Ring of Darkness

Chapter 2: 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.