Chapter 6: In the Barrow-Downs and Beyond

The next morning, Nob, who had gently knocked, woke them up. On his tray, various pots and bowls were crowded, and fragrant smoke curled above them. Washing himself in the corner of the room, Folco listened to Thorin and Nob’s conversation. Nob was telling the dwarf how they had buried the hobbit killed on the Great West Road.

“…And we buried him on a hillock, you know, not far from the fork to the White Downs,” Nob burbled unhurriedly, delighted at the opportunity to talk. “The pit, sir – you won’t believe it – we dug it with everyone, all our hands were raw, the ground was so hard, and wherever you poked, it was like that everywhere…”

Thorin grunted something indistinctly.

“How good it is,” the hobbit involuntarily thought. “Here I am on the road, I have plenty of everything, but the main thing is that the food is good, the bed is soft, and there are adventures, such as they are. No, one can travel like this…”

However, he immediately remembered the treats he had received from Sandello, and a sharp pain immediately pricked his side, and his thoughts suddenly took a somewhat different direction:

“It’s good, of course, that Uncle isn’t here, although he’s probably having a bad time there, poor fellow. Who else but me will listen to him? And who, if not he, will make sure that everything goes smoothly, peacefully, according to the rules?..”

Something fluttered in the hobbit’s bruised side.

“And where are we going?” Folco thought. “We could just stay here, or go to the White Downs, build a small house, start a garden, grow turnips.”

It’s hard to say what conclusions the slightly disheartened hobbit would have reached if Thorin hadn’t called out to him:

“Hey, friend hobbit, what are you gaping at? Look, or I’ll eat all the breakfast myself. We have to leave today, don’t we? Just let’s go to the armory, buy you a bow, don’t you think it’s not superfluous? And then Rogvold will come – and off we go, to Annúminas! Nob says he fed our dwarf – he’s sitting there, he says, gloomy, whining about something, but he devoured the food in an instant.”

The dwarf seemed cheerful, fresh, and vigorous; he was eager to set off, and only a keen desire to know how the Arnorian cavalry raid would end kept him in Bree. However, the army did not return; there were no signs of battle in the vicinity – long caravans slowly moved along the Green and West Roads, groups of horsemen passed by, and pedestrians trudged along.

Rogvold appeared shortly after the hobbit and the dwarf, having packed their belongings, went to the common room for the last time to drink the famous Barliman’s beer.

“Well, are you ready?” asked the ranger, who had entered the inn swiftly.

“We just want to buy something for the hobbit,” Thorin told the ranger, who nodded understandingly.

They headed to the armory located near “The Prancing Pony.” In a small but bright room – windows occupied almost the entire wall – weapons were displayed on a large, solidly built counter of thick brown planks and a rack of the same color along the far wall. Everything was there – from throwing awls to plate armor, from slings to crossbows for every taste. And behind the counter, gloomily toying with a long three-edged blade with a ruby-studded hilt, sat the shop owner – tall, thin, as if dried up. His left eye was covered with a black cloth.

Folco opened his mouth and couldn’t close it again. What things, what beautiful things! Happy is he who possesses them, but even happier is he who knows how to wield them! His hands reached out to the cool bluish steel; the ornate bone handles seemed to beg to be held. Folco was breathless with admiration. However, the dwarf looked at the displayed goods with dissatisfaction and grumbled something like:

“Annuminas, it’s obvious. The blade is under-hardened. The stone is roughly cut. And the catch! Ah, masters… And this? Looks like a local forge! They can’t forge it properly! This is Edoras, it’s fine. It wouldn’t hurt to fix it, of course…”

The owner paid no attention to the dwarf. Obviously, he didn’t care whether customers praised or cursed his goods – there was no other armory in Bree. Meanwhile, Rogvold, after exchanging a few words with the half-asleep owner, called a young servant from the back of the shop and, with his help, began to choose a bow for Folco. Some were too stiff, others, on the contrary, too weak;

on one, the wood was disliked, on another, the overlays, the third turned out to be too ornate, the fourth, on the contrary, too poor, the fifth was over-dried, the sixth was damp, the seventh had a useless string.

The servant carrying the bows was sweating; the dwarf, who understood nothing about them, had long been impatiently shifting from foot to foot and snorting behind Rogvold’s back, Folco’s shoulders ached – how long could he keep drawing these bows! But Rogvold was relentless. After examining all the goods, the ranger turned to the owner.

“It’s no good, venerable Pelagast. Have your storerooms really become so depleted?”

“This lad doesn’t need a simple bow,” the owner suddenly grumbled, without raising his head. “He has good hands and a steady eye. He needs something better. Look at this bow, venerable Rogvold.”

