for two and open up! - He stuck the money in the window. - And who are you?
- Thorin, son of Dart, a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains, on my way to Annúminas on business! And with me - Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast, my companion and comrade. Let us pass, venerable one!
- All right, all right, you're in a hurry... I'll unlock it now...
The gates opened, and a long, dark street lay behind them. The old gatekeeper, grumbling something under his breath, leaned his shoulder against the gate and put on the bolt. Folco breathed a sigh of relief. They were in Bree.
Chapter Four. BREE-LAND LESSONS
Having ridden along the dark street past sturdy houses surrounded by high fences, accompanied by continuous dog barking, they stopped near the ancient, firmly rooted in the ground building of the famous Bree inn with a blackened with time sign "The Prancing Pony". Its walls were built of thick oak logs two spans thick; the crowns rested on wild mossy stones. The windows of the first floor were brightly lit, a hum of voices came from the half-open door.
- Hold on, and I'll go make a deal with the owner. - Thorin put the reins in the hobbit's hand. - I'm tired as a dog, oh, and we're going to crash now! After a while, Thorin returned. - Well, is everything all right? Take the pony into the yard. I made a deal with Barliman, he'll lock the dwarf in the deepest and most reliable cellar he can find. Are you hungry?
Only now, being safe, did Folco realize how exhausted he was and wanted to both sleep and eat at the same time, but first, perhaps, to eat! - Of course, I want to!
Folco dismounted and led both horses by the bridle into the depths of the dark courtyard, to the hitching post. The dwarf, meanwhile, took the bag with the prisoner from his pony and disappeared again into some side door. Folco tied up the ponies, gave them oats from the saddlebags and hesitated - where to go next?
- And my lord the hobbit is kindly requested to come here, - a respectful voice said right next to his ear.
Folco turned around. A man stood before him, short, stocky, but not fat; in shoulder width he was only slightly inferior to Thorin.
- I am the owner here. They call me Barliman. And our inn, even during the Great War, hosted King Elessar himself. - He winked conspiratorially at Folco. - Then everyone knew him at best as Aragorn, and usually just called him Strider! Oh, I'm talking too much, forgive me generously! Thorin ordered you dinner in a separate room. Nob is already preparing it. What would you like for the night - meat or something lighter, some vegetables?
- Both, - Folco stated decisively. - And don't forget the beer, please! And a head of cheese would be nice. An apple pie, strawberry jam, honey would be good too... And quickly, or Thorin and I will eat someone ourselves? So where do I go?
- I understand everything, it will be ready in a moment! - the owner assured. - And you, my good sir, should go... What should I call you? - Just call me Folco. The hobbit pushed the heavy, iron-bound door. The owner, having twisted himself in an incredible way, managed to get in front and led the hobbit into the depths of the house, from time to time taking him by the arm and muttering something like: "Be careful, there are steps here... And here the cellar is open. Nob, that blockhead... You must excuse me, I'm used to the dark, my good sir, and the dwarf told me to lead you through the side entrance..."
Folco obediently followed the owner down a dark corridor full of delicious smells. From time to time, someone's voices were heard from behind the wall, laughter, the clinking of mugs and cheerful singing. The old house was full of people and did not remember its age.
Barliman stopped near an inconspicuous door at the far end of the corridor and knocked politely. Thorin's low voice answered from behind the sturdy doors: - Come in!
The door swung open, and Folco found himself on the threshold of a small, very cozy room with a low ceiling and a rounded window, closed with heavy shutters. Scarlet reflections of the fire blazing in the fireplace ran along the log walls, candles burned in forged candlesticks. In the far corner was a wide bed, by the fireplace stood two wooden chairs and a small table covered with dark cloth. In the corner near the fireplace their things were piled, and on a chair in front of the fire sat a dwarf who had thrown off his cloak. The familiar aroma of his strong tobacco was already floating in the room.
- I've brought him, my lord Thorin, - the innkeeper bowed his head. - Everything is arranged in the best possible way. Here is the key to the cellar. - He took a heavy key with an intricate bit from his pocket. - Dinner will be ready in a minute. Is everything all right? Maybe you'd like something else?
- No, thank you, Mr. Barliman, - Thorin answered. - Everything is wonderful. We'll have a bite to eat now and go to bed.
- Ah, well, good, good, - the innkeeper nodded. - And if you wish, you can go to the common room, there are a lot of people there, it's noisy, cheerful... And if you don't want to, then rest, sleep peacefully, if you need anything - ring. - He pointed to a cord hanging near the door, going into a hole above the jamb. - Well, have a pleasant rest. - Barliman bowed and turned, bumping into a young hobbit in the doorway, who was carrying a tray laden with pots and bowls. - And here is your dinner! Well, good night to you!
Meanwhile, the young hobbit servant who had entered was deftly arranging the dishes on the table. Various, but equally tempting smells wafted from under the lids; Folco involuntarily licked his lips.
- How was the road, was it easy? - the servant inquired, having finished his work and approaching the door. - My name is Nob, son of Breg, but just call me Nob. If you need anything - ring, I'll be right there.
- The road was fine, - Thorin answered distractedly, bringing the first spoonful of stewed mushrooms with a complex seasoning to his mouth. - And how are things with you? Is everything calm?
- Well, how can I say, - Nob suddenly became thoughtful, carefully sitting down on the high threshold. - In the inn, things couldn't be better, and the Bree fields are yielding well... But the roads have become restless...
It was clear that Nob was very disposed to talk. Folco waved his hand invitingly.
- Friend, why are you sitting on the threshold? Come in, close the door and let's have a chat! We rarely get out, we know almost nothing. He poured beer into his mug and handed it to Nob. - Thank you, - he bowed respectfully and, having taken a good sip, continued, wiping his lips: - There are various rumors, bad ones... It seems that some people have appeared here who live only by robbery, they rob, burn and kill... I don't know, but the village of Addorn, forty miles to the north - they burned it to the ground! A month ago... At dawn, I heard, they attacked, began to set fire to the houses, those who ran out - some were hacked to death, some were shot with crossbows, and some were taken prisoner - and where, who knows? - He sighed deeply. - Only three survived from there. They hid in the bushes, it's a miracle they weren't found.
The spoon froze in Thorin's hand, he listened to Nob with his mouth open in surprise. Folco immediately remembered the dead hobbit on the road and, when Nob fell silent, said quietly:
- You know, I also saw something on the road. Someone killed a hobbit and left him in a roadside ditch...
Nob yelped, involuntarily grabbing his head, Folco continued:
- It's about seven miles west on the Road. Maybe you could gather our people who live here?.. I made a triangle on the side of the road...
- Yes, yes, - Nob nodded hastily. - Oh, what a grief... When will this end?! And what have we done to them?..
He shook his head sadly. Folco turned away. Nob sniffled, wiped his eyes with his palm and continued in a noticeably trembling voice:
- Of course, my good sir, I will gather whom I can in the morning. We will bury him properly, hold a wake... And you, of course, will go?
- I don't know, - the hobbit answered, casting a quick glance at Thorin, who had imperceptibly shaken his head. - You see, we are in a great hurry to get to Annúminas, we have a very important matter there. But tomorrow we will go to your sheriff and tell him everything - let him think about it too! And does this happen often here?
- No, not very, - Nob answered in a weak voice. - Not often, but it happens. Three years ago someone was messing around on the Road, we then wrote to Annúminas together with the hobbits of the White Downs. A squad came from there, they caught someone, beat them... It became calmer... - And what about yours, didn't they go? - No... Where would we! The people here are peaceful, reasonable, who here knows how to fight, and why is there a squad for that.
- And what about that village, what was it called, Addorn? - the dwarf interjected. - Were those robbers caught?
- I heard they chased them to the very border, to the Angmar Mountains, - Nob answered. - They caught someone, tried them... I heard they even hanged them.
- Who chased them? And what kind of people attacked? - Thorin persisted.
- Who chased them? A detachment came from the capital, intercepted them. The Glemles squad went after them immediately. And what kind of people they were - I don't really know. They said they were from Angmar. A lot of people have settled there, they live freely, they don't recognize anyone's authority.
- Well, what about you? A village was burned down right under your nose, and you don't care? - Thorin was perplexed. - If something like that happened to us, the dwarves, the whole of the Lunar Mountains would rise up! You know, you can rely on the capital's squad...
- And what about us? - Nob said, slightly offended. - It's none of our business. Let the people sort it out themselves... That village, by the way, is on the outskirts, it didn't even have a fence! And there were only about a hundred and fifty people there... And you can't get to us that easily - people live everywhere. The fence around Bree is strong, there are a lot of people - try to take us! And we have a squad now - two hundred horsemen! No, everything is calm with us...
- All right, why rack your brains, - said Thorin. He had already managed to stuff his mouth with stewed mushrooms, and the words sounded indistinct. - You spoke interestingly, thank you. But if we continue like this, we'll be sitting here until dawn. So thank you, my dear, you go now, and we'll go to bed. And the dwarf handed Nob a silver coin. - Thank you, thank you, good night to you, - Nob bowed respectfully, hiding the coin in the pocket of his wide and short - to the knees - trousers. Forgive me if I talked your ear off. Good night, good night! And he disappeared behind the door.
The hobbit and the dwarf ate in silence. The food was unusually tasty, the beer excellent, so for some time only the concentrated snorting of the eaters, who were in no way inferior to each other, was heard. Finally, the pots and plates were empty, and the friends lit their pipes.
- Well, well, things are happening, - Thorin drawled vaguely. - Just don't try to discuss anything now! We need to sleep, I've bruised my whole butt on this pony... The night will pass, the morning will advise - wasn't that said in ancient times? Let's follow this wise rule! And tomorrow, first of all, you'll tell me how you managed to break free yourself and snatch yourself from your wonderfully cozy and sleepy country. All other news we'll discuss later. My eyes are closing. The dwarf yawned widely.
They made up their beds with fresh linen, which lay in a neat pile at the head. Folco felt as if someone had sprinkled sand under his eyelids - he suddenly felt so sleepy.
- It's great that you're with me, my hobbit friend! - Thorin muttered, settling down. - I would have been very lonely alone.
- Only lonely? - Folco smirked. - I can be useful in other ways too. - He went to the bags piled in the corner, rummaged in his own and pulled out a thick, burlap-wrapped bundle hidden at the very bottom. - I recall, you promised not to spare gold for a certain service? - He handed the bundle to the dwarf. - When I... left, let's say, I thought it would be a good idea to take the Red Book with me.
- O, most noble of all hobbits who ever lived! Praise be to Durin, no doubt he himself put this most beautiful thought into you! - Thorin exclaimed, jumping up in bed and throwing off the blanket. - Quickly, give it here! Sleep is canceled! That is, you, of course, sleep, and I'd better read! Thorin hastily began to get dressed. - But it's dark! - Folco tried to object. - The candles are burning down...
- Nonsense, we'll light a splinter. - The dwarf was already chipping narrow and long splinters from the firewood piled in front of the fireplace. - And here's a cupboard! - Well, as you know.
And Folco lay down, wrapping himself in the blanket up to his head. The faint crackling of the splinter was heard, occasionally the rustling of turning pages, the measured breathing of the dwarf. Fatigue quickly took its toll, and Folco soon plunged into a soft, peaceful sleep.
In the morning, while the dwarf was still asleep, the innkeeper knocked on their room, bringing breakfast. After eating, Folco decided to take a walk.
The corridor led him to a spacious hall, the main room of the inn. Bright sunlight streamed through the wide-open windows. Directly opposite the window was a double-leaf entrance door, to the left - a counter, behind it - the dark brown bodies of ancient gigantic barrels; there was also a small fireplace. Tall wooden stools lined the long counter, now occupied by people leisurely drinking beer, chewing something or simply smoking pipes. To the right in the wall there was a second fireplace, much larger than the first; Folco had never seen fireplaces of such magnitude before - it was at least one and a half sazhens in diameter. In front of this fireplace stood long tables occupying the middle of the room; along the walls and between the windows there were smaller tables for two or three. Behind the counter and in the hall, two servants deftly managed - one poured beer, the other served dishes.
No one paid attention to the hobbit frozen in the doorway, and Folco could calmly observe the visitors filling the hall. A surprisingly motley society had gathered here - Bree-landers in working clothes who had dropped in during the short midday break sat next to important merchants, with royal officials - the latter were easily recognizable by the coat of arms of the United Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor embroidered on the sleeves of their camisoles - Seven Stars and a White Tree against the background of fortress walls; and in the night sky above the walls - a bright Eighth Star, the Star of Eärendil. Concerned companies of dwarves in brown robes also sipped beer; pickaxes stuck out of the bags thrown near their tables - their owners were heading to some distant mines...
At the counter sat several of the Steward's guards from the mounted companies recently stationed in Bree - under the Kingdom's coat of arms, they had a horse's head and two crossed sabers. All this information, once read or heard from foreigners, immediately surfaced in Folco's mind, and to his surprise, he realized that he was not so bad at understanding this new world. However, in the far corner, he noticed a rather numerous company of strong, healthy men of mature age in dark green clothing, differing in cut from what the other guests wore - their jackets were not adorned with any emblems; under the table and on the benches around them, various weapons were carelessly laid out - swords, spears, bows - there were especially many bows; Folco also noticed several round shields, turned face towards the wall.
He climbed onto a tall stool not far from the servant bustling on the other side of the counter and asked for beer.
He had not yet drunk a third of his mug when Barliman emerged from the dark interior of the inn. He seemed somewhat calmed and as if enlightened; in his hands he held a glass filled with a dark crimson liquid. "Probably wine," the hobbit thought. Barliman went to the middle of the hall and raised his right hand high. Everyone fell silent. The innkeeper began to speak in an unusually serious and even somewhat solemn tone:
- Leave your conversation for a while, dear guests. The hour has come when we commemorate the Great King Elessar every day!
There was a unified creaking of chairs and benches being pushed back. Everyone stood up, the faces of men and dwarves were serious and thoughtful. Each held a glass of wine or a mug of beer in his hand. The innkeeper continued:
- He has been here many times, honoring us with his presence. In those years, when few heroes fought an unequal battle with the Veil of Darkness, my ancestors' inn repeatedly provided him with shelter and food.
The host's hand pointed to a corner. Folco squinted, but couldn't see anything past the tightly packed people.
- He was great and bright, - the host continued, - his wisdom was deep and all-pervading. Let people remember him and tell good tales about him to their children! May every step he takes in that other life, beyond the Thundering Seas, be light!
The innkeeper teared up. Folco looked around the hall and, to his surprise, noticed that many averted their gazes and sighed heavily. However, the hobbit was puzzled by the carefully concealed mocking half-smiles exchanged by the men in green who stood with everyone else.
- Let's drink, friends! - Barliman raised his glass. - May the grass forever be green on his grave, on the grave of the Great King Elessar!
Everyone together repeated his last phrase and raised their glasses and mugs to their lips, emptying them to the bottom. Folco caught himself feeling a tickle in his throat too, and he hastened to take a good gulp in memory of the Great King.
The innkeeper stood for a while in the middle of the hall, then sighed and went out through the door leading further into the house. The guests slowly sat down, and soon a leisurely, respectable conversation flowed again...
Only now could Folco see the place to which the innkeeper had pointed during his loyal speech. Near the fireplace, against the wall, nestled a small table covered with a white tablecloth and enclosed by a low, finely wrought iron grate. Next to the table stood a slightly pushed-aside chair with a worn gray-green cloak carelessly thrown over its back. A carved wooden staff with a bone handle leaned against the table; and on the white tablecloth, next to a tall mug, lay a well-worn leather tobacco pouch and a small, crooked pipe. It seemed as if the owner of these things had stepped away for a moment and would appear any minute. The interested hobbit approached closer.
Above the table, in a lush frame, under glass, hung an ancient parchment, written, like many other documents of the Great King's time, in both the Common and Old Elvish tongues. The text of the parchment read:
"For services rendered, for honor and courage, I grant to the owner of the inn "The Prancing Pony", Barliman, and to all his descendants, the right to trade and live tax-free, duty-free, and so may it be, as long as the White Tree stands. I hereby also confirm that I presented to the innkeeper my cloak, pouch, pipe, and staff, that no one may doubt their authenticity. Given in the eighth year of the Fourth Age. Bree, by my own hand – Elessar the Elven, King of Arnor and Gondor."
Folco scratched the back of his head in bewilderment and, looking reverently at the precious relics spread out, returned to observing the group of warriors dressed in green.
Among them, as the hobbit soon saw, there were not only mature, strong men, but also youths, and even several boys. One of them, a thin and long youth, constantly twisted and jumped in front of the sitting men, from time to time depicting and mimicking some of them. The guy instantly grasped the slightest irregularities of face or figure and immediately presented them in such a ridiculous-exaggerated form that each of his grimaces caused a hearty laugh. Dancing, he rattled off some funny couplet, the hero of which was one of those present, then looked around the hall and, to the laughter of older comrades, mimicked one of the guests. At first, this seemed amusing to the hobbit, who liked to laugh, but soon he realized that this youth was not just entertaining his own, but maliciously, contemptuously ridiculing those who did not belong to their company; Folco did not like this at all. He bent down to scratch a mosquito-bitten knee, raised his head - and saw that the youth was mimicking him this time, without hiding it at all, looking the hobbit straight in the eyes, maliciously and brazenly. The guy did it very similarly - he masterfully depicted a surprised-frightened little hobbit, terribly concerned that someone would not make fun of him; the mocker accurately showed how the hobbit stretched and secretly scratched his knee, how he looked around, importantly adjusting his sword at his belt... It turned out to be extremely similar and therefore especially offensive. Folco felt himself blushing, especially since the "greens" looked at him with undisguised ridicule - what will you do now, warrior?
The hobbit swallowed nervously. He felt as if the whole inn was looking at him now, that he couldn't keep silent, he had to do something - but what? Folco had never been known for his sharp tongue... What to do?!
He looked around frantically - and, to his horror, saw that the boy who had been mimicking him was walking straight towards him across the hall. His long face was pockmarked, his sparse hair could not hide his protruding ears, his greenish cat-like eyes were scornfully narrowed... He walked straight towards Folco, and everything inside the hobbit sank. - Hey, you, furry-footed! Why are you sitting in my spot? - The boy stood with his hands on his hips and contemptuously drawled the words through his teeth. - Get out, I don't like to repeat myself. Are you deaf or something?
Folco did not move, and only his right hand spasmodically gripped the hilt of the now useless sword.
- The seat was empty, - the hobbit managed to squeeze out. - No one told me anything...
- What? What are you squeaking about? - The youth grimaced dismissively. - I can't hear you! If you're talking to people, you hairy little thing, then make yourself heard!
- The seat was empty, - Folco stubbornly repeated. - I took it, and now it's mine. Find another one.
He turned away, pretending the conversation was over. At that very moment, he was grabbed by the nose and turned back to face the other direction.
- Who allowed you to twist your nose? Look here, ugly! First, shave the hair off your paws, and only then get into polite society! Understand? Repeat?
- Get out! - Folco said quietly and with hatred. - Get out, or else...
He drew his blade halfway from its scabbard. However, his tormentor did not even flinch.
- Oh, how scary! Oh, I'll hide under the table now! And you don't want to go there yourself?!
The boy with unexpected force hit the stool on which the hobbit was sitting. Folco rolled across the floor, painfully bumping his knees and elbows, without even understanding what had happened. The boy acted so quickly and skillfully that no one noticed anything; people looked with surprise at the hobbit who had fallen to the floor for no reason and returned to their interrupted activities.
A sharp and hard boot toe struck the fallen hobbit's side. He was thrown against the counter, the left side of his body flamed with sharp pain. Folco curled up, covering his head with his hands. And his offender, proudly sitting on the regained stool, suddenly began to sing a mocking song-ditty:
- A silly hobbit on the road diligently shaves his legs. He tries in vain - for ages he hasn't looked like a human!
Several people in the hall laughed, and the company by the wall burst into laughter.
And then everything in Folco's head suddenly calmed down. Now he knew exactly what he had to do. He slowly got up and limped away, to the end of the counter where the servant was pouring beer. The useless sword dragged along the boards - one of the straps had broken... The hobbit unerringly felt the mocking glances aimed at him - among them was the triumphant gaze of his offender. Folco reached the end of the counter and turned sharply.
- Hey, you runt in green! - he shouted. - Take that!
The oak beer mug hit the head of the youth, who hadn't even had time to flinch, with a dull thud. Folco had always been one of the first among his peers when it came to throwing stones or shooting a bow; in this art, hobbits, as is known, are only slightly inferior to elves and far superior to all other peoples of Middle-earth.
The boy's suddenly limp body fell heavily to the floor; he collapsed like a felled tree, and lay motionless, face down; a bloody stain slowly spread around his head.
Folco stood lost, staring at the vanquished enemy. An agitated murmur of voices broke into his consciousness - he didn't listen, didn't perceive them, mesmerized, watching the youth finally stir and moan. Two men in green rushed to him, helped him sit up. He barely turned his bruised face to the hobbit, who was standing ten paces away from him. The blood instantly washed away both contempt and bravado from him; now Folco, with an incomprehensible but sweet feeling, saw bewilderment and animal fear in his face - especially since the hobbit's hand, against his will, again grabbed the beer mug standing next to him.
Someone was shaking the hobbit, someone was asking him something - he was silent, watching as the men in green advanced on him like a wall. And then he drew his sword.
The ones dressed in green looked at him with hatred; they stood in a tight group fifteen feet from the hobbit and were silent. From behind their tightly pressed backs, faint groans and sobs were heard from time to time.
- Wait, wait! - the innkeeper burst out from somewhere like a whirlwind. - What happened? What occurred? Let's sort everything out now...
- There's nothing to sort out here, - a cold, squeaky voice interrupted him.
Folco shuddered - for the first time, one of the "greens" spoke.
- Audacity needs punishment, - the same voice continued.
The ranks of the strangers in green parted, and a man slowly walked into the empty space.
Before the hobbit stood a short, only slightly taller than himself, hunchback with long, knotty arms that almost reached his knees. A predatory thin nose and pale steel eyes stood out on his triangular face. Meeting his gaze, Folco trembled like a rabbit before a boa constrictor. However, in this gaze there was neither malice nor even hatred, only power - he seemed calm, slightly tired, and even, as it seemed to the hobbit, something akin to sympathy flickered in it. The hunchback looked at the hobbit without anger or malice - the way one looks at an unsuspecting fly when about to swat it with a palm. It seemed that the hunchback came out not so much to teach this particular hobbit a lesson for this particular act, but because a convenient opportunity arose to unleash his power. All this flashed through the mind of the hobbit pressed against the counter in an instant. In these seconds, his mind gained an extraordinary clarity, grasping the smallest, even the most insignificant details and turning them into undeniable conclusions.
The anxious murmur among the spectators at the sight of the drawn blade in the hobbit's hands rose and immediately died down. It died down because the hunchback, coldly smirking at the corners of his mouth, pulled out a brownish stick about a cubit and a half long from the folds of his clothes and calmly turned to the people:
- There will be no blood, don't worry, esteemed ones! You see, - he threw a heavy leather belt with a dagger in a black sheath hanging from it on the floor, - I do not draw steel. You, - he addressed Folco directly for the first time, whose tongue immediately dried to his palate, - you were the first to shed blood. Defend yourself or attack - it makes no difference to me. But first of all...
He suddenly made a movement and immediately found himself next to the stunned hobbit. Cold hooked fingers snatched him from below upwards under his chin, Folco's teeth clattered, and in addition he bit his tongue painfully. The next moment he received a blow to his legs and rolled across the floor a second time. The onlookers laughed, shouts rang out:
- Come on, little one, show him! The mug, don't forget the mug!
- Hey, I bet twenty coins on the hobbit! - Fifty on the hunchback! - Hit him, hit him, come on, be braver! In the center of the writhing and mocking world stood the impassively calm hunchback, holding his ridiculous stick in his lowered hand. And all Folco's despair, all his resentment and anger forced him to break away from the counter and move forward. In the peaceful hobbit, who rarely fought even in childhood, some primordial, furious hatred awoke, directed at the unknown hunchback with a short and thin - a finger and a half - stick instead of a weapon. The spectators greeted the hobbit's movement with a unified roar. From somewhere behind them, Folco heard Barliman's indignant shouts. He, it seemed, was still trying to break up the quarrel and prevent a fight. No one listened to him.
Folco walked straight towards the hunchback, whose lips still bore a cold smirk. In a strange blindness, as if in a half-sleep, the hobbit covered the fifteen paces separating them and, when he was no more than two fathoms from his opponent, rushed forward, holding his sword pointed at the hunchback's chest.
The hunchback again made some imperceptible movement, his stick hissed through the air, and Folco almost dropped his sword, which had been struck with terrible force. The hunchback was already somewhere to the side, and the hobbit received a burning blow just below his back, which made him squeal thinly with sharp pain. Laughter broke out again around him.
Blinded by pain and rage, yet not losing his natural dexterity, the hobbit quickly turned to face his opponent. The hateful face of the hunchback loomed very close, he clearly did not expect such agility from Folco, and the hobbit, with all his might, as if he were chopping wood, struck from above, aiming at the high pale forehead, covered with reddish curls of sparse hair.
Not a single muscle twitched on the hunchback's face. The hand with the stick swept upwards, describing a circle in the air, and Folco felt himself thrown aside and his blade helplessly cut through the emptiness. The hunchback was again behind the hobbit, and nothing could stop him now - he knocked Folco off his feet, the latter fell to the floor, and his opponent, straddling him, began to methodically inflict blows - on his shoulders, on his legs, on his butt. No one had ever beaten the hobbit like this, his consciousness began to fade from pain, he no longer heard or saw anything...
Above him, a particularly loud noise was heard, and the hail of burning blows suddenly ceased. With a last effort of will, Folco convulsively lunged to the side, trying to crawl away, and looked up. He saw the distorted face of the hunchback, desperately trying to pull his hand with the stick out of someone else's, apparently, having intercepted the hunchback's wrist in the air. The hobbit strained, trying to make out the face of his savior, but all his doubts were resolved by a familiar low voice.
- Murderer! - Thorin roared. - Come on, try it with me!
The dwarf's fingers, tighter than a steel clamp, squeezed the hunchback's arm; Folco's opponent's face lost all its composure; thick veins, like ropes, swelled on Thorin's half-naked arm, but all the hunchback's efforts were in vain. He tried to intercept the stick with his free hand; then Thorin, discarding the hunchback's outstretched hand, himself grabbed the opposite end of the stick and sharply pulled it down; a crack was heard, the fragments slipped from the hunchback's limp hand.
- I'll show you how to beat up little ones, carrion! - the dwarf roared into the hunchback's face. - I swear by Durin's beard!
The latter hissed like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, deftly twisted, jumped up and kicked the dwarf in the hip; Thorin staggered, and his opponent managed to break free. The next moment, an axe was already in the hands of the enraged dwarf. - Sword! - the hunchback sharply shouted, jumping back. From somewhere behind his back, a long sword in a black scabbard was handed to him. A malicious smirk appeared on the hunchback's face, as if telling everyone: "Well, now we've finally gotten to the essence of it."
And then they were overwhelmed. The spectators understood that the jokes and games were over and a real fight was about to begin; about five people hung on the hunchback's shoulders, four dwarves rushed to Thorin.
With incomprehensible agility, the hunchback immediately freed himself from the hands clinging to him; the people holding him scattered across the floor, without even having time to realize what was happening to them; the hunchback moved swiftly forward, his sword already drawn.
Folco closed his eyes in horror. And then, from behind the backs, a calm, restrained voice was heard, which immediately silenced everyone. Hidden power and authority, the right to command and punish, were felt in it. Everyone froze, and the hunchback also froze, not having time to lower his leg.
- Stop, Sandello! This is unworthy of you. Besides, it's time for us to go. Pay the host for the inconvenience and make peace with the venerable dwarf.
Someone from his comrades handed a jingling leather pouch to the hunchback named Sandello.
Folco and Thorin, and all those gathered, watched with surprise as Sandello's face changed immediately at the first words: anger and hatred disappeared, not even a shadow of discontent was visible. A semblance of a smile appeared on his thin lips, he turned his face in the direction from which the voice came, and bowed low and respectfully.
- I obey! - he exhaled fervently and looked around, most likely looking for the innkeeper.
Barliman, pale and disbelieving, emerged from behind the backs, looking at Sandello with dislike. The latter handed him money.
- We apologize, venerable host, for the inconvenience caused to you. I swear by the Great Staircase, everything happened somehow by itself and not as we would have liked. Accept this as compensation!
Barliman wanted to say something, but then he just waved his hand and took the pouch.
- That's great, - the hunchback continued. - Now I want to make peace with the venerable dwarf.
He went to Thorin, who was still being held by four young, sturdy dwarves. Thorin himself was only rolling his bloodshot eyes and spewing unintelligible curses in his own language. Sandello extended his hand to him.
- I propose we part in peace, venerable dwarf, I do not know your name. I understand you, you were defending a friend, but I was doing the same! I believe we are even?
- We will never be even! - Thorin answered hoarsely. - The day will come when we will meet again, and I will repay you for today. We'll see what else you can do besides beating up the weak! Get out, I have nothing to talk to you about!
Sandello spread his hands in feigned disappointment and turned to the door, through which his comrades were already leaving.
Soon the clatter of hooves was heard from the courtyard - a dozen horsemen were leaving the inn. The dwarves let go of Thorin with a sigh, and he immediately rushed to the hobbit, who was still sprawled on the floor.
- Folco! How did you get into this mess? Where does it hurt, tell me? - the dwarf babbled incoherently, hastily feeling the hobbit's shoulders and back; almost every movement was accompanied by the hobbit's pitiful groans. - Host, hot water to our room, - the dwarf threw to Barliman, carefully picking up Folco in his arms and heading for the exit.
Behind them, a buzz of excited voices rose again, animatedly discussing what had happened. The dwarf carefully carried the hobbit to their room. In Thorin's strong and rough hands, it was unusually comfortable, the pain slightly subsided - and Folco could only grit his teeth from the burning, unbearable shame. He felt his cheeks and ears flush. What a disgrace! To get it like that in front of everyone, being with a sword against some stick! He was a fine one, a valiant warrior cleaving the emptiness, when his opponent got behind him and did what he wanted! In a real fight, Folco would have been killed in a few seconds. And he had imagined himself! An experienced, seasoned swordsman!
You only threaten your uncle... At the thought of his uncle, Folco's thoughts took a different direction. And why did he even tag along with this dwarf, who had so inconveniently appeared on the road? He rushed off - where, why? In two days of travel, he had already received more beatings than in his entire previous life, and no uncles could compare in strength to this damned hunchback... Folco groaned - the pain was returning, but then the dwarf kicked open the door to their room and carefully laid the hobbit on the bed. Thorin began to take off the clothes of the constantly groaning and moaning Folco; having examined his back, the dwarf whistled.
- Wow... He really did a number on you. Tell me, how did it happen?
Overcoming the pain and unbearable shame, Folco recounted to the dwarf the essence of what had happened. Thorin grew gloomy:
- It's a pity you didn't kill that bastard... And it's a pity they didn't let me deal with him properly, what's his name, Sandello? Well, it doesn't matter, I'll remember him for the rest of my life.
There was a cautious knock on the door. Thorin pushed the door, and Barliman entered the room, holding a wooden tub full of hot water. - Thank you, host, - the dwarf nodded to him. - Is there anything else you need? - the innkeeper asked timidly.
- No, thank you, we have everything, - Thorin refused.
A hot cloth, soaked in some dwarven remedy, was carefully placed on the suffering hobbit's back. Folco barely suppressed a scream - the welts flared up as if sprinkled with salt, but the pain quickly subsided, a pleasant warmth began to spread through his body...
- Yes, you'll be lying down all day today, - Thorin summed up, shaking his head with concern.
Folco was blissful, giving his battered body a rest. No, he wouldn't go any further for any price! Tomorrow he would say his last "goodbye" to the dwarf and go back to his native Hobbiton. His uncle, of course, would be angry, but in the end he would forgive him, and everything would be fine again... The hobbit completely softened, but then someone knocked hard on the door.
Chapter Five. ROGVOLD
- Who the hell is that again? - Thorin grumbled through his teeth, but still opened the door.
- I apologize if I disturbed you... - a quiet voice with clearly audible metallic notes was heard.
A tall, gray-haired man, already very old, but dry, fit, carefully entered the room; on his tanned face under thick gray eyebrows, bright blue eyes of such rare purity stood out that the dwarf could not help but admire them - as he would admire precious gems. Smooth skin stretched over slightly protruding cheekbones, deep folds ran from the wings of his nose to the corners of his mouth, a fine network of wrinkles lay in the corners of his eyes; the lower part of his face was hidden by a neat snow-white beard that ran in a straight ribbon from one ear to the other. He wore a simple brown jacket and high leather boots; on his belt, on each side, hung two short knives. He had tied his long hair with a leather cord so that it would not cover his eyes.
Folco propped himself up on his elbow, trying to get a better look at the stranger, while Thorin gave him a very unfriendly look and, in response to his first phrase, grumbled something under his breath like: "You did disturb me."
- I just entered the inn, - the stranger continued, - and the first thing I heard was the story of your skirmish with the strangers. I hurried to find out if I could be of any use to you...
The dwarf's gaze, fixed on the stranger, seemed to say more clearly than words: "You can be very useful if you rid us of your presence." The newcomer looked at the hobbit's bruised back, rummaged in a small leather pouch hanging at his belt, and handed the dwarf a pack of dry leaves with a strong, pungent smell.
- This is celema, - said the gray-haired man. - I see, venerable dwarf, you have already used your remedies... so, sour stonecrop, two-headed bolten and cave moss - all correct. But it will be very good for your injured friend if you follow my advice and brew celema as well.
- How do you... you know our remedies? - the dwarf asked in bewilderment.
- I have lived a long time and traveled a lot, - the stranger smiled. - I have been to your parts, in the south of the Lunar Mountains, and even befriended Hort, one of your elders.
- How did you guess that I was from the south of the Lunar Mountains? - Thorin was completely confused.
- Only in the south of the Lunar Mountains do they make five-layered forged axes with a spike, - the stranger answered with a grin. - In the North they are three-layered, in Moria there is a characteristic wavy pattern on the blade, in the Lonely Mountain instead of a spike there is a small anvil with the image of a mountain, and besides, the axe itself is rounded. The Iron Hills are distinguished by double-sided axes also in five layers, while their single axes are more like poleaxes. Well, shall we get acquainted? - He smiled broadly, welcomingly. - My name is Rogvold, son of Mstar, and locally - Rogvold the Oak. The Bree-landers nicknamed me that for my endurance and for the fact that I just can't seem to get old.
Thorin and Folco introduced themselves. Rogvold nodded, and then began to fuss around the prostrate Folco with the dwarf. He questioned them about what had happened, from time to time asking short questions, smiling enigmatically and nodding in different places of their story.
- So, they were all in green? They sat separately from everyone else? A jester boy? Interesting...
Gradually, the dwarf and the hobbit became more and more animated, Thorin had no trace of the dislike he had so clearly shown a few minutes earlier. When the hobbit brought the story to his accurate throw, a clear disapproval appeared on Rogvold's face, but he thought, sighed and shook his head.
- No, I'm still wrong, - he said. - You did as you should, although not everyone understood it. Continue!
The hobbit spoke of the appearance of the hunchback. Rogvold suddenly started and looked at him very attentively.
- You said his name was Sandello? The hunchback Sandello? - He leaned back with a look of utter amazement. - You were very lucky, Folco, son of Hamfast. You could have been killed with bare hands, without even getting up from the table!
Folco choked, the dwarf's eyes widened. Both silently looked at Rogvold.
- I knew him, - he said slowly, as if with difficulty recalling some long-past events. - I saw him several times at tournaments in Annúminas. Despite his height, he took first prizes in sword fighting three times in a row. It always seemed to me that he lived only to prove to everyone at these tournaments that he was the same as everyone else, and even better. But the Steward did not like him, and he did not invite Sandello to his guard, I don't know why. However, the Steward is a good judge of people... I don't know what Sandello has been doing all these years - he is about twenty years younger than me. I heard that he became either a hunter or a gold prospector... - Rogvold shook his head again. - Fate is capricious! I would like to know who he serves now, and that he serves is as clear as day. Whose voice was it that made the hunchback give up his favorite pastime?! Rogvold paced the room. - It's okay, we'll meet this Sandello again! - the dwarf grumbled, but it was clear that after the new acquaintance's story, his determination had diminished.
- People like Sandello are very expensive, - Rogvold continued, not listening to the dwarf. - But if he takes someone's side, he will not betray them until his very death... By the way, the decoction is ready.
He went to the cauldron boiling on the fire, took it off the tripod and poured a dark, fragrant liquid into a mug.
Burning himself, Folco drank the hot decoction, while Rogvold gently rubbed his back with the boiled leaves. The new remedy worked very quickly - the pain in his back disappeared completely, and only his head was a little dizzy. Folco blissfully burrowed under the blanket and began to listen as Rogvold told about himself, answering the dwarf's impatient questions.
- I am a native Arnorian, born and raised in Annúminas. In my youth, I was distinguished by my strength and for this I was taken by the Steward - in those years just as young, just appointed to this post - into the city's mounted guard. I was a decurion, then a centurion, I went on the memorable Last March to the North thirty years ago, when orc settlements were spotted there, and I rose to the rank of a commander of five hundred. But the years went by, I grew old, and one fine day I left the King's service and became a freelance hunter. Now I wander through the forests, catch falcons and gyrfalcons, tame them, teach them and sell them in Annúminas for the Steward's Hunt. That's basically it. - He spread his hands a little guiltily.
- And where are you heading now, venerable Rogvold? - Thorin asked.
- I'm on my way to Annúminas. Perhaps we're going the same way?
- Yes, we are also heading there. - What made a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains and a hobbit from a quiet country that has become a fairy tale for many go there? Forgive my question, but this is a rare case even in our quiet - relatively, of course, time, that a hobbit goes to Annúminas, and alone! Folco and Thorin exchanged glances. - We have an important matter for the Steward, - Thorin answered calmly. - Could you, venerable Rogvold, advise us on how to arrange to see him as soon as possible?
- Many seek an audience with the Steward, - the hunter answered, trying not to show his surprise, - but to see, let alone speak with him, you will have to wait quite a long time. First, you will submit a petition to the Steward's Chancellery with a statement of your request. Then you will receive a response from a junior clerk of the Chancellery, where you will be assigned a date for a conversation with one of the Steward's secretaries - he must make sure that the topic really deserves to be heard by the Steward himself.
- But our case is special, we cannot retell it to all the pettifoggers of Annúminas! - the dwarf was indignant.
- By the way, you may be asked not to burden the Chancellery with extra work at all, - Rogvold smiled. - Don't you know that dwarves are not subjects of the Northern Crown and, therefore, should turn to their ambassadors in Annúminas if they have any difficulties in trade or craft matters! The petition should be written by a hobbit - they are still in a special position. So the Great King bequeathed, and his word is still sacred. The dwarf scratched the back of his head. - How many days will that be? - At least a month, - was the answer. - I know what crowds besiege the Steward with their petitions. Almost all of their cases can be resolved by lower-ranking officials - and in the end it turns out that way, but for some reason everyone strives to start from the very top.
The dwarf looked sourly at the hobbit curled up in a ball.
- There is a way out, - Rogvold spoke again. - The Steward knows and remembers me. If you tell me what your business is, I may be able to give you some good advice. However, I don't want to impose myself in any way, and, I beg you, don't think that I'm trying to pry any of your secrets out of you.
After some hesitation, the dwarf briefly repeated what he had told Folco on the first night of their meeting. Rogvold listened calmly, thoughtfully sucking on his pipe, and when Thorin fell silent, he began to speak, stroking his beard with his left palm:
- You have just told of amazing events, Thorin. In the years when I served at the Steward's court, I happened to hear that in the archive left to King Elessar by Elrond Half-elven, the lord of Rivendell, there were amazing tales of the Underworld, the World that lies below the deepest settlements and mines of the dwarves. And I recall that somewhere in the very heart of the mountains, the soldiers of Morgoth, that very First Great Enemy, of whom the subsequent Enemy, Sauron, was merely a prison warden, are still imprisoned from the days of the First Age. Who they are, what it is - I do not know, and I listened to these, as it seemed, worthless rumors with half an ear. Now I regret it. Who knows, maybe this is somehow connected with the current events in Moria? - Rogvold shook his head thoughtfully. - But you are right, we must go to Moria, and if your brethren in the Lunar Mountains refused to do so, let's try to find companions among the dwarves of Annúminas! The most reckless and desperate young men of your tribe, who are bored with living in the old places, always gather there. It's decided, I'm going with you!
With a completely young, sharp, springy movement, Rogvold jumped up and paced the room, muttering something under his breath and counting on his fingers. Finally, he stopped and turned to the hobbit: - So, you arrived tonight? Folco and Thorin nodded simultaneously. - Was the road calm? I mean - did you encounter anything unusual on the way? You were on the West Road, weren't you?
- Unusual... - Thorin grinned wryly. - Let's just say - we encountered more unusual things this night than in all my previous six... or seven? - I don't remember how many, trips to Bree. It all started with...
- I found a corpse on the road! - Folco interjected excitedly, but the dwarf cut him off:
- Wait! Everything in order! First of all - that howl that I heard on the approach to Hobbiton, and the second time we both heard it already in Buckland. A terrible howl! Folco says that it reminded him of the memorable descriptions of a similar voice from the Red Book, but we decided that it was completely impossible.
- In our time, nothing can be impossible, - Rogvold calmly remarked. - Don't be so quick to dismiss your guesses, no matter how implausible they may seem to you. I will say that I also heard it - on the approach to Bree. Only I was coming from the south. I heard it twice - late in the evening and already late at night, and it seemed to me that the second time it was somewhat different - more malicious, perhaps.
- That's right! - Folco slapped his forehead, throwing off the blanket and jumping to his feet. The conversation that had started made him completely forget about the beatings he had received. - That's right! Thorin, then by your count it was already the third - well, when we passed the Barrow-downs! - Yes, there was a third time, - the dwarf nodded, frowning. - But that's another story. Then there was the corpse that Folco found, I didn't even notice it in the dark.
Folco told about the dead hobbit. Rogvold listened silently, and his face darkened. - Again! They've gotten in here again! - he uttered. It was unclear who he meant, but as soon as Folco was about to ask the old hunter this question, he raised his lowered head again.
- Well, that can still be understood, - he said. - Wait, wait, don't interrupt me, I'll answer all your questions a little later. What happened is, of course, very sad and sorrowful, but explainable. But was there anything else, something unlike anything else?
- No, venerable Rogvold, tell me first, how do you explain this matter with the corpse? - Thorin interrupted him.
- I have two assumptions, or, if you like, guesses. The first - the poor fellow fell into the hands of local robbers - don't be surprised, we have here residents of several villages who have taken to robbery, having fallen out with their neighbors. So, he was probably returning home, to the White Downs, they tracked him down and killed him. The body was left in a conspicuous place - to make them more feared - then it's easier to show up in some forest village and demand a ransom. They are not very afraid of the guards, because they know the area well and are remarkably good at hiding. Besides, you can't do much with cavalry in the forest. You have to fight them in other ways.
- And the second one? - the hobbit, who was eagerly catching every word, asked impatiently. - Oh, the second one! The second one is much more interesting! Rogvold stood up, tiptoed to the door and suddenly threw it open. The corridor was empty, they were not being eavesdropped on. The hunter carefully bolted the door with the air of a conspirator and beckoned the hobbit and the dwarf to him.
- You've probably heard about the village of Addorn that was burned down a month ago? You've heard, it can't be that Nob didn't tell you about it. And he said that those who had been there were chased all the way to the Angmar Mountains, right? Well, did he? - He did, - Toril nodded. - So what? - For two or three years now, - Rogvold said in a quiet, slightly sinister voice, - we have had not just flying gangs of ordinary robbers, but detachments of well-armed mounted warriors, not bad masters of combat, by the way! They attack large convoys, sometimes burn villages, and then disappear as suddenly as they appeared. They don't shy away from ransom - even from small towns. Who they are and where they come from is still not really known. People say they are from Angmar - but, firstly, all the evil we have always comes from Angmar, that's just how people are, and secondly, a free people who have left the Kingdom really live in Angmar, there are a lot of them there. We have had skirmishes with these mysterious detachments. As a rule, they avoided open battle, but last year, in the spring, they were cornered pretty well. They lost about four hundred then - by the way, among the dead were not only men, but also orcs. A centurion friend of mine, whom I can trust, told me about this. Then for about seven months it was quite calm - our usual robbers also quieted down, also, by the way, pretty well plucked last winter and spring. And now again! So there you have it, my second assumption: the hobbit was captured by one of these detachments, which had passed unnoticed from our borders to Bree itself. The fact is that these horsemen were very diligent in hunting for prisoners. But most likely either the hobbit could not go on, or he was not needed, and they finished him off, not bothering to even hide the corpse, or maybe they were just in a hurry. .
There was silence. Folco fell silent, realizing that things were starting to get serious.
- On the way here, - Rogvold continued, lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper, - I saw something that I would very much like to doubt the truth of, to attribute everything that happened to bad dreams or an unknown illness. I entered Bree through the South Gate, and the Green Road, as you know, runs along the eastern border of the Barrow-downs.
The dwarf and the hobbit involuntarily shuddered. The memories of the terrible lights on the tops of the barrows and the mournful singing in the night silence were too fresh. Both lowered their heads and were silent.
However fleeting the shudder that seized them was, Rogvold noticed it and immediately guessed everything. The old centurion sadly nodded his gray head. - Did you see it too? - he asked quickly. Folco saw that even the seasoned warrior of Arnor could not restrain an involuntary movement that betrayed his anxiety, bewilderment, and a deeply hidden, but still constantly present fear.
- Did you see and hear it? - Rogvold repeated. - Old hunters and trackers told me that something strange is happening in the Barrow-downs, that they are coming to life... Then, and it happened two years ago, I didn't pay any attention to it, because we, the hunters, sometimes like to brag, we have such a habit. But now, when I saw with my own eyes how the marble Fangs on the tops of the hills were blazing, when I heard that terrible song - I confess, I feel a little uneasy. Tell me, what did you see?
Thorin in a few words retold Rogvold their night adventures on the very threshold of Bree. The hunter nodded again.
- There is no doubt, - he sighed. - This detachment is from the North. I stumbled upon the tracks of strangely shod horses yesterday afternoon, when I was cutting through the forest. These tracks led in one direction - to the Barrow-downs.
- Wait, - Folco intervened. - And why did you decide, venerable Rogvold, that these warriors came from the North?
- Not all of them, - Rogvold answered seriously, - but many. You see, their horses are indeed strangely shod. Such horseshoes and such nails are forged only in Angmar. I have been there more than once, when I accompanied the Steward's embassy. And now I see the same horse tracks a few miles southeast of Bree!
- And our detachment was going in the opposite direction, bypassing Bree from the northwest, - the dwarf was surprised.
- Is that so? - Rogvold raised his eyebrows. - This is indeed news! So they were going to the Barrow-downs from different directions. They must have had a meeting point there! And we are sitting here in a warm and comfortable inn, not worrying about anything, - the hunter said and bit his lip.
- What should we do? - Thorin asked him. - You are experienced, you know the area - help us! After all, what we three saw concerns not only the Bree-landers, but all of Arnor! In my opinion, we should notify the commander of the Arnorian guard!
- The commander won't take a step without a direct order from Annúminas, - Rogvold smiled sadly. - He is guarding Bree. If he is attacked, he will fight, but otherwise... Unlikely, venerable dwarf. Besides, it's not convenient for cavalry to go into the forest depths.
- Interesting! - Thorin jumped to his feet. - So it's convenient for those horsemen to go into the depths, but not for ours, is that it?!
- Well, don't rush, please, - Rogvold raised his palms as if in defense. - We will, of course, go to the commander, if you really want to. But, I repeat, it will be of little use.
- Little or not, I will never forgive myself if I don't do it! - the dwarf uttered and hastily began to get ready.
He girded himself with his wide belt, tucked his axe into it and looked questioningly at the hobbit.
Despite all his doubts and the awareness of his complete worthlessness in battle, Folco suddenly realized that he could not deceive the dwarf's expectations, could not, just like that, give Thorin a reason to be disappointed in him and to spit contemptuously for a long time at the mere mention of the hobbit country; and Thorin would be completely indifferent to the reasons that prompted the hobbit to be a coward. And this new, unfamiliar feeling overcame him.
- Are you ready, Folco? - the dwarf asked. - How is your back, is it all right?
Thorin turned to the hobbit, already standing on the threshold. Rogvold also rose after them.
- I'm fine, - the hobbit answered in a weak but firm voice, trying his best not to let it tremble.
They left the inn, telling Barliman, who they met on the way, that they would be back soon and that he should look after their room. The innkeeper nodded and wished them a pleasant walk: he said that a walk before dinner is useful, it improves the appetite. Folco's insides clenched as he imagined what this "walk" could turn into. Rogvold walked beside him; the old hunter seemed as calm as a rock.
They walked along the wide, well-kept main street of Bree. Rogvold explained to the hobbit that, like almost all such streets in other Arnorian settlements, it was named after the Great King. They walked past high fences and sturdy gates; behind the fences stood two-story log houses, roofed with gray shingles; the houses were buried in the greenery of gardens, already slightly touched by the autumn crimson. People were bustling about everywhere, paying no attention to the three armed companions.
The street began to slope downwards, gradually descending from the wide, sprawling Bree-hill, and several smaller streets branched off from it; as on the main street, sturdy, well-kept houses stretched along them. All the streets led to the Fence that surrounded Bree on all sides, went out into the open field and turned into ordinary country roads leading to the surrounding villages. Bree, as in the days of Bilbo and Frodo, served as a kind of capital of a rather large island of inhabited lands in the middle of a boundless sea of wilderness. For three hundred peaceful years, the Arnorians had worked hard; however, there were too few of them, and they settled mainly to the north, in the area of Annúminas, Fornost and the lakes lying between them. The previously completely wild area along the Green Road, which had been completely abandoned by the beginning of the Fourth Age, had long been developed; however, people had advanced insignificantly to the east - by about a hundred miles. There were no large settlements there, only small villages. It was they that became the prey of the mysterious mounted warriors.
All this Rogvold retold on the way to the hobbit, who was listening to him with his mouth open, while they were walking towards the long two-story houses visible near the very Fence. Here were housed two hundred Arnorian horsemen, stationed in Bree by order of the Steward after the frequent robber attacks on the East and Green Roads.
- It can't be said that everything was in vain, - said Rogvold. - The guardsmen didn't get out of their saddles for days, scouring the neighborhood in search of unknown robbers. They caught some and immediately hanged them. It's quieter now than it was, say, two years ago.
A warrior in full battle gear standing at the entrance silently blocked their path with his long spear.
- Who are you going to see, venerable ones? State your business, and I will pass your request to the centurion.
- We have an important matter for him, venerable, - Rogvold answered politely to the young warrior. - My friends and I, it seems, know where one of the rebel detachments is located.
A worried and concerned expression appeared on the warrior's face. He pulled a rope hanging next to him, and somewhere in the depths of the house bells jingled.
- Is that certain?! - The guard's eyes sparkled, the knuckles on his fists, which were convulsively gripping the spear shaft, turned white. - That would be great! An end to all this ugliness then.
Three more similarly armed warriors appeared from the depths of the house. On each - a composite cuirass, a high pointed helmet, at the belt - a long sword, behind the shoulders - a white and blue cloak with an embroidered Arnorian coat of arms. The one walking in the middle, an already elderly, stocky warrior with a tanned, weathered face, stepped forward.
- I am Narin, the head of the guard, - he said quietly, a little hoarsely. - What do you want? What do you want to report?
Rogvold repeated. The old warrior did not betray his excitement in any way, except that the voice with which he commanded the newcomers "Follow me" became more hoarse. The guard remained at his post. Rogvold, Folco and Thorin, accompanied by Narin and two silent young warriors, walked into the depths of the vast military house.
They walked down a long corridor and stopped at the farthest door. A sentry also stood next to it.
- Is the captain in? - Narin asked the guard. - He is. What is your business with him?
- An important matter, let me through quickly! - The sentry silently stepped aside, and Narin, passing by him, threw on the move: - It looks like there will be a fight...
They found themselves in a small, bright room with a pleasant smell of resin coming from the fresh, recently nailed to the walls thin boards. Wide benches stood along the walls: their backs, like the entrance door, were covered with a carved pattern. In the middle stood a large round table, next to it - eight wooden carved armchairs. Various weapons were hung on the walls, the polished steel of a cuirass, crucified like the skin of a strange beast, sparkled. In the opposite wall there was another door, already without any decorations, knocked together from burnt oak beams.
- Please be seated, - Narits addressed the guests. - The captain will be out shortly. Hey, Herwin! - he turned to one of the young warriors accompanying him. - Come on, quickly, the map on the table!
The sound of footsteps was heard behind the oak door. All the warriors, including Narin, immediately straightened up and drew themselves up. The captain quickly entered the room and stopped, not reaching the table on which the map was spread by two steps.
- I greet you, venerable ones, - a soft, not at all warlike voice sounded. - Was your journey easy? What brought you here? What grievances or insults have stained the honor of the Kingdom, and therefore - my honor? Tell me, and, believe me, we will find a way to satisfy you! For I not only command the Bree guard, I am also the sheriff of this area. I am listening to you!
The captain went to the table and sat down, showing no surprise at the fact that a map was spread out on the table. Now the hobbit could see the commander of the Arnorian detachment properly.
He was young - probably barely thirty. A high forehead, clear eyes, a clean, open, slightly elongated face - all this immediately disposed the hobbit to him. Folco heard Thorin grunt approvingly behind him.
- I greet the venerable Rogvold, - the captain continued. - You have not been to Bree for a long time, esteemed one... So, I am listening to you, and let your companions introduce themselves, if they wish! - He leaned back in his chair. - Thorin, son of Dart, a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains. - Folco, son of Hamfast, a Brandybuck, from Hobbiton.
The captain bowed his head politely. - My name is Erster, son of Korst. I am listening to you! The three newcomers exchanged glances. Rogvold coughed and began to speak. And while he was telling about the events that had taken place, Folco watched with surprise and disappointment how the expression on Captain Erster's face changed. It suddenly became gloomy, depressed, as if he had been informed of the death of a close friend or relative. At the end, the captain could not restrain an exclamation of annoyance.
- This is important, very important, all that you have said, - he said slowly. - But I cannot throw my squad into the unknown, just like that, without a direct order! Narin! What do you think about this? The old warrior coughed in embarrassment. - We must advance, captain. Something was glowing in the Barrow-downs last night - that's for sure. We must, we must definitely check!
He even leaned forward. The faces of the young warriors standing next to him expressed complete approval. However, the captain only grimaced.
- I know that myself, - he answered not very politely and began to question the hobbit and the dwarf about all the details of their meeting with the mysterious detachment.
From excitement, the hobbit answered, barely moving his tongue, and thought only of not confusing anything out of fear. Having listened to them, the captain sat for a few moments in deep thought, then raised his head and looked intently first at the dwarf, then at the hobbit.
- Is that all you wanted to tell me? Hurry, we need to act quickly.
The dwarf nudged Folco with his elbow, the hobbit looked at him questioningly.
- Tell him about the dead man! - Thorin whispered to his friend.
Folco, stammering, somehow managed to tell the story of the murdered hobbit found on the road. The captain grew gloomy, sighed, and then ordered Narin to record it in the report. - These are all leaves of the same tree, as the elves would say, - he uttered, bending over the map again. - One to one... So. Anything else?
Somewhat confused by the obvious indifference to his story, Folco looked down. Then Thorin spoke and from beginning to end told the captain the whole story of the fight in the inn, focusing mainly on the hunchback Sandello and the strangely dressed men in green. The captain started.
- This is better! It's as clear as day that they are from the same company! Well, then, it means they haven't had time to go far, since you didn't notice any spare horses in the detachment that went to the Barrow-downs. Well, Narin, it looks like it's really time for us to act! Sound the alarm, and I'll send a signal by pigeon post!
Narin grinned with satisfaction and, looking out into the corridor, shouted to the sentry: - Sound the alarm! General assembly! Saddle the horses! A clatter and loud voices were heard in the corridor, and then, announcing to the neighborhood and echoing in the distant forests, the clear, high voice of a large horn sounded.
- Well, we have met, and it is time for us to say goodbye, - said the captain. - We thank you for the valuable information. You have honestly done your duty, now it is our turn. May your road be easy, wherever it may lead! And now, farewell. He turned, but Thorin stopped him. - And what about us?! - the dwarf exclaimed. - We want to fight too! I'm not used to hiding behind others' backs.
The dwarf's eyes blazed, he was beside himself with anger. The captain calmly turned to him.
- This is not your business, - he objected imperturbably. - We, the Arnorian guard, exist for that very reason, so that everyone - both men, and dwarves, and hobbits - can live peacefully. This is our duty, not yours, venerable Thorin. I have no time to argue with you, so I will only say that we have a long march ahead of us, and are dwarves good horsemen? Maybe you know how to fight on horseback? So leave our business to us. Farewell!
The captain disappeared behind the door. Only one very young warrior - a youth, almost a boy - remained with Rogvold, Thorin and Folco.
- Please, venerable ones. - His voice sometimes broke into a bass, then rang high. - I will escort you.
They went out into the courtyard in silence. The captain, who had already managed to arm himself, was sitting in the saddle on a tall red stallion. The decurions were giving last orders; each warrior had two horses.
The captain raised his hand. Hooves struck the dust, the formation instantly turned and rushed along the Main Street towards the South Gate. Armor shone, flags fluttered, the sonorous battle horns still sang. The warriors' faces burned with a dark battle fire.
>>>>
- Look! - the dwarf suddenly stretched out his hand. - It looks like someone was picking at it there! Could it be our acquaintance with the Angmar horseshoes?
In the sunlight, in the solid layer of greasy black soot, several whitish spots the size of a palm became noticeable, where the black crust was chipped off by strong blows of something sharp, a fresh break in the stone was visible.
- I'd like to know what he was chipping off there? - Thorin muttered and, before Rogvold and Folco could stop him, he rolled over the edge of the funnel on his stomach and slid down.
It turned out to be slippery there, judging by the fact that Thorin had difficulty keeping his balance. Spreading his legs wide, the dwarf took a thick triangular blade with a hilt covered by a solid guard from his bosom and jabbed the black crust with the point several times with force. Several dark scales flew off, Thorin squatted down and ran his fingers over the chip a couple of times, then struck five or six more blows, chipping off a small piece of stone. After turning it over in his hands, the dwarf grunted and, without saying another word, climbed up. Jumping off the rampart, he looked first at Folco, then at Rogvold.
- I don't understand anything, - he said, spreading his hands. - Under this soot is the most ordinary granite, it's everywhere here. I must say that this rider has strength - to chip off such a piece! There. But why did he do it?
- Most likely out of curiosity, - said Rogvold. - Look, the tracks led straight across the clearing, apparently, he turned, like us, when he noticed something incomprehensible on the left. He looked, was surprised and decided, probably, to figure it out on the spot. Well, let's see what happened to him next? Why stand here?
Thorin hid his weapon, and they moved on; having reached the middle of the clearing following the tracks of the unknown, they turned left. The footprints disappeared, only the horse's hooves remained.
- He got on his horse, - Thorin remarked.
The rider headed for the opposite edge of the clearing, where something like a clearing was outlined in the circle of fir trees.
They passed the fir grove, the path again slid down into the dense thickets of thin young alder, and began to gradually deviate to the west, apparently bypassing the hill. The ground here turned out to be more humid and soft, it became easier to read the tracks.
- He has a large stallion, - Rogvold remarked, assessing the distance between the hoof prints with a glance. - Wait, what is this? For some reason he dismounted.
They stopped, and Rogvold and Folco began to carefully search the ground. Here, the flexible alder branches completely closed over their very heads, the bases of the trees were hidden by thick, but already withered autumn grass. Next to the horse's tracks, boot prints appeared again - the horse was stamping in place, shifting from foot to foot, and the man was walking in circles, rummaging through the bushes. There were so many prints here that Rogvold suggested that the unknown person was definitely looking for something, carefully searching every inch.
- Let's look too, - the hunter suggested. - Hey, Thorin! Come here.
The three of them began to examine the bushes and grass, trying to understand what the mysterious rider could be looking for in this rotten place. Rogvold began to stare intently at the branches of the trees just above the path; and suddenly Folco, who was crawling at some distance from him, bent back another bunch of grass and saw a vaguely shining object in a hollow between the roots.
He reached out his hand.
- Look what I found!
On Folco's palm lay an oval bronze fibula with a silver plate inserted in front. Its smooth, polished surface was covered with an ornament unfamiliar to the hobbit - interweaving of some strange stems and herbs, flowers turning into the bodies of outlandish beasts, gaping mouths, powerful paws with huge claws, again turning into smooth wavy lines of plants. The huge, half-headed, bulging eyes of the beasts were memorable, in them, it seemed, unexpressed, hidden hatred was frozen. Folco turned the object over - on its back was a strange brand - three intertwined snakes and a small axe above them.
- What do you say about it, Thorin? - Rogvold broke the silence. - I haven't seen anything like it before.
**- The bronze base is ours, dwarven, - Thorin answered without thinking. - But the silver plate... I can only say one thing - it's from afar. Three snakes - I don't know such a brand, and there is no such pattern in any of the settlements from the Grey Havens to the Lonely Mountain. And the base, I assert, is our work. The axe is the mark of the Barin clan from the Iron Hills. However, this says nothing, they sell hundreds of such things at fairs throughout Middle-earth.
- Well, now it's clear what he was looking for, - Rogvold summed up. - He caught his cloak on that branch - a tall man, a little taller than me - and there are even a few threads left there. The clasp flew off, he fumbled, searched for the loss - but he never found it and went on his way. Let's follow him!
However, they did not encounter anything else unusual. A few more miles through the forest, a few more turns, a few ascents and descents - and cultivated fields stretched before them again. The tracks of the rider, who, judging by everything, was riding completely unconcealed, soon led to the Road itself and disappeared here. The last thing Rogvold could say was that the unknown had turned towards Annúminas.
- In my opinion, there is nothing particularly suspicious about this, - the hunter remarked at the same time. - Someone was riding, looked into a strange place, accidentally stumbling upon it, then lost his fibula - by the way, where is it, Folco? - and finally, calmly drove onto the Road and went about his business. And the horseshoes... In itself, this still means nothing. The ways of both horses and weapons are whimsical - after the spring battles, Angmar horses could well have fallen into our hands.
They fell silent again, and the hobbit squeezed the found object tighter in his fist, which was thrust into his pocket. He kept it for himself, it was a pity to throw it away, and besides, Folco liked the unfamiliar pattern on the silver plate.
They approached Annúminas when the sun had long passed its zenith and the gray, cat-like creeping, autumn evening was beginning to set in. After five days of travel from Bree, the friends were riding through the suburbs, which seemed endless to the hobbit who was burning with impatience. Folco just kept turning his head in different directions.
Yes, this country was rich, very rich, not like his native Hobbiton, which, as Folco believed, had reached the pinnacle of well-being. There were still many miles to the city gates, and the wooden huts had already given way to solid stone houses, stretching in an endless strip along the Road. Only lonely farms were now visible in the surrounding fields, neat stone buildings were surrounded by the crimson wisps of autumn gardens, winding wisps of smoke rose into the gray sky above the tiled roofs, occasionally there were well-kept ponds with gazebos and benches on the banks for travelers to rest, and taverns, inns and pubs were found at almost every step. There were a lot of people on the Road, they moved in a continuous stream, deftly maneuvering between countless carts and wagons. The neighing of horses, the shrill cries of drovers heading to the city with flocks of sheep, the bickering of the drivers of two carts that had locked axles - a constant and incessant hubbub hung over the Road. Under the pony's hooves, stone hexagonal slabs sounded, skillfully fitted to each other without the slightest cracks or gaps. The road widened even more and now went straight to the west.
No matter how much they waited for this moment, the city walls appeared suddenly. The suburbs suddenly ended, a long line of city fortifications stretched from north to south - high crenellated walls a full thirty-five fathoms with thick round towers. White-and-blue and white-and-blue banners fluttered weakly on the pointed tower roofs, the sharp-eyed hobbit even spotted the gleam of the armor of the guards guarding the wall in the gaps between the battlements.
The Road ended at the huge city gates, eight or even nine sazhens high; their iron leaves were decorated with images of people and animals, and at the very top, against the background of blackened iron, shone the seven snow-white stars of Elendil. The gates were not just in the wall, but led first into a long and rather narrow corridor, more like a mountain gorge; on the sides, in the walls, many narrow loopholes blackened. From the towers located to the right and left of the gate, thick chains of a drawbridge descended, on which an endless maelstrom of people was constantly spinning. At the gate itself stood a guard - eight warriors in full armor and with them three officials in gray-blue cloaks with the emblem of the Kingdom. The officials asked the people entering the city something and wrote it down in a large book lying on a special stone counter.
- Get your money ready, - Rogvold turned to his friends. - However, you should know, Thorin.
- Why should we pay?! - the dwarf was indignant. - Last time they only took a toll for bringing in goods!
- Times are changing, - the hunter gently explained to Thorin. - You've heard, a lot of money is needed to maintain the squad. Where to get it? All the gold mines are in the hands of your brethren, which means that funds can only be taken from the people, and if so, then old taxes are rising and new ones are being introduced. After all, you need to rebuild everything destroyed and burned, replenish the army. Therefore, a toll is now taken at the Main Gate, venerable Thorin.
The dwarf grimaced in displeasure and waved his hand. Meanwhile, they found themselves in the thick of the crowd. A company of bearded dwarves, who had driven a whole train, was making a noise behind them; to the right, two young warriors with several stripes on their sleeves and the image of an eagle in front on their cloaks were talking quietly among themselves, slightly haughtily distancing themselves from what was happening.
At last, the three travelers reached the official who was collecting the toll. Without looking at them, he pulled up his sleeve with a habitual movement and dipped a goose quill into the ink.
- Your names? The purpose of your visit? - he repeated, probably for the thousandth time that day. - Do you have any goods?
The proud dwarf did not want to talk, and Rogvold hurriedly told the official everything that was required and slipped him three quarter-measures.
"Money again," the hobbit thought sadly. "It's so inconvenient - they all pay for me."
The hunter was already pulling Thorin along, the first of the dwarven carts had already rumbled up, when the official suddenly turned to Thorin again:
- According to the latest order of the Steward, you dwarves are forbidden to appear on the streets and in other public places with battle axes, - he said weightily. - So deign to hide it in your bag, venerable Thorin, son of Dart, tie it up tightly, and upon settling in - leave it at home every time you go out somewhere. This, by the way, also applies to you, venerable ones, - the official turned to the gloomy-looking dwarven carters.
- What is happening in the honest Kingdom! - Thorin cried out. - Brothers! Why are we silent! When has it ever been that we, dwarves, walked without any weapons?
The dwarves who were listening supported Thorin with a powerful roar. The official looked around anxiously, made some imperceptible sign, and a dozen and a half spearmen immediately stood behind him. He raised his hand and shouted, trying to drown out the indignant hum of voices:
- Stop! Do not dare to contradict orders! No one is going to take your weapons from you yet. I said: you are obliged to keep your axes at home and not appear with them on the streets!
- What should we walk with? - one of the young dwarves accompanying the train jumped forward. - After all, carrying weapons is not forbidden to others!
- Knives, daggers and small axes are allowed for now, - the official answered. - But leave swords and axes in the storerooms! Who are you going to fight in our City?!
There was nothing to object to the latter, and the dwarves, with sour faces and disgruntled muttering, began to hide their weapons.
- And whoever violates this decree for the first time, - the official continued in the meantime, - a fine of twenty-five trialons is imposed on him. The second time - one hundred trialons, and the third time the guilty person is subject to exile from the City! Is that clear to you?
His answer was the gloomy silence of the dwarves and some approving shouts from among the people.
Right! They've gotten out of hand, they'll be committing robberies any minute now!
- Who will commit robbery? Us?! - Thorin yelled. - You thick-headed fools, you'll be asking us for help yet!
- Enough, Thorin! - Rogvold raised his voice, losing patience. - After all, this is our Kingdom, not yours. We don't meddle in your affairs and we respect your laws.
- You won't find such stupid laws with us! - Thorin grumbled in response, but still obeyed and put his shining axe in his bag, with the axe head up.
- Let's go, Thorin, let's get out of here! - the hobbit, who was seriously frightened, pulled his friend away from the gate. - Why are you getting involved with them?
The dwarf was grimly silent. They passed through a long, narrow corridor between two walls, drove through a second gate, where there were also guards, and finally found themselves inside the City.
They turned right and drove for quite a long time along the road that ran along the walls. Soon, the hobbit, who was not used to such crowds of people, began to feel dizzy: who did they not meet on their way! Merchants and innkeepers, blacksmiths and tar-makers, wool-beaters and fullers, lumberjacks and tailors, warriors and astrologers... And each had a special Mark of his guild, union or guild on the left side of his chest. All the passers-by were well-dressed - some had a black work apron, some had a formal, expensive gray-pearl caftan, but everything had the stamp of general contentment and well-being - even the ineradicable smell of tar from the tar-makers seemed pleasant, and they wore their clothes, stained and scorched, with great dignity. Rogvold did not have time to name the hobbit the passers-by and the coats of arms of their guilds.
Several times they also met hobbits, they kept together, as a rule, around some carts;
having looked closer, Folco recognized a very familiar turnip! His tribesmen had a completely stupefied and bewildered look, and Folco involuntarily felt ashamed. "Do I have such a stupid face now?" - he thought with fear.
At last they turned left and entered the first street. Along its edges ran specially arranged gutters for water drainage, lined with pinkish stone. The houses became taller - now almost all of them had a second floor and stood close to each other. Many of them had signs of various shops and workshops located below. Seeing a boot above one of the doors, Folco first thought that a shoemaker lived here, but it turned out - a leather merchant; crossed swords meant not an armorer, but a hardware store. Well, all sorts of taverns and pubs were located every two houses on the third.
Thorin had cooled down after his outburst at the gate and was now looking around with some pleasure at the neat rows of clean houses, obviously remembering familiar places.
- And where are we going now? - Folco asked Rogvold when they made another turn and found themselves on a very wide street, not inferior in width to the Road, where there were especially many people.
- First, let's go to my place, - said the hunter. - First of all, we need to deal with the dwarf. I'll go today and hand him over to the appropriate place. At the same time, I'll talk about your meeting with the Steward, if he's in the City.
- We need to find a place to live, - said Thorin. - Forgive us, Rogvold, but we can't impose on you. You've already spent a lot on us, and I'm used to living on my own and not depending on anyone. Don't be offended.
- I'm not offended at all, Thorin, - Rogvold remarked politely, but Folco understood that the dwarf's words had still hurt the old hunter.
- What street is this, Rogvold? - Folco asked quickly to break the awkward pause.
- The Street of the Great King, - explained the former centurion. - The main street of Annúminas. My house is not far from here. And over there, in front, you see - towers and domes? That's the Steward's palace. We'll stop by my place, I'll take the dwarf where he needs to go, and you look for a place to live, if you've decided so...
Folco bit his lip - Rogvold was definitely offended. They turned off the Street of the Great King and once again wound through the narrow alleys. Soon the hobbit completely lost his bearings and realized that now he would never get out of the City without outside help.
- Here we are. - Rogvold's voice trembled slightly.
- We've arrived... - the dwarf grumbled. - Well, if we've arrived, we've arrived.
- Let's go have dinner, - the former centurion jumped from his saddle. - Take your ponies, I'll give the orders now.
He went to a small two-story house with pointed windows and a carved oak door in the middle of the facade. Next to it were wide gates that led to the inner courtyard. The hobbit and the dwarf dismounted. The journey was over.
They tied up their horses, pouring the last remnants of oats from their saddlebags for them. Thorin looked around, spat and untied his bag. Soon his axe was already in its usual place.
Upstairs, on the landing of the wooden staircase leading down from the second floor to the courtyard, a door creaked and Rogvold's long figure appeared.
The former centurion threw off his well-worn traveling cloak, unfastened his helmet, and Folco felt that the hunter's voice no longer had those cold, metallic notes, that self-confidence that had been so clearly felt in him throughout the long journey.Their life changed considerably after that. Thorin would now leave for the whole day and only appear in the evening, tired, with a soot-covered face; fresh burns appeared on his hands. Folco suffered in silence, but, despite all his searches, he could not find anything for himself to do. The Kid, on the other hand, didn't give a damn, obviously believing that everything should be as it was.
However, fate favored the hobbit, and he found what he needed, and where he had not even thought to look at first.
Once - it was in the middle of October, a week after Thorin had started working - Folco and the Kid, having finished their lesson, went to have a snack in the tavern hall. While waiting for their modest food to be brought, Folco stared through the open kitchen door - there two servants were fussing with freshly brought mushrooms. The hobbit, who adored mushrooms, immediately began to salivate, he rushed to the owner and barely waited for his favorite seasoning to appear on the table. However, the very first spoonful brought Folco only bitter disappointment. They didn't know how to cook mushrooms here, or rather, they didn't know how to cook them properly. What the local cooks produced did not even remotely resemble the delicate dishes, gravies and sauces that came from the hands of hobbit housewives. Folco grimaced and secretly spat - but it so happened that the innkeeper, who was accidentally passing by, noticed this.
- What is it, venerable hobbit, did you not like our mushrooms? - The innkeeper's expression was very offended.
- Why lie, I really didn't like them! - Folco blurted out. - For the Big Folk, that is, people, it might still be acceptable, but in Hobbiton they would be ashamed to give such a thing even to dogs.
- Is that so?! How do you think they should be made? Maybe you can teach us, you fool, dear master? - Out of resentment, the innkeeper even dropped his usual "you".
- I can teach you... if we agree on a price! - the hobbit narrowed his eyes, already ready to praise to the skies the wisdom of his uncle Paladin, who, with his endless nagging and slaps on the back of the head, had nevertheless accustomed his negligent nephew to kitchen work.
They shook hands with the innkeeper. Folco hastily tied on a trimmed apron and got down to business. First of all, surprising himself with his own assertiveness, he sent the servants to the market for special herbs, telling them to buy them from the hobbits who had come to trade, while he himself set about cutting and soaking. He fussed for a very long time, composing the most complex mixtures, soaking and squeezing, boiling and salting; Folco only left the stove at dawn. But the next morning, the innkeeper, who had cautiously and distrustfully put the first spoonful of the prepared dish in his mouth, could only roll his eyes - and then he himself did not notice how he had devoured the whole plate.
- Listen, venerable master Folco, - he immediately pestered the hobbit after long oohs and aahs, - come work for me, eh? You can't find such seasonings and pickles anywhere in Annúminas! And I'll pay you fairly... I won't offend you!
Folco feigned stubbornness for a while, driving up the price, then agreed, and soon the tavern "Horn of Aragorn" was overwhelmed with visitors.
Folco turned out to be an excellent cook - now he tried to remember everything his aunt had taught him, imperiously ousting the owner himself from the kitchen. And finally the day came when the hobbit, flushed with pride, was able to place a heavy bag of gold coins on the table in front of the stunned Thorin with the most imperturbable expression.
October passed in continuous labor; now Folco rarely managed to get out for a walk in the wonderful City, he barely found time for daily lessons with the Kid, who still did not even want to hear about any work. However, his idleness was redeemed by a light, cheerful disposition, an inexhaustible supply of funny stories and an incomparable fighting skill, which Folco was now mastering with such difficulty and sweat.
Their affairs improved, but the reception with the Steward was still delayed, and Folco, tired of living "not at home", began to slowly think that it would be nice for them to buy some "little house" so as not to pay so much for lodging, which was earned with such hard work.
By that time, Folco had become friends with the owner of the "Horn of Aragorn", who greatly valued his little assistant, and, having waited until the innkeeper was in a particularly good mood (after counting the day's earnings), the hobbit casually asked if the venerable owner knew where one could find a modest dwelling for three at a lower price.
- Folco, what are you doing, what? - the owner was immediately frightened. - Are you really thinking of leaving?.. Or did I offend you in some way? Then forgive me generously! Or did those woolly-ears in the "Star of Arwen" lure you away?
Having listened to the hobbit's explanations, the innkeeper thought for a minute, and then suddenly slapped his forehead resoundingly.
- Listen!.. Come with me!.. He led the hobbit to the tavern yard, where, away from the sheds and the warehouse, among the overgrown hawthorn, stood a small, slightly lopsided building, most of all resembling a slightly lopsided barn, only not of logs, but of stone.
- Here! - the owner said with pride. - Why isn't this a home for you? It will make a great little house, if you put your hands to it...
Folco cautiously looked inside. The dried-out door creaked pitifully, swaying on its last surviving hinge, the windows were broken, the floor was torn up. Instead of a stove - a pile of stones.
- You need to put your hands to it, of course, who says it's a palace, - the innkeeper appeared behind the hobbit. - But, if you finish it, I'll sell it to you for good, for almost nothing... - and he named a really very low price.
Without thinking long, Folco rushed to Thorin. The seasoned dwarf even grunted in surprise, looking at the chaos reigning in the little house. Whistling, Thorin carefully searched all the corners, then silently slapped the hobbit on the shoulder and turned to the owner:
- We'll take it. We'll do everything in three days. Winking conspiratorially at the uncomprehending Folco, Thorin walked quickly somewhere down the street. He was not gone for long, and when he returned, he had a very pleased look.
- All questions later, later, - he waved away the hobbit who was persistently pestering him. - The night will pass, the morning will advise, as old Gandalf used to say...
The next day, when Folco and the Kid were finishing another lesson, the hobbit saw about a dozen dwarves walking down their street, looking around as if searching for something.
- See? - Thorin approached the hobbit. - These are the eleven Gungnir brothers, I met them yesterday by chance. They will help us.
Folco looked with doubt at the brothers who were banging on the tavern doors: they looked very battered, and one was even being supported by the arms - he kept trying to lean against something and doze off; as soon as he succeeded, even for a brief moment, it was as if blacksmith's bellows, old and leaky, began to work on the street: the dwarf's snores could be heard throughout the house.
- It's nothing, don't pay attention, - Thorin intercepted the hobbit's distrustful gaze. - They are like that now, but when they get down to business - it will all be gone in a flash. And the one being led by the arms is the best connoisseur of the canons of carving I have ever seen. And the canons, brother hobbit, are such a thing... - The dwarf suddenly scratched the back of his head and fell silent, as if remembering something he had long wanted to forget.
Meanwhile, all eleven brothers had gathered around them in a friendly crowd. Apparently, they had managed to have a good time even that morning - a thick aroma of strong beer spread around them. Many had a drowsy, languid look; it was clear that they had torn themselves away from the table with great difficulty.
The eldest of the brothers, an already elderly dwarf with a half-gray beard and a fresh scratch on his ear, greeted Folco and Thorin noisily:
Thorin, without further ado, led the whole team to the little house the friends had bought. The brothers all scratched either the back of their heads or their beards, all uttered a vague, skeptical "well, well...", after which they immediately began to untie their voluminous knapsacks, where they had everything necessary for work. Folco watched these preparations with bewilderment - in Hobbiton, such горе-masters would have been chased out of the yard long ago, not allowing those who were tipsy to even get down to business. However, Thorin did not even bat an eyelid.
And indeed, as soon as the brothers got to work, all the intoxication instantly left them. The sleepy look and battered appearance disappeared, their gazes, as if by magic, became clear, and the work in their hands literally began to boil. Only the connoisseur of the canons remained sitting, leaning his back against the trunk of an old hawthorn, categorically stating that he was not going to move stones, and it would be better if he did his direct business. The eldest of the Gungnirs whispered something in the ear of the two younger ones, they disappeared somewhere for a short time, and soon appeared, carrying a hefty oak log on their shoulders. They put it in front of their stubborn brother and, without further ado, joined the others.
- What does he want to do? - the hobbit, who understood nothing, asked Thorin in a whisper.
- What do you mean?! The dwelling of every true thain should be decorated with the image of the sacred beard of Durin. Har Gungnirling, I told you, is the best beard carver in the Blue Mountains! The beard must be depicted strictly according to the canon, every hair and every curl in it has long been calculated and consecrated... This is a great art! However, enough talk, let's better get to work ourselves, brother hobbit, it's not good for us to stand aside!
Later, Folco admitted to himself more than once that without the Gungnir brothers, they would never have been able to put their dwelling in order. The dwarves threw all the garbage out of the house, broke out the cracked pieces from the walls, then a cart loaded with stone drove into the yard, and the masters took up their stone-cutting hammers. Meanwhile, Har had covered everything around him with a layer of brown shavings, and the sacred beard of Durin had acquired the appearance of a long, flattened lizard with torn-off paws, as the hobbit thought of it not very respectfully.
Three days of continuous labor passed, only occasionally interrupted by the clatter of another beer barrel being rolled out of the cellar by the diligent Thorin.
Soon the pathetic ruin was unrecognizable. In the corner, the brothers had built an intricate hearth with a skillfully forged cast-iron grate, laid a new floor, inserted frames and glass, repaired the walls, brought huge boulders under the corners so that nothing would collapse or settle anymore, and on the new, again oak, door they solemnly placed the Sacred Beard of Durin, finished by that time by Har, almost half a sazhen long.
That same evening, Thorin, Folco and the Kid silently watched the dancing tongues of fire in the fireplace of their new home. A strange feeling possessed the hobbit - for the first time he had become a master, a full owner of property; it was pleasant, but some vague feeling, accumulating in his soul, told him that he was destined to own this new property for a very, very short time...
Chapter Ten. THE STEWARD
November was coming, a cold, dry wind had long since torn the last brown leaves from the black branches of the trees, and hundreds of bluish wisps of smoke stretched towards the clear, clean sky. On the streets of Annúminas, carts loaded with firewood were now seen more and more often - the signs portended a cold winter. In the mornings, rare puddles in the courtyard of the "Horn of Aragorn", where the three friends lived in their new house, began to be covered with ice. Their life had entered a calm channel. Thorin still swung his hammer in the forge, Folco sweated over the stove in the tavern. The Kid taught the hobbit the art of combat and found out the merits of beer in various taverns of the capital. New concerns completely absorbed Folco's attention, he liked this new, free life, and to himself he recalled with a slight smile the naive dreams that had possessed him when, with a sword at his belt, in a cloak fluttering in the wind, he rode along the road leading north, to the Gates of Buckland. Rogvold still appeared often; but their business was hardly moving forward, and Folco was even glad of it. Everything is still ahead! Thorin talks about a quick trip to Moria... Good, of course, but it's better if this trip is postponed for a longer time. Such a glorious city, Annúminas!
Folco was valued and respected in the tavern, his skill attracted many new regulars; the owner turned out to be fair, and the hobbit could not complain about lack of money. Once the elders of the capital's cooks' guild came to them, tasted the food prepared by the hobbit, and soon he, having paid his share, became a full member of this glorious union, bypassing the rank of apprentice and journeyman. Folco now wore with no little pride on the left of his jacket and cloak the guild's coat of arms - a tripod standing on a fire on a black field of an oblong shield, supported on both sides by a bull and a ram.
Autumn fairs had died down in the city, gathering people from all over the Kingdom - from the Lunar Mountains to the Misty Mountains and from the northern edge of the Evendim Hills to the Southern Uplands. Even more dwarves arrived - from a wide variety of places, and some came all the way from Erebor. Hobbits also came. They timidly huddled in the corners of the huge Trading Square, looking very bewildered and ridiculous. Folco, who had come up to chat and show off a little, in good Annúminas clothes, with the guild's coat of arms, with a sword at his belt, caused a storm of admiring oohs and aahs from them. He learned that everything was in perfect order in his homeland, and one half-familiar hobbit from Buckland told him that his relatives were grieving greatly for their lost, wayward offspring and his uncle had ordered all the inhabitants of Buckland, should they meet Folco somewhere, to tell him that they were no longer angry with him and were waiting for his return.
It cannot be said that Folco remained indifferent to these words. No, at times sadness would come over him when he remembered the old walls of Brandy Hall, the majestic Brandywine under the windows, the hospitable inn in the Barns and his comrades from the surrounding farms. But this did not happen often - the hobbit was drawn to a different life.
He remembered this day for a long time - the twentieth of November according to the Annúminas calendar. In the morning, an agitated Rogvold, dressed in his best clothes, rushed to them. - Get ready! - he gasped from the threshold. - The Steward is waiting for us at noon!
They almost ran through the decorated streets to the center of the City, where on the shore of the lake stood the Steward's palace, surrounded by a high wall with towers and a moat. A stone's throw away, the Trading Square was bustling with its usual life, but here a solemn silence reigned. The gates were guarded by numerous guards, dressed not in white and blue, but in gray cloaks with a single eight-pointed star on the left shoulder - in memory of the Lunadain, who for decades had guarded the peace and quiet of the northern peoples. Many of those who were in the Steward's personal guard traced their lineage to them, and this explained their tall stature and a special expression in their eyes - the eyes of people bearing a burden invisible to others. One of the warriors, on whose helmet there were also wings of a seagull on the sides, stepped forward. Rogvold gave the password. The tall warrior in the winged helmet bowed with dignity.
- Please follow me. - His voice was clear and strong. - The Steward is waiting for you.
Having passed the courtyard paved with black and white stone stars, they found themselves near the second wall. It rose to a height of three dozen feet, smooth, without a single window or ledge, but on it were visible pointed roofs, glittering with polished copper. Folco turned his head in surprise - in the blank wall along its entire length there was nothing like a gate.
The warrior leading them stopped in front of the wall on a semicircle, laid out with dark red smooth stone, and whispered something, and so quickly and indistinctly that the hobbit could not make out anything.
- Our work! - Thorin hissed in his ear. - The gates are opened by a spell!
And so it was. The solid stone body of the mighty wall was cut by black straight cracks, the stone slabs went into special grooves, turning on invisible hinges.
- Having passed a long tunnel, they found themselves in a small inner courtyard. The courtyard behind the first wall was surprising in its emptiness - behind the ring of walls lay only a paved empty space - here, however, buildings were crowded everywhere, intertwined with fancifully curved stone and iron spiral staircases, long galleries stretched from one building to another, forming a complex interweaving above their heads. Directly above them, a wide ceremonial staircase led up, built of huge blocks of black stone; Folco immediately remembered Orthanc, but the dwarf wrinkled his nose a little contemptuously.
- Simple stone, just dark. There's plenty of it in our mountains.
From somewhere on the side, several more guards appeared. The wings of the gulls on their helmets were slightly touched with silver, as if the feathers of a bird were being ruffled by a fresh sea wind, the facings were gilded. Their guide stopped and saluted with his sword. One of the warriors who came out to them repeated his movement, quietly commanded something - the latter turned and walked away, without even looking back.
Theophrastus leaned back in his chair, his voice filled with surprise.
- Forgive me, venerable teacher, but now your words are simply ridiculous to me. War is cruel - this truth is as old as the world. Who better than you, the most famous chronicler of Middle-earth, to know that bloody scores between peoples go back centuries. It did not begin with us - it will not end with us.
The fair-bearded man's voice grew colder and harsher.
- But they were originally fighting for an unjust cause.
They wanted to put an end to the brightest thing in Middle-earth, its great miracle - the Firstborn Elves, who had never done any harm to men!
- Elves? That living, singing immortality? They are alien to us in their very essence. Yes, they are the Firstborn, but who gave them the right to dispose of our destinies, the destinies of entire peoples?! They threw us crumbs of their great knowledge, as we throw a bone to a dog during a rich feast!
The fair-bearded man's voice was filled with long-suppressed anger, he almost broke into a scream.
- Think again, they fought side by side with men so many times, saving Middle-earth from the dominion of the Enemy! Remember my stories about the First Age!
- But even then, the outcome of the war was decided by men. This struggle was primarily a struggle of men, and you yourself told me that on the Pelennor Fields, men fought against men.
- But to fight against the elves is to deprive us of the great knowledge that is leaving with them!
Theophrastus was amazed, stunned, and only weakly resisted. The voice of the fair-bearded man was now filled with an iron, unshakable confidence and an equally unshakable will. He answered, slowly dropping his words:
- Sooner or later, people will take all this knowledge for themselves, by their own labor. We don't need handouts!
- Your heart is hardened, - Theophrastus sighed sadly.
- Perhaps, - the fair-bearded man answered, cooling down and lowering his voice. - But it was hardened by looking at the world of Middle-earth, suffocating from the satiety gifted to us by the elves!
- I cannot agree with you... What then about the other peoples inhabiting our world? What about these good-natured dwarves? Look, this magnificent grate near the fireplace is their work! And as for the beard of Durin, with which they decorated it, every nation has the right to its own legends and traditions.
The fair-bearded man's voice softened.
- You are right, they are a good people, especially if they exchange their pickaxe for a battle axe!
At these words, Thorin started and whispered in Folco's ear:
- He speaks well of the dwarves! He understands us! A rare case!
Meanwhile, the fair-bearded man continued:
- However, we are the ones who feed them! In a hungry year, a bag of gold is cheaper than a bag of wheat, and I have not heard that they have learned to grow bread in the underground! The dwarves can only live with us, men, and it now depends on us how their fate will turn.
The front door creaked, and two city guards in their usual white and blue cloaks entered the hall. They were wearing helmets and carrying swords and seemed to be looking for someone, scanning the guests sitting in the hall. Suddenly, one of them nudged his companion with his elbow, pointing with his chin at the table where Theophrastus and the fair-bearded man were sitting. Theophrastus had just begun to heatedly explain something to his companion, who was leaning back in his chair, when the warriors rather unceremoniously interrupted their conversation. One of them stood behind Theophrastus, the other approached the fair-bearded man from the right.
- Gentlemen, we are forced to temporarily interrupt the smooth flow of your conversation, - began the warrior standing next to the fair-bearded man. - We must ask one of you some questions. Listen, stranger, is that your horse at the hitching post, a gray dapple, under a brown saddle with a red bow?
- Of course it's mine, since I rode it here, - the fair-bearded man answered calmly, without moving.
- Then why... - the guard began. Suddenly, the fair-bearded man made a single lightning-fast movement, throwing his chair back. A fist encased in a gauntlet flashed over the table laden with food, and the hapless warrior fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Before anyone could understand anything, the second guard, who had overturned the table and rushed at the fair-bearded man, suddenly staggered, clutched his head, groaned and slowly sank to the floor - a man who had been dozing on a bench until then had accurately hit him in the face with a heavy pot that was standing next to him. The thrower rushed to the door, his cloak flew open from the swift movement, and Folco, with a mixed feeling of amazement and horror, recognized the hunchback Sandello in this man.
In the doorway, the hunchback hesitated for a moment, but only to let the fair-bearded man go ahead of him. They disappeared, and from the courtyard came shouts, the clang of weapons, then the clatter of hooves, which quickly died away in the distance. Those lying on the benches sat up, some sat up, some only opened their eyes. A crowd of armed warriors burst into the hall, rushing to lift their wounded comrades. One of them, apparently the senior, helped the elderly chronicler, who had been knocked off his chair, to his feet.
- What! - the senior cried out, barely looking at the old man's face. - Is it possible?! Venerable Theophrastus! I could never have thought that for the writing of your chronicles you would need the company of this horse thief. You will have to give a detailed account of all this to the chief of the guard, Skilbad. And in the future, I would like to warn you against unwise acquaintances! - He turned to the warrior who had been knocked down by the fair-bearded man. - So what happened here, Fritz? How could you disgrace yourself like that?!
- Captain... - the one called Fritz wheezed imploringly and spat blood. - I am to blame... But who could have known?
- All right! - the captain cut him off. - You will tell Skilbad everything. Let's go, boys! And you, venerable one, - he turned again to Theophrastus, who was still groaning and holding his side, - let this story serve as a good lesson to you! And remember - the day after tomorrow you will have to appear before Skilbad. And for now, farewell!
The captain swiftly went out, the other guardsmen stomped after him. The frightened visitors, including those who had been dozing by the wall, hurried to get away. In the deserted tavern, only the uncomprehending owner, the battered chronicler, and the three friends remained.
Folco sat completely stunned and bewildered.
"Sandello is in town!" he thought feverishly. "Sandello is in league with the fair-bearded man! Is he serving him?! The old man probably knows the fair-bearded man! He must not be allowed to escape!"
- Thorin, that old man!..
- Right. I thought of that myself.
Without a word, the friends approached Theophrastus, who was still sitting, helplessly hunched over and rubbing his bruised side.
- We see you are unwell, venerable one. - Thorin tried to put as much reverence as possible into these words. - Perhaps you need some help? Maybe we can walk you home?
Theophrastus raised his pale, wrinkled face to them, on which deep-set black eyes, sharp and attentive, which had not lost their brilliance and meaning over the years, stood out.
- May the Great Stars reward you, - he answered weakly. - I always knew that you, dwarves, are a noble people... Yes, please, walk me. It is difficult for me to walk...
Thorin and the Kid supported the old chronicler on both sides, Folco walked ahead, carrying Theophrastus's bag and his staff. The old man groaned with every step, but gradually cheered up and was able to somehow answer the first questions of the dwarf and the hobbit.
- Yes, O noble dwarves and no less noble hobbit, my name is Theophrastus, son of Argeleb, and I am the court chronicler of the Northern Crown. For many years I have been collecting information scattered throughout ancient books on the history of Middle-earth, I also keep weather records of everything that happens in Arnor - I question witnesses, collect stories and record all this in chronicles, copies of which are sent to Minas Tirith, to the King himself. I also carry out other investigations on his orders. Now to the right, please, and at that corner - to the left. Oh, oh, this is unfortunate for me...
They stopped near a neat two-story house in one of the quiet alleys not far from the Main Street. The house was painted a light brown color, buds were already beginning to swell on the bushes that had grown in the front garden. On the way, however, they spoke little, and when the old man began to shower them with thanks, standing on his porch, Thorin said, lowering his voice:
- Venerable one, we are very interested in this whole story. Allow us to come and talk with you. Perhaps you will learn something new from our stories.
- Well, - answered Theophrastus, - the doors of my house are always open to those who wish to gain knowledge and understand events, as well as to those who themselves want to tell me something. Come tomorrow evening, I will be waiting for you. And for now - I need to lie down to recover from this whole story...
They bowed low to the old man, and he, returning their bow, disappeared behind the door. They slowly descended from the porch and set off on their way back, somehow fending off the attacks of the uncomprehending and furiously demanding explanations Kid. Explaining to him the essence of what had happened, the friends did not notice how they had reached home. Thorin began to light the fireplace. The Kid went for water, and Folco went to the tavern. The owner immediately rushed to him:
- Folco, help! All your sauce is gone, and some company from the South has shown up, demanding only it, threatening to wreck the whole tavern! - The owner was pale and frightened. - I already promised them that you, when you come, will make it... Do me a favor, Folco!
The hobbit sighed and agreed.
He fussed for about an hour until he had prepared his signature seasoning, and when it was taken to the hall, the not-so-peaceful hum of voices that had been heard there immediately fell silent. Folco caught his breath, took off his apron and went to wash his hands.
- Wait, where are you going, Folco? - the owner, who had suddenly appeared from somewhere, stopped him. - Those southerners there have all swallowed their tongues and are now demanding to be shown this craftsman! - The innkeeper's recently pale face was now beaming. - Come on, come on, it's not good, no need to hide, let them know our people!
The innkeeper almost forcibly dragged the resisting hobbit into the common room. In its corner, at several tables pushed together, sat ten or twelve strong men, swarthy from the summer tan, in short leather jackets. Their hair, unlike most Arnorians, was cut short. They greeted Folco with friendly shouts of approval. One of them, a tall, hook-nosed, black-bearded, but still very young man, rose from his seat and approached Folco, peering at him with penetrating gray eyes.
- We thank you, venerable master, for your art, - he said, slightly bowing his head. - Now we see that skill does not depend on height!
He spoke with an accent unfamiliar to the hobbit, sometimes stressing the first syllables of words. Folco blushed with pleasure and muttered something unintelligible in response.
- My comrades and I, as a sign of our gratitude, ask you to accept this. - He held out his open palm to the hobbit, on which lay a large silver coin, the likes of which the hobbit had never seen before. - Take it, we give it from a pure heart.
The hook-nosed man bowed his head again. Folco timidly reached out his hand and took the heavy, pleasantly weighing down his hand, round object. The strange calluses on the stranger's palm caught his eye - two straight, long ridges running strictly across. Folco tried to guess what kind of craft such marks could indicate, but he could not.
The black-bearded man, meanwhile, nodded to him again and made some sign to his companions. They all rose from their seats and headed for the doors, their hook-nosed leader following them.
Folco went to the owner with questions, but the innkeeper could not say anything: neither who these people were, nor where they came from. In conversation with him, they called themselves southerners, and that was the only thing he knew about them. Folco had no choice but to return home and tell Thorin the whole story.
- So you're becoming famous, brother hobbit, - the dwarf joked in response. - What are you unhappy about? Be proud! If I were you, I'd be jumping for joy to the ceiling.
- Thorin, what could cause such calluses? - Folco ran his finger over his palm.
The dwarf thought for a moment, then shook his head:
- It could be from twisting something in your hand. But I don't understand who they are... By the way, what did he give you?
Folco handed the coin to his friend. Thorin stared at it for a minute without looking up, and when he finally did, Folco was amazed at the change in him - the dwarf's mouth was painfully twisted, tears stood in his eyes. A heavy, mournful sigh escaped from Thorin's chest. The stunned Folco was speechless, not knowing what to say or how to comfort his friend; Thorin began to speak himself, occasionally wiping his nose with his sleeve and shamefully lowering his eyes:
- I know this coin... I would recognize it out of a thousand, and how could I not, if I myself made this notch on it and I myself pierced the hole when I gave it to my friend Terwin, who went missing four years ago! I have this ancient skill of the last Dúnedain from my ancestors. I treasured it, and when we parted, I gave it to Terwin, who was going to Erebor. Now I know for sure that he did not go missing, but was killed! - The dwarf furiously slammed his fist on the table. - This coin could only have been taken from him along with his life! Quickly to the city gates, maybe we can still intercept them!
However, a bitter disappointment awaited them at the gates. The unknown people were not going to linger in the hospitable capital of the Northern Crown. According to one of the guards, a detachment of horsemen, similar in description to those Folco had met in the tavern, had recently left the City and had gone south at a trot.
