Chapter 4: 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.