Rogvold carefully unfolded the finely crafted black leather in which the weapon was wrapped. His hands held a bluish-steel colored bow, captivating at first glance with its elegance and proportion. The bowstring seemed like a moonbeam stretched across the horns of a young crescent moon. Not a single drawing adorned the bow, only on the inside was a small mark – three Elvish runes. Even the dwarf merely puffed and smacked his lips, looking at the remarkable weapon.

“It was made by Elves,” Pelagast proclaimed in a mysterious voice. “No one knows how old this bow is. Skillful Elven smiths once lived in the now deserted land, near the western gates of Moria. The three runes read as ‘ELD’ – I don’t know what that means. There are arrows for this bow too. It’s been with me for a long time… Many have tried it, of course, but it didn’t suit anyone, and I wouldn’t show such a thing to just anyone.”

“This is exactly what we need!” Rogvold said quietly. “I have a strange feeling: as if two parts of a long-separated whole have met. It seems that this is the only way it can be. I don’t know why. By the way, venerable one, why didn’t it suit those to whom you did show it?” he asked Pelagast.

“It’s too stiff for a child, too small for an adult, though it suits their strength,” the owner said with the same indifference. “It was made specifically for those like him.” Pelagast nodded towards Folco.

“How do you know?” Rogvold was surprised.

“I know, but how and from whom – that’s my business. But have I ever deceived you, venerable ranger? We’ve known each other for thirty years.” The owner stood up. “Well, shall I bring the arrows?”

Folco stood half-dead when the amazing weapon settled into his trembling hands. A quiver full of long arrows, with a bracer, with an ornate strap over his shoulder. On the front of the quiver, the same three runes “ELD” were embossed in gold. Folco slung the bow over his right shoulder.

“Wait, that’s not all!” Rogvold exclaimed, admiring the purchase along with Thorin. “Pelagast, you must have ordinary arrows, and also throwing knives, right?”

“Of course.” The owner didn’t even lift his eyes from the pages of an ancient book that had appeared from nowhere. “Over there, on the left.”

Without much argument, they bought eight identical short knives with light, almost weightless leather handles and heavy flattened ends. The dwarf, with an important air, examined their forging and deemed it not bad.

“It’ll do for a start. And when we get to Annúminas, I’ll forge you real ones.”

A substantial bundle of long, grey-feathered arrows of good Arnorian make also found its way into the hobbit’s backpack.

“Now we are ready,” Rogvold concluded. “The journey to Annúminas will take us five full days. But I have another suggestion. Why don’t we, friends, visit these notorious Barrow-downs?”

This was said calmly, even cheerfully, as if it were about going for a pint of beer. The dwarf snorted, Folco almost choked, but Rogvold calmly continued:

“The detachment went southeast or east. We don’t know what happened to them. Judging by the calm in the area, an ambush is unlikely in the Barrow-downs – there’s no reason to leave one there, no one goes there. Only hunters like me, and others simply have nothing to do there. I suggest we see if there are any traces left by the night wanderers.”

They were still standing on the threshold of the armory; it was a clear, warm September day, fluffy clouds floated leisurely across the blue sky, a breeze rustled the branches of the poplars along the main street.

In Bree, somewhere, cows mooed, dogs barked, chickens clucked, and carts creaked. The village lived its usual life, and the eerie discrepancy between the nightmarish place Rogvold was calling them to and the peaceful calm of Bree made the hobbit weakly protest:

“Why should we go there, Rogvold? What haven’t we seen there? You yourself said they left there. What are their hoofprints to us? We’d better go to Annúminas, along the Road, it’s a good, well-trodden road, and there are many inns again…”

“Wait, friend hobbit!” the gloomy dwarf stopped him. “Venerable Rogvold is right. We need to go there, even though I really don’t want to!”

They didn’t notice Pelagast coming out of the shop onto the porch, didn’t notice a very sad but benevolent smile on his face; they only turned at his words:

“It’s coming, yes, it’s coming. Ordinary bows and ordinary hearts won’t help here, something else is needed.”

“What are you talking about, venerable Pelagast?” Rogvold, understanding nothing, asked him in surprise.

“I’m thinking, just thinking, old age has come, it’s time for the grave, but I don’t want to, so sometimes I talk to myself. It’s all from old age, from foolishness,” Pelagast rattled unconvincingly, but his single eye said otherwise: “I spoke, you heard. How I know this is none of your business, but if you understood me – act!”

“But how?” the hobbit suddenly whispered, yielding to some vague intuition. “Tell me!”

Turning his unexpectedly clear gaze on the hobbit, his eye suddenly gaining color – becoming light gray, Pelagast said quietly, almost without moving his lips:

“Listen to the West, fear the North, trust not the East, and await not the South!”