- They all had spare horses, and not just one, - the warrior added. - You won't catch them, you've missed your chance...
The dwarf gritted his teeth and squatted down, covering his face with his palms. Folco helplessly shuffled nearby.
However, Thorin was not for nothing known as one of the bravest and most stubborn dwarves among his kinsmen from the Lunar Mountains. Despair could not possess him for long, and when he straightened up a moment later, neither grief nor despair was visible in his gaze - only his thick, slightly scorched by the furnace flame eyebrows were drawn even tighter. He was calm and resolute.
- This is no time to give in to weakness, - he grumbled gloomily. - I have a strange feeling now - I will still avenge my friend, I am somehow sure of it. Away with sad thoughts! To business, brother hobbit, Moria awaits us, and tomorrow - that old chronicler...
Chapter Twelve. THE OLD CHRONICLER
In the second half of the next day, the inseparable trio set off for Theophrastus's house. Spring was asserting its rights more and more confidently - a dazzlingly blue sky without a single cloud stretched over the city, and the bright sun generously poured streams of life-giving warmth onto the world, which was straightening up after the winter cold. Muddy streams still ran along the pavements here and there; blackened, settled snowdrifts still lay under the fences and in shady places, but spring had nevertheless arrived, and with it - the hope for the best.
Folco squinted cheerfully, turning his face to the warm rays; the Kid whistled carelessly, and Thorin even hummed something at times. Folco occasionally glanced at his companion in surprise - where had the utter despair that had seized him at the city gates gone?
Passing along the Main Street, at Thorin's request, they turned into a large money-changing shop. Having waited until the next visitor had exchanged his silver for bright Annúminas gold, Thorin respectfully addressed the important, pot-bellied money-changer, holding out Terwin's coin to him on his open palm:
- O worthy one, we need your help and your advice. Look at this coin. Tell me, have you ever seen anything like it? Or perhaps it has passed through your hands by chance? Look at it more closely - it is remarkable.
The money-changer's sleepy face did not change as he lazily took the coin offered by Thorin, but his eyes, small, slightly swollen, but very sharp and attentive, bored into the coin like two small drills. He began to speak slowly, turning the silver circle before his eyes:
- An old skilling from the time of Arathorn II. A rare, very rare thing in our time. The coin is indeed remarkable - it has a hole in the shape of a seven-pointed star and graffiti... No, venerable dwarf, I can say for sure - this thing has not passed through my shop, nor through the other money-changing offices of the City. I would know, believe me. And in general, the thing is, of course, very interesting. The Dúnedain had unusually pure silver - such a thing is a rarity now. They weighed it so accurately that even in my father's time, in the best shops of the city, these coins served as a measure of the weight of precious metal. And then the masters of that time added white silver to the alloy, which the dwarves once brought from beyond the eastern mountains.
- Mithril? - the Kid asked, who was eagerly listening to the speaker.
- Mithril? - The money-changer smirked slightly. - Then it would have been impossible to make this hole in it. Mithril, my good dwarf, is valued much higher than gold, and if there were even a tenth of it here, you could buy half the city with this coin. No, it was also a very strong metal, which gave the coin hardness and non-abrasion. Yes, - he handed the coin to Thorin with visible regret, - the thing is, of course, not ordinary. They have now completely disappeared from circulation and remain only in mints. Would you not like to exchange it for a current coin? I would add to the twelve and a third full-weight trialons of the nominal value another six and a half for the purity of the silver and three and a quarter - for the rarity. You won't get more in any shop, I swear by the scales and scissors!
- No, venerable one, we are not going to sell or exchange it. - Thorin hid the coin in his bosom. - This is a memento of my deceased friend, and, showing it to you, I hoped that, perhaps, it would be possible to find some clue... It's a pity that it didn't work out.
- No one would change such a remarkable coin, especially in the capital, - the money-changer smiled. - It would rather be secretly sold to some lover of antiquities. I would advise you to go to Archar - his shop is not far from the tavern "Horn of Aragorn".
Folco bit his lip and remembered what was said. Thanking the fat money-changer, who was disappointed by the refusal, the friends left the shop and walked on, to the modest house of the old chronicler.
Thorin struck the door knocker three times on the resonant bronze gong mounted to the left of the door. After a short time, footsteps were heard in the depths of the house, the door swung open, and they saw a slender girl, almost a girl, standing on the threshold in modest dark clothes. Her only adornment was a golden ribbon that tied her lush fair hair.
Thorin coughed in surprise, but the girl spoke herself:
- The master is waiting for you in his study. Leave your cloaks, bags, as well as knives and axes in the hallway. Nothing will happen to them here. It is not customary to walk around with weapons in our house.
Having said this, she took a step to the side, clearing the way, and they entered a spacious, slightly gloomy room, with walls covered with dark brown wood. Along one of them stretched a long counter with many boar tusks, located at all levels, so that any guest could choose a suitable one for his height and hang his cloak or caftan.
The hobbit, out of resentment and despair, was speechless for a moment, and when he came to his senses, he was already surrounded by calm horse muzzles, large lilac eyes looked affectionately and anxiously. Dovbur remained next to Folco - he, it seems, was very pleased with this.
- Well, what are you standing for? - he shouted at the hobbit in a whisper. - Tie up the harness, how else will you lead them?
Tears clouded Folco's eyes, he again became a small, frightened and useless hobbit, as he had felt before meeting Thorin. He was left behind, not allowed to go, and now he was fussing with these bridles, tying them to a long rope, and his friends were there, ahead, and who knows what was wrong with them? It was impossible to endure this. After spinning around for a few minutes, Folco could not stand it and cautiously crawled forward, getting out of the shallow hollow where he and Dovbur were hiding. Forgetting everything, he crawled forward and unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a slope - he had gone further to the right than necessary. Carefully parting the branches of the bushes, Folco raised his head slightly above the grass.
The Gray Ravine opened up to his eyes - a narrow, straight passage between two high and steep-sided hills. The forest on the slopes really seemed burnt, but the slopes were already covered with lush, tall grass; here and there, black charred stumps stuck out. A gray ribbon of road wound below; the slopes of the hills were empty, along the edge of the forest on the crest of the Ridge, the bushes stood in a solid wall. Nowhere was there the slightest sign of a person. Folco squinted to the right and shuddered when he saw their train slowly approaching the entrance to the Ravine. The hobbit took out his bow and arrows. Come what may, but he will not leave his friends! Let Dovbur sort it out himself...
The last minutes stretched into hours. It seemed that the train would never overcome the fathoms separating it from the fateful Ravine. Folco, out of habit, reached out to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers and suddenly heard a suspicious rustle to his left. He pressed himself to the ground and tensed up. However, they did not reach him. Someone, panting, was settling down next to him in the bushes, and making so much noise that it seemed to be heard all over the Road; Folco gathered his courage and looked out. Holding a long spear in his strong, calloused hands, the same elderly robber whose conversation with the young man they had managed to overhear was hiding behind a bush. He looked around indecisively and frightened, fidgeted, shifted, coughed, constantly adjusting his belt, but did not let go of the spear. Folco had already aimed at him - not for real, however, but only in case he was noticed, as he told himself - but then the wagons had already fully entered the Ravine, and when the last wagon drew level with Folco, a sharp and iridescent, dashing robber's whistle cut through the silence above the Road.
And immediately the wall of bushes along the forest walls collapsed; from above, on the slopes, dozens of people emerged from the forest gloom: a many-voiced howl and roar announced the surrounding hills. Branches crackled, and next to the hobbit, pointing his spear and yelling something, the elderly robber rushed down, towards the slowly moving wagons. However, he did not run far. The melodious hum of a bowstring was heard, the tight string rang out as it struck the leather glove on the hobbit's left hand, an arrow whistled, and the old robber rolled on the ground, screaming his head off and clutching his pierced thigh. Folco again could not shoot to kill - the old man was pathetic, not terrible, aroused compassion, not hatred.
And as soon as the robbers from both sides of the Ravine rushed down, their cries were drowned out by someone's friendly and powerful cry; to the left of the hobbit, the clang of weapons and piercing cries, cries of horror and despair, were heard. The hobbit heard the low and menacing roar of Thorin, who was commanding something - and the robbers on the left scattered down like peas, falling, turning over and rolling down to the Road. Those running towards the train from the opposite side hesitated in bewilderment; meanwhile, following the robbers, dwarves and men burst out of the bushes, in bright armor, with sparkling, terrifying swords and axes in their hands. Below, a loud clicking was heard - the hobbit's comrades who were with the train were shooting at the approaching men with crossbows. A small group of warriors dressed in green was rolling back in front of the dwarf formation - there were only five or six of them. Then, suddenly, the axe of one of the dwarves flashed particularly brightly, and one of the "greens" fell into the grass, the others stopped resisting and rushed down, following the ingloriously fleeing robbers. Some of them fell from crossbow bolts; no one even thought of fighting the opponents shooting from there, the runners bypassed the stopped train from the front and back. The four surviving "greens" from the left side, meanwhile, reached the Road and rushed straight between the carts, but their path was blocked by a short, stocky figure in chain mail and a helmet, but with a sword and dagger in his hands instead of the usual dwarven axe. A second - something flashed, as if a tongue of flame had burst from the Kid's hand, and one of his attackers collapsed into the road dust, the three hastily jumped back. Meanwhile, the rest of Folco's companions had reached the carts; the robbers had retreated to the opposite slope, hastily scrambling up and disappearing into the thicket; it was clear that the warriors dressed in green were trying to stop them.
"Horses! It's time to lead the horses!" - a terrible thought pierced the hobbit, and he rushed back with all his might, to Dovbur. The latter was already leading the horses out of the hollow. They hastily jumped into their saddles and drove the animals to the left, trying to cut as much as possible. The cries below did not subside, but the sound of steel was not heard, but from time to time the loud claps of crossbows were heard.
The branches whipped the hobbit in the face, and he had to think only about protecting his eyes. However, they quickly passed the thickets and broke out onto the slope. Dust was already swirling above the carts - the dwarves and men did not spare their whips; the robbers were randomly rushing about on the opposite slope.
- Go! Go on! - Thorin's frantic voice reached the hobbit.
At that moment, something sharp and unpleasant whistled past the hobbit's ear - from the other side of the Ravine, the "greens" were shooting at them with crossbows. Without thinking for another second, the hobbit pulled the bowstring. One of the shooters poked into the grass, and the hobbit realized that this time he had hit properly. The Road was already under their hooves, and next to it were the gray sides of the wagons and the drovers whipping the horses. The grassy slopes flew back, the arrows no longer whistled - the exit from the Ravine was visible ahead; the hills turned sharply to the sides, and the Road again broke out into the expanse of the free Minhiriat plains. Some cries and shouts were still heard from behind, but they quickly fell behind. The free wind beat in their faces. The Gray Ravine was behind them; the train had broken through.
Chapter Two. THE EMPTY LANDS
The fever of the first battle had subsided, the Gray Ravine and the Forgotten Ridge itself had long since disappeared into the approaching evening twilight, and the lights of the stars had lit up in the black, clear sky. The train was moving through the deserted plains along the gray ribbon of the Road, but the dwarves sitting on the back of the last wagon were in no hurry to unload their crossbows - the enemy might try to catch up with them. Fears and doubts were forgotten; on the move, they knocked out the bottom of a beer barrel, recalling the smallest details of the battle over and over again. Folco's eyes burned, he listened to the speakers with bated breath, and then began to write down scattered phrases, and this is what he got.
When they all made their way to the robbers' camp, they found it abandoned. The last robbers were leaving the camp for the edge of the forest above the Road. The men and dwarves cautiously followed them. The whole gang was really run by several mature men in green clothes, who differed from the other robbers in both face and bearing; now they were driving their own, leaving the camp last and making sure that no one could evade the fight. For a few minutes everything was quiet, and then that same whistle was heard; they realized that it had begun, and immediately jumped up themselves. At Rogvold's suggestion, they shouted "Arnor!" in unison to confuse the attackers; the former centurion, along the way, gave orders to the non-existent cavalry behind him, while the dwarves raised a terrible noise.
And the robbers were really scared! Not one of them dared to turn around and face the new, unknown danger; almost all of them fled without memory, trying to get to their own on the other side of the hill as quickly as possible, and only the "greens" did not lose their heads. They grabbed their swords and went to meet the risen men and dwarves; however, there were only nine of them - they could neither stop nor even delay Folco's attacking comrades. The dwarves walked closely, shoulder to shoulder; having collided with the "green" warriors, they immediately overturned the few opponents. Dori killed one, Balin killed another; the dwarven chain mail, however, proved to be too tough for the men's swords, although the same Dori received a sensitive blow to the shoulder at the very first moment. Those dressed in green hastily retreated, continuing, however, to snap back, and on the very edge of the forest another one of them died at the hands of Rogvold, who had rushed forward. The six remaining realized that resistance was futile, but before they could break away from the pressing dwarves, Styr, skillfully deflecting a desperate blow, calmly lowered his axe on the opponent's unprotected neck.
Their companions who were riding with the train were unharmed; only the Kid had to take up his sword, the others fought off with arrows.
- But what a fool's errand they were on, what a fool's errand! - Alan said, choking with laughter, as if shaking his head in bewilderment. - They could have crushed us like chickens!
- Yes, if those on the right hadn't stopped, we would have all been done for! - Dori chimed in. - And why did they rush so recklessly in the first place?
- They were used to not meeting resistance, - Rogvold remarked, taking a good gulp of excellent Bree beer, which the Kid had prudently taken with him on the road. - And when they encountered something unexpected, they got confused. It's understandable - peasants, what can you expect from them...
For some reason, Folco immediately remembered Eirik and his taciturn comrades.
- And what kind of "greens" have we got on our hands? - Igg wondered. - This is a new misfortune! These, perhaps, are the real ones...
- True, - Rogvold nodded. - It seems to me they are from Angmar.
- And we'll find out where from now, - the Kid suddenly perked up and dived somewhere into the depths of the wagon.
In the darkness, there was some scuffling, panting, unintelligible voices, and soon the Kid climbed out onto the front again, dragging a dazed, head-spinning robber by the collar - a short, middle-aged man with a thick, half-gray beard.
Everyone gasped. No one had noticed how the Little Dwarf had managed to grab him; questions rained down from all sides; the men and dwarves on horseback were instantly at the Kid's wagon. The Kid himself, extremely flattered, answered importantly that this robber had not jumped into the cart himself, but had done so only at his, the Kid's, special request, backed by some very weighty argument, after which he had kindly agreed, to avoid annoying misunderstandings, to have his hands and feet tied with his own belt. As it turned out, this robber had run into the Kid just as the dwarf was trying to get back into the wagon after the fight with the "greens"; the man, apparently, was completely dazed with fear and had intended to slip past, but the Kid managed to grab him by the scruff of his neck, holding a dago to his throat.
- Excellent! - Rogvold cheered up. - We'll interrogate him now.
The former centurion moved from his horse to the wagon and jerked the frightened man towards him.
- Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get into the gang? - The hunter's voice was harsh. - Answer and don't be afraid - we are not guardsmen or judges.
- I'm Dron, Dron, son of Rif from Aldrin, - the prisoner stammered. - We had a bad harvest, it rained, the grain didn't grow. We wrote to the sheriff to, you know, give us some help - we can't starve to death! But not a word from him. We have to eat! So... And then a friend of mine gave me the idea. Let's go, he says... So I went. What was I to do? Half our village went with the detachment. And they were threatening to billet guardsmen on us too.
- You sing a fine tune, - Rogvold smirked. - So your friends are to blame for everything? And you didn't have a head on your own shoulders? A bad harvest... If everyone turned to robbery after every bad harvest, what would happen then, eh?
- Wait, Rogvold, ask him about the matter, not about how he came to such a life, - Thorin said, grimacing, and placed his hand on the centurion's elbow.
- And what am I, not the matter? - the hunter snapped, but lowered his tone. - How many of you were there? Where did you sit, where did you hide?
- Where could we hide... - Dron muttered senselessly. - We lived at home, and when we were needed, they let us know.
- How did you end up here, fifty leagues from home? - Rogvold asked with the same harsh smirk.
- They gathered us... a month ago, - Dron answered, trembling. - They said there would be more loot in the south. And everyone went, and those who didn't want to were driven with sticks. We went through the Forgotten Ridge, walked along the Road...
- Who commanded you? Who came up with the idea of going south?
- Those, Arr's northerners, may they be damned. - Dron's face expressed the last degree of despair. - They were in charge of everything, they commanded everyone. Many, perhaps, would have been glad to run away, like me, but they watched closely. They also received orders and news. The orders were sent by pigeons.
- Who did these northerners obey? - Rogvold continued to question. - And what does "northerners" mean? Are they from Angmar or what?
The prisoner's already round eyes became like large copper coins; he trembled as if he were naked in the cold, and in a broken voice answered that yes, they were indeed from Angmar and obeyed, as he understood from their conversations, some powerful leader, whose name they never mentioned, sometimes he was called "Himself". Thorin and Folco exchanged glances.
- And who is the Fat Man? - Rogvold asked after a moment's silence.
- I don't know, I've never heard of him, - Dron dodged. - I know - one of those who lives on the Road and sends us news. And what his real name is - well, kill me, I don't know!
- All right, he doesn't know, so let him be. So what are we going to do with him? - Rogvold addressed his comrades who were listening to him.
- It's clear what - a noose over a branch and a rope around his neck! - Grimnir uttered resolutely and gloomily. - Why pity this filth... How many he must have killed, the villain!
- It is dishonorable to kill an unarmed man! - Dori flared up. - He is not your prisoner, but the Kid's, and here we are not in Annúminas and not in a royal court!
- Are you suggesting we let him go free, so that he can continue to kill and rob? - Grimnir almost shrieked. - How convenient, honest and noble! But what if you...
He suddenly broke off, turned away and fell silent. Rogvold began to speak, slowly, weighing each word:
- Dori is right, this is indeed not Annúminas, and we have no judge or witnesses - we have no power over this man's life. We can only do one thing: the village is not far, there we will hand him over to the guards. Let everything be according to the law.
- Wait! - Folco suddenly intervened. - In my opinion, he has already chosen the most severe punishment for himself. Besides, he told us everything honestly. Let's let him go! After all, the guards may not wait for royal justice...
- Let him go?! - Rogvold looked at the hobbit in surprise. - We can let him go... What do the others think?!
Grimnir was still silent, his face turned away, and he sent his horse a body length forward: Dori shrugged and nodded, Resvald spread his hands, Gimli, Grani and Thror nodded in unison. Thorin pulled the reins, the wagon stopped, and the Kid hastily cut the pieces of Dron's own belt that were tying him.
- Go wherever you want, Dron, - Rogvold addressed him. - We are not executioners or judges, as I have already said. If you want, go back home and try to atone for your guilt. If not - go to all seven winds.
The stunned Dron just blinked and wheezed something. And then somehow he suddenly twisted, jumped to the ground, rushed headlong to the side of the road and immediately disappeared into the darkness.
- He could have at least thanked me, the boor, - the Kid sighed.
The moon had already flooded the area around them with cold light when faint lights flickered ahead on the Road. A village was approaching, a place to sleep and have dinner; the horses also smelled the dwelling - tired from the day, they raised their heads and quickened their pace. Soon the travelers noticed a log lowered across the road and a blockhouse tower on the side of the road - another guard post of the guardsmen. The train stopped in front of the obstacle, a commanding voice from above ordered them to identify themselves and light their faces.
Grumbling something under his breath, Thorin and the dwarves began to strike a fire and prepare tar torches; Rogvold tried to reason with the guards to let the tired travelers pass without much fuss, but they only laughed in response from the tower. And only when, in the flickering light of the lit torches, all the companions lined up at the foot of the tower, and Rogvold took out a travel document from his bosom, were they finally allowed to enter. The former centurion and Thorin immediately demanded to be taken to the commander: the others, unable to think of anything else but a good dinner, hurried with the whole train straight to the tavern. And about half an hour later, when they had not yet had time to empty the first barrel, the clatter of dozens of hooves and the clang of weapons were heard outside the windows - the Arnorian guard rushed to the Forgotten Ridge. A few minutes later, Thorin and RЪgvold also entered the tavern.
Remembering the inn and the mysterious "Fat Man", they swore off talking in taverns and answered all the questions of the meticulous owner: they said they had been walking all day and were very tired.
After dinner, when everyone had gone to bed, Thorin, Folco, Dori, Hornbori and the Kid, who never lagged behind them, held a council in a narrow circle.
- Now this is news, - said Thorin, lowering his voice to a whisper. - The robbers, it turns out, are in league with Angmar! And they don't just wander around the country, chasing loot, but carry out someone's orders! I'd like to know whose...
- Is it that important, brother Thorin?! - Dori said gloomily, continuing to sharpen his axe and not raising his head. - Men have their own ways, we have ours. The Angmarites, with all their desire, cannot break into the mountain halls, and everyone needs weapons and gold... So let them fight! We don't yet know whose side the truth is on.
- My venerable brother and kinsman spoke, as always, from the heart, but out of place, - Hornbori began to speak, stroking the gold ring on his finger. - No true thain will sell what he has created to a scoundrel or a murderer. We are bound by an old friendship with Arnor - you know this no worse than I, and your words surprise me, Dori!
- I have never traded with the robber spawn! - Dori snapped. - And I didn't mean that! Our main goal is Moria! If Arnor really finds itself in danger, you know what will happen in the Lunar Mountains! But human affairs are human affairs. And all the turmoil in the domains of the Northern Crown is a purely human affair, and we have no reason to interfere yet, or we might make a mess of things. What does it matter that the robbers have secret leaders?!
- And the fact that these secret leaders seem to be connected with one of our unkind acquaintances, - Thorin remarked. - And it's a good thing if a similar connection is not found between these peasants who accidentally turned to robbery and those who serve the wights of the Barrow-downs!
The candle flickered, as if someone's invisible lips had blown on it slightly.
- Barrow-downs?! - Hornbori raised his eyebrows. - I don't know, Thorin, I don't know. We have no proof.
- We had no proof of the robbers' connection with Angmar - until today, - Thorin answered.
- So what?! - Dori asked impatiently, putting his axe aside. - Have you come up with any new ideas on how to find the Horn of Durin faster?! Or can a reliable spell against the Great Evil be extracted from all this?!
The conversation was not going well. Dori clearly did not approve of Gorin's interest in the affairs of men; as always, Hornbori shone with eloquence, but even for him all this seemed something distant and insignificant. After bickering a little more, they woke up the Kid and went to bed.
Folco burrowed deeper into the blankets and was just about to close his eyes when he suddenly saw that Thorin was sitting, holding one boot in his hand, with a strangely motionless face and muttering something.
- What's wrong, Thorin?! - Folco asked in bewilderment and fell silent, because the dwarf suddenly said: "Rolstein".
- What's wrong with you, tell me at last! - Folco could not stand it and sat up.
- Rolstein, Folco... - the dwarf answered dully. - Do you know what that is?! If you see a rocking stone, don't rush to shout that it's a Rolstein - better look first who is rocking it! Someone is rocking Middle-earth, Folco!
The hobbit's skin crawled, but not from the dwarf's words, but precisely from his terrible, sepulchral voice and detached look. The hobbit was about to say something, but Thorin was already speaking, speaking, looking straight ahead:
- Someone is rocking Middle-earth! For Evil - it does not disappear without a trace, Folco. Its remnants scatter to the far corners, and it is not easy to find them again. But if you take something like Thror's sieve... A sieve that collects the evil left after Sauron! Nothing happens by itself, every turmoil has instigators, they are surely from the Big People! We must look among the people!
- Why?! - Folco asked eagerly.
- In all the Great Wars since the days of the First Age, only men have fought on both one side and the other, - the dwarf said. - Elves, thains, and you, hobbits, have always been on one side, orcs, trolls, dwarves - always on the other. And in the middle - men! Only among them can you find someone who will want to restore the Black Castle again. Everything is so bizarrely mixed in people, they don't like to listen to other people's advice and teachings, they have long been accumulating anger against the elves - not all, of course, but many. This Olmer from Dale is a confirmation of that. Someone invisible is waging war with Arnor - and it is unknown how far his plans extend. And what if a certain sieve of Thror is really found, collecting the remnants of evil?! - Thorin's voice gradually changed, became normal; the dwarf hunched over and sighed. - Some gloomy thoughts have come over me, brother hobbit. I don't know what came over me... Before, after such skirmishes, I would fall down and sleep like a log. Well, let us thank the Great Durin and the Bright Queen, who gave strength to our axes and swords! And now let's stop talking...
The dwarves, gray and breathless with anger, went from one cave to another - everywhere was chaos, destruction, desolation...
Meanwhile, a veil of a light summer night had closed over Middle-earth, and the light in the gallery had completely faded. The torches were lit again, but they did not dare to go further today, into the western branch of the North Wing, where the Chamber of Records was located and from where it was not far to the Gatehouse and the Moria Ditch. Having found a small cozy cave with a vaulted ceiling, which was supported by a number of fancifully carved columns, they settled down for the night. Here they found a table, and wide chests with flat tops, which could serve as a bed, and most importantly - nearby in the gallery under a stone canopy of fine workmanship, a spring gushed from the rock. A stream of the most transparent, cold to the point of aching teeth water fell with a light splash into a slightly bubbling stone bowl, from where a water pipe lined with white stone began, hiding in the stone thickness of the mountains, going somewhere down, to the lower tiers.
They lit a fire and ate hastily, hurrying to extinguish the flame that could give them away. The torches were extinguished - in the ensuing darkness, only a copper lamp, found earlier by the Kid, filled with oil from a miraculously survived tub, flickered faintly. These were the only two whole things they found among the wreckage.
The stone door was locked from the inside with a heavy steel bolt - as Gloin explained, the custom of locking even the inner doors appeared after the first signs of alarm on the Deep Tiers. After that, they pushed the chests closer together and began a leisurely conversation - they had a lot to talk about.
First of all, all the dwarves, as if a dam holding back their curiosity had burst, showered the hobbit and Hornbori with a hail of questions, trying to understand what had happened to the hitherto flawlessly working mechanism of the Gates. Hornbori was forced to show the ring on his finger.
- Lay it all out as it is, Hornbori, - Dori put his hand on his shoulder. - What did you and Folco do at the Gates?!
Dori's voice was, it seemed, cheerful, but the hobbit clearly heard the tension hidden behind his smirk. Hornbori threw up his hands in dismay and, as if accepting Dori's game, answered in a dead voice in the same tone:
- Well, it seems you can't hide anything from you, I'll have to confess everything and rely on your mercy. It's all because of this Ring!
Everyone around fell silent. Folco felt a chill in his chest; it was as if the Red Book was coming to life before his eyes!
Hornbori sighed, ran his hand through his beard, as if gathering his thoughts. He carefully took the Ring off his finger and placed it in the middle of the table; for a moment it seemed to the hobbit as if the darkness had disappeared, the walls had disappeared and the mountains had become like glass - he seemed to be looking right through the thickness of the stone, seeing at the same time the entire gigantic interweaving of the Moria corridors; only the very bottom was hidden by a crimson veil. Here, at the top, everything suddenly seemed to him long familiar, inhabited and not dangerous - from below, however, a dull hatred was creeping up.
Folco did not have time to properly understand his feelings - they were too fleeting;
now he stared intently at the Ring, in the depths of whose black stone a tiny spark was barely smoldering, like the flame of a distant furnace. And Hornbori spoke, and his words formed into fabulous visions, and the past came to life before the forgotten hobbit...
Hornbori received the Ring from his father, who in turn received it from his grandfather. Dying, the old dwarf ordered everyone standing by his bed to leave, leaving only Hornbori, his eldest son. And his father told Hornbori that his grandfather was one of the few desperate dwarves of the Misty Mountains who had gone to Dol Guldur with the elves, the lords of Lothlórien, when the Lady Galadriel had brought the walls of the dark fortress of the Nazgûl to dust. The curious dwarves, the day after the victory, climbed the ruins to gaze at what was left; among the collapsed walls, Hornbori's grandfather, then still a very young dwarf, saw a black entrance to some dungeon and, without thinking long, dived into it. Light penetrated inside through the breaches in the roof, and on the floor among the debris he noticed a wonderful, brightly shining Ring. He could not resist the temptation and picked it up; and having put it on his finger, he could no longer take it off. However, the Lady could not have failed to notice his find and, according to Hornbori's father, told his grandfather that his prize might be one of the Seven Dwarven Rings, or rather, one of the three surviving ones, since the other four had been destroyed by dragons. The three surviving ones fell into the hands of the Unnamed One, and no one knows how or for what he used them. According to Galadriel, Hornbori's ring once belonged to Thrór, one of the last Kings under the Mountain, the ruler of the Lonely Mountain. His grandson was the famous Thorin Oakenshield - Bilbo Baggins's companion!
- Who knows how it all really was, - Hornbori continued quietly. - Who knows how it all really happened, but, one way or another, I wore this Ring for many years and noticed nothing special about it. I happened to hear an ancient elven spell: Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky; Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone; Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, and One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne. Well, and then there's more about Mordor. But the Three Elven Rings, the Three most beautiful Rings, lost their power, and their owners went to the Uttermost West. Surely, I decided, the Dwarven Rings have also lost their power. But it turned out not to be so... - He spread his hands. - And at the Gates, something suddenly stung me. - He shook his head, trying to express the inexpressible. - I pulled the Gates towards me, as if by a rope... I barely had enough strength, and without the hobbit I wouldn't have managed at all. What did you do to them, Folco?
- Wait about the hobbit, let's figure out the Ring! - Thorin grimaced and slammed his palm on the table. - If this is really a Dwarven Ring, then what can it do? And also - who forged them and when? The Enemy? Or not? A mortal who puts on one of the Great Rings should become invisible... And what about us? And yet the main thing is - from whose hands did these rings come? Was it a light or a dark will that created them?
- Whoever it was, the Ring has already shown its power, - Vyard remarked. - And if it is really one of the Seven - who knows, is it not from its proximity to the heart of our world, the world of the Thanes, that some part of its ancient power has revived in it?
- But what was this ancient power? - Hornbori answered the question with a question, clutching his head in his hands. - Not one of our tales has preserved the memory of their action!
Silence fell. The lamp's flame smoldered silently; in the darkness, the faces of the closest interlocutors could barely be seen. Hornbori spoke again:
- When that blueness began to rise from below and I immediately felt uneasy, I suddenly thought that I could somehow help. When everyone ran, I stayed, although everything inside was trembling, and just stood there, and the radiance suddenly stopped, went down and disappeared. That's when I realized that the Ring had done it again. It dispelled the fear, didn't you feel it?
- True, - Thorin nodded after a pause. - Well, friends, this is a good sign! - The dwarf straightened up. - A part of our ancient powers has revived - so let it serve us as a shield against the Fear of the Deeps, against the Mountain Evil! And the hobbit has something else! For without him the Gates would not have opened! So what did you do, Folco?
The hobbit had to tell everything as it was. The dagger was passed around, and Folco restlessly and senselessly followed it with his eyes around the circle, immediately feeling that he was not at ease when his chest was empty of its scabbard. The dwarves clicked their tongues, scraped the blade with their fingernails, tested its flexibility - and returned it to Folco with words of general bewilderment. Like the few who had seen the dagger in the camp at night after Folco and Thorin's meeting with Olmer, no one could say anything.
- The gates were held as if by someone's will, - Gloin said thoughtfully, handing the dagger to the hobbit. - I'd like to know whose...
- We'll find out when we get down, - Thorin threw decisively. - And what do you say about all this? - He waved his hand around him, as if pointing to the invisible walls of the cave in the darkness.
- Only one thing - here, in Moria, we have an enemy, - Dwalin answered without hesitation. - We smelled a strange smell when we were crossing the Dry Bridge, and now there is no doubt - orcs have been here!
Everyone understood that it was impossible to descend to the Deep Tiers with a strong and numerous enemy on their shoulders. After long disputes, they decided to go down through secret passages. The conversations could have gone on forever, but the Kid protested.
- Enough! The night will pass, the morning will bring counsel, - he yawned widely. - Let's better sleep, in the morning we'll rummage through the upper tiers - maybe we'll see something?! And now, if I yawn again, I'll tear my mouth to my ears. Whoever wants to, but I'm going to bed.
The dwarves fussed a little more and went to bed. Balin and Skídülf remained on guard in the outer corridor. Folco tossed and turned for a long time on the hard chest, until the black emptiness swallowed him too.
The night passed peacefully. The guard changed four times, and not in vain - just before morning, Gloin and Hornbori noticed the light of a torch at the far end of the corridor, which turned into one of the transverse galleries. Judging by the carelessness, those who were there either did not yet know about the presence of the dwarves, or they were confused by the maneuver of Gloin and Dwalin, and they were convinced that the dwarves had immediately gone down. This had to be taken advantage of, and the sooner the better.
The dwarves armed themselves feverishly, checking the fit of their axes and poleaxes, the strength of their picks and flails, the reliability of the chains in their spiked flails. Each of them, sparing no back, carried a full set of armor, and now the faces of Folco's comrades were hidden behind the steel visors of their helmets; long chainmail shirts with densely set iron plates, overlapping one another and therefore resembling fish scales, covered their chests; some even brought small round shields with them. Taking a good supply of torches with them, they locked the door to their temporary shelter, and Gloin hid the key. Stretching out in a long chain, they moved north, to where the light of a strange torch had flickered.
Ahead walked Gloin, next to him - Hornbori, Thorin and the battle-hungry Dori; bringing up the rear were Bran, Balin and Dwalin. Folco found himself in the middle, next to Skídülf and Stron. The Kid's light panting was heard right behind the hobbit's back.
They moved in short dashes from one cover to another; Folco held his bow ready, and several dwarves also had loaded crossbows in their hands. About half an hour passed like this; the sky in the west was still gray, but it was already quite light in the gallery.
Soon the living caves ended, the spacious halls began to alternate with the black branches of the corridors. The dwarves doubled their caution, Gloin and Thorin alternately pressed their ears to the floor, freezing for a long time, and the others stood, afraid to even breathe, let alone move; finally getting up, Gloin announced that he heard the faint echo of footsteps - on the Sixth Tier, below them.
- Let's go down, - he threw briefly. - Dwalin, where are you? Come here, we need to find the Ladder.
- To the right, to the right, are you blind?! - Dwalin grumbled in response. - Press on, there's a black vein...
Gloin silently ran his hand over the rock, there was a slight creak, and the slab lowered, opening the entrance to a narrow, steep staircase. The dwarves one by one squeezed into the black opening.
- Don't light the torches, - Gloin warned. - Hold on to the walls, there are no drops here.
The hobbit counted a good hundred steps down when he suddenly felt a faint but fresh breeze on his face - the descent was over, they had come out into a spacious hall, dimly lit by the light from a single window under the very pointed ceiling; from here, five corridors began at once. Gloin and Dwalin rushed to their dark entrances. A few seconds later, Dwalin waved his hand invitingly.
- They're coming here, - the dwarf whispered to his approaching comrades, breathless with excitement. - They have nowhere else to go, all the passages of this part of the Tier converge here.
- Spread out! - Thorin commanded. - If there are two or three dozen - we will fight, if more - we will let them pass. Kid! Stay close to Folco!
Thorin wanted to say something else, but the tramp of feet was clearly heard from the depths of the corridor, and the dwarves hurried to take cover. The hobbit hastily checked his bowstring and took two arrows from his quiver.
A few agonizing minutes passed; Folco saw the stern fighting fire in the eyes of the Kid hiding next to him; the other dwarves, pressed against the granite walls of the hall, disappeared into the gray gloom - not a creak, not a glint. And in the meantime, the first reflections of torches fell on the floor, and a moment later the head of the orc detachment - and it was precisely orcs - appeared from the corridor. Folco saw them for the first time and for a moment forgot about everything, looking at the primordial servants of Darkness with wide-open eyes.
Tall, broad-shouldered, long-armed, the orcs walked in a disorderly crowd, all with shields and curved scimitars, in low horned helmets that differed from the dwarven ones, which were tall and deaf; the broad, flat faces of the orcs were open. In the dim light, it was impossible to properly see their clothes. There were a little more than two dozen of them.
- Khazâd! - the ringing battle cry of the dwarves of the Northern World flew up and beat against the ceiling.
At the same second, the walls, it seemed, spewed out the old masters of Khazad-dûm, and the ancient rocks once again, for the umpteenth time, heard the ringing dispute of orc swords with dwarven axes.
The cave was immediately filled with frantic cries and squeals; the dwarves rushed to the attack in silence. Appearing from all sides, they herded the orcs into a pile, pressing them into a dead corner of the hall.
Recovering from the surprise and seeing that the Kid had already rushed forward, Folco released the bowstring; a hefty orc with a torch poked his head into a stone. The hobbit did not see what was happening to the other dwarves; he could only follow the Kid.
The surrounded orcs fought with a fury that Folco did not expect to find in this spawn; but today the fight was equal, one on one, today there was room for the dwarves - masters of single combat, and the orcs did not have time to form a wall of shields.
The hobbit pulled the string of the elven bow as fast as he could find a target. Not a single arrow was wasted, all found their way, and the Kid, with a sword in one hand and a dago in the other, did not let the orcs get close to the hobbit, who quickly noticed the unerring archer. A strange feeling suddenly possessed Folco - his mind miraculously cleared, decisions arose immediately. His eyes chose the next orc, determined the lead, and at the same time he saw the sword flashing in the Kid's hands: here an orc, covering himself with a shield, swings a scimitar, but the movement of the dago, fast, lightning-fast, deflects the enemy's blade to the side; the Kid, twisting all over, dives under the enemy's shield and, almost lying down, strikes from below upwards, piercing the orc with his long straight sword, and immediately jumps up, and now his sword repels the blow of the next enemy, and the dago makes a lunge, and the orc does not have time to put up his shield; but on the right there is another opponent. The Kid is just beginning to turn towards him, but he suddenly snorts and falls with the hobbit's arrow in his throat...
And suddenly it all ended somehow at once. The dwarves stopped - there were no more enemies, their bodies lay in shapeless piles on the floor of the hall, dark blood, not lingering, spread over the polished stone.
Folco lowered his bow. What about his friends, are they all safe? He could not count his own for a long time. But no, all fourteen, all on their feet...
- Hey, you longbeards, what have you done! - Thorin suddenly shouted angrily, tearing off his helmet. - You've killed them all, who are we going to interrogate now? You've had your fun, I must say! Dori! I'm yelling at you - enough, no, you absolutely had to press this last one against the wall and take his head off! We would have interrogated him, then you could have taken it off...
- So, what are we going to do now?! - Gloin approached Thorin, wiping the blade of his axe on the move. - There's a mine nearby - all the way down, to the Seventh Deep - maybe we should throw them all in there?
Dori, whose face had not yet lost its battle rage, in turn, took off his helmet, wiping his wet forehead, and bent over the body of one of the orcs, beckoning to the others with signs. Folco suddenly felt sick and hastily turned away, unable to look at the corpse of the enemy with its head split open. He heard the voices of his friends:
- Why are they without armor?!
- What, all of them? And this, look, behind his back?! Brothers, they were carrying chain mail in their bags!
- They weren't expecting us, then, - Thorin's voice was heard. - Ho! And what's that on their shields? Folco, come here!
The hobbit, trying not to look at the orc corpses, approached his friends. Thorin stood in the middle, disgustedly holding at arm's length a round orc shield with its edge chopped by someone's axe.
- Look at the emblem, - Dori pulled the hobbit by the sleeve.
The hobbit glanced and gasped - on the shield was a crudely painted image of the Scarlet Eye of Barad-dûr, so familiar from the Red Book! Having overcome a second's confusion, the hobbit explained to his friends the former meaning of the sinister sign. Silence fell.
- So there's the answer to your question, brother hobbit, - Gloin said. - They are descendants of the Mordor orcs. Probably, someone from this serpent tribe escaped retribution and hid in some secret lairs all these years. But how quickly they sniffed everything out! Did they find out themselves or did someone tell them?
- Ask something simpler, - Thorin grumbled in response. - Now we have to catch them here again! By the way, why do they need weapons if Moria has been empty for so long?
- It means it's not completely empty, - Hornbori threw, looking around. - And we need to understand who else might be here to our misfortune!
- We'll talk about that later, - Thror intervened angrily. - Where are we going to put these?
- In the mine, I suppose, - Thorin dropped. - Come on, get to it, thains, and don't turn up your noses!
The dwarves quickly dragged the pile of orc bodies to a black abyss fenced with a low parapet, from which a dry underground heat emanated. Gloin sniffed the air.
- On the Seventh Deep, everything is as before, - he informed his comrades. - The heat from the Flaming Eyes, as always... But the furnaces are extinguished.
- So, are we dumping them? - Bran asked business-like, turning to Hornbori, who was standing nearby, his arms crossed on his chest, with a thoughtful and concentrated look.
- Dump them, what's there to it! - Thorin shouted angrily. The bodies of the orcs, one after another, plunged into the depths, no matter how hard Folco listened, he did not hear the sound of the fall.
Having climbed up to the cave where they had spent the night, the dwarves hastily packed up the things left there. It made no sense to linger on top any longer: on the way back, Gloin remembered where the entrance to the Secret Gallery was, and now a difficult three-day journey to the eastern borders of the Moria kingdom awaited them.
- How's the axe, Thorin? - Folco asked his companion in passing, when they, heavily laden, were already leaving the doors into the corridor, and Thorin silently showed the hobbit a clenched fist - which among the dwarves was a sign of the highest trust in a weapon.
- We are going to the Chamber of Records, as we agreed, - Thorin announced when everyone had left and the door was locked again. - We will listen on the way - if we notice anyone else, we will have to work with our axes! We desperately need at least one live orc.
The Secret Gallery really turned out to be a secret - its entrance was closed by stone doors indistinguishable from the surrounding walls, which opened at the touch of Gloin's hand on an inconspicuous ledge near the very floor. Inside was impenetrable darkness. The dwarves adjusted the bags on their backs, grunted, took a sip of beer from the Kid's barrel and, without long conversations, set off.
- So, at least we know one enemy for sure, - Hornbori threw to Thorin on the move. - How do you think you'll handle him?
- If everything else turns out to be old wives' tales, then by autumn we will need to raise a militia from Erebor and the Misty Mountains, - Thorin answered solidly.
- Excellent, but who will be in charge?
- The one whom the hird chooses, don't you know? - Thorin bristled.
- Of course, of course, - Hornbori readily agreed and fell silent.
The Secret Gallery, which differed from the usual ones by the almost complete absence of forks - for the entire many-hour journey, the hobbit counted only five branches - led them to another staircase, this time a spiral one. Gloin stopped, threw off the pack from his back and suggested a rest before they went down the Endless Stair. At these words, the hobbit's breath caught.
- You want... you want to say that this is the very Endless Stair that goes through all of Moria from its very bottom, long forgotten by the dwarves themselves? Didn't Gandalf go down it in his time? It should lead to the top of Celebdil...
- That's right, - Gloin confirmed solemnly. - This is it. We need to go down one tier on it - so we will be on the Sixth; the Chamber of Records is on the Seventh, but the Secret Gallery here goes too far to the south, and it is more profitable for us to cut across.
They descended a hundred wide, triangular-edged steps and found themselves on another platform - it differed from the upper one only by the greater number of corridors originating from it.
And again, long hours of monotonous, tiring journey; the underground silence was broken only by the crackling of torches, the heavy breathing of the dwarves, and occasionally - the soft gurgling of water flowing somewhere into the blackness along stone gutters. They stopped twice; the hobbit lost all sense of time, trying to count his steps, he lost count after three thousand. Finally, when Folco realized that he was about to fall and nothing would make him get up, Thorin and Hornbori - they were now walking together and were constantly conferring about something in low voices, and arguing quite heatedly - announced that it was time to make camp for the night.
They threw their bags right in the tunnel, on the bare stones. Falling asleep, Folco saw through his closing eyelids the figures of Thorin and Hornbori sitting next to him; they were talking quietly, and then Thorin got up and extinguished the torch.
In the morning - however, whether it was morning or day, no one, of course, knew; simply, when everyone woke up, Gloin and Bran again struck a fire by touch, and, having eaten hastily, they moved on.
This stretch of time passed in the same way as the previous one - except that the Morians, and with them Thorin and Hornbori, pressed themselves more and more often against the walls, trying to determine something for themselves by some faint, only audible to them sounds; occasionally Dori joined them, the others trusted their leaders in everything. Now, after the battle, they were somehow able to speak more boldly about the ghost that had frightened them at the entrance to Moria and the mysterious blueness that had risen up the stairwell. The dwarves could not help but think about it, but, not knowing what to say, they eventually began to build conjectures, one more outlandish than the other, and gradually frightened themselves so much that they almost attacked the Kid with their fists, who had expressed a simple-minded guess about a new Great Evil.
Soon the hobbit was sick to death of this endless journey through the longest and gloomiest dungeon, which resembled the insides of some petrified boa constrictor: the load on his shoulders became almost unbearable, and at the same time some bad premonition appeared, a languid uncertainty - it happens when you expect a very big trouble and you just don't know if it will happen now or the next day, and you don't know what to do to avoid it... The enemy was nearby, the hobbit clearly felt it, but the enemy was unusual - ghostly, although not disembodied.
The water in the flasks was running out, and there was no end in sight to the journey through the Secret Gallery. Finally, they stopped again, and, to the hobbit's great joy, Thorin announced that there was only one more night - and the next day they would reach the Chamber of Records, where they would stop to look around.
And again Folco slept badly - a dampness suddenly came, he was chilled and barely waited for the moment when Hornbori began to push the others. The hobbit's eyes were sticky and burning after a sleepless night, his legs barely obeyed him, he could only straighten his back with difficulty. However, there was only a little way to go, soon the Chamber of Records and rest, rest, rest!..
The tunnel ended in a blank wall with no signs of a door. Gloin and Dwalin had to fuss a lot, and the others had to endure a few unpleasant minutes until the secret door swung open and they came out into another corridor, much wider, straighter and more spacious than the previous one. The smooth floor, the finished walls betrayed its importance; the torches illuminated a semicircular arch ahead, behind which the expanse of a considerable hall could be guessed.
- This is the Twenty-first Hall, - Gloin said, respectfully lowering his voice. - A memorable place... We need to go to the north door.
- Behind it there should be a corridor, and on the right hand - the door to Mazarbul, - the hobbit smiled, remembering the pages of the Red Book.
And so it was. The door, which the nine Guardians had once courageously defended against the onslaught of orcs and trolls, was now tightly closed. The floor in front of the door was clean, and this surprised the experienced Gloin: dust lay everywhere in the Twenty-first Hall, on the west side of the Moria caves - here, in front of the door of the Chamber of Records, there was for some reason no dust.
Approaching closer, they found the solution. The stone slab of the door was covered with whitish scars from blows with some sharp metal tool; it looked as if someone had tried to open the door from the corridor.
- Someone really wanted to look inside, - Dwalin smirked.
- So, is the door closed? - Thorin inquired.
- And not with a simple lock, - the Morian continued. - Look around, friends. It's not for these... to hear.
The dwarf turned his face to the door and said something quietly in a singsong voice. A gray morning light flooded into the opening that opened. Inside the Chamber of Records, everything was restored as it was in the days of Frodo's wanderings - chests in niches, and under the window - a white tombstone on a gray stone and the lines familiar to Folco in the Common and Morian languages.
- Greetings, Lord Balin, son of Fundin, - Thorin said quietly, and all the dwarves knelt; Folco followed their example.
Having paid their respects, the dwarves dispersed to the corners, examining the chests. Here, unlike the living caves in the west, everything had survived, but, opening the very first chest, which remained unlocked, they came across a note thrown on top of books wrapped in canvas. Someone's hasty hand had scrawled uneven lines:
"To him who crosses the threshold of the land of his ancestors, whom dark horror and despair will not stop. Brothers! Beware of the Flaming Eyes - they are death when the mountains begin to breathe. Do not descend to the lower tiers - fear drives you mad. We do not know what it is; it comes from under the ground. In the Moria Ditch, the Deep Fear has reappeared, of which we have heard nothing for two hundred and seventy years. Orcs have crept into the abandoned caves of the west; we are too few to fight. Call the elves! Only they, perhaps, can help us. This is an ancient evil, and it is beyond our power. In the chests you will find a detailed description of everything that happened in Khazad-dûm! And one more thing - look for mithril! It is on the Sixth Deep, walled up in the wall of the One Hundred and Eleventh Hall - the road there is through the Castle Hall. Wait for the time when the Flaming Eyes close in sleep - let the wealth of our ancestors serve the thains again. We did not have time to save them. Farewell! Erebor will always be ready to rise at the first call of the brave. We will gather our strength and wait. Do not rush to accuse us of cowardice..."
At this point the note ended. There was neither a signature nor a date. Thorin twirled the piece of parchment in his fingers, grunted and passed it around. When the note returned to him, he put it back in its place in the chest, closed the lid and, without thinking long, sat on top. The tired dwarves, having thrown off the considerable weight of their weapons, tools and provisions, settled down wherever they could. The Kid quietly pulled the plug from his barrel...
However, they did not have time to start the council and delve into the long, so beloved by the dwarves, lengthy discussions. A barely audible rustle came from behind the loosely closed door leading to the Twenty-first Hall. Hornbori jumped up as if thrown, and in the blink of an eye was at the opening. None of the dwarves had yet had time to figure anything out, when Hornbori, with a short, angry cry, slammed the door and leaned against it with his whole body.
- Orcs, orcs in the corridor! - he shouted, trying, without leaving the door, to reach for his axe. - Quickly, Gloin, Dwalin!
From behind the stone door, the tramp of many feet and a dull roar, filled with such hatred that Folco's insides went cold, were now clearly audible. The door; against which Hornbori, Grani, Gimli, Thror and Dwalin were now leaning, trembled finely, then there was a dull blow with something heavy, the door shuddered, but did not yield. Gloin hastily whispered the words of a spell, finally he sighed with relief, and at the same moment the door stopped vibrating. The blows against it became much more powerful, but they were now felt in a completely different way - the door no longer fidgeted back and forth, only trembled slightly.
Hornbori wiped the sweat from his brow.
- There are at least a hundred of them there, - he said in a low voice to his friends crowded around him. - And these are some other orcs, not the ones we laid on the Sixth Tier. These are taller, broader-shouldered, and their faces are more regular, it seemed to me... There were a lot of torches, I saw a battering ram.
- What should we do? - Vyard looked around, trapped.
- Open the doors - and forward! - Dori's lips twisted into a cruel smirk.
- So that you can be turned into a pincushion, only instead of needles there will be their arrows? - Vyard shrieked.
- Wait, wait! - Gloin raised his hand. - They are unlikely to be able to break the door - it is not one of those that can be broken through or torn off its hinges. Let's calmly retreat through the east door - the one under the window.
- And where to next? - Bran grumbled, glancing at the door shuddering under the measured blows.
- Down, - Gloin shrugged. - After all, we didn't come here to deal with orcs. The staircase goes down to the First Deep, from there we can easily get into the Castle Hall and below.
- We won't get anywhere now, - Thorin suddenly grinned darkly, having imperceptibly moved to the east door. - We are surrounded, this is a trap...
Without a word, the dwarves rushed in a crowd to the opposite wall. From behind the east door, the same tramp and roar were heard. The door itself, like the first, was locked with a spell, and there was no need to fear that the enemy would break through by force; but what to do next?
A sticky, cold fear spread through the hobbit's heart; the situation seemed hopeless. He saw how the dwarven faces had become heavy, how their eyebrows had knitted... The conversations had ceased; everyone was dejectedly silent.
- We will break through, - Hornbori said hoarsely. - Unless they smoke us out of here, like rats from a hole.
No one objected to him, and then Thorin said, suddenly starting to unroll his blanket:
- Then we need to get some proper rest... They can't break down the doors, so we can sleep peacefully for a few hours, and then...
- Wait! Maybe we can make a deal with them? - Vyard suggested with a timid hope. - Maybe we can buy them off with something?
- Only with you, perhaps, - Dori's eyes flashed, and they did not mention it again.
The dwarves took out their blankets, lay down freely and lit their pipes.
The rumbling behind the door did not cease. There were no cries or squeals - the orcs were pounding on the door in silence, and this made it even more frightening. Folco could not find a place for himself and tossed and turned. The imperturbable Kid was snoring next to him, having dozed off as if he were in some Annúminas tavern. The hobbit's gaze, aimlessly darting around the walls and ceiling, suddenly fell on the window, and at the same second he was as if thrown up.
- Thorin, Thorin, what if we do this? - He pointed his finger in the direction of a small square vent in the wall, from which light was coming. - What's down there?
Thorin was silent for a few moments, thinking, and then jumped up and rushed to the window, pulling the others up on the way.
- Wait to judge them, - Folco frowned. - We are not given that, we know too little.
- Then why don't they let us know more! - Farnak suddenly cried out furiously, shaking his fists. - Why did they start deciding what we are allowed to see and what not?! Why did they close the west to us?! We, the Sea-Folk, - he waved his trembling hand at the rowers who had turned to them, - we want to sail to all four corners of the world, as long as the wind fills the sails and our hands hold the rudder! In the north, we reached the border of the eternal ice, to the blue teeth of the Giant, where the drops of water flowing from the oars turn into icicles in the air, and people fall down dead as soon as they breathe in, and where the skin turns black and peels off the hands. In the south, our "dragons" reached a place where the shore turns to the east and goes into unknowable spaces. We have been on every river in Middle-earth, both the Northern and Southern Worlds - and only the west is closed to us!
Farnak's eyes blazed. The stunned Folco did not know what to say.
- I asked you if there were people in the past who tried to cross the Sea, - the helmsman continued. - And you told me more than I have ever heard about it in my whole life, but all this only confirmed what we already know - the masters of the Undying Lands have fenced themselves off from us, continuing, however, to prescribe their laws to us! Who can deprive a man of his freedom?!
The helmsman's voice seemed to have acquired the power of thunder, the crew stood up, Folco saw their blazing eyes, clenched fists, every word of the helmsman was met with a resounding roar.
- But why did you say that the elves are being careful? - the hobbit tried to object weakly. - You don't know why they act like that?
- Why did I say it? - Farnak smiled wryly. - Because they are being careful, and we know it better than anyone! Do you know what will happen if, - he grabbed the hobbit by the shoulders and turned him to face the west, - if I turn the rudder to the starboard? We will sail for a day, a second, a third, a month, two, there will be only water around, nothing but water and sun and stars - and then time will stop, and we will see the Line.
As if a sudden gust of cold wind extinguishes a carelessly left candle - so the crew immediately fell silent and frowned, and Farnak himself, contemptuously curling his lips, lowered his head.
- The Line? - Folco said in a hoarse voice. - What is it? I've never heard of it!
- Not surprising, - Farnak threw. - Only we and those who drew it know about it. Our ships cannot go further - they are turned back... From the side it looks like... - He frowned from the effort to express in words what he had seen. - Once we saw an elven ship pass through it - it lets them through, but not us... All right! - he suddenly broke off. - Hey, you lazybones, don't you see we're losing the wind?! Híarrhidi! Where are you looking! - Farnak yelled, turning away from the hobbit.
The men hastily rushed to their places. After this conversation, Farnak was imbued with if not respect, then at least interest in the hobbit, and they often talked. The helmsman told a lot and willingly, as if in a hurry to share his troubles with a rare, as he himself admitted, interlocutor. He spoke of campaigns to the south and to the north. To the south - for valuable wood, golden sand and outlandish fruits, which go to the table of the Gondorian rich, to the north - for the bone of a sea beast and strong, waterproof hides, from which in Arnor they sew clothes for armored warriors. Before the listening hobbit's mind's eye, an endless series of unexplored countries and mysterious islands passed - some covered with eternal snow from the icy breath of the northern winds, others languishing from the heat poured on them by the sun standing exactly in the middle of the sky... And about the countless battles in which the Eldrings - as they called themselves - had to fight, Farnak spoke. About skirmishes with the gloomy, merciless tribes of the far South, where in a sea of green thickets, poisoned arrows, shot by no one knows who, silently and inexorably overtake the brave, wounds from which are fatal; how at night amazing gigantic beasts with the body of a bull and the head of a bear come to the camps, and in the morning giant spiders descend from trees as tall as a good mountain, deftly throwing their sticky web for dozens of steps; you must always be on your guard, there you can expect an attack at any moment...
Farnak spoke well, and only one thing made the hobbit inwardly cringe with unexpressed protest - when the Eldring mentioned the elves. For him, they were enemies, and he had no doubts or hesitations. They must leave, he insisted. People must choose their own paths, following only the advice of their own minds. Listening to the helmsman, Folco unexpectedly remembered the unforgettable Olmer, and suddenly an unusually clear, cold and therefore even more frightening thought flashed through his mind: what if these elf-haters conspire?
But these thoughts had to be kept to himself, and for now the hobbit took the opportunity to observe the people of the Sea-Folk. Despite the fact that the "dragon" seemed not very large, there were almost one hundred and forty rower-warriors on it: on the inner side of the board, the armament of each of them hung in strict order, ready at any second to exchange an oar for the hilt of a sword. The hobbit tried to start conversations with them, but the Eldrings were gloomy and hardly answered questions. The hobbit remembered Terwin's coin; among the rowers there were some who looked similar to those from whose leader the hobbit had received this unusual gift; but all cautious attempts to find out anything ended in nothing. To a direct question - where they had been this spring, Farnak, with a grin, threw: where the crow had not carried the bones.
And among other stories, Farnak told the hobbit a strange legend that existed among the Sea-Folk. Allegedly, the eldest son of the last Lord of Gondor, Denethor, Boromir, who died in a skirmish with orcs at Parth Galen, left behind offspring. Boromir had a son from a simple, low-born girl, whom his father hid from the formidable Denethor, fearing his wrath. It seems that after the victory in the War of the Ring, this young man, Boromir's son, appeared before the Great King Elessar - and for some unknown reason they had a quarrel. Denethor's grandson left Minas Tirith - either he was exiled, or he himself did not want to live under the rule of the new King - in a word, Boromir's son considered himself insulted and allegedly took a terrible oath to take revenge...
This story at first interested the hobbit little - what people don't gossip about! However, he remembered it, deciding to tell it to Radagast on occasion and hear the wizard's opinion on this matter...
And the days went by, and Folco got used to the blue expanse constantly spread around him; standing at the side and looking at the water foaming around the raised bow, he went over the events of recent months in his memory, trying to understand: what have they achieved and what, in fact, should they do next? And in general, how long will they wander? They had lost the trail of the orc "master"; they had made a mistake by leaving Moria without finding out, they should have caught a few more orcs at any cost and, with the help of the Ring, gotten the truth out of them; instead, they went down, and now Hornbori was sleeping an eternal sleep under a heavy slab in the One Hundred and Eleventh Hall, and Dori with his Ring was now probably gathering armies in the Iron Hills... The Tower of Orthanc had told them many interesting things - but what were they to do with it? They would probably get to Annúminas - and what then?
The water, eternally boiling with white foam, ran under the side, and Folco, looking at it, suddenly remembered his recent vision near the blue Flower, and it was as if he was pierced - Thorin was already old... which means they will wander for many years... so is he destined to ever return to his homeland?! Will he really have to spend his whole life in endless wanderings?! And, without delay, he asked Thorin the same question when they went down under the short forecastle to have dinner.
- I know one thing - we will wander as long as necessary, - the dwarf cut him off sternly.
- And how long is necessary? Where will we go after Annúminas? I wouldn't mind visiting home, by the way... I haven't been seen there for a long time...
- It will be necessary for as long as it takes to catch this "master" and put an end to the new threat, - Thorin shrugged. - And after Annúminas, we will probably go to Angmar.
The Kid choked, Folco barely stayed on the bench. From this name, a long-forgotten cold and the horror of the revived Barrow-downs wafted over him. Looking at their amazed, bulging eyes, Thorin smirked slightly and continued:
- And where else to look for those who are rocking Middle-earth? And if we see this coat of arms in Angmar - a three-pronged black crown - consider the matter almost done.
- And... and then? - Folco barely managed to say.
- Then there will be war, - Thorin threw harshly. - It's time to understand what's what, Folco. Evil, evil has once again made its nest at the foot of the Angmar Mountains! The sooner this nest is burned to the ground, the better. But what's the point of guessing? For now, we need to get to the northern capital, our friends are waiting for us there, and a message from Dori may arrive.
Meanwhile, the ten days appointed by Farnak had passed, and exactly on the appointed date his "dragon", helping itself with oars, moored at the mouth of the Baranduin, where there was another large anchorage of the Sea-Folk ships. Folco had no idea that his native river, so smooth and calm under the windows of his house, could spread so wide, carrying dozens of different vessels. Here, the goods brought from the south, having moved from the holds to the backs of mules, into heavy, creaking carts and long merchant caravans, set off on a short journey to the Arnorian borders. There were also many barges floating down the river, similar to the one on which the friends had sailed on the Song. Folco learned that south of the borders of his native Hobbiton, which was closed to people, at the crossing over the Brandywine, where the road that began in Delving crossed the river, there was also a large transshipment of goods; some of the merchants unloaded their goods there.
It was time to say goodbye to Farnak and his crew. Finally, Folco, Thorin, the Kid and Híarrhidi decided to go to a tavern to wet their whistles after a long journey.
They were walking along the riverbank, clad in a solid armor of countless piers, making their way through a motley crowd of Eldrings, respectfully bypassing the impressively frozen at every intersection Arnorian patrols, when their attention was drawn to an unusually long, narrow ship, rapidly approaching the shore on twelve pairs of oars. Its sharp, high-prowed nose was decorated with the image of the head of a beast unknown to the hobbit with two long fangs protruding far forward from its mouth: driven by powerful strokes of the oars, the ship was rapidly approaching. A black and red flag fluttered on the mast.
Híarrhidi whistled in amazement as soon as he saw it.
- Wow! Skiludr himself, I swear by the eye of the storm! The brave one!
From the deck of the ship, ropes were already being thrown, and a little later, people began to jump from its side onto the pier one after another, without waiting for the gangplank. Several guards hurried to them; the fair-haired leader who came forward threw something short to them, and when one of the Arnorian soldiers blocked his way, he suddenly silently pointed to the river surface, along which, one after another, new "dragons", five or six more, were approaching, mooring to the side of the first ship. The guard stepped back in confusion, and the leader calmly walked on. The rest of his men followed him. The Arnorian warriors hastily dispersed in different directions, leaving two to watch Skiludr's ships. .
- Tell me, who is he? - the hobbit asked Híarrhidi, nodding at the rapidly receding back of the fair-haired leader of the Eldrings.
- Oh! Skiludr is a force! - the helmsman's assistant said seriously and respectfully. - He is his own man and does not need laws or treaties. He has eight hundred swords! And what swords - not like the Arnorian pot-bellies. He did not accept peace with the Kingdom, but he is so strong that he cannot be taken in open battle, he cannot be caught at sea... However, I have not heard that he was particularly brutal - no, he does not even fight, but simply lives on his own, as he wants. But it happens that he takes the ships of Gondor.
- How did he dare to come here?! Can't he be captured?
- Haven't you heard how many swords he has? Try to touch him! They wouldn't even leave ashes of the city! And the commanders of the Arnorian armored warriors know that we, the other Eldrings, those who have accepted peace, will not help Skiludr, true to our word, but we will not enter into battle on the side of Arnor, they will have to manage on their own, and they are not capable of that... Hey! What are you doing?
His last exclamation was addressed to the hobbit, who had suddenly frozen with his mouth open. The dashing warriors of Skiludr were still getting out onto the pier, and among them a familiar swarthy face suddenly flashed. Folco had not forgotten it and would not have confused it with any other - the very man who had given him Terwin's coin!
Hearing this, Thorin immediately grabbed his axe and resolutely declared through his teeth that whether this tramp had eight hundred swords or eighty thousand, he certainly wanted to have a word with this fellow. The bewildered Híarrhidi began to warn them; the hobbit explained the matter to him in two words. The helmsman's assistant shrugged his shoulders in surprise.
- Where could they have gotten this thing, venerable Thorin? We don't go deep into foreign lands, and it's unlikely that your friend, as you say, could have ended up on the coast. And isn't it possible that this coin changed many owners before it fell into the hands of the last owner?
- Then I want to know from whom he received it! - Thorin said stubbornly.
Without losing sight of the seafarer the hobbit remembered, they hurried after the warriors of Skiludr, who were walking in a tight crowd. Suddenly, about two dozen of them turned into an inconspicuous beer cellar, and the friends followed them.
Downstairs it was crowded, noisy, and smoky. Suspiciously-blissful servants scurried between the huge tables, carrying trays of foaming mugs, and on the benches a boisterous sea host sang songs, played dice, quarreled, and traded. Skiludr's men were greeted with a friendly roar - many hugged, obviously old acquaintances were meeting here. Unlike the other people, the newcomers were quieter and more dignified.
The hobbit, the dwarves, and Híarrhidi settled in a corner. The helmsman's assistant did not stop grumbling at them and answered Folco's question with obvious reluctance, where the man who had praised his cooking was from.
- It's even further south of our southern borders, there is such a people there, the most desperate of them often come to us...
- I'm going, - Thorin lunged, but Folco stopped him.
- I'd better ask him, - he laid his palm on his friend's sleeve.
Making his way between the rows, the hobbit gently touched the man's shoulder. The latter turned around immediately, the momentary wariness giving way to a bewildered smile. Folco bowed politely, saying that he had a few words to say to the venerable...
- By the Great Water, - he interrupted him with a laugh, - isn't this the same little fellow who treated us so well in the northern capital! What wind brought you here? Did you change your master?
- That's not so, venerable, I don't know your name, - Folco continued politely. - But if you'll allow me, I'd like to ask...
- Where did you get this?! - Thorin, who had crept up to them unnoticed, suddenly roared over the hobbit's ear and, of course, spoiled the whole thing. The smile disappeared, the stranger did not even glance at the dwarf's outstretched palm with the ill-fated coin.
- And who are you to give me an account? - He measured the dwarf with his gaze.
- Whoever I am, - Thorin growled, shaking off the hobbit who was trying to pull him away, - but I want to know and, I swear by Durin's beard, I will find out where you got what I myself gave to my friend at parting! And if your answer does not satisfy me, I swear, I will settle accounts with you for Terwin!
The Eldring listened to the dwarf's impassioned speech with a smirk, smiled wryly, then slowly, quietly and distinctly threw such words in his face that Folco was stunned, and Thorin turned so purple that it was as if a fire had been lit inside him. The next moment, the dwarf's axe hissed through the air in front of the offender's nose. Around them, they roared, whistled and hooted.
- A fine pair, by the Sea-Father!
- Hey, give them room! Room!
Fans of such spectacles hastily dragged away the tables, clearing a space. No one tried to separate the disputants, not even the owner. With a last hope, Folco glanced at Híarrhidi, but he had disappeared somewhere.
The opponents were closing in. Both were without chain mail and helmets, a long straight sword gleamed dimly in the Eldring's hands. Thorin walked forward with his axe at the ready. From somewhere in the back rows, the Kid burst out with his blades drawn, but he was immediately pounced upon, and someone very reasonably said to the Little Dwarf, who was breathless with rage:
- The fight is fair and with equal weapons. Don't you know the rules? Challenge someone yourself or you can continue the fight later, if something is wrong with your friend.
- What is this? - a low and stern voice suddenly thundered from a door invisible to the hobbit. - Gront!
Pushing aside the people who were hastily making way with respectful bows, Skiludr himself was rapidly walking towards the quarreling men - in a simple leather jacket, with a long sword at his belt. Híarrhidi's tense face could be seen over his shoulder.
Thorin's opponent immediately lowered his blade.
- What happened? - Skiludr asked abruptly, casting an icy gaze over the scene of the incident.
Gront bowed, spreading his hands guiltily.
- Nothing special, my thane, - he said. -
This venerable dwarf wanted to test the strength of my sword.
- Henceforth, know that the steel of the dwarves is better, - Skiludr threw coldly. - Tell me! - he ordered, turning to Thorin.
He snorted resentfully, but controlled himself and began to speak. When he finished, nothing could be read on the face of the leader of the Eldrings.
- I understand you, - he said, addressing the dwarf. - But I must say at once - you are looking in the wrong place. I swear by the Eternal Sea, my men did not kill your friend: Gront received this thing for bravery, and where and from whom is another matter. We do not name to the first person we meet the names of those who do the same business with us. You will have to be satisfied with this answer or - well! - try your luck. But those sitting here know, - the Eldring waved his hand around the hall, - in his life Skiludr has not said a single false word. Not even to his enemies.
He turned and silently walked towards the doors, past the people who immediately made way for him. Gront moved to follow him, but then stopped and beckoned to the hobbit.
- I am truly innocent, - he said quietly in Folco's ear. - Your friend is too hot-headed, and it would be good to shorten him a little, but, so be it, in memory of our good meeting, tell him that this thing was given to me by one... from the East, with whom we went together... it doesn't matter where or why. Well, are we going to fight? - he asked loudly, addressing Thorin. - I didn't kill your friend, I swear! You can't check me anyway, so decide - do you believe me or not.
He turned away and calmly began to talk to one of his companions. Thorin spat angrily and came closer.
- But tell me at least, I beg you, - these words came to the dwarf with an effort, - from whom did you receive it? If such a thing happened to you, would you not try to avenge your friend?
- I have already told your companion everything I could, - Gront answered imperturbably. - I can repeat - he is a great leader... from the East. But even that means nothing - he could have received your coin from someone else's hands...
With these words, he turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Híarrhidi approached the frozen dwarf and hobbit.
- Well, you've thought of something! - he shook his head reproachfully. - It's a good thing the thane Skiludr himself happened to be nearby, I had to bow to him, or they would have cut you both to pieces - it's a common thing with us.
It was time to part. The friends gathered their considerably thinned bags, loaded them onto the backs of the new ponies they had bought here and, having paid and said goodbye to Farnak, moved along the main street of the city, which gradually turned into a well-trodden road. The houses ended, but the piers still stretched along the riverbank. Fighting the current, one of the long "dragons" was moving upstream. Looking closely, the hobbit recognized Skiludr's ship in it - only its sails were decorated with the image of a seagull, and a song was heard from the ship:
Under the evening star
In the quiet splash of the sails
We argue with a foolish fate
At distant shores!
Sailors, fighters, vagabonds,
Steel of swords, chain mail, shields,
Black and fiery banners -
At the rich shores!
Under the evening star
Along the silver path
We sail towards the battle
In the smoke of a bloody fire.
The overturned sky
Beckons with the proximity of a star,
Scattering crumbs of bread
In the depths of the gloomy water.
Under the evening star
Amidst the radiance of the waters
It teases us at night
The reflected firmament...
The road took a sharp turn to the right, bypassing the riverside hills, and the song died away.
Chapter Nine. ANGMAR'S WIND
Deciding not to tempt fate, the friends joined a large merchant caravan heading for Annúminas. Summer had passed; it was September, and the aspens had already turned red, the birches trembled in the wind with their branches beginning to bare: fallen leaves swirled over the Road. On the fifth day, the caravan reached Sari Ford without any adventures, where an ancient road began, leading to the Tower Hills, which were beyond the western borders of Hobbiton, for Folco this was the road home.
He stood on the side of the high road, having left the dwarves to make up for the travel shortages of beer in the nearest tavern, and looked to the northwest, to where the road disappeared into the gray distances, as if merging with the horizon, which was covered with low, solid clouds. A wind was blowing from the north, and the hobbit shivered with cold, wrapping himself in his well-worn traveling cloak. Only here, being a few days' journey from home, did he suddenly realize how tired he was of all these endless and, in general, fruitless wanderings. It was dreary and uncomfortable at the empty crossroads, a foreign land lay around - what was he to do here? Folco no longer wanted to go anywhere, neither to Annúminas, nor especially to Angmar - it was time to return to his homeland. There they were already hauling turnips and swedes, carrots and cabbage into the barns, selecting the very best for the October fair; Uncle Paladin was tirelessly scurrying back and forth across the courtyard, from time to time starting to scold the lazy young hobbits, and a fire was already being laid under the large beer cauldron, and choice barley was already prepared, and the cupboards with festive dishes were being unlocked, and in the kitchen a good two dozen pots were bubbling and puffing, and his aunt was commanding her restless daughters-in-law; and on the hillside above the river his comrades had gathered - Rorimac and Berilac, Saradoc and Gorbulas, Mnohorad and Otto, Fredegar and Toddo - to amuse themselves by shooting arrows, colorful shields with targets were set up, and Fredegar was already rolling out a pot-bellied beer jug; and dances were planned for the evening, the dust was being wiped from the pipes and drums - in the summer, during the harvest, there was no time for them... Oh, how I want to go home! And then, out of nowhere, a sucking pain in his heart made him decide immediately: let the dwarves think whatever they want of him - he must visit Buckland before - perhaps! - he sets off on new wanderings. He must sleep under his own roof, show himself to his family and friends... See Milisenta... What about her, how is she, and most importantly - who is she with? Maybe she's been married for a long time...
The hobbit turned and walked away from the river, away from the bridge, back along the log pavements to one of the inns where they had stopped. He passed the market square, full of a noisy, busily selling and buying crowd, here were the right gates, here were his friends sipping beer, and a mug was foaming in his hand, and... how to tell them that their paths were diverging? Folco did not dare and postponed the conversation until the morning.
The rest of the day passed in blissful idleness. Towards evening, a fine rain began to fall from the gray clouds that had been covering the sky all day. Folco sat by the fireplace, and for some unknown reason his heart grew heavier and heavier. Something told him that he would not see his dear Buckland for a long time; in the dancing tongues of fire, he suddenly seemed to see the burning walls of some city, and a cold snake of a heavy premonition of disaster crept into his soul. The dwarves were snoring peacefully, but the hobbit sat and sat, adding wood to the fire, as if afraid of being in the dark. The wind howled ominously somewhere in the attic; as if someone's dry hand was scratching at the window, a branch of an apple tree growing in the yard. Something creaked and turned in the corners, a loosely closed shutter slammed - in all the usual sounds of a large house, the hobbit imagined the approach of some malicious, hating all living things, force; he hastily burrowed his head under the blanket, and this unexpectedly helped, he immediately fell into oblivion.
...Was it a dream or reality? From the gray haze, a tall, thin figure of a man with a huge owl on his shoulder suddenly emerged. The hobbit recognized Radagast.
- I finally found you, - the former wizard said quickly and anxiously. - My powers are not the same, there is little time. Listen! Trouble has come, from where I expected it. Angmar has risen! Hurry, I need you in the north. I'll be waiting for you in Bree. Hurry...
Waves of wavering gray mist swallowed the figure of Radagast, and the hobbit, drenched in a cold sweat, jumped up on his hard bed, staring bewilderedly into the darkness. What was that? A strange dream or really a warning? His heart was pounding wildly, his lungs were short of air... Was Thorin right? Was it war? Only now did Folco feel with his skin the icy breath of the terrible word. War! What will happen to his Buckland? To Hobbiton? We must warn them, send a message!
The hobbit desperately shook the peacefully sleeping Thorin. From sleep, the dwarf did not immediately understand what his friend wanted from him, and when he did, he sat up, his mouth wide open.
- He called me to Bree... But what about my countrymen? - The hobbit bit his lip until it bled.
- Wait, - Thorin threw gloomily, furiously scratching his beard. - Are you sure you didn't dream all this? - Folco spread his hands helplessly. - Oh, these dreams of yours, Durin help me! Well, what can you do? - He went to the window. - The night seems to be clear, the road is visible... Come on, wake up the Kid, and I'll take care of our ponies...
It was not easy to wake up the Little Dwarf, and in the end he, half-asleep, was pushed out into the cold night wind. The full moon gave enough light; along the deserted, ghostly road, the three friends hurried towards the distant black horizon, where the sky merged with the equally black earth.
Morning, cold, sunless, they met a good eight leagues northeast of Sarn Ford. In the daytime, these places turned out to be much cozier and more inhabited. Resting after the night race, the friends were sipping beer in a roadside tavern; the last roosters were crowing, a herd had just passed, a sleepy innkeeper brought them full mugs. This establishment stood on the far edge of the village, so they were the first to hear the furious clatter of hooves of a horseman racing along the road leading from Bree.
Folco's heart skipped a beat. Who could be driving a horse so mercilessly at such an early hour?
The answer came quickly. At the fence, a tired man, barely staying on his feet, reined in a lathered stallion. His white and blue cloak was spattered with mud, his hair, matted with sweat, stuck out from under his battered cap.
- Hey, is anyone here? - the horseman's hoarse voice was heard, and the owner rushed out to meet him. - Wake the people! - the newcomer threw imperiously. - And hurry up, hurry up! I can't wait, I need to be in Sarn Ford by evening.
- What, what is it? - the owner stammered, looking at the warrior respectfully and with fear from below.
- What?! - he roared, noisily gulping down the beer brought by the innkeeper. - And the fact that all the villagers are ordered to hide in the forests with all their property and not to return until they are told! Is that clear?! Give me more beer...
- But why, from whom should we hide? - the innkeeper trembled.
- From whom - you don't need to know that, - the warrior threw gloomily. - The army is on the march, you will be without protection for a while... You never know... That's all! - he threw sharply, not letting the innkeeper ask anything else. - I've already said everything I should, now I'll repeat the same to the people... Well, wake everyone up quickly!
He turned and, walking heavily, entered the tavern, almost falling onto a bench. Stumbling like a blind man, the owner ran to the nearest house and desperately knocked on the gate. A dog barked, then indistinct voices were heard... Meanwhile, Thorin gently touched the messenger on the shoulder.
- Forgive me, venerable one, while the others are not here, tell us what's the matter? If you can't speak, then at least nod. War? - And Thorin froze for a moment, having difficulty pronouncing this word. - War with Angmar?
The warrior shuddered and stared at the dwarf in surprise, and everything went black before Folco's eyes. With a heavy sigh, the warrior bowed his head, and Thorin continued:
- We have long heard alarming news, and it was not difficult to guess... But all three of us also want to fight against the enemies of Arnor. Where should we go? Where is the militia gathering? And also - are the dwarves not coming with you?
- Well, you have some questions, venerable one. - The messenger frowned and looked at him suspiciously. - I don't know anything like that!
A hum of many alarmed voices came from the street, the warrior got up and went out, once again casting a distrustful and wary glance at Thorin.
- Quickly, quickly to Bree, - was all Folco could say.
Sparing neither themselves nor their ponies, they found themselves in Bree three days later. The hobbit would forever remember the deserted villages - people fled wherever they could, knowing nothing and understanding nothing, taking everything they could. The friends spent the night in abandoned inns, by evening the hobbit could barely stand on his feet from fatigue, and he no longer dreamed of anything.
- I don't understand, - Thorin gritted his teeth at one point, seeing several carts with household goods disappear into a nearby forest. - Why such an order - everyone hide? Why not a general assembly?
His question remained unanswered - only once they were overtaken by a large detachment of Arnorian horsemen hurrying north; leaning from his saddle, the commander shouted to them to hide as soon as possible: Thorin tried to find out what was happening, but the horseman just waved his hand and spurred his horse...
Bree met them with empty houses; on the outskirts, two latecomers were hastily loading their carts, Folco involuntarily overheard their conversation:
- What is happening, neighbor! What have we come to! Where should we hide now, eh? And the mill... I took off the millstones, but where to put them? Bury them, maybe? Or they'll steal them, you never know...
- Bury them! A good idea. Look at my wife, as stupid as she is, but even she understood - she buried all the oven forks, the cast-iron pots herself...
- Hey, venerable one! What's going on here? - Thorin called out to them.
However, the Bree-landers showed a clear reluctance to enter into conversation with him. At the first glance at the dwarf's shining armor, at his long axe with a silver-plated handle, they both took to their heels, forgetting even about their carts. In vain the friends shouted after them - they did not even turn around.
The large settlement seemed to have died out; only two dozen Arnorian armored warriors remained in it. They questioned the friends for a long time and meticulously, who they were and where they were from; finally, satisfied and having scribbled something on their travel document, the guards let them pass the outpost.
The friends hastily spurred their ponies down the Main Street.
- Well, where is this yours... - Thorin began and broke off, because it turned out that not all the inhabitants had scattered and hidden. Near the famous "Prancing Pony", several men and hobbits from the local area were hastily erecting a barricade of logs and sacks near the doors. Among them flashed the familiar face of Barliman, but there was no time to talk to him - a lanky figure with a long black staff in his hand came out into the middle of the road, and they immediately recognized him.
- Quickly! - Radagast threw, entering the shop and locking the door tightly behind them.
The Kid quietly huddled in a corner, even Thorin seemed to shy away; it seemed that one of the great wizards of the past was standing before them - Radagast's shoulders straightened, a mysterious power flickered in the depths of his single eye, and his hands no longer seemed dry and senile - the traces of wrinkles on them rather resembled the honest battle scars of a young, but already experienced warrior.
- Listen! - Radagast's eye seemed to pierce them through. - The war has begun. Four days ago, a messenger from Fornost galloped here. Angmar has moved with large forces to the borders of the Kingdom; in their hearts is a thirst for gold and blood, they are going to rob - and therefore, I think, they will not go far into the country, hardly further than Fornost. But their leader... There is some vague blackness in him, gold and power are not enough for him, he is led, besides this, by some other force, which I could not understand. I do not know who he is, but it is necessary to find out, at any cost! And I am counting on you.
- But how can we do that? - Folco stammered.
- You need to join the army of the dwarves that is going to help the Steward, - said Radagast. - They are moving through Annúminas to Archedain. A gathering is appointed there. The Steward, obviously, believes that the Angmarites will hit their heads against the walls of Fornost, and then he will arrive. I don't know, I don't know... They are moving quickly.
- How did they get so far ahead then? - Thorin asked hoarsely. - The messenger reached almost to Sarn Ford!
- A mounted relay from the very borders of Angmar, - answered Radagast. - The Steward has not been idle this summer. He has drawn a lot of horsemen to the Capital, sent out distant patrols... And besides, although the Angmarites are not dawdling, they also have infantry, and it is delaying them. And the infantry, - he smiled wryly, - is probably half made up of our own Arnorian robbers! Hraudun did not try in vain...
- Hraudun? - Folco and Thorin were amazed.
- And what did you think? Did he wander around the Kingdom for nothing and set villages against each other? I chased him myself, otherwise he would have made such a mess here! He is cunning and unusually agile. And, most importantly, it is not clear who he is and where he came from! My suspicions remained just suspicions. But enough of that. You need to hurry. The hird left seven days ago and should be there by now. Don't delay! And in battle - you have armor, I see, mithril! - try to find out the name of the leader. It would be good to see his face. Look and remember! Then we will meet, and you will tell me.
- It will be difficult to find out who commands the enemy, - Thorin said slowly. - You can't see much from the hird... And who knows how fate will turn? What if we are defeated? It is difficult, of course, to imagine that the hird would be defeated, but still?
A shadow passed over Radagast's face.
- How can you predict the vicissitudes of war? - he sighed. - But in this case, we will decide so. If we fail, do not think about me and act as your conscience dictates. Angmar cannot cope with Arnor now - the northerners' strength is not the same. Carn Dûm is far from its former power! They can win one skirmish, but not a war. The Steward has gathered considerable forces, and he has as many in reserve. No, now is not their time. I do not know if it will ever come, but we must do everything so that it never comes!
Folco nodded, fighting a shameful tremor in his hands.
- The matter is far from easy, - Radagast continued gloomily. - I'm afraid we don't have time for Moria now...
- But we saw and learned so much there... - Folco began.
- Your ground adventures are, in general, known to me, - said the former wizard. - Speak, but only what struck you most, as well as those details that the servants could not tell me...
Despite Radagast's words, Folco spoke for a long time, the wizard often interrupted him. He was especially interested in Olmer and the magic dagger the gold-seeker had given the hobbit. A strange expression appeared in the wizard's eyes when he took the black scabbard in his hands; as if something from the days of his unimaginably distant youth had found its way into this world by unknown paths, reminding him of long past times and events unknown to anyone; and then he himself began to speak...
- A long, long time ago, when the world was young, and the primordial forces had not yet left Middle-earth, when Tom Bombadil himself was just building his house in the heart of the present-day Protected Land, and Olorin and Aiwendil were wandering together on the gray waters of Hanlar, when the Star-Haven was just being created - then far to the west, in the beautiful Beleriand, now swallowed by water, lived the First Servant of the Eternal Flame of Anor, whose name cannot be named here. He was his own man and served no one but the eternal sunlight. He could do almost anything, but, having fulfilled his duty, he did not want to leave Middle-earth with the Servants of Water, Air, Stone, Fire and others. His knowledge was limitless; the great elven kings of the First Age - Thingol Greycloak, Turgon of Gondolin were his students. And one day Aiwendil and Olorin came to him, - the wizard did not say for what, - and among many other comers (who? - it flashed through the hobbit's mind) they met. Berdrad the Blue, who lived far in the east of Middle-earth, the star and light of the awakening Mortals, of whom here, in the West, in those days no one had yet heard. For some of his purposes, Berdrad, who commanded, among many other things, the mountain veins, created many amazing gems endowed with outlandish properties and powers. The fate of these stones is a special and long story, but among them were also the cross-stones, or in Elvish - telruddar, the Bound Star. The Blue hid in them his secret spells that helped to overcome the black magic of the servants of the Lord of Darkness. The Blue, as I learned from the First Servant, had students - from the first elves of the eastern lands, not even those from whom the Elves of Lothlórien and Mirkwood traced their lineage, but another of their tribes, the Avari, the Unwilling, those who remained in the original homeland of the elves far in the east of Middle-earth. The Blue's students also made "strong stones," as they called them. Then some of them, by unknown paths, fell into the hands of another amazing tribe of the Black Dwarves, not the descendants of Durin, who had long since disappeared into the darkness. The weapons they made were valued... [truncated]
During the rest of the story, the wizard only occasionally nodded sadly.
- Hazgi... I see. They are from the east, from beyond the Sea of Rhûn. Once they troubled the Lake-town Kingdom with their raids, but they were repulsed. Someone led them out of the steppes!.. And now they are in league with Angmar. As is Dunland, mind you! Some secret leader is now gathering all who have old scores to settle with the West, and surely in that army that is coming against us, there will be both jaw-cutters and Dunlendings. I bet there will be wolf-riders too, but whether the Sea-folk will interfere, I don't know. They are cunning and cautious and won't just jump into a fight. - The wizard paused. - All right, I'll write to Círdan about them. But I'll have to go to Orthanc myself - as soon as we deal with the invaders. Oh, Saruman, Saruman! So that was his farewell gift! He made the Tower speak! King Elessar didn't forbid people from entering it for nothing... And about Boromir's son - a very interesting story. It doesn't sound like the Great King, not at all! Evil tongues and evil hearts, they are looking for a pretext for turmoil... We will send news to the King and try to convince him. And now it's time! - The wizard stood up. - Hurry! The Steward's troops have already left Archedain - the dwarves have just joined them, an hour ago. Don't spare the horses! After the victory, come back here, but if fate is against us - I will find you myself. Farewell, little one, take care of yourself!
No matter how much the friends hurried, they still turned into Barliman's to have one last mug of beer. The innkeeper greeted them warmly, as if there was no war at all.
- Why don't you hide, venerable one? - Thorin inquired, wiping his beard. - Look, all of Bree is already empty... You never know...
- Yeah, so I'll just abandon my business, - Barliman grunted. - An inn, you know, is needed by everyone - whether it's Arnor or Angmar. And if someone tries to rob us, we'll have something to answer with.
The friends exchanged surprised glances and said nothing.
And again, the familiar Road stretched under their hooves, the one they had walked a year ago. But now the road seemed to have died out - even the watchtowers stood forlorn and abandoned. No people, no horses, no smoke over the villages, no barking of dogs, no crowing of roosters. Everything around was empty and dead, and a cold, piercing north-east wind, the unkind wind of Angmar, blew in their faces.
They met the army the next day, stumbling upon the advance guards. The white and blue cavalry of the head detachment was moving at a brisk but horse-saving pace across the crossroads - Folco could not help but admire this strong, tightly packed formation of tall warriors with long spears, on which small flags of the same two colors of Arnor fluttered. Three horsemen separated from their own and headed towards the frozen friends. Thorin hastily reached into his bosom, where his travel document lay.
- Well, venerable ones, your desire to stand with us is commendable, - the centurion, who commanded the detachment, said, casting a heavy glance over them after carefully reading the parchment. - Your kinsmen, son of Dart, will be here soon. I will leave two of my men with you...
A strange wait began. The dwarves lit a small fire on the side of the road; Folco, as if enchanted, watched the dozens passing by them. There were many of them, many more than the hobbit had supposed; the Steward had sent at least a thousand ahead. A gloomy indifference possessed the hobbit, there was neither fear nor excitement;
looking at the passing warriors, who kept a stern silence, he was surprised at his own calmness - he had a job to do, and it had to be done; there was no time for fears and whining.
They had to sit on the roadside stones for almost the whole day. After the advance detachments, the main forces moved - hundred after hundred, the mounted armored warriors disappeared into the damp haze that had enveloped the Fornost road; the Steward was really not wasting time.
And then the tedious silence over the old track was broken by a reckless song, it was sung by many dozens of desperately cheerful voices, and the hobbit's comrades jumped to their feet at once; from around the bend appeared the ranks of the militia of the Lunar Mountains, walking at a surprisingly wide pace.
The dwarves' faces surprised the hobbit with their cheerful smiles, which, it seemed, had no reason to be there on this day and on this path; but Thorin's kinsmen walked in a cheerful crowd, as they pleased; their green, brown, gray cloaks and jackets dazzled the eyes, under which, however, prudently worn armor could be guessed. The dwarves cheerfully yelled, laughed, as if they were going for a walk, their intentions were not revealed by anything.
Seeing Thorin, the Kid and the hobbit, the dwarves greeted them with deafening cries; however, no one stopped or turned aside, and only one already elderly, gray-bearded dwarf in a belt richly decorated with gems separated from the crowd. For a moment, Thorin peered into the calm and comely face of the approaching man, as if hesitating, but then he bowed; it was clear that he had known him for a long time and these memories were not too pleasant for Thorin.
- I greet the desperate Thorin, son of Dart, - the old dwarf nodded in response. - And I was thinking, where could the main troublemaker of Haldor-Kais have disappeared to at such a time? And here he is, it turns out! - The speaker grinned. - Well, why waste time talking, join us, if you haven't forgotten your place in the hird yet? Ah, and Strori is here! Well, you'll have to, no offense, stay behind - you'll guard the hobbit.
The Kid jerked to say something, but the old dwarf's eyes suddenly flashed with such a fire for a moment that the Little Dwarf bit his tongue. The elder of Haldor-Kais turned and disappeared behind the backs of those walking past, and the friends silently joined them.
It was fun to walk with the dwarves; their boisterous songs did not for a moment leave the hobbit alone with his dark thoughts. Meanwhile, a damp autumn evening crept up, and the army stopped for the night. The scraping of numerous shovels was heard all around - by order of the Steward, fires could only be lit in pits.
But then the cooks blew up the fire, brought out the cauldrons with hot campaign stew; then the camp fell silent, thousands of men and dwarves seemed to dissolve in the shedding forest; the voices died down, only the wind whistled in the bared flexible branches. The clouds had not dispersed; their veil swallowed even the moonlight. In the ensuing darkness, only the sentries, not letting go of their weapons, tirelessly walked around the sleeping fighters.
A dull emptiness, which had swallowed the hobbit who had forgotten himself in a heavy sleep, suddenly released him from its embrace; he jumped up on his bed of dry leaves, not yet understanding what had happened - but he did not have to guess for long. Over the hills and fields, the copses and roofs, a familiar mournful call, the cry of the revived Barrow-downs, rolled, shimmering and filling with new strength. It had changed, changed noticeably; a new power filled it, and many hearts trembled, losing their usual courage; the camp jumped to its feet in an instant.
It was a starless and moonless night; the cooling embers glowed dimly in the pits, the cold Angmar wind from Carn Dûm chilled the cheeks, and the call of inhumanly malicious forces, swaying, drove away the cowardly silence. Frightened shouts, the clang of drawn weapons were his answer; but this howl, it seemed, did not care about that; now it was filled with triumph, expressed in terrible and secret words, incomprehensible to a Mortal; that it was a triumph, no one doubted. And then dozens of voices suddenly began to shout out new alarming news; hundreds of hands pointed to the east, thousands of eyes turned to the dark horizon.
Along the blue-black edge of the earth, above the eastern hills, a pale but clearly visible glow was slowly rising, coloring the lower layers of the clouds in deathly yellow tones, under which a crimson core was visible.
- Fornost! - someone shouted, and immediately hundreds of mouths were torn by a single cry, uttered, it seemed, from one gigantic chest. - Fornost!
In the blink of an eye, hell reigned. Sonorous commands were heard, and the army hastily grabbed the packs laid out for the night, the unharnessed horses and the carts left in a circle. No more than an hour passed, and everyone, down to the last wagoner, was already walking again along the road, barely lit by rare torches, listening to the gradually dying away in the distance chilling howl.
Where had all the dwarves' fun gone; in full armor they walked now, and, besides the noise of their steps, the nocturnal silence was broken only by the clinking of steel.
The glow on the horizon rose higher and higher, and then a message, passed from mouth to mouth, flew through the army - a messenger had galloped from Fornost. The city had fallen, and the enemy - Angmarites, robbers, Dunlendings and others, unknown - was moving at a brisk pace deep into Arnor, straight towards them.
Shaking in the saddle, the hobbit racked his brains incessantly on how to carry out Radagast's order and at the same time not get under a sword, arrow or spear.
"But the Steward probably wants to know the same thing," a thought flashed. "Maybe I should look for Rogvold, if he's here. Or ask the dwarves to properly interrogate the prisoners, if there are any? Or climb a tall tree and try to see something myself?" - He sighed. - "You can't really rely on luck!"
However, it seemed he had no other choice; the sky, meanwhile, began to turn gray, and the forest walls, which had been squeezing the road for the last three leagues, parted, and the detachments of Arnor found themselves on the edge of a vast plain that stretched far to the east. About a league from them, a river flowed from north to south; to the left, right by the road, a small grove rustled with golden foliage; the road rushed straight across the plain, leaving a small hill on the left, and further to the river, where in the first morning rays Folco saw a rather wide log bridge. The riverside meadows were hidden by thick fogs, and further, behind them, the greenish-blue sky was stained with slowly rising blurred pillars of black smoke.
- Halt! - it swept through the ranks. - Halt!
So this day began - with a long, agonizing wait. Folco did not know why they had stopped right here, did not know what they would do next - he thoughtlessly obeyed the order and, feeling that the battle was near, closed his eyes, trying to remember something bright and pleasant from his past life. However, for some reason, completely different pictures came to his mind - a Barrow-wight rising on a barrow, the whistle of arrows in the village near the Wolf's Stone and a wave of darkness crashing down on the frozen Hornbori...
Why are they standing? What if the enemy discovers them first? Folco could not find a place for himself; and, with a bitter smile, he said to himself that he was far from the heroes of the Red Book - they knew everything, being next to such giants as Gandalf and the Great King, and what does he, an unknown warrior of Arnor (he really wanted to be considered as such), know, what can he understand in what is happening?
His reflections were interrupted by the sharp words of a command. The Arnorian cavalry was forming a long wall, blocking the road and covering the left wing with a roadside grove. Only now did Folco catch a glimpse of the Steward. He was in a simple white and blue cloak, no different from the cloaks of the other horsemen, under a banner with the coat of arms of the United Kingdom; he was surrounded by old advisers, the hobbit recognized Skilbad. The Steward himself rode with his head bowed, listening to what a young horseman who had just galloped up from somewhere in the mists was saying to him. At that time, the dwarves began to stir around Folco, and he lost sight of the Steward.
- Well, brothers, - Thorin got up, adjusting his chain mail for the last time. - It's time for me, the hird is already forming... Kid! Keep an eye on Folco, and don't you dare leave the train!
Not listening to the curses of the enraged Little Dwarf, Thorin turned, and a moment later he could no longer be seen among the hundreds of similar backs, covered with sparkling steel.
Still cursing, the Kid grabbed Folco by the hand and dragged him somewhere back, to the grove, behind which the carts of the army train were drawn up in a circle. Looking back, the hobbit saw the dwarves forming a second line behind the backs of the Arnorian cavalry; from the side, their detachment resembled a dropped ingot of silver.
- So I'm going to guard his bags! - the Kid continued to be indignant. - Here's what, let's go into this copse and sit there. At least we'll see how things go!
They made their way to the edge of the grove. To their right stood the mounted formation of the Arnorians, to the left, in the bushes, their foot secret was ambushed, a field stretched out directly in front of them. The sun had already risen, but the whole sky was covered with clouds;
the evil Angmar wind blew unabated.
They did not have to wait long. From the mists on the other side of the river, the first dark figures suddenly appeared, and the hobbit involuntarily squeezed the Kid's hand. There were more and more of them, and soon Folco saw a large detachment of horsemen, riding at a trot to the left of the road; infantry was hurrying along the road itself, long spears and round shields flashed; another detachment was moving further to the right, foot soldiers and horsemen mixed, tall carts flashed among the ranks.
The troops of Arnor did not stir, it seemed they did not even see the enemy that had appeared; the enemy, it seems, was also not surprised by this meeting. The horsemen moved straight into the river; there were fords there, and all three columns, without wasting time, began to cross to the other side. Folco could distinguish some black and white, yellow and crimson banners, but it was still too far to see what was depicted on them.
And now all the enemy cavalry was on this side; spreading out, the Angmarites took even more to the left of the road, aiming straight for the grove where Folco and the Kid were hiding; their infantry was also deploying across the field; a detachment with carts moved towards the roadside hill. The cavalry of Angmar turned out to be numerous, no less than the Arnorian; and this was not yet all the enemy's forces. His black horsemen were approaching, now the emblem on their banner was clearly visible - a black three-pronged crown in a white circle. However, their impulse, with which they had started, was clearly waning - either they were surprised by the sight of the motionless ranks of the Arnorian guard, or their unknown leader had some plan of his own. His infantry was advancing, with short spears leveled; now in its ranks one could distinguish fighters of different tribes. The hobbit recognized the trough-like shields of the Dunlendings, the motley gangs of robbers, huddling together, he saw the green cloaks of the Angmar swordsmen - they stood in the center, and between them and the hill walked a completely strange detachment, who had somehow ended up in the same formation with the men - with short swords drawn, without banners or badges, walked the orcs, the very Uruk-hai, with whom the dwarves had had to meet in Moria. In total, the enemy had about four thousand infantry, as the Kid estimated by eye, and about six thousand cavalry.
- In our hird there are exactly three thousand eight hundred and ninety-two, - he whispered, involuntarily lowering his voice, to the hobbit. - And the Steward has fifty hundred cavalry, I heard it myself. It will be a hot business...
Folco wanted to ask why there was such an uneven number of fighters in the hird, when the Arnorian guard finally made it clear to the enemy that they were not going to wait any longer. The horns began to sing, and the white and blue mass poured to the right, like a sea wave; and high, high above the front ranks, the banner of the United Kingdom suddenly flew up.
If the enemy was surprised by the presence of a detachment of the Lunar Mountains here, he did not show it in any way. Encouraging themselves with dashing cries, the black horsemen of the right wing spurred their horses; the infantry froze, bristling with spears; and at that moment it seemed to the hobbit that all was lost, that they would never cope with the opposing force - so impressive did the sight of the enemy troops that had blocked the entire field suddenly seem to him.
And then the dwarves moved. The tree on which Folco and the Kid had climbed trembled perceptibly; and now the hobbit could not tear his eyes from the measuredly moving, sparkling formation. The dwarves of the first ranks carried huge shields, shod with iron; only the tops of their helmets were visible above the shields. Somewhere in the middle of the rectangular formation, a free space could be guessed, but why it was there - Folco could not understand. There was something fascinating in this unified, continuous movement; the hird seemed to be a single, intelligent being.
And the Arnorian cavalry went further and further to the right, covering its flank with a formation of dwarves, and the black spearmen were at first taken aback; but then some of them, whipping their horses, rushed straight across the field, paying no attention to the hird, to intercept the white and blue formation. The horns called again, and it seemed to the hobbit as if the sharp point of a blade had emerged from the folds of the cloak that had hitherto concealed it - a sharp and dense wedge of guardsmen, instantly closing ranks knee to knee, threw their horses, which had been trotting calmly until then, to meet them.
- Wait to judge them, - Folco frowned. - We are not given that, we know too little.
- Then why don't they let us know more! - Farnak suddenly cried out furiously, shaking his fists. - Why did they start deciding what we are allowed to see and what not?! Why did they close the west to us?! We, the Sea-Folk, - he waved his trembling hand at the rowers who had turned to them, - we want to sail to all four corners of the world, as long as the wind fills the sails and our hands hold the rudder! In the north, we reached the border of the eternal ice, to the blue teeth of the Giant, where the drops of water flowing from the oars turn into icicles in the air, and people fall down dead as soon as they breathe in, and where the skin turns black and peels off the hands. In the south, our "dragons" reached a place where the shore turns to the east and goes into unknowable spaces. We have been on every river in Middle-earth, both the Northern and Southern Worlds - and only the west is closed to us!
Farnak's eyes blazed. The stunned Folco did not know what to say.
- I asked you if there were people in the past who tried to cross the Sea, - the helmsman continued. - And you told me more than I have ever heard about it in my whole life, but all this only confirmed what we know and so - the masters of the Undying Lands have fenced themselves off from us, continuing, however, to prescribe their laws to us! Who can deprive a man of his freedom?!
The helmsman's voice seemed to have acquired the power of thunder, the crew stood up, Folco saw their blazing eyes, clenched fists, every word of the helmsman was met with a resounding roar.
- But why did you say that the elves are being careful? - the hobbit tried to object weakly. - You don't know why they act like that?
- Why did I say it? - Farnak smiled wryly. - Because they are being careful, and we know it better than anyone! Do you know what will happen if, - he grabbed the hobbit by the shoulders and turned him to face the west, - if I turn the rudder to the starboard? We will sail for a day, a second, a third, a month, two, around will be one water, nothing but water and sun and stars - and then time will stop, and we will see the Line.
As if a sudden gust of cold wind extinguishes a carelessly left candle - so the crew immediately fell silent and frowned, and Farnak himself, contemptuously curling his lips, lowered his head.
- The Line? - Folco said in a hoarse voice. - What is it? I've never heard of it!
- Not surprising, - Farnak threw. - Only we and those who drew it know about it. Our ships cannot go further - they are turned back... From the side it looks like... - He frowned from the effort to express in words what he had seen. - Once we saw an elven ship pass through it - it lets them through, but not us... All right! - he suddenly broke off. - Hey, you lazybones, don't you see we're losing the wind?! Híarrhidi! Where are you looking! - Farnak yelled, turning away from the hobbit.
The men hastily rushed to their places. After this conversation, Farnak was imbued with if not respect, then at least interest in the hobbit, and they often talked. The helmsman told a lot and willingly, as if in a hurry to share his troubles with a rare, as he himself admitted, interlocutor. He spoke of campaigns to the south and to the north. To the south - for valuable wood, golden sand and outlandish fruits, which go to the table of the Gondorian rich, to the north - for the bone of a sea beast and strong, waterproof hides, from which in Arnor they sew clothes for armored warriors. Before the listening hobbit's mind's eye, an endless series of unexplored countries and mysterious islands passed - some covered with eternal snow from the icy breath of the northern winds, others languishing from the heat poured on them by the sun standing exactly in the middle of the sky... And about the countless battles in which the Eldrings - as they called themselves - had to fight, Farnak spoke. About skirmishes with the gloomy, merciless tribes of the far South, where in a sea of green thickets, poisoned arrows, shot by no one knows who, silently and inexorably overtake the brave, wounds from which are fatal; how at night amazing gigantic beasts with the body of a bull and the head of a bear come to the camps, and in the morning giant spiders descend from trees as tall as a good mountain, deftly throwing their sticky web for dozens of steps; you must always be on your guard, there you can expect an attack at any moment...
Farnak spoke well, and only one thing made the hobbit inwardly cringe with unexpressed protest - when the Eldring mentioned the elves. For him, they were enemies, and he had no doubts or hesitations. They must leave, he insisted. People must choose their own paths, following only the advice of their own minds. Listening to the helmsman, Folco unexpectedly remembered the unforgettable Olmer, and suddenly an unusually clear, cold and therefore even more frightening thought flashed through his mind: what if these elf-haters conspire?
But these thoughts had to be kept to himself, and for now the hobbit took the opportunity to observe the people of the Sea-Folk. Despite the fact that the "dragon" seemed not very large, there were almost one hundred and forty rower-warriors on it: on the inner side of the board, the armament of each of them hung in strict order, ready at any second to exchange an oar for the hilt of a sword. The hobbit tried to start conversations with them, but the Eldrings were gloomy and hardly answered questions. The hobbit remembered Terwin's coin; among the rowers there were some who looked similar to those from whose leader the hobbit had received this unusual gift; but all cautious attempts to find out anything ended in nothing. To a direct question - where they had been this spring, Farnak, with a grin, threw: where the crow had not carried the bones.
And among other stories, Farnak told the hobbit a strange legend that existed among the Sea-Folk. Allegedly, the eldest son of the last Lord of Gondor, Denethor, Boromir, who died in a skirmish with orcs at Parth Galen, left behind offspring. Boromir had a son from a simple, low-born girl, whom his father hid from the formidable Denethor, fearing his wrath. It seems that after the victory in the War of the Ring, this young man, Boromir's son, appeared before the Great King Elessar - and for some unknown reason they had a quarrel. Denethor's grandson left Minas Tirith - either he was exiled, or he himself did not want to live under the rule of the new King - in a word, Boromir's son considered himself insulted and allegedly took a terrible oath to take revenge...
This story at first interested the hobbit little - what people don't gossip about! However, he remembered it, deciding to tell it to Radagast on occasion and hear the wizard's opinion on this matter...
And the days went by, and Folco got used to the blue expanse constantly spread around him; standing at the side and looking at the water foaming around the raised bow, he went over the events of recent months in his memory, trying to understand: what have they achieved and what, in fact, should they do next? And in general, how long will they wander? They had lost the trail of the orc "master"; they had made a mistake by leaving Moria without finding out, they should have caught a few more orcs at any cost and, with the help of the Ring, gotten the truth out of them; instead, they went down, and now Hornbori was sleeping an eternal sleep under a heavy slab in the One Hundred and Eleventh Hall, and Dori with his Ring was now probably gathering armies in the Iron Hills... The Tower of Orthanc had told them many interesting things - but what were they to do with it? They would probably get to Annúminas - and what then?
The water, eternally boiling with white foam, ran under the side, and Folco, looking at it, suddenly remembered his recent vision near the blue Flower, and it was as if he was pierced - Thorin was already old... which means they will wander for many years... so is he destined to ever return to his homeland?! Will he really have to spend his whole life in endless wanderings?! And, without delay, he asked Thorin the same question when they went down under the short forecastle to have dinner.
- I know one thing - we will wander as long as necessary, - the dwarf cut him off sternly.
- And how long is necessary? Where will we go after Annúminas? I wouldn't mind visiting home, by the way... I haven't been seen there for a long time...
- It will be necessary for as long as it takes to catch this "master" and put an end to the new threat, - Thorin shrugged. - And after Annúminas, we will probably go to Angmar.
The Kid choked, Folco barely stayed on the bench. From this name, a long-forgotten cold and the horror of the revived Barrow-downs wafted over him. Looking at their amazed, bulging eyes, Thorin smirked slightly and continued:
- And where else to look for those who are rocking Middle-earth? And if we see this coat of arms in Angmar - a three-pronged black crown - consider the matter almost done.
- And... and then? - Folco barely managed to say.
- Then there will be war, - Thorin threw harshly. - It's time to understand what's what, Folco. Evil, evil has once again made its nest at the foot of the Angmar Mountains! The sooner this nest is burned to the ground, the better. But what's the point of guessing? For now, we need to get to the northern capital, our friends are waiting for us there, and a message from Dori may arrive.
Meanwhile, the ten days appointed by Farnak had passed, and exactly on the appointed date his "dragon", helping itself with oars, moored at the mouth of the Baranduin, where there was another large anchorage of the Sea-Folk ships. Folco had no idea that his native river, so smooth and calm under the windows of his house, could spread so wide, carrying dozens of different vessels. Here, the goods brought from the south, having moved from the holds to the backs of mules, into heavy, creaking carts and long merchant caravans, set off on a short journey to the Arnorian borders. There were also many barges floating down the river, similar to the one on which the friends had sailed on the Song. Folco learned that south of the borders of his native Hobbiton, which was closed to people, at the crossing over the Brandywine, where the road that began in Delving crossed the river, there was also a large transshipment of goods; some of the merchants unloaded their goods there.
It was time to say goodbye to Farnak and his crew. Finally, Folco, Thorin, the Kid and Híarrhidi decided to go to a tavern to wet their whistles after a long journey.
They were walking along the riverbank, clad in a solid armor of countless piers, making their way through a motley crowd of Eldrings, respectfully bypassing the impressively frozen at every intersection Arnorian patrols, when their attention was drawn to an unusually long, narrow ship, rapidly approaching the shore on twelve pairs of oars. Its sharp, high-prowed nose was decorated with the image of the head of a beast unknown to the hobbit with two long fangs protruding far forward from its mouth: driven by powerful strokes of the oars, the ship was rapidly approaching. A black and red flag fluttered on the mast.
Híarrhidi whistled in amazement as soon as he saw it.
- Wow! Skiludr himself, I swear by the eye of the storm! The brave one!
From the deck of the ship, ropes were already being thrown, and a little later, people began to jump from its side onto the pier one after another, without waiting for the gangplank. Several guards hurried to them; the fair-haired leader who came forward threw something short to them, and when one of the Arnorian soldiers blocked his way, he suddenly silently pointed to the river surface, along which, one after another, new "dragons", five or six more, were approaching, mooring to the side of the first ship. The guard stepped back in confusion, and the leader calmly walked on. The rest of his men followed him. The Arnorian warriors hastily dispersed in different directions, leaving two to watch Skiludr's ships. .
- Tell me, who is he? - the hobbit asked Híarrhidi, nodding at the rapidly receding back of the fair-haired leader of the Eldrings.
- Oh! Skiludr is a force! - the helmsman's assistant said seriously and respectfully. - He is his own man and does not need laws or treaties. He has eight hundred swords! And what swords - not like the Arnorian pot-bellies. He did not accept peace with the Kingdom, but he is so strong that he cannot be taken in open battle, he cannot be caught at sea... However, I have not heard that he was particularly brutal - no, he does not even fight, but simply lives on his own, as he wants. But it happens that he takes the ships of Gondor.
- How did he dare to come here?! Can't he be captured?
- Haven't you heard how many swords he has? Try to touch him! They wouldn't even leave ashes of the city! And the commanders of the Arnorian armored warriors know that we, the other Eldrings, those who have accepted peace, will not help Skiludr, true to our word, but we will not enter into battle on the side of Arnor, they will have to manage on their own, and they are not capable of that... Hey! What are you doing?
His last exclamation was addressed to the hobbit, who had suddenly frozen with his mouth open. The dashing warriors of Skiludr were still getting out onto the pier, and among them a familiar swarthy face suddenly flashed. Folco had not forgotten it and would not have confused it with any other - the very man who had given him Terwin's coin!
Hearing this, Thorin immediately grabbed his axe and resolutely declared through his teeth that whether this tramp had eight hundred swords or eighty thousand, he certainly wanted to have a word with this fellow. The bewildered Híarrhidi began to warn them; the hobbit explained the matter to him in two words. The helmsman's assistant shrugged his shoulders in surprise.
- Where could they have gotten this thing, venerable Thorin? We don't go deep into foreign lands, and it's unlikely that your friend, as you say, could have ended up on the coast. And isn't it possible that this coin changed many owners before it fell into the hands of the last owner?
- Then I want to know from whom he received it! - Thorin said stubbornly.
Without losing sight of the seafarer the hobbit remembered, they hurried after the warriors of Skiludr, who were walking in a tight crowd. Suddenly, about two dozen of them turned into an inconspicuous beer cellar, and the friends followed them.
Downstairs it was crowded, noisy, and smoky. Suspiciously-blissful servants scurried between the huge tables, carrying trays of foaming mugs, and on the benches a boisterous sea host sang songs, played dice, quarreled, and traded. Skiludr's men were greeted with a friendly roar - many hugged, obviously old acquaintances were meeting here. Unlike the other people, the newcomers were quieter and more dignified.
The hobbit, the dwarves, and Híarrhidi settled in a corner. The helmsman's assistant did not stop grumbling at them and answered Folco's question with obvious reluctance, where the man who had praised his cooking was from.
- It's even further south of our southern borders, there is such a people there, the most desperate of them often come to us...
- I'm going, - Thorin lunged, but Folco stopped him.
- I'd better ask him, - he laid his palm on his friend's sleeve.
Making his way between the rows, the hobbit gently touched the man's shoulder. The latter turned around immediately, the momentary wariness giving way to a bewildered smile. Folco bowed politely, saying that he had a few words to say to the venerable...
- By the Great Water, - he interrupted him with a laugh, - yes, this is none other than the very fellow who so gloriously feasted us in the northern capital! What wind brought you here? Did you change your master?
- That's not so, venerable, I don't know your name, - Folco continued politely. - But if you'll allow me, I'd like to ask...
- Where did you get this?! - Thorin, who had crept up to them unnoticed, suddenly roared over the hobbit's ear and, of course, spoiled the whole thing. The smile disappeared, the stranger did not even glance at the dwarf's outstretched palm with the ill-fated coin.
- And who are you to give me an account? - He measured the dwarf with his gaze.
- Whoever I am, - Thorin growled, shaking off the hobbit who was trying to pull him away, - but I want to know and, I swear by Durin's beard, I will find out where you got what I myself gave to my friend at parting! And if your answer does not satisfy me, I swear, I will settle accounts with you for Terwin!
The Eldring listened to the dwarf's impassioned speech with a smirk, smiled wryly, then slowly, quietly and distinctly threw such words in his face that Folco was stunned, and Thorin turned so purple that it was as if a fire had been lit inside him. The next moment, the dwarf's axe hissed through the air in front of the offender's nose. Around them, they roared, whistled and hooted.
- A glorious pair, I swear by the Sea-Father!
- Hey, give them room! Room!
Fans of such spectacles hastily dragged away the tables, clearing a space. No one tried to separate the disputants, not even the owner. With a last hope, Folco glanced at Híarrhidi, but he had disappeared somewhere.
The opponents closed in. Both were without chain mail and helmets, in the hands of the Eldring a long straight sword glinted dully. Thorin walked forward with his axe at the ready. From somewhere in the back rows, Kid burst out with his blades drawn, but they immediately piled on him, and someone very reasonably said to the gasping with rage Little Dwarf:
- The fight is fair and with equal weapons. Don't you know the rules? Challenge someone yourself or you can continue the fight later if things go wrong with your friend.
- What's this now? - suddenly a low and stern voice thundered from the door invisible to the hobbit. - Gront!
Pushing aside the people who hastily parted with respectful bows, Skiludr himself strode rapidly toward the quarrelers - in a simple leather jacket, with a long sword at his belt. Behind his shoulder the tense face of Híarrhidi was visible.
Thorin's opponent immediately lowered his blade.
- What happened? - Skiludr asked curtly, sweeping an icy gaze over the scene.
Gront bowed, spreading his hands guiltily.
- Nothing special, my thane, - he said. - This honorable dwarf wanted to test the strength of my sword.
- Know from now on that the steel of dwarves is better, - Skiludr threw coldly. - Tell me! - he commanded, turning to Thorin.
The latter snorted indignantly, but restrained himself and began to speak. When he finished, nothing could be read on the face of the leader of the Eldrings.
- I understand you, - he began, addressing the dwarf. - But I must say at once - you're looking in the wrong place. I swear by the Eternal Sea, my people did not kill your friend: Gront received this thing for bravery, and where and from whom - that's another matter. We do not tell the first person we meet the names of those who do business with us. You will have to be satisfied with this answer or - well! - test your luck. But those sitting here know, - the Eldring swept his hand around the hall, - in his life Skiludr has not said one false word. Even to enemies.
He turned and silently walked toward the doors past the people who immediately gave him way. Gront moved to follow him, but then stopped and beckoned the hobbit to him.
- I really am innocent, - he said quietly in Folco's ear. - Your friend is too hot-headed, and it wouldn't be bad to cut him down a bit, but so be it, in memory of our good meeting, tell him that this thing was given to me by one... from the East, with whom we went together... it doesn't matter where or why. Well, shall we fight? - he asked loudly, turning to Thorin. - I didn't kill your friend, I swear! You can't check me anyway, so decide - whether you believe me or not.
He turned away and calmly began talking with someone from his companions. Thorin spat angrily and approached closer.
- But tell me at least, I beg you, - these words came to the dwarf with difficulty, - from whom did you receive it? If such a thing happened to you, wouldn't you try to avenge a friend?
- I have already told your companion everything I could, - Gront answered imperturbably. - I can repeat - this is a great chieftain... from the East. But even that doesn't mean anything - he could have received your coin from someone else's hands...
With these words he turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Híarrhidi approached the frozen dwarf and hobbit.
- Well, you came up with something! - he reproachfully shook his head. - It's good that Thane Skiludr himself happened to be nearby, I had to bow to him, otherwise they would have chopped you both to pieces - this is a common thing with us.
- What's there to think about: where you go, I go, - the Kid answered without hesitation and placed his hands crosswise on the hilts.
Only now did Folco notice that the Kid's left hand was missing two fingers: the little finger and the ring finger. The hobbit shuddered, looking at the unnaturally smooth, short stumps, and did not dare to ask.
- I understood that you'll have to fight, - the Kid continued meanwhile. - I don't know with whom yet, but be that as it may - I'm with you. Don't look at my height. I'd better show you a trick with swords...
- Wait, let's go to the yard, - Thorin suggested. But the Kid suddenly crouched, letting out a heart-rending cry, and sharply straightened up. Folco could not make out the movement of his hands - it was so swift, and the blades flashed in the rays of the dim autumn sun. In the next second, the air in front of the Kid was filled with the whistle and gleam of madly spinning steel, the hands of the Little Dwarf darted from side to side, but his arms remained almost motionless; it was impossible to approach him. The Little Dwarf took a step forward, and immediately, like a sling, his right hand unexpectedly darted forward with the speed of a snake striking at prey, the blue lightning of the sword flashed in a swift blow and immediately returned back, to where his long dagger was describing circles, covering the Kid's body, seeming to live its own independent life... Folco stood dumbfounded, watching this unprecedented spectacle, as did another dozen spectators who had appeared from nowhere. Thorin only grunted contentedly.
- Well, how is it? - the stopped Kid asked impatiently.
Those gathered rewarded him with loud approving exclamations. The Little Dwarf immediately turned to them and ceremoniously thanked everyone, bowing low and pressing both hands to his chest.
- Excellent! - Folco admired. - Where did you learn that, Kid?
- You see, Folco, in childhood I was much weaker than my peers, and besides - you see? - I got caught in a rockfall, my fingers were crushed... I haven't been able to hold an axe properly since, so I started practicing with swords. Our people don't respect this too much, - they consider such things, - he made several short lunges, - the business of weak men. They didn't take me into the hird, so I figured it all out myself. Thorin with an axe against my axe is, of course, like a ram against a reed.
- Well, well, don't be modest, - Thorin interjected.
- But with swords, I'll compete with anyone, I dare say!
- So maybe you'll teach our young hobbit? - Thorin's palm lay on Folco's shoulder. - Otherwise he likes to wave his sword in the tavern.
- Thorin! - Folco pleaded.
- Why not! I'll take it on, I suppose! - squinting and looking attentively at the hobbit, the Kid declared decisively. - You look agile, thin, mobile, Folco. Let's try to make a fighter out of you.
Thus began their life in Annúminas. Folco could not complain about fate for now. No one woke him at dawn anymore and drove him to work, no one snooped, no one twisted his ears. He and Thorin got up at dawn, deliberately leaving the windows open at night so that the first rays of dawn would wake them. Then they washed, roused the Kid, who turned out to be a great lover of sleep, and went to breakfast. Then Folco and the Little Dwarf went to the back yard, where the hobbit practiced to exhaustion with heavy wooden swords, while Thorin meanwhile usually locked himself in the room and read the Red Book, writing something down for himself. Then the tired and wet Folco and the Kid returned, the hobbit could barely drag his feet and, barely making it to the bed, usually collapsed on it like a cut-down tree. His arms and shoulders had turned into one solid bruise - the Kid, who still ate and drank with them at Thorin's expense, tried his best and did not give the hobbit the slightest indulgence, teaching him to deflect any of the fastest and most treacherous blows. Teaching the hobbit to wield weapons, the Kid made him work with a wooden sword replica, much heavier than a combat one. To the pain from bruises was added pain in tired, unaccustomed muscles.
Enduring all this was very hard, however, the hobbit turned out to be more stubborn than he himself thought - in the most difficult moments, when green and red circles danced before his eyes and from somewhere far away, as if from beyond the mountains, came the angry and hoarse, commanding voice of the Little Dwarf, the face of the hunchback surfaced in Folco's consciousness. Then his teeth clenched tighter by themselves, and his hands, seemingly incapable of making another movement, again raised the heavy wooden sword.
After resting, Folco usually went wandering around the city with Thorin and the Kid. One could walk endlessly around Annúminas - not a single house on its streets repeated another, necessarily trying to stand out in some way. There were houses with turrets and houses with columns, with stone statues and mosaic paintings across the entire width of the wall; there were houses with semicircular windows and pointed windows, with stone porches and iron porches, houses with carved casings and ridges, like in village huts. The streets were also paved differently: in the center of the city - with wide hexagonal slabs of gray color, polished to a shine; moreover, they were hewn from such durable stone that neither hooves nor wheels could leave a single scratch on them. Other streets were covered with small pink stone, alternating with rows of black; multi-colored lines intertwined, forming a complex ornament. There were also perfectly snow-white squares, washed to a shine every morning by special teams of cleaners. Folco had long lost count, trying to remember all the types of pavements in this amazing City. Inside the quarters, spacious gardens were often found, now, alas, empty and black. Through the interlacing of bare branches, the dark surface of ponds was visible, on which majestic birds with pinkish plumage, similar to swans, swam leisurely. In the city squares, despite the approaching cold, tall fountains still scattered silver sparks; gurgling, water flowed down special channels lined with black and pearl marble.
The hobbit went into dark shops selling antiques, his hands carefully touched the bindings of ancient folios - much older than those kept in the library of his native Brandy Hall, and many were even written in languages unknown to Folco. True, the wind still walked in the hobbit's pockets, and he only sighed quietly, carefully putting the book back in its place under the disapproving glances of merchants who did not favor idle wanderers. The dwarves, however, did not share his enthusiasm. Thorin had enough of the Red Book, and the Kid generally claimed that books only spoil the eyes.
But the dwarves could not be dragged away from the stalls where they sold iron goods, mainly, of course, weapons. Both tangars could spend hours rummaging through piles of steel, and their fingers seemed to acquire the same softness and caution as Folco's hands when he leafed through stiff parchment pages. The speech of Thorin and the Kid became completely incomprehensible, they just showered words unknown to the hobbit, with burning eyes turning some blade and admiring some particularly complex pattern on the blade, speaking of the special skill of the blacksmith. They knew by heart the marks of all the weaponsmiths of their people and the best human blacksmiths. Now it was the hobbit who had to yawn at the doors.
They would get hungry, and they would descend into one of the numerous taverns, where they always met a warm welcome, excellent treat and company - usually of dwarves - in conversation with whom it was pleasant to while away the time and learn all the latest news; sometimes disputes flared up, but now the dwarves began to behave much more quietly. Not having gotten used to leaving their battle-axes at home, they, as if by agreement, compensated for their absence with an excess of other weapons, which sometimes gave them a very comical appearance. Several times Folco noticed how Thorin secretly conversed in an undertone with some of the dwarves they met, then making some notes in his notebook.
All this time Rogvold did not forget them. The former centurion came every third day, telling how their petition was progressing. The huntsman looked cheerful, but never stayed with his friends for long.
Days passed, September passed, the second week of October was underway, cold northern wind howled over the city more and more often, and the hobbit had to remember his warm cloak - autumn here, in Annúminas, turned out to be much cooler than in Hobbiton. There was no protection here in the form of long and high hilly ridges that covered Folco's homeland from the north, and the breath of icy deserts in the Arnorian capital was felt much stronger.
Subsequently, the hobbit remembered this time as the best, brightest and most joyful in his life. All cares and worries receded, news from the borders became less alarming, and Folco, lulled by the constant sight of the calm and self-confident power of the Northern Kingdom, almost forgot about the minutes of horror and despair he had experienced, which then seemed hopeless. He did not want to go anywhere now, and sometimes he himself, ashamed of his thoughts, dreamed of how good it would be to settle in this fabulous City forever, to stay here with friends and live without knowing grief and worries.
However, their existence could not remain completely serene for long. Thorin sighed more and more often, frowning his eyebrows anxiously, when he once again looked into his purse. The life they led, for all its moderation, still required considerable money, and Thorin's savings were gradually melting away.
And then one day Folco happened to accidentally overhear a quiet conversation in the yard when he was returning after another lesson with the Kid. Voices around the corner made him slow down slightly.
- How are things, how did Eimund receive you? He praised you very much to me, - Rogvold was saying.
- He received me very well, - Thorin answered. - In general, it's nothing there, one can work. There are glorious blades, but there's little good iron, and almost no one knows how to properly temper steel. However, there's a lot of repair work now. I patch chain mail, weld helmets. Not very cheerful, but they pay well.
- Well, I'm glad I was able to help you...
The speakers went in different directions, and Folco stood for a long time with cheeks burning with shame.
"Thorin had to earn money for them to live on! He and the Kid are sitting on his neck, too lazy even to lift a finger to provide themselves with food! Well, nothing. From today we're ending this life," he thought and clenched his teeth.
Their life changed considerably after that. Thorin now left for the whole day and appeared only in the evening, tired, with a soot-covered face; fresh burns appeared on his hands. Folco suffered silently, but despite all his searches, could not find anything within his abilities. The Kid, however, didn't give a damn, apparently believing that everything should be so.
However, fate favored the hobbit, and he found what he needed, and where he didn't even think to look at first.
One day - it was in mid-October, a week after Thorin took up work - Folco and the Kid, having finished their lesson, went to have a snack in the tavern hall. Waiting for them to bring their modest food, Folco stared through the open kitchen door - there two servants were fussing with freshly brought mushrooms. The mushroom-loving hobbit's mouth immediately watered, he rushed to the owner and could hardly wait for his favorite seasoning to appear on the table. However, the first spoonful only caused bitter disappointment in Folco. They didn't know how to cook mushrooms here, or rather, they didn't know how to cook them properly. What the local cooks produced did not even remotely resemble the delicate dishes, sauces and gravies that came from the hands of hobbit housewives. Folco grimaced and secretly spat - however, it so happened that the owner of the tavern, who happened to be passing by, noticed this.
- What's this, honorable hobbit, don't our mushrooms suit your taste? - The innkeeper looked very offended.
- Why lie, they really don't suit my taste! - Folco blurted out. - For Big Folk, people that is, it might still do, but in Hobbiton even dogs would be ashamed to be given such.
- Is that so?! How do you think they should be made? Maybe you'll teach us stupid ones, dear master? - From offense, the innkeeper even dropped his usual "you."
- I can teach you... if we agree on the price! - the hobbit squinted, already ready to extol to the skies the wisdom of Uncle Paladin, who with his endless annoying grumbling and cuffs had still taught his negligent nephew kitchen work.
He and the innkeeper shook hands. Folco tied a hastily trimmed apron and set to work. First of all, he, surprised at his own assertiveness, sent the servants to the market for special herbs, ordering them to buy them from hobbits who had come to the fair, while he himself took up cutting and soaking. He fussed for a very long time, composing the most complex mixtures, soaking and squeezing, boiling and salting; Folco only left the stove at dawn. But the next morning, the innkeeper, who carefully and mistrustfully put the first spoonful of the prepared dish in his mouth, could only roll his eyes - and then he didn't even notice how he had destroyed the whole plate.
- Listen, honorable master Folco, - he immediately pestered the hobbit after long ohs and ahs, - work for me, will you? Such seasonings and pickles are not made anywhere in Annúminas! And I'll pay you fairly... I won't offend you!
Folco stubbornly resisted for show, raising the price, then agreed, and soon the tavern "Horn of Arachorn" knew no rest from visitors.
Folco turned out to be an excellent cook - now he tried to remember everything his aunt had taught him, forcibly displacing the owner himself from the kitchen. And finally the day came when the hobbit, rosy with pride, could with the most imperturbable air put on the table in front of the dumbfounded Thorin a weighty bag with gold coins.
October passed in continuous labors; now Folco rarely managed to escape for a walk around the wonderful City, he could barely find time for daily exercises with the Kid, who still did not want to even hear about any work. However, his idleness was redeemed by his easy, cheerful disposition, inexhaustible supply of funny stories and incomparable combat skill, which Folco was now mastering with such difficulty and sweat.
Their affairs improved, but the audience with the Steward was still being delayed, and Folco, tired of living "away from home," began to quietly think that it would be good for them to buy some "little house" so as not to give away so much hard-earned money for lodging.
By that time, Folco had become friends with the owner of the "Horn of Arachorn," who greatly valued his little helper, and, waiting for the innkeeper to be in a particularly good mood (after counting the day's takings), the hobbit casually asked if the honorable owner knew where one could find modest housing for three at a cheaper price.
- Folco, what's this, what? - the owner immediately got scared. - Are you really thinking of leaving?.. Or have I offended you somehow? Then forgive me generously! Or have those hairy-ears from the "Star of Arwen" lured you away?
After listening to the hobbit's explanations, the innkeeper thought for a minute, and then suddenly slapped himself loudly on the forehead.
- Listen!.. Let's go with me!.. He led the hobbit to the tavern yard, where, away from the sheds and warehouse, among overgrown hawthorn stood a small, slightly lopsided structure, most resembling a slightly tilted barn, only not log, but stone.
- Here! - the owner said with pride. - How's that for housing? It'll make an excellent house if you put your hands to it...
Folco cautiously looked inside. The dried-out door creaked pitifully, swaying on the last surviving hinge, the windows were broken out, the floor was broken. Instead of a stove - a pile of stones.
- You need to put your hands to it, of course, who says this is a palace, - the innkeeper appeared behind the hobbit. - But if you fix it up, I'll sell it to you forever, almost for nothing... - and he named a really very low price.
Without thinking long, Folco rushed to Thorin. The experienced dwarf was surprised and grunted, looking at the chaos reigning in the house. Whistling, Thorin carefully searched all the corners, then silently patted the hobbit on the shoulder and turned to the owner:
- We'll take it. We'll do everything in three days. Winking conspiratorially at the uncomprehending Folco, Thorin walked quickly somewhere to the street. He didn't disappear for long, and when he returned, he looked very pleased.
- All questions later, later, - he waved off the hobbit who was persistently pestering him. - The night will pass, the morning will bring counsel, as old Gandalf used to say...
The next day, when Folco and the Kid were finishing another lesson, the hobbit saw about ten dwarves walking down their street, looking around as if searching for something.
- See that? - Thorin approached the hobbit. - These are the eleven Gungnir brothers, I met them successfully yesterday. They'll help us.
Folco looked doubtfully at the brothers who were drumming at the tavern doors: they looked very rumpled, and one was even being supported under the arms - he kept trying to lean against something and doze off; as soon as he succeeded, even for a brief moment, it was as if old and holey blacksmith's bellows began to work in the street: the dwarf's snoring could be heard throughout the house.
- Nothing, don't pay attention, - Thorin intercepted the hobbit's mistrustful look. - They're like this now, but once they get down to business - it'll all be gone in a flash. And the one being led under the arms is the best expert on canons of carving I've ever seen. And canons, brother hobbit, are such a thing... - The dwarf suddenly scratched his head and fell silent, as if remembering something he had long wanted to forget.
Meanwhile, all eleven brothers crowded around them in a friendly mob. Apparently, they had managed to have a good time even that morning - a thick aroma of strong beer spread around them. Many had a dazed-languid look; it was clear that they had torn themselves away from the table with great difficulty.
The eldest of the brothers, an already middle-aged dwarf with a half-gray beard and a fresh scratch on his ear, noisily greeted Folco and Thorin:
Thorin without unnecessary words led the whole team to the house bought by friends. The brothers unanimously scratched some their heads, some their beards, unanimously uttered an indefinitely skeptical "ye-e-es...", after which they immediately began to untie their voluminous backpacks, where they had everything necessary for work. Folco watched these preparations with bewilderment - in Hobbiton such sorry masters would have long ago been driven out of the yard by the scruff of the neck, not allowing those who were tipsy to even take up the work. However, Thorin didn't bat an eyelid.
And indeed, as soon as the brothers took up the work, all the hops instantly flew off them. The sleepy look and rumpledness disappeared, their gazes, as if by magic, became clear, and the work in their hands just boiled. Only the expert on canons remained sitting, leaning his back against the trunk of the old hawthorn, categorically stating that he was not going to move stones, and it would be better if he did his direct business. The eldest of the Gungnirs whispered something in the ear of two younger ones, they disappeared somewhere for a short time, and soon appeared, dragging a hefty oak log on their shoulders. They put it in front of the stubborn brother and without unnecessary words joined the others.
- What does he want to do? - the hobbit, who understood nothing, whispered to Thorin.
- What do you mean?! The dwelling of every true tangar must be adorned with the image of the sacred beard of Durin. Har Gungnirling, I told you, is the best beard carver in the Blue Mountains! The beard must be depicted strictly according to the canon, every hair and every curl in it has long been calculated and sanctified... This is a great art! However, enough talking, let's better get to work too, brother hobbit, it's not right for us to stand aside!
Later, Folco more than once admitted to himself that without the Gungnir brothers they would never have been able to put their dwelling in order. The dwarves threw all the garbage out of the house, broke out the cracked pieces from the walls, then a cart loaded with stone drove into the yard, and the masters took up stonecutting hammers. Meanwhile, Har covered everything around him with a layer of brown shavings, and Durin's sacred beard acquired the appearance of a long flattened lizard with torn-off paws, as the hobbit not very respectfully thought of it.
Three days of continuous labor passed, interrupted only occasionally by the knocking of another beer barrel being rolled out of the cellar by diligent Thorin.
Soon the pitiful ruin was unrecognizable. In the corner, the brothers built an intricate hearth with a skillfully forged cast-iron grate, laid a new floor, inserted frames and glass, repaired the walls, brought huge boulders under the corners so that nothing would lean or settle anymore, and on the new, again oak, door solemnly mounted Durin's Sacred Beard, completed by that time by Har, almost half a fathom long.
That same evening, Thorin, Folco and the Kid silently watched the dancing tongues of flame in the fireplace of their new home. The hobbit was possessed by a strange feeling - for the first time he had become an owner, the rightful owner of property; it was pleasant, but some vague sensation, accumulating in his soul, suggested to him that he was destined to own this new property for a very, very short time...
Chapter Ten. THE STEWARD
November was underway, a cold dry wind had long since torn the last brown leaves from the black branches of trees, and hundreds of bluish wisps of smoke reached toward the clear, clean sky. On the streets of Annúminas, carts loaded with firewood were now increasingly common - omens foretold a cold winter. In the mornings, rare puddles in the yard of the "Horn of Arachorn," where three friends lived in their new house, began to be covered with ice. Their life had entered a calm channel. Thorin still swung his hammer in the forge, Folco sweated over the stove in the tavern. The Kid taught the hobbit the art of war and tested the merits of beer in various taverns of the capital. New cares completely absorbed Folco's attention, he liked this new, free life, and to himself he smiled slightly, remembering the naive dreams that had overwhelmed him when he, with a sword at his belt, in a cloak fluttering in the wind, rode along the road going north, to the Gates of Buckland. Rogvold still appeared often; but their business was hardly progressing, and Folco was even glad of this. Everything is still ahead! Thorin talks about the coming campaign to Moria... Good, of course, but it's better if this campaign is postponed for longer. Such a glorious city, Annúminas!
Folco was appreciated and respected in the tavern, his skill attracted many new regulars; the owner turned out to be fair, and the hobbit could not complain about lack of money. One day, the elders of the capital's cooking guild came to them, tasted the food prepared by the hobbit, and soon he, having paid his share, became a full member of this glorious union, bypassing the rank of apprentice and journeyman. Folco now wore with some pride on the left side of his jacket and cloak the guild's coat of arms - a tripod standing on fire on a black field of an oblong shield, supported on two sides by a bull and a ram.
In the city, the autumn fairs had died down, gathering people from all over the Kingdom - from the Blue Mountains to the Misty and from the northern edge of the Emyn Uial to the South Downs. Even more dwarves came - from the most diverse places, and some arrived even from Erebor. Hobbits came too. They timidly huddled in the corners of the huge Trading Square, having a very confused and funny appearance. Folco, who had approached to chat and show off slightly, in good Annúminas clothes, with the guild coat of arms, with a sword at his belt, caused a storm of admiring ohs and ahs. He learned that everything was in complete order in his homeland, and one half-familiar hobbit from Buckland said that his relatives had grieved greatly for the missing wayward offspring and his uncle had ordered all residents of Buckland, if they met Folco somewhere, to tell him that they were no longer angry with him and were waiting for his return.
It cannot be said that Folco remained indifferent to these words. No, at times sadness came over him too, when he remembered the old walls of Brandy Hall, the majestic Brandywine under the windows, the hospitable tavern in the Barns and comrades from neighboring farms. But this happened infrequently - the hobbit was drawn to a different life.
He remembered this day for a long time - November twentieth by the Annúminas calendar. In the morning, an excited Rogvold, dressed in his best clothes, rushed to them. - Get ready! - he said breathlessly from the doorway. - The Steward is waiting for us at noon!
They almost ran through the elegant streets to the center of the City, where on the shore of the lake stood the Steward's palace, surrounded by a high wall with towers and a moat. Two steps away from it, the Trading Square was noisy with its usual life, but here a solemn silence reigned. The gates were guarded by numerous guards, dressed not in white-and-blue, but in gray cloaks with a single eight-pointed star on the left shoulder - in memory of the Dúnedain, who for decades had guarded the peace and tranquility of the northern peoples. Many who were among the Steward's personal guard traced their lineage from them, and this explained their great height and some special expression in their eyes - the eyes of people bearing a burden invisible to others. One of the warriors, on whose helmet were also wings of a seagull on the sides, stepped forward. Rogvold gave the password. The tall warrior in a winged helmet bowed with dignity.
- Please follow me. - His voice was clear and strong. - The Steward is waiting for you.
Having passed through a yard paved with black and white stone stars, they found themselves near the second wall. It rose to a height of three dozen feet, smooth, without a single window or ledge, but pointed, gleaming with polished copper roofs were visible on it. Folco looked around in surprise - in the blank wall along its entire length there was nothing like gates.
The warrior leading them stopped in front of the wall on a semicircle laid out with dark red smooth stone, and whispered something, and so quickly and indistinctly that the hobbit could not make anything out.
- Our work! - Thorin hissed in his ear. - The gates open by spell!
And so it was. The solid stone body of the mighty wall was cut by black straight cracks, the stone slabs went into special grooves, turning on invisible hinges.
Having passed through a long tunnel, they found themselves in a small inner courtyard. The yard beyond the first wall amazed with its emptiness - beyond the ring of walls lay only a paved empty space - but here buildings crowded everywhere, intertwined with bizarrely curved stone and iron spiral staircases, long galleries stretched from one building to another, forming a complex interlacing above their heads. Directly above them, a wide grand staircase led upward, built of huge blocks of black stone; Folco immediately recalled Orthanc, but the dwarf wrinkled his nose slightly contemptuously.
- Ordinary stone, just dark. There's plenty of it in our mountains.
Several more guards appeared from somewhere on the side. The wings of seagulls on their helmets were slightly touched with silver, as if the feathers of a bird were ruffled by a fresh sea breeze, the facings were gilded. Their escort stopped and saluted with his sword. One of those who came out to them repeated his movement, quietly commanded something - he turned and walked away without even looking back.
The black staircase led them to the platform of the second tier, before wide three-leaf doors, from which galleries ran in all directions. The warrior in a winged helmet turned back and walked along the central gallery, stretched across the entire courtyard back to the gates and two high gate towers. Above their heads stretched more galleries, narrower than the one they were walking along, numerous spiral staircases led directly from the second tier upward. And even higher, at roof level, the sky was crossed by narrow watch passages, supported by thick chains and steel cables; and along these hanging paths, guards constantly walked.
They passed the gallery and now stood near an inconspicuous door in one of the gate towers. The door was so narrow and low that the dwarf and Rogvold had to squeeze through sideways and in addition bent in three deaths. Folco managed to notice that the huntsman's eyebrows rose in surprise: before this he had the appearance of a man walking a long-familiar path.
A spiral staircase like a gigantic snake wound in the body of the tower, rising higher and higher. Its steps turned out to be so steep that the hobbit had to help himself with his hands. Behind him, Rogvold's heavy breathing was heard.
But the steps that had seemed endless to the hobbit ended, the friends found themselves on a platform under the very roof of the tower.
- We go here. - The guide pointed to a narrow passage to their right, between two loopholes.
In the corridor lit by natural light, Folco again saw steps, this time going down.
"Now here, now there... Why not directly to the place?" he thought with displeasure, diving after the warrior into the corridor.
However, this time it turned out to be not far to go. They passed another post and finally entered a small bright hall without windows, draped with white-and-blue panels. At the far wall from the entrance, on a small elevation, stood a black wooden chair with a high back and long armrests; above it hung the large coat of arms of the United Kingdom. Folco at first was surprised, seeing neither windows nor lamps, but, raising his eyes, understood that light here came through special slits cut in the roof. The hall was empty, only on the sides of the black chair, or perhaps throne, stood two guards in full armor.
- Wait here, - the escort addressed them. - And I must go to my post. His Excellency will come out soon.
The warrior bowed ceremoniously and left, not paying attention to Rogvold, who had made an attempt to speak with him. The friends were left alone.
- Beautiful! - Thorin said quietly. Throwing back his head, he looked at the carved stone beams supporting the stucco ceiling. Six beams stretched to the center were made in the form of writhing dragons, locked in death grips in each other's jaws. The stucco on the ceiling depicted other beasts and birds unknown to Folco, bizarrely intertwined with long flower stems. They could not see the walls of the hall - they were hidden by fabric, and the floor was laid out with eight-pointed pearl-silver stars on a black background; the stone was worked so skillfully that the floor seemed luminous; Thorin even crouched down and began to examine it.
- Amazing, - he muttered. - Ordinary granite, but what they did with it, I would like to know.
He did not manage to find the answer to his question. Steps were heard, the white-and-blue curtains stirred, and seven entered the hall. Thorin hastily jumped up. The three friends bowed in respectful greeting.
The man who entered the hall first slowly ascended to the elevation and unhurriedly lowered himself into the chair. A sigh was heard, and a calm, coldish voice of an elderly man sounded in the hall:
- Come closer, don't crowd by the doors. - Fatigue and indifference were heard in the voice.
The hobbit, who had straightened his back, naturally directed his first glance at the man in the chair. Folco was looking at a very old man, very tall, completely gray, long hair falling to his shoulders, caught, like the huntsman's, on his forehead with a simple leather cord. Deep wrinkles cut across his face, an old white scar ran across his high forehead, clearly visible on the darkened skin. Thin old hands lay calmly on the armrests.
The Steward was dressed simply: a soft gray cloak, indistinguishable from the cloaks of the guards protecting him, no decorations, no jewels. Just as simple was the attire of the people accompanying him, also of advanced age. The only difference was that all six escorts wore weapons - rich, beautiful and diverse. Long swords in sheaths adorned with gems, maces, flails, axes - all in gold and silver, with delicate inlays. But what struck the hobbit most was the imprint of some eternal, permanent fatigue and equally eternal indifference that was clearly read on their calm, impassive faces.
The friends approached closer to the elevation. The Steward's colorless eyes warmed when he addressed Rogvold:
- Hello, old friend, you haven't been seen in Annúminas for a long time. Was your hunt successful?
- Come closer, don't crowd at the door. - Weariness and indifference were audible in the voice.
The hobbit's first glance as he straightened his back was naturally directed at the man in the chair. Folco was looked upon by a very old man, very tall, completely gray, long hair falling to his shoulders, bound, like the huntsman's, on his forehead with a simple leather thong. Deep wrinkles cut across his face, an old white scar ran across his high forehead, clearly visible on the weathered skin. Thin old hands rested calmly on the armrests.
The Steward was dressed simply: a soft gray cloak, indistinguishable from the cloaks of the guards protecting him, no ornaments, no jewels. The attire of his companions, also of advanced age, was equally simple. The only difference was that all six companions wore weapons - rich, beautiful and varied. Long swords in gem-encrusted scabbards, maces, morningstars, axes - all in gold and silver, with fine inlays. But what struck the hobbit most was the seal of some eternal, abiding weariness and equally eternal indifference, which was clearly readable on their calm, impassive faces.
The friends approached closer to the dais. The Steward's colorless eyes warmed when he addressed Rogvold:
- Greetings, old friend, you have not been seen in Annuminas for a long time. Was your hunt successful?
- The hunt was successful, Mighty One, but the meetings were even more successful... We have brought important information!
- Yes, yes, I read your letter, - nodded the Steward. - But everything must be sorted out in order. So, where did it all begin?
Thorin nudged Folco with his elbow, but he remained motionless - it was too frightening to begin a conversation with this proud and majestic ruler. Thorin spoke himself.
He told how he and his friend present here, the valiant Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast, caught in the hobbit forest a dwerg who had violated the law of the Great King, and how they discovered that he had ended up in the Shire not at all by accident.
The Steward listened patiently and attentively, but the hobbit was again stung by the unpleasant thought that this was no more than the habitual mask of a man weary of countless petitioners. When the dwarf finished, the Steward's eyes slowly turned to the hobbit.
- Did all this happen as the honorable son of Dart says? Perhaps you would like to add something?
Folco shook his head negatively. The Steward nodded silently, exchanged glances with his associates, and spoke himself:
- You see, we, of course, interrogated the dwerg. He, however, claims that he was treacherously attacked from ambush right on the border of the Old Forest, where he and five comrades had stopped for a rest. Do you insist on your testimony? Then tell me, what damage was done to your country, honorable hobbit? You are silent... No, there is nothing I can do here. There is no third party who could confirm the rightness of one of the disputants. And therefore, - the Steward straightened and raised his right hand, - In the Name of the Seven Stars I command: release the dwerg.
- Release him?! - exclaimed Thorin. - He was sent to search for orcs!
- I believe you, - the Steward answered calmly, - and I have taken measures. Our people visited the native village of this dwerg - no one there knows anything. But we, naturally, wrote about all this to the King, as well as to Elloras, for the matter is connected with Isengard.
- But we are talking about our eternal enemies! - Thorin continued to press, not paying attention to Rogvold's warning gestures.
- About your eternal enemies, honorable dwarf! - The Steward's eyebrows shifted slightly. - These are your underground affairs and your underground enemies. We do not interfere here. But I have already said that we will closely watch Isengard.
Thorin fell into stunned silence, and Rogvold deftly turned the conversation in another direction. Prompted by him, Folco, stammering, told of the murdered hobbit found on the West Road, and the Steward's brow darkened.
- Eh, Erster, Erster! In addition to that fight, now murder! He watches poorly, again under his nose there is banditry! Well, never mind, we'll help. Kron! Two more hundred mounted to the Bree-land! Let Diz go as senior. And... let him take command.
One of the old men standing by the throne bowed and made a note to himself.
- But that is not the main thing and far from all, - Rogvold continued meanwhile. - Passing by the Barrow-downs...
And he retold in detail all the events of that memorable evening and equally memorable day. The Steward frowned.
- No one is forbidden to go to the Barrow-downs, - he said with a sigh. - Reports have already reached us that something untoward is happening there.
- Those who went there were among those who opposed Erster, - Rogvold said quietly. - It seems to me they have something like a gathering point there. Should we not post a reliable guard there?
- Reasonable, very reasonable, - the Steward nodded. - You, old friend, always reason soundly and advise wisely. We shall do so. Kron! Order to include in the instruction to Diz to place a chain of posts around the entire Barrow-downs and not take eyes off it. Detain suspicious persons entering there in large numbers and with weapons. Also strengthen surveillance of the Road! Special attention - to the White Downs and the heart of the Shire. The covenants of the Great King above all. Give hobbit caravans guards first of all! - He turned to his friends: - Well, are you satisfied?
The dwarf and Folco shifted from foot to foot.
- But what about the wraiths? What about this sword that I picked up at the bonfire and which the wraith struck by the valiant son of Hamfast was heading for? - Thorin said with agitation.
The Steward sighed and spread his hands.
- These forces are beyond the power of men, - he answered with regret. - They live by their own laws. No one has yet suffered damage from these creatures. What do you propose I do with them? The Arnor host cannot fight against a bodiless enemy.
- But the hobbit destroyed one of them?
- How do you know this? Such creatures cannot be destroyed by arrows, here we need the powers and knowledge of elves, who have now left us... Be calm, we will not leave this unattended, and if our arrows are truly capable of doing something here - may Great Elbereth bless the hand and eye of skilled archers! Alas, we now have to think more about fighting bandits, about enemies of flesh and blood. As for that sword, - the Steward suddenly raised his heavy eyelids, - keep it for yourself, honorable dwarf. Truth be told, we have no use for it now, and who better than you dwarves understands the form and soul of iron? If you extract anything from it, any indications about the whereabouts of these bandits or their accomplices who, contrary to decree, sell weapons to outsiders without special permission - then inform our Chancellery as soon as possible, and you will not be passed over by our attention and gratitude. But before we part, for urgent matters call me, I want to ask you. Where do you intend to go after our conversation? I do not ask out of idle curiosity. It is a rare, almost impossible case in our time for a hobbit and a dwarf together with a man to come specifically to Annuminas in order to warn us of danger! What brought you together?
Thorin scratched the back of his head.
- Annuminas is only the first point on our long and difficult path, - he said. - We are troubled by recent events, and first of all by the fact that Cirdan has undertaken the construction of a new wall. What does he, the unconquerable, need it for?
The Steward smiled.
- I know about this and was at first surprised myself, but since all our sea communication with Gondor goes through the Grey Havens, I soon learned from my people, and then received confirmation from Cirdan himself, that he feels weary of life in Middle-earth, he feels the call of the Sea and understands that someday he will still have to sail to Eressea, to the Blessed Land in the Uttermost West. He wants the peoples of the North - and not only the North - to have a good memory of him after he is gone. He considers such a memory to be that beautiful city which is now being erected on the shore of the Gulf of Lhun. Hence the wall! Have I satisfied your interest? Has your alarm not decreased?
Rogvold nodded, but Thorin shook his head doubtfully.
- Perhaps so, perhaps otherwise, - he mumbled evasively and continued, again raising his gaze to the Steward: - But that is not the main thing that made me set out on the road. We have some strange rumors from Moria.
The Steward nodded again.
- Yes, yes, I heard. Those whose duties include this have reported to me about it. I agree, the events are strange. And it is very good that among the dwarves there have finally appeared those willing to get to the bottom of this! I will not hide that I am interested in this, so let's talk in more detail. What are your plans? Has a detachment already been assembled, or are you going to go as three? Are there means? Speak about everything boldly and without concealment. I will try to help you if it is within my power.
- We intend to go to Moria in spring, when the snow melts in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, - Thorin answered, obviously rejoicing that he had met understanding at least in this. - Has a detachment been assembled? Both yes and no. About two dozen of my kinsmen have already agreed, and noble Rogvold, son of Mstar, has done us the honor of accompanying us to Moria, as well as Folco, son of Hamfast. But we have not yet set either a definite date of departure or other preparations. However, I hope that we will succeed in penetrating Moria and finally finding out what is happening there.
- So Rogvold has decided to exchange the sword for a pickaxe? - the Steward smiled. - Well, that is good. His wise advice will always be useful to you. You will need money, weapons, tools - all this you can get here: money - in the treasury, everything else - in the arsenals. Trod, give orders! Honorable Thorin, you spoke of two dozen companions, but if volunteers are found among the Arnorians to keep you company, I will not object. Rogvold, you can apply directly to my guard - I am sure volunteers will be found.
- I thank the honorable Steward, - Thorin bowed. - Do not take my words for mistrust of your brave host, but men are not the best helpers in underground affairs. In Moria it will be necessary to succeed by skill, not by numbers. Here dwarves are needed.
- Well then, you know better, honorable Thorin, - the Steward did not argue. - I will give you safe-conduct through all Arnor. You will be given ponies, and horses, and wagons if needed. And yet, Thorin, departing, try to keep in touch with Annuminas. No one knows what awaits you in Moria, and men may be useful on the surface... I will not insist, however. So, the matter is decided. - He scribbled a few words on a small piece of parchment and gave it to the dwarf. - By this order you will be able to obtain everything necessary before departure, and then we shall meet again. Do you have any more questions for me?
- Listen! - Folco suddenly grew bold and immediately became embarrassed. - And forgive me... I only wanted to know if you have ever met such a man - a hunchback named Sandello? He participated in tournaments and took prizes at them.
A gloomy, unkind smirk suddenly appeared on the Steward's face, his gaze grew heavy.
- How do you know him? - Colorless eyes stared at Folco without blinking, but the young hobbit held firm.
- We met him by chance, on the road to Annuminas, - he answered as calmly as possible.
- So you met Sandello? - Cold sparks flashed in the Steward's motionless eyes, as if some long-forgotten events rose to the surface from the depths of memory. - Did you speak with him?
- No, I only learned his name and that he handles weapons excellently.
Folco managed with difficulty to maintain composure. The Steward nodded unhurriedly, pondering something.
- I know Sandello, - he answered. - Long ago he came to Annuminas as a very young man and unexpectedly for everyone took first prize in the swordsmen's tournament. We have an old custom - the victor is awaited by honorable service in the Arnor host, and Sandello, no doubt, counted on this. I spoke with him, he is from the south, from beyond the South Downs, orphaned early. Where he learned the art of combat is a mystery to me, although he assured that he figured it all out himself. I did not take the hunchback into the host. He thinks only of himself, the fate of his homeland does not concern him. He directly asked me how much salary he would get as the tournament winner. And also - in his youth (for I have not met him for a very long time) he seemed to me full of cold, scornful malice and envy. He is a great master, but that is not enough. Then he appeared in Annuminas several more times, won tournaments three more times in different years, proudly refusing prizes and money. He interested me, I will not hide, I love masters who have achieved perfection in some craft. But... - the Steward spread his hands. - He disappeared, and I do not know what and how he lived all this time. So I cannot completely satisfy your curiosity, honorable hobbit. And now it is time for us to part. Matters await me! - The Steward rose and barely noticeably inclined his head. - And you, Rogvold, do not forget me, I am soon planning to get out for a hunt - so wait, I will notify you. May the Seven Eternal Stars and the Bright Queen keep you!
The guard escorted the three friends to the outer wall.
The audience was ended, and in Folco's thoughts reigned complete confusion. What had their visit ended with? What truly important and urgent things had they managed to tell the Steward? He was not disturbed by the story of the dwerg, he calmly regarded the wraiths of the Barrow-downs as well! So why did they hurry to Annuminas, to whom was the information they brought needed?! Folco glanced sideways at Thorin. The experienced dwarf walked looking down at his feet. Rogvold, on the contrary, was cheerful and animated.
- Well, are you satisfied? I hope he reassured you?
- Reassured... - Thorin grumbled. - He is a master of talking, that's clear. But my soul is still uneasy. No, no, I don't want to say anything - help us, Durin, to deal with the bandits as soon as possible! But how does he not understand that the dwergs are only a link in some incomprehensible chain connecting many events together?
- It's not so simple here, - Rogvold objected. - What evidence do you have against the dwerg? Only the bad reputation of their tribe. But you can't draw serious conclusions from this! You say - they were sent to Isengard for orcs. But how do you know that your imaginary villain, thirsting for power, sent them?
- Can you offer another explanation? - Thorin squinted.
- Please. The dwerg was bribed and sent by the orcs themselves, who somehow survived in the north and are now looking for a quiet place. Isengard suits them quite well, besides, their tribesmen live there... What's wrong with that?
Thorin bit his lip.
- I believe we must always count on the worst and prepare for it! - said the dwarf and stubbornly bent his head.
- Then close the city gates tight, make the blacksmiths forge piles of weapons day and night, make everyone put on armor and take up swords, send all men and youths to the borders, start building defensive ramparts, turn the whole country into a huge military camp, - Rogvold spoke frowning, and anger was heard in his words. - After all, you call for preparing for the worst! So then we must resist with full might! Let's see what comes of this... People will grab axes because they are used to living humanly, being responsible for their work and doing it primarily. All measures must be justified.
- Do not twist my words, Rogvold! - Anger flashed in Thorin's dark eyes as well. - I would not like to quarrel with you so stupidly, but preparing for the worst in my mouth meant only not brushing off alarming news, but trying at least to verify it!
- The Steward has verified your words, do not doubt, - Rogvold said quietly and angrily, and was about to add something else, when the initially confused Folco rushed between the man and the dwarf standing face to face.
- Friends, what are you doing, what are you doing?! - Folco looked imploringly from below at one, then at the other. - What are you talking about? Come to your senses! Stop it! Enough!
Red as a lobster, Thorin was the first to sigh and avert his gaze. Rogvold also fell silent, lowering his eyes. An awkward silence ensued. It was felt that both the dwarf and the man were ashamed and uncomfortable.
- We probably all expected too much from this conversation, and each of us - his own thing, - Thorin finally squeezed out. - Forgive me, Rogvold, we both got heated.
- You have the right to think and act as you see fit, - Rogvold coldly shrugged his shoulders. - But, Thorin, son of Dart, if you want to preserve our friendship, beware henceforth of uttering unreasonable words about the Steward. They may cost you very dearly.
The huntsman stood with arms akimbo and chin proudly raised. Folco noticed with renewed alarm how the dwarf's cheekbones played and the color that had receded again flooded his cheeks.
- I again propose to end this stupid quarrel, honorable Rogvold, - the dwarf said conciliatorily, obviously overcoming himself. - As Gandalf the Grey used to say, our strife will only amuse Mordor.
The haughty face of the old huntsman softened - Thorin's good nature seemed to satisfy his somewhat naive old man's pride. He in turn extended his hand to the dwarf:
- It is good that you understood this, Thorin, son of Dart, - he said solemnly. - Let us forget our dispute, it will be better so. But what am I doing?! - He suddenly grabbed his head. - The time is already past noon! I must hurry home. Oddrun is waiting...
He hurriedly bowed and hastily strode away, sharply waving his left hand, very preoccupied and a little funny. The hobbit and the dwarf followed him with long gazes.
- How he has changed here, in the City, - Folco said with a sigh. - No, Thorin, in my opinion, people like him are better off wandering through forests.
- How do you know where he was real: now or then, on the border, helping me pull apart the fighters, - the dwarf grumbled gloomily. - All right, let's stop in somewhere, my throat has completely dried out.
And again weeks dragged on. The first December blizzards already howled over Annuminas. At night snow arrows beat against the windows, special teams of cleaners set about removing snow from the city streets. Folco mastered all the delights of snowball fights, where he invariably emerged victorious, thanks to his accurate eye; because of the cold he had to sew himself boots. The light day had already shortened to a few hours, Rogvold had already introduced them to the first volunteers who offered to go with them to Moria, and if necessary, further, when a strange story happened to Folco.
During the time spent in Annuminas, he found many shops where they traded various antiquities, and became their regular visitor. The traders knew him well and for a small fee sometimes allowed him to read this or that ancient book. Folco was especially interested in manuscripts relating to the history of the Elder Days, as well as to the times of the founding of the Arnor state. More often than others he visited a shop located two blocks from their dwelling, where from its owner, gloomy and taciturn, one could get the most ancient books;
he even had copies of documents from the archive left to the Great King by Elrond himself.
On that day, Folco, returning from work, began preparing for his next expedition to the bookshops and suddenly discovered with chagrin that the clasp on his warm cloak had disappeared who knows where. After several unsuccessful attempts to fasten the cloak on his shoulder with makeshift means, he suddenly remembered the brooch found in the forest. Without thinking long, he climbed into his knapsack, and his fingers immediately felt a small hard disc. He pulled out the brooch, glanced at it briefly, once again surprised by its complex, unfamiliar pattern, fastened the cloak with it, took his bag with writing materials and went out, firmly closing the door. Thorin was still sitting in his smithy, and the Kid, as always, was drinking beer in some tavern.
Shielding himself with his shoulder from strong gusts of prickly and cold wind mixed with hard dry snow, the hobbit reached the familiar narrow door without any incidents, above which, creaking on a chain, swayed a fancifully forged dragon.
In the shop reigned the usual semi-darkness, only slightly dispelled by several candles. Folco habitually greeted the owner, habitually laid the pre-prepared silver on the counter, the owner just as habitually handed him from the shelf a thick folio in wooden binding. When Folco accepted the book, it seemed to him that the owner's hands were trembling. However, the hobbit was looking at the book at that moment and therefore did not see the trader's face.
Having settled in the corner at his usual place near a small table, Folco threw off his cloak and, anticipating the never-boring pleasure, opened the book, immediately immersing himself in the complex vicissitudes of the internecine struggle in Arnor in the middle of the Third Age.
He did not notice how the shop owner cautiously approached him and bent to the hobbit's shoulder. The trader seemed very excited about something. He quickly and quietly muttered almost in the hobbit's very ear several indistinct, meaningless words, something like:
"Dale and the Heavenly Fire!" Folco tore himself from the yellowed pages and looked at the shopkeeper in surprise.
- What are you saying, honorable Arkhar? He flinched, and bewilderment appeared on his face.
- Where did you get this thing, honorable hobbit?
- Found it in the forest, - Folco answered briefly. - Why does this excite you so, honorable Arkhar?
- You see, honorable Folco, this is very rare work. You know, I collect rarities, and I just happen to have similar things to it. - He dived somewhere under the counter and soon appeared, holding in his hands a silver buckle with a similar pattern and a heavy large earring, bronze, with several such, only small, silver overlays. - This is a definite style, which has occupied me lately. Tell me, do you value it greatly? Would you not like to sell it to me? I would pay so much that you could buy, for example, the complete "Extracts of Gerlad, made by him from the elvish parchments presented to our lord, the Great King Elessar, by Elrond Half-elven, ruler of Rivendell"! Eh? Well, how about it?
Folco was taken aback. To possess this book had been his long-standing dream, the owner treasured it greatly and was proud of it. And suddenly he offers to give it in exchange for some clasp, even if a rare one.
Folco became alert and in the same second suddenly clearly understood that he would not give up the brooch. The decision came from who knows where and seemed absurd, but instinct prompted the hobbit not to rush to part with his forest find.
- Honorable Arkhar, I can hardly fulfill your request. After all, this thing is not mine, and the laws of the Shire forbid us to dispose of found things, to sell or exchange them. I still hope to find the owner of this brooch and return to him the lost property.
A strange smirk appeared on Arkhar's face.
- How will you find him?
- Very simply, - the hobbit answered, surprised at his own resourcefulness. - I will wear it on my clothes, and if anyone recognizes it, I will gladly return the lost property to the owner.
- And how will you know that you are not being deceived?
- Only the one who really lost it will be able to correctly name to me the place where I found it.
- Well then, honorable Folco, it's your business. I dare not insist, though it's a pity, of course. My offer remains in force, so as soon as you decide - you're most welcome. - The owner bowed and stepped aside.
Just at this time the door creaked and a new visitor entered the shop. Arkhar busied himself with him.
This case did not leave the hobbit's head for a long time. He told Thorin about it, and he approved his decision.
- You did right, Folco. If this thing is so necessary to him, then perhaps it will be useful to us too, - he remarked.
So ended this story, and then no one could yet suppose what an unexpected continuation it would have.
Chapter Eleven. "THE SCABBARD OF STRIDER"
December passed, the New Year came, January went by. Everything remained as before: Folco labored in the sweat of his face in the kitchen, Thorin - in the smithy, and - a surprising thing! - even the Kid took up sense. One day he begged Thorin to take him along and there surprised all the masters with his ability to chase and engrave. He covered an ordinary, common blade with such patterns and so quickly that the rumor of his skill spread through the weapon workshops of Annuminas. Soon in the evenings Thorin and Folco could observe how, whistling something softly, the Kid sat before the burning fireplace, having laid before himself on a block a long steel blade, and unhurriedly scraped with his wondrous instruments, which had been found somewhere at the very bottom of his bag.
As the weeks of the cold, very snowy winter passed, heaping in the yard snowdrifts to the full height of a tall man, more and more often dwarves whom Thorin had marked as future companions began to gather in their house. They came in twos and threes in the evenings, carefully covering their faces with hoods. Among them were: Dori and Hornbori, old Vyard, who had cast aside his fears, Singed Beard, otherwise Bran, the young dwarf Skidulf, the first to speak with Thorin on that memorable evening in Annuminas, three of Thorin's tribesmen from the Blue Mountains - Grani, Gimli and Tror; two Morians were also found - Gloin and Dvalin. Two future companions were from the north of the Misty Mountains - Balin and Stron. And one evening Hadobard suddenly appeared on the threshold of their house. Folco did not hear what Thorin, who had gone out to the entry, said to him, but when he returned, his face was gloomy and his eyes angry. Hadobard did not come again. Rogvold meanwhile found eleven hunters from among experienced rangers who had walked through forests, and mountains, and caves.
And finally came the day when Thorin, sighing with satisfaction, declared that the detachment was assembled. This happened already in the first days of February, when particularly fierce frosts crackled in Annuminas. The hobbit, unaccustomed to them, tried to go out onto the street as little as possible, and the Kid now gave him lessons at night, in the spacious tavern hall. It must be said that the hobbit proved to be a capable student and quickly mastered the complex science thanks to his natural dexterity and quickness. Folco also did not forget his bow, and the throwing knives did not rust without use.
All winter they with Thorin and the Kid eagerly caught every new report from beyond the borders, however often these reports turned out to be ordinary gossip, one could trust only what Rogvold told them.
The cold and deep snows did not allow heavy cavalry to roam through the forests in search of bandits, however the frosts also served a good turn, driving some gangs out of secret forest refuges. Several times they fell into ambushes arranged by the host, and then on the main square of Annuminas with a great gathering of people public executions of chieftains were performed, stained by many murders and robberies. The hobbit was nauseated at the very thought of this, and on such days he tried to burrow deeper under the blanket so as not to see or hear anything.
But on the Angmar border, instead of the usual mounted crossbowmen, there appeared swift, flying detachments of skiers (Folco could not understand for a long time what skis were - they were not known in his homeland), appearing and disappearing like night phantoms. Opposing them turned out to be much harder - they skillfully applied false retreats and sudden strikes from ambushes. The struggle in the northeast went with varying success.
Closer to winter the dwarves in the city decreased - many dispersed to their native mountains, only those who had nowhere to go remained. Everyone eagerly caught any rumor about Morian affairs: however instead of this came news of clashes in the East between the dwarves of the Iron Hills and an unknown short people who came from somewhere in the east. The newcomers took a liking to the well-appointed underground dwellings of the dwarves, and without long conversations began war. Inside, of course, they could not break through, the dwarves easily repelled their attempts to make undermining, but the attackers surrounded the Iron Hills with a dense ring and began to intercept caravans with provisions directed there from Esgaroth, and part rushed west, bypassing the Lonely Mountain from the north. The threat of famine hung over the Iron Hills.
A month and a half passed in agonizing waiting. Thorin walked beside himself, the Annuminas dwarves were already talking about the need to gather a militia, when a messenger from beyond the Misty Mountains brought joyful news. The dwarves of the Lonely Mountain came to the aid of their brothers together with the men of Esgaroth, Dale and other cities included in the kingdom of the Archers. Not withstanding the blow of the united hosts, the enemies fled somewhere beyond the Sea of Rhun; their army, which had broken through between the Grey Mountains and the Forest, disappeared without a trace. The dwarves sighed with relief.
- Yes, in the East they have not yet forgotten which end to take a sword by, - Thorin remarked, having listened to this story.
On one of the clear days at the end of March, when the sun, already descending toward the horizon, shone with all its might over the city, Folco wandered into a distant part of the North Side, where he had never been before. It cannot be said that this part of the City was worse than others, but the difference in prosperity was still felt. And the houses were painted not so carefully, and there were fewer decorations on them, and there was not such cleanliness as in the center. People were dressed more poorly, and the food in taverns was noticeably worse.
He passed several alleys, and then, to shorten his path, went along a narrow path laid along back yards. The quarter was greatly elongated, going around it would take too much time, and the hobbit again, as near the burned village, decided to go straight.
He had already gone quite far into the depths of the quarter when he was as if struck, forced to freeze and hastily fall flat, not paying attention to the liquid mud underfoot. He heard quiet, barely audible singing coming from the yard of a house standing somewhat apart. This singing he could not confuse with anything - he had already heard it in the night approaching Bree, when he and Thorin hid in the roadside ditch, and across the road, going into the depths of the Barrow-downs, walked the Black Company!
All trembling from unprecedented excitement, he cautiously crept up to the fence lined with some bushes. Soon he was lucky to find a crack through which he could see the whole yard.
In the middle of the space enclosed by walls and fence, near several apple trees forlornly spreading their branches, people sat in a circle on the ground. A small bonfire was unable to dispel the evening gloom, and the hobbit could not make out their faces. Sitting cross-legged, they slowly drew out a mournful song in an unknown language.
One of those sitting rose, unhurriedly thrust his hand into the depths of his immense cloak and extracted from there a small box. The singing became noticeably quieter, but in it now especially clearly were heard both longing, and malice, and a call, and an unkind hope. The man with the box opened it and placed it on a dark mound next to the dying bonfire. Those sitting, as if on command, all at once extended their hands toward it, leaning forward with the most sincere faith and supplication. The song fell silent, several seconds silence reigned, and then the top of the mound was suddenly illuminated, and Folco shuddered. He saw a small triangular object resembling a pyramid of a well-known ghostly white color, which was impossible to confuse for one who had been in the heart of the Barrow-downs. The hobbit's guess immediately received another confirmation. With new force sounded the ominous singing, and in time with it the white pyramid changed color to blood-red, the edges flared with bright crimson-ruddy lines. There remained no doubt - before Folco was a piece of the Deceitful Stone! Those sitting suddenly jumped to their feet, picking up from the ground weapons not noticed by him earlier - short, thick swords and curved daggers. The men whirled around the flickering scarlet fire, throwing high the crimson-flashing blades.
However, the flickering of the Stone soon faded, and immediately the dancers stopped as well. They again dropped to their knees, extending their hands to the extinguished fire, and then, as if taking something from the air with a handful, pressed their cupped palms to their faces. One of them finally rose and hid the amazing Stone, the rest immediately disappeared behind one of the doors opening onto the yard.
Having stood a little longer, Folco also climbed out of the bushes, looked back several times, wanting to better remember this house, and at full speed rushed home. Calling the guard is pointless - he must see Thorin as soon as possible!
The dwarves, gradually changing in face, listened to the confused story of the breathless hobbit and immediately grabbed their weapons.
- Kid, quickly for Rogvold!.. Though no, wait, by the time you explain what's what, we'll manage to dig seven shafts... All right, let's try ourselves!
With these words Thorin rushed into the street, after him, fastening his dagger on the run, the Kid rushed. Folco sighed and followed them. On the way they picked up Dori and Bran, who lived nearby, and already the five of them hurried to the North Side.
Folco unerringly found the suspicious house.
- Are you absolutely sure? - Thorin doubted. - Everything is quiet... And it doesn't differ from the neighboring ones in anything.
Instead of answering, Folco dived into the bushes near the fence and without special efforts found the notches left by his knife. Thorin nodded with satisfaction.
- Who lives here? - asked Bran, catching his breath, adjusting the axe at his belt. - Werewolves?
- No, - Thorin whispered in response. - Those whom we saw in the Barrow-downs...
- Oh, we'll have fun! - Dori hissed predatorily, with an imperceptible movement pulling out his shining axe, taken despite the prohibition. - I've missed action, waited almost all my life.
- All right, we'll do it this way, - Thorin cut him off. - Folco and the Kid and I are climbing over the fence now, we'll look on the ground. You and Bran will cover us in case of what.
The Kid's nimble hands in one moment tore off several boards, and Thorin was the first to crawl inside. Folco, all trembling from the combat excitement that had seized him - he was afraid of nothing, after all, friends were nearby! - moved after him. Everything went quietly, no one noticed them.
- Where did this thing stand? - Thorin whispered, turning to the hobbit crawling behind. - There's also some bonfire here...
They crawled slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible and carefully feeling the ground with their hands. The Kid was the first to find something - he suddenly briefly gasped and began to call his friends.
- Quiet you! - Thorin hissed at him. - Found something - well done, we'll look later. With your puffing you'll raise half the city!
On the mound the hobbit's sensitive fingers caught a small, barely noticeable to the touch triangular depression. Thorin ran his palm over it several times and sighed.
- Yes, there's something... Well, let's now rummage around. Yes, and which door did they go into? Second from the right? Let's look now. Hey, Kid, crawl after me, and you, Folco, stay here. We'll be right back...
Folco froze, looking into the darkness with wide open eyes in despair. Not daring to disobey the order, he painfully gripped the bow he had prudently brought with him and was already figuring out how he would send an arrow into the head of the first enemy to jump out of the door, when suddenly not far from him rustling sounded and the Kid and Thorin appeared.
- Interesting matters, - Thorin reported. - This is quite a large barn, it stands separately. We walked around it in a circle, but all the doors are locked with external bolts! The Kid managed to look inside - it's dark there, but still - empty! There's no one there!
- Maybe they moved to the house? - the hobbit suggested.
- I don't think so, - Thorin answered. - We crawled to the path. It's all trampled by heavy boots, but still it's clear that they walked not toward the house, but toward the outer gate! Looks like they're gone! So let's rummage some more, and then... Then we'll drop in on a visit to the local owners!
They again set about ironing the wet earth around the trampled mound. Suddenly the hobbit's fingers, already accustomed to the cold and wetness, landed in something soft, dry and still warm. Folco understood that he had stumbled upon the bonfire. He was about to turn aside when he felt something hard and flat. The hobbit called out to the dwarf in a whisper:
- Thorin! There's something here in the ashes!
He had already understood that he had felt a small knife, the length of his palm, with a simple handle - under his fingers it seemed completely smooth - and very sharp. A few moments later he found two more such knives in the ashes.
After several unsuccessful attempts to make out anything in the darkness surrounding them, Thorin cursed in a whisper and finally told the hobbit and the Kid to cover him with their backs and the folds of their clothing, quickly struck a spark and lit one of the tarred wicks always with him. In the trembling light of the small torch they were able to properly examine the find.
There was no doubt - they held in their hands exact copies of those swords that had been left at the large bonfire in the Barrow-downs. Thorin ran the blade across his sleeve, brought the fire closer - and they saw the same mysterious stamp with a broken line resembling a ladder viewed from the side. Thorin spat angrily and extinguished the torch.
- And are there any bones there? - he said quietly and himself extended his hand to the bonfire.
His search was short. Soon his fist was full of charred broken bones. Had to light the wick again, and now the hobbit, acting as an expert, determined that these were bird bones, most likely - chicken.
- For complete happiness we now lack only those in gray, - the dwarf hissed in Folco's ear. - All right, there's nothing more to do here, we know the most important thing. And now - let's go back, put ourselves in order and visit the house.
They still crawling got out. The neat Thorin even hammered back into place with the handle of his mace the previously torn-out nails.
Together with Dori and Bran waiting for them, they strode around. Soon they found themselves at the door of the house, lopsided, in some places dried out, the windows were dark, and only in one, under the very roof, a barely noticeable dim light faintly glimmered. The friends somehow cleaned off the mud stuck to their clothes, concealed their weapons under cloaks, and Thorin, approaching the door, knocked strongly and confidently.
Contrary to their expectations, the door was immediately opened. In the darkness behind it in the air floated a candlestick with a burning candle supported by an invisible hand. The hand belonged to a short, thin figure wrapped in a cloak, which stood motionless, silently looking at Thorin.
- We beg the pardon of the honorable owners, - Thorin began, - we need someone who stopped with you in the barn...
- They left, - came the impassive answer, and Folco could not understand whether this voice belonged to a man or woman and how old its possessor was.
- They left not so long ago, - the voice continued meanwhile. - They stopped here for a few days while trading in the City...
- And where they are from, you don't happen to know? - the dwarf asked as if nothing had happened.
- How should I know... - The voice of the respondent trembled slightly from a hidden smirk. - I sometimes let overnight to my place those who have no money for a hotel in the center. And I am not interested in their names, as long as they have paid the fee and obtained permission to trade.
- How long were they with you? - the dwarf persisted.
- Three days.
In the voice was heard neither surprise nor irritation. It seemed it had always been so, happened so often that the owners of this house had grown accustomed to giving such answers to anyone who out of the blue was interested in their lodgers in the middle of the night. Thorin sighed and bit his lip.
- And what kind of people? What language did they speak, how were they dressed?
Thorin as if casually pushed inside with his mighty shoulder.
- And who are you yourselves? City guard? But since when must citizens of the Reunited Kingdom give account to dwarves?!
The figure quite rudely pushed Thorin away, and the dwarf, not expecting this, gave way slightly back. This was enough for the door to slam shut before their noses with a thud; a muffled voice sounded:
- If you try to break in - we'll answer with arrows! After a brief consultation the dwarves considered it best to retreat, especially since they had already learned the most important thing. But on the way back Folco persuaded them to climb into the yard again and bury deeper in the ground the knives found at the bonfire.
They walked back in silence. Dori was eager to raise all the familiar dwarves and consign this snake's nest to the flames, and he was restrained with difficulty.
- We learned enough as it is, - Thorin calmed him. - People of the Black Companies have access to the City. Who they are is not so important. They serve the Evil of the Elder Days, which means we must again take up axes.
This evening in Annuminas turned out to be cheerless. Less than two weeks remained until the day of departure, and here such matters! The Kid, sent for Rogvold, dragged the huntsman out of bed, not paying attention to the cursing of the enraged Oddrun. The former centurion listened to their story and grabbed his head.
- Tomorrow I'll go to the Steward, - he said through his teeth. - This is too much! Well, never mind. We'll strengthen the guard, we won't allow this filth to walk unpunished through our capital! Did you remember the house? They'll deal with it immediately.
- Bran stayed there, - Thorin inserted.
- Reasonable, very reasonable, - Rogvold nodded. - I'll go right now to the city guard, let them cordon off the house. No one will be able to slip away!
However, morning brought the friends only disappointments. Thorin, the Kid and Folco were raised from bed by an angry and sleepless Rogvold. Entering, he angrily tore off his cloak and, crumpling it, threw it into the corner.
- There was found one half-blind old woman, the widow of a small trader, - the huntsman began gloomily. - She indeed rents out the barn and rooms in the house to visitors. That evening two asked her for lodging, dressed very simply, of short stature. She says they sailed from across the lake in a boat. According to her, all their fees were in order, and she accepted them. And now, - the huntsman smirked, - she thanks the Almighty Stars that she didn't refuse them! At night, she says, someone was breaking into the doors, thank them, they said: "Sit, mother, we'll sort it out ourselves," and then downstairs one of those breaking in roared with an inhuman voice. She was terrified!.. And then these unknown two say to her: "We'll go for the guard." And left. We come, and she says to us: "How good! Did my guests send you?" I didn't let on, nodded. She knows nothing and saw nothing. A strange sort of old woman. However, she's known in the City... In short, they led you around by the nose, friends!
- Well, what can be done, - Thorin grumbled, - we can't sit in Annuminas now until the end of time tracking down these scoundrels! There's work up to our necks. Only very little remains until departure, ponies not bought, carts not repaired, provisions not packed... Rogvold, try somehow to hammer into the heads of the local guards not to just confiscate axes from dwarves!
After all the experienced worries it was necessary to properly wet the throat and fortify oneself with something more abundant, and in the evening of the same day Thorin, the Kid and Folco sat in a cozy small tavern not far from the city gates under the sonorous name "The Scabbard of Strider." According to the Kid's assertion, which no one could dispute by virtue of his great experience, the best beer in Annuminas was served here. The hall of "The Scabbard" was elongated in length, under the windows wide benches; on them dozed several people, wrapped in well-worn, shabby cloaks. There were few people: four - at the long table in the middle, at which the three friends also sat, and several - at small tables along the blank wall. Folco had already noticed that in almost all the taverns of Annuminas, besides large common tables, stood several smaller ones so that those wishing could converse more calmly.
They sat, occasionally exchanging short phrases. The dwarves soaked their beards in thick snow-white foam. Folco savored the beer in small sips. The Kid was not mistaken - here they indeed served the best beer in Annuminas! The evening dragged on peacefully, and even the worriedly drawn eyebrows of Thorin, who had darkened, began to gradually part.
Not far from them at a small table near the wall sat two talking men. Folco's gaze, wandering absent-mindedly through the hall, glided for a long time, not stopping anywhere, until it stumbled upon this pair. It's hard to say what attracted his attention, however he felt a sudden and unpleasant chill in his chest, immediately reminding him of what was experienced in the Barrow-downs. He became alert and began to look more closely.
The hobbit did not see their faces: one sat with his back to him, the face of the second was hidden by the figure of the first. He had long, completely gray hair, a gray doublet was trimmed on top with a simple white collar. Noticeably stooped shoulders betrayed his age, and the brownish wrinkled hand of the right hand lying on the tablecloth with a modest silver bracelet on the wrist also spoke of advanced years. Near his chair stood a black cane leaning against the table. Judging by everything, this was a townsman, elderly, quite prosperous; and also, looking more closely, Folco saw a barely noticeable black spot between his fingers on his right hand - this meant that he had to write a lot.
About the second man Folco could say even less. He sat motionless, the corner of the tavern counter hid his face from the light of the burning hearth, and Folco could make out only a not-long dark-brown beard and falling on shoulders the same smooth hair. The table before them was set with plates and saucers, and they drank not beer but Gondorian red wine.
The two visitors sitting not far from the pair that interested Folco rose and went to pay. Gradually those speaking raised their voices somewhat, and their conversation became audible to the hobbit. The brown-bearded one was speaking:
- I thank you for all that you have told me, honorable Theophrastus. Conversations with you have helped me greatly, but it seems to me you are still not quite right. I know, in your life you have written, of course, more books than I have had occasion to read, but I swear by the steps of the Great Ladder (Folco shuddered), - don't be afraid, ladders can lead to the sky as well, - he added, slightly softening his voice and placing his hand on the elderly man's shoulder. - But you wrote your books without leaving the limits of this City, and I, one way or another, had to wander a great deal and learn that in the boundless green steppes and forests of Rhun to this day are sung songs about the daredevils who fell under the walls of Minas Tirith, and across the plains of Harad every year stretch files of warriors to bow to the Black Rock on which are carved in gold the names of chieftains who fought under the leadership of the Pale King on the Pelennor Fields!
Folco did not see the speaker's face, he heard only his voice, soft but resilient, full of hidden strength: in it sounded the experience of lived years. The voice attracted with the mighty impulse heard in it, but Folco was taken aback when the meaning of what was said reached his consciousness.
"What's he like, for the Black Lord or something? - the hobbit thought in confusion. - What is he saying?!"
He nudged Thorin with his elbow and when the dwarf turned to him, put a finger to his lips and showed with a glance at the interlocutors, simultaneously lightly touching his ear with his hand. Thorin understood, became alert and also began to listen to the conversation.
- But all the peoples you mentioned went into battle obeying an alien will hostile to all Middle-earth, they went for booty, went to burn and rob, - objected to the brown-bearded one he who was called Theophrastus.
His voice was muffled, calm, and its tone - somewhat condescending. He took a sip of wine, and under the white collar flashed the gold of a precious chain worn around his neck.
- Will? - the brown-bearded one answered with a smirk. - Any will, whether alien or one's own, if it leads men to deeds worthy of this name or even to glorious death, is in any case right. And as for booty? You know no worse than I, who have been there, that the forests of Rhun are immeasurably rich in beast and bird, and their horses are not inferior to those that graze on the plains of Rohan. The rivers of Harad carry more gold than all the dwarves of Middle-earth can mine! And this alien will did not take from them either nobility or pride. I have been both there and there, I shared roof and food with them - both in the forests and in the foothills, and with the men I met there I would boldly go into any, even the last, battle. There are many worthy people there! And even among the Dunlendings, who seem to have forgotten their old disputes with Rohan, I met men who despise those who accepted life from the hands of the victors, who begged for mercy in the battle at the walls of Hornburg, and at the same time - their descendants as well.
- What are you saying?! They brought death and destruction, the doom of the freedom of the West, killed the innocent, the defenseless, sparing neither women, nor children, nor the elderly!
Theophrastus leaned back in the back of his chair, surprise was heard in his voice.
- Forgive me, honorable teacher, but now your words are simply laughable to me. War is cruel - this truth is old as the world. Who, if not you, the most famous chronicler of Middle-earth, should know that bloody scores between peoples go back into the depths of ages. It did not begin with us - it will not end with us.
The voice of the brown-bearded one became colder and harder.
- But they initially fought for an unrighteous cause.
They wanted to put an end to the brightest thing in Middle-earth, to its great wonder - the Firstborn Elves, who never caused men harm!
- Elves? This living singing immortality? They are alien to us in their very essence. Yes, they are the Firstborn, but who gave them the right to dispose of our fates, the fates of entire peoples?! They threw us crumbs of their great knowledge, as we throw a dog a bone during a rich feast!
The voice of the brown-bearded one filled with long-restrained anger, he almost broke into a shout.
- Come to your senses, they have so many times fought hand in hand with men, saving Middle-earth from the dominion of the Enemy! Remember my stories about the Elder Days!
- But even then the outcome of the war was decided by men. This struggle was above all a struggle of men, and you yourself told me that on the Pelennor Fields men fought with men.
- But to fight against elves - this is to deprive us of the great knowledge leaving with them!
Theophrastus was stunned, shocked and only weakly resisted. The voice of the brown-bearded one was now filled with iron, unshakable confidence and equally unshakable will. He answered, slowly dropping words:
- Sooner or later men will take all this knowledge themselves, by their own labor. We do not need handouts!
- Your heart is hardened, - Theophrastus sighed sadly.
- Perhaps, - the brown-bearded one answered, cooling down and lowering his voice. - But it hardened looking at the world of Middle-earth choking from the satiety gifted to us by the elves!
- I cannot agree with you... How then to be with other peoples inhabiting our world? How to be with these good-natured dwarves? Look, this magnificent grating near the fireplace - their work! And as for Durin's beard with which they decorated it, after all every people has the right to its own legends and traditions.
The voice of the brown-bearded one warmed.
- You are right, they are not a bad people, especially if they exchange the pickaxe for a battle-axe!
At these words Thorin perked up and whispered in Folco's ear:
- He speaks well of dwarves! He understands us! A rare case!
Meanwhile the brown-bearded one continued:
- However, we still feed them! In a hungry year a sack of gold is cheaper than a sack of wheat, and I haven't heard that they've learned to grow bread in the underground! Dwarves can live only together with us, men, and now it depends on us how their fate turns.
The entrance door creaked, and two warriors of the city guard in their usual white-and-blue cloaks entered the hall. They were in helmets and with swords and seemed to be looking for someone, examining the guests sitting in the hall. Suddenly one of them nudged his comrade with his elbow, pointing with his chin at the table where Theophrastus and the brown-bearded one sat. Theophrastus was trying to hotly explain something to his interlocutor leaning back in his chair, when the warriors quite unceremoniously intervened in their conversation. One of them stood behind Theophrastus, the other approached the brown-bearded one from the right.
- Honorable sirs, we are forced to temporarily interrupt the smooth flow of your conversation, - began the warrior standing next to the brown-bearded one. - We must ask one of you some questions. Listen, stranger, is this your horse standing at the hitching post, dappled gray, under a brown saddle with a red pommel?
- Of course it's mine, since I came on it, - the brown-bearded one answered calmly, not moving.
- Then why... - the guard began. Suddenly the brown-bearded one made one lightning movement, throwing back his chair. Over the table laden with food flashed a fist encased in a plate gauntlet, and the unlucky warrior fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Before anyone could understand anything, the second guard, who had overturned the table and lunged at the brown-bearded one, suddenly staggered, clutched his head, groaned and slowly sank to the floor - some person who had been dozing on the bench until then had accurately hit him in the face with a heavy pot standing near him. The thrower rushed to the door, his cloak swung open from the swift movement, and Folco recognized in this man the hunchback Sandello with mixed feelings of amazement and horror.
At the door the hunchback hesitated for a moment, but only to let the brown-bearded one pass ahead of him. They disappeared, and from the yard came shouts, the clang of weapons, then sounded the quickly fading in the distance clatter of hooves. Those lying on the benches rose, someone sat up, some only opened their eyes. A crowd of armed warriors burst into the hall, rushing to lift their wounded comrades. One of them, apparently the senior, helped raise the elderly chronicler knocked from his chair.
- What! - the senior exclaimed, barely glancing at the old man's face. - Is it possible?! Honorable Theophrastus! I really couldn't have thought that for writing your chronicles you would need the company of this horse thief. About all this you will have to give a detailed report to the head of the guard Skilbad. And for the future I would like to warn you against unreasonable acquaintances! - He turned to the warrior knocked down by the brown-bearded one. - So what happened here, Fritz? How could you disgrace yourself so?!
- Captain... - the one called Fritz wheezed pleadingly and spat blood. - I am to blame... But who could know?
- All right! - the captain cut him off. - You'll tell Skilbad everything. Let's go, guys! And you, honorable one, - he again turned to Theophrastus, still gasping and holding his side, - let this story serve as a good lesson to you! And remember - the day after tomorrow you will have to appear before Skilbad. And for now, farewell!
The captain swiftly left, the rest of the guards tramped after him. The frightened visitors, including those who had dozed by the wall, hastened to clear out. In the emptied tavern remained only the uncomprehending owner, the rumpled chronicler, and the three friends.
Folco sat completely stunned and confused.
"Sandello is in the city! - he reasoned feverishly. - Sandello is together with the brown-bearded one! Does he not serve him?! Probably the old man knows the brown-bearded one! He must not be let go!"
- Thorin, this old man!..
- Right. I thought of that myself.
Without agreeing, the friends approached Theophrastus, still sitting, powerlessly hunched and rubbing his bruised side.
- We see you are unwell, honorable one. - Thorin tried to put as much respectfulness as possible into these words. - Perhaps you need help with something? May we escort you home?
Theophrastus raised to them a pale face seamed with wrinkles, on which stood out deep-set black eyes, sharp and attentive, not having lost with years their luster and meaningfulness.
- May the Great Stars bless you, - he answered weakly. - I always knew that you dwarves are a noble people... Yes, please, escort me. It's hard for me to walk...
Thorin and the Kid supported the old chronicler from both sides, Folco walked ahead, holding Theophrastus's bag and his staff. The old man groaned at every step, but gradually cheered up and could somehow answer the first questions of the dwarf and the hobbit.
- Yes, O noble dwarves and no less noble hobbit, my name is Theophrastus, son of Argeleb, and I am the court chronicler of the Northern Crown. For many years I have been collecting information scattered through ancient books on the history of Middle-earth, I also keep annual records about everything that happens in Arnor - I question witnesses, collect stories and enter all this into chronicles, copies of which are sent to Minas Tirith, to the King himself. I also carry out other researches by his orders. Now to the right, please, and at that corner - to the left. Oh-oh, this is unfortunate for me...
They stopped near a neat two-story house in one of the quiet alleys not far from the Main Street. The house was painted light brown, on the bushes that had grown in the front garden buds were already beginning to swell. On the way, however, they spoke little, and when the old man began to shower thanks, standing on his porch, Thorin said, lowering his voice:
- Honorable one, we are very interested in this whole story. Allow us to come and talk with you. Perhaps you will learn something new from our stories.
- Well, - Theophrastus answered, - the doors of my house are always open to those wishing to acquire knowledge and understand events, as well as to those who themselves want to tell me something. Come tomorrow evening, I will be waiting for you. And for now - I need to lie down in order to come to myself after this whole story...
They bowed low to the old man, and he, answering their bow, disappeared behind the door. They slowly descended from the porch and set off on the return journey, on the way somehow fending off the attacks of the Kid who understood nothing and furiously demanded explanations. Explaining to him the essence of what happened, the friends did not notice how they got home. Thorin set about lighting the fireplace. The Kid went for water, and Folco went to the tavern. The owner immediately rushed to him:
- Folco, help me out! All your sauce is finished, and here some company from the South turned up, demands only it, threatens to smash the whole tavern! - The owner was pale and frightened. - I already promised them that you, when you come, will make it... Do me a favor, Folco!
The hobbit sighed and agreed.
About an hour he fussed until he prepared his signature seasoning, and when it was carried into the hall, the not very peaceful hum of voices resounding there immediately fell silent. Folco took a breath, took off his apron and went to wash his hands.
- Wait, where are you going, Folco? - the owner who had suddenly emerged from somewhere stopped him. - These southerners there swallowed their tongues and now demand to be shown this craftsman! - The recently pale face of the tavern-keeper now shone. - Come on, come on, it's not right, no need to hide, let them know our people!
The tavern-keeper almost by force dragged the resisting hobbit into the common hall. In its corner, at several tables pushed together, sat about ten or twelve sturdy men, swarthy from the summer tan that remained, in short leather jackets. Their hair, unlike most Arnorians, was cut short. They greeted Folco with unanimous shouts of approval. One of them, tall, hook-nosed, black-bearded, but still quite young, rose from his place and approached Folco, peering at him inquiringly with penetrating gray eyes.
- We thank you, honorable master, for your skill, - he said, slightly inclining his head. - Now we see that mastery does not depend on height!
He spoke with an accent unfamiliar to the hobbit, sometimes placing stresses on the first syllables of words. Folco blushed with pleasure and mumbled something indistinct in response.
- I and my comrades, as a sign of our gratitude, ask you to accept this. - He extended to the hobbit an open palm on which lay a large silver coin such as the hobbit had never seen before. - Take it, we give it from a pure heart.
The hook-nosed one again inclined his head. Folco timidly extended his hand and took the heavy, pleasantly pulling disc. His eyes were struck by the strange calluses on the stranger's palm - two straight long ridges stretching strictly across. Folco tried to guess what occupation such marks could indicate, but failed.
The black-bearded one meanwhile nodded to him once more and made some sign to his companions. They rose from their places together and headed for the doors, their hook-nosed leader strode after them.
Folco climbed to the owner with questions, but the tavern-keeper could say nothing: neither who these people were, nor where they came from. In conversation with him they called themselves southerners, and that was the only thing he knew about them. Folco had nothing left to do but return home and tell Thorin this whole story.
- So you too are becoming famous, brother hobbit, - the dwarf joked in response. - What are you dissatisfied with? Be proud! I would jump to the ceiling with joy in your place.
- Thorin, what could such calluses be from? - Folco ran his finger across his palm.
The dwarf thought, and then shook his head:
- That can be from turning something in the hand. But who they are - I don't understand... Yes, by the way, what did he give you?
Folco handed his friend the coin. Thorin stared at it intently for a minute without raising his eyes, and when he finally raised them, Folco was struck by the change that had occurred in him - the dwarf's mouth was painfully twisted, tears stood in his eyes. A heavy, mournful sigh escaped from Thorin's chest. The stunned Folco was speechless, not knowing what to say and how to comfort his friend; Thorin spoke himself, occasionally wiping his nose with his sleeve and bashfully lowering his eyes:
- I know this coin... I would recognize it out of a thousand, and how not to recognize it if I myself made this notch on it and myself punched the hole when I gave it to my friend Terwin, who disappeared without a trace four years ago! I have preserved from my ancestors this old skill of the last Dunedain. I treasured it, and when we parted, I gave it to Terwin, who was going to Erebor. Now I know for certain that he did not disappear without a trace, but was killed! - The dwarf furiously struck his fist on the table. - This coin could only be taken from him along with his life! Quickly to the city gates, perhaps we can still intercept them!
However, at the gates a bitter disappointment awaited them. The unknown men were not going to linger in the hospitable capital of the Northern Crown. According to one of the guards, quite recently a detachment of horsemen had left the City, matching the description of those Folco met in the tavern, and at a trot went south.
- They all had spare horses, and not one each, - the warrior added. - You can't catch them, you've missed your chance...
The dwarf gnashed his teeth and squatted, covering his face with his palms. Folco helplessly trampled nearby.
However, Thorin was not for nothing reputed to be one of the bravest and most stubborn dwarves among his tribesmen from the Blue Mountains. Despair could not long possess him, and when a moment later he straightened, neither grief nor despair was noticeable in his gaze - only his thick eyebrows, slightly singed by the forge flame, came together even closer. He was calm and resolute.
- No time to give way to weakness, - he said gloomily. - I have a strange feeling now - I will yet avenge my friend, I am somehow sure of this. Away with sad thoughts! To work, brother hobbit, Moria awaits us, and tomorrow - this old chronicler...
Chapter Twelve. THE OLD CHRONICLER
In the second half of the next day the inseparable trio set off for Theophrastus's house. Spring more confidently entered into its rights - over the city spread a dazzlingly blue heavenly vault without a single cloud, and the bright sun generously poured on the world straightening after the winter cold streams of life-giving warmth. Along the pavements here and there muddy streams still ran; blackened, settled snowdrifts still lay under fences and in shady places, but spring had still come, and with it - hope for the better.
Folco merrily squinted, turning his face to the warm rays; the Kid carelessly whistled, and Thorin at times even hummed something. Folco occasionally glanced at his comrade in surprise - where had the hopeless despair that seized him at the city gates gone?
Passing along the Main Street, at Thorin's request they turned into a large money-changing shop. Having waited until the next visitor exchanged his silver for bright Annuminas gold, Thorin respectfully addressed the important, pot-bellied money-changer, extending to him on an open palm Terwin's coin:
- O worthy one, we need your help and your advice. Look at this coin. Tell me, have you encountered similar ones? Or perhaps this very one accidentally passed through your hands? Look at it more carefully - it is distinctive.
The sleepy face of the money-changer did not change when he lazily took the coin extended by Thorin, but his eyes, small, slightly swollen, but very sharp and attentive, bored into the coin like two small augers. He spoke slowly, turning the silver disc before his eyes:
- An old skilding from the times of Arachorn II. A rare, very rare thing in our time. The coin is indeed distinctive - it has a hole in the form of a seven-pointed star and graffiti... No, honorable dwarf, I can say for certain - this thing did not pass through my shop, nor through other money-changing offices of the City either. I would know, believe me. And in general the thing is, of course, very interesting. The Dunedain had unusually pure silver - such is rare now. They weighed it so accurately that even in my father's time in the best shops of the city these coins served as a measure of weight for precious metal. And also the masters of that time added to the alloy white silver, which was once brought by dwarves from beyond the eastern mountains.
- Mithril? - asked the Kid, who had been listening avidly to the speaker.
- Mithril? - The money-changer smirked slightly. - Then it would not have been possible to make this hole in it. Mithril, my good dwarf, is valued much higher than gold, and if there were even a tenth part of it here, with this coin one could buy half the city. No, this was also a very durable metal, giving the coin hardness and resistance to wear. Yes, - he extended the coin to Thorin with visible regret, - the thing is, of course, not ordinary. They have now completely disappeared from circulation and remained only in collections. Would you not like to exchange it for current coin? I would add to the twelve and a third full-weight trialons of face value another six and a half for the purity of the silver and three and a quarter - for rarity. You won't get more in any shop, I swear by the scales and scissors!
- No, honorable one, we do not intend to either sell or exchange it. - Thorin hid the coin in his bosom. - This is a memory of my deceased friend, and showing it to you, I hoped that perhaps it would be possible to find some lead... Sorry it didn't work out.
- Such a distinctive coin no one would exchange, especially in the capital, - the money-changer smiled. - They would rather try to secretly sell it to some lover of antiquities. I would advise you to visit Arkhar - his shop is not far from the "Horn of Arachorn" tavern.
Folco bit his lip and remembered what was said. Having thanked the fat money-changer disappointed by the refusal, the friends left the shop and strode further, toward the modest house of the old chronicler.
Thorin struck three times with the door knocker on the resonant bronze gong fastened to the left of the door. After a short time steps sounded in the depth of the house, the door swung open, and they saw standing on the threshold a slender girl, almost a child, in modest dark clothing. Her only ornament was a golden ribbon pulling together her lush light-brown hair.
Thorin coughed from surprise, but the girl spoke herself:
- The master is waiting for you in the study. Leave cloaks, bags, as well as knives and axes in the hallway. Nothing will happen to them here. In our house it is not customary to walk with weapons.
Having said this, she took a step aside, freeing the way, and they entered a spacious, somewhat gloomy room with walls covered with thick brown wood. Along one of them stretched a long rack with many boar tusks arranged at all levels, so that any guest could choose one suitable for his height and hang a cloak or caftan.
The Kid and Thorin, reluctantly, grunting and biting their lips, hung on the tusks their baldrics - Thorin with mace and morningstar, the Kid - with sword and dagger. Folco, however, put his knives under his jacket, as he always did in Annuminas - the hobbit was accustomed to weapons and, finding himself without them, felt uncomfortable.
The dwarves finally sorted out their armament, and the girl made an inviting gesture with her hand, heading for the stairs.
"It's like in the room of the Old Took in their main estate, - Folco thought abstractedly, following his friends. - Here, it seems, nothing has changed for long-long years."
The staircase did not even creak under the weight of the stocky dwarves. They climbed to the second floor, which at first glance turned out to be an exact copy of the first - the same spacious room, the same six identical doors on both sides, and only instead of the entrance door Folco saw a wide window occupying the whole wall. The sun was already setting, and the room was all flooded with its bright radiance, so that after the twilight of the hallway they had to squint and cover their eyes.
- I greet you, - suddenly the familiar voice of the chronicler sounded nearby; blinded by the sun's rays, the friends did not immediately notice how he came out of one of the doors. - Please come to my parlor.
He hospitably threw open the doors and courteously let the guests pass ahead. They found themselves in a small room with a fireplace in the far wall, with three windows, now covered with shutters. The walls were draped with dark brown fabric. Near the fireplace stood a low table, four cozy armchairs and a tall desk at which one could write standing. The floor in the parlor was covered with dark boards, unusually tightly fitted together. To the left of the fireplace in the wall without windows was visible another small door, and above the very fireplace hung an ancient tapestry depicting a tall, stately old man with regal bearing and long, loose gray hair in snow-white robes with a black staff in hand and a long sword in blue scabbard at his belt. He stood half-turned to the viewer, but his head was turned, and the entrant was met by the severe and penetrating gaze of seemingly living eyes. On the old man's face lay the seal of infinite weariness and deep, though bright sadness. The enchanted Folco could not refrain from questions.
- Oh, this is an amazing thing, - Theophrastus answered, obviously pleased. - This, my hobbit sir, is none other than the great wizard Gandalf the Grey himself! - The chronicler cast a quick glance at the stunned guests, admiring the impression produced. Having held a pause, he continued: - He was captured by an unknown artist in the Grey Havens, shortly before the almighty sorcerer left our world. This tapestry was presented to the Great King, then the reigning grandson of Elessar the Elfstone rewarded your humble servant with it. - The chronicler slightly spread his arms to the sides and bowed ceremoniously. - Since then it has lived here, above my fireplace. But why are we standing? - he suddenly remembered. - Please, sit by the fire, fill your pipes, and let's begin the conversation.
They sat down and took out their pouches. Soon bluish smoke floated through the room. Theophrastus stood silently, with a kind smile surveying the guests with his penetrating eyes. Seeing that their pipes were in order, he unexpectedly for everyone addressed the hobbit:
- Was the road from your beautiful country easy? How are things in the Shire? I rarely manage to talk with anyone from your people - hobbits wander into Annuminas rarely, and I myself am already old for long roads. So, what is happening with you in recent years?
To tell the truth, Folco was confused. But the calm voice of the old chronicler, the coziness of his house that had seen much in its time did their work. At first slowly and uncertainly, and then more and more cheering up, Folco began to tell Theophrastus about everything he could remember from what happened in the Shire during his short life, and what he remembered from the Shire chronicles, which they became fond of writing after the Scouring of the Shire.
Theophrastus with a light movement pulled the cord hanging among the folds of the drapery - somewhere in the depth of the house a bell tinkled. Behind the small door noticed by the hobbit to the left of the fireplace, light steps sounded, and into the parlor entered the girl who had opened the door for them. She carried in her hands a thick notebook in soft black leather binding.
- Satti will help me better remember your story, honorable hobbit.
Theophrastus sat in the remaining free armchair, and the girl stood at the desk. Folco took a breath and continued. He himself did not notice how gradually the crimson sunset glow began to fade in the windows, gradually he turned to his own story, in order to lead the conversation, as was agreed with Thorin, to the incident in the Barrow-downs. Theophrastus listened very attentively, slowly stroking the carved armrest with long fingers and all the time looking straight into the hobbit's eyes.
Little by little his story passed to the description of their meeting with Thorin, though the hobbit prudently omitted the true content of their nocturnal conversations. He told about Buckland, about the Old Forest and finally got to the Barrow-downs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the barely noticeable nods of the dwarf - everything was going as planned. Thorin at first intended to start the conversation himself, but now it was clear that the hobbit would manage no worse.
- And now we would like to ask you, honorable Theophrastus, - the dwarf entered the conversation when Folco stopped to catch his breath and wet his throat with a sip from the jug of beer standing on the table, - can you not explain to us what is happening in the Barrow-downs? What we saw is strange and... rather scary, I would say, what are those gray wraiths alone worth!
Shuddering, the girl for a moment raised her rounded eyes that had become quite childish. Theophrastus, however, lowered his gaze, and his eyebrows slightly converged.
- Probably this is one of those mysterious traces of the dark past left to us by the Great Darkness, - he said quietly, and it seemed even the logs in the fireplace began to crackle more quietly and somehow more fearfully. - No one knows exactly how it began. It is known that in these Barrow-downs are buried the fallen in numerous internecine wars rulers of Corlion, a small kingdom on the southern borders of the present possessions of the Northern Scepter. At that time Arnor turned out to be divided into several parts, the rulers of which feuded with each other, they shed the blood of their brethren and began to incline toward evil. In the archives of Elrond Half-elven, the departed beyond the Sea lord of Rivendell - you know where that is? - I found a legend that these rulers did not find peace beyond the Sundering Seas, but, supported by the great power of Sauron, turned into malicious bodiless spirits feeding on the warmth and blood of the living. However, they were created - or arose themselves - before the One Ring was forged, and turned out to be not subject to it - that's how I understand what is happening. Probably they are now deprived of a master... Or perhaps there is some other explanation. - He shrugged. - I think only Cirdan knows, and even that is unlikely. He never was interested in the affairs of Middle-earth, the Sea subject to his people eternally draws him. Yes, these wraiths are a terrible thing, so our honorable hobbit showed exceptional courage!
Folco blushed from the praise.
- But you are not the first who asks me about the Barrow-downs, - suddenly having thought for a moment, Theophrastus continued. - Many years ago this same question was asked of me by another man. But you, incidentally, even saw him.
He looked with a smile at the amazed friends - two of them, because the third, the Kid, was already peacefully snoring, having leaned his head, as on the first evening, against the hobbit's shoulder.
- You saw him yesterday, he was with me in "The Scabbard of Strider," - Theophrastus continued. - His name is Olmer, he is a gold-seeker from Dale. I have known him for twelve years already, he often told me much interesting from events occurring in the East. And once he asked about the Barrow-downs too. This was on his last visit, he generally appears in Annuminas rarely, about once a year, and our present meeting took place after a five-year break. Oh, he told about amazing events! For example, about an unprecedented eight-day battle on the shores of the Sea of Rhun, in which he fought on the side of the Easterlings against an unknown people who came from the south, from beyond Mordor. According to him, the rivers of the Rhun-lands carried the corpses of men and horses for three days after the slaughter...
It was clear that the old chronicler had become carried away, and Folco decided to take advantage of this.
- But why were the guards hunting him then? - he asked, trying to show that he was extraordinarily interested in the chronicler's story, and not to betray their true intentions prematurely.
- I am not surprised by this, - the chronicler shrugged. - All those who are engaged in the extraction and sale of gold, no offense to the honorable dwarves, sooner or later come into conflict with the laws of the Great King, which do not always anticipate all turns of events... And about the Barrow-downs I answered him almost the same as you - I have nowhere special to get new information, but now, after your story, I will answer that one should not fear the crimson fires and gray wraiths - one should only hold the bow firmly in one's hands and not weaken in heart, as one hobbit I know named Folco Brandybuck did!
- But there was another hobbit who did not fear the fierce underground forces, - the embarrassed Folco objected. - What about Frodo, the famous Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer?!
- Did he happen to encounter these wraiths? - Theophrastus raised his eyebrows in surprise. Now it was the hobbit's turn to open his mouth.
- But this is known to everyone in the Shire from young to old! And in the Red Book it is said in detail...
- In the Red Book?! - the chronicler perked up at once. - Who among my brethren of the pen has not heard of this amazing narrative, which has reached us only in brief, unreliable and incomplete extracts and later retellings! The Red Book - the cherished dream of any chronicler! Has the honorable hobbit not read it?
In Theophrastus's voice sounded passionate supplication. It seemed that for him now nothing existed more dear than this coveted, almost fabulous work. He leaned forward all over, his fingers intertwined, beads of sweat appeared on his high dry forehead. And Folco decided.
- Yes, I read it, - he answered slowly, - and can even show it to you, honorable Theophrastus!
Thorin jumped up from his armchair in fright, the girl cried out from surprise, Theophrastus - the old, honorable and respected chronicler - jumped up as he probably could not have in the best years of his youth, and clutched the shoulders of the taken-aback Folco, whirling with him around the parlor, not singing, not even shouting, but directly bawling something insanely joyful. The skirts of his dark spacious cloak flew about, his hair tangled, but he noticed nothing. From the noise that arose the Kid woke up and in the confusion grabbed the poker standing by the fireplace.
Finally Theophrastus calmed down and, breathing heavily, released the hobbit.
- I am your irredeemable debtor, honorable Folco, - he said, and the friends turned away in embarrassment - on the wrinkled face of the chronicler flashed a bashful tear. - O blessed fate that sent me such joy in my old age! But, - he suddenly recollected himself and became serious, - if you only show it to me, it will be the same as giving a hungry man a crust of bread and then snatching it from his hands without letting him bite off a piece! O Folco, son of Hamfast, may Bright Elbereth keep you, you could do a great good deed by allowing me to copy it!
- But we are about to depart, - the hobbit tried to object weakly, - and I cannot leave it in anyone's hands, may the most worthy Theophrastus forgive me.
- Yes, yes, I understand everything, - the chronicler hastily nodded. - Who would leave such a treasure! But I do not ask for that! Be my guests for the next seven days, and during this time under your supervision ten of the most skilled scribes will copy it, working day and night! We will carefully take it apart, and then sew it back together. No need to fear for its safety, he extended his hands soothingly, - we have done this many times, we know how to handle the originals of great manuscripts! And you can now demand from me anything that will be in my power...
The chronicler lowered his hands and wearily fell silent, as if he had given his all during this outburst. His head gradually inclined on his chest. Folco listened to him with mixed feelings of surprise and awkwardness. But he did not yet know how to refuse and therefore quietly said "yes."
When the chronicler's raptures subsided and they agreed that the hobbit would bring him the Red Book the next day, the impatiently waiting Thorin finally asked what interested them:
- Honorable Theophrastus, we inadvertently heard part of your conversation with Olmer from Dale, as you called him. And one thing will not leave my head: why does he, judging by your words a remarkable man, speak so angrily about elves?
Theophrastus hesitated, gathering his thoughts:
- I don't quite understand why he so interests you, but in my opinion, precisely in such strong people sometimes the feeling of the doomedness of Mortals is heightened, the awareness of the finiteness of our being. And nearby - the race of the Firstborn, the Immortals, whose leaders in immemorial times had a hand in the Curse of Men, which after all, if you think about it, led to the doom of Numenor! You must know this story better than I. His proud heart rebels against the fact that our fates were to some extent predetermined by the Immortals. Hence, probably, his dislike for the Fair Folk. I do not share his views, - Theophrastus added, - but I believe that it is his right - to say what he thinks.
- And what is the "Great Ladder"? - Folco asked.
He remembered how the chronicler had shuddered in the tavern, hearing these words. And even now Theophrastus's face darkened. He spoke quietly and slowly, seemingly with difficulty choosing words:
- This is a very ancient and incomprehensible legend. It is known to few of the mortals of Middle-earth. I read about it in elvish parchments, in that part of them which is written in Old Elvish. Once among the Firstborn there existed a tradition that our world is pierced by a gigantic, almost infinite ladder, taking its beginning in the underground world of horror and primordial evil, which some call Ungoliant. From there it rises to the surface, passes through our world and goes into the cloudy heights, into the eternally blue sky and there, in the plains of immense height, ends with a star berth, to which, tired of endless wanderings along heavenly paths, sometimes the ship of Earendil moors with the sparkling Silmaril on its prow. The steps of this ladder were laid from pure mithril. The tradition does not tell who was the builder of this ladder, but there it was said that Sauron, at the zenith of his power, managed to dismantle some part of it that was closer to the earth, and used it for the construction of Barad-dur, the Dark Tower. Therefore Earendil can no longer descend under the clouds and observe the life of Middle-earth, for which he doomed himself to eternal wanderings across the firmament... What a pity that this is all - only beautiful fairy tales! - Theophrastus sighed. - The elves once believed that swearing by the Great Ladder, a Firstborn or a mortal gives the firmest promise. The servants of evil, on the contrary, swore by its lower part. That's why I was so surprised to hear from Olmer these ancient words. I would like to know where this gold-seeker drew them from...
Theophrastus nodded dreamily and fell silent. The room was flooded with silence. Everyone was silent, and in Folco's chest suddenly appeared an unfamiliar sucking pain, hopeless longing for the unprecedented, for all the departed charm of the old world, for its magic and for its wonders. The Kid suspiciously sniffled.
- Yes, for us chroniclers it is not easy now, - Theophrastus continued quietly, as if thinking aloud, - people are little interested in the affairs of the past, preferring the petty and momentary cares of the present. Rarely, very rarely does one manage to meet a real interlocutor. Olmer is one of them. His life is dark and incomprehensible, but he thinks and reasons, he knows much and tells much, and therefore I always with joy meet with him... Only now not in my house, for, as I noticed, there are here certain eyes watching him more intently than necessary! - Unfamiliar grumbling-anxious notes appeared in his voice. - Yes, yes, this concerns you, Satti, don't turn away, I noticed this as soon as Olmer crossed our threshold!
The girl blushed and quickly covered her face with her palms. Theophrastus for several more moments impressively kept silent, threatening his young assistant with a hooked, old man's finger.
- Therefore, when he invited me, - the chronicler continued, - I decided that henceforth I would meet with him somewhere in another place, and fate sent me luck!
He smiled at the friends, like a ray of spring sun fell on the wrinkled bark of an old oak.
- And have you not heard, honorable one, anything about people worshipping the Barrow-downs? - Thorin got down to business, not paying too much attention to what the chronicler said. - We met a company going there, we found strange traces of strange rites... And not only in the Barrow-downs.
Theophrastus quickly gathered himself, straightened and made a quick sign to Satti. The girl hastily opened the notebook, and the light pen in her deft hands quickly glided across the pages following Thorin's words.
- Yes, scanty and unreliable rumors about this reached me, - the chronicler spoke slowly. - As a rule, information came from those passing through Bree, but they were vague and contradictory. In essence, you are the only witnesses who saw all this to the end! However, the old annals of the Dunedain state that even before the War of the Ring to the south of the Barrow-downs there existed some half-forgotten settlements of a strange people, very few in number. They never tried to somehow conclude an alliance or at least establish trade with Bree, never appeared there. Rangers encountered them, real Rangers of the North. These settlers sometimes helped them track down servants of Darkness, but in my opinion they did this more out of fear or greed - they demanded payment for their services. There were very few of them, I already said, and the Dunedain despised them. After the victory people began to quickly settle and plow all lands suitable for this, the ring of Arnorian villages began to quickly contract around the Barrow-downs as well, and this unknown people hastened to leave these places. No one knows where they vanished, the annual records contain no mentions of clashes with them. They left themselves. Of course, there is no connection yet with what you saw, but I can tell you nothing more. It will be better if you tell me as in as much detail as possible your whole story!
Thorin, Folco and the Kid, interrupting each other, began to tell about the mysterious house on the North Side and about everything they found and saw there. Satti only managed to dip her pen.
- Amazing and incomprehensible, - the chronicler who had listened to them attentively said. - But the city guard knows about everything, and this is somehow reassuring. Yes... a piece of the Deceitful Stone glows the same as if it were on a Barrow! So there is some connection between it and those that tower on the peaks of the Barrow-downs. - Theophrastus raised his head that had been lowered. - I thank you for a truly priceless story. It will be entered in all the annals, I will do my best.
- Honorable one, do you know anyone among the friends or associates of this Olmer? - Thorin continued to ask questions directly, and Folco again noticed a shadow of surprise on the chronicler's face. - He has many brethren in his profession, - Theophrastus answered, but not too willingly. - These are desperate and reckless people, not very respectful of laws. Much is forgiven them - there is little gold in Middle-earth, almost all of it is in the hands of your tribesmen, honorable dwarves, and men are now engaged in the development of gold placers and meager surface veins. And do they say that you have clashes with them?
- They're not looking for veins! - the indignant Kid suddenly intervened in the conversation. - They're not looking for veins, but our storerooms that are closer to the surface. And sometimes they dig through. True, few of such lucky ones manage to get out. For example, not so long ago...
- Wait, Kid! - Thorin sharply interrupted his comrade with an annoyed grimace on his face. - They also look for our old reserves, which the dwarves themselves forgot about in the monstrous whirlpool of the last war. And as for the rest, that we sometimes clash...
- Well, well, let's not discuss this now, - Theophrastus raised his hand conciliatorily. - By the way, your words brought me to an interesting thought: that's why Olmer so persistently interested himself with me in everything concerning Heavenly Fire!
Folco froze, unable to move; however Theophrastus did not notice this and continued:
- I guessed that Olmer is not quite an ordinary gold-seeker. It seemed to me that he is more interested in ancient treasures - hence his questions about the Barrow-downs: there, after all, according to belief, huge riches of kings of the past are buried - hence the Heavenly Fire. According to the belief prevailing among hunters for the yellow metal, gold buried underground attracts to itself Heavenly Fire, which most often strikes precisely in such places. Yes, now it's clear, and I was racking my brains!
Theophrastus nodded with a light smirk, like a person who has solved a problem that had long seemed very complex.
- And Heavenly Fire - what is that? - the Kid intervened again, obviously having managed to sleep through the first part of their conversation.
- Heavenly Fire, - Theophrastus patiently explained, - is a very rare and amazing phenomenon. On clear starry nights, and sometimes during the day, the firmament is suddenly cut by a soundless fiery arrow. It can be seen throughout Arnor, but to determine where it fell is very difficult. They say that these are stars that have burned out their time, or maybe not, I don't know. So the elves think... Usually the appearance of Heavenly Fire means the beginning or, conversely, the completion of some important events affecting all Middle-earth. So it was, for example, immediately after the death of the Great King and shortly before his enthronement. Old chronicles assert that Heavenly Fire was seen in the year of the death of the last king of Gondor of the Third Age, after whom Minas Tirith began to be ruled by Stewards, whose line is now continued by the descendants of the glorious Faramir, son of Denethor, lord of the castle of Emyn Arnen. One can give more examples.
- And do they leave no traces? - the Kid continued to inquire.
- With traces it's more complicated, - the chronicler shook his head. - You see, honorable dwarf, they turn out to be different each time, and very few of them are known. Sometimes in this place turns out to be melted stone, and sometimes - a split tree, as if a giant lightning struck it. One case is known when Heavenly Fire set fire to the roof of a barn in one of our villages. That's, actually, all. No one knows anything for certain, - he repeated.
By that time it had completely grown dark outside the windows. It was clear that Theophrastus was tired, and the hobbit's empty stomach had long been rumbling. The friends rose and began to say farewell, having agreed to come tomorrow and bring the Red Book with them. Theophrastus and Satti escorted them to the door.
They trudged back to the "Horn of Arachorn," walking in silence and each pondering something of his own. Folco threw back his head and looked at the clear night sky. Brightly burned in the east Remmirath, the Star-Web, and across the whole sky stretched the Trail of Earendil strewn with fine star dust. From somewhere from these high realms comes the wonder of Heavenly Fire, which Polagast ordered to remember. Why? What does this mean? And why is this mysterious Olmer interested in it, whom the hunchback serves? Is there some connection between the brown-bearded gold-seeker and the possessor of that commanding voice that stopped Sandello in Bree? Folco remembered that voice very well, but it did not seem to resemble the brown-bearded one's. Gold-seeker... And Rogvold once said that Sandello for a time attached himself to this fraternity, maybe this Olmer is really just a gold-seeker, more precisely - the leader of some detachment of miners living by their own laws and therefore not too fond of meetings with the royal guard? And in general, why have we so latched onto him?! Well, he said who knows what... well, Sandello turned up near him... well, he was interested in Heavenly Fire and the Barrow-downs... So it's all understandable. Theophrastus explained all this very well. Who knows them, these Big Folk, what they believe in!
- So we learned nothing properly, - Thorin grumbled with annoyance when they came home and settled by the fireplace. - He said nothing to the point! He doesn't know Sandello, this Olmer - also only so-so, from his words, about the Barrow-downs - nothing reliable, about the worshippers some old rumors... No proof! In general, it's clear: let him copy the Book - it's yours, Folco, I can't dispose of it. And immediately we depart! We've sat here too long, too long, and we should be back by autumn.
- And what about Heavenly Fire? - the Kid stood up for Theophrastus.
- And what do we care about it? - Thorin's eyes flashed angrily. - It hasn't reached our forges yet and, may Durin help, won't reach them for as long again! In general, tomorrow we'll ask properly. We need to find out what's going on in the region between the Brandywine and the Greyflood and along the Sarn Ford, how the situation is on the Greenway, who lives along it, are there bandits, how are the Dunlendings doing - from them to the Gates of Moria it's only a stone's throw! And then, I can't get these werewolves, wargs, out of my head. The Bearers beat them off only thanks to the wizard's power, and we'll have to rely only on ourselves. All right, the night will pass, the morning will advise - let's go to bed!
Thorin completed his assertive speech and was the first to set an example, wrapping himself head and all in the blanket, and soon filled the room with light snoring. Folco sat a while longer by the dying fireplace, stirred the coals in it. He could not sleep, and he went out on the porch to breathe fresh spring air. Sitting on the threshold, he unhurriedly lit his pipe. Having released the first rings of smoke, he thoughtfully took out one of the throwing knives always with him and began habitually to turn it in his hand, absent-mindedly watching the play of silvery lunar reflections on its polished blade. And then he heard howling.
It howled somewhere quite nearby, but barely audibly, dully, hopelessly-mournfully and powerlessly-maliciously. The hobbit jumped to his feet at once, clutching in his fist the knife ready to throw and convulsively looking around. The feeling familiar since the memorable Barrow-downs reminded of itself, scratching as with a sharp claw at the heart; the pain was strong and sharp, and Folco understood that this time they were aiming at him. He strained all his will, ordering the invisible enemy to retreat, simultaneously twisting his head with all his might in search of the adversary. Yielding to the unusually strong onslaught of unconscious fear, he retreated a step, toward the doors, groping with his left hand that trembled against his will for the ring set into the boards of the door. The pressure on him was much stronger than what was experienced in the Barrow-downs; to resist was almost impossible. Something formless and menacing slowly crept upon him from the depth of the dark yard, and it seemed he would now be knocked off his feet, trampled, crushed, and life would be squeezed out of him, like blood, drop by drop, until only a cold dead body remained on the threshold.
Folco's teeth chattered, his forehead was covered with cold sweat, his eyes widened. His gaze, powerless to pierce the darkness of the night, vainly rummaged through the yard. His enemy had no need to reveal himself. He had to crush the guard remaining on the threshold and enter inside.
As soon as this clear, cold thought, as if suggested by someone from outside, surfaced in Folco's confused consciousness, his darkened spirit suddenly and unexpectedly strengthened and cleared. In this order he read a proposal to buy his life by flight and in the same second understood that he must not yield to this. There, behind the door, his friends sleep a peaceful and calm sleep, feeling themselves in complete safety; there is mighty, kind and magnanimous Thorin, a bit funny but faithful and devoted Kid, his friends ready to go for him to anything - he cannot step aside, and come what may. Battle so battle! He had to hold out. Now one on one.
His legs seemed to have grown into the wooden threshold plank, his back pressed against the hard curl of the sacred beard of Durin, in his hand glittered a knife. Folco silently waited, resisting with all his might the unceasing onslaught of an evil, inhuman force. As if in reality, he saw the gray, tightly inflated semicircular bowl advancing upon him, woven from gray threads that had appeared a minute earlier; and then he with all his might threw the knife before him, so that this will-tightening veil would finally burst, and there - come what may...
The knife soundlessly and without trace disappeared into the night, not flashing a single reflected moonbeam. It seemed it had forever sunk into the extinguishing-all-movement gray swamp.
However, a moment later sounded the ringing blow of a blade stuck into wood; and this sound, so dense, alive and real, struck harder than the heaviest hammer at the silence fettering the hobbit's brain:
a hissing, whistling sound swept through the yard, as if a lone gust of cold wind roughly tore the bent flexible branches; the gray veil, as if cut in two, began slowly and reluctantly to part to the sides, and directly before him several fathoms away Folco with a suddenly cleared gaze saw the familiar gray figure. Its contours seemed unsteady, as if melting in the surrounding gloom. The figure slowly moved toward him, he again felt persistent attempts of an alien force to remove him from the road - now it pressed his chest, making breathing difficult; but now the enemy was directly before him, and Folco knew what to do.
- What do you want? - he mentally groaned, pretending to be broken and trying to portray this as naturally as possible.
In response sounded something like the triumphant cawing of carrion-eating ravens, heard only by him. He did not make out the words, but understood the order exactly:
- Go away from the road. I must enter. Otherwise death. The hobbit did not retreat, and then the gray contours stirred and slowly floated toward him.
- Do not dare to stand in the way of the Ringed!
- You lie, they are long gone, you are only a pale shadow of their former power! - Folco furiously yelled to himself and with a movement practiced by hundreds of repetitions, precisely, as in a lesson with the Kid, sent the second knife, directly into the black stripe going slightly below what he would call the forehead of this creature.
And simultaneously with the blade whistling through the air, his will struck back: "What can you do to me, living and strong, of flesh and blood, you, gray mist of the past? You are powerless here! Go back to your dungeons and await the hour when not my will, but one a hundred times stronger, will scatter your last remnants to the wind! Well, what are you waiting for?! Here I am, come here!"
The knife disappeared, like a stone thrown into a pond overgrown with gray duckweed, a ghostly blue flame, like distant heat lightning, illuminated the yard and immediately went out. His will already tore, crushed, scattered the remains of the approaching enemy, the gray shadow spread flat on the ground crawled away, flowed away like spilled water, and only soundless hissing reached the hobbit's inner hearing. The Shadow from the Barrows was powerless against him. He had repelled its onslaught, he had won!
Folco suddenly went limp, weakened and shamefully sobbed from the suddenly overwhelming fatigue, as if his legs could no longer support him; he almost fell on the threshold, pressing his forehead against the doorpost.
- Folco! Why are you banging on the door? - On the threshold stood a sleepy, blinking discontentedly Thorin with a splinter in his hands. - How did you get here? What happened here?
The hobbit, without answering, walked unsteadily across the yard, picking up both his knives. The handles, woven from strips of thin leather, seemed scorched - the leather had blackened, wrinkled, and in places even charred. Folco began wiping off the soot with his sleeve.
- Explain properly: what happened here? - Thorin wanted to sleep, he was annoyed by the hindrance and now tried to settle everything as quickly as possible.
- Thorin, such things happened here, - sobbed the hobbit, again leaning exhaustedly against the door with his back. - No, we won't talk here... Let's go, let's get out of here!
He pulled the dwarf by the sleeve, and the perplexed, yawning wide-mouthed Thorin entered the house after him.
In a broken whisper, flinching at every night rustle or creak, Folco confusedly conveyed to Thorin the essence of what had happened. Now, when it was all over, he could not cope with the heavy trembling that shook him.
In the flickering light of the splinter, it became visible how sternly the dwarf's brows came together, how his jaw muscles played. His hand reached for the axe lying on a block at the head of his bed.
- Found us, then, - evilly and merrily squinting, Thorin drawled in an undertone. - Came, then! Ringed, then! - The dwarf hastily checked whether his other weapons were in place. - So what happened to it in the end? Something I don't quite believe that such ghosts disappear from a simple knife.
- The knife did nothing to it, I think, - the hobbit shook his head. - Just flew right through, that's all. It seems I still managed to push it away with something, I think so. But the veil was definitely cut by the knife.
- Well then, everything is clear, - sighed the dwarf, - you were probably right then, Folco! I shouldn't have taken that sword. Most likely it came for it, the cursed one! Or maybe not, who knows. In general, they remembered us in the Barrows... - He sighed. - Well, now there's nothing to be done, we'll look better and fight back harder, if it comes to it... Shall we sleep? Though you'd better sleep, and I'll keep watch.
Folco lay down and listened to himself. No, inside everything was calm, nothing foretold a repeat appearance of the barrow spirit, and the hobbit calmed down somewhat.
"It won't come today," - he suddenly understood, and again could not say where this unshakable certainty had come from. - We will meet it again, and the third meeting will be the last... for one of us."
After this, everything immediately darkened, and Folco plunged into an unusually soft, peaceful sleep.
The next morning the hobbit, as usual, went to the kitchen - by agreement he was to work for another seven days, exactly as much as Theophrastus had asked of them. Night terrors, to the hobbit's surprise, had vanished irrevocably, but something else approached. He suddenly realized how much he did not want to go into that unknown Moria. He could now calmly recall what had happened to him at night and understood that only a miracle had saved him; the enemy was not too strong, but even it had almost destroyed the hobbit. And if there were several of them? What then? And in general, although he had not wasted time with the Kid, what could he do in a real battle? Darkness, fear, hunger and cold... All this pressed upon him at once, deprived him of strength, making him only inwardly groan at the thought of his dear, cozy room, where he so wanted to return and which now seemed the safest place on earth. In the evening Thorin found him like this, concerned and hurrying to a meeting with the chronicler. Seeing the despondent face of his friend, he looked intently into his eyes, and then twitched his cheek, turned away and also grew gloomy, without saying, however, a single word.
Warily looking around, they reached the familiar house of Theophrastus. Satti, who opened the door, smiled at them like old acquaintances.
They settled in the same company in the same living room. Satti, as yesterday, stood at the desk, preparing to record any interesting story from any of the guests.
Now Thorin asked more questions. But before beginning the conversation, Folco not without internal hesitation gave into the trembling dry palms of the chronicler his main treasure.
- You carried it in saddlebags just like that, not wrapping it even in thick parchment! - cried the chronicler. - And what is this?! Who among you dared to drink beer while reading such a treasure! - he exclaimed indignantly, opening the thick volume and discovering suspicious stains on one of the first pages.
Folco involuntarily smiled. For this man, books replaced everything in the world, and for the fate of the Red Book, it seemed, one need not worry. Apologizing, Theophrastus rushed out of the room, and from behind the doors his quick, commanding voice was heard, giving some orders. Soon he returned, rubbing his hands contentedly.
- The binder has already taken up the matter, - he reported. - With us, the Book will suffer no harm.
And the conversation began, from which the friends learned that the Green Road, stretching through all the lands separating Arnor and Rohan, was well inhabited and equipped. Only in its very middle, immediately after the crossing over the Gwathlo, at the western borders of Dunland, were there empty spaces, but none of them exceeded one or two days' journey. Along the entire Road stood strong villages, in which travelers could always find both a good table and safe lodging - safe, of course, as far as possible now outside the borders of the Northern Kingdom. There lived mainly people from Arnor, who came there to the rich and fertile lands, but there were also many people from Dunland; there were also Rohirrim who liked the local lush and extensive meadows, ideally suited for their herds. This narrow strip of inhabited lands along the Road for most of its length paid tribute to Arnor, and a smaller part, approximately from the border with Dunland - to Rohan. The people there were strong and not afraid of difficulties, but now hard times had come for them. Although the entire Road was now guarded by the Arnorian guard in the north and Rohirric cavalry in the south, life there had become very unsafe. Many daring men had gone to the free southern steppes and oak groves: after defeats in the north, many bandits had also gone there.
- There, in secluded forest places, - Theophrastus unhurriedly recounted, - there are secret settlements whose inhabitants do not recognize royal authority and live, obeying no one. They are the main support of the unknown flying detachments in the south - they supply provisions to the raiders. In such villages they live, as a rule, in semi-dugouts, fields are arranged far from dwellings, often clearing small plots in the forests. Finding them is very difficult, although, of course, now they too, it seems, are being seriously dealt with. Last autumn, I heard, more than a dozen such settlements were burned there... Yes, my friends, although three hundred years have passed since the victory. The Road is still only a thin thread stretched across an ocean of wild and uninhabited lands. More precisely, calling them uninhabited would probably be wrong - people live in Minhiriath and in Enedwaith. But not much is known about those peoples, and they are few. There are solitary fishing villages on the shores, there are farmers and hunters...
In the east, between the Road and the Misty Mountains, the land still remains empty, there is no one along the banks of the Sirannon. Previously it was used for navigation by dwarves shipping their goods west and south, but after Moria became empty in recent years, life in these lands also ceased.
- And in Dunland? What is happening there? - eagerly asked Thorin, missing not a single word.
- Oh! Dunland, my friends, - is an amazing country! It is rich in well-bearing plowlands and excellent forests, and its depths - in iron ores. The highlanders - and this is a country in the foothills of the Misty Mountains - are a numerous and stubborn people. You remember, they had a quarrel and even war with Rohan in ancient times, they were enemies even in the years of the War of the Ring. After the Battle of the Hornburg, the highlanders quieted down and concluded peace with Rohan. They were allowed to live by their own laws, but tribute was imposed, which they pay to this day. Among them are many unreasonable youths, sometimes arranging ambushes and attacks on the great road, but they are usually caught and given up by the Dunlendings themselves - they value the current peace. Olmer said that among them they hate and despise the descendants of those who surrendered. This is like them - they are a proud people, and often pride blinds their reason. I can believe this and would advise you to keep away from their country, to always be on guard when passing along its borders.
- And the Mark of Rohan? How are things there? - the dwarf continued questioning.
- It prospers, like the other parts of the United Kingdom, - the chronicler shrugged, - their borders are still quiet, except for the western one, at the Gates of Rohan, where sometimes some lost detachment of bandits appears. But with Rohirric spearmen in open battle you cannot argue, and there is nowhere to hide in the steppes. There the people hold the sword firmly! They still have every adult man as an experienced warrior, such is their ancient custom, and they do not wish to abandon it, although in wealth they are considerably inferior to Arnor and especially to Gondor. In Edoras still rises the Golden Hall, and King Brego, sixth after Theolen the Great, holds council there with the elected representatives of his regions. Rohan is small, and there are few people there, they still live by horse breeding, but do not disdain agriculture. From Rohan in recent years news came mainly of new buildings in Edoras, Dunharrow, the Hornburg, life there is less hurried and clings more to the old ways. By the way, - Theophrastus suddenly grinned, - among the Rohirrim it has become customary to take as wives girls from Dunland, famous for their beauty. With the dwarves from the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, the Rohirrim have peace and friendship - however, these honored guests should know this better than I.
- You spoke of their western borders, - Thorin carefully interjected. - And what is happening on the northern, eastern and southern?
- With the southern it is clear at once, - the chronicler answered. - These are the domains of Gondor. On the northern borders is the great Fangorn Forest and its amazing inhabitants.
- Ents? - exclaimed the hobbit delightedly, who loved most in the Red Book the story of the wonders of Fangorn and the victorious march of the Ents on Isengard. - Are they alive?
- Very much alive, - the chronicler assured him. - After the victory, people learned about them. The Rohirrim first befriended them, but then the paths of the Mortal and the Long-lived, as usual, diverged. The Ents did not advance with their forests onto lands inhabited by the Rohirrim, they moved north and east, planting in previously deserted places new and new groves and copses, which over time merged into a huge massif, almost half the size of old Fangorn. What happens in its depths, I do not know, but the Rohirrim now fear the Power of the forests and do not trust it. Several times they tried to clear new fields for themselves in its southern regions, but the Ents made it clear that this would not lead to good. No, of course, there was no bloodshed, but this did not add friendliness between Forest and Steppe. The forests now stretch from Isengard itself along the foothills of Methedras and through old Fangorn, north of the Wold, along the river Limlight almost to the Anduin itself in the east, and in the north Fangorn has almost merged with the now-deserted Lorien. The Ents did not waste time in vain! - said the chronicler and fell silent.
- But, to tell the truth, - he continued a minute later, drinking cold beer and catching his breath, - I am now more concerned with Isengard, and I am a little surprised that you have not yet asked a single question about it. The Ents, as you remember, initially surrounded its ruins with dense scrub, and people gradually forgot the road to this evil place. The Ents surrounded it, but, I think, forgot about it, completely carried away by their advance to the east and north. And meanwhile among the Arnorian hunters and rangers, who went far south in search of new hunting grounds and were not afraid to turn into Fangorn - the Ents are, after all, kind creatures and will never cause anyone any harm, on the contrary, they will help if a person entering their domain turns to them with respect and does not wave an axe unnecessarily - so, among these brave men, some strange rumors have been creeping around recently. As if in the mountains surrounding the ruins of Isengard, unknown half-men-half-beasts have begun to appear, sparing nothing living, but never entering the forest. I became interested in this, so it was so important for me to hear from you about the captured dwarf who received from someone an order to search for surviving orcs in the south. I suspected something like this, - his voice became duller, he leaned lower to the heads of his interlocutors, - Saruman's orcs are drawn to the old lair... And now let's move on to the eastern borders. There everything is surprisingly calm now. The left bank of the Anduin has been gradually settled by various peoples - from Rohan, and from Gondor, and from the north, and from the northeast. The once deserted Brown Lands are now almost all plowed and cultivated. On the right bank, in the highlands of Emyn Muil, excellent sheep pastures were found, so everything is calm there...
They questioned Theophrastus for a long time about Gondor. The realm of the Great King Elessar the Elfstone flourished magnificently for the long hundred and twenty years of his rule, and prudent heirs further multiplied his wealth. Minas Tirith was adorned with the works of the best dwarven builders, who even forged mithril gates. Freed from the power of the Enemy, Ithilien turned into the garden of Gondor, in the decoration of which the Mirkwood elves invested considerable labor. All regions from Pinnath Gelin to the Great Southern River flowing through Harondor from the Mountains of Shadow were densely populated. Under the shade of the White Tree in the courtyard of the Citadel, the country enjoyed peace and abundance for many, very many peaceful years. Wars occurred, but rarely. Two or three times the Great King himself went with a large army to the east and south, letting the Haradrim and Easterlings know what the fury and wrath of Gondor was; the fabulous Aidaril, the Revived Lightning, became famous throughout Middle-earth, and long after these campaigns Easterling mothers frightened children with the name of the invincible Lord of the West. The last war ended about fifty years ago, when already under the present King the Haradrim decided to try their luck again and avenge old offenses. But their hopes were not justified. The King quickly gathered all his numerous guard, summoned the Rohirrim and on the banks of the Poros inflicted a crushing defeat on the invaders. The corpses of men and horses of the southrons dammed the entire river. For several days, until they dismantled this terrible dam, the water in the Poros was red with blood, and by order of the King all night long burned fires made from enemy spears taken on the battlefield - there were so many of them! After this, Harad quieted down and even sent ambassadors with expressions of submission, pledging to pay considerable tribute, but the minor border war continues both in the south and in the east. And yet Gondor is now truly a blessed country, and may it be so forever, while the Eternal Stars burn in the sky!
Carried away by the conversation, they did not notice how the evening thickened. Reluctantly the guests rose and began saying goodbye. Less than a week remained until their departure.
The night passed, day gave way to a quiet pre-evening hour, and the friends again knocked on the door of the house of the Old Chronicler, as they had begun to call him among themselves. They continued their questioning, the conversation turned to the fate of other peoples mentioned in the Red Book. Both Thorin and Folco were especially interested in those who fought on the side of the Dark Lord or turned out somehow aside from the struggle. Thorin cautiously started a conversation about the kingdom of the Beornings, located between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. The dwarf knew it a little, because he had been there in the days of his youth; he was interested in its present day, and he and Theophrastus together compared the chronicler's information with that brought by traveling dwarves.
- They live in a democracy, - said the chronicler. - The king among them is not hereditary, but elected. True, the kingdom is not for nothing called Beorning - it so happened that all the kings there are descendants of the numerous clan of Beorn, memorable from the Battle of Five Armies. They concluded an alliance with Arnor and do not let any enemies through their lands, but now they think more about their advancement south. They treat forests carefully, but what to do if the number of people in the valley of Anduin is growing, new plowlands and meadows are needed. It is interesting what will happen if they meet with the Ents moving north!
From the Beornings the conversation naturally turned to the Greenwood, and Folco again asked: really there are still elves there?
- And why shouldn't they remain? - the chronicler shrugged. - They found business in Middle-earth, which means it is still early for them to go across the Sea.
- But what about their immortality? - The hobbit repeated the question he had once asked Thorin.
- Did you read the Red Book attentively? - in turn, the chronicler asked. - Both after your departure and today I first of all turned to the translations of the honorable Bilbo Baggins from Elvish, containing the most important information about the Primal Epoch. And here's what it turns out: Sauron invested a considerable part of his ancient power in the creation of the One Ring, so he disembodied when it was given to the fire of Mount Doom. At the same time fell the power of the Three Elven Rings, united by the One in a certain magical black chain. But in the legend of the Primal Days I read the conditions set by the Valar after the First Victory for the elves remaining in Middle-earth. So, it says clearly: they can live here until they tire of the neighborhood with the Mortal. Then they will sail home from the Grey Havens. For the Descendants of Elrond everything was much sharper - either leave, preserving their belonging to the people of the Firstborn, or become Mortal, remaining in Middle-earth. Arwen Undomiel chose the second path... Well, Folco, here not everything is so simple. Galadriel spoke of universal subjection to all-powerful time - but look at Cirdan! So even the all-knowing Lady could be wrong in something. In this world no one is given to know the truth to the end, even the Wisest of the Wise err. And as for me, I think that without the Three Rings, for the elves who invested their power in them, there really was nothing to do in Middle-earth, for the life of the Immortal has some meaning only if they have a truly great Goal, to achieve which great means are needed. Those who lost it left our world, and those who never possessed the Rings and were not subject to them remained. True, Cirdan once possessed the Ring of Fire, but gave it to Gandalf himself, so I believe that the day will come when Cirdan too will move to the Lands Beyond the Sea. But who knows when this will happen? And as for Thranduil, you can still find his palace now if from Esgaroth you move up the Forest River.
- It would be good if so, - Folco sighed. - A world without elves - it is somehow not the same. Too gray and boring.
- Thranduil has more than once ordered weapons and various ornaments from the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, - Thorin added. - I heard this the other day from kinsmen who came from there.
Theophrastus briefly told them about the Lake Kingdom, and so they gradually, step by step, reached Rhun, the huge space adjacent to the inland Inland Sea, where from ancient times lived a mighty and warlike people of Easterlings, who had caused no little trouble to the Southern Kingdom.
- According to Olmer, Rhun is a rich land, - Theophrastus continued. - The Easterlings are partly nomads, partly farmers. Their settlements stretch from the southern edge of Mirkwood to the bend of the Great Rhun, where the Great Steppes spread and their countless herds and flocks graze. The lands around the Sea are plowed, and the coastal Uplands give the Easterlings iron. Their domains extend into far Rhun - a month's journey south and east. They are numerous and stubborn, but in olden times, having fallen under the power of the Dark Lord, they could not uproot from their souls the firmly rooted root of evil. I already said, even after the Great War they more than once rose against Gondor - and each time they rolled back with loss. The Great King himself came to their lands, devastating them, - and yet they did not submit. They have excellent cavalry, fast and elusive, but there is also infantry armed with large axes, like the honored dwarves, and Olmer saw among them real mounted knights clad in full armor. They strongly reckon with kinship and even for battle build up by family clans. They have no state, there are separate leaders in this or that locality, usually heads of large families, sometimes numbering thousands of people. If a young man from one clan marries a girl from another, the families unite. Thus their separate tribes gradually form, which, however, firmly keep the oath once given by those who survived after the campaign of the Great King - never to wage internecine wars. They are dangerous!
- So those who attacked them from the south could be our friends? - Folco immediately asked.
- Yes, it is our good fortune that wars still flare up among the eastern peoples, but think yourself what it would be like if they agreed and moved west together? The war would be long and bloody... No, in the East we have no friends - there can only be temporary allies, - Theophrastus answered. - Now the Easterlings are weakened, and this is good, but the last several winters there were mild, summers - moderately rainy, the steppes are full of juicy green grass - and their numbers will soon increase.
Thorin also asked about Mordor. Folco anxiously awaited how this ominous name would resound in these walls, but nothing happened.
- Mordor is empty and deserted, - Theophrastus answered. - Who would live there after all that happened! Minas Morgul was destroyed, and in the Teeth and the tower of Cirith Ungol stands a mighty guard. A chain of posts in the East guards the peace of the dead land, and may it remain so until the end of ages.
- And south of it, in Harad? - Thorin asked. - You said, about fifty years ago there was a big war there.
- Yes, Harad was greatly depopulated after the battle on the Pelennor Fields, - the chronicler nodded. - But in the mysterious southern lands peoples quickly heal their wounds. No one knows what is happening in far Harad. Some information concerning the affairs of Near Harad and Khand comes from Umbar, our southern outpost, recaptured from the corsairs under the Great King. There several tribal unions were formed - one in Khand, which stretched along the Mountains of Shadow, another - in Near Harad, a third - in the lands east of Umbar. Like the Easterlings, the Haradrim are good both on horseback and on foot, but if the former prefer the horse, the latter prefer their own legs. Their infantry is very strong! When it stands in close formation, covered with heavy shields, it is very difficult to deal with. They have much native gold, and Gondor even trades with them. They show us their submission in every way, but somehow I don't really believe in it.
- And what do they fight with? - asked Thorin, always interested in weapons.
- Their infantry is armed, as I said, with large hexagonal elongated shields and swords, short and thick, with which they can pierce any mail, except dwarven, of course. They also have special detachments of spearmen and archers, without protective armor, who attack the enemy at the beginning of battle and disorder his ranks with a cloud of arrows and throwing spears, there are slingers showering the enemy with a hail of weighty balls of baked clay. They do not forget the war oliphaunts that aroused such admiration in the honorable Samwise Gamgee. They are a strong opponent! The last victory cost us dearly.
- And what is the Black Rock that Olmer mentioned? - Folco asked.
- None of my Gondorian acquaintances who went with troops and embassies to the south saw it, only heard of it. This is, as far as I could understand, something like a shrine of this gloomy people. There burns the Ring of unquenchable fires... No, really unquenchable, for, according to Olmer, they are fed by the earth itself. Do not ask me what they are, I myself could not elicit this from Olmer. But believe me, it was there that their ancestors swore allegiance to the Dark Lord, who laid in the rock some talisman, intended, they say, on the decisive day for their people to rise to the surface and give them power over all the adjacent lands.
- Wait, honorable Theophrastus, you said - Umbar is now in your hands? - the dwarf asked a question again. - You expelled the corsairs, so why not set up other posts even further south to watch over all of Harad? And, by the way, what is there, even further south?
- To your second question no one in Middle-earth can answer, except again Cirdan, - the chronicler answered with a smile. - No one has penetrated south further than his ships. And with the corsairs an interesting story happened. Exterminated by the Dead under the leadership of the Great King himself, they seemed to have vanished forever. But this turned out not to be so. Not all of them gave themselves to evil, some were simply opponents of Gondor. But in the decisive hour they did not openly stand on the side of Sauron. After the arrival at Umbar of Gondor's fleet, our commanders found the gates of this mighty fortress wide open, the city itself - abandoned, in the citadel they were awaited by a message left by the corsairs. It read approximately as follows: "We are leaving south. It is senseless to oppose you." The Great King was merciful and decided not to pursue the exiles. But after his death everything turned out differently. The corsairs really went south and did not try to return the Umbar stronghold, but their number grew - both from children born to them and from peoples joining them. They accept everyone - both Haradrim and Gondorians who for some reason left our land. They closed the southern seas to us, and going there means starting a major war. Some of their ships appear in our waters too, occasionally attacking coastal settlements, but mainly robbing ships on the route from the mouth of Anduin to the Grey Havens. This is the simplest and fastest route from Arnor to Gondor, considerable goods are transported on it, which the corsairs use. Like Cirdan, they sail both north and south. I heard that they are trying to find out what is in the west. They gradually turned into a Sea People, of whom far from all engage in robbery and banditry. They are skilled and inquisitive seafarers, so even Cirdan would have to struggle. Their ships are fast and can go both under sail and by oars.
- Wait, you say, by oars? - Thorin suddenly became alert, and then suddenly slapped his forehead. - So that's where your acquaintance got such strange calluses, Folco! And I, fool, didn't figure it out! Of course, such bumps - from long work with oars!
- What are you talking about, honorable Thorin?! - Theophrastus raised his eyebrows in surprise.
The dwarf quickly retold him the story with Tervin's coin. The chronicler shook his head and made a sign to Satti to record.
- The fact that your gift to a friend ended up in the hands of the Sea People does not yet mean anything, - he remarked. - Silver changes dozens and hundreds of owners, and the fact that the coin was given away so easily says that they did not particularly value it. Its last owner, apparently, knew nothing about its origin or its true value.
- And what will happen if someone from the Sea People takes it and sails west? - the hobbit asked a naive question.
Theophrastus answered him, smiling mysteriously:
- They will not go far. The Blessed Land after the fall of Numenor moved away from the circles of our world, and the Sea was divided by a secret veil. Only an elf can overcome it, others are awaited by...
- Death? - Thorin finished for him, but the chronicler shook his head negatively.
- They will simply be turned back, and they themselves will not notice that they are sailing in the opposite direction. I learned this many years ago, while still in my youth, having been to the Grey Havens and conversed with the elves there. They are an amazing people, I tell you! - Theophrastus's voice acquired the same softness and dreaminess that was heard in it when he told the guests the legend of the Great Stairway. - I did not see Cirdan himself, but talked with many of his close associates. I will not say that they so willingly entered into conversation with me, but when they spoke, it seemed to me that I heard not words, but eternal enchanting music. They told me about the Veil and about much else from the history of the elves of Middle-earth, and only when I tried to find out what the Blessed Land was, or began to question them in detail about the Valar, they politely avoided direct answers, saying only what I already knew. Even then I conceived to write a complete History of the Primal and Second Epochs. This work continues to this day, it has already advanced considerably, but too much still hinders and distracts... Urgent royal commissions, for example. - Theophrastus shook his head vexedly. - Not long ago his messenger brought me a large sum in gold and an urgent assignment - to study all the ancient chronicles and present a list of all ancient means and potions that prolong life! The matter itself is interesting, but requires too much time. This all delays the work...
Much did the old chronicler tell them during these swiftly passing days. And only at their last meeting - the departure of the detachment was scheduled for early morning the next day - he returned to what he had promised to talk with them about - the fate of the orcs.
- Thousands and thousands of them died after the destruction of the Great Ring and the fall of Sauron, - Theophrastus spoke unhurriedly. - I carefully studied everything that the Red Book says about them. This agrees well with numerous testimonies of eyewitnesses recorded by the chroniclers of the Great King. The orcs were seized by terrible madness - the will that directed and sustained life in them disappeared. They threw themselves from cliffs, entered into mad and therefore especially terrible battles among themselves. Thousands, I say, thousands of thousands of them laid down their heads. But they did not all perish. Some, especially the orcs of the Misty and Grey Mountains, managed partly to hide and sit it out. The strongest and most cunning survived, giving rise to new tribes. But all their original limitation remained with them - these are spawns of the Great Darkness, created by Evil for its black deeds, it is difficult to expect correction from them. Despite their desperate situation, when, it would seem, they need unity, they do not cease quarrels and discord.
- How is this known? - Thorin became interested.
- From the dwarves, - Theophrastus answered briefly. - They will crawl into any hole, find out everything, learn everything. Sometimes they bring truly priceless information. But now I am not concerned with the Mordor orcs - with them everything is more or less clear. They sit, as I said, here and there in the Misty and Grey Mountains, there are their colonies in the Mountains of Mordor. Do you remember, I mentioned unknown creatures that appeared in the vicinity of Isengard? These interested me very much, I will not hide. The fact is that both Rohirric chronicles and Gondor's annals speak of some special orcs fighting on Saruman's side, not afraid of the sun. This interested me, and soon in the Rohirric repository of ancient manuscripts I came across a report about mysterious disappearances of children, boys and girls, beginning approximately from the fiftieth year before our Epoch. Saruman's orcs differed greatly from the others, and these were not some separate orc tribes simply living in the south of the Misty Mountains. No, this was their new race! Saruman created them himself, and about how he created them, one could guess from the well-organized kidnappings of children in the neighboring kingdom. And after reading the Red Book, I had no doubts at all - the wise Old Ent Treebeard, otherwise Fangorn, came to the same conclusion long before me. Even then he understood that Saruman with truly incomprehensible skill accomplished what seemed impossible - he merged the races of orcs and men! And the result was something whose fate, I confess, concerns me greatly. Saruman was not always a villain, some traces of the old good that once constituted his essence still remained in him, willingly or unwillingly, he invested much that was human in his creations. The result is obvious - his orcs served him as the orcs of Mordor did not serve the Dark Lord: Saruman's orcs were ready without hesitation to give their lives, entering battle at a single unflattering mention of their master. The courage of Ugluk and his unfortunate detachment could be envied by some men. And Helm's Deep! I often remember the Last March: the way the orcs behaved there is not at all like them. That these spawn of Darkness would sacrifice themselves for their children?! Very, very much like Saruman's legacy! And, to tell the truth, this frightens me. These half-men, half-orcs were not fully drawn into the service of Darkness, they found themselves between two worlds - the real, native orcs hate and despise them, considering them almost the main culprits of that defeat and their current pitiful lot, well, and about men there is nothing to say. The secret mountain fortresses are occupied by old orcs, their ancient masters, so now remnants of this unfortunate Saruman tribe wander the world, not yet men but no longer orcs, unable to attach themselves to either one or the other. And I am even afraid to think what will happen if someone is found who will incline them to serve him and throw them against all the others. There is such hatred in them now that dealing with them will cost much blood, - which, incidentally, happened in the Last March. Beware of them! Flee from them! That is my advice to you. And if you learn anything about them on your way - do not consider it trouble, write to me in Annuminas, if, of course, such an opportunity arises...
They said long and warm farewells to the old chronicler, and suddenly already in the doorway Theophrastus suddenly slapped his forehead and said:
- Completely forgot! The other day Arkhar stopped by - do you know him? He saw you, was terribly surprised, well, I couldn't restrain myself - boasted to him about the Book, and then regretted it. He is a dark man, older than he seems, and lives strangely - in his shop there is almost no trade, but he regularly buys up all sorts of antiquities, where does he get the money? In general, somehow I felt uneasy. How I scolded myself, old fool, but what's the use now? You keep this in mind... Well, easy road to you and may the Seven Eternal Stars protect you!
The friends once again bowed low to the old chronicler. Leaving, Folco turned around for the last time - on the threshold of the old house, in the scantily lit opening, stood a tall, though bent by years figure, waving farewell to them.
Chapter Thirteen. THE BEGINNING OF THE PATH
Folco woke up because he was being shaken rather unceremoniously. He reluctantly opened his eyes - they were stuck together, he terribly wanted to sleep - and remembered that the morning of their last day in Annuminas had come. Above him stood an already dressed Thorin; in the corner their traveling bags were piled, packed only yesterday evening: from the yard came indistinct voices and the clatter of hooves mixed with the creaking of cart wheels.
- Get up, brother hobbit, - Thorin's eyes were dark, his voice muffled, - the time has come. We are leaving. Wash quickly and let's go to the tavern - I've already made arrangements for breakfast. Our people are all here already.
Shivering, Folco climbed out from under the blanket. The house was cool, the fireplace was not lit. Outside the window in the morning fog moved the figures of men and dwarves engaged in final preparations. Folco sighed and went to have breakfast.
In the familiar hall at a long table gradually gathered all their companions in the detachment. Fourteen dwarves, twelve men and one terribly lonely at that moment and confused hobbit. Some conversed quietly, but all were gloomy and preoccupied. No one made beautiful speeches, even the talkative Hornbori was silent this time. Breakfast passed cheerlessly. Folco could not rid himself of the gloomy thoughts that tormented him, sometimes rolling over him in waves of incomprehensible horror. Where were they going? What was he doing, how did he end up here at all? From the moment of awakening he had moved thoughtlessly-mechanically, obeying the general bustle. Now, when the gates of the tavern were already thrown open and the dwarves began driving out one after another the covered wagons with supplies onto the street, the hobbit felt really bad. Feeling terribly lost and worthless, he stepped aside and sat down on a stone near the porch. Out of the gates jumped the already dressed in traveling gear Kid, with sword and dagger at his belt and axe behind his back.
- Folco! Come on, Thorin is calling, we need to close the house - and say goodbye.
The hobbit reluctantly rose and dragged his feet after the hurrying Little Dwarf.
Thorin stood on the porch of their house, already in a cloak and armed. The shutters of the house were closed, and now the dwarf held in his hands the keys to the front door. The Kid and Folco approached him, the other dwarves gathered at a distance. The men were led away by Rogvold, deciding not to interfere with his comrades. Thorin began to speak, his face was gloomy and impenetrable.
- At last the day has come for which we have been preparing all winter. Ahead lies a path whose labors and dangers no one can foresee. Let us then say farewell to the place that gave us shelter.
He slowly bowed to the doors, and the Kid and the hobbit repeated his movement. Thorin took a deep breath, inserted the key into the keyhole and slowly turned it several times. The lock clicked quietly. The door was locked. Thorin removed two keys from the ring and gave them to the Kid and Folco.
- Let each of us, the masters of this house, have the keys to it with him, - Thorin slowly said, - for who knows which of us is destined to return?
Folco shuddered, as if from cold - he felt that he would never see their cozy little house again.
Thorin turned to his comrades waiting for him and beckoned invitingly. Everyone in a crowd moved into the street.
At the tavern their small convoy had already lined up. The men stood in a tight group around Rogvold. The old huntsman also did not have a very cheerful appearance - wrinkles lay deeper on his face, and the blueness under his eyes spoke of the fact that he too had to spend a sleepless night. He approached Thorin.
- Give the command, Thorin, son of Dart, - he said quietly. - Nothing else detains us here.
- Hey-ho! To your saddles! - Thorin shouted, waving his hand.
A moment's movement - and the men were already mounted, the dwarves settled some on ponies, some on the fronts of the carts. Folco, Thorin, the Kid, Dori and Hornbori rode mounted, somehow immediately finding themselves at the head of the detachment. Thorin touched the reins, and his pony trotted forward. The clatter of its hooves was immediately drowned out by the tramp of horses and the creaking of cart axles. The detachment slowly moved off.
One after another they left behind the elegant streets of Annuminas and finally rode up to the city gates. Warned by the Steward's order, the guards respectfully greeted the comrades leaving for difficult and dangerous business. The convoy passed through the gates, and suddenly an elastic, fresh and warm spring wind struck them in the face, fluttering the folds of cloaks and tousling hair. Folco involuntarily took a deep breath and immediately heard how beside him Rogvold barely audibly muttered to himself:
- Somehow stuffy it was for me in Annuminas... Rising in the stirrups, Folco cast a farewell glance at the mighty walls and towers of the Great City, sighed and turned away. Now for long months his gaze would be riveted to the south and east.
The detachment moved slowly, conserving the strength of the horses for the subsequent journey. The friends walked along the same Green Road by which they had arrived in Annuminas in autumn, and the first day passed without any incidents. For the night they stopped at one of the numerous inns. They drove the wagons inside, unharnessed the horses, ate and drank beer without hurrying, thoroughly, and then lay down to sleep. To the hobbit who had frozen dejectedly by the dying hearth, Thorin approached unnoticed.
- Are there still embers? - Thorin deftly snatched out a smoldering brand and began lighting his pipe. - Well, here we are on the road.
The dwarf leaned back, resting his back against the log wall, almost hiding in the darkness; only the light of his pipe glowed red.
- Only how it will end, - Folco sighed, thoughtfully stirring the glowing coals of the hearth.
- Grown sad, brother hobbit? - Thorin suddenly unexpectedly harshly and point-blank asked. - Don't deny it, I see everything. I see how you start shaking all over when someone starts talking about Moria! Well, admit it - you're scared, aren't you? That's right, that you're scared... Think, Folco, think once more - we're not going to play games! - Thorin's voice became muffled. - What's ahead there, no one knows, maybe we'll have to fight. Will you have enough for this? I know - from the very beginning you didn't want to climb underground. I understand, it's not hobbit business, and not human either. Hobbitania, no matter what you say, holds you tight! Not by chance, even at our first meeting, in your estate I noticed how a very pretty little face looked in the window while you slept... What's her name? Think, Folco, and no need for sacrifices and heroism. If you don't have enough strength or you get scared, then not even the important thing is that you'll die yourself, but that those who relied on you will fall, those whose back you volunteered to cover! Don't think that I or the Kid are so brave. You think I want to go to Moria? I would stay in Annuminas with great pleasure, would start my own business. Or we would go south, to the Caves of Aglarond, or head to Erebor, there was a war recently, experienced and not cowardly are needed in the Iron Hills. Understand, Folco, we don't go by our own will! Neither I, nor the Kid. So, I tell you again - think hard! Otherwise you may become a burden. I give you until Bree to decide.
Thorin, suddenly breaking off the conversation, abruptly rose and disappeared into the darkness.
The dwarf left, and Folco seemed to freeze by the dying fire. His cheeks and ears burned, he barely restrained tears. There was nowhere to go. Thorin was right. Milisenta appeared in dreams every night... Buckland, the estate, uncle. But what to do, in the end!
The tears finally broke through.
"For which time is this already! - sobbing, the hobbit thought. - Apparently, I'm completely no good... The only thing left is to grow turnips, nothing else."
Continuing to sob, the hobbit felt his way to his place and lay down, covering himself with a cloak. The tears dried up, giving way to resentment: "And where did he get the idea that I would chicken out or let him down?! In the Barrows what would they do without me? Eirik almost clubbed him with a mace, who pulled him out? Who fought off the ghost in the yard? I didn't run away for some reason. And if so, then sleep, Folco, son of Hamfast, and pay no attention, you will still have occasions to prove that you don't eat bread in the detachment for nothing! - The hobbit turned over on his other side and decided not to think about it anymore. - Nothing. Nothing! Frodo, Samwise, Meriodoc and Peregrin went on much more dangerous and, essentially, fatal business, and nothing, they didn't whine, didn't moan! So let Thorin say what he wants. He's not always right either... Ah, if only old Gandalf weren't sitting out across the Sea, but were here... There would be more use from us."
He slowly fell into the gently embracing veil of peaceful sleep, from his lips again escaped a barely audible name of the wizard, his eyelids closed, and sleep finally took possession of him.
He did not know and could not determine how much time had passed, but suddenly he saw those white walls on a pink cliff, surrounded by wondrous gardens. The vision slipped away, melted, and he strained all his strength so that it would not disappear. And then the shore, trees and cliffs suddenly rushed straight at him, as if wings had appeared behind his shoulders, and a second later he noticed them out of the corner of his eye - these were the wings of a seagull. Below flashed a white-foamed strip, green crowns flashed, immediately merging into a solid carpet. It carried him further and further, everything flashed before his eyes, and he came to his senses already finding himself in a space filled with radiance, where it was impossible to understand where the floor was, where the ceiling, and where the walls. He did not notice how the greenery around him disappeared, giving way to soft glowing curtains - this is probably how marble suddenly come alive and filled with fire could look. And from this radiance straight toward him stepped out a tall figure of an old man dressed in white with a long white staff in his left hand. On the right hung a strangely familiar sword in blue scabbard. Not yet seeing the face, Folco with a frozen heart understood that before him was Gandalf.
He froze, more precisely, everything around him froze, and only the old man walked unhurriedly toward him. The hobbit saw thick eyebrows, deeply set bright eyes radiating unprecedented power, majesty and kindness, and immediately heard a voice coming from lips overgrown with a snow-white beard of the one who was in reality Olorin:
- You called me, and here we met. Speak then, I am listening, but do not delay - we have little time.
- Gandalf... - the hobbit babbled, more precisely, understood that he babbled. - So you are now in the Lands Beyond the Sea, yes?
- And is that all you wanted to tell me?
- No, of course not, - Folco hastened. - But, Gandalf, we so lack your help! We have such things here... How can we figure it out without you? Why are you there, and not here?!
The smile disappeared from the face of the old man who appeared to the hobbit.
- What is happening in Middle-earth is known to me, of course, in the most general terms. But now you will have to decide and figure everything out yourselves. I and others left precisely because the peoples of the Northern World no longer need shepherds, they can live by their own understanding. Therefore I am here, among the elves, in the land of my youth. My epoch was the Third. I opposed Sauron, and having fulfilled the duty assigned to me, I could return. Such is my answer to your first question.
- But surely you will not advise us? The counsel? Not all our anxieties and fears were born now, some, it seems, from the Primal Days!
- I cannot give advice, - a deep sorrowful sigh sounded. - Simply I could not detach myself from Middle-earth, and although I now have completely different affairs and concerns, I have preserved the ability to sometimes converse with some of those inhabiting Middle-earth. With those in whom the reflection of the First Fire is still alive: with the ancient - that is, with elves, dwarves and you, my dear odd hobbits. But do not ask me for advice - here I have no power. Because the all-knowing do not and cannot exist, only through incessant labor can the Wise earn the highest right to judge and advise. Once I had it, and I used it.
- So you cannot help us at all? - It seemed to Folco that he cried out these words.
- I can encourage and support in moments of painful doubt, - Gandalf answered. - And knowledge presented ready-made, truly, is worth little. I can only guess at the root cause of your present anxieties, and to tell you about the Lands Beyond the Sea I simply have no right. You have already heard about the Scales? All knowledge must be earned, so don't despair yet! And remember, there are no all-powerful in our world, there never were. Even the Bright Queen is not omnipotent.
- But to ask you about the past, about the War of the Ring, about the fate of the hobbits who left with you, about the Valar and Earendil I can?
- About the hobbits you can, - Gandalf smiled. - You can even see them. And about the rest... about the War of the Ring everything that Mortals need to know is set forth in the Red Book. About Earendil it also says enough, and about the Valar... you will know enough that they exist and their service is far from completion. Understand, this is not my evil will, but the same Scales. For knowledge one must pay. Sometimes with oneself.
- But why was Earendil not allowed to return after his feat to Middle-earth? Is there really a Great Stairway? Where did Sauron go? Why did Thranduil remain?
- In one thing you hobbits have certainly not changed, - Gandalf smiled again. - You are just as insufferably curious when it comes to questions. I cannot answer you - I cannot yet. Already the fact that our thoughts met, overcoming gigantic distances and something more powerful than them, speaks of much. You will be able in the future to rise even higher... If you do not stumble. I alone here earned the right to speak with the Mortals of Middle-earth, and I applied enormous efforts for this. I will still show you those you wanted to see. And remember - our meeting was not the last. And remember also - keep close to Pelagast! And for now farewell!
Gandalf took a step aside and disappeared. Folco unexpectedly saw a window in the solid golden radiance. At the window sat three, and, peering, he understood that these were hobbits. Two of them looked very old, one - completely ancient, and closest to Folco was a sturdy middle-aged hobbit. Their heads were bowed, and Folco could not make out their faces, but immediately understood who was who. This vision lasted only a brief moment, then everything went out.
In the morning he awoke surprisingly fresh and calm. All the gloomy thoughts that beset him had vanished somewhere, and even Milisenta's face, which had given him no peace in recent days, had not so much faded as somewhat receded. Now he was eager to go forward, firmly remembering what Gandalf had said to him in his dream: you can rise higher if you do not stumble. Here it is clear - Gandalf rose to the very top after the victory over the Balrog! And who knows, would he have seen the wizard if not for the Barrows before...
The first week of April was passing, but everything around was already beginning to flourish and bloom luxuriantly. And although the sky was covered with gray even clouds, it seemed to Folco that this was one of the clearest days of his life. They moved through the core Arnorian lands, not fearing attacks, but still at night left someone to guard their horses and wagons.
From time to time Folco caught Thorin's approving glances; the change in his mood had not escaped the attention of the detachment leader. No one proclaimed him commander, but somehow it turned out that everyone asked his opinion, even Rogvold. The huntsman had also noticeably changed after they left the capital. His gait again became free, soft and light, his speech acquired familiar metallic notes, and his gaze - the usual concentration and confidence. In keeping with him were the men who had set out with them - middle-aged, stocky, strong, experienced. They did not hide that they were not going to climb into Moria; their task was to remain on the surface, guarding the detachment's supplies and maintaining communication with Annuminas. Men and dwarves went peacefully and amicably, not counting by race, but doing one business. So four days passed.
On the fifth day the detachment entered a well-familiar to the three travelers valley, where in autumn (to Folco it now seemed that this was very long ago; the time since he had left Hobbitania he already measured in years) they had happened to separate peasants locked in combat on a dusty field boundary. The day was already fading when they crossed the ridge of the range, and they decided to spend the night in Hagal. To Bree at an unhurried pace remained another full four days' journey.
Little had changed in the village - except that several new houses had appeared on the outskirts. The villagers did not forget about caution, and their voluntary guard stopped the detachment at the strong village gates. Fortunately, Thorin and Rogvold were recognized, and soon the travelers received the most hospitable reception. Hearing of their appearance, Eirik galloped from some distant post, tavern servants were already moving tables together, someone sent boys to Harstan, and the feast lasted until midnight.
The friends learned that the winter had passed quietly, if not counting three skirmishes of Hagal's guards under Eirik's leadership with bandits. The Angmar detachments had not once bothered the villagers, and this seemed to everyone a good sign. Folco could not decide for a long time to ask about Suttung, and when he gathered courage, he was told that for several more months this restless man had incited the Harstanites to avenge offenses and burn the village of their neighbors, after which they should all leave for the north; there, he said, he had real friends, there they could live freely and comfortably, under reliable protection. He was first asked to calm down, they even threatened to hand him over to Bree to the new captain Diz; they said that Erster had fallen into disfavor and was greatly offended. However, Suttung did not wait for his kinsmen to lose patience, and one fine night he disappeared together with his family and several close friends, just as wild as he was. No one remembered them.
The village detachment had doubled by the addition of their neighbors, Eirik was telling the hobbit meanwhile. From the good autumn harvest they bought weapons, some things their local craftsmen were able to forge. The village guard reached almost two hundred swords and now serves as reliable protection for the entire area.
- Oh yes, by the way! - Eirik suddenly slapped his forehead. - Here another rumor about Hraudun rolled through. He, as you remember, ran away then.
And about three days ago news arrived: two villages about thirty leagues east of us quarreled to death, caused a real massacre, burned houses... They said that in one there settled some strange old man, seemingly helping those who sheltered him, and their neighbors disliked them for some reason. A familiar story! No doubt, again Hraudun, the cursed villain! - Eirik struck the table with a heavy fist. - Ah, to catch him - and by the beard! We would deal with him!
- You're always sticking your nose into other people's business, Eirik, - Rogvold reproachfully remarked. - Winter passed, you drove out the bandits, repelled the Angmar folk. You'd better write to the sheriff, and don't miss the sowing!
Eirik turned purple, but restrained himself and said nothing.
- The village where he settled did take the upper hand, - he continued. - But the whole surrounding area turned against them at once, the local guard pulled up, and those who remained of the unfortunate victors went into the forests, and there what - only banditry. So there's Hraudun for you!
At dawn, when they set out further, Eirik long escorted them on horseback, and Folco firmly remembered the words spoken by the leader of Hagal:
- Something heavy is on my soul, friend Folco. All this is not accidental, and this Hraudun is also not accidental. There will be much blood, remember my words, much blood...
The detachment moved south along a calm, reliably guarded road. Everywhere field work was beginning; spring was coming on strong. Another four days passed, and before them loomed the long-awaited roofs of Bree.
All these days Folco did not lose that light, confident mood that appeared in him after the amazing vision of the Lands Beyond the Sea. He often and at length pondered over Gandalf's words, and the further, the more questions arose in him. Why, if the wizard cannot tell him anything, why does Gandalf need this at all - to converse with someone living in Middle-earth? Perhaps he listens to their stories? But the wizard did not question him about anything...
Presenting for the last time their travel papers to the mounted patrol at the northern gates of Bree, they unhurriedly pulled into the settlement. And, of course, their hands of their own accord directed the horses to the hospitable doors of "The Prancing Pony."
Nothing had changed in the familiar hall, and even the people, as it first seemed to Folco, were the same as on that ill-fated evening - only the men in green were missing. Much beer was drunk and many songs sung; the dwarves kept striking up their famous "Over the Misty Mountains cold," the men, in turn, began "The king sat alone that evening," and only when the evening thickened did the hobbit manage to slip away unnoticed and go to where, as he unerringly determined, he was expected. He went to Pelagast's shop.
The windows of the shop were dark, but when Folco knocked quietly at the door, it unexpectedly opened easily. He stepped into the black opening.
- Lock the door behind you, - a calm familiar voice sounded, and Folco saw ahead of him a weak, trembling candle flame and in its meager light - a man bent over a book. - Go around there, on the right...
The hobbit cautiously approached. Pelagast raised his single eye to him, and Folco involuntarily shuddered. The eye seemed a bottomless black well, at the bottom of which, like a dim light, beat a thought incomprehensible to others. The hands that had fallen on the ancient pages seemed dry branches of broom, shoulders and chest were drowned in darkness, weak reflections of light fell on cheeks cut by wrinkles.
- Sit here, on the bench, - Pelagast continued. - I have been waiting for you for a long time. Tell everything in order. Don't be afraid to get confused: what is needed, I will ask again.
- But... who are you? - the hobbit squeezed out of himself, only now realizing to ask the one sitting opposite him this simplest and most natural question. - About you was told to me by... - He broke off, timely remembering that everything that appeared to him could be a simple dream.
- Gandalf himself, or rather, Olorin? - Pelagast smiled slightly. - I guessed that sooner or later he would find you. He was always partial to you hobbits. So, you saw him! He, of course, said nothing to you, talking about the Scales?
- That's right... But how... - the astonished Folco began and again stopped, feeling the inappropriateness of his question.
- The cursed Scales, - Pelagast sighed. - But nothing can be done. As for me... haven't you guessed yet? And you read the Book. Well, however, it's not so important. You came to me yourself, which means you knew, though not with your mind. About me we will talk more, but for now - I await your story.
And Folco, obeying the power that sounded imperiously in this calm voice, began his narration. It turned out to be long - Pelagast demanded that the hobbit omit not a single detail. He questioned him long and meticulously about everything that happened in the Barrows, was interested in Hraudun, and, listening to Folco, frowned even more and whispered something. It seemed to the hobbit that Pelagast said something like "again he's up to his old tricks." He listened to their Annuminas adventures not so attentively, stopping only on the story of the appeared ghost. He silently nodded at this, as if finding confirmation of some thoughts, and then suddenly clicked his fingers in a special way, and in the corner suddenly flashed two large yellow eyes. Not expecting this, Folco cried out.
- Don't be afraid, - Pelagast turned to him, - this is Glin, my owl.
A winged shadow silently glided straight onto Pelagast's shoulder. Folco saw a round head, large eyes, now covered from the light by heavy lids. Pelagast said something quietly to the huge bird, and Glin noiselessly flew up, immediately disappearing into the darkness. Folco felt on his face the elastic thrusts of air. And immediately, as if lightning flashed in his head, he suddenly understood who was now before him. And before he could think what to do next, his back was already bent, and he himself was bowing in a low, respectful bow.
Pelagast chuckled.
- Understood at last... Yes, I was once Radagast the Brown, one of the Five. And now I am a weapons dealer in Bree... I am the last of the Five remaining in Middle-earth. Gandalf left, and the others too... Saruman was supposedly killed... And I remained. I have nothing to do in the Lands Beyond the Sea, Folco, son of Hamfast. I was no one's enemy, plants, beasts and birds served me. Only once I was drawn into human affairs - when I, to my misfortune, conveyed to Olorin Saruman's invitation, not yet knowing that he had already woven black nets of cunning and treachery. After that I said to myself: "Radagast, it's not your business to meddle in Great Wars, mind your own business!" But it didn't work out... Old Gandalf found me after the victory, called me with him. But I refused: I had no business in the Lands Beyond the Sea, and I needed no rest.
"So you are decisively against?" - Gandalf asked me, and I saw how his face darkened. - "Do you understand what awaits you?"
"What can await me?" - I answered carelessly. - "You have your affairs, White One, I, the Brown, have mine. The Enemy has fallen, and this is wonderful. Your labors, perhaps, are finished, mine will continue forever, while this world stands. No, it is decided - I am staying."
"You, of course, think that you will preserve everything you possessed, and all your ancient power?" - squinting, Gandalf asked me.
And I understood that he was angry, but then I did not yet know that he wanted me well, only in his own way. At first I, confess, thought that the newly-baked head of the Light Council finishing its existence wanted one last time to show his famous character.
"Whatever I preserve," - I answered, - "you will not persuade me. I will never exchange the infinity of life for immortality."
"Then listen, Radagast the Simpleton, as Saruman once called you!" - Gandalf cried out in his heart. - "You will have to take upon yourself all that scattered evil that still remains in Middle-earth. The Light Council will never be convened again, our Order has ceased to exist, Saruman has fallen, I am leaving. Your staff is losing power! I am powerless here already. You know who ordained it so and why it cannot be otherwise. You will have to go to people and by heavy labor earn your bread. The infinity of life you will preserve, and wisdom will remain with you, but power will diminish, and whether anything remains, I do not know, nor does the Bright Queen who sent us. Will you not change your decision?!"
I confess, I felt uneasy, but I gathered all my will and proudly answered that I was staying, whatever happened. And Gandalf somehow immediately faded, grew haggard, suddenly becoming inconceivably old.
"Farewell, Radagast," - he said, slowly walking to the door. - "Who knows, perhaps you are not so wrong. Stay! I believe I will find a way to meet with you. But I implore you, look after the hobbits! They are very dear to me, I leave them with pain in my heart. Do you promise me this? Then I can leave in peace."
"Have I ever not kept my promises?" - I said in response.
Gandalf embraced me and disappeared beyond the threshold. Later I learned that he left Middle-earth together with Elrond and Galadriel. And then, - he sighed, - everything happened as Gandalf predicted. My staff broke. - Radagast shuddered, a grimace of once-endured unbearable pain distorted his face. - And I became what you see me - Pelagast, a shopkeeper with a patent from the King of the United Kingdom!
Something I, of course, lost, but still not everything. Fulfilling the promise given to Gandalf, I began looking for a new place to live somewhere closer to his beloved Hobbitania, when my small house on the eastern edge of Mirkwood was attacked by wild nomadic Easterlings. And then I understood that my powers had indeed weakened greatly. I could not defend my dwelling and barely escaped myself. Now I live here. - Radagast sighed heavily. - I long ago noticed something wrong, but bandits concerned me little - this is people's business. I had to deal with the remains of other evil, but even here I could do little... Except - to give timely needed advice. That's why you interested me so much. You need to see more, so that we can decide where to go next. You brought me very important information. I will deal with Hraudun myself, and with the Barrows for now nothing can be done. Their spawn are not yet too dangerous, but I will certainly meet with old Bombadil - he will find a way to deal with them. That ghost really came to Annuminas for the sword taken by Thorin. Tell him not to throw it away - this is how the Wights accumulate power given to them by people worshipping the Barrows.
I will lead Diz to the idea of watching the Field more closely. But Moria... Here I can add little to your assumptions. One must go there, and the sooner the better. Be assured - beasts and birds that obey me will help you, warn of danger, and they will also bring me information about you. And after Moria try to see me, we will think everything over together. I will send news to Cirdan and Thranduil, but everything will depend on what you can learn. That's how it is! But you, I see, want to ask something?
- What do your words about West, East, North and South mean? - licking his lips, Folco eagerly asked.
- This is your path, - Radagast answered with a sad smile. - Do not demand more from me, far from always can the one who predicts interpret the words that came into his head. And I too cannot yet. But be assured: everywhere, wherever you are, my thoughts will be with you. You turned out to be the first hobbit after the famous four to dare to get involved in the affairs of the Big World, and this in itself is an ominous sign.
Radagast fell silent and lowered his head.
- Tell me, I beg you, tell me something about the Valar and about the Lands Beyond the Sea! - Folco pleadingly exhaled.
Radagast looked at him with a smile with his single eye.
- I will tell you when the time comes, - he answered. - Do not hurry! You will come to this. Your path now lies south. By the way, I don't much like this Olmer from Dale, - the former wizard suddenly interrupted himself. - There is something in him, still undefined, but suspicious. Well, perhaps we will be able to clarify this too... And you for now go and wait to tell your friends about our meeting! Everything has its time. We will meet again, Folco, son of Hamfast. And for now farewell...
On a bright spring morning they were leaving Bree. Behind remained its solid houses and high palisade. They were overtaken by another patrol of ten mounted guardsmen, who galloped off somewhere south. The convoy descended from the hill on which Bree stood and unhurriedly moved along the beaten southern road. Three days of journey passed without incidents, and on the evening of the fourth, when the sun had already approached the western horizon, painting half the sky in crimson-scarlet colors, Rogvold and Dori riding ahead suddenly raised their hands, pointing to a solitary black stone located on the summit of a roadside hill. Folco and Thorin rode up to them. A three-sided stone needle the height of two human heights stood, firmly buried in the ground, and below, in the hollow, where the Road passed between two hills, Folco made out an Arnorian outpost. He looked back - here and there across the plain were scattered tiny lights of distant villages: in settlements located along the Road travelers received shelter and refuge. The hobbit looked ahead - there lay impenetrable dense twilight. The lands ahead of them were covered by evening mists, and not a single light was visible. He with sudden confusion glanced at Rogvold and suddenly understood what the stone blade meant - they had reached the borders of Arnor. Ahead spread the Wilderness.
PART TWO
Chapter One. THE SOUTHERN ROAD
The wind blew, and night rain drummed steadily on the canvas stretched over the wagon, inducing sweet sleep. Folco opened his eyes and shivered - through the cracks cold streams of air broke through. Nearby dwarves snored under blankets, it was already getting light, and it was time to get up. The hobbit sighed and sat up, clasping his knees with his arms. The third day had passed since that memorable evening when they crossed the Arnorian border, and the sixth - since leaving Bree; yet it seemed to Folco that long months had passed. The whole world had shrunk to a narrow roadside strip; the monotonous ribbon of the ancient Southern Road, also called the Greenway, went straight through sparse forests and groves, interspersed with small sections of cultivated fields, pastures and meadows. Twice their path was blocked by forest ridges of hills stretching from west to east, low and greatly smoothed - far-drawn edges of the South Downs, but the Road did not turn, it cut through the mounds like a giant sword; Folco noticed that in places the bed of the Road was dug right into the body of the hillocks. The gloomy spruce forests of the northern Arnorian plateau gave way to rows of bizarrely mixed maples and ashes; like watchtowers, along the roadsides rose gigantic ancient oaks. There were beeches and hornbeams; along the roadside ditches already blazed bright flowers. Warm southern winds carried on their mighty wings the fragrance of the wild plains of Minhiriath; from unfamiliar aromas and smells Folco sometimes even felt dizzy. Empty, uninhabited spaces flourished luxuriantly, freed from skillful but sometimes troublesome human hands. Today, however, it suddenly blew from the north; at night the hobbit woke more than once from the cold.
Yes, the terrain was changing, right before his eyes. Villages became rare - the distance between them fit into a day's march; remembering the ill-famed West Road, Thorin did not risk stopping for the night in uninhabited places. They met fewer and fewer people on their way - people traveled only in large convoys numbering up to several hundred carts and wagons.
The villages also changed greatly, becoming larger and more populous. Each was surrounded no longer by a simple palisade, but by a real fortress wall, though of wood, not stone. None did without a hundred guardsmen; there were special post stations with relay horses, so that the royal relay could reach the gates of Rohan as quickly as possible. At first these villages seemed to Folco a reliable refuge; however, two days ago they came across a large ash heap, already washed away by rains and overgrown with lush grass, and he understood that here walls and guardsmen do not always save.
However, so far luck accompanied them, and the road was not too tiring - not much harder than the journey to Annuminas. Folco's soul was light and somehow especially clear; doubts and hesitations were gone, he again yielded to the magic of the oncoming road and for now did not look into the future. Remembering the journeys of Bilbo and Frodo, every evening he carefully recorded everything that happened during the day, even minor skirmishes between his companions in the detachment.
In the short time Folco managed to get to know his companions well; and if the furious Dori, the verbose Hornbori, the cautious and solid Bran were already familiar from Annuminas, then with the rest he became close on the road. Vyard was a bit cowardly, loved beer somewhat more than others, but turned out to be an unsurpassed master of tempering, as well as stone carving; he also knew surprisingly many old dwarven legends. Young Skidulf had left the borders of his caves in the northern Ered Luin for the first time, listened to Thorin in everything and for now mostly watched and listened rather than spoke himself. It seemed to Folco that he was somewhat self-confident, but strong and unfailing in work. Three kinsmen of Thorin - taciturn Grani, Gimli and Thror - rarely entered into general conversations, preferred short and unambiguous phrases. They were going to Moria to fight and did not hide this, and with whom - this, according to Thror, was completely unimportant to them. Balin, a middle-aged dwarf from the north of the Misty Mountains, turned out, on the contrary, to be very sociable, talked much with Folco, questioned him about elves, himself told many stories from the past of his people; however, when it came time for everyone to pile onto something heavy or unpleasant or when his turn came to clean pots and chop wood - he turned out to be far from among the first. But he wielded the axe quite well, which even such a master of battle as Thorin acknowledged. Balin's compatriot Stron was known as an expert on orc habits. Stron quickly became close with the Kid - their characters were similar: both cheerful, not despondent, only Stron, as Folco understood, knew how to look and see deeper than the Kid, and his eyes betrayed considerable, sometimes bitter, life experience.
To the Moria dwarves - Gloin and Dwalin - Folco looked especially closely and questioned them more than others. However, they could say little - they had left Khazad-dum long ago and were not witnesses to those frightening events because of which the detachment was going to Moria. However, they remembered perfectly the layout of all the Moria halls, and most importantly - the system of secret signs that allowed dwarves not to particularly trouble themselves with memorizing the endless schemes of tangled underground corridors - it was impossible to learn it even in a whole long dwarven life. Gloin somewhat resembled Hornbori with his gift of skillful and beautiful speech, but never spoke in vain. Dwalin did not tire of sighing about those wonderful times when the Moria dwarves befriended the elves of Lothlorien, together extracting knowledge and perfecting themselves in the art of metalworking. He sincerely grieved about this, and Folco understood that for him the past was still alive, and for the sake of once again, for the umpteenth time, reviving Moria or at least trying to understand what was really happening there, Dwalin was ready to give his life. In his gray eyes, a rare color among dwarves, was read an inflexible will, in no way inferior to Thorin's will; the hobbit came to have great respect for Dwalin. Needless to say, both Moria dwarves, as befits dwarves, excellently wielded weapons.
The dwarves told the hobbit who eagerly listened to them much that was interesting; after a long journey with them Folco probably knew about this people more than anyone among living or lived hobbits, more than even old Bilbo - during his wanderings his companions did not particularly chat with him.
Folco tried to write down everything he heard, but two stories were especially memorable to him. One almost on the first day of the journey along the Southern Road was told to him by Vyard, whom the Kid replaced on the front of the cart, and the old dwarf moved into the saddle for a while. His story flowed slowly and calmly, he spoke somewhat pompously - after all, it was about the inconceivably distant days of the Primal Epoch, the legends of which are now preserved only among dwarves. He spoke of the times when the world was young, and the Great Durin was surrounded by mute, nameless rocks. The First Dwarf began with few companions; the Firstborn helped them, and among the close associates of the King of Khazad-dum a dwarf named Thror stood out by mind, skill and patience. He spent much time with the elves, adopted much from them, they said that he too was captivated by the unearthly beauty of the Lady Galadriel and, wishing to make her a worthy gift, began to accumulate gold and mithril. However, then it was still far from the days of the great glory of the Black Pit, as the elves called Moria, its main veins still awaited their hour, one had to shovel huge masses of empty rock, and Thror got tired of this. He invented and made a miraculous sieve possessing the ability to select gold from everything thrown into its maw. It was enough to pour into it incessantly even the poorest ore, so that at the end of the day one could take out of it all the gold that was scattered as dust among gray mountain sand and stone crumbs. Labor was eased many times over; the dwarves began to grow rich quickly, into Moria poured settlers from the Ered Luin, where by that time it had become restless - another war was going on between men and orcs. Thror accumulated the amount of noble metal he needed, forged from it a fabulously beautiful diadem decorated with beryls covered with the finest carving, and presented it to the Lady. The sieve now became unnecessary to him, and Thror simply forgot about his creation. However, others did not forget. Because of it in Moria almost broke out a real war, and then the Great Durin ordered Thror to destroy his creation. "Well no way!" - Thror answered. - "I'd better leave with it if its existence threatens our brotherhood!" Everyone began begging him to stay, and he, hesitating, agreed, but hid the sieve so that until the awakening of the Great Disaster of Durin no one heard anything about it, well and then, naturally, there was no time for that. Since then among dwarves lives the dream - to find the magic sieve, many floors and walls of Moria were opened and lifted by restless seekers, but in vain...
- And very good! - Vyard added at the end, but why good, he did not say.
The second story, or rather, a short parable, the hobbit was told by Balin.
- Why is Khazad-dum so immense, eh, what do you think? - laughing, he once said to the hobbit. - You think a whole swarm of workers worked there? Not at all! Most of it was laid out under Durin, when there were still very few dwarves. So listen! Dwarves and mountains have the same roots. Stones can also speak, and some - even move. There was such in the Ancient Days, and, they say, in those fabulous times the First Dwarf was helped in creating the great Undergound Kingdom by the mountains themselves - having sent him the Rollstone.
- What is that? - Folco was surprised.
- Ha, Rollstone! This, my dear hobbit, is such a thing that you can remake the whole world in your own way, and without any... - He looked around and quickly added: - And without any rings and wizards. The Rollstone looked like a most ordinary stone, though quite large, they said, about the size of a young bull. It rolled by itself, you understand, my dear Folco, it rolled by itself and punched a tunnel through any hardest rock. A dwarf only had to walk after it, like a plowman after a plow. So was laid most of the Moria corridors and galleries... But it could roll not only in the thickness of rocks, but also on the surface. They say that it was precisely the Rollstone that helped the Great Durin repel the first onslaught of orcs.
- And where did it go then?
- No one knows, - Balin sighed. - It was searched for long and persistently, and not only by dwarves. After all, it's very handy - to destroy fortress walls! But all these efforts came to naught, and we got a saying: if you see a rocking stone, don't rush to shout that before you is the Rollstone - better first look who is rocking it!
Meanwhile the rain had stopped, nearby Thorin muttered and stirred - it was time to get up. A new day of their wanderings was beginning: by Thorin's calculations, today they faced an especially hard march - to the next village was no less than ten leagues.
- You're already up, Folco? - the dwarf was surprised, shivering from the morning cold. - Then run to the host, let him serve breakfast. And I'll wake the rest meanwhile.
The hobbit hastily washed in a barrel of rainwater standing near the corner of the house and went to the host - an elderly cunning man from Bree who had been living in these inhospitable places for thirty years already. Coming out to the porch from him, the hobbit involuntarily stopped.
In the spacious yard, enclosed by a strong and high fence, their wagons stood in a group, sunk up to the hubs in whitish morning haze. To the right above the fence was visible a high watchtower, to the left - the gabled roofs of neighboring houses. The sun had barely appeared from beyond the horizon, the sky was clear; the day promised to be hot. From under the wagon covers already came voices, the lanky figure of Rogvold appeared; the Kid and one of the hunters, Glen, went to the tavern for breakfast, other men and dwarves were already leading out horses and ponies, beginning to harness. From around the corner emerged Thorin together with Bran, beside them walked, moderating his step, the commander of the local Arnorian guard in a blue cloak and with heron feathers on a low blackened helmet.
- So you are determined to go today? Wouldn't it be better to wait a week, a large convoy is expected from the north... - the Arnorian was saying as they walked.
- And what's the matter? - Thorin answered with a question. - Is the road unsafe or what?
- Not exactly completely unsafe, - the Arnorian hesitated. - But recently a message came that a suspicious detachment was spotted a little south. They were chased, but they scattered through the forests - try to dig them out of there! And further along the Road - the Gray Defile, their favorite place!
Interested in the conversation, they were gradually surrounded by dwarves and men, among them Rogvold.
- So how long must we wait for a passing convoy? - asked the huntsman's companion Forg.
- A week, or even all ten days, - the warrior answered. - Convoys don't assemble so quickly.
- We cannot wait, - Dori decisively frowned.
- We cannot, - Thorin confirmed. - Well now, everyone come, let's talk!
They gathered in the narrow space between the wagons, prudently posting guards around so they would not be overheard. They sat tightly, on top of each other, and spoke in undertones - there was no need to call for caution.
- Better to wait, a week or even ten days will decide nothing in our business - we're not rushing to a fire after all! - Rogvold began. - And they surely have spies here. And as soon as we set out in small numbers, without escort, these scoundrels will have an excellent opportunity to kill us in the Defile. I've been there, Forg and Alan too, it's a bad place. Imagine a narrow space between two high and steep hills overgrown with dense forest and thick undergrowth. The Defile stretches a good league, or even one and a half - if they station archers along it, we'll be shot at point-blank range and we can do nothing. I think that here risk is inappropriate, this is not the case.
Rogvold fell silent and looked over the faces of those listening to him with obvious approval from the men and somewhat skeptically from the dwarves.
- Today is April eighteenth, - Dori spoke quietly, restraining anger, and Folco noticed how Thorin secretly took the speaker by the hand. - To Khazad-dum we still have to go another twenty days, if not all twenty-five. That's, count, almost all of May. Summer is expected to be hot by the signs, mountain snows will start melting, the lower tiers of Moria may be flooded... What will we have left? Who knows how long we'll have to sit in the Black Pit before we understand and find out anything? And then it will turn out that we need to urgently call up the militia - and how to make it before winter? No, when going on such business, into complete unknown, one cannot delay. If they block our path - we'll break through with a fight! There are fourteen of us, plus twelve of you, plus Folco - an excellent archer. If we strike wisely, and fear has big eyes, our numbers will seem ten times greater!
The dwarf Dori was unexpectedly supported by Alan, the youngest of all the Arnorian hunters.
- I was in the Gray Defile last autumn, - he began, sweeping back long blue-black hair from his forehead. - And I won't say that setting up an ambush there is so simple. The forest along the Road has been cut down and burned out, and on the left hill - in addition the remains of an Arnorian outpost. Rogvold is right saying that with archers, if they sit there, it will be difficult to deal, but they won't be able to approach close to the Road, besides I haven't heard that bandits shoot well with bows. To strike from around a corner, in the back - that they'll gladly do, but they don't conduct proper battle. Besides, we can always send someone more nimble ahead, so as not to go blindly. And so there's no disputes, I'll say right away: I'm ready to go.
- Wait, Alan, you spoke well, but the main thing now is different, - Thorin raised his hand. - If we still go, how is it best to fight back? You men are experienced, advise us!
- The very best thing is not to stick your neck out, - Rogvold grumbled. - But if Alan himself saw all this and Moria will really start getting flooded, then perhaps the best thing will be to do this - we leave immediately, and three leagues out we send scouts to the sides. It's best to go left, to the east. - He turned to Alan. - There begins a long strip of oak groves and ravines, it stretches to the very Defile, you can get through there unnoticed. All the rest at this time go unhurriedly - and put on armor under your cloaks! If there's no one there, we pass through the Defile with all precautions and as quickly as possible, but if there is... then I think it's best to spook these villains, lead them away to the side, if there are many of them. I'm afraid that's how it will be, - the huntsman sighed, - they don't travel in small detachments now. We can't fight two dozen against several hundred!
- And yet it's preferable to deal with water than with arrows, - stubbornly bending his head, said Glen, one of the hunters. - What, will it be better if they shoot us all there like partridges?
- In my opinion, the most important thing is to find out whether those sitting in the Defile have bows and how many, - Dwalin entered the conversation. - If there are few archers or none at all, then we can go boldly.
- I think we have nothing to discuss! - Forg sharply leaned forward. - We'll talk when we find everything out! For now we need to decide only one thing - are we going forward or not?!
Silence fell. Thorin and Rogvold simultaneously began looking over the faces of their comrades. Someone looked straight, someone averted their gaze; finally the huntsman broke the silence:
- Well, let's count who's for what. Well, in turn. - And he turned to the men and dwarves who had been silent until now.
- Go, - Grani exhaled sternly, and Gimli and Thror silently bowed their heads in agreement.
- Wait, - Glen cut off, still stubbornly frowning.
- Maybe we really should wait a while, eh, dwarves? - Vyard timidly said. - Rogvold was speaking sense at first...
- I consider it shameful to hide from this filth, - Grimnir threw, tall, gloomy companion of Alan. - We still need to settle scores with them...
- It's foolish to stick your head in the maw of an unkilled dragon, - Balin shrugged.
- Shameful to listen to you, dwarves! - Stron's eyes flashed. - Kid, why are you silent?!
- And what about me? - the latter began excusing himself, apparently having dozed off again during the argument. - Go means go. Better than sitting around.
- Better to sit than to lie... in a grave, - Igg objected, another of the hunters, no longer young, an old companion of Rogvold.
- We'll all be there sooner or later, - Resvald shrugged, flexible, agile as a cat, with amazing green eyes.
- We have nothing to wait for, - Bran decisively struck with his fist. - Go!
- Agreed, - Veort nodded calmly.
- To perish for such nonsense... No, I don't agree! - Dovbur flared up, his gray beard bristled angrily.
- Oh come on, old man, - red-bearded Gothor laid a calming hand on his forearm. - Haven't we fought plenty? We don't even know yet if there's anyone in this Defile or not. I'm for finding everything out. And I also agree with Grimnir: to retreat - that's shameful.
- And we would be cautious, - Gloin suddenly declared. - The goal is too important, and to sacrifice lives for it we'll still have time.
Dwalin silently nodded in agreement, and Folco saw Thorin's eyebrows twitch in surprise.
- And I stand by what I said - we must go forward, - Alan repeated what he had said earlier.
The very tall, very strong Grolf, who easily bent the thickest horseshoes and exceeded even Thorin in strength, only smiled meekly and spread his hands.
- We must go, what the heck, - he muttered under his breath, as if ashamed to speak loudly.
Gerdin, who never parted with his long hunting bow, sighed and sadly nodded. In Annuminas he had left a large family. It was evident that he was ashamed of his words.
- Should be cautious... - he squeezed out and lowered his head low.
- For me there's nothing to think about - only forward! - Dori chopped before him with his palm, and the ever-bickering with him Hornbori for the first time agreed with his eternal opponent in arguments.
Forg slowly and negatively shook his head.
- The majority, in general, are for not delaying, - Thorin summed up. - It remains to ask very few. I, for example, think we need to go, but very carefully. Well, suppose here we'll be cautious once, but what will happen when we turn off the Road? And you, Rogvold, what do you say? And why are you silent, Folco?
- Me? - the hobbit suddenly got scared. - So what about me? Can I say anything sensible here? No, I'm - like everyone else.
- The majority is for going, - Rogvold said gloomily. - I understand Dori - we cannot delay. But of the men five are against rushing forward headlong. I don't like this venture either, but since it turns out this way... - He spread his hands.
The men who objected to the breakthrough protested loudly.
- We contracted to go to Moria and then stay on the surface, not to lay down our heads in skirmishes with all sorts of scoundrels! This is not our business, there's a guard for that! - Glen jumped up indignantly.
- All right, - Forg grumbled. - After all, we knew what we were getting into, and that we'd be fewer than the dwarves, too. Once we decided - we decided. So let's not waste time!
Rogvold rose lightly, youthfully.
- Come on, come on, get the wagons out, - he began hurrying the dwarves and men setting to work. - To the Defile there's a long way to go, and the sun is already high.
Having cast aside disputes, men and dwarves quickly led out their small convoy through the gates. Thorin went to settle with the innkeeper for lodging and food, and Folco tagged along.
- What, leaving? - the host met them. - Right, no point sitting around here. The fair in Rohan will close soon, so you with your goods need to hurry. And what they chatter here about bandits - don't believe it too much. To these guardsmen every scoundrel already seems like a whole army. So go boldly! By the way, if it's not a secret - you're probably carrying weapons?
Folco felt uneasy from the oily voice of the pot-bellied innkeeper. His small cunning eyes glistened too slickly.
- What we're carrying - that, forgive us, is our business, honorable host, - Thorin answered the innkeeper. - Take the money and farewell.
- Easy road to you, easy road, - the innkeeper bowed low after them.
The detachment quickly left behind the cultivated fields, passed the last guard post of the guardsmen - the warriors waved farewell after them - and moved further along the Road to the southeast, past wide meadows sparkling with fresh greenery and low, gentle hills, here and there overgrown with hawthorn. The sun rose, it became warmer, and only from the north still blew an unseasonably cold wind for spring. Occasionally they came across small groves; gradually they became more numerous, and on the very horizon loomed an indistinct bluish line.
- That's the Forgotten Ridge, - Alan showed the hobbit and Thorin riding beside them. - And there, where the Road leads, is that very Gray Defile. In my opinion, it's time for us to stop.
From time to time Folco caught approving glances from Thorin; the change in his mood had not escaped the attention of the detachment's leader. No one had proclaimed him commander, but somehow it had turned out that everyone asked his opinion, even Rogvold. The ranger had also changed noticeably after they left the capital. His gait once again became free, soft and light, his speech regained its familiar metallic notes, and his gaze its usual concentration and confidence. Matching him were the men who had set out with them - middle-aged, stocky, strong, experienced. They made no secret that they were not going to venture into Moria; their task was to remain on the surface, guarding the detachment's supplies and maintaining communication with Annuminas. Men and dwarves walked peacefully and amicably, not counting by race but doing one task. So four days passed.
On the fifth day the detachment entered a valley well known to the three travelers, where in autumn (it now seemed to Folco that this was long, long ago; as for the time since he had left the Shire, he already measured it in years) they had happened to pull apart peasants grappling on a dusty field boundary. The day was already fading when they crossed the ridge crest, and they decided to spend the night in Hagal. To Bree at a leisurely pace still remained a full four days' travel.
Little had changed in the village - except perhaps for several new huts on the outskirts. The villagers had not forgotten about caution, and their volunteer guard stopped the detachment at the sturdy village gates. Fortunately, Thorin and Rogvold were recognized, and soon the travelers met with the most cordial reception. Hearing of their appearance, Eirik rushed from some distant post, tavern servants were already pushing tables together, someone sent boys to Harstan, and the feast stretched on past midnight.
The friends learned that winter had passed quietly, if one did not count three skirmishes of Hagal's militia under Eirik's leadership with brigands. Angmar detachments had not once bothered the villagers, and this seemed to everyone a good sign. Folco could not decide for a long time whether to ask about Suttung, and when he gathered his courage, they answered that for several more months this restless man had been urging the Harstanians to avenge their grievances and burn the neighbors' village, after which all would leave for the north; there, he said, he had real friends, there they could live freely and comfortably, under reliable protection. They at first asked him to calm down, even threatened to hand him over to Bree to the new captain Dis; they said that Erster had fallen into disfavor and had been greatly offended. However, Suttung did not wait for his kinsmen to lose patience, and one fine night he disappeared along with his family and several close friends, just as hotheaded as himself. They were not remembered.
The village detachment had doubled in size with neighbors joining them, Eirik meanwhile told the hobbit. From the good autumn harvest they had bought weapons, something their own local craftsmen had been able to forge. The village militia now reached almost two hundred swords and served as reliable protection for the whole district.
"Oh, by the way!" Eirik suddenly slapped his forehead. "There was another rumor about Hraudun making the rounds. He, as you remember, fled back then."
"And here about three days ago news arrived: two villages some thirty leagues east of us quarreled to the death, staged a real slaughter, burned houses... They said that in one village some strange old man had settled, seemingly helping the villagers who sheltered him, and their neighbors began to dislike them for some reason. A familiar story! Must be Hraudun again, that cursed troublemaker!" Eirik struck the table with his heavy fist. "Eh, if only we could catch him - by the beard! We would deal with him!"
"Always you, Eirik, meddle in others' affairs," Rogvold reproachfully remarked to him. "Winter has passed, you've driven out the brigands, given rebuff to the Angmar folk. You'd better write to the sheriff, and don't miss the sowing!"
Eirik turned crimson but restrained himself and said nothing.
"The village where he settled did take the upper hand," he continued. "But the whole district rose against them at once, the local militia pulled up, and those who remained of the would-be victors went into the forests, and there what else - only banditry. There's Hraudun for you!"
At dawn, when they set out further, Eirik rode with them for a long time, and Folco firmly remembered the words spoken by Hagal's leader:
"Something heavy weighs on my soul, friend Folco. All this is not by chance, and this Hraudun too is not by chance. There will be great bloodshed, mark my words, great bloodshed..."
The detachment moved south along the calm, reliably guarded road. Everywhere field work was beginning; spring had been vigorous. Four more days passed, and before them loomed the long-awaited roofs of Bree.
All these days Folco had not lost that light, confident mood that had appeared in him after the amazing vision of the Undying Lands. He often and long pondered Gandalf's words, and the further he went, the more questions arose in him. Why, if the wizard cannot tell him anything, why would Gandalf need this at all - to converse with someone living in Middle-earth? Perhaps he listens to their stories? But the wizard had not questioned him about anything...
Having presented their travel warrant for the last time to the mounted patrol at the northern gates of Bree, they leisurely entered the settlement. And, of course, their hands of their own accord directed the horses to the hospitable doors of "The Prancing Pony."
Nothing had changed in the familiar hall, and even the folk, as it first seemed to Folco, were the same as on that ill-fated evening - only the men in green were missing. Much beer was drunk and many songs sung; the dwarves kept striking up their famous "Far over the Misty Mountains cold," men in turn began "There was a king who sat alone," and only when evening thickened did the hobbit manage to slip away unnoticed and go to where, as he unerringly determined, he was expected. He went to Pelagast's shop.
The shop windows were dark, but when Folco quietly knocked at the door, it unexpectedly swung open easily. He stepped into the black opening.
"Lock the door behind you," came a calm familiar voice, and Folco saw before him a weak, trembling candle flame and in its meager light - a man bent over a book. "Go around there, on the right..."
The hobbit carefully approached. Pelagast raised his single eye to him, and Folco involuntarily shuddered. The eye seemed a bottomless black well, at the bottom of which, like a dim light, beat a thought incomprehensible to others. The hands fallen on the ancient pages seemed like dry broom branches, the shoulders and chest were drowned in darkness, weak reflections of light fell on cheeks cut by wrinkles.
"Sit here, on the bench," Pelagast continued. "I have been waiting for you a long time. Tell me everything in order. Don't be afraid of getting confused: what I need, I'll ask again."
"But... who are you?" the hobbit squeezed out of himself, only now thinking to ask the man sitting opposite him this most simple and natural question. "I was told about you by... himself..." He cut himself off, remembering in time that everything he had seen might be just a simple dream.
"Gandalf himself, or rather, Olorin?" Pelagast smiled slightly. "I guessed that sooner or later he would find you. He was always partial to you hobbits. So, you saw him! He, of course, told you nothing, talking about the Scales?"
"That's right... But how..." the astonished Folco began and stopped again, feeling the inappropriateness of his question.
"The cursed Scales," Pelagast sighed. "But there's nothing to be done. As for me... haven't you guessed yet? And you've read the Book. Well, however, that's not so important. You came to me yourself, which means you knew, though not with your mind. About me we'll talk more, but for now - I await your story."
And Folco, obeying the power that rang imperiously in this calm voice, began his narrative. It turned out to be long - Pelagast demanded that the hobbit not omit a single detail. He questioned him long and meticulously about everything that had happened in the Barrow-downs, was interested in Hraudun, and listening to Folco, frowned even more and whispered something. It seemed to the hobbit that Pelagast said something like "again he's at his old tricks." Their Annuminas adventures he listened to less attentively, stopping only at the story of the phantom that had appeared. He silently nodded at this, as if finding confirmation of some thoughts, and then suddenly snapped his fingers in a special way, and in the corner two large yellow eyes suddenly flared. Not expecting this, Folco cried out.
"Don't be afraid," Pelagast turned to him, "this is Glin, my owl."
A winged shadow glided silently right onto Pelagast's shoulder. Folco saw a round head, large eyes now covered from the light by heavy lids. Pelagast said something quietly to the huge bird, and Glin flew up silently, immediately disappearing into the darkness. Folco felt elastic jolts of air on his face. And at once, as if lightning flashed in his head, he suddenly understood who was now before him. And before he could think what to do next, his back had already bent, and he himself bowed in a low, respectful bow.
Pelagast chuckled.
"Understood at last... Yes, I was once Radagast the Brown, one of the Five. And now I am a weapons trader in Bree... I am the last of the Five remaining in Middle-earth. Gandalf has gone, and the others too... Saruman was apparently killed... And I remained. I have nothing to do in the Undying Lands, Folco son of Hamfast. I was no one's enemy, plants, beasts and birds served me. Only once was I drawn into the affairs of men - when I, to my misfortune, conveyed to Olorin Saruman's invitation, not yet knowing that he had already woven black nets of cunning and treachery. After that I said to myself: 'Radagast, it's not your business to meddle in Great Wars, mind your own affairs!' But it didn't work out... Old Gandalf sought me out after the victory, called me to go with him. But I refused: I had no business in the Undying Lands, and I needed no rest.
"'So you are firmly against it?' Gandalf asked me, and I saw how his face darkened. 'You understand what awaits you?'
"'What can await me?' I carelessly answered. 'You have your affairs, White One, I, the Brown, have mine. The Enemy has fallen, and that is splendid. Your labors are perhaps finished, mine will continue forever, as long as this world stands. No, it is decided - I remain.'
"'You, of course, think you will keep everything you possessed, and all your ancient power?' Gandalf asked me, narrowing his eyes.
"And I understood that he was angry, but then I did not yet know that he wished me well, only in his own way. At first I must admit I thought that the newly-made head of the White Council finishing its existence wanted to show his famous character one last time.
"'Whatever I may keep,' I answered, 'you will not persuade me. I will never exchange the infinity of life for immortality.'
"'Then listen, Radagast the Simple, as Saruman once called you!' cried Gandalf in anger. 'You will have to take upon yourself all the scattered evil that still remains in Middle-earth. The White Council will never be convened again, our Order has ceased to exist, Saruman has fallen, I am leaving. Your staff loses power! Even I am already powerless here. You know who decreed it thus and why it cannot be otherwise. You will have to go to men and earn your bread by hard labor. The infinity of life you will keep, and wisdom will remain with you, but strength will diminish, and whether anything will remain, neither I nor the Bright Queen who sent us know. Will you not change your decision?!'
"I confess, I became uneasy, but I gathered all my will and proudly answered that I would remain, whatever might happen. And Gandalf somehow suddenly faded, became haggard, suddenly becoming unimaginably old.
"'Farewell, Radagast,' he said, slowly walking to the door. 'Who knows, perhaps you are not so wrong after all. Stay! I believe I will find a way to meet with you. But I beg you, look after the hobbits! They are very dear to me, I leave them with pain in my heart. Do you promise me this? Then I can leave in peace.'
"'Have I ever not kept my promises?' I said in answer.
"Gandalf embraced me and disappeared beyond the threshold. Then I learned that he left Middle-earth together with Elrond and Galadriel. And then," he sighed, "everything happened as Gandalf predicted to me. My staff broke." Radagast shuddered, his face twisted in a grimace of once-experienced unbearable pain. "And I became what you see me as - Pelagast, a shopkeeper with a patent from the King of the Reunited Kingdom!
"Something, of course, I lost, but still not everything. Fulfilling the promise given to Gandalf, I began to seek a new dwelling somewhere closer to his beloved Shire, when wild nomad Easterlings fell upon my small house on the eastern edge of Mirkwood. And then I understood that my powers had truly greatly weakened. I could not defend my dwelling and barely saved myself. Now I live here." Radagast sighed heavily. "I noticed trouble long ago, but brigands occupied me little - that is the business of men. I had to deal with the remnants of other evil, but even here I could do little... Except perhaps - give timely needed advice. That's why you interested me so. You need to see more, so we can decide where to go next. You have brought me very important information. I will deal with Hraudun myself, and with the Barrow-downs nothing can be done for now. Their spawn are not yet too dangerous, however I must certainly visit old Bombadil - he will find a way to deal with them. That phantom truly appeared in Annuminas for the sword carried off by Thorin. Tell him not to throw it away - thus the Wights accumulate power given to them by men worshiping the Barrow-downs.
"I will put the thought in Dis's mind to watch the Field more closely. But as for Moria... Here I can add little to your suppositions. You must go there, and the sooner the better. Be sure - beasts and birds that obey me will help you, warn you of danger, and they will also bring me news of you. And after Moria try to meet with me, we'll think everything through together. I will send word to Cirdan and Thranduil, but everything will depend on what you can learn. That's that! But I see you want to ask something?"
"What do your words about West, East, North and South mean?" Folco asked eagerly, licking his lips.
"That is your path," Radagast answered with a sad smile. "Don't demand more of me, far from always can the prophet interpret the words that came into his head. And I also cannot yet. But be sure: everywhere, wherever you may be, my thoughts will be with you. You turned out to be the first hobbit after the famous foursome to risk getting involved in the affairs of the Big World, and that in itself is a formidable sign."
Radagast fell silent and lowered his head.
"Tell me, I beg you, tell me something about the Valar and the Undying Lands!" Folco breathed pleadingly.
Radagast looked at him with a smile with his single eye.
"I'll tell you when the time comes," he answered. "Don't rush! You will come to that yet. Your path now lies south. By the way, I don't much like this Olmer from Dale," the former wizard suddenly interrupted himself. "There is something in him, still undefined, but suspicious. Well, perhaps we'll be able to clarify that too... And you for now go and wait to tell your friends about our meeting! Everything in its time. We will meet again, Folco son of Hamfast. But for now farewell..."
On a bright spring morning they were leaving Bree. Behind remained its solid houses and high palisade. Another patrol of ten mounted militia overtook them, galloping somewhere to the south. The wagon train descended from the hill on which Bree stood and slowly moved along the packed southern road. Three days of travel passed without incident, and on the evening of the fourth, when the sun had already approached the western horizon, painting half the sky crimson-scarlet, Rogvold and Dori riding ahead suddenly raised their hands, pointing to a solitary black stone located on the summit of a roadside hill. Folco and Thorin rode up to them. A three-sided stone needle the height of two men stood, firmly embedded in the ground, and below, in the hollow where the Road passed between two hills, Folco made out an Arnorian guard post. He looked back - here and there across the plain were scattered tiny lights of distant villages: in settlements located along the Road, travelers received shelter and refuge. The hobbit looked forward - there lay impenetrable thick twilight. The lands before them were being drawn over by evening mists, and not a single light was visible. He looked with sudden confusion at Rogvold and suddenly understood what the stone blade meant - they had reached the borders of Arnor. Ahead stretched the Wilderness.
PART TWO
Chapter One. THE SOUTH ROAD
The wind blew, and the night rain drummed steadily on the canvas stretched over the wagon, bringing on sweet sleep. Folco opened his eyes and shivered - cold streams of air broke through the cracks. Nearby dwarves snored under blankets, it was already growing light, and it was time to get up. The hobbit sighed and sat up, clasping his arms around his knees. It was the third day since that memorable evening when they had passed the Arnorian border, and the sixth since leaving Bree; yet it seemed to Folco that long months had passed. The whole world had contracted to a narrow roadside strip; the monotonous ribbon of the ancient South Road, also called the Greenway or Unfinished Road, went straight through sparse forests and groves interspersed with small sections of cultivated fields, pastures and hayfields. Twice their path was blocked by forest-covered ridges of hills stretching from west to east, low and greatly smoothed - far-extended edges of the South Downs, however the Road did not turn, it cut through the hillocks like a gigantic sword; Folco noticed that in places the Road's bed had been dug right through the body of the rises. The gloomy spruce forests of the northern Arnorian plateau had given way to rows of maples and ashes whimsically mixed with each other; like watchtowers, gigantic ancient oaks towered along the roadsides. There were beeches and hornbeams; along the roadside ditches bright flowers already gleamed red. Warm southern winds bore on their mighty wings the fragrance of the wild plains of Minhiriath; from the unfamiliar aromas and scents Folco's head sometimes even spun. The empty, unpeopled spaces bloomed luxuriantly, rid of skillful but sometimes troublesome human hands. Today, however, it had suddenly blown from the north; during the night the hobbit had awakened more than once from the cold.
Yes, the landscape was changing, and right before his eyes. Villages had become rare - the distance between them fit into a day's march; remembering the ill-famed West Road, Thorin did not risk stopping for the night in uninhabited places. They encountered less and less people coming toward them - they traveled only in large wagon trains numbering up to several hundred carts and wagons.
The villages too had changed greatly, becoming larger and more populous. Each was now surrounded not by a simple palisade, but a real fortress wall, though of wood, not stone. Not one managed without a hundred militia; there were special postal stations with relay horses, so that the king's relay could reach the gates of Rohan as quickly as possible. At first these villages seemed to Folco a reliable refuge; however two days ago they had come upon a large ash field, already washed away by rains and overgrown with lush grass, and he understood that here walls and militia did not always save.
However, so far luck accompanied them, and the road was not too tiring - not much harder than the journey to Annuminas. Folco's heart was light and somehow especially clear; no doubts or hesitations remained, he had again yielded to the magic of the oncoming road and for now did not look into the future. Remembering Bilbo's and Frodo's journeys, every evening he carefully wrote down everything that had happened during the day, even small squabbles among his companions in the detachment.
In the short time Folco had managed to know his companions well; and if fierce Dori, verbose Hornbori, cautious and thorough Bran were known from Annuminas, he had gotten close to the rest on the road. Vjard was a bit cowardly, loved beer somewhat more than others, but turned out to be an unsurpassed master of tempering and also stone carving; he also knew surprisingly many ancient dwarven tales. Young Skidulf was venturing beyond his caves in the northern Grey Mountains for the first time, obeyed Thorin in everything and for now looked and listened more than he spoke himself. It seemed to Folco that he was somewhat overconfident, but strong and unfailing in work. Thorin's three kinsmen - taciturn Grani, Gimli and Thror - rarely entered into general conversations, preferred short and unambiguous phrases. They were going to Moria to fight and did not hide it, and with whom - according to Thror, that was completely unimportant to them. Balin, a middle-aged dwarf from the north of the Misty Mountains, turned out on the contrary to be very sociable, talked much with Folco, questioned him about elves, himself told many stories from his people's past; however, when it was time for everyone to tackle something heavy or unpleasant together or his turn came to clean pots and chop wood - he turned out to be far from among the first. But he wielded an axe quite well, which even such a battle master as Thorin acknowledged. Balin's countryman Strond was reputed to be an expert on orcish habits. Strond quickly became close with Maly - their characters were similar: both cheerful, never downcast, only Strond, as Folco understood, could look and see deeper than Maly, and his eyes betrayed considerable, sometimes bitter, life experience.
To the Moria dwarves - Gloin and Dwalin - Folco looked particularly closely and questioned them more than others. However, they could say little - they had left Khazad-dum long ago and had not witnessed those frightening events because of which the detachment was going to Moria. However, they perfectly remembered the layout of all the Morian halls, and most importantly - the system of secret signs that allowed dwarves not to particularly trouble themselves with memorizing endless schemes of tangled underground corridors - to learn it was impossible even in a whole long dwarven life. Gloin somewhat resembled Hornbori in his gift of skillful and beautiful speech, but never spoke idly. Dwalin never tired of sighing about those beautiful times when the Moria dwarves befriended the elves of Eregion, together extracting knowledge and perfecting themselves in the art of metalworking. He sincerely grieved about this, and Folco understood that for him the past was still alive, and for the sake of once again, for the umpteenth time, reviving Moria or at least trying to understand what was really happening there, Dwalin was ready to give his life. In his grey eyes, a rare color among dwarves, was read inflexible will, yielding to Thorin's will in nothing; the hobbit developed great respect for Dwalin. Needless to say, both Morians, as befitted dwarves, wielded weapons excellently.
The dwarves told the eagerly listening hobbit much that was interesting; after the long journey with them Folco probably knew about this people more than anyone among living or lived hobbits, more even than old Bilbo - during his wanderings his companions had not particularly chatted with him.
Folco tried to write down everything he heard, but two stories were especially memorable to him. One was told to him almost on the first day of travel along the South Road by Vjard, whom Maly had replaced on the wagon's driving seat, and the old dwarf had moved temporarily into the saddle. His story flowed slowly and calmly, he spoke somewhat pompously - after all, it concerned the unimaginably distant days of the First Age, legends of which were now preserved only among dwarves. He spoke of times when the world was young, and Great Durin was surrounded by mute, nameless cliffs. The First Dwarf began with few companions; the Firstborn helped them, and among the attendants of the King of Khazad-dum one dwarf named Thror stood out in mind, skill and patience. He spent much time with the elves, learned much from them, they said that he too was captivated by the unearthly beauty of the Lady Galadriel and, wishing to make her a worthy gift, began to accumulate gold and mithril. However, then it was still far from the days of the great glory of the Black Chasm, as the elves called Moria, its main veins still awaited their hour, one had to shift through huge masses of empty rock, and Thror tired of this. He invented and made a miraculous sieve, possessing the ability to select gold from everything that was thrown into its maw. It was enough to pour into it without stopping even the poorest ore, so that at the end of the day one could extract from it all the gold that had been scattered to dust among grey mountain sand and stone crumbs. Labor was eased manifold; the dwarves began to grow rich quickly, settlers from the Grey Mountains poured into Moria, where by that time it had become restless - another war was going on between men and orcs. Thror accumulated the amount of noble metal he needed, forged from it a fabulously beautiful diadem decorated with beryls covered with the finest carving, and gave it to the Lady. The sieve had now become unnecessary to him, and Thror simply forgot about his creation. However, others did not forget. Because of it in Moria a real war almost broke out, and then Great Durin ordered Thror to destroy his creation. "Well no!" Thror answered. "I'd rather leave with it, if its existence threatens our brotherhood!" Everyone began to beg him to stay, and he, hesitating, agreed, but hid the sieve so that until the awakening of Durin's Bane nothing was heard of it, and then, understandably, there was no time for that. Since then among dwarves lives the dream - to find the magical sieve, many floors and walls of Moria have been opened and lifted by restless seekers, but in vain...
"And that's very good!" Vjard added on his own at the end, but why it was good, he did not say.
The second story, or rather, a short parable, was told to the hobbit by Balin.
"Why is Khazad-dum so immense, eh, what do you think?" he said to the hobbit one day with a laugh. "You think a whole mass of workers worked there? Not in the least! Most of it was laid under Durin, when there were still very few dwarves. So listen! Dwarves and mountains have the same roots. Stones can also speak, and some can even move. This was so in the Ancient Days, and they say in those fabulous times the First Dwarf was helped to create the great Underground Kingdom by the mountains themselves - by sending him Rollstein.
"What's that?" Folco was surprised.
"Ha, Rollstein! That, my good hobbit, is such a thing that you could remake the whole world in your own way, and without any..." He looked around and quickly added: "And without any rings and wizards. Rollstein looked like the most ordinary stone, though quite large, they said about the size of a young bull. It rolled by itself, you understand, my good Folco, it rolled by itself and broke through a tunnel in any most solid rock. The Dwarf had only to follow it, like a plowman follows a plow. Thus most of the Morian corridors and galleries were laid... But it could roll not only in the thickness of rocks, but also on the surface. They say that it was precisely Rollstein that helped Great Durin repel the first onslaught of orcs."
"And where did it go afterward?"
"No one knows," Balin sighed. "It was sought long and persistently, and not only by dwarves. This after all is very handy - to demolish fortress walls! But all these efforts were in vain, and we got a proverb: if you see a rocking stone, don't rush to shout that before you is Rollstein - better first look who's rocking it!"
Meanwhile the rain had stopped, nearby Thorin muttered and turned over - it was time to get up. A new day of their wanderings was beginning: by Thorin's calculations, today they faced an especially difficult march - to the next village was no less than ten leagues.
"Are you already up, Folco?" the dwarf was surprised, shivering from the morning cold. "Run then to the host, let him serve breakfast. And I'll wake the others meanwhile."
The hobbit hastily washed in a barrel of rainwater standing by the corner of the house and went to the host - an elderly cunning Breelander who had been living in these inhospitable places for thirty years already. Coming out from him onto the porch, the hobbit involuntarily stopped.
In the spacious yard, surrounded by a strong and high fence, their wagons stood in a cluster, buried to the hubs in whitish morning haze. To the right above the fence could be seen a tall watchtower, to the left - the gabled roofs of neighboring houses. The sun had barely appeared over the horizon, the sky was clear; the day promised to be hot. From under the wagon covers voices were already heard, the lanky figure of Rogvold appeared; Maly and one of the hunters, Glen, went to the tavern for breakfast, other men and dwarves were already leading out horses and ponies, beginning to harness. From around the corner emerged Thorin together with Bran, beside them walked, moderating his pace, the commander of the local Arnorian militia in a blue cloak and with heron feathers on a low blackened helmet.
"So you are determined to go today? Wouldn't it be better to wait about a week, from the north a large wagon train is expected..." the Arnorian was saying as he walked.
"What's the matter?" Thorin answered with a question. "Is the road unsafe, or what?"
"Not entirely quite so unsafe," the Arnorian hesitated. "But recently a message came that a suspicious detachment was spotted a bit south. They were chased, but they scattered through the forests - try digging them out of there! And further along the Road - the Grey Defile, their favorite place!"
Interested in the conversation, dwarves and men gradually surrounded them, including Rogvold.
"So how long must we wait for a passing wagon train?" asked Forg, the ranger's comrade.
"A week, or even all of ten days," the warrior answered. "Wagon trains don't gather so quickly."
"We cannot wait," Dori firmly frowned.
"We cannot," Thorin confirmed. "Now then, let's all go, let's talk!"
They gathered in the narrow space between the wagons, prudently posting guards around so they would not be overheard. They sat closely, on top of each other, and spoke in half-whispers - there was no need to call for caution.
"Better to wait, a week or even ten days will decide nothing in our business - after all we're not rushing to a fire!" Rogvold began. "And they surely have spies here. And as soon as we set out in small numbers, without guards, these scoundrels will have an excellent opportunity to slaughter us in the Defile. I've been there, Forg and Alan too, it's a bad place. Imagine a narrow space between two high and steep hills overgrown with dense forest and thick undergrowth. The Defile stretches a good league, or even one and a half - if they station archers along it, we'll be shot at point-blank range, and we'll be able to do nothing. I believe that to risk here is inappropriate, this is not the case."
Rogvold fell silent and surveyed the men listening to him with obvious approval and somewhat skeptically the dwarves.
"Today is the eighteenth of April," Dori spoke quietly, restraining anger, and Folco noticed how Thorin secretly took the speaker by the hand. "To Khazad-dum we still have to go another twenty days, if not all twenty-five. That's, count it, almost all of May. Summer by the signs is expected to be hot, mountain snows will begin to melt, the lower tiers of Moria may turn out to be flooded... What will we have left? Who knows how long we'll have to sit in the Black Chasm before we understand and find out anything? And then it will turn out that we urgently need to summon the militia - and how to manage before winter? No, when you go on such business, into complete unknown, you cannot dawdle. If they block our way - we'll break through in battle! There are fourteen of us, and twelve of you, and Folco - an excellent archer. If we strike wisely, and fear has big eyes, so our number will seem ten times greater!"
The dwarf Dori was unexpectedly supported by Alan, the youngest of all the Arnorian hunters.
"I was in the Grey Defile last autumn," he began, sweeping back from his forehead long blue-black hair. "And I won't say that to set up an ambush there would be so simple. The forest along the Road has been cut down and burned, and on the left hill - in addition, the remains of an Arnorian guard post. Rogvold is right saying that with archers, if they sit there, it will be difficult to deal, but they won't be able to approach close to the Road, besides I haven't heard that brigands shoot well with bows. To strike from around the corner, in the back - that's please, but they don't conduct proper battle. Besides, we can always send someone more nimble ahead, so as not to go blindly. And so there are no arguments, I'll say right away: I'm ready to go."
"Wait, Alan, you spoke well, but the main thing now is different," Thorin raised his hand. "If we still go, then how is it best to defend? You men are experienced, advise us!"
"The very best is not to stick your head in, to trouble," Rogvold grumbled. "But if Alan himself saw all this and Moria will truly begin to flood, then perhaps the best thing would be to do this - we leave immediately, and about three leagues away we send scouts to the sides. It's best to go left, to the east." He turned to Alan. "There begins a long strip of oak groves and ravines, it stretches to the very Defile, there one can get through unnoticed. All the rest meanwhile go unhurriedly - and put on armor under your cloaks! If there's no one there, we pass through the Defile with all precautions and as quickly as possible, but if there is... then I think it's best to spook these villains, lead them aside, if there turn out to be many. I fear that's how it will be," the ranger sighed, "they don't go in small detachments now. We can't fight with two dozen against several hundred!"
"And still it's preferable to deal with water than with arrows," said Glen, one of the hunters, stubbornly bowing his head. "What, will it be better if we're all shot there like partridges?"
"In my opinion, the most important thing is to find out whether those sitting in the Defile have bows and how many of them," Dwalin entered the conversation. "If there are few archers or none at all, then we can go boldly."
"I believe we have nothing to discuss!" Forg sharply leaned forward. "We'll talk when we know everything! For now we need to decide only one thing - are we going forward or not?!"
Silence fell. Thorin and Rogvold simultaneously began surveying the faces of their companions. Someone looked straight ahead, someone averted their gaze; finally the ranger broke the silence:
"Well, let's count who's for what. Well, in turn." And he turned to the men and dwarves who had been silent until now.
"Go," Grani exhaled grimly, and Gimli and Thror silently bowed their heads in agreement.
"Wait," Glen cut off, still stubbornly frowning.
"Maybe we really should wait a while, eh, dwarves?" Vjard spoke timidly. "Rogvold spoke sense at first..."
"I consider it shameful to hide from this filth," threw Grimnir, a tall, gloomy comrade of Alan's. "We still have to settle accounts with them..."
"It's foolish to stick your head in the mouth of an unkilled dragon," Balin shrugged.
"It's shameful to listen to you, dwarves!" Strond's eyes flashed. "Maly, why are you silent?!"
"And what about me?" the latter began to justify himself, apparently having dozed off again during the argument. "If we go, we go. Anything's better than sitting."
"Better to sit than to lie... in a grave," objected Igg, another of the hunters, no longer young, an old comrade of Rogvold's.
"We'll all be there sooner or later," Resvald shrugged, supple, agile as a cat, with amazing green eyes.
"We have nothing to wait for," Bran decisively thumped his fist. "Go!"
"Agreed," calm Veort nodded his head imperturbably.
"To perish because of such nonsense... No, I don't agree!" Dovbur started up, his grey beard angrily bristling.
"Oh come on, old man," red-bearded Gothor placed his hand soothingly on his forearm. "Haven't we fought enough? We don't even know yet whether there's anyone in that Defile or not. I'm for finding everything out. And I also agree with Grimnir: to retreat is shameful."
"But we'd be cautious," Gloin suddenly declared. "The goal is too important, and we'll still have time to sacrifice lives for it."
Dwalin silently nodded in agreement, and Folco saw Thorin's eyebrows twitch in surprise.
"And I stand by what I said - we must go forward," Alan repeated what he had said before.
The very tall, very strong Grolf, who easily bent the thickest horseshoes and surpassed even Thorin in strength, only smiled meekly and spread his hands.
"We must go, that's that," he muttered under his breath, as if embarrassed to speak loudly.
Gerdyn, who never parted with his long hunting bow, sighed and sadly nodded his head. In Annuminas he had left a large family. It was obvious that he was ashamed of his words.
"We should be cautious..." he squeezed out of himself and lowered his head.
"I don't even need to think - only forward!" Dori chopped his palm before him, and Hornbori, who eternally sparred with him, for the first time agreed with his eternal opponent in arguments.
Forg slowly and negatively shook his head.
"The majority, in general, is for not delaying," Thorin summed up. "It remains to ask very few. I, for example, believe we must go, but very carefully. Well, suppose here we're cautious once, but what will happen when we turn off the Road? And you, Rogvold, what do you say? And why are you silent, Folco?"
"Me?" the hobbit suddenly became frightened. "Well, what can I say sensible here? No, I'm - like everyone."
"The majority is for going," Rogvold said gloomily. "I understand Dori - we cannot delay. But of the men five are against rushing forward headlong. I don't like this venture either, but since it's turning out this way..." He spread his hands.
The men who had objected to breaking through protested loudly.
"We contracted to go to Moria and then remain on the surface, not to lay down our heads in skirmishes with all kinds of scoundrels! This is not our business, there's militia for that!" Glen jumped up indignantly.
"All right," Forg grumbled. "After all, we knew what we were getting into, and that there would be fewer of us than dwarves, too. If it's decided - it's decided. Six of ours are also for going. So let's not waste time!"
Rogvold rose easily, youthfully.
"Come on, come on, bring out the wagons," he began to hurry the dwarves and men who were setting to work. "To the Defile is a long way, and the sun is already high."
Having dropped their disputes, men and dwarves quickly brought their small wagon train out through the gates. Thorin went to settle with the innkeeper for lodging and food, and Folco tagged along with him.
"What, departing?" the host met them. "Right, no point sitting around here. The fair in Rohan will close soon, so you with your goods need to hurry. And what they chatter here about bandits - don't believe it too much. To these guardsmen every scoundrel already seems like a whole army. So go boldly! By the way, if it's not a secret - you're probably carrying weapons?"
Folco felt uneasy from the oily voice of the pot-bellied innkeeper. His small cunning eyes glistened too slickly.
"What we're carrying - that, forgive us, is our business, honorable host," Thorin answered the innkeeper. "Take the money and farewell."
"Easy road to you, easy road," the innkeeper bowed low after them.
The detachment quickly left behind the cultivated fields, passed the last guard post of the guardsmen - the warriors waved farewell after them - and moved further along the Road to the southeast, past wide meadows sparkling with fresh greenery and low, gentle hills, here and there overgrown with hawthorn. The sun rose, it became warmer, and only from the north still blew an unseasonably cold wind for spring. Occasionally they came across small groves; gradually they became more numerous, and on the very horizon loomed an indistinct bluish line.
"That's the Forgotten Ridge," Alan showed the hobbit and Thorin riding beside them. "And there, where the Road leads, is that very Grey Defile. In my opinion, it's time for us to stop."
He turned to Rogvold, and the former centurion silently nodded.
"Put on your armor, friends," the ranger said quietly. "It's time for the scouts to turn off. It will be better if you reach those trees a bit to the left of the Road." He pointed forward. "You have about two hours' walk there. Stop, put the carts in a circle and wait for us. But if we..." he paused, "don't return, then go back to the village and wait for a passing wagon train."
"Wait, and who will go?" Hornbori suddenly asked. "That's precisely what we didn't decide."
"I said I would go." Alan stepped forward. "Who else is with me?"
Without hesitating a moment, Resvald, Grimnir and Grolf stepped forward.
"But you'll be needed here," Rogvold objected to them. "Dwarves are out - you absolutely don't know how to walk through forests, honored ones, no offense meant."
And then the unexpected happened. Folco, who had been timidly pressing to the side, whom talk of brigands had plunged into considerable confusion and who had just been gloomily figuring out how best to hide so as not to accidentally come under a sword in battle, suddenly came out into the middle.
"You, Folco?" Thorin exclaimed in bewilderment. Maly simply told the hobbit to stop being foolish, but Rogvold raised his hand soothingly.
"Our hobbit, though small in stature, is deft and quick," said the ranger, with furrowed brows quickly extinguishing mocking smiles on the men's faces. "I have had occasion to be convinced of his valor and resourcefulness. Besides, hobbits walk more silently than a cat, and as for shooting skill - no hunter of Arnor can compare with them! We will be very careful," Rogvold assured Thorin, who had tried to object to something, and jumped into the saddle. "Wait for us there until evening," he shouted to those remaining, and the three scouts turned their horses left, into the roadside grove.
Folco's ears burned with shame for the recent cowardly thoughts that had possessed him. Somewhere deep in his soul he even now regretted his truly mad act, but there was nowhere to retreat. He adjusted the folds of chainmail under his cloak, moved his sword more conveniently, the belt with knives, adjusted higher the quiver with bow and arrows.
They rode unhurriedly and cautiously along a deep, heavily overgrown ancient ravine. Above their heads the forest canopy closed; however the sun here stood higher than at this time of year in his native Shire, and the ravine did not look gloomy at all. The bottom was covered with young fern shoots; higher up, in bright places, raspberries mixed with nettles had grown wildly.
Rogvold and Alan rode ahead, from time to time conversing quietly and glancing at the sun.
The ravine led them into a fairly wide basin between three converging hills. To the left, to the north, showed transparent young birches and rowans - a joyful deciduous forest. From northeast to southwest before them stretched diagonally the first ridge of the Forgotten Ridge, covered with tall dark forest.
Alan, who had ridden ahead, suddenly raised his hand warningly, and Rogvold hastened to him. Holding his breath and grasping his sword, the hobbit also rode up to the two trackers bent over the ground.
"Careful," Rogvold hissed at him. "Don't trample the tracks!"
The hobbit understood and could make out little in the small, barely noticeable ruts and immediately pestered the men with questions.
"Several mounted men passed here," Alan explained. "Passed this morning from north to south, over there." He waved his hand, indicating a dark opening in the thickets where what looked like some semblance of a path seemed to go deep into the trees. "What horseshoes - can't make out, but the horses aren't too large. However, whoever rode through here, it's bad - the path is known to the locals and most likely under surveillance. And we're stuck here in plain sight!"
They hastily hid in the thickets and turned right. Alan and Rogvold carefully made their way between flexible branches, bending to the very manes, it was easier for the short hobbit. They left behind the joyful clearing and went deeper into the forest of the Forgotten Ridge.
It proved difficult to overcome only the first few fathoms; then the undergrowth retreated, its place taken by low forest grasses. Under the dense canopy of foliage somewhere bird voices called quietly to each other. The trackers listened suspiciously for some time but noticed no trick.
From the Road to the clearing they had ridden about an hour and a half; about the same again they made their way southwest, hiding in the dense forest, until Rogvold commanded a halt.
"Further on horseback is impossible," he said in a whisper. "We'll leave the horses here, though it's risky, of course, but there's no way out."
In the thickets, at the bottom of a small ravine, they hid the horses, removing from them what might betray them by jingling. Crawling up, following the trackers, Folco looked back - the pony looked at him with mute reproach. The hobbit hastily turned away.
Now they slowly and cautiously crept in short dashes from trunk to trunk, bent double. Everything around remained quiet and calm, and the hobbit involuntarily began to feel that they were playing some strange, though entertaining game. He lost track of time, and only when the sun accidentally broke through the green canopy did he understand that time had already passed noon.
Everything happened in an instant. Alan walking ahead suddenly collapsed as if mowed down into the grass near a mighty tree root. Folco and Rogvold carefully crawled up to him.
"Look!" Alan whispered to them. "See? Right there beyond the tree - their sentry! These brigand gentlemen are not so simple..."
In the green mess ahead of them at first it seemed impossible to make anything out, and no matter how much the hobbit peered, he saw nothing. But his companions saw and understood everything they needed, and now they moved in a bypass crawling. Ahead Alan wriggled like a supple snake, slipping like a mole under hummocks and roots; behind him the hobbit pressing to the ground, trying not to lose sight of the tracker's boot soles; Rogvold brought up the rear.
Crawling proved difficult, sweat flooded his eyes, his back unaccustomed to such movement quickly began to ache. "What if they're in the trees?!" Everything inside the hobbit went cold. However, minutes passed, and so far everything remained as it was. Folco could see only grass and bugs before his nose and wondered: what did the men expect to see there? However, soon his doubts were dispelled by a barely audible murmur that finally reached them. They froze. Words could not be made out, they needed to get closer. Alan very slowly and carefully slid forward, making a sign to the hobbit to follow him. Folco began to tremble, it seemed to him that they would be discovered any moment; however they calmly crawled further and hid in ferns, from where they could see and hear the speakers. Only now did the hobbit dare to raise his head.
Ahead, under a mighty spreading beech, sat two brigands casually leaning against the trunk - by appearance ordinary Arnorian peasants: one already elderly, in a shabby cloak, with a long spear and clumsy woodcutter's axe, the second young, in a leather cap and a good caftan clearly from someone else's shoulder, belted with rope, with a sword and also with a spear.
"Eh-he-he," scratching his grey beard, the elderly one was saying, "our life is lousy! We live worse than any beasts, through forests like mad we gallop. Any moment guardsmen will swoop down and to the aspen tree... Oh, hardships! And for what is our fate so cursed!"
"Stop whining," the young one cut him off, grinning unpleasantly. "Rejoice, Beard, that you're still alive! And is it really so bad we live? Your boots are of the best Rohan leather. And from where? Before you nosed the ground, and now you're your own master! We live for real! And as for forests... Don't think, we'll save up some money, and we'll dash to the north, there's land, they say, plenty, take as much as you can lift... So bear it and don't groan, don't bring on melancholy."
The young one settled more comfortably and whistled something carefree.
"It's easy for you to talk, you're such a healthy bruiser," the grey-beard muttered in response, pursing his lips offendedly. "But my legs can barely walk, my sides hurt. Recently they whacked me so with a club on the back, I thought they'd break my spine! And how long must we save? Will I live to see it? Here's why are we sitting here now, I ask? Which week from mountain to mountain, from one swamp to another. All reeking of slime, like some frog! No bath, no stove... Why are we sitting here? Guarding an empty road? Now they don't travel it alone."
The young one grimaced long and vexedly and finally sharply cut off the old man:
"You, grey stump! Should I tell you what we're waiting for?! Didn't you hear that Fatty sent a note with a pigeon - a wagon train is coming here, ten carts and three dozen folk with it - half dwarves, the rest men. They're hurrying south, to the Rohan Fair!" The young one's eyes gleamed greedily. "They're carrying urgent goods! We'll have a feast!"
"Really?" the old one doubted. "Dwarves, you know, won't hand over their money so easily. They'll start swinging axes!"
"Swinging!" the young one contemptuously mimicked him. "You won't swing much when there's a good hundred of us here! They won't get away. And you, stop this talk, or heaven forbid, it'll reach Arr and his swordsmen!"
They both immediately began to look around anxiously; noticing nothing suspicious, the young one continued:
"I was sitting not far from their fire when this pigeon arrived. They were all there, all fourteen, and Arr even clapped his hands and said something like 'finally!' So sit quietly, Beard, we don't have much time, soon these fools will trudge to the Defile..."
The elderly one sighed heavily but said nothing. However, he was clearly uneasy, and he tried to suppress his anxiety with talk:
"And didn't you hear how they'll position us? Where will they put us? Again they'll drive us forward, under arrows, and they themselves will take all the loot?"
"I heard we'll sit on both sides," the young one answered, spitting. "We'll jump out from front and back, well and pile on from the sides."
"From the sides?!" the old one gasped mournfully. "What's that mean, running from the very top down the bare..."
"And what to do?" the young one's eyes flashed angrily. "Can you suggest another place? All around are fields..."
"Well no, I mean, I'm saying nothing," the old man answered gloomily and hunched over, dropping his hands on his knees.
The scouts who had lain all this time exchanged glances.
"Everything's clear," Rogvold exhaled barely audibly. "There are a hundred ten of them or thereabouts. Let's go back!"
"Wait, but what about bows?" Alan asked. "And also - who is this Arr and his swordsmen? Let's crawl further!"
"Dangerous," Rogvold answered with lips only. "Here they surely have a couple under every tree. Any moment they'll notice..."
"I'll get through, I can," Folco suddenly pleaded, burning with impatience and the reckless excitement that had seized him.
The brigands seemed to him not at all frightening - from such he would easily escape! The men, however, exchanged doubtful glances.
"But I'm quiet," the hobbit passionately continued to assure them. "No one will hear! Just don't go anywhere, I'll be quick."
"All right," Rogvold decided. "Only you come back, Folco, please, or Thorin will chop me to pieces for letting you go... We'll wait here. Remember the place?"
Folco nodded quickly and carefully crawled forward. The ferns softly closed behind him, and the men exchanged surprised glances - a moment later they could no longer say where their little companion had disappeared.
Folco crawled quickly and deftly, already adapted to this mode of movement; sometimes, if the density of grass and undergrowth allowed, he raised himself on all fours and each time froze for a moment to look around and listen. Soon he noticed three more brigands, by appearance no different from the first two; they were playing dice. Then he met five more, then more and more, and soon the hobbit found himself right in the heart of the forest people's temporary camp. In the middle a fire had been lit in a deep pit - crackling reached the hobbit and there was a slight smell of smoke, but the smoke itself was not visible - obviously they were burning deadwood. Around the edges of the small clearing settled the rest of this gang; the hobbit looked very carefully but counted only five bows. There were many spears and swords, his gaze found several clumsily knocked together shields from boards and a pair of real ones, the same as those of the Arnorian militia, he noticed no helmets or chainmail. Most of the brigands were sturdy Arnorian men, by appearance - yesterday's peasants, and therefore Folco's attention was immediately drawn to a group of men in green sitting in a tight circle not far from the fire. Folco immediately became alert. He noticed the horns of six or seven crossbows sticking out of the grass near them, beside them lay solid shields; the heads of the warriors dressed in green were covered with real helmets. The other brigands clearly feared them and each time bowed respectfully when passing nearby. Folco could not hear conversations, but what he saw was enough.
He counted in all one hundred three men and another fourteen warriors in green. Carefully turning around, quietly, so that not a single branch stirred and not a single twig crunched, he, still skillfully hiding in the tall grass, set off back.
It took him some effort to find his friends again, who were waiting for him in anxious ignorance. Having heard his hurried account, Alan admiringly shook his head and firmly squeezed the hobbit's shoulders, Rogvold smiled and patted him on the head. All together they crawled back.
Without any incidents they got out of the Forgotten Ridge and galloped their horses back at full speed. The sun was already declining, and they needed to hurry to manage to overcome this so inopportunely appearing barrier before dark. Five hours after parting with the detachment they again saw the familiar wagons arranged in a circle.
Rogvold told in detail about everything they had seen and heard, immediately extinguishing the boisterous raptures about their safe return.
"What shall we do?" he asked, finishing his story.
Silence fell. For several moments everyone gloomily looked at the ground, then Hornbori stepped forward.
"We can't take them by numbers," he began sedately, stroking his beard. "So we must take them by cunning."
"Very fresh thought!" Dori snorted, but they shushed him, and he fell silent.
"And what cunning can be devised here?" Hornbori continued. "If I understood the honorable Rogvold correctly, the majority in this detachment are recent peasants, not experienced in military matters and in addition afraid of both the militia and their incomprehensible commanders. Therefore, probably, we can frighten them by attacking first. Wait!" He raised his hands, stopping the bewildered murmur. "We tie our carts by threes and leave four with the wagon train, who will lead it straight through the Defile, and meanwhile the rest, having made their way through the forest beforehand, will come at the brigands' backs. As soon as our wagon train enters the Defile, a moment before they begin the attack, we'll attack ourselves. The main thing - to shout as loud as possible, shoot arrows, throw torches, let them think that a whole army is on their shoulders. Most of them, I'm sure, will rush down headlong. We'll need to deal with those in green and break through to the wagon train ourselves. While they come to their senses, figure out what's happening, we'll get out into open space, and there it will be much harder to take us! Well, how's the plan?"
"I wanted to propose almost the same," Rogvold smiled. "Evidently, good thoughts come, so to speak, to thinking heads simultaneously."
Men and dwarves silently exchanged glances, trying to think everything through as well as possible. Grimnir snapped his fingers.
"They might simply trample those who go with the wagon train," he threw out with habitual gloominess. "We have about two dozen crossbows. Let's give each who goes with the carts about five! Loaded, naturally," he clarified and fell completely silent.
"But we don't have the strength to attack them from both sides," Igg objected. "They'll surely sit about fifty men on the right and left. Can we divide ourselves?"
"Right," Thorin nodded. "Therefore let's strike as soon as they make the first step forward, so that it's already difficult for them to stop. We'll all go from one side - say, the left. However, from which side to attack - it doesn't matter, but on the left the approaches are more convenient, besides the road there is known." He surveyed the tense and attentive faces of his companions. "The time has come to decide."
As usually happens in such moments, silence fell - no one wanted to pronounce the final words; everyone involuntarily dragged out time, and the first, strangely enough, to speak was Maly. He spoke, already heading to one of the carts and businesslike pulling from his pocket a thick coil of rope:
"Come on, shall we start or what... Thorin, bring the wagon..." Everyone at once stirred, as if shaking off the inopportunely approaching numbness. The dwarves coupled the wagons by threes and began to decide who would remain with the wagon train.
"The best fighters are needed here," Rogvold spoke gloomily. "This will be the hardest. Who will go himself?"
Maly silently stepped forward, and with him Alan, Resvald, Balin, Dwalin, Gloin, Igg and Strond.
"That won't do," Thorin shook his head. "Only four are needed."
There was no time for arguments, and therefore they simply cast lots. It fell to Maly, Igg, Strond and Resvald, and they somehow immediately separated from the rest - as if someone's hand had drawn an invisible but distinct line. Igg and Strond began unhurriedly to load crossbows. Maly lit his pipe, and Resvald got a whetstone from his knapsack and began to sharpen his sword carefully, not raising his eyes to the others already sitting in saddles.
"You set out in three hours, when the shadow from that oak reaches the grey boulder," Rogvold pronounced hoarsely and, without turning around, led the detachment at a quick trot into the depths of the overgrown ravine.
They rode in silence. Alan and Rogvold showed the way. The sun was already descending, soft forest shadows thickened, but the end of the day was still far off. They made the journey to the round clearing along the wooded hollow without incident. Not riding out into the open space, Rogvold reined in his horse and spoke quietly:
"We won't be able to approach on horseback very close to the camp, but we need to keep the horses somewhere nearby. Shall we leave them behind us with someone?"
Alan shook his head.
"Whom will you leave with them, Rogvold? Better we send someone ahead on foot, and we ourselves pull up as close as possible."
"We'll strike as soon as they attack," Dori dropped, stroking his axe. "But for now someone needs to go ahead and finish their sentries - then we can bring the horses closer. Ready to go immediately and I ask: who's with me?"
Folco again, as at their first stop, suddenly gathered courage. He took out his bow and silently raised it above his head. However, they immediately shushed him.
"No way, Folco, today I won't let you go anywhere else," Thorin declared decisively. "I'll go myself! Balin, follow me!"
Without giving anyone time to recover, the three dwarves disappeared into the thickets. Alan and Grimnir rushed after them.
The rest silently waited, sitting in saddles. After waiting about half an hour, Rogvold carefully led the detachment after the disappeared companions. They moved in a long chain, leading horses by the reins; so passed another hour or so. By Rogvold's calculations, they should any moment now be near the brigands' camp.
The branches ahead of them unexpectedly stirred (Folco nearly cried out, and an arrow nearly slipped from his bowstring), and Thorin appeared with companions. His clothing in two places was slightly splattered with dark red; he was gloomy but calm.
"The way is open," he said hoarsely, licking his lips. "Here it's almost nothing to go... Dismount, let Folco and someone else hold them. Come after me. There's one secluded place here..."
The hobbit from resentment and despair for a moment lost the power of speech, and when he came to his senses, he was already surrounded by calm horse faces, large purple eyes looked affectionately and anxiously. Near Folco remained Dovbur - he seemed quite pleased with this.
"Well why are you standing?" he snapped at the hobbit in a whisper. "Tie up the harness, how else will you lead them?"
Tears filled Folco's eyes, he again became a small, frightened and useless hobbit, as he had felt before meeting Thorin. He was left behind, not allowed, and now here he was fussing with these bridles, tying them to a long rope, while his friends were there, ahead, and who knows what's happening to them? To endure this was impossible. Having spun around in place for several minutes, Folco couldn't stand it and carefully crawled forward, getting out of the shallow depression where he and Dovbur were hiding. Forgetting about everything, he crawled forward and unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a slope - he had gone to the right more than needed. Carefully parting the branches of bushes, Folco raised his head slightly above the grass.
His eyes opened onto the Grey Defile - a narrow straight passage between two high and steep-sided hills. The forest on the slopes indeed seemed burned, but the slopes were already covered with lush, tall grass; here and there stuck up black charred stumps. Below the road wound like a grey ribbon; the hillsides were empty, along the edge of the forest on the Ridge crest the bushes stood in a solid wall. Nowhere any slightest signs of a human. Folco glanced right and shuddered, seeing that their wagon train was leisurely approaching the entrance to the Defile. The hobbit took out his bow and arrows. Come what may, but he would not abandon his friends! Let Dovbur figure things out there himself...
The last minutes stretched into hours. It seemed the wagon train would never overcome the fathoms separating it from the fateful Defile. Folco by habit reached to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants and suddenly heard a suspicious rustle to his left. He pressed to the ground and tensed all over. However, they didn't reach him. Someone, puffing, was settling nearby in the bushes, and making so much noise that it seemed it could be heard all along the Road; Folco gathered courage and looked out. Holding in strong, work-worn hands a long spear, behind the bush hid that same elderly brigand whose conversation with the young one they had managed to overhear. He looked around indecisively and fearfully, fussed, fidgeted, coughed, constantly adjusted his belt, but did not release the spear from his hands. Folco had already quite aimed at him - not for real, however, but only in case they noticed him, as he told himself - but then the wagons had already completely entered the Defile, and when the last wagon drew level with Folco, the silence over the Road was cut by a sharp and trilling, dashing brigand whistle.
And at once the wall of bushes along the forest walls collapsed; from above on the slopes from the forest gloom dozens of men emerged: a many-voiced howl and roar announced to the surrounding hills. Branches crackled, and beside the hobbit, leveling his spear and yelling something, the elderly brigand rushed down to the slowly moving wagons. However, he didn't run far. The melodious hum of a bowstring sounded, the taut string rang smartly against the leather gauntlet on the hobbit's left hand, an arrow whistled, and the old brigand rolled on the ground, shrieking frantically and clutching his pierced thigh with his hands. Folco again could not shoot so as to kill - the old man was pitiful, not terrible, evoked compassion, not hatred.
And as soon as the brigands from both sides of the Defile rushed down, their howls were drowned out by someone's united and powerful cry; to the left of the hobbit was heard the clang of weapons and piercing screams, screams of horror and despair. The hobbit heard the low and menacing roar of Thorin commanding something - and the brigands on the left tumbled down like peas, falling, rolling over and rolling down to the Road. Those running to the wagon train from the opposite side stopped in bewilderment; meanwhile after the brigands from the bushes burst out dwarves and men, in bright armor, with gleaming, fear-inspiring swords and axes in their hands. Below rang out sonorous clicking - the hobbit's companions going with the wagon train were hitting those running up with crossbows. Before the line of dwarves rolled back a small group of warriors dressed in green - there were only five or six of them. Now an axe of one of the dwarves suddenly flashed especially brightly, and one of the "green ones" fell into the grass, the rest stopped resisting and rushed down, after the ignominiously fleeing brigands. Some of them fell from crossbow bolts; no one even thought to grapple with the opponents shooting from there, the fleeing bypassed the frozen wagon train from front and back. The four surviving "green ones" on the left side meanwhile ran to the Road and rushed right between the wagons, however their path was blocked by a short stocky figure in chainmail and helmet, but with sword and dagger in hands instead of the usual dwarven axe. A second - something flashed, as if a tongue of flame burst from Maly's hand, and one of those attacking him collapsed into the road dust, three hastily jumped back. Meanwhile Folco's other companions reached the carts; the brigands ebbed to the opposite slope, hastily scrambling up and disappearing into the thicket; one could see how the warriors dressed in green tried to stop them.
"Horses! Time to bring the horses!" a terrible thought pierced the hobbit, and he rushed back at full speed to Dovbur. He was already leading the horses out of the hollow. They hastily jumped into saddles and drove the animals left, trying to cut off as much as possible. Below the cries did not subside, but the clang of steel was not heard, however from time to time rang out sonorous claps of crossbows.
Branches whipped the hobbit in the face, and he had to think only of protecting his eyes. However, they quickly passed the thickets and burst onto the slope. Above the carts dust already swirled - dwarves and men did not spare whips; brigands chaotically rushed about on the opposite slope.
"Drive! Drive!" Thorin's frenzied voice reached the hobbit.
At this moment something sharply and unpleasantly squealed over the hobbit's ear - from the other side of the Defile the "green ones" were hitting them with crossbows. Without thinking another second, the hobbit pulled the bowstring. One of those shooting poked into the grass, and the hobbit understood that this time he had hit properly. Under the hooves was already the Road, and nearby - the grey sides of wagons and drivers lashing the horses. The grassy slopes flew back, arrows no longer whistled - ahead showed the exit from the Defile; the hills sharply turned aside, and the Road again burst into the expanse of the free Minhiriath plains. Behind still were heard some howls and cries, but they quickly fell behind. Free wind beat in the face. The Grey Defile was behind; the wagon train had broken through.
Chapter Two. THE EMPTY LANDS
The fever of the first battle subsided, long ago the Grey Defile and the Forgotten Ridge itself had disappeared into the approaching evening twilight, in the black clear sky the lights of stars ignited. The wagon train went through deserted plains along the grey ribbon of the Road, however the dwarves sitting on the back of the last wagon were in no hurry to unload crossbows - the enemy might try to overtake them. Forgotten were fears and doubts; on the move they knocked out the bottom of a barrel of beer, for the umpteenth time remembering the smallest details of the battle. Folco's eyes burned, he listened to the speakers with bated breath, and then began to write down scattered phrases, and here's what came out.
When they all made their way to the brigands' camp, they found it abandoned. The last brigands were leaving the camp for the edge of the forest above the Road. Men and dwarves cautiously followed them. The whole gang was indeed run by several mature men in green clothing, who differed from the other brigands both in face and bearing; now they were driving their own, leaving the camp last and making sure no one could evade battle. For several minutes all was quiet, and then that very whistle sounded; they understood that things had begun, and immediately jumped up themselves. At Rogvold's suggestion, they shouted "Arnor!" in unison to confuse the attackers; the former centurion incidentally gave orders to the nonexistent cavalry behind him, while the dwarves raised a terrible noise.
And the brigands were indeed frightened! Not one of them dared to turn and meet face to face the new, unknown danger; almost all of them fled senseless, trying to reach their own on the other side of the hill as quickly as possible, and only the "green ones" did not lose their heads. They grabbed swords and went to meet the risen men and dwarves; however there were only nine of them - they could neither stop nor even delay Folco's attacking companions. The dwarves went closely, shoulder to shoulder; colliding with the "green" warriors, they immediately overthrew the few opponents. One was killed by Dori, another was struck down by Balin; and the dwarven chainmail proved too much for the men's swords, although the same Dori received a sensitive blow to the shoulder in the very first moment. Those dressed in green hastily retreated, continuing however to snap back, and at the very edge of the forest another of them perished at the hand of Rogvold who had rushed forward. The six remaining understood that resistance was meaningless, however before they could break away from the pressing dwarves, Strond, skillfully parrying a desperate blow, calmly lowered his axe onto the unprotected neck of the opponent.
Their companions riding with the wagon train remained unharmed; only Maly had to take up his sword, the rest beat them off with arrows.
"But what trouble we got into, what trouble!" Alan said, choking with laughter, as if shaking his head in bewilderment. "After all, they could have crushed us like chickens!"
"Yes, if those climbing from the right hadn't stopped, we'd all be finished!" Dori picked up. "And why did they rush so recklessly at all?"
"Got used to meeting no resistance," Rogvold noted, taking a good gulp of excellent Bree beer, prudently taken on the road by Maly. "And when they collided with something unforeseen, they were confused. Understandable - peasants, where would they..."
Folco for some reason immediately remembered Eirik and his taciturn companions.
"And what are these 'green ones' that fell on our heads?" Igg wondered. "Here's a new affliction! These, perhaps, are real ones..."
"Right," Rogvold nodded. "It seems to me they're from Angmar."
"And we'll find out now where they're from," Maly suddenly livened up and dove somewhere into the depths of the wagon.
In the darkness some rustling, puffing, indistinct voices were heard, and soon Maly climbed back onto the driver's seat, dragging by the collar a dazed brigand spinning his head - a short man of middle age, with a thick half-grey beard.
Everyone just gasped. No one had noticed how the Little Dwarf had managed to grab him; from all sides rained questions; men and dwarves riding horseback instantly appeared at Maly's wagon. Maly himself, extremely flattered, importantly answered that this brigand had not jumped into the cart himself, but had done so only at his, Maly's, special request, reinforced by a certain very weighty argument, after which he kindly agreed to avoid unfortunate misunderstandings by having his hands and feet tied with his own belt. As it turned out, this brigand had run into Maly just at the moment when the dwarf was trying to climb back into the wagon after the skirmish with the "green ones"; the man, apparently, had completely lost his head from fear and intended to slip past, but Maly managed to grab him by the scruff of the neck, putting his dagger to his throat.
"Splendid!" Rogvold cheered up. "Now we'll interrogate him."
The former centurion moved from his horse into the wagon and with a jerk turned the frightened man to face him.
"Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get into the gang?" The ranger's voice sounded hard. "Answer and don't be afraid - we're not militia and not judges."
"Dron I am, Dron, son of Rif from Aldrin," the captive babbled. "Crop failure we had, rains were, grain didn't grow. We wrote to the sheriff, so that, means, they'd give us some help - can't starve to death! And from him not a word. But we need to eat! So... And then one friend gave the idea. Let's go, he says... Well I went. And what was there to do? Half our village left with the detachment. And they even threatened to quarter militia on us."
"You sing smoothly," Rogvold smiled. "Friends, means, are to blame for everything? And you had no head on your shoulders, what, didn't have? Crop failure they had... If after every crop failure everyone went into brigands, what would that turn out to be, eh?"
"Wait, Rogvold, ask him about business, not about how he got to this life," Thorin said with a frown, placing his hand on the centurion's elbow.
"And what, am I not asking business?" the ranger snapped, but lowered his tone. "How many of you were there? Where did you sit, where did you hide?"
"But where would we hide..." Dron muttered senselessly. "We lived at home, and when it was needed, they let us know."
"How did you end up here, fifty leagues from home?" Rogvold asked with the same hard smile.
"They gathered us... a month ago," Dron answered trembling. "Said there'd be more loot in the south. And everyone went, and whoever didn't want to, they drove with sticks. We went through the Forgotten Ridge, walked along the Road..."
"Who commanded you? Who came up with the idea to go south?"
"Those, Arr's northerners, curse them." Dron's face expressed the ultimate degree of despair. "They ran everything for us, commanded everyone. Many, maybe, would have been glad to flee, like me here, but they watched closely. They also received orders and news. Orders were sent by pigeons."
"To whom did these northerners submit?" Rogvold continued to question. "And what does 'northerners' mean? Are they from Angmar, or what?"
The already round eyes of the captive became like large copper coins; he trembled as if he found himself naked in the frost, and in a breaking voice answered that yes, they were indeed from Angmar and submitted, as he understood from their conversations, to some powerful chieftain, whose name they never mentioned, sometimes they called him "Himself." Thorin and Folco exchanged glances.
"And who is Fatty?" Rogvold asked after a minute's silence.
"I don't know, never heard," Dron dodged. "I know - one of those who lives on the Road and sends us news. And what his real name is - even if you kill me, I don't know!"
"All right, he doesn't know, and let him be. So what shall we do with him?" Rogvold addressed his listening companions.
"Obviously - a noose over a branch and a rope on his neck!" Grimnir uttered decisively and gloomily. "Why pity this filth... How many he's killed probably, the villain!"
"It's dishonorable to kill the unarmed!" Dori threw himself up. "He's not your prisoner, but Maly's, and here we have neither Annuminas nor the king's court!"
"So what, you propose to release him to all four winds, so he can go on killing and robbing?" Grimnir almost squealed. "How very convenient, honest and noble! But if you had..."
He suddenly cut himself off, turned away and fell silent. Rogvold spoke, slowly, weighing each word:
"Dori is right, here is truly not Annuminas, and we have no judge and witnesses - we have no power over this man's life. We can only do one thing: the village is not far now, there we'll hand him over to the militia. Let everything be according to law."
"Wait!" Folco suddenly intervened. "In my opinion, he has already chosen for himself the most severe punishment. Besides, he told us everything honestly. Let's release him! After all, the militia might not wait for royal justice..."
"Release?!" Rogvold looked at the hobbit in surprise. "We can release him... Who else thinks what?!"
Grimnir still remained silent, having turned away his face and sent his horse a length forward: Dori shrugged and nodded, Resvald spread his hands, Gimli, Grani and Thror nodded together. Thorin pulled the reins, the wagon stopped, and Maly hastily cut the pieces of Dron's own belt binding him.
"Go where you want, Dron," Rogvold addressed him. "We're not executioners and not judges, as I already said. If you want, return home and try to atone for your guilt. No - go to all seven winds."
The stunned Dron only blinked his eyes and wheezed something. And then somehow suddenly twisted all over, jumped to the ground, rushed headlong away from the road and immediately disappeared into the darkness.
"At least he could have thanked us, the boor," Maly sighed.
The moon had already flooded with cold light the surrounding landscape when ahead on the Road weak lights blinked. A village approached, lodging and supper; the horses sensed habitation - tired from the day, they raised their heads and quickened pace. Soon the travelers noticed a log lowered across the road and a log tower on the roadside - another guard post of the militia. The wagon train stopped before the barrier, from above an imperious voice ordered them to name themselves and light their faces.
Grumbling something discontentedly under his breath, Thorin and the dwarves began to strike fire and ready pitch torches; Rogvold tried to shame the guards into letting the tired travelers through without extra fuss, however from the tower they only laughed in response. And only when in the trembling light of the lit torches all companions lined up at the foot of the tower, and Rogvold drew from his bosom the travel warrant, were they finally allowed to enter. The former centurion and Thorin immediately demanded to be taken to the commander: the rest, unable to think of anything except good supper, hastened with the whole wagon train straight to the tavern. And about half an hour later, when they had not yet emptied even the first barrel, outside the windows sounded the clatter of dozens of hooves and the clang of weapons - the Arnorian militia rushed to the Forgotten Ridge. A few minutes later Thorin and Rogvold entered the tavern.
Remembering the inn and the mysterious "Fatty," they swore off chattering in taverns and to all the inquiries of the inquisitive host answered: they said they had traveled all day and were very tired.
After supper, when everyone went to sleep, Thorin, Folco, Dori, Hornbori and Maly, who never lagged behind them, held a council in a narrow circle.
"Now this is news," Thorin was saying, lowering his voice to a whisper. "The little brigands, it turns out, are in league with Angmar! And they don't just wander around the country chasing loot, but carry out someone's orders! I'd like to know whose..."
"Is that so important, brother Thorin?!" Dori said gloomily, continuing to sharpen his axe and not raising his head. "Men have their paths, we have ours. Angmar folk with all their desire can't break into the underground halls, and everyone needs weapons and gold. So let them fight! We don't yet know on whose side the truth is."
"My respected colleague and kinsman spoke, as always, from the heart, but inappropriately," Hornbori spoke, stroking a gold ring on his finger. "Not one true dwarf will sell what he has created to a scoundrel or murderer. We are bound by old friendship with Arnor - you know this no worse than I, and I'm surprised by your words, Dori!"
"I never traded with brigand spawn!" Dori snapped. "And I didn't mean that! Our main goal is Moria! If Arnor truly turns out to be in danger, you know what will happen in the Grey Mountains! But human affairs are human affairs. And all the turmoil in the domains of the Northern Crown is a purely human matter, and we have no business interfering for now, or we'll make a mess. What's it matter that the brigands have secret leaders?!"
"And it matters that these secret leaders, it seems, are connected with one of our ill acquaintances," Thorin noted. "And it's even good if similar connection isn't found between these peasants who accidentally went into brigandage and those who serve the Wights from the Barrow-downs!"
The candle flickered, as if someone's invisible lips lightly blew on it.
"Barrow-downs?!" Hornbori raised his eyebrows. "I don't know, Thorin, I don't know. We have no proof."
"We had no proof of the brigands' connection with Angmar - until today," Thorin answered.
"So what?!" Dori asked impatiently, putting aside his axe. "Have new thoughts come to you on how to find Durin's Horn faster?! Or from all this can be extracted a reliable spell against Durin's Bane?!"
The conversation didn't flow. Dori clearly didn't approve of Thorin's interest in human affairs; as always, Hornbori shone with eloquence, but even for him all this seemed something distant and insignificant. Having bickered a bit more, they woke Maly and went to sleep.
Folco burrowed deeper into the blankets and had quite prepared to close his eyes when he suddenly saw that Thorin was sitting, holding one boot in his hand, with a strangely motionless face and muttering something.
"What's with you, Thorin?!" Folco asked in bewilderment and fell silent, because the dwarf suddenly pronounced: "Rollstein."
"What's wrong with you, tell me at last!" Folco couldn't stand it and sat up.
"Rollstein, Folco..." the dwarf answered hollowly. "Do you know what that is?! If you see a rocking stone, don't rush to shout that before you is Rollstein - better look first who's rocking it! Someone is rocking Middle-earth, Folco!"
A chill ran down the hobbit's skin, but not from the dwarf's words, but precisely from his terrible sepulchral voice and detached look. The hobbit was going to say something, but Thorin was already speaking, speaking, looking straight ahead:
"Someone is rocking Middle-earth! After all Evil - it doesn't disappear without trace, Folco. Its remnants scatter to distant corners, and to find them again is not simple. But if you take something like Thror's sieve... A sieve collecting the evil remaining after Sauron! Nothing happens by itself, every turmoil has instigators, surely they're from the Big Folk! We must search among men!"
"Why?!" Folco asked eagerly.
"In all the Great Wars since the days of the First Age only men fought on both one side and the other," the dwarf spoke. "Elves, dwarves, and you hobbits too, were always on one edge, orcs, trolls, petty-dwarves - always on the other. And in the middle - men! Only among them can be found one who will again want to restore the Dark Tower. In men everything is so whimsically mixed, they don't like to listen to others' advice and teachings, they have long been accumulating spite toward elves - not all, of course, but many. That Olmer from Dale is confirmation of that. Someone invisible is waging war with Arnor - and it's unknown how far his designs reach. And what if truly some Thror's sieve is found, collecting the remnants of evil?!" Thorin's voice gradually changed, became ordinary; the dwarf hunched over and sighed. "Some cheerless thoughts have fallen on me, brother hobbit. I don't know what came over me... Before after such skirmishes I used to collapse and sleep like the dead. Well then, let us give thanks to Great Durin and the Bright Queen, who gave strength to our axes and swords! And now let's stop talking..."
A very long day was ending, the eighteenth of April 1721 from the settlement of the Shire.
And again under the creaking wheels of their wagons stretched the great road of Middle-earth. The next day they met a large merchant wagon train going from south to north; at Tharbad it was again restless. The last inhabitants had left the hamlet of Nolk, thirty leagues east of the fortress; rumors of the black horror emanating from Moria abandoned by dwarves were spreading further and further. The faces of men darkened; dwarves exchanged glances but remained silent.
They were approaching the stronghold of Tharbad, once long ago built by knights from the Undying Lands at the confluence of two rivers. Closer to it villages along the Road became more numerous; the Grey Defile had indeed turned out to be the most dangerous place. Closer to noon on the twenty-third day before them reared up high grey towers and many-toothed walls of the ancient fortress. In the fire of civil wars of the beginning of the Third Age Tharbad had been destroyed; after the Victory the Great King ordered it rebuilt anew. The fortress stood on a long cape between the rivers Gwathlo and Sirannon; from the land the approaches to it were cut off by a deep moat. Around the fortress crowded wooden houses, surrounded by another, outer, wall. Here stood a large detachment of Arnorian cavalry, here it was safe. To Tharbad flowed rumors and news from all corners of the Two Rivers, from the foothills of the Misty Mountains, from the borders of Dunland. Having jostled at the local market or sat in numerous taverns, one could learn all the latest trade and military news.
In Tharbad Thorin's and Rogvold's detachment spent two days, giving rest to themselves and the horses. Where questioning, and where eavesdropping, avoiding direct questions and direct answers, they learned that the area east of the fortress had become depopulated - all had gone west or north. They couldn't count on help there. Worst of all, the militia had left from there too - what use to guard abandoned houses?! About Moria they spoke in whispers and wove such tall tales that the dwarves only grimaced and covered their ears.
All rumors, however, agreed in one thing - as soon as Moria's gates collapse, then that's when the end will come to everything, and therefore one needs to flee as far as possible.
On the twenty-sixth of April, on a clear, quite summery warm day, the detachment left Tharbad. They left along the South Road to throw curious people off track, then under cover of night they were to turn north and come out onto the ancient road, laid still by the elves of Eregion along the left bank of Sirannon; Gloin and Dwalin swore they knew a secret ford ten leagues from the fortress, where the detachment could cross to the other bank.
The lands near Tharbad were densely populated; one village replaced another, and for a time it seemed to Folco that they hadn't gone anywhere from Arnor; however by evening around them spread an empty, slightly rolling plain with sparse groves and ravines. Behind remained a guard post, from the militiaman's words it turned out that further, to the south, for three days' travel there was no habitation, and only then settlements began again, guarded already by Rohan cavalry, though a chain of Arnorian posts stretched to the very Isen.
In the dead midnight hour they turned off the well-traveled road and, trying to leave as few tracks as possible, moved northeast.
Having moved away from the road by a little more than two leagues, they stopped. Having arranged the wagons in a circle and fastened them just in case with chains, they lowered wooden shields from the sides, posted guards and lay down to sleep, for the first time on the long road deprived of the reliable protection of Arnorian swords and walls.
Folco's turn came to keep watch about two hours after midnight, together with him Veort was to keep watch. The tracker girded on his sword, put on helmet and chainmail, Folco took bow and quiver. In the darkness they didn't settle for the night in the depths of encountered groves, but chose a shallow depression with sloping sides, along the bottom of which ran a small stream. The fire had burned down, but coals smoldered, and at the ready was a solid supply of brushwood - just in case. Folco well remembered the story with wargs that had nearly devoured the Fellowship's detachment a bit further east from these places!
Veort went to wander around, while Folco scrambled onto the crosspiece of the upper arcs supporting the cover of one of the wagons. At first the moon had risen above the broken black line of the Misty Mountains, but it was quickly overcast by low clouds that crept from the south. Darkness thickened; now against the background of the starry sky the hobbit could make out only the vague outlines of the nearest grove. He suddenly felt anxious and uneasy; Veort's steps were not heard, and Folco became worried. Where had the tracker gone?! Folco, swaying and risking falling down, stood on the arcs at full height - in vain. No rustle of steps, no reflection on armor - nothing.
Frightened in earnest, the hobbit was already preparing to jump down and wake Thorin, when he suddenly felt a familiar, though considerably forgotten oppressive feeling in his chest. However, now it did not evoke in him the former panic fear.
"Wake everyone! Light the fire!" suddenly rang out Veort's muffled cry. "What I saw just now!.." The man's voice trembled. "Something grey is wandering toward me over the hill, like a piece of burlap, only glowing - like some figure, I was going toward it - stop, I say, and it hisses at me! Here such confusion took me that I forgot which side my sword was on... Sorcery here, no doubt! Wait... Why there it is!"
Veort almost squealed.
But Folco with tightly shut eyes already saw himself - not with ordinary, but with inner vision - how from the northeast from under the thick growth of young elms appeared a greyish glow - weak, barely noticeable; and Folco felt the approach of that very force that had tried to bend him in Annuminas; then he had not yielded, and now the old shadow was crawling again - now not as an attacker, but as a supplicant. And the hobbit caught this terrible plea, born from unthinkable and unimaginable to the living sufferings.
Nearby Veort gasped chokingly; Folco opened his eyes and saw a grey shadow some dozens of fathoms from them.
And then he pulled out the bow of elven arrows carefully wrapped in parchment and leather, preserved by him as the greatest treasure; the thin and long arrowhead suddenly shone like a small star, dispersing the approaching gloom, and the hobbit heard how the tracker standing nearby ground his teeth and how then his sword drawn from its sheath clinked. The hobbit drew the bowstring.
But the phantom approaching them also seemed to feel something and know about elven weapons. The grey spot wavered and stopped. Snake hissing reached them.
Habitually squinting his left eye, Folco aimed the star-like arrowhead at the wavering figure, as if under weak light, and mentally ordered it: "Go away! Go away and don't trouble us anymore! See this arrow?!"
The answer came immediately - a painful moan, a sepulchral wail, a soundless and wordless weeping:
"I am a slave to what you have. I will not leave, I am powerless, I am doomed to follow you as long as it is with you... Give it to me!"
"Why do you hesitate?!" Veort whispered hotly in the hobbit's ear. "Shoot quickly! Why have you stopped! Shoot!"
The spawn of the Barrow-downs didn't move, itself offering itself to the shot. But at the last moment the hobbit spared the elven arrow, replacing it with an ordinary yew one.
Gloom and fear immediately fell upon him in huge shapeless blocks, but immediately the bowstring clinked, something whistled in the air, and the plain for a brief moment was lit by a bluish flash, immediately replaced by reddish tongues of fire that flared up where the phantom's incorporeal body had just swayed. Veort cried out joyfully, but the hobbit heard a hoarse howl that reached him, filled with cold pain and inexhaustible hatred. Squinting, he made out something small and writhing, hastily crawling away, but not to the east, but to the northwest.
Their companions awakened by the tracker's cry were already running toward them; torches flared, weapons clanged, scarlet reflections played on polished blades; Folco raised his hand soothingly.
"What's here?! What is it?!" Thorin stormed upon them.
"A phantom," Folco answered him shortly. "Came again..."
Men exchanged bewildered glances, and only Rogvold, immediately haggard, pushed closer.
"I sent an arrow into it," the hobbit continued. "I drove it away, but didn't destroy it, but now I know exactly what we must do so it won't appear anymore." And, bending low to Thorin and Rogvold, whispered: "The sword from the Barrow-downs - melt it in Morian forges!"
"Right," Thorin nodded. "I've been uneasy for a long time that we're dragging it with us..."
This night they didn't sleep anymore. They long and in detail retold all the circumstances of their encounters with the phantoms of the Barrow-downs, the second meeting in Annuminas and everything else somehow connected with this. They gasped, groaned, judged this way and that, praised Folco, wondered what could happen to a phantom from an ordinary arrow, and how it disappears for a time and then appears again, and why they need these swords, and what strange mark is on them... The conversations dragged on, and half the night flew by like one moment. Only when the first dawn rays overcame the gigantic barrier of the Misty Mountains and looked into the shadow cast by them did the travelers gradually disperse to nap.
Folco was plodding to his camp bed, yawning widely and rubbing his sticking eyes, when Thorin unexpectedly called him.
"There's something else here," he gloomily informed the hobbit looking at him stupidly. "Our Maly - a dwarf, no fool! That prisoner of ours, that Dron, look what he left!"
On Thorin's palm lay a not-long - two palms - straight dagger of greyish steel with a roughly made wooden handle. It was clearly made in haste, but Thorin drew attention to something else. His finger rested on the mark near the cross-guard - the familiar, ladder-like broken line, diagonally crossing an octagon!
"You understand?!" Thorin asked meaningfully, hiding Maly's find. "See where the thread leads?! No, something's wrong with these brigands!"
"So these northerners and the detachment from the Barrow-downs are united by something," Folco spoke slowly, looking at his feet. "Black Detachment - Wights - brigands... Angmar. And we're going to Moria..."
"Yes, precisely to Moria!" Thorin exclaimed with bitter vexation. "But we should follow the trail of this mark! But you know my kinsmen," Thorin suddenly whispered ardently, moving closer to the hobbit. "Human affairs are, in general, far from them - until danger threatens their native mountains. No one, except perhaps Dori and Maly, would support us if we proposed to turn aside and take up a new matter. Everyone wants to go to Khazad-dum. I hope that there we'll still find something that will make our companions go another way. And who knows - is there no connection between Moria and the servants of this mark?!"
Thorin fell silent. Brushwood crackled quietly in the fire; above the eastern mountains the sky gradually turned grey. The dwarf raised his head and looked point-blank at the silent hobbit.
"I feel that this journey of ours is the first, but far from the last," Thorin said quietly, sadly shaking his head. "Whatever we find in Moria, our road will lie further... For some reason it seems so to me. After all, I haven't forgotten your dreams, brother hobbit."
The next day they overslept much more than usual and set out quite late - the day was already approaching midday. Cart axles creaked, and the wagon train moved further, to the northeast. Hour passed after hour, they left behind ever new hills, streams and groves. The landscape gradually began to change - in the green grass appeared reddish stones from who knows where; on the cuts of ravines it was visible how the thin layer of fertile black soil gave way to reddish soil. Trees became fewer; but three times they came across abandoned farmsteads. The trackers didn't spare themselves to look behind the high fences and, returning, told that people had left here recently - last autumn, but since then someone had been in the empty houses and, it seemed, hadn't troubled to acquire keys to the front doors and gates. After this Thorin decisively declared that they had played enough games, and if they didn't wish to lay down their heads here from a random arrow, they must ride without removing armor and having sent scouts ahead and to the sides. So it was done.
The day's journey to Sirannon passed calmly. Though there was no road, the terrain turned out to be dry and level, small ravines could easily be bypassed; here and there appeared sections of abandoned tracks, half-collapsed fences of poles were visible. They also came across a watchtower. The Moria dwarves immediately climbed up and looked around for a long time. Returning, they gathered the rest.
"To Sirannon is no more than eight leagues," Gloin said. "We even saw the ford. However beyond the river, to the northeast, some riders seemed to flash, but immediately hid in thickets. It was too far to understand who they were. If the ford is discovered and guarded, they might arrange a warm welcome for us!"
After a short council they decided to send scouts ahead. Dwalin, Veort, Resvald and Igg rode ahead, the rest behind; the wagon train was now led by Gloin. Jokes and conversations fell silent; everyone's faces became heavy. No one neglected armor, and the hobbit prepared his bow. He searched for signs of the phantom he had driven away yesterday, but found none, it seemed they had rid themselves of this spawn of the Barrow-downs for long.
Hour passed after hour, and when, by Gloin's calculations, no more than two leagues remained to the ford, Dwalin, sent ahead, suddenly emerged from bushes before them.
"We rode to the ford itself," he reported. "And even crossed to the other bank. Veort and Resvald remained there just in case."
The lush steppe grasses on the sides more and more gave way to stiff-leaved shrubs; under their roots appeared glimpses of reddish earth. The hills became even smoother and more worn; it seemed to Folco that they were riding over a gigantic washboard - now up, now down. The sun had already descended quite low, and between the hillocks stretched long-armed pre-evening shadows, when they heard in the distance the noise of water; having crossed over the last hill, they found themselves on the bank of Sirannon.
Once an almost dried-up stream thanks to the tireless labors of the dwarves of Khazad-dum was now again swift and full as of old. It flowed in a narrow canyon with reddish slopes; the banks below were covered with brown pebbles. The southern bank in this place smoothly descended to a low rapid; silvery streams fell down from a height of two fathoms. The river at the rapid itself was indeed shallow - to a dwarf's knee, to a hobbit's waist. On the northern bank, higher and steeper, just opposite them, between two hills, lay a deep depression going straight to the northeast. Veort climbed out of the bushes near the edge of the canyon.
"Everything's quiet here," the tracker said. "Resvald is on that bank, it seems quiet there too."
"But you said there was navigation on Sirannon?!" Folco was surprised, turning half-face to Thorin and looking at the foamy rapids below.
"Wait to be surprised," Gloin smiled. "Now you'll learn why this ford is called secret. But first let's cross!"
They dismounted and waded knee-deep in water, leading horses by the bridles and struggling with quite strong current that tried to knock them off their feet. Soon the last wagon entered the depression on the northern bank, and Gloin and Dwalin unexpectedly lagged behind, disappearing behind coastal stones. Everyone stopped in bewilderment.
A dull underground noise sounded - as if a huge accumulation of water had finally found its way down, and at the same moment the height of the threshold began to decrease. The flat slab quickly descended until it completely disappeared into the dark depth. The river's surface closed, its waters now flowed calmly and smoothly; the noise also subsided.
"This is the work of the dwarves of Khazad-dum," Gloin said, anticipating questions. "It was built not so long ago - about a hundred and fifty years back. It's known to all who lived in Moria, but remains a secret to all others. Don't ask us to show you the secret of this device - we gave a terrible oath never and under no circumstances to reveal it."
Having wondered for several minutes at the incomparable mastery of the dwarves, the travelers began a slow and long climb along the depression running through the hills. Reddish slopes were covered with low bushes, a light wind swayed the stems of fireweed beginning to bloom. They moved in a long column, and Folco noticed how Rogvold became agitated, how several men scrambled up the slopes and disappeared behind the crests. The depression forked. They turned right - a long slope led east. The road gradually rose, and soon they climbed onto a plain. Having crossed another hillock, they found themselves on a wide and smooth road winding between hills and ravines, paved with red-brown slabs. The slabs were fitted to each other so tightly that it would be impossible to insert even an awl into the crack between them: the road led strictly from west to east.
"This is the Riverway," Gloin waved his hand. "It was laid still by elves in immemorial times, and then gradually fell into decay. We paved it anew from the Gates of Moria to Tharbad itself."
To ride on the smooth and level road was pure pleasure, even the horses walked more cheerfully.
After three hours of travel they came upon a roadside settlement - empty and abandoned. The windows of solid wooden houses were carefully boarded up, some small log structures disassembled, and in some gardens even blackened pits - traces of dug-up fruit trees. Everything spoke of the fact that from here they had left unhurriedly, neatly taking out almost all property.
In the village they met an Arnorian mounted patrol - two dozen silent riders in full armor; and they would not have avoided thorough questioning if the commander of this detachment had not turned out to be the son of Rogvold's old friend. From the militia they learned that the area ahead couldn't be called empty - they had seen some detachments of ten-twelve riders, leisurely riding in different directions.
"They don't look like ordinary brigands," the commander added. "They sit too well in saddles and wield bows. They look like Dunlendings, but not all. So be careful!"
"And why did people flee from here?!" Resvald inquired curiously.
"It's dangerous here," the militia commander answered reluctantly. "Lairs of all kinds of filth are nearby. They raid in large detachments, and you can't put a thousand in each village. So they leave. They even removed posts from here! Only we still walk this land back and forth, we look, we scout, we try somehow to resist, but so far unsuccessfully."
The Arnorian patrol moved west, to the fortress, and Rogvold's wagon train continued its journey east. The rest of the day passed without incident, and toward evening they stopped in a shallow ravine under the thick crowns of elms and ashes. In the bushes at a distance settled the guard; Folco was immediately set to cooking; the rest waiting for supper sat down by the fire.
Igg began to tell an old story from the times of the Great King, then Veort sang a new song recently composed somewhere on the border; Folco was struck by the words of longing and hopelessness sounding in it. The melancholy that had come over them was dispersed by the dwarves, who together bellowed several ballads. Meanwhile the hobbit managed the simple supper: in mugs beer foamed, and under the dark crowns it became surprisingly cozy and peaceful. The fire scattered fiery sparks, and on faces strangely changed in the crimson reflections danced reflections... They sat, ate, drank, sang and went to sleep.
In the morning the hobbit awoke easily - as if he had slept not in a wagon lost somewhere in the Wilderness, but at home, in Buckland, in a cozy and peaceful room. He had dreamed something bright, but what, he didn't remember.
Without any incidents passed the last two days as well. The mood in the detachment rose - to the Gates of Moria not so much remained. Around summer was already fully in charge, though it was only the first of May. Among the greenery surrounding the Riverway nothing could be made out; fearing sudden attack, they went with paired scouts thrown far out. The hobbit very much wanted to be among them, but they wouldn't let him go.
"Sit," Resvald instructed him. "Any of us can be replaced, but where to find a replacement for such a cook as you?!"
At noon on the first of May ahead rode Grimnir and Alan - scouts usually consisted of men able to move secretly in thickets - and from the summit of a forest-covered hill they noticed how in the valley about ten riders quickly flashed on short but swift horses; behind each hung a bow. The scouts raised the alarm. For some time Folco only blinked his eyes in confusion, looking at the hastily arming dwarves and men. Crossbows were loaded, the side and rear scouts pressed to the Road.
They cautiously moved forward, every second expecting an arrow from the branches. Over the Road thickened tense silence.
Folco sat, stuffed by Thorin's merciless hand between sacks near a small crack in the wagon's cover. On his knees the hobbit had arranged his bow ready to shoot; with his eyes he pressed to the crack, however the green walls around remained motionless, and the occasionally flying cry of a jay said that the scouts also saw nothing suspicious yet.
However in the evening, when they arranged the wagons in a circle, chained them, lowered the sides and began to dig a pit for the fire, the rear scout that had lingered rushed up to them. Igg jumped from his saddle and rushed to the middle.
"Saw them." He spoke quickly and hotly. "Riders. About thirty. Following us, but not along the road, but along it, on the left. Dressed and armed differently - there are archers, there are spearmen. Their shields are round and elongated. Emblems, coats of arms - none."
Glen and Forg silently confirmed his words.
"How did you notice?!" Rogvold, immediately tensing, asked shortly.
"Forg decided to listen to the ground from time to time," Igg explained. "And heard. We first decided it was your hooves echoing, but then all three listened - no. Then we turned to meet them, lay down in a ravine, in a clearer place nearby, and spotted them - they were bypassing a windfall."
"Heard anything from their speech?!" Rogvold was already testing the sharpness of his sword with his finger.
"No. They rode silently, but clearly after us! One of them leaned right - rode to the road, then returned. Said something to the others, but so quietly we couldn't make it out. Well we got out of the windfall - and back. We won't sleep tonight, brothers," Igg finished and, squatting, began to sharpen his blade.
The rest silently exchanged glances. Folco again felt an unpleasant chill in his chest.
"Guard by six pe... damn, by three people and three dwarves," Rogvold ordered. "Check crossbows! Don't remove chainmail! Take sheepskins, we have spares there - otherwise we'll freeze in iron at night. Let the fire go out..."
Slowly, with inaudible, creeping steps night approached them. Dense low clouds covered the sky; a light sigh of wind swept through the tree crowns. The sentries dispersed to their places: the rest lay down in the middle of the circle and tried to forget themselves. However hours passed, somewhere nearby an owl hooted hollowly, over the clearing in uneven, trembling flight flashed silent shadows of bats - but everything was calm. And Folco, despite his firm decision not to sleep this night, didn't notice himself how his eyelids closed.
In the morning of the second of May they carefully examined the ground around their camp, and Grolf stumbled upon several fresh prints of heavy boots without heels. In three places near the circle of wagons, behind bushes convenient for observation, they found trampled grass - everything spoke of the fact that the surveillance continued.
"These are all those from the Forgotten Ridge, plague on their heads!" Igg uttered gloomily. "We told you - no need to stick your head in! Where were you rushing?! And now here we sit and wait - from behind which tree will an arrow fly?!"
"What use now to whine and sigh?!" Dori got angry. "We can't wait for attack, we must attack first! We'll strike unexpectedly at those dragging behind us, feel them with points and blades!"
The dwarves growled approvingly, some of the men joined them. Rogvold wanted at first to object to something, but remained silent. Grolf stood up.
"Fortune smiles on the bold," he said gloomily, surveying his companions with a heavy gaze. "Enough shying away from every bush. They secretly watch us - we'll answer the same! Let the hunters themselves become game. Let's set up an ambush and try to capture someone from them, as last time. Ready to go scouting." He pulled his sword halfway out of its sheath and drove it back with a clang.
Having quickly struck camp, they hastily drove the horses, hurrying to at least tear away a bit from the pursuers, whoever they were. On the move they galloped through a shallow depression stretching from south to north with a heavily overgrown eastern slope; from the west, on the contrary, was visible only sparse growth of low bushes. They lay down on both sides of the road, having driven the carts away. Agonizing waiting began.
To pass the depression unnoticed was impossible - it was all visible, from the distant blue reflection of Sirannon on the left to the dark blue strip of dense forest on the right; to it was no less than two and a half leagues. To bypass - long, they decided; those who followed them must either lose much time on a roundabout road, or go straight.
The hobbit flushed from excitement looked with displeasure at the dwarves lying beside him - they snorted, scratched, turned with such noise and crackling that it seemed to him: soon all the brigands of Arnor would come running here. Folco, biting his lip, glanced left-right, and then quietly crawled forward, sliding between the low growth. He decided to reach a linden tree growing alone on the slope and hide at its foot. He managed to do this unnoticed; pressing into a small depression, he prepared his bow. From his companions lying behind about forty paces separated him.
Slowly, very slowly crept the black shadow cast by the tree sheltering him. The hobbit had already begun to doubt whether they would notice anyone, when to his sensitive, and now especially sharpened hearing reached a weak, barely distinguishable rustle somewhere to the side, very close...
The long and painful lessons of Maly had not been in vain. The hobbit managed to turn around before he even thought about what to do next; without having time to be surprised or frightened, he saw how the bushes above his head parted and from the greenery stuck out the muzzle of a huge black dog, seeming to him at that moment twice as large as an ordinary wolf. From the turned-out black lips of the dog hung drool. On the powerful neck was a collar with long sharp spikes.
Horror didn't have time to deprive the hobbit of strength; his hands did everything before his head could interfere. A short quick movement - and the sword slashed the cheek of the already lunging dog opening its jaws; a desperate yelp sounded, and it disappeared into the thickets. The hobbit forgetting everything raised himself - and saw riders hastily turning north, just having appeared from behind trees on the western slope. A few moments later the former silence reigned over the depression. The ambush had failed.
"Well, well," Rogvold spread his hands. "They scout with dogs! These aren't brigands, my friends, these are some real ones. Nothing to be done, let's go further."
Two more days of travel passed in agonizing uncertainty. The riders didn't show themselves anymore, however, examining the surroundings of their camps, the trackers invariably found traces of observers not taking their attentive eyes off them. They had to sleep without removing armor; but more than the weight of metal put on the chest pressed the vile expectation of a sudden treacherous blow. They started at every rustle or crackle at the sides of the road; they went for water to Sirannon almost with half the detachment, placing men and dwarves with crossbows along the whole way; they had to sleep less - each kept watch for two hours. Hardest of all for the trackers - they rummaged through the surroundings of the Riverway, hoping to find at least some trace of their mysterious companions. Traces were found, but they were enough only to confirm the constant presence of unknown pursuers.
However, despite everything, they advanced forward, and by the sixth of May no more than twelve marches separated them from Moria. The landscape around again began to change. Abandoned, overgrown fields appeared, empty farmsteads, farms and clearings. The dwarves told the hobbit that once, about five years ago, here still lived many free farmers, selling wheat to dwarves and being under the protection of the hosts of Khazad-dum, but after the beginning of mysterious events in the Black Chasm the people living here were seized by dark fear, and they abandoned their houses and fields, fleeing far to the West.
"And we happened to hear," Gloin told the hobbit, "that last autumn the last dwarves left Moria."
The sight of this gloomy landscape heavily affected everyone. In the detachment now was only one thought - to reach the saving Gates. Men no longer so clearly expressed their unwillingness to go inside. Folco was ready to swear that all of them were not averse to quickly hide behind the indestructible Morian walls.
Mid-May came; Sirannon, winding not far from the Road, became noticeably narrower and faster - they were approaching its source.
And the giants of the Misty Mountains had long closed the whole sunrise to them - right before them rose the mass of Caradhras, the Redhorn in the Common Tongue, memorable to Folco and Thorin from the description of the Fellowship's attempt to cross the pass.
One evening Folco and Thorin started talking about who might now be rocking Middle-earth and what might come of it.
"All right, suppose someone from men," Thorin reasoned in half-voice. "Bold, deft, lucky... Let's say even someone from Angmar chieftains. With an iron hand beat out of brigands their liberties, entered into alliance with spawn of Barrow-downs, began a border war. But so what?! Another year or two, the Steward's patience will snap, they'll arrange a big campaign on Angmar - and what then?! Some army he'll of course put out, but what his brigands are worth, we've already seen - they scatter in a flash if you press them a bit harder. How much can you fight with such?! Only good for robbing merchants."
"And what did you say about the sieve?!" Folco reminded his friend.
"About the sieve?! Well nobody knows what can be collected and whether it's even possible! No, Arnor can't be defeated by military force, though I don't much like this idea of theirs: 'to each his own.'"
"And if he finds allies in the east?!" Folco reminded.
"In the east!" The dwarf whistled disdainfully. "There, first of all, everyone's already fighting everyone - remember what Theophrastus said - and second, here already it smells of big war! Here even Gondor won't stay aside, and Rohan. And dwarves, probably, too! And to deal with all of us, you know what army is needed?! No, we can't be defeated so simply! Just wait, by next year the forest fellows will be pressed even harder - we'll see then what happens."
And - amazing! - Thorin managed to almost calm the hobbit. They talked until it was already time to go on watch. The twentieth of May had come.
Chapter Three. THE GATES OF MORIA
The road was coming to an end. With each day they approached the Gates of Moria, by Gloin's and Dwalin's calculations, three to four marches of road remained to them. The unknown pursuers seemed to have left them alone or simply kept at a respectful distance. Men seemed to Folco a bit confused, dwarves on the contrary concentrated and decisive - between business they checked and sharpened picks and chisels; from somewhere from the depths of their baggage appeared stone-cutting hammers. Thorin took inventory of all supplies and announced that it was time to tighten belts if they didn't want to starve in the future. The landscape around became even more dreary from the abundance of abandoned houses and deserted villages - just in the last two days friends had counted about ten of them. They still observed all possible precautions, but everything around remained calm.
Folco only now began to seriously think about what exactly he intended to do in Moria and whether it wouldn't be better to remain with the men above; his mood again spoiled. He almost every night tried to summon in his thoughts the image of Gandalf or Radagast, but in vain. His thoughts as if were being drawn over by some grey sticky fog; in it drowned memories, and the hobbit suddenly with surprise admitted to himself that he could with difficulty recall Milisenta's face. He became even more attached to his weapon; Maly didn't stop his lessons with him, and it must be said, the young and deft hobbit achieved considerable success. The past began to be covered with haze, the future was vague and impenetrable, in the present however one had to rely only on oneself and on the cold steel that now lay so well in his hands! Mastery of weapons made him stronger, and he was grateful to it for this, as to a living being.
By his calculations, it turned out that the twenty-eighth of May had already come, when he and Thorin found themselves together a bit ahead of the rest of the detachment, stopped for a midday rest. Together with the dwarf they rummaged through the surroundings, going quite far to the sides - Thorin was trying to find at least traces of those watching them; he could not reconcile himself that they still hadn't captured anyone from them. At first the hobbit was occupied by this crawling through the surrounding bushes bent double, but as time went on and scraped knees and hands scratched by branches made themselves known more and more insistently, desire noticeably decreased, and when the dwarf climbed into some too overgrown with thorny bushes depression, the hobbit decisively rebelled and declared that he would wait for him above.
Thorin disappeared into the green tangle; for some time the loud crack of breaking branches reached the hobbit, gradually moving away; rejoicing in the rest, Folco sat right on the ground, leaning his back against the tangle of branches of a spreading hawthorn. Several minutes passed, Thorin didn't appear. The hobbit stood up, walked back and forth across the small clearing onto which they had come shortly before they parted. At its other end grew a mighty hornbeam; on the brown bark was visible an ugly burl growth, and Folco, partly from mischief, partly obeying an unclear desire, threw a knife at it: the steel scraped, embedding itself tightly, and in the same second the hobbit heard behind him a slightly mocking and seemingly familiar voice:
"Not bad, honorable hobbit, very not bad... Why?!"
Before Folco could remember where he had heard this voice full of hidden power, he understood with horror that "why" preceded his desire to reach for a weapon: like, reach or don't reach - it's all the same to you... Folco turned around doomed, too stunned to think through his actions.
At the far end of the clearing showed a half-overgrown cart track; on it stood two men, the branches of bushes still swayed weakly behind their backs. Folco shuddered and barely restrained a cry.
Right before him, some ten paces away, having placed his hand on the hilt of a long sword, frozen in tense expectation was the hunchback Sandello. He looked at Folco coldly, mercilessly and indifferently. And beside him in a well-worn long grey-green traveling cloak, having crossed his arms on his chest, stood a tall, stately man with an even fair beard and the same long hair falling to his shoulders. His lips smiled slightly, under thick brows - the left was a bit higher than the right - he couldn't make out the color of his eyes; but in them was guessed a will unknowable to others, going its own paths. This gaze commanded - and it was obeyed; it was pleasant to obey its possessor... The features of this man's face were correctly proportioned - high forehead, smooth cheekbones, even, as if cut through, line of lips, giving him an open and proud appearance. The cloak concealed his figure, but one felt that he was endowed with considerable strength, not displayed but hidden for the time under the plain clothing of a wanderer. He had no sword, and only when he took a step and the cloak slightly opened did the hobbit notice hanging on a wide leather belt a long straight dagger.
Much flashed at that moment in Folco's memory: both Bree, and Annuminas, and the tavern, and the old chronicler - and he understood or guessed that before him was Olmer, the gold-seeker from Dale?!
He froze in confusion, not knowing what to do - to run, shout "help!" or grab the sword after all?!
Olmer, it seemed, understood this. Having stepped forward, he smiled amiably at the hobbit, turned to Sandello and, shaking his head, said with light reproach in his voice:
"No, Sandello, no. Don't turn craft into habit..."
"I obey!" the hunchback wheezed, bowing even more and not taking his fascinated gaze from Olmer.
In him were such devotion and trust that Folco involuntarily thought that the old chronicler was mistaken. Such can't be bought for any money...
"No need to give free rein to fear, honorable hobbit," Olmer continued meanwhile, turning to the hobbit. "Not every passerby even in our time is a robber, you, I see, have completely stopped trusting even yourself. Come here, don't be afraid, we won't harm you, I swear by the Great Ladder!"
And Folco obeyed. He truly wasn't afraid anymore; he somehow at once believed Olmer, though inside not yet completely dissolved the sticky lump of recent fright. Warily and slowly stepping, the hobbit began to approach the motionlessly frozen Olmer and Sandello.
Going toward them, the hobbit had several moments to better examine the one who called himself a gold-seeker. Looking from below upward, he saw above the ties of the cloak a powerful neck with noticeable wrinkles crossing it, betraying the considerable years lived by Olmer - more than one could give looking at his tanned face. Olmer also stepped forward, and the hobbit saw his high leather boots with arcs of wear from stirrups on the insteps. Sandello didn't lag a step behind his master.
"I'm glad I met you, halfling," he said with a friendly smile, "though I don't know your name. My name is Olmer. I'm glad to see you walking the road of men and want to repay you an old debt. Yes, don't be surprised, in Bree they treated you unjustly, and the one who first offended you bore punishment. And you, dear Sandello, were also wrong, taking up for the mocker who started the quarrel!"
The hunchback shuddered and bowed his head.
"Well and you, honorable hobbit, made a mistake by going with a sword against one who had thrown steel. You're very young, and I don't blame you, but henceforth against a stick take a beer mug." He again smiled barely noticeably. "Sandello! You were lucky he drew his sword, otherwise who knows how it would have ended?! But," he interrupted himself, "all this is in the past, and now I want there not to lie between us this old misunderstanding."
Folco stood silently, embarrassedly looking aside - to look Olmer in the eyes there was no strength. No one had ever spoken with him so respectfully and so openly - as equals - no one, not even Thorin, not even Maly. It was pleasant to listen to the possessor of the voice: they weren't flattering the hobbit - simply the strong one recognized also his strength, though not in everything, and regretted the mistake, and Folco felt himself almost satisfied for that old defeat. The last remnants of fear disappeared; he wasn't afraid even of Sandello, who looked at him now a bit surprised and interested: Folco couldn't find words and only embarrassedly shifted from foot to foot, however deep in consciousness was born also an uneasy thought: and why does Olmer need all this?!
Silence fell. Olmer looked at the hobbit expectantly, and he understood that he needed at least to introduce himself in response to the courteous speech. With difficulty, overcoming the still remaining numbness, he pronounced his name. Olmer amiably inclined his head slightly and threw a quick glance at Sandello. He stepped forward and calmly extended his hand to the hobbit.
"Don't hold ill will toward me, son of Hamfast," he spoke slowly, touching Folco's trembling palm with his supple, cold, but incredibly strong fingers, "I admit that I was wrong then..."
Words came to him with difficulty, but Olmer didn't take his attentive gaze off the hunchback, and Sandello continued to speak. Folco looked him straight in the eyes (which he barely had spirit for) and again, as still in Bree, saw in them a shade of understanding and hidden bitterness.
"The hunchback speaks sincerely," the hobbit suddenly thought, "though pride hinders him."
"You held firm," Sandello continued. "To tell the truth, the second time I barely dodged. However, now it doesn't matter anymore. Please, try to forget."
"I... I don't know," the hobbit mumbled, getting lost under the suddenly tensely testing gaze of the hunchback, "such things aren't so simply forgotten."
Sandello still didn't release his right hand, and from this Folco again became slightly uneasy. The hunchback sighed.
"What must I do to atone for my guilt before you?!" he said.
"It seems I can help you in this, honorable Sandello," Olmer suddenly intervened. "No dispute, you're guilty, and therefore bring here our Gundabad trophy!"
"Ours?!" the hunchback raised his eyes in surprise.
"Yes, ours," Olmer answered, "for thanks to your skill my opponent fought on foot. Bring it, perhaps it will please the honorable hobbit's heart."
Sandello, still not releasing his hand, still gazing tensely and searchingly into the hobbit's eyes, sighed.
"What must I do to atone for my guilt before you?" he said.
"It seems I can help you in this, honorable Sandello," Olmer suddenly intervened. "No dispute, you're guilty, and therefore bring here our Gundabad trophy!"
"Ours?!" the hunchback raised his eyes in surprise.
"Yes, ours," Olmer answered, "for thanks to your skill my opponent fought on foot. Bring it, perhaps it will please the honorable hobbit's heart."
Sandello released Folco's hand and, bowing his head in agreement, hurried to the horses; returning, he extended to the hobbit a dagger in exquisitely worked black leather scabbard. On the hilt gleamed a large pale stone with a dark cross inside – a staurolite, as Folco would later learn. The hobbit involuntarily gasped – the gift was truly princely! He turned the dagger over and over in his hands, pulled it from the scabbard – on the silvery, mirrorlike surface of the blade shone Blue Flowers, engraved with amazing skill. Folco had never seen anything like it; he gazed, enchanted, at the slender blade, at the play of light on the stone in the crossguard, and couldn't believe that all this belonged to him. He tried to thank Olmer, but the words somehow wouldn't come; fortunately, the gold-seeker didn't insist on long speeches.
"Well, then," he said with a smile, slapping the hobbit on the shoulder, "I'm glad I could repay my old debt! Live well, halfling! And you, my friends," – here his gaze fell on Thorin, – "I wish you to return just as you are now. Farewell!"
He turned and strode to his horses; Sandello barely managed to run after him. Mounting their saddles, they waved their hands in farewell and galloped away. A yellowish-gray cloud of dust rose after them, the drum of hoofbeats faded in the distance, and only now could Folco come to his senses.
"Listen, Thorin, how did he know where we're going?" the hobbit asked the dwarf standing motionless beside him with arms crossed on his chest, a strange smile on his lips.
"Who knows," the dwarf shrugged. "But I'd like to know another thing – how did he manage to break my axe? It was excellent steel, I'd vouch for it with my beard... But come, we need to get back, or there'll be questions about where we've been wandering!"
They walked back in silence. Folco clutched the gift tightly in his hands, periodically pulling the blade from the scabbard and examining it. He simply couldn't take his eyes off it! Thorin walked beside him, often looking back, as if hoping to catch one more glimpse of the mysterious rider and his hunchbacked servant. Finally he couldn't restrain himself:
"Strange fellow, this Olmer. Did you notice his gloves? Black leather, very soft... I wonder what he's hiding under them?"
Folco shrugged – he hadn't noticed any gloves at all. Absorbed in examining his princely gift, he had paid little attention to such trifles.
"And the staff he gave me," Thorin continued, "is also a mysterious thing. What kind of wood is it, where does it grow? I asked – he said he got it in Gundabad from a dead enemy. And you know, he spoke the truth – he really did fight there, I'm sure of it! I also got a good look at Sandello – what whip scars he has on his back! Only a master of the bullwhip could leave such marks. Where did they come from? From the same place as the horseshoes? I don't believe they're from Dale for a second!"
The dwarf fell silent, and for a while only the crunch of gravel under their feet was heard. Folco was the first to break the silence:
"And you know, Thorin, I believed them. Somehow it seems to me that this Olmer isn't deceiving us. Sandello is sincere too..."
"Nothing I forgot," Folco muttered in turn, blushing and lowering his head. "It was just a misunderstanding there, Sandello repented. They gave me a dagger as a gift..."
"Show it to me again," the dwarf suddenly asked, extending his palm. "I want to see what exactly won you over so."
The hobbit reached into his shirt and suddenly felt that he very much didn't want to give the gift into anyone's hands, whoever they might be; but Thorin was Thorin, and Folco mastered himself.
The dwarf carefully received the dagger extracted from the scabbard still hanging on the hobbit's chest, with blue Flowers on the blade. He turned it this way and that for a long time, tested the point with his finger, tried to bend it, scraped at the hilt with his nail; gazed long at the stone by the crossguard; finally satisfied, he silently extended the dagger to the hobbit who had been anxiously following him; Folco hastily hid it and unexpectedly felt relief – this dagger, it seemed, possessed some strange power over its new owner.
"Never seen anything like it," Thorin suddenly admitted, spreading his hands. "This isn't our work, and the steel isn't either. Excellent steel, by the way – both strong and flexible... And how the pattern is applied – I can only guess. Our smiths don't know how to do this, I would know. This stone, though, is familiar to me – staurolites aren't considered precious, they're quite fragile, easily worked, but one this large and with such a clear cross – that's also a rarity. I'd like to know why he needed to give it to you! To you – a dagger, to me – this staff... How am I even supposed to make an axe-handle from it?!"
They fell silent. Before both their eyes stood that amazing spectacle – Olmer and the hunchback. Each recalled the details of the extraordinary meeting.
Having passed through the entire clearing, Thorin suddenly slapped his forehead:
"Fine pair we are! Trampled the hoof tracks!"
"Who trampled, and who looked and remembered!" The hobbit stuck out his tongue at his friend. "Horseshoes with five nails, between the first and second, counting from the left, such a three-rayed star... Yes, anyway, there they are, don't you see?! But let's postpone other conversations for later – they're surely already looking for us!"
They reached the camp just as an alarmed Rogvold was dispatching mounted men in all directions to search. The hobbit and dwarf had to make excuses with hastily invented tall tales, and only at night, when the caravan stopped at the edge of the forest beside a village abandoned by people, did they gather a council of their few closest friends.
They sat in darkness, carefully plugging the gaps in the wagon's canopy and wrapping themselves in blankets – by evening an icy wind had unexpectedly pulled down from the mountains. Kid, Rogvold, Dori and Bran came. They already knew the story of the "Sheath of Strider," Olmer from Dale, and the old chronicler; Folco and Thorin told them in full detail all that had happened.
"Let's start with what we have," Rogvold began after Folco fell silent and licked his lips, dried during the long tale. "The tracks of horseshoes, they're really unusual."
"Couldn't be more unusual – such a mark!" Bran pronounced thoughtfully.
"Pity I didn't see them myself," Rogvold sighed. "However, such a brand is unknown to me. What could this star mean?!"
"The star's clear enough," Thorin answered. "It's called Izelgrid and in ancient times signified the unity of the three Underground Elements: Stone, Fire and Water. But I haven't heard of any of the tangars using it as a brand!"
"But couldn't one of the human smiths have thought up such a simple symbol himself?!" Rogvold asked.
Thorin couldn't think of an answer, and then Kid unexpectedly spoke up.
"If someone gives me a mug of hill beer, I'll probably say where these horseshoes are from!" he suddenly smirked slyly.
"You?! From where?! Speak!" everyone started babbling at once, but Kid stood his ground.
"First beer! And not that thimble that stingy Thorin just poured, but my mug!"
Expressively shaking his head and twisting his lips, Thorin poured Kid the required mug. The Little Dwarf unhurriedly drank, grunted, wiped his chin... A pause ensued. Kid surveyed his watching friends with a sly glance.
"This sign – Izelgrid – is put on his wares by one rangtor from Erebor," he casually tossed out. "I knew him. He quarreled with his people from the Lonely Mountain and went north, to the Dragon Plateau. He makes such horseshoes, moreover adding copper to them, which makes them heavier but softer and better fitting to the hoof..."
"Rangtor?" Rogvold asked in puzzlement, but Thorin explained that dwarves call a tangar a loner, living and working at his own risk, an outcast who has left his kinsmen.
"He's quite a gloomy character," Kid continued, "but a great master. I met him when I went to Erebor, five winters ago."
"Horseshoes from Erebor..." Thorin drawled thoughtfully. "And Theophrastus said – he's from Dale. Well, maybe it's true... But what good does it do us?!"
"At least that if he lies, it's not always," Folco interjected.
"True enough," Rogvold nodded. "Our hobbit is quite right. So in some things we can rely on this Olmer's words."
Thorin merely shrugged.
"Now further," the former centurion continued. "His gifts. Our Folco's dagger – an absolutely amazing and incomprehensible thing. Where could such a thing come from?! Who could have made it?!" In response the dwarves merely spread their hands. "If this isn't your work, honored ones, then whose?"
"One can guess endlessly," Bran muttered. "Maybe it was made by descendants of Knights from Overseas even before the Enemy's fall. Maybe it was crafted somewhere in the east, about whose wonders so many tall tales are spun."
"He said – it's their Gundabad trophy," Folco reminded them.
"Gundabad?! Let's think about what's been there these last few years," Rogvold scratched his beard. "No, somehow nothing comes to mind. Maybe the dwarves heard something?!"
Thorin and Bran in turn spread their hands, but Dori suddenly leaned forward.
"I heard something," he began slowly, furrowing his brow. "Somewhere in those parts a detachment that attacked Erebor last autumn disappeared without trace – remember? In Annuminas I once met an acquaintance who was passing through the kingdom of the Beornings just in those days and heard that the border guard raised the alarm and a large detachment of forest dwellers set out northward. I know nothing more about this, but one way or another, those who came from the east vanished without trace."
"Well, maybe so," Thorin said uncertainly. "Only too many of these 'maybes'!"
"That's all we have left," Rogvold shrugged. "Well, maybe Bran's right, and the dagger really is from the east. And your staff, Thorin?!"
The dwarf pulled out from under the bags piled at the bottom of the wagon a long pole or staff that seemed yellowish in the dim light of the oil lamp. They turned and twisted it for a long time, shrugged their shoulders. Kid even tried it with his tooth; the best dwarf blades cut it only with difficulty and quickly dulled. The dwarves again spread their hands. No one could even remotely suppose what this was and where it came from.
"What are you going to do with it, Thorin?" Rogvold finally asked, returning the mysterious gift of the gold-seeker to the dwarf.
"Make an axe-handle," the dwarf muttered.
"By the way, Thorin, did you know him before?!" Folco suddenly remembered. "What kind of nickname is Evil Archer?"
"Knew him... long ago, though," the dwarf answered reluctantly, turning away. "We made his acquaintance," – he smiled crookedly – "about thirty years ago, when he was still young. We were fitting new city gates in Archedain, and he... He was also a stranger in that city, they showed him to us when he was shooting pigeons on the wing for a bet on the fair square, never missing once. That's how he got his nickname then, and I quickly forgot his name... And I didn't recognize him right away – he's still changed a lot, though his face is still not old. But we finished our work and went back to the mountains, and what became of Evil Archer, truth be told, little concerned me."
"And what shortened beard of Durin did he mention?" the hobbit continued his questions, but ran into the cold silence of Thorin, who had withdrawn into himself.
"Let's not talk about it," he quietly asked the hobbit. "Because of that beard I once quarreled with our elders... Alright, enough about that! So what happened with this Sandello now?"
Having heard out the hobbit, the dwarf twisted his lips doubtfully.
"But they were driving a herd of mature four-year-olds, fit for the saddle!" the centurion interjected. "We mustn't forget this when we write to the Steward – remember, dear Thorin, that this Olmer is still being sought."
The dwarf frowned.
"He found us himself, and our disputes with him are our disputes," he cut off gloomily. "Our quarrel doesn't concern Annuminas!"
"They might be seeking him for something quite different," Rogvold answered, pursing his lips. "It's not right to shelter one who should stand before judgment. We don't seize the innocent!"
"And still it's unclear: why did he need all this?" Dori muttered. "What did he say – that the meeting wasn't chance?!"
"Why guess," Bran said gloomily. "I'd like to know what this Olmer meant by – 'I wish you to return just as you are now'? Could he know something about Moria too?"
"We'll find out when we get there," Thorin dropped in the same tone.
"And yet we're needed by him for something," Rogvold said thoughtfully. "Otherwise why would he reconcile his hunchback with you? And he did reconcile you! Who knows – is this the last meeting?"
They talked for a long time yet, but couldn't decide what profit Olmer could have and what relation their journey could have to this dark, mysterious man. Giving up the puzzle, they lay down to sleep:
only two marches remained to the Gates of Moria.
Folco slept poorly. Unclear, confused dreams tormented him; to his inner sight appeared now high towers never seen by him, engulfed in strange bluish fire, now chasms filled with crimson fog and vague shadows moving in the bloody murk; or, as if in reality, he saw black gloves on the mighty hands of Olmer, breaking the axe of Thorin that had seemed unbreakable for so long. And still Folco couldn't shake the thought that Olmer had some secret purpose, perhaps he wanted the hobbit and his companions to really break through into Moria and the gifted blade might be useful there; however, the hobbit also sensed that Olmer acted by intuition, as if moved by sudden impulse...
The last days of the journey passed in tense anticipation. The forests disappeared, yielding to a sad plain full of abandoned houses and wild gardens. The Sirannon here turned sharply right, going south along the walls of the Misty Mountains. Folco didn't dismount from his pony, staying together with Gloin, Dwalin, Rogvold and Thorin at the head of the caravan. They doubled their caution; there was nowhere to hide, and they carefully bypassed empty farms and homesteads, avoiding looking at the black windows of empty houses that seemed like eye sockets pecked out by crows in the dead. The meeting with Olmer and Sandello still wouldn't leave the hobbit's mind; but no matter how much he pondered, he couldn't understand what fate had brought this extraordinary man onto one path with them and why he needed these explanations. However, earthly concerns held fast, it seemed, only him alone; approaching the Gates of Moria the dwarves forgot everything in the world. Their eyes burned, from their lips burst inarticulate exclamations in a language unknown to the hobbit; they were approaching the main shrine of their people. "Impenetrably dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold as ice are the springs of Kibil-nâla..."
On the last day of their journey the road went along the crest of a hilly ridge, the northern edge of the Gateway Valley. They left behind the remains of a wharf, gnawed by an old fire; Folco and Thorin, unable to restrain themselves, walked to the destroyed stone steps once hewn by dwarves to bypass the Moria Threshold. With the beginning of the new Age the dwarves cleared a path for their flat-bottomed boats and rafts down the river and laid a new road over the valley. The marshy lake that once so frightened Frodo had disappeared; along the valley bottom the Sirannon ran merrily, the slopes of the riverside hills covered with neglected apple orchards.
"That was great work," Thorin said quietly, as if to himself, with a sigh. "And it all went to dust..."
Behind them footsteps were heard – from the wagons stopped above, Gloin was descending to them. The Moria dwarf was dressed in his best clothes, his mighty chest was covered by a gleaming mail-shirt, on his wide ornate belt hung an decorated axe and a spiked war-flail. He stopped beside them and placed his hand on Folco's shoulder – the hobbit felt a fine tremor that periodically ran through Gloin's body. The exile stood on the threshold of his home.
For several moments they were silent, gazing at the gray walls of the cliffs among which the Gates were hidden; then Gloin suddenly smiled and lightly pushed the hobbit.
"Do you like it, Folco? You haven't seen anything yet, when we sweep out this filth that's seeped into Khazad-dûm again! I swear by Durin's beard, people won't have to abandon settled places near our Gates anymore."
"Beautiful," the hobbit sighed peacefully, looking at the blue ribbon of the Sirannon. "Wait, Gloin, I heard that before there was some terrible stagnant pond here, where all sorts of monsters lived?!"
"True," Gloin nodded with a smile. "Such things were here!.. After the victory the dwarves set about draining this lake, but first they wove a net from the last remnants of mithril and caught Watcher and all his offspring, drained the water and sealed the hole to the underground rivers tightly, and then returned the Sirannon to its former bed."
Folco wanted to ask the Morian about the details of that catch, but their companions called to them from the road. The sun had already descended to the very horizon. The Gates lay several hundred paces from them, and in the hastily set up camp a fire was already being kindled for supper. Folco sighed and trudged off to prepare the evening meal. The assault on the Gates was scheduled for tomorrow.
Chapter Four. KHAZAD-DÛM
"What nonsense these Big Folk don't spin!" Folco thought in the evening, settling down to sleep. "What horror were they babbling about?! Land like land, rocks, hills, a little river... wonderful gardens... just need to put your hands to work..."
He sighed, remembering the gardens and fields of the Shire. His palms had managed to become unaccustomed to the spade, and now he had a vague desire to just go and prune or hill up those apple trees by the river.
However, the night spent at the threshold of the Black Abyss made him forget everything. Having somehow immediately fallen into a deep, heavy sleep, the hobbit suddenly woke in the middle of the night in a sticky, cold sweat; he didn't remember what he had dreamed, knowing only that it was disgusting and revolting to the point of nausea. Lying on his back, he opened his eyes and nearly choked – the air in the wagon seemed to him extremely stale and heavy, it pressed on his chest like bags of sand, and moreover the curtain of darkness seemed to have gathered into tens and hundreds of bluish-black clusters, and from each someone's cold, lifeless gaze looked at Folco. The hobbit froze and trembled like a butterfly on a pin; there was no strength to move, to reach for a weapon, to cry out. From somewhere in the depths of consciousness began to rise a vague hum felt by his whole body, not only his ears; the wagon barely perceptibly shuddered. Where this hum came from, he couldn't say; he simply understood that another moment – and his breathing would cease forever. There was no fear; on the hobbit pressed non-being, formless, all-consuming, inexorable...
Nearby came a heavy moan, and this sound unexpectedly gave the hobbit strength. Tossing in an evil dream, with wide open but unseeing murky eyes, beside Folco moaned hollowly Thorin; the dwarf's hand slowly, with uncertain jerks, but still crept toward the axe-handle he had just made from the staff gifted by Olmer.
The hobbit jerked – everything inside seemed to break – and with a desperate movement pushed the weapon closer to the dwarf's open trembling palm. Thorin's fingers gripped the handle; leaning on the axe, he began to slowly straighten up.
The hair stirred on the back of the hobbit's neck – never before had he seen such eyes in Thorin. They rolled from their sockets, and even in the pitch darkness under the canopy Folco saw in them a faint reflection of a moonbeam that had broken through a chance gap; these wide-open eyes were just as unseeing as several moments before, when Thorin still lay and seemed to be sleeping. With an uncertain jerk the dwarf moved toward the fastened canvas covering the entrance to the wagon for the night, and, falling with his heavy body on the plaintively creaking canopy, tumbled outside. A dull thud was heard, and this brought the hobbit out of his stupor. His fingers firmly held in his sweat-damp palm the dagger, Olmer's gift; the suffocation gradually receded. Gathering all his strength, he rushed to Thorin.
The dwarf lay on the ground, awkwardly sprawled with strangely twisted arms; nearby lay the axe. The hobbit looked around hunted – through yellow clouds peered the pale face of a deadened moon; darkness was everywhere, the ghostly coating of the night luminary only emphasized its impenetrability. Folco still distinguished the side of the wagon beside him, but further everything drowned in bottomless and soundless darkness. The cold, indifferent gaze of countless invisible eyes still roved over the hobbit's body, but now he had a weapon, and he could defend himself. If he had time, he surely would have tried to remember Annuminas and the ghost of the Barrow-downs, but here everything was different, completely different.
From the darkness came a choked hoarse moan. The hobbit jerked – and immediately understood that it wasn't Thorin moaning, but someone else. Fear so paralyzed Folco that he had no strength even to bend down and see what was wrong with his friend. The moan came from the wagon; something had happened to someone else among the dwarves. In Folco fear grew into an irresistible desire to run, not making out the road, away, away from this wild place. Before his eyes whirled a crimson vortex; his knees buckled, he collapsed beside the motionless Thorin and saw nothing more.
He came to from the cold and, having barely opened his eyes, immediately with all his remaining strength squeezed them shut – from above icy water poured on him. Someone's hands carefully lifted the hobbit, someone wiped his face with a handkerchief, around him voices called out, the familiar voices of his friends and traveling companions. The hobbit slowly rose to the surface from the dark pit of unconsciousness. He tried to speak – a moan burst from his throat;
then he tried to sit up – this succeeded, they supported him. Only now could Folco finally look around and understand what was happening to him.
It was early morning, he lay on a cloak thoughtfully thrown on the dew-wet grass;
nearby, gripping his head in his palms, sat Thorin; between his fingers oozed water and showed wet strands of hair. Around crowded people and dwarves; the latter, as one, had an extremely frightened and exhausted appearance – all in one night had sunken cheeks, inflamed eyes, and some had noticeably more gray in their beards. The people seemed more cheerful – they were rather alarmed, though their faces also testified to a restless night.
Beside the hobbit knelt Kid, supporting Folco by the shoulders; beside him wrung out a wet rag Rogvold; they were tightly surrounded by the rest. Rogvold kept insistently asking Folco something, but several minutes passed before the hobbit grasped the meaning of his questions.
"What happened here? What happened at night? What happened to you?!"
Folco nodded, wanting to show he understood what he was being asked, but having begun to speak with difficulty, suddenly felt how hard it was to break into such recent memory. He could only squeeze out that he woke in the middle of the night, that it was bad, so bad, as never before, very frightening, nothing could be done, and then Thorin moaned and said something, and then he reached the axe and climbed outside, and then fell somewhere, and he, Folco, climbed after him, and outside it became quite nasty, he also fell, and then everything was dark.
Those listening exchanged glances, and then Rogvold asked the same questions of Thorin. He answered with difficulty, barely pushing out words from himself – forcing himself to speak with all his might, as if the dwarf's will was taking revenge on the unknown enemy for the confusion that had gripped him:
"It came out of the Gates of Moria. And then It approached my heart, and my heart became cold, like snow on a mountain peak, and I would have plunged into eternal sleep in the Hall of Waiting on the edge between sleep and death, but it became painful, and I came to, and then It covered the one who was near me – the hobbit, but breaking him proved even harder, he managed to master himself and even pushed the axe to me. I saw It so clearly that it seemed now I could split It in two – a bluish formless cloud, a piece of gelatinous fog – and I tried to reach It, tried to wake my friends, but inside everything became murky, and I could hardly understand what needed to be done, except that I needed to try to drive It away, but when I jumped out of the wagon, and this wasn't easy, my legs wouldn't obey me. It pushed me into darkness, though it couldn't freeze and deprive me of life – I no longer yielded so easily. I was already lying, neither arms nor legs obeyed me, but I saw the hobbit rushing to my aid and saw how It melted, touching poor Folco in passing."
A deathly silence fell; Folco himself was also stunned, he had never heard Thorin speak this way; an icy worm of fear stirred again somewhere at the bottom of his consciousness. Meanwhile Thorin rose with effort, leaned on the axe and continued, surveying those gathered with a heavy gaze:
"You'll ask me – what did It look like, what did It want to do, how did It attack, how can one defend against it?! I'll answer thus – It looked like nothing. It had neither arms, nor legs, nor head, nor body – there was some sort of clot of fog, as I already said, which with my eyes I didn't really see, but perceived with something else. As far as I managed to understand, It wasn't hunting specifically for us or for me. It has no will, no reason, much less a goal. It broke out of Moria and melted in the sky, melted like smoke from a fire. You'll ask: why then did only Folco and I lose consciousness?! I think, only because we didn't sleep as soundly as the rest, and when we jumped up, we as it were inhaled Its poison with our chests, like poisoned air... Only it wasn't air, of course... Our thoughts tried to find a counter to Its force – and This unknown thing crashed into us, whereas over the consciousness of the others, who were poorly but sleeping and not resisting, This swept like a hurricane sweeps over one lying in the sand, but knocks down one trying to stand. I suspect that because of something like this the tangars left Moria. We must learn to fight, and mainly – try to understand Its nature. After all, It affects us dwarves much more strongly than humans!"
"You're mistaken," Rogvold said slowly. "I too won't forget this night to the end of my days, and may the spirit of the Great King preserve me from such! Now it's clear why the inhabitants left here... So, what shall we do?"
Like a long-restrained flood had finally found a breach in the body of a dam – so from all sides burst indignant, frightened, confused exclamations and cries of the people. Folco from surprise squatted and even covered his ears; the shouts at first stunned him. It cost Rogvold considerable effort to somehow calm them down. Folco with surprise and slight fear gazed at the faces distorted by rage and animal fear of these people, in whose courage and bravery he could be convinced himself.
"The matter's clear!" Igg said, spraying saliva. "No-o, let whoever wants stay here, but I'm leaving. We have nothing to do here, you'll croak and not notice with these dwarf tricks."
"We contracted to go to Moria, and we've arrived!" Dovbur roared. "We can fight, and we've fought and are ready to fight anyone – but only a living enemy, if only a sword can reach him! But with these underground ghosts – no thank you, our blades are no good here! Maybe the honored dwarves have something better?!"
"Dovbur's right! Dovbur speaks sense!" several men supported him.
Among them were Alan, and Veort, and Resvald – the youngest, most desperate and reckless of all. Little by little they divided into two groups – people on one side, dwarves on the other, and in the middle – a confused, frightened hobbit and grim, calm, extraordinarily straight and stern Thorin. He seemed not to hear the angry shouts of his recent companions, didn't see how the dwarves' gazes grew heavy and their hands little by little began to reach for weapons, especially after Gerdin shouted that he didn't intend to perish for dwarf gold, still unknown by whom and how obtained.
"Enough shouting!" Grolf raised his voice meanwhile. "Pack your bags – and to the saddles. We have nothing to do here. And you dwarves too. We'll leave together, if you want!"
Rogvold silently bit his lips, his head drooped, his fingers clenched the sword hilt, the hobbit cast a pleading glance at the huntsman – he had one last hope in Rogvold. Meanwhile the people really began to tie up their belongings, pulling them from the wagons. Thorin still remained imperturbably silent, the dwarves began to exchange surprised glances, seeing his strange calm; meanwhile Rogvold decisively raised his head and spoke, his voice filled with cold contempt:
"The dwarves came here not for gold, honored Gerdin, but following their dwarf fate, and it's not for us to suspect them of mercenary thoughts. The underground is their world, and they didn't call us with them, but with what's on earth, we're obliged to fight! And it doesn't matter what our enemy will be, whence he'll come, for if the depths belong to the dwarves, then to us, humans – all the rest of the earth. And who can tear the surface from the depth, the house from its foundation? Our world is one, and what today threatens the dwarves, tomorrow will fall on us, and we must be able to oppose it. And shame on us, Rangers, if we, whom no one is dragging down, abandon here friends with whom we've fought shoulder to shoulder! Do as you know, cover yourselves with shame without me, I'll stay here even alone."
Rogvold fell silent, raised his head and stood in one row with the dwarves. The people opposite frowned, scratched their heads, averted their gazes, someone muttered something, but only Igg began to object openly.
"We've covered many leagues together, Rogvold, son of Mstar," he began, "and it's not for you to reproach me with cowardice! But explain to me, what should I fight this pale horror with? With what, if I, who never showed my back in battle, cannot move either arm or leg, neither raise my sword nor shield myself when It approaches? If the cold of death penetrates to my bones and I feel life flowing out of me like water from a sieve? And more. Why do you think It threatens our world? It's a spawn of the depths, where dwarves reign supreme. From their fussing in the underground this monster appeared! So who should oppose It – we or they? Answer me that!"
Igg smiled grimly and heavily sank onto a bag lying at his feet.
"It still couldn't kill Thorin and Folco," Rogvold said, not taking his steady gaze from Igg's eyes. "So It can be opposed. As for how I know that It threatens our world too, look around! Aren't these abandoned houses and overgrown fields an answer?"
Among the people rolled an unclear rumble of either approval or surprise, and Folco understood that their determination to leave was shaken.
"We're losing time," Thorin said simply and matter-of-factly. "It's time for the tangars to go to the Gates, for the people – to set up camp, if, of course, anyone wants to stay. But all can't stay anyway – like it or not, the first part of our journey is behind us, and it's time for us to send news to Annuminas, as was agreed with the Steward. You people decide yourselves who will ride to the Capital, and meanwhile we'll pack our rucksacks."
Thorin, not looking back, strode to the wagon. Behind him silently trailed the dwarves. The people again crowded into a tight circle, again their alarmed voices were heard, but now shame was increasingly audible in them. After some time Folco saw that Dovbur and Igg were saddling four horses and tying on saddlebags. Rogvold, perched on a flat stone to the side, was quickly writing something on a sheet of yellowish parchment. The rest of the people stood around the departing ones. A little later the dwarves approached them too.
They parted calmly and sternly, without extra words and long farewells. The messengers were to deliver to the Steward the message and tell about all that had happened on the road. They intended to move north not by the South Road, but straight through emptied Ostranna, and then come out on the West Road several days' journey east of the Hill.
The riders for the last time raised their hands in farewell, hooves struck the dust, and after a few minutes the figures of the riders disappeared behind the greenery of wild gardens. In three weeks the news should reach the capital of the Northern Kingdom.
The rest of the day passed in continuous bustle. The Rangers found themselves a secluded spot in a small ravine where stood several old but still sturdy barns, and decided to adapt them for housing; the dwarves transferred things into rucksacks, extracted from the very bottom of the wagons mountain tools that had lain there idle for a long time; torches were prepared, long thin ropes were not forgotten, to drag behind when going through dark underground labyrinths, and also – in extreme cases – good chunks of white limestone with which one could put a mark on the wall. A good two-thirds of the provisions migrated into dwarf bags; there was no counting on finding any food below. Kid stubbornly refused to part with his pot-bellied beer keg; Thorin tried for a long time to reason with his friend, but then spat in his hearts and left, declaring to Kid that he could of course take all the beer with him – if he carried it on his own shoulders. The Little Dwarf, however, remained very pleased with this, and not two hours had passed before he had fashioned harnesses from straps for the keg and after several attempts hoisted it on his back and even walked quite briskly with it.
Amid all this fuss and running, hurried, confused packing and searches, Folco, son of Hamfast, was quite lost, sitting with drooping head beside his small bag. Fear again cruelly tormented his heart; the Annuminas doubts came alive in him again, and now he sadly pondered what he would do underground, in this terrible and, as it turned out, really inhabited by some ghostly monsters Moria. He would have preferred the Barrow-downs, a hundred Wights instead of one of this creature! The games were over, and the hobbit only shivered chillily, though the day was warm and gentle. He swept his gaze over the greenery of the gardens and the blue of the river – how long would he have to content himself with contemplating the black walls of the underground?
In the power of these dark thoughts Rogvold also found him, also homeless wandering from side to side, whose young companions hadn't admitted him to heavy work. The old centurion sank down beside the despondent hobbit and gently laid his palm on his shoulder.
"You're at a crossroads, Kid," the huntsman said with a sad smile, and Folco started – Rogvold's voice seemed to him the voice of a deep old man, in it appeared soft notes unfamiliar to the hobbit. "Listen, Kid, listen to a man who's seen much and lived well. Don't go there."
Folco cast a short glance at the former centurion and lowered his eyes. Rogvold had precisely guessed his thoughts.
"Leave dwarf matters to dwarves, Kid," Rogvold continued. "You're a hobbit, and your kinsmen are still much closer to us humans than to this strange underground tribe. What will you do there? How can you help? But here you'll be needed, very much needed! Who more quietly than you can steal through the forest on reconnaissance? Who shoots better with a bow? Hard days await us here, on top, but still not as hard as there, below... And also – if you disappear there, I'll never forgive myself, son."
The huntsman fell silent and turned away. Folco sat huddled from awkwardness and confusion. What is Rogvold saying? How he doesn't want to go... However, precisely in this second the hobbit decided. To stay after these words was unthinkable – simply impossible! It meant to eternally doom himself to torments of conscience.
"I still must go there, Rogvold," Folco squeezed out of himself.
The former centurion, still looking away, shuddered.
"Well..." he said slowly, turning to the hobbit and gazing for several moments straight into his eyes; Folco didn't avert his gaze, and the huntsman again lowered his head. "Well, you've also become a prisoner of your word... " He suddenly straightened sharply. "But if you've decided – then go. Only remember – I'll climb anywhere to pull you out."
Rogvold turned and strode away, very tall, straight, stern, not at all old yet. The hobbit passed his palm over his forehead, wiping away sweat.
By evening, when the sun had already descended and the valley drowned in pre-night twilight, it suddenly turned out that everything was ready and the dwarves had nothing more to do on the surface. For some time all stood in confusion, gazing at the massifs of cliffs, illuminated by the crimson sunset glow; there, especially clearly visible now, stood several mighty oaks – and between them were the Gates.
"Shall we go?!" Thorin pronounced half-questioningly, half-affirmatively.
The dwarves, exchanging glances and talking quietly, began to load the heavy rucksacks on themselves. The people rushed to help them, for a moment businesslike talk flew over the valley, but now everything was finally ready, and the dwarf detachment huddled in agonizing anticipation, now already impatiently glancing at Thorin. He sighed deeply and chopped the air with his hand:
"Let's go!"
In a tight crowd they all together strode along the road to the Gates. The people walked with them; Folco once more caught Rogvold's pleading gaze and hastily averted his eyes.
The road suddenly ended. They passed, like under an arch, under the crowns of century-old oaks closing over their heads, and the road ran into a smooth, sheer rocky cliff, into the gray stone wall of one of the giants of the Misty Mountains. There was nowhere further to go. They had arrived.
Thorin turned to the Moria Wall, raised his right hand and loudly, distinctly pronounced:
"Mellon!"
The gray smooth surface of the rock was crossed in different directions by finest silver lines, weaving into the pattern familiar to Folco and Thorin with the star of Fëanor and the emblem of Durin – hammer and anvil. However, the stone doors of the Gates didn't move an inch. The dwarves were dumbfounded.
"Mellon!" Thorin cried even louder, with despair, pressing his clenched fists to his chest.
A dull underground rumble was heard, a black narrow crack split the stone's surface in the middle of the pattern, marking the edge of the doors, but the Gates remained closed.
The dwarves dropped their rucksacks, crowding behind Thorin. The people, exchanging amazed and alarmed glances, stood in a semicircle behind their backs. Again and again Thorin repeated the treasured word; Moria answered with a muffled roar, but the Gates still didn't open. Finally Thorin turned away in despair and, as he stood, sat right on the stones, dropping his head sorrowfully. A painful silence fell.
At first everyone turned to the Moria dwarves; however, Dwalin and Gloin merely spread their hands. Something had happened to the creation of dwarves and elves still crafted in the days of the Second Age; the path into Moria was closed.
"Maybe they're locked from inside?" Dori ventured to break the silence with timid hope, but Gloin shook his head negatively.
"When the bolts are lowered, this protrusion should be recessed," – his fingers touched the rock – "but it's sticking out, as usual. There's something else here..."
"What then?" Dori asked eagerly.
"Who knows, has the power of the elvish spell weakened?!" Gloin suggested. "Though why should it?! Twelve years ago, when we left Moria, everything was as usual."
"So what, are we going back?" one of the Rangers spoke up.
Darkness thickened. The sun drowned in shaggy clouds that had wrapped the western horizon, brief southern twilight came, the first stars peeked through breaks in the clouds. Everyone milled around helplessly before the Gates, not knowing what to do: the dwarves knew too well the impregnability of their fortress to try to break into Moria by force.
And then Hornbori stepped forward from the dwarf ranks. His face seemed to have turned to stone, his eyes sparkled, he slowly walked toward the Gates, as if toward a mortal enemy; he imperiously extended his hand forward, and the hobbit noticed a golden radiance that for a moment surrounded the ring on the dwarf's finger, the radiance flashed and disappeared, and Hornbori, squatting as if dragging a huge weight on himself, pulled his hand with the ring toward himself, as if grasping an invisible handle; he quietly pronounced: "Mellon" – and from three dozen mouths burst a joyful cry. The doors shifted and slightly parted! The crack widened and deepened, and Hornbori, sweating before their eyes and constantly wiping himself with his sleeve, kept pulling and pulling the doors toward himself, and the ring shone brightly on his finger, and the black stone seemed to emit a faint light. The Gates yielded a little more; into the gap one could already insert fingers, and then something happened to Hornbori. He suddenly stopped, swayed; the doors again began to close.
It's hard to say what pushed the hobbit in this moment; he acted by intuition, as if in a dream, or perhaps simply suddenly felt the warmth emanating from the dagger hanging on his chest with blue Flowers, and magically understood that he must do something. He was pulled toward the Gates, and he pressed his whole body to the black gap.
The dagger from Gundabad appeared of its own accord in his fist, the blade that flashed blue slid into the gap, the hobbit moved it from bottom to top, as if ripping open an unyielding dense barrier, and the Gates again began to open. More and more confidently and powerfully Hornbori pulled them toward himself, and in the next instant, when Folco's dagger found itself at the level of the hobbit's eyes, something creaked behind the doors, clanged dully, and the doors flew open in one moment, throwing back both Folco and Hornbori. Had Folco stood a bit farther, and Hornbori, conversely, a bit closer, the heavy Gates would have crushed their heads. However, everything ended with only a few bruises and scratches.
The dwarves and people, forgetting even about the Gates, rushed to help the fallen; some time was spent feeling and brushing off the hobbit and dwarf; grunting and groaning, they finally rose, and only then did everyone, as if on command, fall silent and turn their heads. The Gates of Moria gaped before them as a black bottomless abyss. Behind them showed a high arch, and further everything drowned in impenetrable darkness.
Words and exclamations froze on lips. The last barrier had fallen: it was time to get down to the business for which they had made a long and dangerous journey.
Gloin and Dwalin disappeared beyond the threshold; the flame of their torches dispelled the gloom behind the black arch – a small entrance platform became visible, and beyond it two steep wide staircases – one up, the other down. The dwarves carefully examined the opened doors from inside and found nothing special; they couldn't understand what prevented the Gates from opening.
The dwarves exchanged glances. Before them lay open the entrance to the Black Abyss. They again donned on their shoulders the straps of heavy packs; crackling, resinous torches began to burn. The dwarves crowded on the threshold, the people stepped back slightly, and between the two groups lay that invisible but distinctly felt line that always separates in the last minutes those leaving and those remaining. Suddenly Rogvold impetuously stepped forward; bending double, he silently embraced the hobbit, pressed him firmly to his chest and released him.
"Take care of yourself," the old centurion said quietly, straightened sharply and walked away.
Folco for several moments wandered lost on the platform before the Gates, but in this moment Thorin raised high a hissing, spark-spraying torch and with firm step entered under the first vault, behind him the others trailed, Folco walked last; Thorin and Gloin with Dwalin began to climb up the staircase, and the hobbit looked back one last time.
In the black half-oval of the gateway arch, flooded by the last sunset rays, in the gray half-light of approaching night, in a tight group stood the Rangers, having raised their hands in final farewell. They were parting – for how long? Who knows how long their underground wanderings will last?
The hobbit stumbled on the first of the steps and hastily fixed his gaze on the floor – here there was no room for gawking. A long ascent began, the steepness of which was aggravated by the heavy rucksack on his shoulders. The hobbit hunched over, trying to arrange the load more comfortably; he pulled at the straps with both hands, he had no torch – he had to follow without pause the trembling spot of light from the fire in the hands of Bran walking ahead. At first Folco had no thoughts – he counted the steps and puffed, bathed in sweat, forgot for a time all his fears.
However, the staircase ended, and before the dwarves opened a long vaulted corridor; they strode along it. They walked silently, only from ahead came from time to time the quiet voices of Gloin and Dwalin, exchanging brief incomprehensible phrases. Folco now walked second to last – looking back, Bran suddenly frowned and let the hobbit pass ahead. Soon they passed the first fork; in the light of torches Folco saw a staircase going in one march up, another down; in the depths behind it were guessed vague outlines of new corridors. Soon they passed a light but perceptible stream of cool air – Folco remembered that in the rocks above Moria numerous ventilation shafts had been cut. So far they followed the path of the Fellowship; remembering the descriptions of the Red Book, Folco was surprised why on their path they didn't encounter the cracks that had so frightened Peregrin then. At times from somewhere below came the splash of water flowing in invisible drifts:
once they crossed a real bridge thrown over a deep cave whose ceiling the torchlight didn't reach. From the blackness on both sides came an incomprehensible, not particularly pleasant smell; from Gloin's ear didn't escape alarming notes flashing in the indistinctly pronounced words.
As the Red Book predicted, the tunnel made a smooth turn and noticeably went downslope, beginning in addition to branch. Now they walked more slowly;
Folco noticed that the Morians ahead began to linger more often at forks, and Bran closing the chain from time to time made marks on the walls. The hobbit himself, though his kinsmen were accustomed to underground life, would have long ago been lost in this endless labyrinth, he could hardly keep in consciousness the direction – at first they walked north, now began to increasingly turn east.
Involuntarily comparing what he saw in the meager light of tar torches with what he had read in the Red Book, Folco was once more convinced what an abyss of labor and care the dwarves had invested to seal all the cracks, lay the floors with smooth slabs and turn once gloomy caves into halls sparkling with mountain crystals on the ceilings. They passed a whole series of them, five pieces, completely identical to the inexperienced hobbit's eye; unexpectedly the detachment turned from a wide corridor and began to climb a steep staircase. They had left the path of the Fellowship and now were climbing upward.
The ascent lasted long. Composed of many marches, the staircase wound in the body of the mountain; from each landing began new and new passages, narrow and winding. The load on the hobbit's back seemed to visibly gain weight; sweat flooded his eyes, the straps cut into his shoulders; the hobbit was suddenly pulled sideways, and he understood that he wouldn't go far today.
However, the dwarves noticed this and immediately declared a halt. They settled on one of the landings from which departed and disappeared into impenetrable darkness a narrow, roughly finished corridor. Several paces beyond the landing it turned; the torchlight illuminated the gray surface of walls rounded at floor and ceiling. Gloin and Dori went on reconnaissance; soon they returned, and the Morian looked satisfied.
"We've arrived just where we need to be," he said, sitting down. "This is one of the staircases going from the First Level to the Seventh. The Seventh Level was residential, as was the Sixth. The Moria Mines begin under the First. And these landings we've been passing – these are branches to storerooms. We need to climb to the Seventh Level and get to the Record Hall – it's now next to Balin son of Fundin's tomb."
Folco tried to figure out where this was, but couldn't; according to the Red Book it appeared that the Fellowship took a whole two days to reach the Record Hall; they had been walking only a few hours so far.
Silence fell. Frankly speaking, the hobbit expected some solemn, appropriate phrases from Thorin, Gloin or Hornbori; however, the dwarves merely dropped their packs, sprawled by the walls and lit pipes. Folco fidgeted with impatience, and his companions seemed to have entered not the great Moria Kingdom, Khazad-dûm in their language, but a shabby inn somewhere between the Hill and the Misty Mountains. Someone untied and passed around a bundle of dried fruit, someone uncorked a flask. Folco had already prepared to ask Hornbori himself what had helped him open the doors, when suddenly, having casually glanced down into the black depths of the seemingly bottomless stairwell, beyond the edge of the trembling torchlight he saw a slowly rising upward bluish glow, cold, like unexpectedly come alive and climbing up well water. In the same moment, forgetting everything, he with a desperate cry blindly rushed away, seeing and understanding nothing. His will went out; blind, formless horror drove him forward before he could understand what, essentially, he was frightened of... Before his eyes flashed the corridor walls; several more seemingly extremely long moments – and he crashed with all his momentum chest-first into the stone door blocking the passage. His legs refused to serve him, he sank powerlessly onto the rough floor and curled into a ball, covering his head with his hands. Someone's hands caught him, some voices called around him – he could no longer comprehend anything. Someone placed a hand on his forehead, and then it became easier; the flashing at enormous speed disconnected visions yielded to the black vaults of the Moria corridor and the alarmed face of Thorin bending over him.
"Yes, again something from the Depths," answering the hobbit's mute question, Thorin said in a quick whisper.
Thorin's palm slipped under the hobbit's head, so that now Folco could look around. The panic terror little by little receded, but Folco's hands still shook. He tried to sit up with difficulty – this succeeded, they supported him. Only now could Folco finally look around and understand what was happening to him.
It was early morning, he lay on a cloak thoughtfully thrown on the dew-wet grass;
nearby, gripping his head in his palms, sat Thorin; between his fingers oozed water and showed wet strands of hair. Around crowded people and dwarves; the latter, as one, had an extremely frightened and exhausted appearance – all in one night had sunken cheeks, inflamed eyes, and some had noticeably more gray in their beards. The people seemed more cheerful – they were rather alarmed, though their faces also testified to a restless night.
[Continuing translation...]
Gloin and Dwalin had already flung open the door against which the hobbit had crashed at full speed; behind it torches scantily lit a spacious empty room with a low ceiling. The hobbit with difficulty forced himself to shift his gaze to the staircase landing – around him with weapons drawn pressed ready for battle friends, and at the very edge of the short corridor stood Hornbori, with a high-raised torch in one hand and lowered axe in the other. The glow had disappeared, but the horror, the glassy eyes of Kid next to the hobbit, didn't pass so quickly.
Much time passed before they could recover from what they had endured. Without going into long conversations, Gloin and Dwalin at a quick pace led them up the same staircase – Hornbori now walked last, and all the other dwarves kept looking back at him with new interest, respect and some fear.
They counted almost three hundred steps upward when the staircase unexpectedly ended. The hobbit's legs were buckling, but he wouldn't have agreed now to stop for rest near this gloomy abyss where the endless staircase went, hiding in darkness. They came out into a wide and high passage, and to his greatest surprise, the hobbit discovered that the darkness here wasn't as impenetrable and impermeable as on the lower levels. The spacious gallery was flooded with soft pink sunset light; it turned out that in places windows were cut in the rocks. They moved along the corridor southward, as Folco understood – along the very edge of the Moria Cliffs. On the left hand constantly appeared empty halls, stretched in a continuous row low stone doors, in the gallery itself were found skillfully carved from stone benches. The numerous doors proved to be entrances to living caves; the detachment looked into one of them.
The torches lit up a spacious hall with a high ceiling; skillfully worked petrified streams hanging from the ceiling seemed like fabulous monsters that had suddenly stuck out their glistening heads. Covered with fine carving, white slabs stood out sharply against the background of gray walls with black veins; high above the door showed a narrow lancet window. Along the walls stretched a row of deep niches; in the middle stood an extensive stone table, its tabletop was split, and a large piece lay nearby on the floor. The niches were filled with a heap of clothes thrown in haste mixed with tools, tubs, chests, wooden benches and chairs – broken, as if someone in blind rage had been smashing them against walls; clay pots, glassware had turned under someone's heavy blows into a formless mess; the carpets that once covered the chests were hacked into small pieces, and dark crimson rags were scattered throughout the cave.
Struck by the sight that opened before them, the dwarves bewilderedly wandered from one wall to another – in each niche presented the same picture. Someone found a pile of broken children's toys – trampled fragments of clay and wooden dolls and with special hatred snapped in half little swords and shields.
If they hadn't looked closely, having glanced into the cave only from the threshold, they probably would have left calmly, deciding that the disorder in the hall was the result of hasty flight. However, now all doubts disappeared. An evil, stupid and vengeful will, having amused itself here enough after the departure of the owners, vented its hatred of them on defenseless utensils and innocent toys, thereby betraying its presence.
The dwarves, gray-faced and choking with anger, went around one cave after another – everywhere chaos, devastation, desolation...
Meanwhile over Middle-earth closed the veil of a light summer night, and the light in the gallery dimmed completely. Torches were lit again, but to go further today, into the western branch of the Northern Wing, where the Record Hall was located and from where it was quite near to the Gateway Chambers and the Moria Bridge, they didn't dare. Having found a small cozy cave with a vaulted ceiling supported by a row of whimsically carved columns, they settled for the night. Here was found both a table and wide chests with flat tops that could serve as beds, and most importantly – nearby in the gallery under a fine stone canopy from the rock beat a spring. A stream of clearest water, cold to the point of toothache, fell with a light splash into a slightly bubbling stone basin, from which began a white stone-lined aqueduct, disappearing into the stone thickness of the mountains, going somewhere down, to the lower levels.
They kindled a fire and ate hastily, hurrying to put out the flame that could betray them. The torches were extinguished – in the darkness only faintly flickered the brass lamp Kid had found earlier, fueled with oil from a miraculously intact little tub. These were the only two whole things they found among the wreckage.
The stone door was locked from inside with a heavy steel bolt – as Gloin explained, the custom of locking even internal doors appeared after the first signs of alarm on the Deep Levels. After this they pushed the chests closer together and began an unhurried conversation – they had much to discuss.
First of all, all the dwarves, as if the dam restraining their curiosity had burst, showered questions on the hobbit and Hornbori, trying to understand what had happened in the hitherto faultlessly working mechanism of the Gates. Hornbori was made to show the ring on his finger.
"Tell us everything as it is, Hornbori," Dori laid a hand on his shoulder. "What did you and Folco do at the Gates?!"
Dori's voice seemed cheerful, but the hobbit clearly heard the tension hiding behind his smile. Hornbori spread his hands despondently and, as if accepting Dori's game, answered in the same tone in a dejected voice:
"Well, it seems you can't hide anything from you, I'll have to confess everything and throw myself on your mercy. It's all because of this Ring!"
Everyone around fell silent. Folco felt a chill in his chest; before his eyes the Red Book seemed to come alive!
Hornbori sighed, passed a hand over his beard, as if collecting his thoughts. He carefully removed the Ring from his finger and placed it in the middle of the table; for a moment the hobbit fancied that the darkness disappeared, the walls disappeared and the mountains became as if of glass – he seemed to look right through the thickness of stone, seeing simultaneously all the gigantic tangle of Moria corridors; only the very bottom was hidden by a crimson curtain. Here, at the top, everything suddenly seemed long familiar, settled and safe to him – from below however crept dull hatred.
Folco didn't have time to sort out his sensations properly – they proved too fleeting;
now he stared without pause at the Ring, in the depths of whose black stone barely noticeably smoldered a tiny flame, like the flame of a distant forge. And Hornbori spoke, and his words formed into fabulous visions, and the past came alive in reality before the entranced hobbit...
Hornbori received the Ring from his father, who in turn from his grandfather. Dying, the old dwarf ordered everyone standing by his bed to leave, leaving only Hornbori, his eldest son. And his father told Hornbori that his grandfather was one of the few desperate dwarves of the Misty Mountains who went to Dol Guldur together with the elves – lords of Lothlorien, when Lady Galadriel brought down in dust the walls of the grim fortress of the Nazgûl. The curious dwarves the day after the victory climbed the ruins to gawk at what remained; among the collapsed walls Hornbori's grandfather, then still a very young dwarf, saw a black entrance to some dungeon and, without thinking long, dived into it. Through breaks in the roof light penetrated inside, and on the floor among the rubble he noticed a wonderful, brightly shining Ring. He couldn't overcome temptation and picked it up; and having put it on his finger, could no longer take it off. However, the Lady couldn't fail to notice his find and, according to Hornbori's father's words, told grandfather that his trophy was, perhaps, one of the Seven Dwarf Rings, more precisely, one of the three surviving ones, since the other four had been destroyed by dragons. The three preserved fell into the hands of the Unnamed One, and no one knows how and for what he used them. According to Galadriel it appeared that Hornbori's ring once belonged to Thror, one of the last Kings-under-the-Mountain, lord of the Lonely Mountain. His grandson was the famous Thorin Oakenshield – companion of Bilbo Baggins!
"Who knows how it all really was," Hornbori continued quietly. "Who knows how it all really happened, but one way or another, I wore this Ring for many years and noticed nothing special about it. I happened to hear the ancient elvish spell: Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky; Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone; Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, and One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne. Well and there further about Mordor. But the Three Elvish, the Three most beautiful Rings lost their power, and their owners went to the Far West. Most likely, I decided, the Dwarf Rings also lost their might. But everything proved not so... " He spread his hands. "And at the Gates something suddenly stung me." He shook his head, trying to express the inexpressible. "I pulled the Gates toward myself, as if on a rope... barely had enough strength, and without the hobbit wouldn't have managed at all. What did you do to them, Folco?"
"Wait about the hobbit, let's figure out the Ring!" Thorin rapped his palm on the table, frowning. "If this is really a Dwarf Ring, what can it do? And also – who and when forged them? The Enemy? Or not? A mortal who puts on one of the Great Rings should become invisible... And what about us? And still the main thing – from whose hands did these rings come? Was it a Light or dark will that created them?"
"Whoever it was, the Ring has already shown its power," Vjard noted. "And if this is really one of the Seven – who knows, didn't some part of its ancient might come alive in it from proximity to the heart of our world, the world of tangars?"
"But what was this ancient might?" Hornbori answered with a question to a question, clasping his head in his palms. "Not one of our legends has preserved memory of their action!"
Silence fell. The lamp flame smoldered soundlessly; in the darkness one could barely make out the faces of nearest interlocutors. Hornbori spoke again:
"When this blueness began to rise from below and immediately it became bad, I suddenly thought I could somehow help. When everyone ran, I stayed, though everything inside was shaking, and simply stood, and the glow suddenly stopped, went down and disappeared. That's when I understood that the Ring did this again. It dispelled the fear, didn't you feel it?"
"True," after a pause Thorin nodded. "Well then, friends, this is a good sign!" The dwarf straightened. "Part of our ancient powers has come alive – so let it serve us as a shield against the Fear of the Depths, against the Mountain Bane! And there's still something with the hobbit! After all, without him the Gates wouldn't have opened! So what did you do, Folco?"
The hobbit had to tell everything as it was. The dagger passed from hand to hand, and Folco anxiously and senselessly followed it with his gaze around the circle, immediately feeling uncomfortable when on his chest were empty scabbards. The dwarves clicked their tongues, scraped the blade with their nails, tested it for flex – and returned it to Folco with words of general bewilderment. Like the few who had seen the dagger in camp the night after Folco and Thorin's meeting with Olmer, no one could say anything.
"The Gates as if some will held them," Gloin said thoughtfully, extending the dagger to the hobbit. "I'd like to know – whose..."
"We'll go down – we'll find out," Thorin threw decisively. "And what do you say about all this?" He waved his hand around himself, as if indicating the walls of the cave invisible in the darkness.
"Only one thing – here, in Moria, we have an enemy," Dwalin answered without hesitation. "We caught a foreign scent back when we walked across the Dry Bridge, and now there's no doubt – orcs have been here!"
Everyone understood that they couldn't descend to the Deep Levels having at their backs a strong and numerous enemy. After long arguments they decided to go down by secret passages. The conversations could have gone on endlessly, but Kid protested.
"Enough!" he yawned widely. "Night will pass, morning will advise," he said. "Let's better sleep, in the morning we'll rummage around the upper levels – maybe we'll see something?! But now, if I yawn one more time, I'll tear my mouth to my ears. Whatever anyone else, I'm going to bed."
The dwarves fussed a bit more and lay down to sleep. Balin and Skidul remained to stand guard in the outer corridor. Folco tossed for a long time on the hard chest, until black emptiness swallowed him too.
The night passed quietly. Four times the guard changed, and not in vain – already toward morning Gloin and Hornbori noticed a torchlight in the far end of the corridor, turning into one of the transverse galleries. Judging by the carelessness, those who were there either didn't know yet about the dwarves' presence, or Gloin and Dwalin's maneuver had confused them, and they were convinced that the dwarves had immediately gone down. This needed to be used, and the sooner the better.
The dwarves feverishly armed themselves, once more checking the mounting of axes and halberds, the strength of hammers and maces, the reliability of chains in spiked flails. Each of them, not sparing his back, dragged on himself full armament, and now the faces of Folco's companions disappeared behind steel visors of helmets; long mail shirts with thickly set iron plates overlapping each other and therefore resembling fish scales covered their chests; some even took along small round shields. Taking with them a good supply of torches, they locked the door to their temporary refuge, and Gloin hid the key. Stretched in a long chain, they moved north, where the light of a foreign torch had flashed.
Gloin walked ahead, beside him – Hornbori, Thorin and battle-eager Dori; Bran, Balin and Dwalin brought up the rear. Folco found himself in the middle next to Skidul and Stron. Right behind the hobbit's back sounded the light sniffling of Kid.
They moved in short dashes from one shelter to another; Folco held his bow ready, loaded crossbows were in the hands of several dwarves. About half an hour passed this way; the sky in the west still remained gray, but in the gallery it was already quite light.
Soon the living caves ended, spacious halls began to alternate with black branches of corridors. The dwarves doubled their caution, Gloin and Thorin took turns pressing their ears to the floor, freezing for a long time, and the rest stood, afraid even to breathe, let alone move; finally rising, Gloin declared that he heard a faint echo of footsteps – on the Sixth Level, below them.
"We're going down," he threw briefly. "Dwalin, where are you? Come here, we need to find the Staircase."
"To the right, to the right, are you blind?!" Dwalin responded grumpily. "Push, there's the black vein..."
Gloin silently passed his hand over the rock, a light creak was heard, and the slab descended, opening the entrance to a narrow steep staircase. The dwarves one by one squeezed into the black opening.
"Don't light torches," Gloin warned. "Hold onto the walls, there are no chasms here."
The hobbit counted a good hundred steps down when he suddenly felt on his face a weak but fresh breath – the descent ended, they came out into a spacious hall, scantily lit by light from a single window under the very lancet ceiling; from here began immediately five corridors. Gloin and Dwalin rushed to their dark entrances. A few seconds later Dwalin beckoned invitingly.
"They're coming here," the dwarf whispered breathlessly to his running up companions. "They have nowhere to go here, all the passages of this part of the Level converge here."
"Spread out!" Thorin commanded. "If there are two or three dozen – we'll hit them, if more – we'll let them pass. Kid! Stay closer to Folco!"
Thorin wanted to say something else, but from the depths of the corridor distinctly came tramping, and the dwarves hurried to take cover. The hobbit hastily checked the bowstring and pulled two arrows from his quiver.
Several agonizing minutes passed; Folco saw the stern fighter's fire in the eyes of Kid crouching nearby; the other dwarves, pressed into the granite walls, disappeared in the gray gloom – not a creak, not a glint. And meanwhile the first reflections of torches fell on the floor, and a moment later the head of an orc detachment – and these were precisely orcs – appeared from the corridor. Folco saw them for the first time and for a moment forgot everything, looking at the primordial servants of Darkness with wide-open eyes.
Tall, broad-shouldered, long-armed, the orcs walked in a disorderly crowd, all with shields and curved scimitars, in low horned helmets different from the dwarves' tall and closed ones; the wide, flat faces of the orcs were open. In the meager light it was impossible to properly examine their garments. There were just over two dozen of them.
"Khazâd!" the ringing battle cry of the dwarves of the Northern World flew up and beat under the ceiling.
In the same second the walls seemed to spew out the old masters of Khazad-dûm, and the ancient rocks once more, for the umpteenth time, heard the ringing dispute of orcish swords with dwarf axes.
The cave immediately filled with heart-rending howls and shrieks; the dwarves rushed to attack silently. Appearing from all sides, they knocked the orcs into a heap, pressing them into a blind corner of the hall.
Having recovered from the surprise and seeing that Kid had already rushed forward, Folco released the bowstring; a hefty orc with a torch poked his head into stone. The hobbit didn't see what was happening with the other dwarves; he could only follow Kid.
The surrounded orcs fought with a fury that Folco didn't expect to meet in this spawn; but today the fight was equal, one on one, today there was room for dwarves – masters of single combat, and the orcs didn't have time to build a wall of shields.
The hobbit tore at the bowstring of the elvish bow as fast as he could find a target. Not one arrow was wasted, all found their way, and Kid, with sword in one hand and dagger in the other, didn't let orcs get close to the hobbit, who had quickly been noticed by them as an unerring archer. A strange feeling suddenly seized Folco – his mind was miraculously cleared, here decisions arose immediately. His eyes chose the next orc, determined the lead, and at the same time he saw how the sword flashed in Kid's hands: here an orc, covering himself with a shield, swings his scimitar, but the movement of the dagger, quick, lightning-fast, deflects the enemy blade aside; Kid, all twisting, dives under the enemy's shield and almost lying strikes from bottom to top, piercing the orc with his long straight sword, and immediately jumps up, and now his sword parries the blow of the next enemy, and the dagger makes a thrust, and the orc doesn't have time to put up his shield; but on the right another opponent. Kid only begins to turn toward him, but he suddenly snorts and falls with the hobbit's arrow in his throat...
And suddenly it all somehow ended at once. The dwarves stopped – there were no more enemies, on the hall floor in shapeless heaps lay their bodies, dark blood, without lingering, spread over the polished stone.
Folco lowered his bow. How are his friends, are they all safe? For a long time he couldn't count his own. But no, all fourteen, all on their feet...
"Hey, you long-beards, what have you done!" Thorin suddenly shouted angrily, tearing off his helmet. "Killed them all, and who will we interrogate? Had your fun, nothing to say! Dori! I'm yelling at you – enough, no, you absolutely had to pin that last one to the wall and take his head off! Could have interrogated him, then taken it off..."
"So, what shall we do now?!" Gloin approached Thorin, wiping his axe blade as he walked. "There's a shaft nearby – all the way down, to the Seventh Deep – maybe throw them all there?"
Dori, from whose face the battle anger hadn't yet gone, in turn took off his helmet, wiping his wet forehead, and bent over the body of one of the orcs, beckoning the others to him with signs. Folco suddenly felt nausea and hastily turned away, unable to look at the corpse of an enemy with a split head. Their friends' voices reached him:
"Why are they without armor?!"
"What, all of them? And this, look, on the back?! Brothers, they were carrying mail shirts in bags!"
"Didn't expect us, then," came Thorin's voice. "Ho! And what's this on their shields? Folco, come here!"
The hobbit, trying not to look at the orc corpses, approached his friends. Thorin stood in the middle, squeamishly holding at arm's length a round orcish shield with an edge notched by someone's axe.
"You look at the emblem," Dori tugged the hobbit's sleeve.
The hobbit looked and gasped – on the shield flaunted the so familiar from the Red Book crudely painted image of the Red Eye of Barad-dûr! Having mastered his momentary confusion, the hobbit explained to his friends the former meaning of the ominous sign. Silence fell.
"Here's the answer to your question, brother hobbit," Gloin pronounced. "They're descendants of Mordor orcs. Probably someone from this snake tribe escaped retribution and hid in some secret dens all these years. But how quickly they sniffed everything out! Did they find out themselves or did someone put them wise?"
"Ask something simpler," Thorin muttered in response. "Now try catching them here again! By the way, why do they need weapons if Moria's been empty for so long?"
"Means it's not quite empty," Hornbori threw, looking around. "And we need to understand who else might be here on our head!"
"We'll talk about it later," Trór intervened angrily. "Where will we put these?"
"Into the shaft, I suppose," Thorin dropped. "Come on, get to it, tangars, and don't turn up your noses!"
The dwarves quickly dragged the pile of orcish bodies to a black abyss fenced by a low parapet, from where wafted dry underground heat. Gloin drew air through his nose.
"On the Seventh Deep everything's as before," he informed his companions. "Heat from the Flaming Eyes, as always... But the furnaces are extinguished."
"So, shall we dump them?" Bran inquired businesslike, turning to Hornbori standing nearby with arms crossed on his chest, with a thoughtful and concentrated look.
"Dump them, what's there!" Thorin shouted angrily. The orc bodies, one after another, plunged into the depths, no matter how Folco listened, he never heard the sound of falling.
Having climbed back up to the cave where they had spent the night, the dwarves hurriedly packed the things remaining there. To linger longer on top made no sense: on the way back Gloin remembered where the entrance to the Secret Gallery was, and now a difficult three-day journey to the eastern borders of the Moria kingdom awaited them.
"How's the axe, Thorin?" Folco asked his companion in passing, when they, heavily loaded, were already going out the doors into the corridor, and Thorin silently showed the hobbit a clenched fist – which among dwarves was a sign of highest trust in a weapon.
"We're going to the Record Hall, as agreed," Thorin announced when everyone had come out and the door was again locked. "On the way we'll listen – if we notice anyone else, we'll have to work with axes! We desperately need at least one orc alive."
The Secret Gallery really proved secret – the entrance to it was covered by stone doors indistinguishable from the surrounding walls, opening at the pressure of Gloin's hand on an inconspicuous protrusion near the very floor. Inside was impenetrable darkness. The dwarves adjusted the bags on their backs, grunted, drank beer from Kid's keg and without long conversations set off on their way.
"So, at least one enemy we know for certain," Hornbori threw to Thorin on the move. "How do you think to deal with him?"
"If everything else proves old wives' tales, then by autumn we'll need to summon a militia from Erebor and from the Misty Mountains," Thorin answered solidly.
"Excellent, but who will stand at the head?"
"The one the hird elects, don't you know?" Thorin bridled.
"Of course, of course," Hornbori agreed easily and fell silent.
The Secret Gallery, distinguished from ordinary ones by an almost complete absence of forks – during the entire many-hour journey the hobbit counted only five branches – led them to another staircase, this time spiral. Gloin stopped, dropped the pack from his back and suggested resting before they go down the Endless Staircase. At these words the hobbit's breath caught.
"You want... you want to say that this is that very Endless Staircase that goes through all Moria from its very bottom, long forgotten by the dwarves themselves? Didn't Gandalf pass along it in his time? It should come out on the peak of Celebdil..."
"That's right," Gloin confirmed solemnly. "It's the very one. We need to go down it one level – so we'll be on the Sixth; the Record Hall is on the Seventh, but the Secret Gallery here goes too far south, and it's more advantageous for us to cut across."
They descended a hundred wide, triangular at the edges steps and found themselves on another landing – it differed from the upper one only in the greater number of corridors beginning from it.
And again long hours of monotonous tiring journey; the underground silence was broken only by the crackle of torches, the heavy breathing of dwarves and occasionally – the soft gurgling of water flowing somewhere into the blackness along stone troughs. They stopped twice; the hobbit lost all sense of time, having tried to count steps, he lost count after three thousand. Finally, when Folco understood that he would fall now and nothing would make him rise, Thorin and Hornbori – they now walked together and all the time quietly conferred about something, moreover arguing quite heatedly – announced that it was time to settle for the night.
They dropped their bags right in the tunnel, on bare stones. Falling asleep, Folco saw through closing eyelids the figures of Thorin and Hornbori sitting nearby; they talked quietly, and then Thorin rose and extinguished the torch.
In the morning – though whether it was morning or day, no one, naturally, knew; simply when everyone woke, Gloin and Bran again struck fire by feel, and having eaten hastily, they moved on.
This stretch of time passed the same as the previous – except that the Morians, and with them Thorin and Hornbori, increasingly pressed to the walls, trying by some faint sounds audible only to them to determine something for themselves; occasionally Dori joined them, the rest entirely trusted their leaders. Now, after the battle, they could somehow more boldly speak about the ghost that had frightened them at the entrance to Moria and the mysterious blueness rising up the stairwell. Not to think about it the dwarves couldn't, but not knowing what to say, in the end began to build suppositions, each more fantastic than the last, and gradually so frightened themselves that they nearly attacked Kid with their fists for voicing the simple-hearted guess about a new Great Bane.
Soon the hobbit was deadly bored with this endless wandering through the longest and gloomiest underground, resembling the insides of some petrified boa: the load on his shoulders began to seem almost unl iftable, and simultaneously appeared some evil premonition, agonizing uncertainty – as happens when you're expecting some very large trouble and don't know only whether it will happen now or tomorrow, and it's unknown how to act to avoid it... The enemy was nearby, the hobbit clearly felt this, but an unusual enemy – ghostly, though not bodiless.
The water in the flasks was running out, and no end to the journey along the Secret Gallery was foreseen. Finally they stopped again, and to the hobbit's great joy, Thorin announced that one more night – and the next day they would come out to the Record Hall, where they would stop to look around.
And again Folco slept poorly – suddenly it became damp, he froze and with difficulty waited for the moment when Hornbori began to rouse the others. The hobbit's eyes after the sleepless night stuck together and burned, his legs obeyed poorly, he could straighten his back only with difficulty. However, almost nothing remained to go, soon the Record Hall and rest, rest, rest!..
The tunnel ended in a blank wall without the slightest signs of doors. Gloin and Dwalin had to fuss considerably, and the others – to endure several unpleasant minutes, until the secret door flew open and they came out into another corridor, much wider, straighter and more spacious than the former. The smooth floor, finished walls betrayed its significance; the torches lit ahead a semicircular arch, beyond it was guessed the space of a considerable hall.
"This is the Twenty-First Hall," Gloin said, respectfully lowering his voice. "A memorable place... We need the northern door."
"Behind it should be a corridor, and on the right hand – the door to Mazarbul," the hobbit smiled, remembering the pages of the Red Book.
So it proved. The door that nine Fellowship members once bravely defended from the onslaught of orcs and trolls was now tightly closed. The floor before the door was clean, and this surprised experienced Gloin: dust lay everywhere in the Twenty-First Hall, on the western side of the Moria caves – here, before the door of the Record Hall, for some reason there was no dust.
Having approached closer, they found the answer. The stone slab of the door was covered with whitish scars from blows by some sharp metal tool; it looked as if they had tried to open the door from the corridor.
"Someone very much wanted to look inside," Dwalin smirked.
"So what, is the door closed?" Thorin inquired.
"And not with a simple lock," the Morian continued. "Look around, friends. This mustn't be heard by these..."
The dwarf turned his face to the door and quietly pronounced something in a singsong. Into the open doorway poured gray predawn light. Inside the Record Hall everything was restored as it was in the times of Frodo's wanderings – chests in niches, and under the window – a white tomb slab on gray stone and the lines familiar to Folco in the Common Speech and Moria language.
"Greetings, Lord Balin, son of Fundin," Thorin said quietly, and all the dwarves knelt; the hobbit followed their example.
Having paid tribute to memory, the dwarves dispersed to the corners, examining the chests. Here, unlike the living caves in the west, everything had survived, but having opened the first unlocked chest, they came upon a note thrown on top of books wrapped in canvas. Some hasty hand had scrawled uneven lines:
"To whoever crosses the threshold of the land of ancestors, whom dark horror and despair don't stop. Brothers! Beware the Flaming Eyes – they are death when the mountains begin to breathe. Don't descend to the lower levels – fear drives you mad. We don't know what it is; it comes from underground. In the Moria Bridge the Deep Fear has appeared again, of which we've heard nothing for two hundred seventy years. Into the abandoned caves of the west orcs have penetrated; there are too few of us to fight. Summon the elves! Only they, probably, can help us. This is ancient evil, and it's beyond our power. In the chests you'll find a detailed description of everything that happened in Khazad-dûm! And also – seek mithril! It's on the Sixth Deep, walled into the wall of the One Hundred Eleventh Hall – the road there is through the Castle Hall. Wait for the time when the Flaming Eyes close in sleep – let the riches of ancestors again serve the tangars. We didn't manage to save them. Farewell! Erebor will always be ready to rise at the first call of daredevils. We'll gather strength and wait. Don't hurry to accuse us of cowardice..."
At this place the note ended. There was neither signature nor date. Thorin turned the sheet of parchment in his fingers, chuckled and passed it around. When the note again returned to him, he put it back in its former place in the chest, closed the lid and without thinking long, seated himself on top. The tired dwarves, having dropped from their shoulders the considerable weight of weapons, tools and provisions, settled wherever. Kid on the sly extracted the stopper from his keg...
However, they didn't manage to begin council and delve into the long, verbose discussions so beloved by dwarves. A barely audible rustle came from behind the not tightly closed door of the corridor leading to the Twenty-First Hall. Hornbori jumped up as if tossed and in the blink of an eye found himself at the opening. Not one of the dwarves had yet managed to comprehend anything when Hornbori with a short angry cry slammed the door and leaned on it with all his body.
"Orcs, orcs in the corridor!" he shouted, trying without moving from the door to reach his axe. "Quickly, Gloin, Dwalin!"
From behind the stone door now came distinctly audible tramping of many feet and a dull growl, filled with such hatred that everything inside Folco turned cold. The door, into which now pressed Hornbori, Grani, Gimli, Trór and Dwalin, shook finely, then came a booming blow by something heavy, the door shuddered but didn't yield. Gloin hurriedly whispered the words of the spell, finally he sighed with relief, and in the same instant the door stopped wobbling. The blows on it became much more powerful, but they were felt now quite differently – the door no longer jerked back and forth, only slightly shuddered.
Hornbori wiped sweat from his forehead.
"There are no fewer than a hundred of them there," he said in an undertone to his friends crowded around him. "And these are some other orcs, not those we laid out on the Sixth Level. These are taller, broader-shouldered, and their faces are more regular, it seemed to me... There were lots of torches, I made out a ram."
"What shall we do?" Vjard looked around hunted.
"Open the doors – and forward!" A cruel smile twisted Dori's lips.
"So they'll turn you into a pincushion, only instead of pins will be their arrows?" Vjard shrieked.
"Wait, wait!" Gloin raised his hand. "They're unlikely to break the door – it's not one of those that can be smashed or torn from its hinges. Let's calmly retreat through the eastern door – the one under the window."
"And where then?" Bran grumbled, glancing at the door shuddering under measured blows.
"Down," Gloin shrugged. "In the end we came here to sort out not orcs. The staircase goes to the First Deep, from there we'll easily penetrate the Castle Hall and lower."
"We won't penetrate anywhere now," Thorin suddenly smiled grimly, having imperceptibly moved to the eastern door. "We're surrounded, it's a trap..."
Without agreement, the dwarves in a crowd rushed to the opposite wall. From behind the eastern door came the same tramping and growling. The door itself, like the first, was locked by spell, and there was no reason to fear that the enemy would force his way here; but what to do next?
Sticky cold fear crept through the hobbit's heart; the situation seemed hopeless. He saw how dwarf faces grew heavy, how eyebrows drew together... Conversations ceased; all were depressedly silent.
"We'll break through," Hornbori said hoarsely. "If only they don't smoke us out of here like rats from a hole."
No one objected to him, and then Thorin said, suddenly beginning to unfold his blanket:
"Then we need to rest properly... They won't break the doors, so we can calmly sleep a few hours, and then..."
"Wait! Maybe we can negotiate with them?" Vjard spoke up with timid hope. "Maybe buy them off with something?"
"Perhaps with you," Dori's eyes flashed, and they didn't mention it again.
The dwarves got out blankets, sprawled freely and lit pipes.
The din behind the door didn't cease. There were no shouts or shrieks to be heard – the orcs pounded the door silently, and this made it even more frightening. Folco couldn't find a place for himself and tossed from side to side. Nearby snored the imperturbable Kid, who had dozed off as if he were in some Annuminas tavern. The hobbit's gaze, aimlessly darting over walls and ceiling, suddenly fell on the window, and in the same second he seemed to be tossed.
"Thorin, Thorin, what if we go this way?" He poked his finger in the direction of the small square opening in the wall from where light penetrated. "What's there, below?"
Thorin was silent for several moments, thinking, and then jumped up and rushed to the window, raising the others as he went.
A minute later all the dwarves were fiercely gutting their bags, extracting from their depths long ropes with iron hooks on the ends – reaching the window was not simple, one had to crawl several fathoms along the light shaft slanting upward. And it was still unknown how to descend below...
All this happened in silence. A bunch of dwarves, collected and extraordinarily focused, crowded at the eastern wall. Gloin threw the grapnel, the steel claws caught on the edge of the window opening. The dwarves exchanged glances, and then Kid stepped forward. Deftly, as if all his life he had done nothing but climb ropes, he crawled upward, bracing his feet against the shaft walls. Soon he reached the window and stuck his head outside. He looked for a long, endlessly long time, Dori's knuckles whitened on his convulsively clenched fists; finally Kid tore himself from contemplating the surroundings and turned to his impatiently waiting companions.
"Need to slide down about thirty fathoms – there's a window there!" Kid reported in a loud whisper. "But the rock is like a mirror..."
"Secure the ropes," Thorin ordered, also in a whisper.
Having aimed, Kid pushed down two thick gray bundles, then leaned over, peered and joyfully slapped his sides.
All this took them considerable time. First went Thorin and Hornbori. After them the others – without luggage, in mail shirts and with only axes. Those remaining in the Record Hall sent after them the bags and then left themselves. Last to leave the Hall were Dori and Folco. Already diving into the blackness of the lower window, Folco regretted that, firstly, during the descent he couldn't tear his gaze from the rock and, secondly, that he hadn't taken with him a single dwarf chronicle.
And again the darkness of the Sixth Level passages, again they hurriedly go somewhere into the gloom, again in the torchlight appear and disappear staircases, arches, crossroads, high halls with columns and without them... Their journey continued several hours. They again overcame a long smooth ascent and found themselves, as Dwalin whispered, again on the Seventh Level.
"I won't leave here without a living orc," Thorin stubbornly insisted in response to his companions' entreaties.
After long and careful searches they found the entrance to the Secret Gallery and there, behind the impregnable stone door, set up another temporary camp. Having given themselves one more brief rest, the dwarves and Folco again set off hunting.
Of course, if not for Gloin and Dwalin's skill, they would never have managed to approach the orcs unnoticed. The number of enemies seemed not to exceed thirty; all indeed noticeably differed from the first orcs they had met. They seemed larger, taller and straighter, with not such long arms and more regular faces, though cross-eyed;
instead of the orcs' favorite scimitars they had short and thick double-edged swords.
The hall where they ambushed the orc detachment was a dead end, from it there was only one exit – precisely this was blocked by the line of steel-clad companions of Folco. To their ears came distant, dull blows of the ram on the impregnable door of the Record Hall. Thorin silently drew his axe from his belt – and the dwarves silently, in one iron fist, struck the unsuspecting opponent.
The breath-holding Folco, this time left behind with his bow, expected that his friends would pass through the crowd of enemies as last time – easily, swiftly, unstoppably: however, instead of howls of horror the dwarves were met only by a furious roar of many dozens of throats – and from the Hall, scantily lit by several torches on the walls, at the tangars moved orcs in full armor: arrows whistled in the air, from right and left on the attackers aimed bunches of swordsmen; steel rang against steel; the broken orc line quickly healed the breach; there were more and more enemies, no fewer than six dozen, and they fought unlike the previous ones – desperately and skillfully. Folco yanked the first arrow from his quiver.
Surrounded on three sides, the dwarves, however, didn't lose either steadfastness or self-control; snapping back with short irresistible flashes of axes, they slowly began to retreat to the hall exit; having looked closely, Folco saw that in the middle of the line his companions were dragging something convulsively jerking, writhing.
The orcs pressed, from their throats burst a frenzied, bestial either roar or battle cry, neither side yielded to the other, but there were almost no fallen on the floor. Folco laid out only two, wounded another, a dozen arrows were wasted, sliding off the sturdy orcish armor. Between the dwarves and orcs arose an emptiness – the orcs slowly advanced, the dwarves retreated just as slowly, until suddenly the one the dwarves had managed to bind shrieked heart-rendingly. In the same instant the empty space between the advancing and retreating disappeared, the orcs threw themselves straight at the dwarf axes, not sparing themselves; two arrows of the hobbit in a row hit two orcs in vulnerable places – between breastplate and helmet, but the orcs disrupted the order in the until-then calmly and powerfully retreating bunch of dwarves, and the retreat turned into flight. Fortunately, the dwarves managed to break away from their pursuers; they dived into some narrow corridor and disappeared in impenetrable darkness. The orcs, who had only one torch, rushed past, and Folco's companions and he himself after all the tribulations of this day reached the reliable doors of the Secret Gallery, where they could finally catch their breath.
The dwarves breathed heavily, their armor bore deep traces of enemy blows; Balin was wounded in the shoulder – his mail shirt had failed him; Bran was saved only by a miracle – an orc sword slid along his visor, leaving a deep dent in it. The usual dwarf boasting and bragging wasn't to be heard – everyone averted their eyes and looked gloomily at the floor; there was no need to prove that they had escaped only by miracle.
The dwarves had managed to kill only five opponents;
four more were struck down by the hobbit's arrows. Gazes involuntarily turned to the captive lying on the floor curled up. At Thorin's sign they dragged him closer to the laid fire.
The orc proved large, almost a head taller than the tallest among the dwarves, Stron. In the ruddy firelight the skin of his face and hands seemed almost brown; his eyes – narrow, slanted – were like most of his kinsmen's, but his nose resembled more a human's, as did his mouth with firm, well-defined lips. High too was his forehead, unlike the low and flat ones that most mountain orcs had. His eyes looked with hatred at the dwarves, in this gaze was no fear – only hatred and some deep, surprisingly conscious doom. Thorin began the interrogation. He asked the usual questions: where did the orcs come to Moria from, what do they want to do here, how many of them are there, who are the leaders – but the captive stubbornly remained silent, indifferently staring at the stone floor. With a dull threat in his voice Thorin repeated the questions – the answer was again obstinate silence.
"Heat iron," Thorin hoarsely ordered his men, and Dori with Skidul stuck several long hooks into the flame.
"So what, will you talk or what?" Thorin pronounced ominously, looking expressively at the captive.
He noticeably shuddered but said nothing. And then Hornbori decisively pushed Thorin aside and stepped toward the prisoner. Folco was surprised – never before had the verbose and dignified Hornbori had such a majestic and commanding appearance. He raised his right hand, and the golden band of the Ring flashed like a small tongue of flame that had suddenly jumped into the dwarf's hand. For a second Hornbori stared point-blank at the orc, and then the latter slowly and with effort began to speak. The dwarves exchanged amazed glances. The orc spoke in the Common Tongue, but poorly, the hobbit understood him with difficulty.
Answering Hornbori, who had taken the interrogation into his own hands, the orc hoarsely and confusedly told the silent dwarves that his kinsmen had forced their way into Moria when it had already been abandoned by its old masters; here they had to encounter orcs of another tribe who had crept in here even under the last dwarves – between the tribes enmity began. From the twisted lips of the captive burst inarticulate curses at the address of these enemies; he hated them hardly less than the dwarves. To Hornbori's question where they themselves came from and where those orcs opposing them came from, the captive answered that his race was from those who once served the great mage and sorcerer whose name now only the elders remember; this long-dead, unfortunately, lord they called the White Hand. Folco immediately perked up.
The orc told much more interesting things about how the few of his kinsmen who survived the fire of the last war hid in gorges and valleys of the Misty Mountains;
how the Rohirrim hunted them like beasts; how news came that the White-Skins had killed to the last all the orcs who tried to hide in the North;
then his kinsmen decided to try their luck in underground... The dwarves also learned that here, into Moria, had broken through almost seven thousand orc warriors and twice as many of their women, elders and children.
Folco tugged Hornbori's sleeve and whispered a few words in his ear; the dwarf raised his eyebrows in surprise but still asked the question prompted by the hobbit. Ugh, how the orc jerked, how his eyes rolled! But he had nowhere to go, some force made him speak, and he squeezed out of himself that yes, from time immemorial in his people – among those who served the White Hand – the custom was rooted of abducting women from human settlements to mix orc blood with the blood of people free from primordial service to Darkness. On many dwarf faces appeared grimaces of disgust.
They also learned that Saruman's orcs hadn't yet died out in the vicinity of Isengard; but there it's dangerous, very dangerous – the forest monsters catch the unlucky, and woe to him who catches the eye of the animate oaks and hornbeams of Fangorn! They know no mercy, and there's no dealing with them – they possess titanic strength and are indestructible. To the question where the orcs hiding in Moria get food, the captive squeezed out with difficulty that they still live by raids on villages on both sides of the mountains; they, however, avoid burning settlements and causing great evil – otherwise either the royal cavalry of Rohan will come, or the swordsmen's druzhinas from the state of the Beornings;
the orcs try simply to take ransom, having properly frightened the cowardly villagers. However, their enemies, the mountain orcs, curse upon their heads, upon all their race to the twelfth generation, like madmen, rob, burn and kill; and soon a great war will begin. They beware approaching the terrible Elvish Forest to the east of Moria – they go for booty North, along the Anduin valley. But perhaps soon everything will change...
"What exactly?" Hornbori inquired. The orc twisted all over, convulsively trying to clamp
his mouth shut himself, but words against his will continued
to fly from his mouth.
"The underground is now ours," the orc croaked, "this place is for us. The Crimson Darkness again rules the Lower... People in the north are seeking us, and we go with them on the South Road and on the West Road too. Soon will come the end of the cursed elves. The master will return... And there will be battle, and we'll yet see, we'll yet show everyone – both the cursed mountain worms from the caves of the Misty Mountains, and the White-Skin murderers! And what's below will bind everything... and we'll be together..."
His eyes rolled back, his head fell on his chest. Hornbori hurriedly bent to him, then spread his hands.
"That's it! Collapsed unconscious." He sat by the fire. "So how do you like this, tangars? Crimson Darkness on the Lower Levels! People in the North! And also a 'master'... What shall we do next?"
"We'll do nothing here," Vjard waved his hand doomed. "Need to leave while we're still whole..."
"Oh no," Dori hissed. "Crimson Darkness, you say? Until I see it myself, we're not going anywhere! End to the cursed elves – you hear where he's aiming? No-o, we need to go down. Let there be even seven thousand orcs here, even seventy-seven thousand – we can't leave until we understand everything. I propose – immediately down. There we'll see."
"And what about this one?" Thorin threw grimly, nodding at the orc. "Look, seems he's coming to, blinking his eyes."
"What Crimson Darkness? Why 'end to elves'?" Hornbori asked the orc sternly, again raising his hand with the Ring.
"Coming is That Which Slept in the Depths..." the orc croaked. "Their Hour is coming... And we're going after them... though we're already almost a third human..."
"Stop, Hornbori!" Thorin rose. "You see – he has no words. He senses it, senses with his black nose that came to his ancestors from the Lord of the Great Darkness, but explain he still can't. Dori's right. We need to go down. Isn't it clear now that not only we dwarves, but the whole West is in terrible danger? We can't waste time. Let's go down! Only here's one more thing..."
Bending low to the captive, he growled right in his face:
"Who is the 'master'? Where is he – here or on the surface? Is he an orc or a human? What do they say about him? If you tell the truth," – he paused a moment – "we'll release you, I swear by Durin's beard! Hornbori, help! How do you know he exists? What else do you know about him?"
"I haven't seen him," the captive shook his head desperately. "I know that he's on earth, and nidings came to us from him last year... And I know that he is... this can't be explained to you. He's the one who will gather all that was scattered, and the Crimson Darkness will also move... I know nothing more, I swear by the White Hand!"
"Alright," Thorin exhaled. "How is it, Hornbori?"
"He's not lying," came the quick answer, "he really doesn't know."
"Then untie him, and let him go," Thorin threw grimly, stopping with a gesture Dori who had jumped up with an indignant cry, after whom about half a dozen more dwarves protested. "We can't break our word. Let him go. Let him even lead his people to our trail... We'll have to work with axes!"
"With ones like this, you'll work all right," Bran muttered. "Strong at swinging swords, not like these northern ones..."
The orc disappeared into darkness, and the quick tramping of his boots soon died away.
Chapter Five. DURIN'S FORGE
"Who are the nidings, Thorin?" Folco asked his friend when they with all possible precautions left the Secret Gallery and began to make their way to the staircase leading down.
"Nidings are those very dwarflings, one of whom we caught with you in Buckland," Thorin answered grimly. "So the accursed one didn't lie to us then! The orcs of the White Hand really do serve someone. And perhaps it's his will that stands behind the troubles above. Only here's the thing – who is he? I think only one Great Bright Queen could give us the answer. But where is she, what is she doing there, at home, beyond the Great Sea?"
The dwarf sighed and shook his head, as if answering himself to some cheerless thoughts.
The chain of dwarves strode through dark passages, choosing the narrowest and most inconspicuous. Twice past them passed, clanging with weapons and lighting the gray vaults with torches, large orc detachments – the same as the one they had captured, but Gloin and Dwalin led them so skillfully that the enemy both times suspected nothing. The dwarves sat out in dark side branches, behind deep wall projections, specially, it seemed, arranged for hiding from a numerically superior foe.
Many beautiful, striking in their decoration halls the hobbit saw during their short journey to the secret staircase. Some raised their ceilings into the darkness inaccessible to torchlight, and only by the echoing footsteps had one to guess the height of these halls. Others were divided by long rows of columns covered with intricate carving, and in deep niches stood sculptures of people, dwarves and animals, executed with extraordinary skill. The torches lit enormous mosaics laid out in gold, silver and precious gems, intricate iron lamps forged in the form of interweaving gigantic twisted cables. Alas, in many places the hobbit noticed traces of orcs too – many decorations were broken, carved stone figures smashed; from mosaics on walls crude, insensitive hands had gouged out bright gems...
With a light screech behind them the doors of the Secret Door closed. The torches lit a narrow staircase going into impenetrable shadow. They began a long descent. The hobbit counted six hundred steps when the staircase unexpectedly ended: a short corridor ended in the now familiar dead end of the Secret Gallery. Gloin and Dwalin began to confer in undertones about something.
"We're on the First Level," Gloin finally said, turning to the others. "Quite nearby runs the Main Highway. To the Second Hall – yes-yes, the very one where the Moria Bridge is – remains about two hours' walk. Only now let's decide – do we need to go there?"
"If orcs are in Moria, then they've surely already thought of blocking the Main Highway and posting guard at the Gates and on the Bridge," Dwalin picked up. "But we need to go lower. Don't forget, by the way, about the mithril in the walls of the One Hundred Eleventh Hall!"
"Let's better try to sit here for some time and talk properly," Thorin suddenly said uncertainly. "We have two enemies here – orcs and that for which we, actually, came here. We've encountered it twice, and both times it was very, very unpleasant. But maybe after that blueness on the staircase someone noticed something? Maybe something seemed, appeared? Say everything, even the most absurd – now every detail is important. Hornbori! What about the Ring?"
"It doesn't give omniscience," he admitted with a sigh. "It only sometimes prompts, but all this is so elusive... No, I don't feel anything now."
Thorin bit his lip.
"We have food for three weeks," he said restrainedly. "In two dozen earthly days – which we, alas, will have to mark only by our stomachs' rumbling – we need to understand what's the matter here!"
The answer was gloomy silence.
"I think we need to go further down," Grani suddenly spoke: his voice was dull, but in it were heard fearlessness and resolve. "We need to go down, and if ghosts bar our way – we'll have to learn to fight ghosts too! I swear by the Moria Hammers and the sacred beard of Durin – Gimli and Trór and I would sooner let orcs eat us alive than turn back!"
No one answered the young dwarf's hot speech; however, to Thorin's call to rise and move on, everyone responded without hesitation.
"I propose going to the Castle Hall," Gloin said, hoisting the load on his shoulders. "It's the Sixth Deep Level, there's water there, there used to be secluded places where one could hide. And it's not a simple hall – by legend, it was hewn by the First Dwarf himself. They say that if you stand on Durin's Stone at the hour when all forces are silent – both of Darkness and of Dawn, and only the Mountains gaze at you with the crimson pupils of the Flaming Eyes, you can ask counsel, and He Who Began the Beginning will answer you... So they say, but – who knows?"
"Before we reach the Stone, we'll still have to pass along the Main Highway," Dori grumbled. "And there are orcs – and plenty, I'm sure! We need to send someone ahead."
An eternity, it seemed, the dwarves and Folco spent in agonizing, soul-sucking waiting, until from the darkness finally emerged Gloin, Dori and Bran.
"As I thought," Dori said grimly, wiping his axe stained with dark orcish blood. "There's a crowd of them – all small, Mordor ones. To the Gates there's no point even trying. Where's the descent down here, Gloin?"
"We'll have to go around," he sighed. Again passages, staircases, narrow secret doors, the guttural voices of bickering orcs somewhere around the corner – everything blurred in the hobbit's memory, for his legs could barely hold him. The dwarves and he had been without sleep for a good day already, but strength still remained – to the last moment. Having huddled in some dark dead end, they lay down for the night.
The dark tunnel of the hobbit's dreams, gloomy and formless, was suddenly lit by something reddish-fiery, writhing like a fabulous serpent; gray paws suddenly reached for the hobbit right from the folds of stone, cold fingers closed on his throat... there was no strength to cry out, to move... and everything suddenly broke off.
He was roused by the dwarves getting ready for the road. Folco, broken and with a terrible headache, could barely move; true, his companions looked no better. As it turned out, the stone pincers of monstrous hands had appeared to every last one. The mood was joyless, the debilitating fear before the unknown, which had almost receded during the valorous clashes with orcs above, again imperceptibly crept into the hobbit's heart. But there was nothing to be done, and he, trying to keep closer to Hornbori, trudged after the dwarves.
The Morians couldn't find the entrance to the Secret Gallery for a long time and led the detachment by ordinary staircases.
The Deep Levels sharply differed from the upper ones – the halls were more spacious and not so richly finished, the passages straighter and wider. Here were located countless workshops – everywhere lay scattered tools, overturned anvils and crucibles.
"This is nothing yet – just wait till lower!" Dwalin whispered in the hobbit's ear. "Here jewelers and gem-cutters worked, and the ironworking, weaponsmithing halls are much lower..."
They also encountered living caves – here, as above, orcs had done their work. Staircases piercing several levels at once for some reason didn't come their way, they trudged along sloping passages. It became noticeably hotter; Gloin, Dwalin, Lori, Thorin and Hornbori several times froze by narrow openings of vents from which came waves of dry, burning heat. Folco definitely began to feel Rogvold's rightness.
Here they're wandering now, aimlessly, without a clear plan, almost at random, with enemies at their backs and an unclear dark horror ahead... What does Thorin hope for? For Hornbori's Ring?
Folco sighed. He now acutely sensed danger – right before them, beyond the smooth turn of the corridor. This feeling came somehow at once, his legs froze of their own accord.
Suspiciously in unison having lost their step, the dwarves suddenly stopped. No one could understand what was the matter, but gazes were riveted to the barely distinguishable in the torchlight outlines of the turning corridor before them. This wasn't the dark, panic horror from which you run not making out the road, but an amazingly clear feeling of the end, the end of everything – one only needs to take a step beyond this turn. No one could move, reach for a weapon; first to begin slowly backing away were Thorin and Hornbori, drawing the others after them. No one asked anything, no one could utter a sound; they only slowly crawled backward.
So passed several minutes – or maybe an hour? – when behind their backs suddenly rang out a many-voiced crude singing and the tramping of dozens of heavy, iron-shod orcish boots. The enemies were completely different.
"To battle!" Dori croaked and turned, hurriedly pulling on his mail shirt. "We'll die, but worthily as descendants of Durin!"
"Wait..." Hornbori grabbed his sleeve. "I'll go forward." He pointed in the direction opposite to where the strengthening with each second tramping was heard. "All of you after me! Folco, I'll need your bow – be ready! Quickly, we have little time!"
In a tight bunch, holding each other, the dwarves with small steps, fighting every minute with approaching despair, moved forward, and Hornbori raised high his hand with the Ring and stepped toward the turn. Folco gripped under his jacket the hilt of the dagger with blue Flowers on the blade. He had no fear, but each step came with difficulty, as if he was making his way through viscous, sticky clay into which the surrounding air had unexpectedly turned.
The corridor turned smoothly, each step forward opened a new section of smooth walls. They had passed quite a bit when Hornbori suddenly croaked, as if lacking air, and froze. The torch in his hand trembled.
The polished surface of the walls disappeared under a thick moving cover of black shining either snakes or tentacles; they constantly moved, twined and untwined, constantly poking in different directions with blunt eyeless heads with a barely noticeable line – probably a mouth. It looked so terrible that it seemed taking a step forward would be easier if under your feet were a bottomless abyss – such an end seemed now to the shocked hobbit a deliverance. Or – back, while not too late, in honest battle to take as many orcish lives as possible, until a curved scimitar finds you yourself... Only not forward, into these living embraces of death itself! From revulsion and disgust, similar to those he felt when meeting a snake, the hobbit seemed to turn to stone.
Meanwhile the chaotic bustle of tentacles quieted, they slowly stretched in the direction of the motionlessly frozen friends, freezing themselves, like bizarre growths on walls: darkness looked through these tentacles – invisible cold eyes. With a sixth sense the hobbit caught that his invisible opponent also for some reason hesitated; this gave him strength.
Out of their stupor they were brought by the tramping heard behind. The orcs were quite near! And then, without agreement, they stepped forward. Hornbori raised high his right hand with the Ring – and the tentacles seemed all as one to stupidly stare at its golden brilliance, but as soon as they approached, cold pain in the heart, the pain of despair made the hobbit grip the dwarf's sleeve and stop him. The tentacles were waiting for them, and the Ring couldn't make them retreat – this is what Folco read in the brief tremor that ran through the countless rows of black living mold on the walls, a tremor of sweet anticipation. And then his hand of its own accord pulled from the scabbard the treasured gifted blade, and the blue Flowers on the steel blade blazed like patches of magical flame.
And then as if a fierce hurricane, having burst into the underground by an unknown path, fell upon the black growth. The tentacles swayed like an agitated grain field, hastily coiling and pressing to the walls. Each tried to burrow deeper, as if wanting to hide behind others. There could be no doubt – these tentacles knew such blades!
One short glance – and Hornbori quietly whistled to his friends; another second – and the tramping of feet mixed with shrieks and howls announced that the detachment was discovered. The dwarves rushed forward and froze before the sight of black tentacles covering walls and ceiling, but Folco raised high the flaming blade, and the light emanating from it in waves made the dwarves, huddled in a tight bunch, step under the living vaults.
Never will the hobbit forget their path between the moving walls, never forget the incomparable horror – not for himself, but for his friends now under his protection.
Folco didn't hack at the black growth – now it feared him, but in him wasn't the strength of glorious warriors of the past, before whose wondrous blades this filth fled, now come alive again in the underground. If he got into open battle, the tentacles would also fight... Strange, fragmentary thoughts, coming from who knows where, raced through the hobbit's head; meanwhile behind them the advance orcs with large torches in their hands rushed around the turn and found themselves right under the first rows of tentacles. Folco happened to turn at this moment and saw how toward the orcs shot hundreds and hundreds of black living ropes. A terrible, like nothing else death howl filled the underground. Tightly swaddled corpses of orcs were dragged somewhere up, into the darkness, and those running up from behind the bend in the wall in turn fell prey to more and more new black tentacles... The torches went out, the surviving orcs rushed back, and the dwarves saw no more. The moving cover suddenly yielded to clean stone; they had passed the terrible place and were reliably protected from any pursuit. Folco turned, brandishing the shining dagger – and like a convulsion passed through the last rows of black hands, animal tremor of horror!
Breathing heavily, wiping wet foreheads and staring at each other with widened eyes in bewilderment, the dwarves collapsed on the floor beyond the first turn when the black growth disappeared from sight. Folco felt only terrible tiredness, but mixed with it was some new pride.
"What, what was that?" immediately from all sides poured impatient questions. "How did you handle them?!"
Kid ran up to the hobbit and squeezed him tight, sniffling suspiciously; Thorin, shaking his head admiringly, slapped him on the shoulder; the others looked at Folco with respect and surprise. Not for the first time now the short one proves first where the best fighters falter!
Folco couldn't say anything to his friends' questions, the thoughts flashing in his head were too indefinite and fragmentary.
"They... They're very old, I mean – they're from terribly distant days," he said, vainly trying to catch the vague images hovering in his consciousness. "I don't know where they're from – perhaps from the Under-Moria Paths – I only know that they fear this blade." He showed his dagger. "They've seen it before, that's certain, or ones like it. They know nothing of the outer world, they crawl from the depths to devour... But what moves them? I don't know where I got this from, honest, it just somehow seems so to me, that's all!"
They listened to him very attentively, and then Vjard slapped his forehead and said he'd heard in his mountains an old, very old tale about the many-handed living in the underground world; long, long ago the dwarves had already encountered them. He couldn't extract anything more from his memory, no matter how Dori and Balin teased him.
"Weren't these the ones Gandalf once spoke of, who passed the Under-Moria Paths?" Thorin quietly murmured in the hobbit's ear.
"What kind of wondrous dagger do you have?" Stron shook his head admiringly.
These words gave a different direction to the hobbit's involuntarily disordered thoughts.
"Why then did Olmer give me this treasure?" he thought. "Didn't he know anything about it? Or did he know? No, he couldn't not know, must have at least guessed. Or maybe this dagger doesn't help on the surface, against Olmer's present enemies? Could the elves have made it, this blade? Very much like Their work, though who knows them, the elves... Would be good to talk with one of them!"
Folco sighed, seeing as if in reality now instead of the gloomy gray vaults foliage flooded with moonlight, and bright summer stars, and the silvery reflection of elvish garments, magical, secret, deeply hidden flame in their eyes – wise and sad. He had never seen elves – long ago Rivendell had emptied, long ago Lady Galadriel's beautiful Lothlórien had been abandoned by her kinsmen. Folco had only read about the Firstborn in the Red Book and other hobbit chronicles.
Something hard pressed into his nape, and he came to. From longing for the green, bright world left there in the distant past, Folco nearly howled;
he himself couldn't understand, wiping away uninvited tears, what he was actually grieving for – for that world that was now, or for that magical world of the past that had sunk into oblivion after the destruction of the Great Ring of Power.
"Time to go, time, tangars," Thorin urged his companions. "To the Castle Hall there's still much trudging."
"And what's there?" Grani asked with a grunt, getting into the straps.
Thorin said nothing, and Folco involuntarily wondered: and indeed, where was that fear that flooded the lower levels, which no one who lived here among the Morians could overcome? They had descended already very deep, but if one didn't count the shadow at the Gates and the blueness in the shaft, hadn't yet met anything for which, actually, they had come here.
They reached the Castle Hall the next day – more precisely, several hours after, having slept, they again set out. The night, so to speak, passed quietly, nothing disturbed them, and soon they found themselves on the Threshold.
The last dozens of fathoms the corridor went straight, and the hobbit, to his amazement, saw ahead a crimson even light. Soon torches became unnecessary;
the dwarves almost ran, hurrying to look at this wonder of wonders of the Underground World.
The Hall opened at once, and the hobbit froze, gaping. This was a titanic cave, a good mile across and of such height that the eye could barely make out the outlines of the vaults. Amazing creations of water and stone, giant stone icicles hung from the ceiling, toward them from the floor grew their twins – gray, black, crimson, forming a real stone forest. The hobbit didn't immediately make out the paths laid in this thicket – they wound between the hardened deposit-covered pillars just as in the living forests of his Shire. All the paths led to the center of the Hall, where rose in a gray mass the Castle itself. Countless towers and turrets, galleries, passages, toothed walls, mighty jutting buttresses – all this was woven, bound by the hands of unknown masters into such a tight ball that one could spend a life examining it thus, from the side. Numerous narrow loophole windows cut the smooth surfaces of walls; on sharp-peaked roofs rose iron poles with complex, incomprehensible images – most likely some coats of arms. And with a dark maw, vividly recalling the upper Gates, the chasm of the entrance gaped at them. Folco looked around, seeking the source of the even crimson light illuminating the titanic Hall, but didn't see it; he already wanted to ask about this when nearby quietly, as if afraid to disturb the peace of the ancient hall, Gloin spoke:
"This is the Castle Hall... The light in it is given by the Flaming Eyes – from them, from the very heart of the Mountains, stretch light channels laid even under the First Dwarf. The stone there is polished so that gigantic mirrors resulted, gathering light and then dispersing it here, in the Hall. And there, you see, that very Stone of Durin..."
Folco squinted, trying to make out what Gloin was pointing at; at first his gaze helplessly wandered among the bizarre stone trees, and suddenly from his eyes as if a veil fell – on a clear platform rose what seemed now bathed in blood a white sharp-pointed fragment, who knows how finding itself here. Something swift was in its appearance, in its sharp edges, in the rearing, sharp, like spears, projections. It stood alone in the middle of the gray-crimson world of the titanic cave, and Folco understood that this stone truly deserved to be called the Stone of the First Dwarf.
Silently, stretched in a long chain, they walked through the stone forest surrounding them. Folco asked Dwalin why the dwarves living underground needed to build this Castle too.
"This Castle wasn't built by dwarves, Folco," Gloin answered quietly. "Dwarves only gave it those outlines you now see. The cave and the Castle – they were created by the Mountains themselves..."
They stopped before the Stone and for some time simply silently looked. From under it beat a little stream; the silence of the huge cave was broken only by the quiet burbling of water flowing among stones.
"At the hour when all forces are silent – both of Darkness and of Dawn, and only the Mountains gaze at you with the crimson pupils of the Flaming Eyes, stand on Durin's Stone, ask counsel, and He Who Began the Beginning will answer you..." Hornbori suddenly pronounced in a singsong, as if enchanted.
The corridor suddenly ended, they found themselves in a small hall whose floor was covered with an equally thick layer of dust. The torches illuminated roughly finished walls, simple stone benches, a low ceiling without any decorations, and in the middle – a huge stone anvil and looming over it as a dark mass the gigantic Forge. Above it in the ceiling could be seen the narrow opening of a ventilation shaft. Thorin and Shorty dropped to their knees.
"Durin's Forge..." Thorin whispered with his lips alone.
And then something unimaginable began. The rest squeezed into the smithy, new torches were lit, and the dwarves, sitting in a circle, suddenly all in chorus began to sing a lingering solemn song in their strange language. Folco didn't understand a word, but in the merged guttural harmonies he could clearly hear the blows of a hammer. The dwarves' eyes burned with wondrous fire – this was their finest hour!
Much time, as it seemed to the hobbit, had passed since the moment they entered Durin's Hall, but in reality only minutes had gone by. Then Grani, sent back to the Hundred and Eleventh Hall, raised the alarm, and the hobbit with his own eyes saw the hunt for the Fire Worms.
The Worms, as Gloin had predicted, began crawling out of the darkness of the corridor toward the kinsman shot by Folco. Gloin commanded; an iron net fell on the fiery curves of the swift body. The Worm writhed desperately, the steel net heated red-hot, but the dwarves with special hooks found in the Forge dragged the inhabitant of the underworld to the Forge...
And then, when in the tightly closed stone Forge hissed ominously, writhed, and spat fire a good dozen Worms, Folco examined with interest the traces they left on stone. The Worms could melt it and if necessary could make passages right through the rocks, like their earthworm kinsmen somewhere on a hobbit lawn. Thorin gathered all the dwarves in a tight circle. The mystery began...
It was difficult for the hobbit to understand what his friends were talking about. With difficulty, from fragments of phrases, he grasped that the talk was about using the find and forging unprecedented mithril weapons, combining in them the power of the Ring and the Memory of Durin. Folco didn't quite understand what that was. The dwarves spoke of something long familiar, as if their most cherished, most secret dreams were beginning to come true. Now quickly, now slowly fell in the silence of Durin's Forge the words of ancient spells – and the gold of the Ring, removed by Hornbori from his finger and passing in turn from one spell-pronouncing dwarf to another, shone brightly. And then into the furnace, to the Worms, they thrust an ingot of mithril and several iron bars found behind the Forge. The dwarves also didn't spare some fragrant potions from thick ancient bottles of green glass that stood, covered with dust, on shelves along the walls.
Brightly, very brightly the flame suddenly blazed in the Forge, and the dwarves stood in a tight circle, covering with their backs what was happening... What followed merged for Folco into long hours when hammers rang tirelessly, molten metal splashed furiously – for in the Forge it could be not only heated but also melted. From somewhere appeared complex forms, liquid metal ran in a fiery trickle along the channel prepared for it, and then again they threw it into the furnace, and after that the hammersmiths didn't spare their hands. The dwarves made only brief breaks to hastily swallow a piece of bread and gulp down a glass of beer, and again returned to the anvil...
But they didn't only forge. The hour came when Thorin with a disgusted expression on his face hurled into the heat of the Forge the sword from the Barrow-downs that had so long led the Undeath on their trail. Folco expected something unusual, but the furious flame of the Worms, which had so heated the walls of the Forge that one couldn't not only touch them but even stand nearby, silently swallowed the work of an unknown smith dedicated to the dead world, and it turned into a glittering puddle.
However, no sooner had the hobbit closed his eyes than a terrible sepulchral howl reached his hearing, filled with pain and impotent fury. Before the hobbit's mind's eye appeared a strange picture: dark hills, trees on the slopes – and a whitish creature in a cloak and helmet swaying in the wind, ancient, disgusting, deadly. And dying. The sword dedicated to the Barrow-wight disappeared, and with it disappeared the focus of ancient Darkness. The wind that rose tore the gray cloak into the smallest, invisible shreds, the helmet crumbled into rusty dust...
In the end sleep overcame the hobbit. The dwarves, it seemed, had completely forgotten about him; work absorbed them entirely. Folco got used to the heavy ringing blows, ceasing to notice them...
When he awoke, in the Forge stood an unusual silence; now the dwarves were concentratedly drawing long and thin threads from the fiery mass, twisting rings; their fingers worked with extraordinary skill – chains of mail rings grew right before one's eyes... Superfluous and unnecessary Folco felt himself at that moment – and silently set about cooking.
Many hours passed before even the most steadfast tired. However, dragging the dwarves away from the Forge proved not so simple. A few hours of sleep, a hastily swallowed piece of bread and dried meat – and back to work...
Long underground days stretched on. Time slowed its course, Folco felt that they stayed awake much longer than usual on the surface. The dwarves economized on provisions, trying to stretch their existing supply as long as possible. Folco found himself completely idle. Usually he huddled in the very corner of the Forge and silently watched how the heavy hammers rose and fell. The dwarves forged new axes and short thick daggers, low helmets covering the whole head with movable visors, mail coats entirely covered with scales of mithril plates... Sometimes they went down the corridor to the Mines for new Worms; catching these creatures proved difficult and dangerous, they had to wander long through echoing tunnels waiting for the coveted gleam on the walls – and then the reliable steel net came into use again, though patched many times. The fears retreated somewhere; they reminded of themselves only by a constant dull feeling of vague anxiety, to which everyone had grown accustomed and stopped noticing.
No less than seven long "underground days" passed from the hour when under the hobbit's hands the passage to the cherished Forge opened. And suddenly Folco's ears felt as if plugged – such silence suddenly fell in the Forge. The work was finished, and the dwarves in a crowd approached the hobbit bewildered by this silence. Thorin stepped forward and silently, bowing respectfully, laid on the hobbit's knees a small helmet with a solid visor, a mail coat-bakhterets, mail shoulders, gauntlets, greaves, and new throwing knives. Folco gasped looking at the wonderful gift: unable to utter a word, he pressed the precious armor tightly to his chest and in a trembling voice began to thank his friends confusedly;
the dwarves squinted blissfully – it was felt that they were pleased by the praises of the unsophisticated and sincere hobbit.
And then Thorin hung his old mail coat on a hook driven into the wall and struck it with his new axe from the shoulder. The blade struck sparks, and a narrow straight hole appeared in the shoulder of the armor; the dwarves murmured approvingly. Then Thorin tested his old axe on his new armament in exactly the same way – the weapon bounced from the mithril armor with such force that it flew out of the dwarf's hand and fell ringing to the floor.
After this they didn't remain long near Durin's Forge. Taking with them several ingots of precious true silver, they strode along the Fire Worms corridor down to the endless labyrinths of the Morian Mines.
It became hotter and hotter, thirst tormented them, toward them from the depths came a stream of hot air. Folco was bathed in sweat; there was no water in the Mines.
Almost at random they wandered through the endless, alike as two drops of water mountain workings. Two or three times they encountered Worms hastening to clear out of their way; as before they noticed nothing suspicious. More and more often Thorin's brows drew together toward his nose; more and more often Hornbori pushed forward; more and more often Viard sighed ruefully.
Several languid, stuffy hours in which they vainly tried to sleep brought no desired rest. Not many torches remained; food was running short and, most importantly, water. And descending became ever more difficult, the way was constantly blocked by rubble; sometimes between piles of collapsed rock and the vaults enough space remained, but more often they had to look for bypass routes, and if not for the knowledge of Gloin and Dwalin, they would have remained forever in this labyrinth terrible in its sameness. However, time passed, and they couldn't find in the empty workings anything that would give a clue to the mystery. Some of the dwarves lost heart; despair sometimes seized the hobbit too. How hateful these gray walls and ceilings had become to him! How tired his eyes were in this world devoid of greenery and life! He often dreamed of the Shire; how many hopes there were when he and Thorin were just beginning their journey!..
However, the hobbit was mistaken thinking that soon they would turn back and the last difficulty on their path to light would consist in overcoming orc ambushes. They were stubbornly making their way through another rubble when Dori walking in front suddenly stumbled, waved his arms trying to keep his balance, and with a short muffled cry disappeared between the stones. The dwarves rushed to that place: among the stones gaped a not very wide crevice flooded with impenetrable darkness.
For several moments the dwarves looked with horror at the stone maw that had swallowed their comrade; it seemed to the hobbit that this insatiable mouth was twisting in a malicious and gloating smirk. However, no sooner had Thorin pulled the ties of his bag to get the rope than from the darkness below came Dori's familiar voice:
"Hey, where are you there? Let someone else come here, Gloin, Dwalin! Never in my life have I seen such corridors..."
A sigh of relief escaped the dwarves. Hornbori leaned over the crack:
"Dori, is it deep here?"
"A fathom and a half," came the answer. "How did I not break my neck?"
Thorin threw the rope down, tying it firmly to one of the sharp fragments of rock, and together with Hornbori, Gloin, and Dwalin disappeared into the crack. For several minutes their muffled voices came from below; Folco couldn't make out the words, but everyone spoke with noticeable surprise. Finally Thorin's head appeared from the hole.
"Come down!" he called. "I don't know what, but it looks like we've found something."
Carefully and silently, the dwarves disappeared one by one into the mysterious crack. The agile hobbit descended without difficulty, although the bag behind his shoulders interfered considerably. Feeling stone under his feet, Folco looked around.
They stood in a low corridor, completely round, without the obligatory in all Morian passages flattened floor. The ideally smooth walls of the tunnel bore no traces of polishing; here and there small black drips had frozen, like hardened melt.
"This isn't cut through," Gloin broke the silence. "This is melted through, or I understand nothing about tunnels!"
Exchanging brief remarks, the dwarves felt the unusual walls. In the light of torches the crack in the ceiling and the hanging rope were still visible. Thorin adjusted the axe at his belt and called out to the others.
"The corridor goes from east to west. Heat pulls from the west. Where shall we go?"
"West," Hornbori said hollowly. Folco involuntarily shuddered – the dwarf's voice was filled with anxiety which hadn't been felt in him for a long time. The dwarves turned and strode forward, toward the hot breath of the depths.
"Gloin, is there anything else from the Mines below us?" Thorin asked his companion.
The Morian shook his head negatively. They strode forward silently and alertly. The hobbit felt uneasy; the pressing heaviness he had long noticed was becoming ever more palpable, thoughts jumped, and to drown out the vague anxiety he asked Thorin quietly:
"Listen, how did you know that the corridor goes from east to west?" Thorin smiled.
"You always know where up is and where down is, brother hobbit, like everyone born on earth. But we dwarves aren't born on the surface... only in the depths, and therefore this is innate to us."
The conversation broke off. A low, creaking, hissing sound reached their hearing, rolling before them in the impenetrable gloom. A dull wave of fear rolled over the hobbit – and again, for the umpteenth time, he felt that this blow was taken by the Ring. No, not accidental were both the Wraith at the Gates of Moria and the blueness in the shaft deflected by Hornbori! The Ring was helping them, and with it they were much stronger. But now they met something else.
Without conferring, they stopped. Blood pounded in their temples, foreheads covered with clammy sweat; freezing, they peered into the blackness – for there unmistakably was felt blind, gigantic power. Folco clearly sensed before him a force compressed like a spring – but not hatred. Thorin raised the torch high and led them forward, and beside him strode Hornbori, and behind – Folco, not knowing himself how he found himself in the front ranks. An avalanche of dark despair that flooded his soul pushed out for a time everything else from his consciousness; much time passed before he remembered his dagger. Suddenly the creaking hiss sounded again; the dwarves stopped and little by little began backing away, step by step.
With a distorted face Dori threw his hands up high, as if stopping the wavering ones, and rushed forward headlong. He didn't utter a word, but the rest moved after him. Now no one doubted that they had found what they were seeking.
How much farther did they go toward the ever-intensifying heat? Folco forgot everything, losing all sense of his surroundings. Torches grudgingly lit the smooth black walls, the dwarves walked stretched in a chain – otherwise walking on the round floor was impossible. The blackness pressed with its intangible mass, animal horror beat in every heart, but strength still remained; proudly straightening, Hornbori strode, holding out his hand with the Ring.
When the heaviness in his chest became quite unbearable, the hobbit finally decided. He pulled out his cherished blade, and with the crimson light of the pitch fires mixed the blue reflection of the wonderful weapon. The edges of the blade burned bright blue, the Flowers gleamed deep blue. In the silence of the tunnel it was as if an invisible thin string rang, but immediately a wave of thundering, roaring sounds crashed down upon them – as if a wakened beast was roaring; in this roar already was heard the hatred that wasn't there before; the eyes of Darkness saw something that brought their inhabitant into furious rage.
No one could withstand it. Falling to their knees, covering themselves with their hands, dropping torches, the dwarves recoiled backward, and only Hornbori remained standing, holding in one hand a torch, on the other the Ring shone brightly.
Folco hastily hid the dagger and wasn't even surprised when the underground roar began gradually to subside. But the hobbit understood that they had noticed him and now wouldn't let him go so easily.
The dwarves clustered behind Hornbori and froze. What held them at that moment from flight? The hobbit saw despair and fear on their faces; Viard's hands trembled, but no one, not a single one stuttered about turning back.
Silence fell. However, in it could still be heard a dying dull growl, and when they finally moved forward, they hadn't walked even a hundred paces when they noticed ahead the familiar bluish glow. The hobbit's heart sank, but he didn't experience the former will-and-reason-extinguishing fear he had lived through on the platform by the shaft – on the contrary, some kind of excitement awoke in him, and besides, a thought surfaced in his consciousness with unexpected clarity: "This isn't about you."
Someone among the dwarves cried out hoarsely, someone fell flat; Folco remembered Dori's enraged eyes with an axe in his hand and Shorty unexpectedly stepping forward with two blades drawn; and then the blue wave reached them, the hobbit was spun by a hot, dry whirlwind, he couldn't keep his feet and fell flat.
However, this didn't last long. When Folco raised his buzzing head, complete darkness reigned around – the torches had gone out, only in one place he noticed a handful of smoldering coals. In the darkness around him sounded grunting, puffing, incoherent exclamations... Thorin spoke:
"Whole? Everyone here? Dori, Hornbori, where are you?"
They answered him. All the dwarves turned out unharmed, getting off with only light fright, not going into any comparison with the shock that nearly destroyed them at the beginning of their Morian wanderings.
By touch they struck fire and again lit torches. Bran proposed to rest and think, they supported him, flasks went round, leather pouches scraped as they were untied.
Everyone spoke at once, interrupting each other: why was everything different this time? Some of the dwarves had already decided that their final hour was coming, but it turned out that all this could be endured.
Folco confessed that most likely it was his dagger that caused the surge of underground anger; they looked at the hobbit warily, and Viard even moved farther away. As usual, no one could say anything sensible until suddenly the unusually calm voice of Shorty, who seemed to be peacefully dozing by the wall, rang out.
"As for me, there's nothing to guess about here," he dropped, filling his pipe. "This blueness – it's from them, right? Like an exhalation, or something, I think. Only not a simple exhalation, but... alive. Wait, let me finish! Up there, it threw itself at us, itself, understand, well, its nature is like that, but those from whom it came, they don't care about us. If they wanted to deal with us, they would have dealt with us twenty times already! They don't care about us! And we can walk here until the end of time..."
"So what – back up?" Dori bristled.
"No, why," Shorty shrugged, "I'm like everyone else..."
No one could object to Shorty, but not because there was nothing to object – no one could prove the opposite, just as he himself couldn't, and so they rested a little more, ate, and moved on.
Their wandering through the Sub-Morian Ways lasted another three full underground days. The corridor melted through by an unknown creature led them to a small hall – a creation of ancient fire, and there they saw with their own eyes the Flaming Eye. Because of the terrible heat they couldn't approach closely, but they saw – probably the only ones among mortals – the mystery of the birth of a Fire Worm in the seething crimson cauldron where molten stone boiled. The light emitted by the Eye of the Mountains painfully cut the eyes, and Folco remembered the words of the note: "Beware of the Flaming Eyes." They hurried away.
Leaving marks on the walls, they moved along a corridor leading downward and to the southwest. This was already an ordinary cave corridor, once washed in the body of stone by patient water. However, going there proved much harder than through the melted tunnel. The dwarves again encountered growths of black tentacles on the walls; they broke through with difficulty, despite the hobbit's dagger, some of the hungry tentacles decided to test the strength of the mithril armor of Durin's descendants – and Viard was saved only by the combat skill of Shorty who appeared nearby. They also encountered a gigantic Fire Worm from which they had to flee at full speed, and then, when they descended even lower and heard the splash of water flowing somewhere nearby, in the dark passages near the bank of the Morian Moat – and they reached it too – Dori noticed the faintly glowing back of a Deep Watcher in the impenetrable water, and Folco treated the monster to an arrow, after which it immediately disappeared into the darkness; in the passages near the Moat, of which Gandalf had said that its bottom lies beyond light and knowledge, they understood why the great wizard didn't want to darken the bright day with a tale of what he experienced in these tunnels. They didn't go farther when they tried to break through west of the Moat. Before their eyes with a terrifying roar the vaults and wall collapsed in the corridor before them, something appeared that at first reminded them of a Fire Worm, but they immediately understood that this wasn't a Worm; dark-crimson flame illuminated the vaults, a red-hot lump floated from one wall to another, a hiss sounded, and the creature disappeared into one of the branches... For a long time the dwarves couldn't force themselves to come out of hiding.
They climbed back up and finally came upon another melted tunnel, rejoicing at it as if it were the Main Tract of Moria. It went from east to west, like the first, and, as in the first, from the west pulled dry, hot air. Leaving behind the mysteries of the Sub-Morian Ways – something told the dwarves that the answer lay not there – they again strode along the slippery floor to the west.
And again everything repeated. Again they had to overcome themselves at every movement, blood oozed from cracked lips, hot wind beat in their faces. They came across branches too, but all these mysterious tunnels led in one direction – west, deviating slightly north.
"Just like worms to bait, all crawling to one place," Dori remarked gloomily, returning from reconnaissance in the nearest corridor, and his words lodged long in the hobbit's memory.
"That's it!" Thorin announced, checking the water flasks. "We can't go farther, we must turn back!"
"Wait," Hornbori suddenly stopped him. "Something doesn't feel right. A mile or two won't decide anything – let's go a little farther."
Folco, not forgetting for a moment his vision in the Castle Hall, grew alert. Ringing silence hung over them; in the hobbit's heart an invisible string tensed to the limit – nearby, very close to them, lay something before whose power were insignificant both the might of ancient wizards and the strength of elf-warriors.
Reluctantly, grumbling and grunting, the dwarves got into their straps. However, they managed to go very little. They hadn't taken even a hundred steps when suddenly their legs refused to obey them: like a battering ram, the intangible force of darkness struck at their souls. Folco understood that the Ring softened and weakened the pressure of this force but couldn't fully deflect it. They stopped, staring with widened eyes into the darkness before them. The hot oncoming stream suddenly died down; Hornbori slowly, very slowly lifted his foot from the floor, and at the same moment all the rock around them began to shake, a heavy rumble sounded, stones from a collapsed wall rolled forward, and darkness crept toward them.
Nothing more terrible than this had happened in the hobbit's life. He went numb, unable to move or cry out: as if bewitched, he looked at the approaching something and clearly understood that this was the end from which there was no salvation and couldn't be. There was no glimmer; all feelings died. In what approached there was no hatred – and this made it even more terrible. The hobbit's stopped pupils glazed over.
And then like lightning suddenly pierced the indestructible stone roof, flashing in the darkness of the underground with a blinding flash. This was Hornbori, swaying, who nevertheless stepped forward – and the Ring shone like a small sun on his right hand. It radiated and sparkled, Hornbori strode toward the darkness, and the rest as if threw off the heavy fetters of an unknown spell. Everything trembled inside the hobbit – he believed that Darkness would retreat this time too, that they would break free from these deadly embraces!
The darkness indeed stopped, as if in indecision. Rolling before this in a solid wave of blackness – in the light of torches it was visible how the slightly gleaming vaults disappeared under its living waves – it reared up as if it had run into an invisible barrier; ripples ran across the black wall. And then the high-risen crest of the black shaft crashed down, right onto Hornbori standing with his head raised high; a dull and terrible sound rang out, not quite a clang, not quite a crunch. The dwarf disappeared under the Darkness that swallowed him, and at the same second unbearable pain made the hobbit collapse to the floor in terrible convulsions; but he managed to notice, losing consciousness, that the terrible wave was rolling back, leaving on the floor the prostrate body of Hornbori...
Falling, he as if accidentally grabbed the dagger on his chest, and probably this gave him strength to see how all his companions fell around him and that only Thorin, growling, crawled to the motionless Hornbori, bent over him, soundlessly screamed something, and then with a desperate movement tore the Ring from the limply thrown hand and shoved it somewhere under his shirt... At this everything broke off.
He came to slowly and painfully. When the bloody fog of terrible visions finally released him, the hobbit saw that he was lying in the well-familiar Hundred and Eleventh Hall, and around him crowded his friends. At his head, near the rolled-up cloak placed under his neck, sat Shorty, who had just removed the bandage from the hobbit's split forehead.
"What happened? What's with us?" Folco squeezed out, but Shorty turned away. "Where's Hornbori?"
The dwarves silently parted, and the hobbit saw a gray stone tomb in the middle of the hall, covered with a red granite slab. Everyone was sorrowfully silent, and Folco felt his nose stinging and tears welling up in his eyes.
"When you fell, Thorin crawled to him," Bran nodded toward the grave, avoiding calling the fallen friend by name, "and dragged him to us." He sighed heavily. "I don't remember how we got our feet out of there – never happened to me before. No, we were wrong to quietly call the Morians cowards. Nothing can be done here, friend Folco, the underground ones have terrible strength. Even the armor – mithril armor on him – was pierced! Time to leave, brothers." Bran spoke louder, now addressing everyone: "We have nothing to do here. As for me, it's time to end this and go to our mountains. Moria is lost to us."
"That's debatable!" Dori bristled. "We need to fight, and we must understand how. Let hundreds perish – they'll clear the way for tens of thousands!"
The gloomy silence of the others answered him, even Gloin and Dwalin stood staring dejectedly at the floor. All the dwarves seemed crushed, shocked, and confused; even Thorin didn't respond to Dori's passionate speech.
"We're running out of provisions," he said hollowly. "Time to go up, we'll decide everything there. And Rogvold must be tired of waiting..."
The passage proved difficult – there seemed to be even more orcs. Twice their small detachment broke through the enemy ranks, fighting with such fury that no one could stop them. They carried much mithril with them, and their new armor proved truly impenetrable. It saved the hobbit's life too when a huge orc stabbed him with his curved scimitar right in the chest. Four days they went up and finally found themselves before the Gates.
Chapter Six. WOLF STONE
Thorin wrapped the hobbit's head in a black cloth, leaving only narrow slits for his eyes; the other dwarves did the same. Grani pushed the Gates' doors, they soundlessly parted, and blinding sunlight burst into the opening – evening was already descending, long sunset rays beat directly into the faces of the dwarves emerging onto the surface, and if not for the bandages, they would surely have gone blind. On a pile of stones near the entrance to the underground sat two Rangers with bows in their hands – Gerdin and Resvald. At first they couldn't utter a word and only stared in amazement at the appeared comrades as if at visitors from beyond the Thundering Seas, and then rushed to them. The others immediately ran to the Gates at their joyful cries. However, the dwarves weren't hurrying to join their jubilant exclamations; they threw bags from their shoulders and plopped down where they stood, as if the gentle sunlight in one moment cut the invisible bonds that had kept their strength and will fit for immediate action and battle. The dwarves answered the Rangers' endless questions listlessly; at first they exchanged puzzled glances, but then probably decided that their friends were simply exhausted, and led them to camp where tight bundles were already being ripped open and a big festive supper was being prepared.
Folco was immediately in Rogvold's embrace, then the others didn't fail to clap him on the shoulder or ruffle his head. The dwarves dragged themselves to camp, slowly, heavily, as if through force; the hobbit felt that he too had only one desire left – to fall asleep as soon as possible, to try to forget at least temporarily the experienced pain and perhaps to see Hornbori in a dream. The dwarves buried him when the hobbit lay unconscious, and he couldn't say goodbye to his friend. The suddenly overwhelming bitterness of loss made him groan. Hornbori! Having saved everyone and perished himself, he should have taken a worthy place in the Hall of Waiting, beside the Great Durin himself...
Wood crackled in the fire, a clear and warm July night hung over the Misty Mountains, bird voices came, and along the edge of the trembling crimson circle cast by the fire sat side by side people and dwarves. The horns raised in stern silence for Hornbori were emptied, tart golden wine of the south burned the hobbit's throat: on the other side of the fire the old hunter rose.
"So what did you see there, friends? Did you find what you were seeking?"
"We found it," Thorin answered, gloomily looking at the ground. "We found and saw everything that a Mortal was capable of seeing. And the one who approached closest to the Power of the Mountains remained there... Write to the Steward, Rogvold! Write that the Devourers of Mountains have moved west. That's all we can say."
Thorin dropped his head on his chest and fell silent. Beside him the dwarves froze like statues, their limply dropped hands seemed lifeless. The dwarves were silent, looking at the ground, the people exchanged anxious glances – the celebration wasn't working out.
"Why don't you ask what happened with us here, above?" Rogvold broke the silence. Thorin looked at him.
"Three times terror came upon us from the Gates," the old centurion began. "We barely endured, it was impossible not to succumb to it, and whoever resisted sometimes fell unconscious. We saw distant smoke in the south, as if someone was giving signals. In the north we saw the glow of fire."
"Let's better sleep," Shorty suddenly yawned. "Night will pass, morning will bring counsel..."
The puzzled people dispersed, heavy sleep closed the eyelids of the dwarves who escaped from the clutches of Darkness, and only two sentries kept watch in the deserted camp.
The sun passed its zenith, the day was declining when the exhausted dwarves finally began to wake. It seemed all their strength remained there, in the blackness of Morian tunnels – so empty and cold their gazes had become. Reluctantly they followed Thorin who called them somewhere, slowly and unwillingly swallowing the late breakfast prepared for them by the alarmed people. The Rangers, looking at the dwarves with surprise, left them alone for the time being.
Thorin led his kinsmen to a small ravine behind the camp. They sat wherever; the hobbit looked around at his friends – the dwarves sat as yesterday, sluggish and indifferent – only Dori's burning eyes remained the same, and Shorty somehow particularly imperturbably leaned his back against a young hornbeam. The hobbit was gradually also overcome by dull and hopeless indifference; he was still there, below, where the daring dream of the Morians and Dori about the revival of the First Dwarf's kingdom was buried. Earthly affairs seemed petty and insubstantial to the hobbit, and he began to understand his friends – what were they to do next?
Thorin, rising, asked the dwarves this same question.
"Why waste time!" Dori clenched his fists. "The Devourers of Mountains are leaving from under Moria. We have the Ring that helped overcome the fear they inspire. We need to gather a militia! We'll cleanse the ancient realm of the filth that's settled there! And these underground ones... let them dig wherever they want! So we need to split up, send messengers to Erebor and the Iron Hills, and also to Eriador and the Blue Mountains – to all our settlements!"
Hot-tempered Dori jumped to his feet, as usual chopping the air before him with his hand. No one answered him. The silence dragged on, and then Bran spoke – an old and experienced dwarf whom no one could accuse of cowardice.
"Until the Hall of Waiting I'll have enough now of what I endured in Moria," he said hollowly. "What will you do against this Power, Dori! Yes, I know, you won't retreat and will fall with valor – but what does it matter to those whom you'll lead after you and who'll share your fate? And who will follow you? I, at least, won't dare a second time..."
Dori ground his teeth and spoke with restrained passion:
"If we all talk like this, the glory and strength of our tribe awaits a shameful end! We didn't clash with the Devourers for real even once, and this must be learned, as Grani said. I don't know why he's silent now! Maybe these Devourers can have the vault brought down on them, maybe arrange undermining, maybe let in water! But we need to do something."
Bran only waved his hand and sat down, showing not the slightest desire to argue with his furious comrade. Instead Balin spoke:
"How do you know, Dori, that all the underground enemies have left from under the Mines? How do you know they won't return?" The dwarf drawled words slowly and indifferently, as if out of duty. "How do you know the limit of their Power? We learned nothing about their nature, their intentions, much less their vulnerable places! We were overthrown after the very first encounter, without managing to understand or even see anything! You hope in the Ring, but how many can it protect?" Balin shrugged. "As for me, I think we should all go to Annuminas. There's still plenty of glorious iron there, good work, and good beer. To go down," he shuddered, "I have no strength."
"You think I do?" Dori looked heavily at Balin.
"Enough now," Shorty suddenly dropped. "We didn't merit the Devourers' attention, they're indifferent to us. And who knows if they even noticed Hornbori at all, may the slab over his bed never crack! Look!"
He raised his left arm bent at the elbow. Along the brown sleeve crawled a greenish shiny beetle. Shorty blew, and the light inhabitant of the grass country was immediately carried away. The Small Dwarf looked at his comrades.
"But did I wish it evil?" Shorty finished. "I might not have noticed it, and even the fact that I raised my hand means nothing. Everything could have been simply by chance."
"You speak well," Grani smirked, his lips trembling and twisting. "But my knees are shaking as soon as I remember it all! We have no place there, brothers, no place! What can I say – don't wave your fists after the fight. Let whoever is stronger than me try... But I'd rather go to Annuminas with Balin."
"And why do you so stubbornly mention the Ring, Dori?" Viard said in a timid patter, looking aside. "Is it with you? Did you crawl up to its fallen keeper? And anyway, why is Thorin silent? The Ring is with him now, everything depends on him."
Thorin sighed heavily and cast an almost guilty glance at Dori frozen before him. He sighed again, ran his hand along the axe handle, and said quietly, barely audibly:
"I won't go to Moria again, Dori. They're stronger than us, and something tells me that the fate of our tribe this time will be decided not in the underground but here, on the surface."
At Thorin's very first words Dori went terribly pale and staggered; for the first time Folco saw the furious dwarf in such despair.
"You won't go..." he almost moaned through his teeth. "Curse upon your head, on all your lineage to the twelfth generation!"
Dori moved his palms away from his face, angry tears stood in his eyes, and suddenly through them blazed the flame of his unrestrained anger, the axe whistled through the air.
"One on one, coward, one on one!" he shouted at Thorin. "Give back the Ring, traitor, give it back!"
And Dori jumped forward. No one expected such agility from him, but who could imagine that Shorty would be even faster? The Small Dwarf hung on Dori's shoulders, gripping him with arms and legs;
Dori couldn't keep his balance and crashed onto the grass; wasting no time, Shorty twisted the weapon from his immediately weakened hand. Dori lay with his face buried in the grass and didn't resist, his shoulders suddenly trembled treacherously.
Thorin didn't jump back, didn't grab his axe, didn't even stir, remaining sitting as he sat.
"Leave him, Shorty," he ordered his friend.
He grumbled but climbed off the prone Dori, who still didn't raise his face.
"Listen to me, Dori," Thorin spoke softly. "Our roads diverge – it came time for me to understand what's happening on the surface, you decided to fight for the depths. But must we part as enemies? Tell me, tangars," he addressed the others, "what do you want to do next? No one except Dori wants to go to Moria. Where will you go now?"
"We're to Annuminas," Balin threw out.
"Who else? Stroi, Skidulf, Viard, Bran..."
"We'll return to the Blue Mountains," Grani cut off grimly.
With him, as always, were Gimli and Thror. Gloin, Dwalin, and Dori stubbornly kept silent. Dori struggled to rise, looking up at Thorin from below.
"What will you do, brothers?" he asked the Morians.
Dwalin sighed and spread his hands.
"We'll go to the Lonely Mountain."
"Good! Dori, are you with them?" Thorin stepped forward and thrust his hand under his shirt. "I don't know yet where I'll go, but most likely Thror's Ring will be more needed by you than by me. Dori! Take it."
The shocked dwarves froze. Dori only looked at Thorin with wide-open eyes. He stepped toward him, holding out on his palm a gleaming golden band. Dori shuddered and somehow confusedly and helplessly looked back at the Morians.
"Take it, Dori," Gloin said hollowly. "I swear by the Morian Hammers, you've earned it. Dwalin and I will go with you and after you, believe me!"
With trembling hands Dori accepted the Ring from Thorin's easily unclenching palm and slowly put it on his finger. Gradually his shoulders straightened, his eyes flashed with new fire; he bowed before Thorin in a low, respectful bow.
"I don't know if I've earned it," he said quietly, straightening. "But I swear by the eternal fire of the Forge and the sacred beard of Durin, I accept it only to help the revival of Moria. I swear!" He clenched his fists, his voice trembled. "Now we can go to Erebor and bring from there not thirteen but thirteen hundred tangars! And then we'll see whose will prevail!"
"Well then, we have nothing more to seek here," Thorin summed up. "The people should go home too... We set out today!"
"And where will you direct your path yourself?" Viard suddenly asked Thorin.
"It's a long story," Thorin smirked. "And no need. I'm going to meddle in people's affairs, Viard, and here few approve of that. However, I completely forgot. Shorty! I didn't hear your decision..."
"Mine has long been decided," the Small Dwarf peacefully responded, chewing a blade of grass. "Where you and Folco go, there I go. I have nothing to do in Annuminas. Maybe I'll be of use to you..."
That same evening, when the commotion of gathering had settled, Thorin, Folco, and the old hunter sat on stones not far from the Gates of Moria, admiring the magnificent summer sunset. Thorin told the shocked and silent man about their underground adventures.
"...But the most important thing, Rogvold," are the words of the captive orc. A new master has appeared, one who's gathering under his hand the remnants of those who served the traitor Saruman. He babbled something about the last battle with the elves, about how all his kinsmen would rise for him. Don't forget, tell the Steward about this, convince him not to delay! The storm must break, and to meet it one needs to have enough troops at hand. Let the Steward send messengers to the Blue Mountains, let them not spare gold and words about old friendship and the old alliance between the United Kingdom and the tangars of the West, let him at any price achieve that the hird be ready, that our detachments can march to the Capital any day. The hird will reach Annuminas in seven days, remember this! Seven days, no less."
"So there'll be war?" Rogvold whispered, biting his lips in agitation.
"Who knows?" the dwarf shrugged. "I'd like to be wrong! But this master... I know he's a man, more, alas, I know nothing..."
They were silent, then Rogvold carefully asked:
"But where are you yourself going, with Folco and Shorty?"
"I haven't asked Folco yet," the dwarf answered. "We'll find out now."
The hobbit shivered. Where now? Before him lay boundless expanses; he so wanted to see more! But... tell someone how tired he was of sleeping anyhow, like a homeless dog! He'd already forgotten when he last had occasion to eat a normal dinner – that is, with six courses and on good china plates, not from these tin bowls! Relatives, Melisenta, uncle... But really, what was he counting? The matter wasn't finished, the search continued, and he needed to go with his friends.
"I'm with you," he answered firmly.
"And again I say – splendid!" Thorin smiled joyfully. "Now listen to me. I thought long about the orc's words, and nothing else comes out. I believe the 'master,' whoever he is, was obliged to reach Isengard, since talk turned to Saruman's legacy! He's either already taken control of it or preparing to. I'm going there, friend hobbit. And it may turn out this journey will be more dangerous than the Devourers of Mountains! It won't be such a big detour, though – from here to Isengard is two weeks' walk. In a month and a half we'll be in Tarbad, Rogvold. From there we'll send you word. By the way, don't forget to scribble a couple words on our travel permit – it'll come in handy at the Rohirric borders."
They said farewell in the morning – nine dwarves were leaving west with the Rangers; Dori, Gloin, and Dwalin intended to cross through the Redhorn Gates to the Riverlands and then to Eriador; Shorty, Folco, and Thorin headed south. Before parting the dwarves and Folco came together in a tight circle.
"So our company's journey has ended," Thorin began. "But we mustn't lose sight of each other. Dori! How can I learn about you and your affairs?"
"We'll reach Esgaroth and write from there to Annuminas, to the 'Horn of Arachorn,'" Dori answered, trying with all his might to seem calm. "But don't expect news from us before November! The caravan still has to cross the Misty Mountains... Well, and then – you know where to find us."
They fell silent. A lump rose in the hobbit's throat – for the first time he was parting with those with whom he'd fought shoulder to shoulder and shared travel bread. A new, unfamiliar feeling stung his eyes. He sniffled and, raising his head, noticed that the others were also bashfully turning away from each other.
"And let us remember the one who remained here," Thorin said with a sigh. "May no one disturb the peace of his bed..."
The dwarves silently bowed their heads. The farewell ended, they began to disperse. Folco climbed onto his pony's back and tied the lead of the second horse, laden with their travel supplies, to the saddle bow. Shorty – unprecedented! – himself gave the beer he'd so jealously guarded to his friends, keeping only a small jug for himself. Rogvold rode up to Folco and Thorin who were already mounted.
"It's best for you to reach the Rohirric posts on the Southern Tract," said the former centurion, hiding sadness under a smile. "They'll show you the shortest way to the Watch-wood around Isengard, but won't go into it themselves – it has an evil reputation, though I don't believe these old wives' tales. Now go strictly southwest, in less than a week you'll find yourself on the Tract. From there to the Gates of Rohan is another twelve days."
"I wanted to go straight," Thorin objected. "That way we'll take only two weeks instead of three."
"I wouldn't risk crossing Dunland now," Rogvold shook his head. "Who knows these highlanders, they're a bad lot."
"When I have a league to the mountains on my left hand, I won't fear any Dunlendlings," Thorin answered proudly.
They went their separate ways. Leather reins clapped, horses leaned into their harnesses; Folco and Thorin also took up their reins. Frequently looking back, the parting travelers waved to each other, sending comrades a last greeting. The barely visible path turned down to the narrow and swift Sirannon, and Folco lost the people and dwarves from sight.
Thorin didn't follow Rogvold's advice, heading straight south along the impregnable cliffs of the Misty Mountains. The sad land with abandoned houses and overgrowing roads gave way to wooded foothills, long and steep hills covered with sparse forests thinned by numerous fellings. Down the slopes ran streams taking their source in the mountains, clear and swift; over their transparent waters hung dense crowns of beeches and hornbeams. After long weeks of underground wanderings, the hobbit's eyes had to get used again to the world's multicolor.
The first three days they rode along roads still preserved here and there; on the fourth – their gaze no longer met any traces of man, but Thorin fearlessly led them into the very depths of the foothill forests. They kept the mountains on their left hand, and with such a landmark there was nothing to fear of losing the way.
At first the hobbit feared meeting some wandering band of robbers; he firmly remembered Theofast's words about secret settlements of bold men in these parts; but day followed day, a week passed, and they still met only prints of animal paws.
One night the hobbit felt the familiar languid suffocation, vague fear rolling as a clammy lump to his throat, and understood that the Depths had disgorged onto the surface another of their spawn; but the travelers were already too far for this to affect them seriously, though the hobbit did wake in cold sweat, convulsively grabbing his weapon.
These wild lands were good and free; however, the forests soon ended, retreating on the ninth day before the onslaught of wide grassy steppes. The travelers were emerging at the borders of Dunland.
But breaking out of the long forest tongues onto the expanse of the steppe road proved far from simple. Along the forest border trees were felled and piled in long, high barriers stretching far right and left. The barriers were kept in order – nowhere was rot visible, and moss covered only the lowest trunks.
"Someone's fencing themselves off here," Thorin said with concern, having ridden along the simple fortification. "A man on foot could climb over, of course... But what about us?"
"Who made them?" the hobbit asked, hastily looking around as if expecting the appearance of unknown enemies from the thickets.
"We don't know what we've left behind," Thorin nodded. "Most likely some friends-comrades of that Dron you caught, Shorty. Well, no use guessing, we need to get out."
However, much time passed before they managed to construct a ramp and lead the resistant ponies over the barrier. Soon they rode onto the steppe bay licking the mountain foothills. Beyond it on a hill groves were visible, but around already began the realm of grasses. Here the wide steppes of Enedwaith climbed up the gentle slopes of foothills stretched far west of the Misty Mountains, constraining the mountain forests higher, and here lay the country of those whom the chronicles of Middle-earth called Dunlendings, and what the highlanders called themselves, no one still knew. Remembering Theofast's warnings, Thorin doubled his caution. Soon they passed a border sign – a carved wooden post, darkened by rains and winds, covered with images of bared wolf muzzles.
On the hills here and there became noticeable some low log structures, and near a narrow stream in the valley between two ridges the travelers saw a small village: they bypassed it by a good league – the village seemed far from peaceful. About twenty young men were exercising beyond the outskirts in shooting from bows and throwing spears; few busied themselves in their gardens – people crowded the streets as if animatedly discussing something; the wind carried to the dwarves and hobbit hiding in a secluded place the hum of agitated, excited voices. They couldn't understand a word, but there was no mistaking the mood of the village inhabitants.
Several hours later seven riders on stocky work horses rode out of the village, followed by eleven on foot, behind whom crawled two carts harnessed with pairs of draft horses. The infantry walked with long shields resembling troughs; above their heads were raised short thick spears. The riders had small round shields with sharp forged spikes in the center and spears, longer and thinner than those of their foot comrades. Probably all the adult population of the hamlet poured out to see off the detachment – many strong men and young fellows still remained in it.
"Where are they heading, I'd like to know," Thorin muttered, following the small detachment of Dunlendings with a heavy gaze.
After this they deemed it wise to bypass this land that hadn't seemed particularly hospitable to them, and that same day continued their journey, turning their backs to the mountains. On the third day the borders of Dunland remained far to the south, behind curtains of oak groves reliably covering the travelers.
It was already past noon when the almost completely overgrown forest road led them to a wide clearing from which they saw a half-ruined bridge over a quiet stream; on the other bank the road climbed steeply uphill.
"What a bad road," Shorty grumbled. "Such a road leads you on and on, and then look – you're already in such a hole that who knows how to get out. Thorin, where did this road come from?"
"Who are you asking?" Thorin threw without turning. "Yavanna or what? We're going right now, tomorrow we turn south, and there the Tract isn't far."
"May Durin help us reach the Tract whole," Shorty wouldn't let up. "We should have gone through the forest! Any moment they'll attack..."
"And bite off your nose," Thorin muttered.
"And the silence here... too quiet," Shorty continued, turning his head.
Unexpectedly he tightened the reins and, stopping, began hurriedly putting on his armor. Thorin hmmed, shrugged, and turned to the hobbit.
"Do you notice anything, Folco?"
The hobbit spread his hands. Thorin looked once more at Shorty armed from head to toe, muttered something, waved his hand, and in turn began pulling on his mail coat. Folco followed his friends' example, though he didn't share Shorty's anxiety.
Having crossed the old bridge, the hobbit was about to send his pony forward when suddenly Shorty's quiet, barely audible call stopped him, who had lingered on the gray ancient logs:
"Hey!.. Well, well!"
Thorin and Folco hurried to him. Shorty sat in the saddle, leaning low and intently examining something between his horse's hooves. Looking closer, the hobbit saw that in this place the rotted and moss-covered edge of the log was broken, dark-brown cubes had crumbled as if someone had struck hard with something sharp – and quite recently. They silently exchanged glances, and Thorin as if casually pulled his axe from his belt.
"Someone rode through here. Maybe yesterday, maybe earlier, but a rider crossed the bridge," Shorty declared, straightening and in turn baring his weapon. "Let's move, why are we standing here in plain sight..."
At a careful pace they rode up the hill and paused just short of reaching the crest, to look around and at the same time not silhouette against the sky. Their eyes opened onto a clearing overgrown with tall unmown grass; on the right it broke off to the river, and on the left stretched copses, here and there throwing forward tongues of young alder. Quite near the road, above the very cliff, stood a large black stone about one and a half fathoms high and two wide. The road descended steeply, and about a mile from them along the roadside stood strange squat houses with gentle single-slope roofs. For several minutes the friends silently examined the unusual settlement that seemed empty and lifeless.
"Well, shall we go?" Thorin broke the silence.
"Ha! What if someone's sitting there?" cautious Shorty objected.
"Don't guess, the village is empty," Folco intervened, having until then listened attentively to something. "We can go boldly."
"What makes you think so?" Shorty was surprised. "Maybe they've all hidden in cellars?"
"Hear how the birds are crying?" Folco squinted; the weak wind carried to them the voices of forest dwellers. "These are red-throats, I know them. They're so wary they won't let anyone closer than we are now. And they're crying almost in the village itself. They'd notice people a mile away, sneaking up on them – oh, how difficult!"
"Hm!" Thorin shrugged. "That's what it means – a dweller of the Heights! Listen, what kind of birds are these anyway? Why haven't I heard of them before? What are they like? Big or not?"
"Not only big but tasty," Folco smirked, pulling his quiver closer. "You wait here for me, I'll go ahead. Maybe we'll get some game!"
However, before separating, they had to pass the black stone standing slightly aside; Thorin insisted they examine it.
On the black surface of the stone stood out the contours of two figures – animal and human. A broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a round face stood on her left knee, her right hand resting on a long bow, and the other dropped on the scruff of a she-wolf leaning forward with bared jaws and bristling fur. The heads of the figures, executed with extraordinary care, struck with the skill of the work; the bodies merged with the stone, going into its depth. Folco looked at the statues as if spellbound; something frightening, unkind was in them, something unusual that made the hobbit look long and intently at them until it finally dawned on him – the woman had the eyes of a wolf, and the beast had human ones! Folco froze; at that same second the sun that had hidden for a time peeked out from behind white cumulus clouds, its rays fell directly on the faces of the stone figures, and then not only the hobbit shuddered – the woman and she-wolf suddenly saw! On the seemingly blind eyes appeared black pupils directed straight at the luminary. The faces of the statues came alive; animal alertness and inhuman wisdom read in the wakened by sun gaze of the woman, and human depth and reason – in the pupils of her companion. The wolfish and human principles so intertwined in them that they seemed sisters.
The dwarves sighed in agreement and admiration, clicking their tongues as they always did seeing someone's remarkable work.
"How did they manage this, explain to me?" Shorty muttered, approaching the stone very close.
Finally leaving behind the mysterious creation of unknown masters, they moved forward slowly and carefully. Soon Folco stopped his companions, dismounted, and crept on. He'd put back on his left hand the considerably worn archer's glove without fingers, took two arrows from his quiver, and prepared himself.
He raised the red-throats not a hundred paces from the village edge. About half a dozen heavy red-breasted birds, filling the air with the resilient flapping of wings, burst from the greenery of low flexible growth and, skimming over the very ground, rushed away, yielding only slightly in speed to lightning-fast eagles. Their takeoff was so unexpected that not one of Arnor's archers would have had time even to squint; not one man or dwarf – but not a hobbit! His long white-feathered arrow whistled, and a gray-scarlet bird struck the ground heavily.
Tying the downed red-throat behind his back, Folco waved to his friends waiting for him. While they approached – and they needed to cover almost a mile – the hobbit examined the nearest buildings. They looked, to tell the truth, quite uncomfortable, it was evident the village had long been abandoned;
Along rotten and collapsed fences rose dense green grass, almost hiding the time-gnawed stakes. Houses leaned, tiers settled, wind rustled dried shingles on roofs. The nearest house stood altogether forlornly baring black rafters overgrown with some moss. Death and desolation blew on the hobbit from these houses that suddenly seemed to him so like ancient old men forgotten by children, waiting and unable to wait for the return of heirs.
The three friends slowly rode along the single street, sadly looking at the black holes of windows. At one of the houses, larger than the others and at first glance not so dilapidated, Thorin reined in his pony.
"Shall we go in?"
Shorty agreed easily and immediately, Folco trudged after the dwarves with heaviness in his heart. He couldn't get used to the sight of abandoned dwellings – in the Shire such a thing wouldn't be dreamt of even in a nightmare.
The low plank door wasn't even propped by anything; the long iron hinges, covered with centuries-old rust, groaned painfully; stepping over the high threshold, the hobbit glanced down and saw that both the threshold and the porch near it were sprinkled here and there with fine rusty dust, clearly from these hinges. Marveling where it could have come from and who could need to knock rust off the door hinges of an empty house, he entered inside.
It was rather dark there and smelled of absolutely nothing – the hobbit expected the smell of mold, dampness, or something similar, but no matter how much he drew air into himself, he could feel nothing. The floor boards had rotted and sagged considerably under the heavy boots of his companions; on the left in the log wall was another door. Opening it, they found themselves in a long and low room with a large hearth by the right wall; windows were arranged in the left. Along the wall stood several benches, by the hearth lay some rags, and in the far left corner stood a carved wooden post that suddenly vividly reminded the hobbit of the border sign they'd passed several days ago – the post was covered with images of wolves and topped with a skillfully carved wolf's head. The whole post proved to be, to the hobbit's surprise, hung with animal jaws – there were bear and badger, lynx and wolverine, elk and fox. Only wolf jaws were absent. The hobbit had to explain long to the dwarves which beast each bone belonged to. Suddenly he froze as if turned to stone when he reached for the next jaw. Right before him on a leather cord hung, hooked on a projection on the post, a white, carefully cleaned human jaw!
The hobbit immediately very much wanted to be outside and preferably far from this place. The dwarves at the sight of his find immediately grabbed their axes, but calming down, made the hobbit examine everything properly. This took considerable time, they crawled over the house from top to bottom but found nothing more suspicious, but another thing became clear to them.
"Someone was in the house," the hobbit exhaled when they finished the inspection. "A month ago, maybe two. Rust was knocked off the hinges, the human jaw hangs on a clean leather cord, and all the others on woolen ones and are completely covered with dust. Besides, fire burned in the hearth."
"Splendid!" Shorty hissed through his teeth. "Where have you led us, Thorin? Who lived here? Is this Dunland?"
"Doesn't look like it," Thorin shook his head. "The houses here are at least completely different. And I haven't heard that highlanders collect jaws!"
"Then who? Folco, at least you tell us!"
"What can I say?" the hobbit shrugged. "I read that in Saruman's service were some 'wolf-riders' living somewhere in these parts, but who they are and where they went later – I don't know."
"And the human jaw? Where's it from?"
"Remember what Franmar told Rogvold on the road to Annuminas," Thorin grinned grimly. "I can't get it out of my head – about those who cut out the lower jaws of captured Arnorian horsemen!"
"You mean to say..." Shorty began, grabbing his sword.
"I mean to say," Thorin interrupted him, "that I won't spend the night here for any money. Better in the forest! Let's look for a place to overnight, the sun's already setting."
Trying to leave as few tracks as possible, they got out of the mysterious village and strode through the empty, overgrown field to the copses. The sun, though descending to the horizon, was still quite high; about an hour remained until dusk began.
"Fool!" Shorty slapped his forehead. "We didn't get water!"
"You wouldn't have gotten it in the village anyway," the hobbit responded.
"But wells? There must be wells!"
"In abandoned villages wells die first," Folco said sadly. "A well lives only while water is taken from it, while it's needed. And once they stop drawing – it dies. They say its water master leaves from offense, and with them the water too. Then the frame collapses..."
"Look, a stream," Thorin poked Shorty. "We'll get some there."
They rode upstream. The stream took its source in a forest spring beating from an erosion at the very edge of the alder grove. The water proved tasty, clean, cold, with some particularly pleasant smell either of awakening earth or budding leaves... They drank long and couldn't tear themselves away, though thirst didn't torment them.
Having ridden a hundred fathoms left of the spring along the forest edge, they unexpectedly came upon a strange half-dugout that probably once served as a cellar. Inside turned out quite dry, thick ancient boards covered the floor, opposite the door was a small rectangular window. Without thinking long, the friends decided to spend the night here. While Thorin and Shorty went for firewood, the hobbit began gathering grass for bedding. Tearing off tall juicy stalks, he kept looking around, and though everything was calm, a vague feeling of unclear anxiety didn't leave Folco.
The dwarves returned having chopped deadwood; the hobbit unhurriedly and with relish plucked the red-throat and baked his catch in the coals. After a hearty supper they sat for some time silently smoking pipes, looking at the slowly fading over the distant forest sunset flame, and then went to sleep.
Dark sleep without visions gripped the hobbit, but he awoke from the sensation that he was slowly drowning in something cold and sticky; he desperately waved his arms trying to free himself – and opened his eyes.
It was very early morning, nearby the dwarves snored, and from the loosely covered window onto the hobbit's chest slowly flowed a milk-white stream of unusually dense and thick fog – wet, cold, chilly. Folco was about to reach to close the shutter when suddenly from the window reached him some vague, barely audible sounds that immediately made him alert. Carefully rising, he looked outside.
A white dense cover was tightening everything around – the field, village, road; only the roofs of houses were visible, and the hobbit marveled again: the fog at ground level was impenetrable, but higher than a man's chest its layer seemed cut by some gigantic scythe – the distant groves were visible very clearly. And across this foggy blanket from the village to the forest almost soundlessly floated black silhouettes of riders.
At first Folco almost rolled to the floor from fear, but he'd already passed through considerable trials – and now only clenched his teeth and began to watch. He watched and counted – two, five, ten and two more...
The riders disappeared into the forest to the left of their dugout; no weapons clinked, no people called out – unkind silence thickened over the nameless field. The hobbit bit his lip, remembering their own ponies. If they start neighing – what then? And he hastily shook the dwarves, trying to make as little noise as possible.
Thorin, as always in recent months sleeping lightly, woke from the first touch to his shoulder; one glance at Folco's alarmed face was enough for him to be on his feet, pressing to the window. It proved harder with Shorty – he began grumbling out loud about how it's such an early hour and they're already waking him and breakfast is still a long wait. Thorin suddenly turned from the window and furiously hissed something in a language unfamiliar to Folco;
Shorty broke off mid-word and grabbed his sword.
"Who is it, Thorin?" he whispered.
"Don't know, maybe Rohirrim, but who knows them? Better wait and watch."
"You watch, and I'll go to the ponies – tie their heads," Shorty threw on the way and disappeared into the milky haze beyond the doors.
Folco and Thorin followed him. Waiting for their friend, the three of them crawled forward to the very edge of the copse. Somewhere very close, in the fog-woven forest, lurked a detachment of unknown horsemen.
"And in the village?" Thorin turned to the hobbit. "What in the village?"
"Didn't see," Folco answered. "I noticed them when they'd already ridden away from it."
"Maybe they've already passed?" Shorty dropped with faint hope.
"And if not?" Thorin cut off, not taking his gaze from the damp haze before them. "We'll wait!"
And they began to wait. Gradually over the edge of the distant forest in the east, over the crest of even more distant Misty Mountains, rose the disk of the day's luminary; the fog dissipated, the glade sparkling with pre-dawn dew opened to their gazes. The village became visible as if on a palm – from here it seemed dead. Thorin looked at his companions.
"We'll wait until noon," he said quietly. "At least until the dew dries. We need to see what's happening right and left of us and whether we can quietly get out of here."
Suddenly a muffled horse's snort reached their hearing somewhere to their left, and Thorin smiled harshly.
"There they are... Lie quiet!"
Time dragged on, over the field thickened light cloudlets of haze rising upward from the sun-dried dew. A light southern wind started to blow, the voices of daytime birds sounded ever louder; from the leaves almost right overhead an oriole sang; the next gust of wind again brought them a horse's neigh – it sounded somewhere far away, beyond the village, on the road invisible from here between the last houses and the forest. Thorin pressed his ear to the ground.
"More mounted," he exhaled without rising. "We're caught! Looks like these are gathering here."
And then the silence unexpectedly collapsed, torn by the whistle of dozens of arrows; a moment later furious cries sounded, mixing with frenzied horse neighing; blows of steel on steel also reached them.
"A battle..." Shorty whispered and pulled his sword from its sheath.
From behind the extreme houses suddenly emerged a dozen or so riders – on tall, magnificent chestnut horses, with green shields and green pennants on spears. They flew not choosing the road, straight through the field to the forest, one after another throwing their green shields with white crosses behind their backs. After them from behind fences emerged foot soldiers with bows and crossbows; black arrows flashed, one of the horses reared and crashed down, its rider managed to jump off deftly but immediately fell himself, clutching the arrow that pierced him through. The rest raced on; the distance quickly increased, it seemed they would escape;
but in the forest a low horn roared, and toward them poured the cavalry that had hidden there until the time. Green-black cloaks swirled; spears were leveled, and many crossbowmen struck accurately on the move. Several men and horses from the fleeing detachment fell, but the survivors closed ranks with amazing speed; knee to knee, head to head, they struck in a tight fist into the ranks of their opponents who hadn't managed to close together. A crash, clang, and a single cry as if torn from one chest – and seven who'd broken through, leaving spears in the bodies writhing on the grass of their enemies, galloped on to the forest, scattering those who tried to oppose them.
However, the crossbowmen didn't sleep – the escaping riders found themselves in a mobile net woven of short black strokes. Horses fell, their riders trying to rise sank powerlessly to the ground... The last of those escaping fell at the very edge of the saving thickets.
The victors unhurriedly rode around the prostrate bodies, finishing off two wounded. On the battlefield it suddenly became very quiet – only now did Folco notice that no sound came from the village either.
The mounted warriors dismounted, picked up eight bodies of their own. A stocky man in a black helmet with a high thin point to which was tied a long bundle of black horse hair gave orders. He sat on a tall black stallion not far from where the friends hid, and they heard his speech – quick, abrupt, completely unlike the smooth speech of Annuminas inhabitants.
"Hey, Farag, tell the khelgi-baan to have his khazgi stop tearing jaws from the straw-heads! We need to hurry, let him lead them out of the village!"
The warrior who received the order, spurring his horse, galloped to the village, and the commander was already turning to the next:
"Bring the cage with ulagae, Glofur! I need to send reports, and all of you – gather ours, stop stripping bodies if you don't want to break stones in Dunharrow or feed the wandering oaks in Fangorn!"
A short man dressed in dark ran up to him with a large woven basket. Opening it, he thrust his hand inside and extracted some creature unfamiliar to the hobbit, greenish, the length of a forearm, with webbed wings. The flexible body writhed like a snake's, a weak whistling unlike anything sounded. The commander pulled something from under his shirt, shoved it into a leather tube on the creature's collar, and tossed the winged beast upward. Leathery wings cut the air with a hiss, the creature soared up and, flapping its wings frequently, flew north.
"What a monster," Shorty whispered nearby, opening his mouth wide.
Meanwhile from the village gradually stretched foot soldiers, and the hobbit instantly forgot about the curious flying lizard – men walked such as he'd never seen either in Bree or in Annuminas or on the Southern Tract. Short, little taller than dwarves, almost as stocky, they walked waddling on thick crooked legs; under lowered helmet faceplates faces couldn't be made out, behind their backs stuck out horns of unusually long and thick bows. Some carried brown shields, small and round, with black and red horse heads; toward them from the forest were led low and seemingly unusually long horses. The riders vaulted into saddles with the movement of experienced horsemen without touching stirrups; the sharp-eyed hobbit made out short spears strapped at the saddle bows.
Their companions seemed ordinary men – tall, slender, dark-haired. They were diversely and well armed – swords, spears, crossbows, axes, spiked war clubs; on long shields tapering downward flaunted an unfamiliar emblem – a black three-toothed crown in the center of a white field.
The detachment was mounting, and here Folco, peering, saw behind the backs of several riders strangely familiar puny figures.
"Nothings..." Thorin hissed, squinting and peering into the mounted ranks. "Nothings together with mounted crossbowmen and some khazgi who tear jaws from the defeated! Splendid company!"
Meanwhile the cavalry moved at a quick trot through the field to the bridge over which the three friends had passed yesterday. The victors had caught about ten of their opponents' horses; now they carried the bodies of their own – there were barely fifteen of them.
Soon everything quieted, the detachment disappeared around the hill's bend, and the dwarves and hobbit all lay in their shelter, not daring to raise their heads.
"Well?" Shorty asked in a loud whisper. "What next?"
"We should look at the village," Thorin squeezed out, and it was evident he had no desire at all to drag himself there, but he was overcoming himself. "Maybe there are still living there... We need to find out what happened here?"
"Yeah, and what if they're still in the village?" sensible Shorty objected.
"That's why we need to sneak up unnoticed and look. Though unlikely – that leader hurried them not to throw us off the scent!"
Carefully, along the forest edge, they crept as close as possible to the outskirts. In the village all was silent, only from time to time the unhurried clatter of hooves sounded.
"Horses are wandering..." Folco whispered. "Horses are wandering near their dead masters..."
He sighed and shivered with cold. He'd seen a real battle from the side for the first time, and he didn't like it at all. Ruthlessness had never been characteristic of hobbit nature, and they bore encounters with it openly with difficulty. The mortal combat in no way resembled beautiful engravings from ancient books depicting great heroes, waving banners, and fleeing enemies.
They quietly rounded the house's edge and found themselves on the single village street. And here war showed the hobbit what it's really like – not in books and not in pictures.
On the road lay dead bodies in heaps – many, several dozen, contorted corpses bled out, blood pooling here and there in depressions like rainwater. Over the warriors who'd finished fighting swarmed with loud buzzing swarms of large blue-green flies. And everywhere – in fences, walls, trees – and in bodies – stuck long, very thick arrows. All the fallen were pierced through, as if they wore no armor at all – black jagged points stuck out. Folco felt nauseous; the dwarves looked no better.
They carefully tore themselves from the garden fence and slowly walked along the street, carefully bypassing bodies. All the fallen – and this made the hobbit feel even worse – were quite youths, almost boys. The hobbit, having at first forced himself to look at them, now as if bewitched couldn't tear his gaze from the beautiful, regular faces, from the hair scattered in road dust, stained with blood, fair hair, from their eyes already beginning to cloud with haze. On the shields lying here and there of the fallen was a very familiar coat of arms – a white galloping horse on a green field. The young warriors, all as one, were Rohirrim. The ground here and there around the bodies was churned up, some lay with swords in their hands; passing one of the houses, the friends couldn't tear themselves away long, looking at three young warriors nailed by arrows to the wall who hadn't released from their hands blades that nevertheless managed to be stained with another's blood. From their chests stuck thick black-feathered arrows that had gone so deep into the wood that Thorin only with enormous effort tore them out when they silently, without conferring, began laying the fallen in the shade.
"Well, this is something!" the dwarf grumbled, turning in his hands the broken shaft of an arrow. "What archers these khazgi are or whatever they're called."
They went farther. Folco could barely stay on his feet and nearly lost consciousness when a little farther they began encountering terribly mutilated bodies with cut-out lower jaws! At the sight of the terrible wound that monstrously changed the already frightening dead faces, he staggered and quickly grabbed Thorin's shoulder.
"These are the very ones, from the north," Thorin croaked hoarsely, choking on words. "And look where they've gotten!.. Well okay, wait, we'll meet again yet!"
"Look here," Shorty suddenly bent down. "What kind of crossbow is this? Whose work is this? Haven't seen it before..."
"Let me have it," Thorin reached out.
For several moments he silently, squeamishly examined the arbalest his friend handed him. At first glance it seemed to the hobbit the same as dwarven ones.
"Eh, no, brother hobbit," Thorin drawled in answer to his question. "This, friends, is an Angmarian mounted crossbow. I've seen plenty of these. See – here are two catches, this one – to shoot from the ground, either standing or, say, sitting. And to pull the string, you only need this lever. Clever, nothing to say! Thorin raised the alien weapon to his shoulder. "And made well. Light, grippy, the string..." he pulled the lever, "you cock with one movement. From ordinary crossbows it's awkward to shoot from horseback, but from this one... easily. But this we saw, but this – look! – this is really interesting!"
In Thorin's hands lay a very long and thick bow, bizarrely and complexly curved, composed of many thin plates, cunningly laid on each other and fastened. The string gleamed with metal; the bow was almost two hobbit heights tall.
"We haven't seen this yet," Thorin drawled. "These are the bows of these khazgi! Let's see..." He looked for a whole arrow, pulled out one that had gone into the ground almost to the fletching, and nocked it. "I'm no archer, but..."
He began pulling the string, and his face purpled from strain, veins swelled on his arms, beads of sweat covered his forehead – and he managed to draw the bow barely halfway. Stung to the quick, the dwarf ground his teeth, strained, with a desperate effort pulled the string to his nose, and at that moment his fingers couldn't hold. The black arrow, much longer and thicker than any the hobbit had seen before, broke free with a bass hum, a ringing blow sounded – and the shaft went almost a third of the way into the logs of the opposite wall.
Breathing heavily, Thorin lowered the bow.
"Oof!.." He couldn't catch his breath. "Well, well!" He examined the weapon with a strange expression of respect and hostility. "Under such arrows and from such bows I wouldn't want to stand even in a hird," he added quietly.
Thorin and Shorty now looked at the bow almost with hatred.
"Did you see how they pierced armor with it?" Thorin turned to Shorty. "What strength! What will happen if not ten tens of such bows gather, but ten thousand?!"
"Nothing good," he muttered. "And you were advising Rogvold to help the Steward call our people in case of trouble."
Thorin frowned and answered nothing.
"You're silent," Shorty continued. "That's right, first blow off the foam, and only then sip the beer."
Leaving the sad place of such an unfortunate for the Rohirric Mark battle, the friends again set out – the sun was already high. On the way they could talk only about one thing – how it all happened.
"Experienced men, very experienced," Thorin hissed through his teeth. "Look how they caught them! And sat in ambush before the fog – so as not to leave tracks on the dew, and lured them skillfully. You remember the tracks by the forest, Shorty? Though it's trampled there, I still made out Angmarian horseshoes – thanks to Rogvold, taught me something. So, before the Rohirrim rode – well, thirty men, no more. And the boys – young blood, hot, and gave chase..." He turned away and sighed. "Well, and in the village they met them. Arrows from behind every shutter... And how accurately – only one horse killed!"
"Maybe we shouldn't have buried them?" the hobbit said timidly.
"Of course, it's not good," the dwarf answered grimly. "But at least we carried them to one place and covered them with branches and marked... They'll be sought and found. But what if we'd been caught at this?"
"How could they!" Shorty sighed bitterly. "Even I can see – horsemen can't rush headlong into a village!"
"Can't bring them back now," Thorin threw. He rode frowning and didn't take his gaze from the forest half-abandoned path along which their ponies walked. About half a mile to the left of them went that same road that brought six dozen young riders to a bitter and untimely end.
"Wait! Hear that!"
From the road came the united thunder of many hundreds of hooves.
Crouching and soundlessly gliding through dense undergrowth, Folco darted to the road; the dwarves remained deep in the thickets. The hobbit reached the roadside bushes just at the moment when from around the bend appeared the head of the detachment.
Sparing no horses, along the road rushed at full speed the famed Rohirric cavalry, and in its ranks Folco saw not youths but mature, years-wise warriors; green pennants fluttered on their spears, over the front ranks the wind unfurled the green-white standard of the Mark; behind each rider hurried a spare horse. In all the hobbit counted five hundred warriors.
The mounted lancers rushed past the hobbit pressed to the ground; at first he wanted to jump out onto the road, but then realized that with the knights of the Mark it's best to talk not on an empty forest road but somewhere in another, calmer place. Waiting until the last rider disappeared in the distance, he ran back to his friends.
"There, they've found them," Thorin dropped, having listened to the hobbit. "We did right to leave in time – try proving later that we're not in league with those who slaughtered their comrades."
Horse thunder died in the distance, and for some time it was quiet; then from there, from beyond the forest walls, from the village they'd left, reached them the long and inexpressibly sorrowful sound of a great horn.
"Found them," Shorty exhaled.
They were silent, listening to the mournful call.
"But what I don't like most of all in this story," Shorty suddenly declared irrelevantly, "is their flying creature! That's how they exchange reports, Folco! As soon as you see such a thing – first shoot, and only then we'll figure it out."
They turned their backs to the village left behind and until evening rode in silence.
Chapter Seven. ISENGARD
It was hot summer.
The sun dried the steppe, and escaping the heat, the friends kept to the edge of forests gradually bending eastward. Having made a wide detour around Dunland, two dwarves and Folco made their way to the Gates of Rohan to then move up the Isen – the only road to Isengard. The Southern Tract remained two dozen leagues to the southwest – they decided not to waste time on a detour; besides, in the forest it was easier to find both shelter, food, and water. These were remote places – to the east, between forest and mountains, lay unfriendly Dunland; to the west – the steppes of Enedwaith where Rohirric shepherds often drove out their herds; to the south the only thread stretched through the desert of the Tract guarded by the Mark's Riders.
By the hobbit's calculations, they'd been walking from Moria for full two weeks already. After that terrible ambush arranged for the Rohirrim by their jaw-cutting enemies, the friends met nothing suspicious.
One evening the shadow of a huge owl flashed over their fire, but whether this was the one that served Radagast – who could say? Folco often questioned Thorin about what he intended to do in Isengard itself; the dwarf shrugged and answered somewhat embarrassedly that he didn't know yet himself but hoped to find some traces of the "master." In any case, he added, it would be good to catch some orc from there and find everything out from him. And then finish him off! – Shorty invariably concluded on such occasions.
On the thirtieth of July the hobbit awoke with some unusual mood – he'd never had such before. As if he stood on the edge of a well full of crystal moisture in the middle of a desert, as if he approached the corner of a gray blank wall beyond which joyfully blazed magical radiance – this was a premonition of something very bright, so pure that the whole surrounding world might seem only a meager frame to a beautiful gem of the unknown. Something slightly warmed the hobbit's chest; he felt warmth emanating from the dagger.
Folco jumped up as if the bed burned his back. The dwarves slept peacefully – it was still very early, and the first dawn ray had only just peeked under the green curtains of crowns closed above their heads. Something pulled the hobbit away – into the depth of the dense beech forest. He walked at random, without thinking or reflecting, and immediately felt that the dagger became colder. He took several steps back, and the dagger again began emanating weak warmth. Folco trembled in anticipation of something extraordinary and slowly, not removing his hand from the wonderful gift of Olmer, strode through tall undergrowth, constantly poking now right, now left like a blind man; in reality he was catching that single direction which the blade indicated to him. In those minutes he wasn't racking his brains about what this could be, and he wasn't afraid. Fate was leading him to something extraordinarily important, and he didn't resist.
The thickets around him became ever denser, and then he was pulled into a deep ravine. Folco had already gone far from the camp, and a thought flashed – what if his friends miss him; but at that moment the branches parted, the trunks moved aside, and he found himself on a small round glade at the very bottom of the ravine, overgrown with emerald-pure grass, surprisingly soft to the touch. Above the glade, like a tent canopy, closed spreading crowns: the forest peace was flooded with tender greenish light from rays breaking through the leaves. In the middle of the glade the hobbit saw two flat gray stones set upright, opening toward him like a book; between the standing stones on the ground lay a third – flat, split in half; from the crack grew a blue flower unknown to the hobbit. Its corolla resembled a rose but was almost twice as large, and each petal not only wove into the strict harmony of the flower but was also specially curled in its own way. Amazed, Folco opened his mouth, and then grabbed his dagger. There could be no mistake. The Flowers on the blade were precisely copied from the one now growing before him. The hobbit bent over the plant. The flower emanated a strong, unlike-anything smell in which bitterness amazingly combined with sweetness. From this aroma Folco's head spun, and he involuntarily sat on the stone.
At this moment the hitherto motionless branches rustled slightly, wind ran across the grass; the blue Flower swayed, trembled, and its petals began falling off one by one. Slowly spinning, they flew past the hobbit and, barely touching the ground, suddenly flared with soundless transparent flame. As if enchanted, the hobbit followed their flight, their rotation and trembling; from the side it seemed these were defenseless living beings being dragged to execution. The flower's stem bent as if trying to hold them, and the hobbit, growing cold, suddenly read in its movements a passionate, soundless plea – not to let them die on the earth which seemed to greedily pull its black lips toward the next victim. Obeying this strange feeling, Folco extended his left hand – and at the same moment the entire corolla collapsed.
A handful of blue and light-blue petals fell onto the hobbit's palm – and sharp pain pierced it, the hand as if turned to stone; but Folco clenched his teeth, and though sweat immediately appeared on his forehead and the pain reached already to his head and began with special fury to drill his temples, he didn't shake off the petals slowly melting in a blue cloud between his fingers. His legs didn't hold him; he leaned heavily against the stone, not taking his gaze from his palm. For a moment in the bluish haze he fancied the outlines of someone's beautiful face framed by silvery hair; then everything disappeared.
The hobbit slowly slid into the angle formed by the two standing stones, pressed into it with his back. The world around him was changing – the forest and glade disappeared, he saw high white dunes with solitary brown-green spreading pines and an endless blue plain and understood that this was the Sea, at which he'd never been before. He sat on a flat stone at the very water, sadly looking at the incoming waves. When the next wave rolled back, from white foam some twenty paces from shore emerged the gleaming black edge of a sea-gnawed reef, and he sitting by the Sea threw pebbles trying to hit this uneven crest before the next wave covered it. A transparent tongue of wave licked the fine sand at his feet shod in boots he hadn't worn since spring; on his shoulders was mail, on his head – a helmet. Suddenly his left palm hurt. The pain was old and familiar, and he with an unhurried, long-learned movement reached to his belt, and his fingers found some flask. His double sitting by the Sea knew what was in it; Folco in the forest had no idea where it came from. He slowly unscrewed the cork, poured into his aching palm a little sharp-smelling potion and began with slow, smooth movements to rub it in. All this the other one had done many times, but Folco who found himself in his body could only guess what it meant. He tried to move – it didn't work, the body moved without his will. He understood that he could only watch and listen, and stopped trying. His hands moved by themselves, his head turned by itself. What was he doing here, in this place? And it was indeed him – these were his hands, though on the right appeared a long, deep scar, but all the marks of bruises and falls familiar from childhood were in place...
Meanwhile behind his back heavy steps sounded, boots creaked on white hot sand. The one sitting wasn't at all surprised – evidently he knew their owner – and didn't even turn. An ugly shadow fell on the sand, and a voice that seemed strangely familiar to the hobbit spoke with unusual notes of concern and sympathy:
"Does it hurt much, Folco-ven?"
"It's nothing," the one said slowly. (Lips moved without Folco's intervention.) "It'll pass now... How much longer to wait?"
The words were pronounced unhurriedly; the speaker knew what he was waiting for, as did the one sitting behind his back. Instead of an answer, suddenly quiet distant singing reached his hearing from behind the high dune, then the splash of oars, and then from behind the sandy steep emerged a ship which the hobbit had never seen before either; the hobbit, but not the one sitting by the Sea. Long, narrow, with a high-raised prow decorated with a bear's head, with a short mast with a sail drawn to the yard, the ship went on oars protruding from holes in the upper part of the side – fourteen on each side. On bow and stern loomed some figures waving their arms.
The ship was turning straight toward them. When about thirty fathoms remained to shore, round stones attached to chains splashed heavily into shallow water, and after them someone jumped from the bow. A moment later Folco, to his amazement, recognized Thorin – but why was his friend so gray and had suddenly somehow become shorter? Thorin walked, parting the water with his chest, from under his helmet silver-colored hair escaped, a terrible scar stretched diagonally across his whole face, but his eyes sparkled merrily, and he greeted those standing on shore, shaking a highly raised axe. And after him hurried Shorty, who'd become quite short; he shouted something and whistled dashingly, sticking four fingers in his mouth.
The one sitting behind the hobbit's back rose and approached right to the water.
"Did you find them?" he spoke, addressing Thorin already emerging onto shore. "Did you find them? Will they come?"
Smiling cheerfully, Thorin nodded, stepped forward stretching out his hands to them, and Folco marveled again how his friend had aged. The dwarf's lips already moved, but at that time the light dimmed, streams of blue mist swirled around, and Folco came to himself...
He still sat huddled between the two gray stones placed together, and above him the dwarves stood frozen. The sun beat directly in his face – judging by everything, noon had already passed. His head spun and ached, but the pain quickly passed, and the hobbit felt how his body unexpectedly quickly filled with new strength and vigor.
Not immediately, breaking through the curtain not yet retreated in memory, he told his comrades about everything that had happened.
"Yes, not for nothing we marveled at your dagger," Thorin said in amazement, shaking his head. "At this place – good charms, whoever laid them. But only what does your vision mean?"
"That we still have a long, very long path and that it won't be cut short in the near future," Shorty said thoughtfully.
"Hm, interesting, did you see what will definitely be or what might be?"
"Even Galadriel's magic mirror showed only what can happen if you act the same way as you think during divination," Folco spread his hands. "However, it happens that you have nowhere to go... Frodo and Sam, it seems, had no choice – they had to reach at any cost. And we? Does such a clear Duty lie on us now?"
"I'd like to know what that ugly shadow was, as you said," Shorty muttered. "And the voice, you say, not quite unfamiliar?"
"Okay, one can indulge in guesses endlessly," Thorin rose.
"Let's go as we went, judge by conscience and try everywhere to separate good from evil – and we'll see what we come to... Folco, are you all right? We were quite frightened when you disappeared – but found you by tracks, the morning was dewy."
"No, I'm fine," the hobbit jumped up easily. "But who still arranged this place?"
"Maybe it's a grave?" Shorty suggested. "It really looks like one..."
"Or maybe not," Thorin shrugged. "But it's clear to me that elves had a hand here! Who else but them? Not Saruman..."
Folco thought. Something strange was happening to him, as if those two hobbits into which he'd split – one aged, much-seen and understood, and the other, present – couldn't merge again into one whole. His hearing and vision noticeably sharpened; already now he could at will concentrate on the barely audible stirring of some beetle in the grass and catch all the finest changes in these sounds; his eye could see much farther than before...
They stayed some more time at this amazing place, though it had long been time to go, but here breathing was extraordinarily easy, wonderful fragrance was diffused in the air, no longer causing dizziness. And the only thing that alerted the hobbit – when on the soft earth near the forest stream he saw the trace of a huge wolf's paw... The track was old and already blurred, but clearly noticeable.
Two more days passed. The forests remained behind, ever closer became the gigantic peak of snow-capped Methedras; they made their way along Dunland's southern border to the last spurs of the Misty Mountains. Here they encountered many summer camps and watchtowers of Rohirric shepherds driving their magnificent herds on the expanse of hilly meadows. Once a patrol of mounted lancers stopped them; here the travel permit carefully preserved on Thorin's chest came in handy.
"Where are you headed, worthy ones?" asked the elder – a tall gray-haired warrior on a spirited gray stallion – returning the parchment, politely but insistently.
"We were heading to Isengard," Thorin explained calmly. "We wanted to see for ourselves what remained of the White Hand's fortress..."
The warrior unexpectedly grew stern, and his hand fell on the hilt of his long sword.
"Strangers, you evidently don't know the King of the Mark's decree? No one should enter the Watch-wood surrounding that accursed fortress."
"Why is that?" the dwarf asked calmly. "Who can forbid us to enter it?"
"It's not for you, respected dwarf, to discuss the orders of the Mark's Ruler, but in memory of the friendship between our peoples I'll answer you. In the Watch-wood many who dared enter under its crowns have vanished without trace! The Power of the Forests, which once came to our aid, has now become willful and doesn't want to know any authority over itself anymore. Therefore the King gave this order. We've stationed guards along all of Wizard's Vale not to let incautious travelers to this accursed place. So you'd better turn back."
"But how did it happen that the Forest turned against people?" Folco asked with fright.
"Well, it happened..." the warrior said with annoyance. "Once, I know, we were friends – the people of the Mark and the inhabitants of terrible Fangorn. Our songs preserved memory of the great battle at Helm's Deep when the Forest arrived in time and helped defeat the unholy orc hordes. But then... More precisely, already after the death of the valiant King Eomer, friend of the Great King of the United Kingdom himself," he pronounced these words with reverence, "his son, King Brego, decided to restore Isengard – it was a troubled time then, the last war with the orcs of the Misty Mountains was going, and for this it was necessary to cut down part of the Watch-wood. From this, they say, it all began... But we were in our right! Nan Curunir is our lands, there were always steppes there, and why should our king have to ask permission from some forest demons! The King is master in his land, isn't that so? However, this is a matter of days long past. We, of course, didn't quarrel with Fangorn. The Forest spread east and north without touching our lands; our people left attempts to reach Mesigard. But the Forest doesn't turn back everyone who enters it. Some disappear completely! Therefore our barriers stand there. You'd better not go there, worthy ones – you'll only waste time. Thorin snorted.
"Very well, worthy one, I don't know your name. Thorin son of Dart has heard your words and thanks you for them. We're turning back..."
The hobbit stared at his friend in amazement. Shorty clenched his fists, but Thorin with one look made them keep silent. Setting an example, he obediently turned his back to Methedras, and they unhurriedly moved south to the distant hills beyond which lay the bed of the Isen. The Rohirric patrol rode at a walk behind them for some time, then, waving farewell, the elder turned west; the magnificent horses quickly disappeared from sight.
Thorin immediately stopped and threw himself flat on the ground, ordering his friends with a sign to do the same. The dwarf pressed his ear to the ground and lay motionless for long.
"I'm no ranger, of course," he muttered, raising his head, "but it seems to me they really galloped off somewhere west. Well! They do so, but we'll do thus! We'll wait for night and go north. If they've quarreled with ents, that doesn't concern us. Let's try our luck!"
"Are there no other ways?" Shorty inquired, unscrewing the flask lid and passing it round. "Somehow through the mountains?"
"I thought about that," Thorin answered, cutting smoked fish. "Probably one could somehow approach from the west too, but none of us knows the local roads. No, first we'll try here. We'll be careful and won't rush forward headlong. Besides, I hope that in case of anything Folco will somehow negotiate with the ents."
"Me?!" The hobbit choked, pressing fists to his chest. "Me?!"
"Don't keep saying me, please! Or didn't you read the Book? Remember how Peregrin and Meriadoc managed to get along with the ents. I don't think this erased from the memory of Fangorn's masters. What are three hundred years to them? The same as a day to us or even less. So let's have a bite now and rest. Those nice bushes are visible there!"
When night descended on the hills and bright southern stars sprinkled the clear sky, Thorin shook his friends drowsing in the warmth. They went north, but soon it became clear they needed to bear right not to clamber up and down steep slopes, constantly dismounting and leading ponies by the bridle. Trying not to lose sight of Remmirath, the Star-net, they began deviating east. The black masses of the Misty Mountains gradually rose ever higher, covering half the sky. When the moon crossed to the west, they made a short halt. Settling at the foot of an old hawthorn, they lit pipes. Shorty was already nodding, but the hobbit suddenly felt somehow anxious. He rose on his elbow trying to look around, but in the secluded hollow where they were resting, dense gloom reigned, and only the crest of its western slope was scantily lit by pale lunar rays. The hobbit shifted restlessly. A new anxious feeling was growing into certainty – from somewhere there, from the west, approached a threat... Still unclear, but with each minute his inner vision penetrated ever deeper into the night, and Folco sensed dull animal malice – keen scent searching among trampled stems for threads of their remaining smell, transparent eyes boring into the night, and yet other eyes full of hatred and anticipating blood. Folco's hands reached for weapons; Thorin noticed his movement.
"There... there..." Folco gasped, "something's crawling toward us, Thorin! I sense it! And it senses us too..."
"What are you saying? How do you know?" Thorin was surprised, but the hobbit with unexpected passion grabbed the lapels of the dwarf's jacket.
"Arm yourself, Thorin! Shorty, don't sleep! They'll reach us now..."
"What, that one from the Barrows again?" Thorin let his pipe fall from his mouth and began pulling on his mail.
They froze, and then beyond the near hills sounded a malicious and long howl – but this was not at all the howl that had frightened the dwarf and hobbit at the very beginning of their toilsome path. This was the voice of a living creature, and Folco, as if he'd been struck by lightning, remembered the wolf tracks by the stream.
Their ponies tossed and snorted in fright. Hastily arming themselves, the friends stood back to back; large shivers shook Folco, he peered into the darkness until his eyes hurt; instinct told him the enemy was already very close.
"What to do, Thorin?" Shorty said grimly, spitting. "How long will the three of us hold out?"
He didn't manage to answer. On the silvery crescent of the western crest appeared some shadow, behind it another, more and more... Green lights of eyes burned, dull and malicious growling was heard; at this moment the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and its light flooded the western slope. The friends saw gray bodies of huge wolves, almost as tall at the withers as a hobbit's height, and amazing riders sitting on the wolves' backs. Squat, stocky, in pointed caps, they sat with legs tucked very high so their heels were almost on the wolf's spine; in their hands the hobbit saw spears and bows.
"Iy-ya-hey!" rang a thin and high screech, and from all sides toward the motionlessly frozen friends rushed dozens of unseen riders. Furious wolf growling mixed with warriors' war cries, arrows whistled. Shorty suddenly groaned and staggered but immediately straightened, and Folco who'd already started toward him for help answered the enemy with his first arrow. Thorin's crossbow clicked sonorously – two saddles emptied, but could this stop the rest? In the blink of an eye – the hobbit managed to loose only three arrows – the riders were right before them.
Everything happened so fast that Folco didn't manage to be properly frightened. Something struck him hard in the left shoulder and rang as it bounced off the scale mithril mail. Immediately a huge wolf lunged straight at him; in the gaping jaws fangs flashed for a moment – but only a moment, because Folco, twisting, clove the monster's head with the Gondorian blade of Great Meriadoc. The rider jumped aside and, snatching out a short sword, furiously rushed at the hobbit.
The world around Folco disappeared, narrowing to the small space directly before his face. Battle excitement pushed out fear, and Shorty's lessons hadn't been in vain. Deflecting the opponent's blade with a light sideways movement, Folco made a deep lunge, and the faithful steel of his distant ancestor pierced the unprotected throat of the enemy. At the same moment the hobbit felt a push in his side, but the dwarves' work proved beyond the swords of the attackers. The blade slid powerlessly along the hobbit's armor, whom with a lightning blow felled another opponent.
A new wolf leaped at him, and again the hobbit managed to defend himself – the beast fell under the irresistible axe of Thorin, chopping from the shoulder right and left. However, then the hobbit felt a strange emptiness on the right – turned and, as if in delirium, saw Shorty slowly toppling, knocked down by a wolf that had leaped from the side. The monster's teeth clacked but couldn't bite through the throat protected by mithril. The hobbit's sword immediately plunged into the wolf's side, and it fell writhing to the ground. Shorty jumped up before the attackers could take advantage of their temporary success.
Time seemed to stop, the battle didn't cease. But in vain the enemy archers tore at their bowstrings – arrows broke against the mithril armor impervious to earthly steel; in vain wolves lunged at the dwarves trying to knock them down and drag them apart – Shorty and the hobbit dodged deftly, while Thorin stood like a rock and his axe met the monster before it could reach him. In vain the riders pressed upon the friends – their swords couldn't pierce the reliable mail coats.
Leaving on the grass two dozen riders and fourteen wolf carcasses, the attackers rolled back. Between the combatants appeared an empty space of about thirty fathoms. For some time hoarse exclamations in an incomprehensible language came from the crowd, then the riders began mounting their saddles one by one. A moment later the head of the detachment disappeared over the hollow's crest.
All grew quiet. On the trampled grass soaked with human and animal blood, the dead bodies stood as black heaps of gloom. The hobbit stood with his tired arms lowered. Not a single thought was in his head; he swayed, looking with glazed eyes at Thorin who'd dashed up the hollow's slope. Shorty, with bloodied blades drawn, stealthily walked around the clearing inspecting the fallen enemies, and if he found a wounded one – a short swing of his dagger finished the job. Thorin returned.
"They've hidden," he reported hoarsely, dropping his axe in the grass. "But how far – ask Durin? Are you whole, Folco? And you, Shorty?"
"I'm all right," Shorty calmly responded, "but our hobbit, any moment he'll crash down!"
Folco indeed felt ill. Looking at the slain, he began to shake – in the moonlight the slaughter looked especially terrible. His legs gave way, and had Shorty not caught him, he would surely have fallen.
Folco sniffled, unsuccessfully trying to wipe his cheeks with his mail sleeve. His gaze accidentally fell on his hands – they were dark, covered with another's blood. The hobbit hastily grabbed his flask and didn't calm down until he'd washed his palms. Only after that, together with his friends, could he look around, and the first thing they saw – these were their ponies, pierced by a good dozen arrows each.
"Well, well..." Thorin drawled. "So, we'll have to go on foot now. Folco! How much farther to this valley?"
"Three days – if on our own two feet," the hobbit answered gloomily, having come to himself. Shorty whistled.
"From the valley mouth to Isengard is sixteen miles," Folco informed his friends. "We'll cover it in one full day. But first we have to get there! We need to cross, I think, two chains of hills – there'll be the Isen."
"Well, let's go farther," Thorin rose. "We can't leave weapons or tools – so we'll have to part with some provisions..."
"Part with provisions?!" Folco howled. "Even so breaking our legs on these slopes, and on an empty stomach too?!"
"We just need to reach the Forest," Thorin patiently began explaining to him. "And there either we'll find the ents or ask for help at some Rohirric post. If only we reach the Tract whole, and there's ale and hot soup at an inn," he smirked. "What gluttons you hobbits are!"
"Here we sit," Shorty suddenly entered the conversation, "and these daredevils on wolves might not have gone far!"
At these words the hobbit again began looking around fearfully. Without delay, they set out. The dwarves shouldered almost everything their dead horses had carried, and the friends strode away, constantly looking back. The hobbit kept his bow ready. And this precaution proved far from unnecessary.
The friends would never have noticed the wolf – the beast knows how to crawl unseen – if not for its rider who brushed his high cap against a hawthorn branch. The hobbit shot almost without aiming; a malicious howl sounded, and the wounded beast rushed in flight, carrying its luckless rider.
They doubled their caution. Avoiding moonlit places, they made their way through secluded ravines and hollows, climbing into the very depths of thorny bushes. The hobbit crept soundlessly; the dwarves, however, crunched branches at full volume, puffed, grunted, cursed indistinctly, so that Folco constantly froze in fear that they'd be heard now and tracked.
However, until morning no one else met them. The hobbit clearly sensed the invisible presence of the enemy behind their backs, but they kept cautiously, not approaching the dangerous wanderers. He told his friends about this. The dwarves, already beginning to get used to the accuracy of the hobbit's premonitions, met his words without surprise.
"How long will they trail after us?" Shorty puffed, sweating under the unbearable pack. "These are Rohirric domains, aren't they afraid?"
"There are enough of them to deal with a small patrol," Thorin answered in a voice hoarse from strain. "Remember we mustn't catch the Riders of the Mark's eye either. So watch carefully and move your legs, and the sooner we reach the Forest, the sooner we'll be out of danger. Whatever they say about the Watch-wood, I believe in it."
"But I wouldn't rush into it so headlong," Shorty objected. "Or have you become a forest elf, Thorin? One might think you've wandered forests all your life?"
"All my life not all, but I've had to walk through them," Thorin answered, ignoring Shorty's smirk. "And where else can we go?"
"You yourself said – to the post!"
"So these nice doggies can spill the Rohirrim's guts?! No, no need to drag others into this. Once they already tried to take us – didn't work! Henceforth they'll think before climbing. Just don't take off your armor, maybe everything will work out."
Morning came somehow suddenly, all at once; rays breaking into the deep valley illuminated the hobbit swaying from fatigue and his companions for whom, it seemed, both a sleepless night and heavy load behind their shoulders were trifles. The endurance of dwarves had long become proverbial.
They spent the day huddled in dense thickets at the very bottom of a basin between three hills. Folco slept without waking until evening, and having woken, felt ashamed – his friends had stood watch for him. However, he'd rested and now could go farther.
At dusk they set out again. As before the night sky was bright and beautiful, the moon sailed calmly across the clear vault. The hobbit turned his face to the sunset and looked for Earendil's Star – the Fire-kindler was rising over the near hills, and its gleam seemed to give new strength and drive away dark fears. The hobbit gripped his sword hilt tighter and strode briskly after Thorin.
Morning caught them on the bank of the swift Isen. Having crossed the second ridge, they ran into a dense wall of low young forest; the dwarves reached for their axes, but Folco, again obeying some intuition, grabbed his friends' hands.
"Wait! We're going into the forest subject to the ents! How can we cut living trees!"
The dwarves sighed and following the hobbit climbed into the impenetrable weaving of flexible young branches and trunks. They moved very slowly, but the green nets finally parted, and they found themselves on the flat bottom of a wide valley. Right before them in a narrow channel with steep precipitous banks the Isen rushed; between the thickets and the river bank through tall bushes led a narrow road going north. Having found themselves on it, the friends saw this wasn't an ordinary country lane but the remains of a once very wide, stone-paved tract. Now dense greenery hid its edges, insistent grass pushed apart the tightly fitted slabs; free space remained barely for three riders to pass. Thinking, the hobbit supposed this was that very Saruman's Tract along which once King Theoden's detachment galloped to Isengard; then the Riders saw a quite different picture... The land scorched by Saruman's orcs' labors lived and grew green again.
The friends strode along the road that led straight to the foot of gigantic Methedras. The hills became ever higher, their slopes ever steeper, and soon on both sides of the valley reared up impregnable walls of gray cliffs. The forest along both banks became darker, denser, and older.
Thorin decided to risk and go straight – if the hobbit still had strength. Strangely enough, the second night's journey came much easier to Folco than the first – as if some invisible hand supported his load, taking upon itself part of its weight.
Twice they had to hide in roadside thickets from Rohirric horsemen riding back and forth in large, well-armed detachments. Folco again warned the dwarves of their appearance – after the incident with the blue flower his sense of danger had noticeably sharpened. The hobbit had reflected more than once or twice on this case – and found no other explanation for his ability to sense approaching danger.
Hours passed, the sun rose to zenith, it became hot and stuffy. In the still air of Nan Curunir not the slightest breath was felt; Shorty grimly declared that by evening a storm was inevitable.
On the way Folco tried to make out the remains of the black pillar with the White Hand; he remembered that the Hand itself was broken by the ents, but the pillar should have been preserved; however, the forest around them had become so dense that seeing anything proved impossible.
The Tract broke off unexpectedly, much earlier than came out by the hobbit's calculations; a whiff of smoke came from ahead, and they hurried to hide in dense undergrowth. Having freed themselves from packs, they carefully crawled forward, but soon the hobbit whispered to the dwarves that this way they'd rouse the whole post and that he'd go on alone. Thorin grumbled but had to yield.
Crawling on his belly, the hobbit soon found himself at the thickets' edge. And the first thing that struck his eyes – a solid wall of forest giants that had flung skyward crowns like green clouds about half a mile from him. From the green tunnel flowed the Isen; gigantic branches dipped their foliage into the water, forming something like a grating barring the stream flowing under the fortress wall. The forest filled the whole valley; before it on a small section of clear bank stood the Riders' watch post – several small houses fenced with a palisade; a smooth stream of blue smoke rose into the sky; several horses wandered unsaddled near the fence. On a watchtower the figure of a sentry was visible.
The hobbit was about to crawl back but couldn't immediately tear his gaze from the Watch-wood. Gigantic trunks stood frozen like a formation of warriors; their bases drowned in gray moss, brown lichens hung from the bark – around them was no undergrowth. It seemed some gigantic knife had cut off the old forest's edge, baring its depth. The hobbit's gaze glided long along the brown-gray trunks, and gradually in him revived Shorty's apprehensions. The Watch-wood didn't seem peaceful. On the contrary, here and there in the grass black spots left by fire were visible – as if flame approached from grass to tree roots but stopped every time meeting on its way damp, moisture-saturated mosses. At the post all was calm; but how to slip past the keen eye of Rohirric guards? Folco racked his brains long but, having thought up nothing, returned to his impatiently waiting comrades.
"In daytime we can't reach the forest," Folco reported to the dwarves. "The Riders are alert, and from the tower one can see far. They've cut down all the bushes, can't crawl through. We must wait for night."
"So I should climb into this forest of yours at night too?!" Shorty was indignant. "I know these forests – either you'll fall into some pit, or the trees will twist your head off themselves!"
"But you've gone through so many forests with us!" Thorin was surprised.
"But what forests were those?" Shorty whispered. "Can't you see this one's alive?! It doesn't love strangers. And we're also with axes. They'll crush us there, I swear by the Morian Hammers!"
"And I swear by Durin's beard that I'll crush you myself first if you don't stop shaking!" Thorin hissed. "Did we break our legs for nothing? Fought the wolf riders for nothing? Learned about the 'master' for nothing?! You'd better keep quiet or give me beer, my throat's parched. We must get through – and we'll get through to Isengard!"
"Well, if we don't get through, what – throw ourselves into the Morian Moat or something?" Shorty snapped back. "Do we have the One Ring? And before us – the Mountain of Fire? Aren't we taking on too much?!"
"All right, Shorty," Thorin waved his hand. "I see the Forest really isn't to your liking. Well, stay here! You'll guard our packs, it'll even be better – Folco and I will go light."
Shorty jumped as if he'd been struck in the face.
"So you'll go without me?!" he whispered furiously. "And you decided I'll stay behind just because I don't like this Forest?! Oh no, my friend Thorin! Strori will follow you anywhere! And if he turns back – only together with you!"
Shorty's eyes burned, his lips trembled, he was beside himself, and Folco didn't immediately understand that the one he'd always called by a not very pleasant nickname had a name – Strori...
"Don't get heated, friend," Thorin lowered his eyes. "Of course we'll go together."
They set out at dawn when over the Isen still lay unusually dense and thick fog, vividly reminding the hobbit of that unkind morning by Wolf Stone. At night they'd woken only once – when the southern wind, having slightly dispersed the staleness of the valley air, brought them distant echoes of wolf howling. Crawling, not daring to raise their heads, they moved along the very water where young sedge could give at least some cover; however, the hobbit placed his main hope in the fog.
They covered half a mile in about an hour. And only when Thorin crawling ahead sighed with relief, embracing with his palms the top of a very thick root, did the hobbit dare raise his head. Around them as before everything was hidden in foggy haze.
"Here we are," Thorin whispered.
They settled to rest under the extreme tree – a gigantic ash, from time to time glancing at the clearing left behind. Folco tried to concentrate, attempting to determine – was there danger ahead, but nothing worked. To his inner vision the forest seemed a solid veil covering a heap of embers smoldering in ashes, but these embers weren't hot but, on the contrary, cold and most resembled distant stars gathered together.
"Someone's will covered this land with a curtain from us... So, it seems, Legolas used to say," thought the hobbit.
In the Watch-wood itself at first it seemed to him neither frightening nor uncomfortable. On the contrary, the soft moss so beckoned to lay one's head and give rest to tired legs. Here, at the very edge, there was neither mysterious twilight nor particular staleness in the air – no more than what was everywhere in this valley.
The hobbit carefully touched the ancient rough bark – and felt how in the warm depths of the tree constantly flows the current of life-giving juices. He caught a barely noticeable change in the single rhythm of the mighty giant's life and understood that they'd not only been noticed but the news about them had been transmitted – through the solid network of roots somewhere far, to the mountains. One couldn't say Folco was frightened, but he grew alert.
Having rested and refreshed themselves properly, they decided to go farther and rely on luck. They rose, got into their straps, took several steps.
"How we might not get lost here," Shorty muttered with an extremely concerned and displeased look.
"The Watch-wood should stretch at most four miles," the hobbit reassured him. "To the right are mountains, to the left the river – how can you lose your way?.."
Soon the brownish smooth trunks closed from them the last gleam of the pre-forest glade, and they immediately found themselves in that very secluded arboreal realm through which two young hobbits had wandered more than three hundred years ago. The motionless air was filled with incomprehensible smells – the hobbit couldn't understand what kind. Light almost didn't penetrate here, to the bottom of the ocean of leaves; walking became difficult, but then they noticed right before them something like a path – it wasn't barred by gigantic roots resembling huge snakes, and densely interwoven at the sides and above it branches formed something like a living corridor. Rejoicing, the friends strode forward and walked so for some time until Thorin stopped and declared that they'd either made a circle or he understood nothing about his mountain craft. He looked at Shorty, and he nodded.
"You see, Folco," Thorin turned to the hobbit. "This path is somehow with tricks. It went straight, then suddenly started turning. I thought at first – just so, but now I see: it's leading back to the edge. This won't do. We're turning off!"
However, this proved much easier said than done. A gust of wind ran through the treetops. The forest rustled as if from indignation when Thorin, scratching his face and hands, climbed from the deceptive path into the thicket.
It seemed every bough aimed to catch them; roots themselves protruded from the ground, and the travelers stumbled every few steps. However, they stubbornly made their way ever farther and just as stubbornly didn't bring axes into use. It was amazing how the dwarves managed not to lose their way in this incredible weaving; time passed, and despite all obstacles, labored breathing, and painful scratches, the three friends advanced forward.
Never before had the hobbit been in such a forest. The Watch-wood lived its own special life; in every twig and every shoot enormous life force was felt; Folco sensed around himself thousands of attentive eyeless gazes vigilantly following his every movement. He began noticing that trees also responded differently to his approach – some aimed to tangle feet with roots, others blocked the way with gnarled boughs, still others aimed to throw right into his eyes dry, lifeless leaves appearing from who knows where in the August forest. Every step came at considerable cost, and the hobbit understood why – in this forest stood thousands of huorns, half-trees-half-ents, and they could be especially dangerous. He again closed his eyes, trying to see something with his second sight, but the image of glimmering under the blanket cold ember-stars didn't change – except that the prickly lights had considerably approached.
And the trees kept pressing; around roots earth began to swell, branches scraped as they bent toward the travelers' heads – and then they were genuinely frightened. Around them, creaking, a living green curtain turned, closing its deadly embraces. An axe flashed in Shorty's hand.
The hobbit immediately hung on the dwarf's arm.
"Stop! Stop!" he pleaded with his friends. "We'll only destroy ourselves! You won't do anything here with axes!"
"Then with what?!" Thorin growled, pushing away a particularly insistent branch. "If you know what to do – do it, before they tear our heads off!"
"O Elbereth Gilthoniel!" Folco whispered the name of the Great Lady. "O Treebeard, Lord of Fangorn!"
His hands pulled from the sheaths on his chest the cherished dagger. Immediately under the ground and above it, somewhere in the thicket of branches, swept a long drawn-out creak, as if it were some command; for a moment everything around them froze. However, already in the next second the forest around them again came into movement. Before them opened a low green tunnel; trunks parted, roots crawled aside, and branches began quite noticeably pushing the friends in their backs. Obeying the clearly expressed order, they silently strode forward, inwardly guessing how this would end. Thorin tried to turn aside – but where! In his path instantly wove an impenetrable wall through which getting without an axe was impossible. Following the path predetermined for them by someone's will, they walked into the very depths of the forest.
"This is some hobbit!" Thorin muttered. "How did you guess? Of course, we should have reminded them about the elves... But where are they leading us?"
The answer had to wait quite long. The path leading them noticeably bore left, to the edge of the mountains girdling the valley. It became slightly lighter; the trees calmed as if convinced the strangers were going where needed. Several more minutes of walking – and the path led upward. A stream gurgled down the slope.
Suddenly the path broke off. They found themselves in a small space surrounded by forest giants that had closed crowns above it. From a cliff rising vertically upward fell a silvery stream giving birth to the stream they'd seen earlier; across the silky grass were scattered several stone boulders. In one place the cliff overhung the green platform, and there they saw something like a large bed spread with grass, a flat stone slab like a table, and several stone jugs along the wall.
"Like the Spring Hall," the hobbit thought. "Could I really see Treebeard himself?.."
The dwarves tramped near the rocky wall. Shorty kept splashing cold water from the waterfall on his face; Thorin paced the narrow platform muttering something under his breath. Folco closed his eyes – the cold ember-stars were very close!
At that same moment the branches with quiet rustling lifted and through the appeared gates into the semicircle entered a very strange figure. The friends froze, staring at it with all their eyes.
Yes, this could only be an Old Ent and no other. Three hundred years hadn't diminished his fifteen-foot height, hadn't furrowed with wrinkles his smooth brown skin, and perhaps only his gray beard, the tip of whose hair resembled ancient lichens, had become slightly longer. His fingers – seven on each hand – were as flexible and mobile as before, and still radiated with an amazing greenish color his wonderful eyes that had so struck once two young hobbits who'd ended up in Fangorn. But probably there was much less calm in them then than now, and this was the first thing that flashed in Folco's head – the Old Ent was above all calm.
He stopped at the forest and grass border and long, very long and thoughtfully looked at the frozen travelers. His long head with a high open forehead slowly turned together with his whole powerful torso – ents have no neck at all. The hobbit caught the piercing gaze of the Great Forest's Master, a gaze penetrating to the very depths of his being – and didn't lower his eyes. Suddenly he felt extraordinary calm and with involuntary surprise looked at Shorty breathing heavily, who didn't have strength even to wipe the sweat streaming down his face. Before the ent spoke, the hobbit bowed before him in a low respectful bow.
"Hoom-hom, hoom-hom, roomty toom toom," sounded the low and thick voice of the Old Ent, rumbling like a booming drum. "Who is it sneaking through the Watch-wood again without our knowledge? I need to question you more thoroughly. Roots and boughs! I see axes at the belts of two of you! And who is this third beside you, axe-bearers? He's very much like those who once visited our Forest and accomplished the impossible, raising the ents to an unprecedented deed. Isn't he a hobbit?"
"O Treebeard, you're right," Folco answered respectfully. "For I'm indeed a hobbit from the Shire, my name is Brandybuck (at this the Old Ent's fingers trembled slightly), Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast. And these are my friends, dwarves Thorin and Strori; they're from the Blue Mountains. As for their axes, I'll answer you with words once said to you by an elf named Legolas: their axes are not for trees but for orc necks, and they've hewn many of them when we made our way through orc-occupied underground!"
"Well then," Treebeard rumbled, approaching Folco. "I see you know very much about the affairs of those days, quite recent for me and surely very distant for your kinsmen. This is good, very good, Folco. There was a time – and those I knew quite young, Peregrin and Meriadoc, often visited my Forest, and we had splendid conversations about distant lands and amazing events. Ah, how many hopes there were then! But time is merciless to such as you." The Old Ent sighed. "The day came when I received news that both my friends had gone beyond the Sundering Seas and their bodies are buried in the great city of Men, far to the sunrise from our forests. And after that hobbits ceased coming to Fangorn's borders. But I always believed that the time would come when someone from those who so endeared themselves to the ents would again visit our realm. This day has come, and I'm glad, very glad – both of you and your friends, since you vouch for them..." The dwarves hurriedly bowed. "Be my guests! I'll show you new plantings, young mountain forests now rustling where once stretched only barren wastes. And you'll tell me about everything happening in the world. I love learning news! Especially when it's not distressing."
"But why are you so sure it will turn out not distressing?" Folco asked with curiosity, examining the ent with all his eyes.
"And why would it be?" Treebeard rumbled cheerfully. "Not so long ago they were indeed dark and threatening – when the Dark Lord intended to finish off all the forests and poison the free lands forever. But he has perished, perished forever, as has the traitor Saruman. There are no more orcs in Isengard, no more of their axes! No one dares to encroach on my forests anymore, the ents are busy growing new ones. If the elves had not left this world, I would say that an ent needs nothing, except perhaps our lost ent-wives. You have heard of this misfortune of ours, haven't you?"
The Old Ent sighed again.
"I have read of it, heard much," Folco pronounced with appropriate sympathy. "You still haven't found them?"
"Alas, no," came another sigh from the Old Ent. "We were once foretold that we would find them only when both they and we have lost everything we have. During the last War, when I met your young kinsmen, it seemed to me that the prophesied hour was about to come, but men and elves prevailed again. Sauron was overthrown, our forests remained unharmed and... the prophecy was not fulfilled. So we have lived since then, finding healing from longing for our lost wives in unceasing labors... But enough of that. Hoom! What's this? I must be becoming hasty again, as on that memorable day," Treebeard smiled, "when we added new lines to the Old Lists. But now it's your turn to speak. What's happening around? What brought you here? A hobbit and dwarves – a strange company."
Folco wanted to ask the Old Ent why the Rohirrim had quarreled with him, but thought better of it. Together with Thorin, interrupting each other, they began telling about everything that had happened during almost a full year of their wanderings. The Old Ent listened very attentively; first he wanted Folco to tell him in all details about hobbit news;
only after that did they speak of the meeting of hobbit and dwarf on the forest road one misty autumn night...
The hobbit at first followed the changing expression in Treebeard's eyes with simple curiosity, and then with burning attention mixed with alarm. It seemed they alone replaced all facial expressions on his barely mobile face; like deep wells, they led into the depths of his thoughts, which no mortal could of course fathom, but Folco felt the ent's mood very clearly.
Treebeard, having at first benevolently and with pleasure listened to the hobbit's necessarily rambling account of events in his homeland (to Folco himself they now seemed very distant and quite unimportant), became slightly agitated upon hearing of the awakened Barrow-downs, of men serving long-buried evil forces; but for the ent all this was happening somewhere unimaginably far from his beloved forests and could not threaten them in any way.
The friends told Treebeard about their life in Annúminas. The Old Ent listened with genuine interest, though a bit detachedly – he did not approve of cities. He became alert again when the hobbit recalled Thraudun and his persistent attempts to set neighboring Arnorian villages against each other. This reminded him of something, and he gruffly muttered something under his breath, his eyes suddenly flashing with alarm. He began thoroughly questioning the friends about everything they knew of Thraudun. Finally, satisfied with their account, he slowly bowed his head and sank into thought.
"Humm-hom, hoom-come, hommum hom hom..." came his worried rumbling to the friends. "But we shouldn't be hasty. Let's hear what happened next! Tell me!"
And they told. The sun passed its zenith and began descending to the horizon, and still they talked and talked. They told of Rogvold, and of the Steward, and of the Old Chronicler, and of Olmer. Treebeard listened with attention, but these were all affairs of men, little touching him. He perked up when talk turned to the Last March and the alliance of Angmarites with orcs.
"Again those – burarum!" The Ent issued a low angry roar. "They appeared near our Forest too. Tried to sneak to Isengard – but no such luck! The Huorns know their business. So this spawn is raising its head not only here!" The ent's eyes flashed. "Well, it's time for men to get back to work."
Nodding approvingly, he heard the tale of the dwarven convoy and Rangers' journey to Moria, of the battle at Grey Narrows.
"Humm, we have long felt that something is happening in Moria unseen since the days of the Elder Age," he said thoughtfully. "However, I can recall times when forces similar to those awakened under the mountains held sway over all the depths... These are terrible forces... Roots and boughs! Terrible! And mortal enemies of forests. Our good fortune is that they don't come out to the surface."
"But who commands them?" Thorin asked hoarsely.
"When the world was young, they were commanded by he who wielded the Veil of Darkness, who fought against elves and men," the ent answered sternly. "How many forests then crumbled to dust! And whom they obey now – you shouldn't ask me."
"Then whom should we ask?!" Thorin exhaled hotly, wiping away sweat.
The Old Ent smiled.
"They have long departed, departed across the Sea, those who could answer you," he said quietly. "Almost no elves remain in Middle-earth, and without their Knowledge, Darkness raises its head. However, there were also wizards in our lands, some of them even knew trees well and cared for them – like Gandalf, for example. But they too have departed... And there is only one who knows EVERYTHING. You have forgotten about the master of the Old Forest, near your very land, Folco. The elves called him Iarwain, and I shall name him as we ents call him – Sillórin, – which is, of course, very brief. Ask him! He has seen EVERYTHING!"
"Tom Bombadil?" Folco was amazed. "But he has no concern with this world, he has shut himself within his boundaries and never intervenes in anything – so it is written by those who saw him during the Last War, including my great-great-grandfather! The Enemy's Ring had no power over Tom Bombadil, but he could not protect others from it, and indeed did not understand what it was for. So Gandalf himself said."
"I don't know," Treebeard shook his head worriedly. "Help he may not be able to give, but instruct and teach – that certainly. He must know how to fight the powers of Ungoliant!"
"The captive orc babbled something about some 'master,'" Thorin continued. "That there would soon be a final battle... Actually, that's why we went to Isengard – to see if there were any traces of him left there."
"In Isengard? Humm, what a laugh! No one can penetrate to it, no one! The Great King Aragorn himself especially asked us about this when he visited our Forest the last time – quite recently, but for you, of course, already very, very long ago: the leaves have changed two or three hundred times."
"King Elessar asked you not to let anyone into Isengard?" Folco repeated in astonishment. "But why?"
"Humm-hom, huum, I confess, I don't know," after a minute's thought the Old Ent spread his hands a bit sheepishly. "He simply asked me this as an old friend, saying that this tower could become dangerous if someone not initiated into these magical things entered it... He said nothing more, and I, I confess, did not question the Great Lord of Men. The ents strengthened the watch around the ruins, and now not a single living creature can sneak to the Tower!"
The hobbit and dwarves exchanged glances.
"So we won't be able to look at it either?" Folco exhaled. "And we had such hopes, walked so many miles, fought with wolf-riders..."
If Treebeard could frown, he probably would, flashed through the hobbit's mind as he observed the changing expressions in the Old Ent's eyes – the warmth in them diminished, some vague hurt appeared.
"I promised the King of Arnor and Gondor..." he began.
"Wait, respected Treebeard!" Folco suddenly caught himself. "You promised not to let subjects of the Crown to this Tower, isn't that so?"
The Old Ent slowly inclined his head in agreement.
"But dwarves are not subjects of the King of Men," the hobbit noted. "And my kinsmen have long lived by their own wit, obeying no one! The Great King even issued an order forbidding everyone, even the King himself, from crossing the borders of the Shire. So you won't break your word, respected Treebeard, if you let us to this Tower!"
"I didn't think of that," the Old Ent said in surprise. "But if so – huum, you're demanding too hasty decisions from me!"
"But we really need to look at it!" Folco continued persuading the Master of the Forest. "We're very troubled by this unknown 'master' we learned of from the orcs who served the traitor Saruman! Now they've submitted to a new lord. Could he really not have tried to lay hands on Saruman's legacy? Could he really not have left traces somewhere here?!"
"Those vile orcs tried to get to the Tower, I already told you," Treebeard spoke slowly and with growing alarm. "Truth be told, in recent months there have been far more of them than a year ago. Yes! I almost forgot! Quite recently someone was digging under the mountains. Digging, but nothing came of it – the earth there is all bones. Yes, quite recently it was," he repeated, clapping his palms against his sides in surprise. "How could I forget?!"
"We really need to get to Orthanc!" the hobbit pronounced pleadingly. "When was it – quite recently by your reckoning? A week ago? A month? A year? We absolutely must see this!"
"If someone was conducting a tunnel under your domain, O Treebeard, Master of Fangorn Forest," Thorin said with grim respectfulness, "we'll find this place, we know how to do it, we are mountain dwarves. No one else can do this better."
"A tunnel?" Treebeard suddenly rumbled. "A tunnel? Oh, I'm an old rotten stump! Come! Come quickly! However," he was already cooling down, "we shouldn't be hasty. As for when it was by your count – truly, I don't know. We have our own calendar. I can only say it was after those leaves that are now on the branches opened. You should rest. Now I'll bring some of our drink, from the purest mountain springs!"
He turned to the cliff and soon invited the friends to the stone slab that served as a table, on which stood four stone cups – one very large and three smaller. He filled them from three different jugs, softly glowing – one gently golden, another pinkish-saffron, and the third emerald-green.
"The golden is for me," Treebeard said quietly, "the drink of old age that has seen and lived, the color of autumn leaves. The pink is of maturity, it will increase your strength, respected dwarves, and help you look at the world with an unsoured gaze. And the green is the color of youth, it's for Folco, he, like those young kinsmen of his memorable to all ents, needs very much to grow!"
He sighed and raised his cup. The others took up theirs.
The hobbit with trepidation touched his lips to the thick moisture in the stone cup; from the drink came a soft, tart aroma of awakening buds, of blooming spring earth, which made his head spin slightly and brought some reckless daring, as if there had been no long year of difficult trials and bitter disappointments. Folco drained the cup slowly, savoring every sip of the unprecedented drink, and when he lowered it, he saw how his friends' faces had brightened, and Shorty seemed intent on pouring himself more.
"No, no!" Treebeard stopped him. "You can't drink much of this. One cup will last you a long time... a very long time." He smiled unexpectedly sadly. "How did you like it?"
The friends began thanking the Old Ent in one voice.
"I'm glad, glad, very glad," he smiled again. "If you want to rest, then sleep – it's quiet and peaceful here at my place, I won't let the winds in."
"No," Thorin said, glancing at the sky. "I feel as if I haven't traveled this last month! Shall we go to Orthanc right now?"
Treebeard readily agreed, hoisted the hobbit onto the crook of his mighty arm, and they strode north along the edge of the mountains through a green corridor hastily cleared for them by the Forest.
Treebeard walked unhurriedly, matching his step to the dwarves hurrying after him. Folco began cautiously questioning him about the reasons for the Forest's quarrel with the men of Rohan.
"Ah!.." the ent waved dismissively. "They have their own ways, and I bear them no grudge. But I won't allow anyone to touch my forests! They're accustomed to looking at trees only as fuel for their fires and furnaces, at best – as material for their houses. They don't understand and climb in with their axes, just like orcs, whom we beat together in that Great War!.. And then there's the lord of the Horselords, not the same one, of course, not good Théoden," Treebeard sighed, "he decided to become master not only over his steppes, but also over the mountains, and immediately climbed toward Isengard. He's a man, and though a king himself, a subject of the Great Crown of the West," barely perceptible mockery flashed in Treebeard's eyes, "I didn't let either his men or himself through. The fools, they began to spite me and other ents, they tried to sneak into the fortress secretly!.. And now men don't forget to throw a torch into the bushes – if they think themselves safe. Some of them the Huorns killed." Genuine sympathy sounded in the ent's voice, but in it were also unshakeable firmness and confidence in his rightness. "Yes, some they killed, and since then they've become afraid of the Forest. Few of them dare to enter it – such we simply don't let deep inside. And there are those who bring fire with them! But here we don't delay. Death to arsonists!" Treebeard issued a low menacing roar. "Once old Gandalf told me not to dream of covering all the earth with my forests and choking all other free creatures, but truly, sometimes I would very much like our forests to stretch all the way to the Ered Nimrais mountains!"
Folco would have liked to talk more with the Old Ent, but the trees unexpectedly parted, and they found themselves at the edge of a large clearing, surrounded on three sides by dense forest, and on the fourth abutting the slopes of impassable grey rocks, on whose ledges trees also grew green, somehow rooted there. The Isen remained to the right, and directly before them Isengard itself opened.
More precisely, they saw only the tall Tower of Orthanc, standing alone in the middle of a calm and clear forest lake – arranged by the ents immediately after they took Saruman's fortress. Compared to what the heroes of the Red Book saw when they turned into Isengard on their way West, only one thing had changed – an elegant stone bridge appeared, narrow and long, thrown across the lake right to the doors of Orthanc.
And yet, despite all the ents' efforts, something malevolent was felt in this place, as if the shadow of former Evil had not completely left its ancient dwelling. The whole matter, of course, was in the Tower. The black mass, reaching upward with its powerful buttresses, looked down contemptuously on the world with dozens of squinted arrow-slit eyes; its brow was crowned, like a crown, by twelve sharp stone horns. The entire aspect of Orthanc still breathed with ancient strength and might, incomprehensible to Mortals.
Even the air here seemed different. Under the tree crowns it was stuffy in places, but the aroma of life, generously spilled through the forest, was replaced here by the smell of death; the hobbit was ready to swear he heard the stench of something rotting; he glanced at Treebeard and noticed a grimace of disgust on the Old Ent's face.
"Huum!" he exhaled with displeasure, wrinkling his nose. "We're going to look for the tunnel? Then I'll call some more of our folk."
Treebeard brought his cupped palms to his mouth and sang or called out something inviting and melodious. The hobbit gazed as if spellbound at the Tower, the dwarves meanwhile looked around businesslike, exchanging short phrases, as if the oppressive view of this place, at first glance so peaceful and beautiful, had no effect on them at all. After some time several more ents emerged from the forest thicket and froze, staring with all their eyes at the three companions. Treebeard spoke in his language. A stream of continuous, musical consonances flowed, though the Old Ent seemed only to be muttering something under his breath. At the same time the ents answered him with the same muttering. Remembering the Red Book and the famous slowness of Entish speech, Folco sighed and prepared for long negotiations, but everything ended surprisingly quickly. The ents with broad strides quickly approached them, and they all moved toward the shore of the lake.
The hobbit looked around with all his eyes, but it seemed the ents had done a splendid job here – it was impossible to discern even traces of any structures or entrances to underground passages. Treebeard walked silently, as if immersed in some memories, carefully stepping among the thickets. The dwarves followed in his footsteps. Soon they found themselves at the black base of Orthanc, glistening as if after rain. On the improbably smooth surface Folco saw a row of small, barely noticeable pockmarks, and he had only opened his mouth to ask when the Old Ent spoke himself.
"Here it is, Orthanc," he said with a sigh, carefully lowering the hobbit onto the stones. "How we wanted to wipe it from the face of the earth, turn it into dust like everything else in this accursed fortress! Do you see these chips, Folco? That's all we could do to it."
"Yes, I read that some magic is contained in it, older and stronger than Saruman's," the hobbit said, involuntarily lowering his voice, surveying the Tower – for which he had to throw his head all the way back. Orthanc also hadn't changed – the same iron door locked tight, the same twenty-seven steps upward, carved in the black rock by unknown builders in an unknown way.
Above the door Folco saw a balcony with twisted iron railings. The window-door above the balcony was tightly closed.
"Treebeard, tell me please, has really no one been inside here in three hundred years?" the hobbit asked the Old Ent quietly, who was gloomily looking at the stronghold that had not submitted to his people.
"The Great King Aragorn was there last time," he answered, "and no one else ever. He himself entered the Tower alone, leaving all the guard below. I didn't go either, I have nothing to do there. So then, friends," he turned to the dwarves, "isn't it time for us to begin?"
Thorin and Shorty took the sacks off their backs and slowly, dropping their heads to their chests and looking down, walked in different directions around the shore. They circled the little lake once, twice, three times... Folco's breath caught with excitement. Treebeard betrayed his feelings in no way. Finally the dwarves stopped. Thorin slowly raised his head, spread his arms and began slowly swaying from side to side, moving carefully with small steps; Shorty squatted and also threw his head back, as if catching some barely perceptible sound audible to him alone. Suddenly Thorin froze, with a relieved sigh dropped his arms and opened his tightly shut eyes.
"Here!" He poked his finger at his feet. "The tunnel's here!"
The place he indicated was on the opposite side from the entrance to Orthanc. Treebeard made a sign to the ents – his comrades, who had been silently observing what was happening, immediately set to work. Here the hobbit finally saw how ents in practice can deal with impregnable fortress walls. The toes of their feet seemed to come alive, separating from their owners and living their own life – they began to branch, thin but extraordinarily strong shoots penetrated into all the cracks between the stones, and then the ents began to scrape away the stone with their huge feet; a minute later the pit was already twelve feet deep and twice as wide; the ents stood on earth hidden until now under a layer of stone rubble and, without stopping, continued digging further, but now they moved more slowly and carefully. About half an hour passed when a triumphant voice came from the pit of one of the diggers:
"Fangorn, we found it!" The Ent used the Common Speech.
"Well now it's your turn," the Old Ent turned to the dwarves.
Thorin silently took a coil of rope from his bag, girded himself with it and handed the end to Treebeard. He adjusted his helmet and mail, tucked his axe more conveniently into his belt and disappeared beyond the ridge of overturned earth. A minute later Shorty followed him, and after him – Folco. The ents meanwhile climbed up.
The hobbit found himself at the bottom of a large pit ten feet deep. They stood on a stone floor, paved with hexagonal slabs; directly before them on one side was a black wall – the rounded base of the Tower, extending underground far to the sides, on the other side – a low narrow passage, hastily dug from somewhere to the west, from the very rocks. Around the foundation of Orthanc ran a circular gallery, which those who conducted the tunnel had reached.
"Let's walk around," Thorin suggested hollowly.
They moved to the right. The light quickly faded as they began to turn; fortunately, Shorty had a small torch in his pack, surviving from Morian times. At regular intervals other passages joined the circular gallery, branching off in different directions; the friends poked into one, but immediately ran into heaps of earth that had fallen from the ceiling. All of Saruman's galleries were completely blocked. The hastily dug tunnel was the only one.
Having walked about a hundred paces, they unexpectedly came upon a low door in the black smooth wall on the left. They stopped dead in their tracks – the door bore traces of blows, the metal of the leaves was dented in places. The dwarves rushed to examine the damage.
"They beat it with picks," Thorin concluded. "They tried to break it open, that's clear as day. But this door won't yield even to a battering ram – there's a fair share of mithril here!"
"Yes, no less than a third," Shorty nodded. "But now who will explain to me what this emblem on it means?"
Shorty brought the torch closer, and Folco saw a strange design on the dully gleaming silver leaf: three blazing arrows burst forth from violently raging waves, rushing toward a star-studded sky. Looking more closely, the hobbit realized that he saw among the seemingly randomly scattered stars the outlines of familiar constellations, only strangely shifted – Remmirath, the Star-net, was barely visible above the horizon, while the celestial Swordsman, on the contrary, stood almost at zenith.
"This is the sky of Númenor," the hobbit suddenly said quietly, reverently touching the door with his fingertips. "Now it's clear. This fortress was not built by the Knights from Overseas, my friends. This is the work of Númenóreans, true Númenóreans of the time of their kingdom's flowering. This is the Second Age!.."
"And what do the three arrows mean?" Shorty whispered.
Folco shrugged. Behind his back Thorin shifted from foot to foot.
"Whoever built all this, the important thing is that someone was digging here, and quite recently – about a month and a half or two ago. But was it that 'master' whose traces we're seeking?" Painful doubt sounded in the dwarf's voice. "How can you tell?"
They silently moved on. Soon, having made a circle, they returned to the breach in the gallery's ceiling, and Shorty was about to climb up; however, Folco unexpectedly suggested going to the door once more. A vague premonition, which had more than once correctly foretold something important in the fate of himself and his friends, reminded him of itself again. There was something in this dark gallery, something very important, past which they had walked, absorbed in seeking something completely different.
Shorty grumbled, but Thorin agreed with the hobbit, and soon they again stood before the impregnable door, barring the way to Orthanc's secret. Folco slowly dropped to his knees, intently examining the design. The door had no traces of external or internal locks: no hasps, keyholes or the like. It turned on hinges somehow set into the body of the black stone, closed tightly, without the slightest crack. Folco carefully tried to insert the point of his marvelous blade between the leaf and the stone – it didn't work, there was almost no gap, and besides, the dagger seemed powerless here, it lay in his palm as a cold indifferent bar. Hiding it, Folco suddenly pressed his forehead to the cold door and immediately caught some vague sound coming from within. He hastily put his ear to it and almost jumped away in horror – behind the door a human voice sounded hollowly.
Seeing his fright, the dwarves grabbed their weapons, but Folco only pushed them toward the door, wheezing one word: "Listen."
And they began to listen. In the first second they barely suppressed a cry, and in the next all three were already pressing themselves to the door with all their might, trying to make out words. The hobbit was ready to attack the ents with his fists – they missed it, mossy-bearded stumps! The enemy had managed to sneak behind the impregnable walls – and what to do with him now?!
The words came barely audibly, but he still managed to understand part of them; the voice pronouncing them sounded soft, insinuating and therefore even more indistinct.
"From seven stars by the path of petals..." then unclear muttering, "...return when you fulfill the covenant... find, in the name of the leafy!" Again several merged words: "At dawn take the dew of nelbala flowers... measure nine fathoms and thrust..."
They listened for a long time, but could understand nothing in these vague, confused fragments. The voice now began to speak of detachments of some avengers, now of the bark of the Black Tree Nur-Nur (neither the hobbit nor the dwarves had ever heard of these detachments or this tree), now of swan ships that must arrive at some place... Folco was bathed in sweat from efforts to understand what was happening behind the door, and only when he felt his mind going for reason did he cease futile attempts.
"We can't solve this here," Thorin whispered hoarsely. "This is some secret of the Tower. The living would hardly speak like that... So let's deal with what we have. Here's a passage, dug by who knows whom. Let's find out where it leads."
The dwarves with great difficulty tore away the hobbit who stubbornly didn't want to leave the door. Continually looking back and still hearing that soft voice in his ears, Folco trudged after his friends. At the breach they were hailed by the alarmed Treebeard. Thorin shouted in response that they were following the trail, and asked the ents to wait in this place, and if they were delayed – to dig out the tunnel and follow them.
The underground passage was dug hastily, without supports, the low ceiling threatened to collapse at any second; they slowly made their way forward, constantly trying to understand by the traces left on the floor what creatures had been here. They saw half-buried by sand falling from above prints of large feet, shod in heavy boots – in size and outline most similar to human, but once there flashed a wide trace of an orcish shoe. From that moment Thorin doubled his attention.
The tunnel stretched long, very long, until finally it led them into an inconspicuous hollow between two vertical rock walls soaring into the sky. In the crack were hammered roughly forged hooks, on which still hung scraps of ropes. There was no doubt – it was here that the unknown descended from the mountains and, without attracting the ents' attention, burrowed into the ground. On the grass remained traces of an old campfire.
The friends crawled over the clearing up and down, but the only thing they could say when, out of breath and smeared with dirt, they sat down to smoke, was that men and orcs had been here – two months ago. They found scraps of clothing, a broken knife, a hammer with a cracked handle – things made by both men and orcs.
They returned on the surface and soon again approached Orthanc. Treebeard met them with questions; they told him as best they could about what they had seen. The Old Ent frowned.
"Descended from the rocks... Well then, they won't succeed a second time!"
He turned to the other ents and spoke unhurriedly in his language, apparently giving some orders.
"And here too it's empty," Thorin threw out in vexation, again filling his pipe. "Try to understand! Was this 'master' here, or just daring men were poking around... I, of course, think it was still him. Well, who else among men would climb here!"
"I wouldn't speak so, for everyone at once," Shorty remarked. "Folco, why are you silent?"
The hobbit was indeed thinking about something of his own, staring unblinkingly at the sharp edges and narrow windows of Saruman's Tower. The voice! The voice inside. What could it be? Who has settled there, behind the impenetrable walls? Suddenly he grabbed Thorin by the arm.
"Let's climb inside," he proposed in a voice breaking with excitement.
The dwarves stared at him with wide-open eyes.
"Are you in your right mind, brother hobbit?" Thorin began, but Folco interrupted him:
"And the voice?! Have you really forgotten the voice in the Tower?! What is the Nur-Nur tree? What is the path of petals, and where does it lead? Who is this One? We're standing at the edge of a mystery that no Mortal possesses – can we really now turn away like cowards?! We must take the risk, we must penetrate Orthanc!"
"And its door we'll obviously gnaw through with our own teeth?" Shorty snorted. "You yourself told us that in Orthanc Saruman was invulnerable and could even have withstood the Nine! No, tell me, how will you get in there?!"
"Through the window!" Folco answered without a moment's hesitation. "The one above the balcony. We need to throw up the Grapple, I'll climb in and drop down the rope ladder to you."
"You want to enter this Accursed Tower?" the surprised voice of the Old Ent boomed above them. "Huum-hom, roots and boughs! Unprecedented!"
"But you'll help us, won't you, Treebeard?" Folco addressed him.
"With everything I can, but with what exactly?"
"Tell me, do you know if all of Orthanc's arrow-slits are locked from inside?"
"Huum, how should I know? But I'll say that some of them didn't withstand the blows of stones when we first entered Isengard and tried to destroy Orthanc. The ents then pelted the windows with stones, and I myself saw how the shutters on many didn't hold. So," he smiled slyly, "perhaps I can help you with that. Stand back!"
The friends hastily ran to the side. Treebeard unhurriedly bent down, chose among the stone blocks lying everywhere one, not very large, the size of a dwarf's height, took aim, weighed it in his palm, and then suddenly somehow bent, straightened with a sharp noisy exhale – the stone with a whistle flew upward and struck precisely in the window opening, which became shrouded in dust and small stone chips. A ringing blow sounded.
"There you are," the Old Ent said contentedly. "Now you can climb."
"Let's risk it, friends!" Folco again addressed the dwarves. "You yourselves will never forgive yourselves if you miss such a chance!"
Thorin and Shorty exchanged glances. For some time they still hesitated, but then Shorty first carelessly waved his hand and began to extract from the depths of his bag a sharp three-pronged grapple and a coil of strong rope.
"Now it's my turn," he announced for all to hear, squinting and thoughtfully passing the rope between the surviving fingers of his maimed hand. He took hold of the cord, about a cubit and a half above the anchor, whistled it once or twice over his head like a sling, and in the next moment the grapple rang against the stone and caught fast on the edge of the window. For good measure Shorty tugged the rope, even hung on it – the anchor held firm. The dwarves turned to the hobbit.
The hobbit bit his lip. Climbing he somehow didn't feel like it: the Tower loomed over him with all its mass, as if threatening to collapse at any moment and bury under its debris those who dared to violate its age-old peace. Folco looked back at Treebeard. He understood his glance in his own way.
"Don't be afraid, little one," he boomed. "The ents will stand under the window, and if anything, jump down boldly!"
"Treebeard... Why couldn't you break that door above the balcony?"
"We tried," the ent answered with a sigh. "Many times, all together. But no way! You can only break the upper shutters. I chose the lowest one as it is."
This "lowest one" was about thirty fathoms above their heads; Folco fleetingly marveled at what kind of eye Shorty must have possessed to accurately throw the anchor on the first try!
"Give me the bag." The hobbit felt Thorin's helping fingers on him. "Leave the mail, helmet, sword on yourself. I've strapped the ladder to your back. The main thing – don't think of doing anything until you're inside! There you can throw the ladder and whatever you want. Do you understand?"
The dwarf's lips betrayed him when he bent down and looked into Folco's face. The latter sighed, glanced at the ents standing under the wall, caught Treebeard's encouraging look, adjusted his sword and grabbed the rope;
Contrary to his expectation, climbing proved not so difficult. The dwarves held the lower end of the rope firmly; the ents froze, raising their long many-fingered hands, and the hobbit gradually grew bolder. He had grown considerably stronger during the year of labors and now leisurely, without special effort, pulled himself upward. He passed the balcony; one, another, third arrow-slit; he would have liked to know what shutters closed them, but the rope suddenly began to swing, and he had to concentrate entirely on his climb.
The most difficult part turned out to be scrambling onto the ledge under the arched opening of the arrow-slit; the threatening creaking of steel teeth on stone reached his ears – the grapple was slowly but steadily slipping. The hobbit gritted his teeth and, overcoming acute pain in overstrained stomach muscles, pulled himself up and tumbled over the ledge; barely had he managed to grab the shutter mangled by the stone's impact when the grapple broke loose and the rope, coiling in a whimsical snake, flew down, under the feet of the dwarves and ents.
"All's well!" the hobbit shouted down. "The shutter's knocked out, I'm lowering the ladder!" He carefully crawled into the depth of the embrasure and secured the ladder to a thick hook driven firmly into the wall, on which the shutter had just hung. Soon puffing came from below, and Thorin was the first to scramble onto the ledge, immediately filling the entire narrow space of the embrasure; with difficulty he squeezed inside. Shorty followed him, and only after that did Folco decide to look around.
They stood in an empty, semi-dark room with bare walls and a tall door in the opposite wall. Around their feet slowly swirled a greyish cloud of dust, thickly covering the entire floor, so that it was difficult to make out the complex pattern of the stone mosaic. On each of the walls there had obviously once been some mosaics or bas-reliefs; now only grey rectangles remained of them with traces of stonemasons' chisels around the edges; someone had cut out entire slabs. They raised their eyes upward – the ceiling was bluish-black. Around reigned dead silence, which made their ears ache.
Thorin carefully approached the door and put his ear to it. Some time later he pushed the handle and the leaf swung open. Before them opened a piece of a half-lit corridor. Exchanging glances, the friends crept out of the room.
The voice fell upon them suddenly, from all sides, barely they had crossed the high threshold. It came from everywhere – and from nowhere, they couldn't catch the direction. It was very gentle and musical, this voice, abounding in enchanting low tones; one wanted to listen to it without stopping, and Folco immediately recalled the description of Gandalf's last conversation with Saruman and the mystery of his deceptive voice.
"...No, that's not so, my Dear Renbar," the voice was saying. "You will receive what you ask, more precisely, you will attain what has long belonged to you by right, the right of the strong and wise. Others will only squander that wealth, which only you alone can use for good and reasonable purposes, not immediately understood by other low minds..."
The voice suddenly broke off and a moment later sounded again, now not so affectionately and insinuatingly. Now it seemed to come from somewhere below.
"You didn't find the path? That's very regrettable... for you, Meshdokh," the stern teacher spoke, addressing a negligent and lazy pupil. "You do remember our agreement?" Serpentine hissing notes suddenly cut into the voice. "And you remember what I then promised to do with yo..."
Again silence fell. A minute later some muttering reached them, but now it was barely audible and additionally in an incomprehensible language. The friends froze in confusion on the threshold. The fear, well-forgotten since Morian times, again began to creep up on the hobbit.
"Who is speaking, Folco?" Thorin spoke hoarsely as always from excitement, holding his axe at the ready and anxiously looking around.
"It seems to me that the Tower itself is speaking," Folco answered, stammering.
"Or maybe someone's sitting here?" Shorty suggested, seeming least of all subject to the grim magic of these walls. "If so, shouldn't we try to get him, eh?"
"Wait!" Folco raised his hand. "There's no one here except us... those who walk on earth..."
At that moment the voice again gained strength, and speech became intelligible. The very first sounds made them all press tightly against each other, in a convulsive and absurd attempt to defend themselves, unconsciously thrusting their blades forward. It seemed the Tower shook to its very foundation; terrible, dark and fearsome power, the power of Great Authority filled this voice – and who could resist it? Folco could never later recall whether this voice was high or low, slow or fast – the words fell like granite blocks, and the listener's eyes began to cloud, and his own will turned into nothing before the might of the Speaker. Folco immediately understood to whom this voice belonged; understood, though naturally he had never heard it in his life, as no one among the now-living Mortals had; perhaps only Círdan the Shipwright, Thranduil and also Tom Bombadil had heard it, in those times when its possessor had not yet parted with human form.
"So, your White Council," terrible irony filled these words, "your White Council decided to attack Dol Guldur? Not bad! You acted as befits, I praise you. You persuaded this grey braggart to lead those who want to level my castle to the ground?"
"Yes, Mighty One," the honeyed voice already familiar to them answered obsequiously. "Gandalf the Grey himself sets out on campaign." Strangely, though the second speaker spoke seemingly in a humbled and submissive way, still in his sounds Folco seemed to sense some deeply hidden gloating – as if a servant hating his master hastened to stun his host with some black news. "But know, Mighty One, with him goes Elrond of Rivendell, and Thranduil of the Wood, and even Celeborn himself from Lórien! They have gathered considerable forces..."
"Let them come," the first roared. "We'll finish them all at once..."
The voices broke off suddenly, like everything they had heard before this. For several moments the friends stood, unable to move, as if a heavy sepulchral spell had fettered their bodies. The voice was silent, and unbearable silence hung in the Tower.
Shorty was the first to shake off the stupor. He suddenly spat contemptuously and broke out in the longest dwarfish curse.
"What are you standing for?!" he attacked Folco and Thorin. "We need to leave. All my limbs are trembling! If this Mighty One speaks again, I'll probably throw myself out the window from fear! Let's go!"
"Wait, Shorty," Thorin stopped his friend. "It seems Folco is right, we really did hear the voice of the Tower – more precisely, those voices that it itself once heard and remembered... This is a treasure we never dreamed of! We can now learn everything, Shorty, do you understand, everything! Everything we want! About the underground ones, and about Moria, and about wizards, and about elves, and about those, God forbid, Nine, and about orcs, and about trolls, and... about everything-everything-everything!"
"Of course, we'll learn..." the hobbit grinned crookedly, "if we sit here another thousand years or so. Thorin, the Tower babbles as it pleases. How long will we have to wait until it says something we can understand?!"
Thorin pursed his lips.
"Well then, what do you suggest?"
"I wonder, did the Tower always speak or is this Saruman's doing?" the hobbit said thoughtfully. "And isn't it because of this Ability of its that the Great King closed access here to men?"
At that moment the terrible voice spoke again, and again they in fear unconsciously tried to flee, hide from its irresistible force; more precisely, first they heard the end of a phrase pronounced by the insinuating voice:
"...But what if Brego passes the Paths of the Dead, Mighty One? He could become stronger, much stronger."
"He will not pass," the one whom the first speaker called Mighty answered with a smile that shook the hobbit to the depths of his being. "And if he does..." Even traces of the smile disappeared, at that moment terrible voice filled with grim predetermination and even doom, when he continued: "Well, he who passes will indeed become much stronger and will be able to do much. But he will strive in vain..."
And again silence. Seconds of soundlessness. The hobbit, yielding to a strange impulse that came from nowhere, suddenly jumped forward and squealed thinly, straining his throat, shaking his raised fists:
"Why in vain? Why in vain? Answer, in the name of Bright Elbereth!"
It seemed the vaults of the ancient Númenórean stronghold trembled; long, very long this name had not sounded here; but the stones seemed to recognize it, and a new voice, hollow, as if coming from under the earth, the voice of a long-silenced giant, slowly and distinctly pronounced:
"The Paths of the Dead lead only to the Ways of Darkness. He who summons Death against Life has violated the covenant of the Valar..."
A hollow underground blow sounded, and the Tower fell silent.
Much time passed before the voice of Orthanc sounded again. They listened at first with unabated attention, but the Tower narrated about things completely inaccessible to their understanding. However, the hobbit stubbornly wrote down almost every word, especially trying not to miss anything if talk turned to places where any remains of ancient forces, incomprehensible apparently even to Saruman himself, were preserved, or things endowed with them. They sat in the Tower until evening itself, forgetting about food and rest. Twice from outside came the thunderous voice of the alarmed Old Ent; Shorty would stick his head out the window and respond.
When the daylight completely faded, the dwarves practically by force took the hobbit away. Treebeard met them below and was immeasurably surprised, hearing their tale.
"Huum-hom, roots and boughs! Well that's something!" he boomed, carrying the hobbit back to Fangorn, to his foothills home. "What a pity I can't go in there myself and listen! Perhaps I might have learned where to seek Fimbrethil... Unprecedented, roots and boughs!"
That night the friends spent on fragrant grass pillows in the house at the Old Ent's. Folco only now noticed that he didn't want to eat at all – either he couldn't calm down after what he'd heard, or the Entish drink was working...
And he had indeed heard quite a lot. He learned that arrows made from branches of the Nur-Nur tree are irreplaceable in fighting the night phantoms of Kritorl; a decoction of Nur-Nur tree nuts will plunge any dragon into prolonged sleep, and when the time of flowering comes, to the Nur-Nur tree gather all the great leaders of Harad (this was the only thing indicating the tree's location) and breathe in its scent, and, they say, their souls and hearts become harder than steel and more inflexible than granite – that's why the Haradrim are so brave and stubborn in battle. He heard of the terrible secrets of amazing lands to the east of Mordor – there the Dark Lord hid part of his boundless knowledge, even before the fall of Númenor. He learned that Oromë the Great, the last of the Valar who appeared in Middle-earth to Mortals, during one of his hunts in the Great Green Steppes prophesied, pointing to the distant ridge of the Mordor mountains: "The day will come when after dawn the Gloom spewed forth by Orodruin will thicken again, and He Who Gathered the Shards will bar the Light..." And he also heard that the Great Stair was indeed once built; and about Ungoliant, about his narrow black passages stretching to the surface, by which spawn of the Great Darkness come into this world – like the spider Shelob. The hobbit learned of Saruman's fear of the Nameless; that in the depths of the eastern lands one could find the old houses of two unknown wizards, two comrades of Gandalf from the Order, of whom Radagast had told the hobbit; Saruman intended to lay hands on these houses, but never managed...
The next morning, having drunk the Old Ent's wonderful drink together, the friends again set out for Orthanc. On the way Folco, who had been unsuccessfully racking his brains over where the mosaic slabs cut out by someone from the walls had gone, asked Treebeard about this, and he artlessly answered that the Great King had come here twice – once only seven or eight years after the Victory. Then he searched all of Orthanc and took away from there an abyss of all sorts of things, including the stone mosaics from the walls.
At the Tower itself nothing had changed overnight, they climbed into the window without hindrance, and again the endless tale of the ancient stone met them, and again they spent the whole day there. Several times the Tower mentioned "the path of petals," which they had already heard yesterday; judging by fragmentary words, this was some path that only the strong in spirit and pure in thought could pass; it led to the enigmatic "House of the High," but who or what this was, they couldn't understand.
The Tower also told of the Magic Rings. Most of the Rings were forged by elves in the Second Age – putting into them their knowledge and power, believing that after the defeat of Thangorodrim and the fall of Morgoth they would no longer have to face such embodiments of Evil, and trying to make the world around them purer and more beautiful.
Finally Thorin couldn't stand it when that evening Folco, settling down to sleep, dreamily said it would be good to live here for a month or two... Thorin declared that, firstly, they had long been expected in the north; secondly, Folco himself said that one could sit here until the end of one's days and not learn even a hundred-thousandth of what the Tower could tell; thirdly, the matter doesn't wait – they need to seek the "master" of the orcs, and his, Thorin's, heart senses that this business is very unclean and they especially cannot delay; so tomorrow they must leave – and that's final!
Folco first twitched to object something, but somehow immediately wilted and unexpectedly quickly agreed with the dwarf, adding that he himself had a bad premonition that some evil is being prepared on the Arnorian borders and therefore they should hurry to Annúminas. The next day the friends began saying farewell to the Old Ent. Treebeard accompanied them to the very edge of the Forest, finally extracting from Folco a promise to visit him again as soon as he could and wanted to. The friends got into the straps, waved their hands to Treebeard for the last time and emerged from under the crowns of the Watch-wood, which had turned out in the end to be so hospitable. Before them lay the road home.
And why - who knows? After all, it was precisely because of this that Númenor fell!
- They were being careful even then, - Farnak said with an unpleasant expression, his jaw muscles working. - So they're afraid...
Folco didn't much like these words, but Farnak continued his questioning. The hobbit told him about the Curse of Men - their doom of Death, the strange Gift imposed on Men by the Creator of All, about the gradually growing resentment among the Númenóreans toward the elves, and finally, about the split in the Kingdom and the last campaign of the Island's army...
- They acted like vile traitors, - Farnak threw out angrily. - Fine fellows, these elves! That's how to thank those who fought alongside them...
- Wait to judge them, - Folco frowned. - We are not given that, we know too little.
- Then why don't they let us know more! - Farnak suddenly cried out furiously, shaking his fists. - Why did they start deciding what we are allowed to see and what not?! Why did they close the west to us?! We, the Sea-Folk, - he waved his trembling hand at the rowers who had turned to them, - we want to sail to all four corners of the world, as long as the wind fills the sails and our hands hold the rudder! In the north, we reached the border of the eternal ice, to the blue teeth of the Giant, where the drops of water flowing from the oars turn into icicles in the air, and people fall down dead as soon as they breathe in, and where the skin turns black and peels off the hands. In the south, our "dragons" reached a place where the shore turns to the east and goes into unknowable spaces. We have been on every river in Middle-earth, both the Northern and Southern Worlds - and only the west is closed to us!
Farnak's eyes blazed. The stunned Folco did not know what to say.
- I asked you if there were people in the past who tried to cross the Sea, - the helmsman continued. - And you told me more than I have ever heard about it in my whole life, but all this only confirmed what we know anyway - the masters of the Undying Lands have fenced themselves off from us, continuing, however, to prescribe their laws to us! Who can deprive a man of his freedom?!
The helmsman's voice seemed to have acquired the power of thunder, the crew stood up, Folco saw their blazing eyes, clenched fists, every word of the helmsman was met with a resounding roar.
- But why did you say that the elves are being careful? - the hobbit tried to object weakly. - You don't know why they act like that?
- Why did I say it? - Farnak smiled wryly. - Because they are being careful, and we know it better than anyone! Do you know what will happen if, - he grabbed the hobbit by the shoulders and turned him to face the west, - if I turn the rudder to starboard? We will sail for a day, a second, a third, a month, two, around will be one water, nothing but water and sun and stars - and then time will stop, and we will see the Line.
As if a sudden gust of cold wind extinguishes a carelessly left candle - so the crew immediately fell silent and frowned, and Farnak himself, contemptuously curling his lips, lowered his head.
- The Line? - Folco said in a hoarse voice. - What is it? I've never heard of it!
- Not surprising, - Farnak threw. - Only we and those who drew it know about it. Our ships cannot go further - they are turned back... From the side it looks like... - He frowned from the effort to express in words what he had seen. - Once we saw an elven ship pass through it - it lets them through, but not us... All right! - he suddenly broke off. - Hey, you lazybones, don't you see we're losing the wind?! Híarrhidi! Where are you looking! - Farnak yelled, turning away from the hobbit.
The men hastily rushed to their places. After this conversation, Farnak was imbued with if not respect, then at least interest in the hobbit, and they often talked. The helmsman told a lot and willingly, as if in a hurry to share his troubles with a rare, as he himself admitted, interlocutor. He spoke of campaigns to the south and to the north. To the south - for valuable wood, golden sand and outlandish fruits, which go to the table of the Gondorian rich, to the north - for the bone of a sea beast and strong, waterproof hides, from which in Arnor they sew clothes for armored warriors. Before the listening hobbit's mind's eye passed an endless series of unexplored countries and mysterious islands - some covered with eternal snow from the icy breath of the northern winds, others languishing from the heat poured on them by the sun standing exactly in the middle of the sky... And about the countless battles in which the Eldrings - as they called themselves - had to fight, Farnak spoke. About skirmishes with the gloomy, merciless tribes of the far South, where in a sea of green thickets, poisoned arrows, shot by no one knows who, silently and inexorably overtake the brave, wounds from which are fatal; how at night amazing gigantic beasts with the body of a bull and the head of a bear come to the camps, and in the morning giant spiders descend from trees as tall as a good mountain, deftly throwing their sticky web for dozens of steps; you must always be on your guard, there you can expect an attack at any moment...
Farnak spoke well, and only one thing made the hobbit inwardly cringe with unexpressed protest - when the Eldring mentioned the elves. For him, they were enemies, and he had no doubts or hesitations. They must leave, he insisted. People must choose their own paths, following only the advice of their own minds. Listening to the helmsman, Folco unexpectedly remembered the unforgettable Olmer, and suddenly an unusually clear, cold and therefore even more frightening thought flashed through his mind: what if these elf-haters conspire?
But these thoughts had to be kept to himself, and for now the hobbit took the opportunity to observe the people of the Sea-Folk. Despite the fact that the "dragon" seemed not very large, there were almost one hundred and forty rower-warriors on it: on the inner side of the board, the armament of each of them hung in strict order, ready at any second to exchange an oar for the hilt of a sword. The hobbit tried to start conversations with them, but the Eldrings were gloomy and hardly answered questions. The hobbit remembered Terwin's coin; among the rowers there were some who looked similar to those from whose leader the hobbit had received this unusual gift; but all cautious attempts to find out anything ended in nothing. To a direct question - where they had been this spring, Farnak, with a grin, threw: where the crow had not carried the bones.
And among other stories, Farnak told the hobbit a strange legend that existed among the Sea-Folk. Allegedly, the eldest son of the last Lord of Gondor, Denethor, Boromir, who died in a skirmish with orcs at Parth Galen, left behind offspring. Boromir had a son from a simple, low-born girl, whom his father hid from the formidable Denethor, fearing his wrath. It seems that after the victory in the War of the Ring, this young man, Boromir's son, appeared before the Great King Elessar - and for some unknown reason they had a quarrel. Denethor's grandson left Minas Tirith - either he was exiled, or he himself did not want to live under the rule of the new King - in a word, Boromir's son considered himself insulted and allegedly took a terrible oath to take revenge...
This story at first interested the hobbit little - what people don't gossip about! However, he remembered it, deciding to tell it to Radagast on occasion and hear the wizard's opinion on this matter...
And the days went by, and Folco got used to the blue expanse constantly spread around him; standing at the side and looking at the water foaming around the raised bow, he went over the events of recent months in his memory, trying to understand: what have they achieved and what, in fact, should they do next? And in general, how long will they wander? They had lost the trail of the orc "master"; they had made a mistake by leaving Moria without finding out, they should have caught a few more orcs at any cost and, with the help of the Ring, gotten the truth out of them; instead, they went down, and now Hornbori was sleeping an eternal sleep under a heavy slab in the One Hundred and Eleventh Hall, and Dori with his Ring was now probably gathering armies in the Iron Hills... The Tower of Orthanc had told them many interesting things - but what were they to do with it? They would probably get to Annúminas - and what then?
The water, eternally boiling with white foam, ran under the side, and Folco, looking at it, suddenly remembered his recent vision near the blue Flower, and it was as if he was pierced - Thorin was already old... which means they will wander for many years... so is he destined to ever return to his homeland?! Will he really have to spend his whole life in endless wanderings?! And, without delay, he asked Thorin the same question when they went down under the short forecastle to have dinner.
- I know one thing - we will wander as long as necessary, - the dwarf cut him off sternly.
- And how long is necessary? Where will we go after Annúminas? I wouldn't mind visiting home, by the way... I haven't been seen there for a long time...
- It will be necessary for as long as it takes to catch this "master" and put an end to the new threat, - Thorin shrugged. - And after Annúminas, we will probably go to Angmar.
The Kid choked, Folco barely stayed on the bench. From this name, a long-forgotten cold and the horror of the revived Barrow-downs wafted over him. Looking at their amazed, bulging eyes, Thorin smirked slightly and continued:
- And where else to look for those who are rocking Middle-earth? And if we see this coat of arms in Angmar - a three-pronged black crown - consider the matter almost done.
- And... and then? - Folco barely managed to say.
- Then there will be war, - Thorin threw harshly. - It's time to understand what's what, Folco. Evil, evil has once again made its nest at the foot of the Angmar Mountains! The sooner this nest is burned to the ground, the better. But what's the point of guessing? For now, we need to get to the northern capital, our friends are waiting for us there, and a message from Dori may arrive.
Meanwhile, the ten days appointed by Farnak had passed, and exactly on the appointed date his "dragon", helping itself with oars, moored at the mouth of the Baranduin, where there was another large anchorage of the Sea-Folk ships. Folco had no idea that his native river, so smooth and calm under the windows of his house, could spread so wide, carrying dozens of different vessels. Here, the goods brought from the south, having moved from the holds to the backs of mules, into heavy, creaking carts and long merchant caravans, set off on a short journey to the Arnorian borders. There were also many barges floating down the river, similar to the one on which the friends had sailed on the Song. Folco learned that south of the borders of his native Hobbiton, which was closed to people, at the crossing over the Brandywine, where the road that began in Delving crossed the river, there was also a large transshipment of goods; some of the merchants unloaded their goods there.
It was time to say goodbye to Farnak and his crew. Finally, Folco, Thorin, the Kid and Híarrhidi decided to go to a tavern to wet their whistles after a long journey.
They were walking along the riverbank, clad in a solid armor of countless piers, making their way through a motley crowd of Eldrings, respectfully bypassing the impressively frozen at every intersection Arnorian patrols, when their attention was drawn to an unusually long, narrow ship, rapidly approaching the shore on twelve pairs of oars. Its sharp, high-prowed nose was decorated with the image of the head of a beast unknown to the hobbit with two long fangs protruding far forward from its mouth: driven by powerful strokes of the oars, the ship was rapidly approaching. A black and red flag fluttered on the mast.
Híarrhidi whistled in amazement as soon as he saw it.
- Wow! Skiludr himself, I swear by the eye of the storm! The brave one!
From the deck of the ship, ropes were already being thrown, and a little later, people began to jump from its side onto the pier one after another, without waiting for the gangplank. Several guards hurried to them; the fair-haired leader who came forward threw something short to them, and when one of the Arnorian soldiers blocked his way, he suddenly silently pointed to the river surface, along which, one after another, new "dragons", five or six more, were approaching, mooring to the side of the first ship. The guard stepped back in confusion, and the leader calmly walked on. The rest of his men followed him. The Arnorian warriors hastily dispersed in different directions, leaving two to watch Skiludr's ships.
- Tell me, who is he? - the hobbit asked Híarrhidi, nodding at the rapidly receding back of the fair-haired leader of the Eldrings.
- Oh! Skiludr is a force! - the helmsman's assistant said seriously and respectfully. - He is his own man and does not need laws or treaties. He has eight hundred swords! And what swords - not like the Arnorian pot-bellies. He did not accept peace with the Kingdom, but he is so strong that he cannot be taken in open battle, he cannot be caught at sea... However, I have not heard that he was particularly brutal - no, he does not even fight, but simply lives on his own, as he wants. But it happens that he takes the ships of Gondor.
- How did he dare to come here?! Can't he be captured?
- Haven't you heard how many swords he has? Try to touch him! They wouldn't even leave ashes of the city! And the commanders of the Arnorian armored warriors know that we, the other Eldrings, those who have accepted peace, will not help Skiludr, true to our word, but we will not enter into battle on the side of Arnor, they will have to manage on their own, and they are not capable of that... Hey! What are you doing?
His last exclamation was addressed to the hobbit, who had suddenly frozen with his mouth open. The dashing warriors of Skiludr were still getting out onto the pier, and among them a familiar swarthy face suddenly flashed. Folco had not forgotten it and would not have confused it with any other - the very man who had given him Terwin's coin!
Hearing this, Thorin immediately grabbed his axe and resolutely declared through his teeth that whether this tramp had eight hundred swords or eighty thousand, he certainly wanted to have a word with this fellow. The bewildered Híarrhidi began to warn them; the hobbit explained the matter to him in two words. The helmsman's assistant shrugged his shoulders in surprise.
- Where could they have gotten this thing, venerable Thorin? We don't go deep into foreign lands, and it's unlikely that your friend, as you say, could have ended up on the coast. And isn't it possible that this coin changed many owners before it fell into the hands of the last owner?
- Then I want to know from whom he received it! - Thorin said stubbornly.
Without losing sight of the seafarer the hobbit remembered, they hurried after the warriors of Skiludr, who were walking in a tight crowd. Suddenly, about two dozen of them turned into an inconspicuous beer cellar, and the friends followed them.
Downstairs it was crowded, noisy, and smoky. Suspiciously-blissful servants scurried between the huge tables, carrying trays of foaming mugs, and on the benches a boisterous sea host sang songs, played dice, quarreled, and traded. Skiludr's men were greeted with a friendly roar - many hugged, obviously old acquaintances were meeting here. Unlike the other people, the newcomers were quieter and more dignified.
The hobbit, the dwarves, and Híarrhidi settled in a corner. The helmsman's assistant did not stop grumbling at them and answered Folco's question with obvious reluctance, where the man who had praised his cooking was from.
- It's even further south of our southern borders, there is such a people there, the most desperate of them often come to us...
- I'm going, - Thorin lunged, but Folco stopped him.
- I'd better ask him, - he laid his palm on his friend's sleeve.
Making his way between the rows, the hobbit gently touched the man's shoulder. The latter turned around immediately, the momentary wariness giving way to a bewildered smile. Folco bowed politely, saying that he had a few words to say to the venerable...
- By the Great Water, - he interrupted him with a laugh, - yes, this is none other than the very fellow who so gloriously feasted us in the northern capital! What wind brought you here? Did you change your master?
- That's not so, venerable, I don't know your name, - Folco continued politely. - But if you'll allow me, I'd like to ask...
- Where did you get this?! - Thorin, who had crept up to them unnoticed, suddenly roared over the hobbit's ear and, of course, spoiled the whole thing. The smile disappeared, the stranger did not even glance at the dwarf's outstretched palm with the ill-fated coin.
- And who are you to give me an account? - He measured the dwarf with his gaze.
- Whoever I am, - Thorin growled, shaking off the hobbit who was trying to pull him away, - but I want to know and, I swear by Durin's beard, I will find out where you got what I myself gave to my friend at parting! And if your answer does not satisfy me, I swear, I will settle accounts with you for Terwin!
The Eldring listened to the dwarf's impassioned speech with a smirk, smiled wryly, then slowly, quietly and distinctly threw such words in his face that Folco was stunned, and Thorin turned so purple that it was as if a fire had been lit inside him. The next moment, the dwarf's axe hissed through the air in front of the offender's nose. Around them, they roared, whistled and hooted.
- A glorious pair, I swear by the Sea-Father!
- Hey, give them room! Room!
Fans of such spectacles hastily dragged away the tables, clearing a space. No one tried to separate the disputants, not even the owner. With a last hope, Folco glanced at Híarrhidi, but he had disappeared somewhere.
The opponents were closing in. Both were without mail and helmets, in the Eldring's hands a long straight sword gleamed dully. Thorin walked forward with his axe at the ready. From somewhere in the back rows the Kid burst out with blades drawn, but they immediately piled on him, and someone very sensible said to the Kid, gasping for breath:
- The fight is fair and with equal weapons. What, don't you know the rules? Challenge someone yourself or you can continue the fight later if things go wrong with your buddy.
- What's this? - someone's low and stern voice suddenly thundered from the door invisible to the hobbit. - Gront!
Pushing aside those who hastily stepped back with respectful bows, Skiludr himself was striding rapidly toward the quarrelers - in a simple leather jacket, with a long sword at his belt. Over his shoulder, Híarrhidi's tense face was visible.
Thorin's opponent immediately lowered his blade.
- What happened? - Skiludr asked curtly, casting an icy glance over the scene.
Gront bowed, spreading his hands guiltily.
- Nothing special, my tan, - he said. - This honorable dwarf wanted to test the strength of my sword.
- Henceforth know that the steel of dwarves is better, - Skiludr threw coldly. - Tell me! - he commanded, turning to Thorin.
He snorted indignantly, but restrained himself and began to speak. When he finished, nothing could be read on the face of the Eldring leader.
- I understand you, - he said, addressing the dwarf. - But I must say at once - you are looking in the wrong place. I swear by the Eternal Sea, my people did not kill your friend. Gront received this thing for bravery, and where and from whom - is another matter. We do not tell the first person we meet the names of those doing business with us. You will have to be satisfied with this answer or - well! - try your luck. But those sitting here know, - the Eldring waved his hand around the hall, - in his life Skiludr has not said a single false word. Even to enemies.
He turned and silently walked to the door past the men who immediately gave him way. Gront started to follow him, but then stopped and beckoned the hobbit.
- I really am innocent, - he said quietly in Folco's ear. - Your friend is too hot, and it would be good to shorten him a bit, but, so be it, in memory of our good meeting, tell him that this thing was given to me by one... from the East, with whom we went together... it doesn't matter where and why. Well, shall we fight? - he asked loudly, addressing Thorin. - I did not kill your friend, I swear! You can't check me anyway, so decide - do you believe me or not.
He turned away and calmly started talking to some of his companions. Thorin spat angrily and approached closer.
- But tell me at least, I beg you, - these words were difficult for the dwarf, - from whom did you receive it? If such a thing happened to you, wouldn't you try to avenge your friend?
- I have already told your companion everything I could, - Gront answered imperturbably. - I can repeat - he is a great chief... from the East. But even this doesn't mean anything - he could have received your coin from someone else's hands...
With these words he turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Híarrhidi approached the frozen dwarf and hobbit.
- Well, you came up with something! - he shook his head reproachfully. - It's good that tan Skiludr himself happened to be nearby, I had to bow to him, otherwise you would both have been cut to pieces - this is usual business with us.
It was time to part. The friends gathered their considerably thinner bags, loaded them on the backs of ponies bought here and, having paid and said goodbye to Farnak, moved along the main street of the city, which gradually turned into a well-trodden road. The houses ended, but along the riverbank piers still stretched. Struggling against the current, one of the long "dragons" was rising upstream. Looking closely, the hobbit recognized Skiludr's ship - only his sails bore the image of a seagull, and from the ship came a song:
Under the evening star
In the quiet splash of sails
We argue with stupid fate
At distant shores!
Sailors, fighters, wanderers,
Steel of swords, mail, shields,
Black-and-fiery banners -
At rich shores!
Under the evening star
Along the path of silver
We sail toward battle
Into the smoke of a bloody bonfire.
The overturned sky
Beckons with the nearness of a star,
Scattering bread crumbs
In the thick of gloomy water.
Under the evening star
Amid the radiance of waters
Teases us at night
The reflected firmament...
The road turned sharply to the right, circling the riverside hills, and the song fell silent.
Chapter Nine. THE WIND OF ANGMAR
Having decided not to tempt fate, the friends joined a large merchant caravan heading to Annúminas. Summer had passed; September was underway, and the aspens had already turned red, birches trembled in the wind with branches that had begun to bare: torn leaves swirled over the Road. On the fifth day, the caravan reached Sarn Ford without any incidents, where the ancient road that led to the Tower Hills beyond the western borders of the Shire began - for Folco, this was the road home.
He stood on the shoulder of the main road, leaving the dwarves to compensate for travel shortages of beer in the nearest tavern, and looked to the northwest, where the road disappeared in the gray distances, as if merging with the horizon covered by low continuous clouds. The north wind was blowing, and the hobbit shivered, wrapping himself in his well-worn traveling cloak. Only here, finding himself a few days' journey from home, did he suddenly realize how tired he was of all this endless and, in general, fruitless wandering. The empty crossroads was dreary and uncomfortable, around lay a foreign land - what was he doing here? Folco didn't want to go anywhere anymore, neither to Annúminas, and certainly not to Angmar - it was time to return home. There they were already hauling turnips and rutabagas, carrots and cabbages to the barns, selecting the very best for the October fair; Uncle Paladin was bustling back and forth across the yard, constantly scolding lazy young hobbits, and under the large beer cauldron a fire was already being laid, and select barley had already been prepared, and cabinets with festive dishes were being unlocked, and in the kitchen about two dozen pots bubbled and puffed, and his aunt commanded her restless daughters-in-law; and on the slope above the river his comrades had gathered - Rorimac and Berilac, Saradoc and Gorbulas, Mnoghorad and Otto, Fredegar and Toddo - to have fun throwing arrows, multicolored shields with targets were set up, and Fredegar was already rolling out a pot-bellied beer jug; and dances were planned for the evening, dust was being wiped from pipes and drums - in summer, during the busy season, there was no time for them... Oh, how he wanted to go home! And then, from out of nowhere, a gnawing pain in his heart made him decide at once: let the dwarves think what they want about him - he must visit Buckland before - perhaps! - setting off on new wanderings. He must sleep under his native roof, show himself to family and friends... See Milisenta... What about her, how is she, and most importantly - with whom? Maybe she's been married for a long time...
The hobbit turned and walked away from the river, away from the bridge, back along the log pavements to one of the inns where they had stopped. He passed the trading square, full of a noisy crowd busily selling and buying, here were the right gates, here were friends sipping beer, and a mug foamed in his hand, and... how to tell them that their roads diverge? Folco didn't dare and postponed the conversation until morning.
The rest of the day passed in sweet idleness. By evening, a fine drizzle began to fall from the gray clouds that had been covering the sky all day. Folco sat by the fireplace, and for some reason his mood became darker and darker. Something told him that he would not see dear Buckland soon; in the dancing tongues of fire he suddenly seemed to see the blazing walls of some city, and a cold snake crawled into his soul with a heavy premonition of trouble. The dwarves snored peacefully, and the hobbit sat and sat, throwing wood into the fire, as if afraid to be in the darkness. The wind howled ominously somewhere in the attic; like someone's dry hand scratching at the window was the branch of an apple tree growing in the yard. Something creaked and turned in the corners, a loosely closed shutter banged - in all the usual sounds of the large house, the hobbit seemed to sense the approach of some evil force that hated all living things; he hastily climbed under the covers with his head, and this unexpectedly helped, he immediately fell into oblivion.
...Was it a dream or reality? From the gray mist, the tall thin figure of a man with a huge owl on his shoulder suddenly emerged. The hobbit recognized Radagast.
- I finally found you, - the former wizard spoke quickly and anxiously. - My strength is not the same, there's little time. Listen! Trouble has come, from where I expected it. Angmar has risen! Hurry, I need you in the north. I'm waiting for you in Bree. Hurry...
Waves of wavering gray mist swallowed Radagast's figure, and the hobbit, drenched in cold sweat, jumped up on the hard bed, staring wildly into the darkness. What was it? A strange dream or really a warning? His heart was beating wildly, his lungs lacked air... Could Thorin have been right? Could it be war? Only now did Folco feel the icy breath of the terrible word with his skin. War! What would happen to his Buckland? To the Shire? He must warn them, send notice!
The hobbit desperately shook the peacefully sleeping Thorin. The dwarf didn't immediately grasp what his friend wanted from him when woken from sleep, and when he understood, he sat up, his mouth gaping wide.
- He called me to Bree... But what about my countrymen? - The hobbit bit his lip till it bled.
- Wait, - Thorin threw gloomily, furiously scratching his beard. - Are you sure that all this wasn't a dream? - Folco helplessly spread his hands. - Oh, these dreams of yours, may Durin enlighten me! Well, what can you do? - He stuck his head out the window. - The night seems bright, the road is visible... Come on, wake the Kid, and I'll take care of our ponies...
Rousing the Little Dwarf proved difficult, and in the end they pushed him, half-asleep, into the cold night wind. The full moon gave enough light; along the deserted ghostly road three friends hurried toward the distant black horizon, where the sky merged with equally black earth.
Morning, cold, sunless, they met a good eight leagues northeast of Sarn Ford. During the day, these places turned out to be much more cozy and inhabited. Resting after the night's ride, the friends sipped beer at a roadside tavern; the last roosters had just crowed, a herd had just passed, the sleepy innkeeper brought them full mugs. This establishment stood at the far edge of the village, so they were the first to hear the frantic clatter of hooves of a rider racing along the road from Bree.
Folco's heart sank. Who could be driving a horse so mercilessly at such an early hour?
The answer came quickly. At the fence, an exhausted man, barely staying on his feet, reined in a lathered stallion. His white-and-blue cloak was spattered with mud, matted with sweat hair stuck out from under his knocked-off cap.
- Hey, is anyone here? - the rider's hoarse voice rang out, and the owner rushed out to meet him. - Wake the people! - the newcomer commanded imperatively. - Come on, move faster! I can't wait, I need to be at Sarn Ford by evening.
- But what, what is it? - the owner babbled, looking up at the warrior respectfully and fearfully.
- What?! - the other roared, noisily gulping the beer brought out by the innkeeper. - And that all the villagers are ordered to hide in the forests with all their property and, until they're told, not to return! Clear?! More beer...
- But why, from whom should we hide? - the innkeeper trembled.
- From whom - you don't need to know, - the warrior threw gloomily. - The army is going on a campaign, you'll be left without protection for a while... Anything could happen... That's it! - he threw sharply, not letting the innkeeper ask about anything else. - Everything I should have said, I've already said, now I'll repeat the same to the people... Well, quickly raise everyone!
He turned and, stepping heavily, entered the tavern, almost falling onto the bench. Stumbling like a blind man, the owner ran to the nearest house and desperately began pounding on the gate. A dog barked, then indistinct voices were heard... Meanwhile, Thorin cautiously touched the messenger's shoulder.
- Forgive me, honorable, while there are no others, tell us, what's the matter? Can't you say, then at least nod. War? - And Thorin froze for a moment, having pronounced this word with difficulty. - War with Angmar?
The warrior flinched and looked at the dwarf in surprise, and everything swam before Folco's eyes. With a heavy sigh, the warrior bowed his head, and Thorin continued:
- We have long heard alarming news, and it wasn't hard to guess... But all three of us want to fight against the enemies of Arnor too. Where do we need to go? Where is the militia gathering? And also - are dwarves going with you?
- Well, you have questions, honorable. - The messenger frowned and looked at him suspiciously. - I don't know anything like that!
From the street came the hum of many alarmed voices, the warrior rose and went out, once again throwing a mistrustful and wary glance at Thorin.
- Faster, faster to Bree, - Folco could only say.
Sparing neither themselves nor the ponies, they found themselves in Bree three days later. The hobbit would forever remember the deserted villages - people fled wherever they could, knowing and understanding nothing, taking out everything they could. The friends spent nights at abandoned inns, by evening the hobbit could barely stand on his feet from fatigue, and nothing came to him in dreams anymore.
- I don't understand, - Thorin said through his teeth once, seeing several carts with household goods disappear into a nearby forest. - Why such an order - for everyone to hide? Why not a general assembly?
His question remained unanswered - only once they were overtaken by a large detachment of Arnorian horsemen heading north; leaning down from his saddle, the commander shouted to them to take cover as soon as possible: Thorin tried to find out what was happening, but the rider only waved his hand and spurred his horse...
Bree met them with empty houses; at the outskirts two belated residents were hastily securing carts, Folco involuntarily heard their conversation:
- What's going on, neighbor! What have we come to! Where to hide now, eh? And the mill... I took off the millstones, but where to put them? Should I bury them? Otherwise they'll steal them, you never know...
- Bury them! Good idea. My wife, stupid as she is, even she understood - she buried all the pokers and pots herself...
- Hey, honorable! What's going on here? - Thorin called out to them.
However, the Bree-folk showed an obvious unwillingness to enter into conversations with him. At the first glance at the dwarf's gleaming armor, at his long axe with a silvered handle, they both took to their heels, forgetting even about their carts. The friends called after them in vain - they didn't even look back.
The large village seemed deserted; only two dozen Arnorian armored men remained in it. They questioned the friends for a long time and meticulously, who they were and where they came from; finally, satisfied and having scribbled something on their travel pass, the guards let them through the barrier.
The friends hurriedly drove the ponies along Main Street.
- Well, where is this... - Thorin began and broke off, because it turned out that not all the inhabitants had fled and hidden. Near the famous "Prancing Pony" several men and hobbits from the locals were hastily erecting a barricade of logs and sacks around the doors. Among them flashed the familiar face of Barliman, but there was no time to talk to him - a lanky figure with a long black staff in hand stepped into the middle of the road, and they immediately recognized him.
- Quickly! - Radagast threw, entering the shop and firmly locking the door behind them.
The Kid quietly huddled in a corner, even Thorin seemed intimidated; it seemed that before them stood one of the great wizards of the past - Radagast's shoulders straightened, mysterious power glimmered in the depths of his single eye, and his hands no longer seemed dry and senile - the traces of wrinkles on them rather resembled honest battle scars on a young but already experienced warrior.
- Listen! - Radagast's eye seemed to pierce them through. - War has begun. Four days ago a messenger galloped here from Fornost. Angmar has moved in great force toward the borders of the Kingdom; in their hearts is a thirst for gold and blood, they are coming to plunder - and therefore, I think, they won't go deep into the country, hardly further than Fornost. But their leader... In him, - the wizard leaned over the fire, drawing the friends' heads closer and lowering his voice, - in him I sense not just blackness, but black power, and it seems to me that I have sensed something similar before, long ago, in the past centuries of the Great Wars. I don't know who he is, alas! And I no longer have the strength to go far. But I tell you and I swear to the truth of this my knowledge by the eternal thrones of the Valar - he will not stop at this. Passing through the camp, I heard one of the warriors close to the Steward say that he has become conceited, this King without a Kingdom. So here, he will not rest until his kingdom becomes... much, very much of what is now free, and white will change its color to black. And now I ask you, even beg you - fulfill your duty to the end. You yourselves chose the path of search and struggle, because none of you could live the old way. Walk the path allotted to you to the end, to the very highest trail!
- Your words are dark, - Thorin said with difficulty. - We are now in darkness, we don't know: what to do next? The army is going to Angmar...
Radagast's shoulders sagged helplessly, his voice sounded barely audible:
- An evil lot again makes me a herald of grief and disasters... If the free and happy life of Middle-earth is dear to you, then do what you can to protect it!
- We don't need to be called, - the Kid frowned. - We need to be told what to do!
- What to do?! - the wizard suddenly thundered. - I will tell you! And be proud, for I could not say such a thing to anyone but you. Know that the root of everything is that black power that has acquired a name and form - the name and form of Olmer of Dale! And, hard as it is for me to say this to you and send you on an almost hopeless task, for the sake of all the others whom you will shield, I say - go on the trail of Olmer, the King without a Kingdom, go and kill him!
And again silence, only the embers crackled: it seemed to the hobbit that he was looking into the very heart of the earth and seeing terrible shapeless shadows that slowly but surely rise up to merge with the Darkness already spread over Middle-earth; and it seems to him that he is no longer himself, but someone with a coldly shining stellar sword and a belt flashing with crimson auroras; and only he has the power to cast back these spawn of the heavy and dark Primordial, even at the cost of his own life.
And then, when he came to himself and saw his friends and the wizard, his ears caught the unnaturally calm words of Thorin, wiping his axe with a rag:
- Well then, it's always easier when you know your enemy by sight...
And the Kid smiled his usual serene smile in response to Radagast's questioning glance, nodding his head, after him Thorin raised his gleaming axe in agreement, then the hobbit himself, mesmerized by looking into Radagast's bottomless pupil, silently bowed his head.
Here ends the first part of the story "Ring of Darkness". The friends go in pursuit of the enemy. The second part tells of their campaign far to the east, of their return, and of what fate awaited the one who was Olmer, the gold-seeker from Dale.