He turned to disappear into the shop, but, turning back, cast a farewell glance at the hobbit – and it was no longer his lips, but something else that suddenly uttered words merged with his gaze. And Folco understood everything: “We will meet again, we will meet, and I will tell you, but for now you must go yourself, my advice will depend on what you learn.” Pelagast’s voice regained its sound:

“And remember the Heavenly Fire!”

Rogvold and Thorin stood with endless astonishment on their faces – they understood nothing and eventually attributed everything to the owner’s eccentricities and the hobbit’s impressionability. Folco blushed, but thought it best to remain silent…

They rode along the Great West Road leading to Hobbitland. Folco was silent, constantly pondering the words of the mysterious prophecy. Who was Pelagast? What did “Listen to the West, fear the North, trust not the East, and await not the South” mean? Meriadoc’s sword hung at his belt, an Elvish bow over his right shoulder, and only the arrows in his quiver were mostly ordinary. The hobbit’s thoughts could not stray far from “Remember the Heavenly Fire” heard at the armory’s threshold. The Red Book said nothing of the sort.

The sun was at its zenith when, leaving the valley and the bridge behind, they rode back to the place where the hobbit and the dwarf had encountered the mysterious black host the previous night. Rogvold dismounted and began to carefully examine the ground along the roadside. Folco rode closer.

The tracks of hooves, wheels, and feet had not yet been erased, though they had become almost imperceptible. The tracks crossed the dusty roadside and disappeared among the tall grass, leading directly to the Barrow-downs. Folco shivered and involuntarily clutched his sword.

“Hey, friends, follow me,” Rogvold waved to them. “The trail is very clear: we won’t get lost, no matter how hard we try.”

Folco hesitated, he looked up at the dwarf, seeking his support, but Thorin seemed unable to tear his eyes from the Deceiving Stones standing on the nearby barrows, and did not notice the hobbit’s frightened gaze. The dwarf’s right hand, as usual, rested on his axe-handle; with his left, he shielded his eyes from the rays of the still summer-bright sun. Folco sighed and touched the reins, and his pony, shaking its head restlessly and snorting, left the beaten path and trotted through the thick grass behind Rogvold’s unhurried bay mare. Complete silence reigned around them. Among the grass, the tireless bees from Bree-land apiaries still buzzed, hurrying to collect the last drops of nectar. High in the sky, a broad-winged kite circled; several yellow butterflies fluttered before the hobbit’s nose. A few hundred paces away, the first barrow rose – eroded, but still high, overgrown with especially thick, especially lush and green grass; on its summit, from the wildly overgrown greenery, protruded a bare, snow-white stone, resembling a sharp fang of some unknown predator – a Deceiving Stone. Folco glanced at it warily, but there was nothing suspicious in its appearance, nor in the entire barrow – just a hill. On the smooth, overgrown slopes, nothing could be found that even remotely resembled an entrance or its ruins, although the hobbit had read that every Barrow contained extensive dungeons, entire labyrinths full of countless treasures. Folco drew his sword and adjusted his quiver more comfortably. The dwarf glanced at his warlike preparations with a smirk and advised:

“Leave the sword; if anything happens, rely on the bow.”

Folco blushed again, but hastily sheathed his sword, took out his bow, strung it – and rode on, holding the reins in his left hand and looking around warily.

Rogvold rode slowly ahead, his gaze fixed on the ground: the dwarf and the hobbit trotted a few paces behind him, weapons at the ready, yet around them still reigned complete silence, only occasionally broken by the chirping of large grasshoppers. The barrows rose on both sides of a semblance of a path, along which the trail led deep into the Field: white Fangs stood frozen on their summits. About an hour passed like this; the Road had long disappeared, they had long been riding almost blindly, winding between the Barrow-downs and relying on Rogvold’s experience, and they did not notice themselves how an impenetrable silence thickened around them. The birds and grasshoppers fell silent, the bees and bumblebees disappeared, the grass grew even taller; even the light east wind died down, the air seemed to stagnate between the Barrow-downs, like water in a swamp. And then Folco suspected something was wrong.

This feeling reminded him of the fear he had experienced on the night road. Now, in broad daylight, with his friends, Folco did not feel terror – he only tensed up and wiped his instantly sweaty palms on his trousers. Thorin probably felt something too – he stopped his pony and pulled his axe from his belt. They moved at a quiet pace, slowly and cautiously, constantly looking around, but everything around them was calm. But with each step, an anxious, oppressive premonition grew, as if invisible, huge rotten eyes were watching them.

The barrows suddenly parted, forming a wide circle almost a mile across. And finally, on the green grassy carpet that covered this secluded place, safely protected from curious eyes, they saw a very fresh campfire.

“Finally!” Rogvold exhaled.

All three spurred their horses, heading towards the black, elongated patch of burnt earth. The grass around was trampled, the ground cut by deep ruts left by cartwheels that had dug into the damp, soft soil. At the edges of the round valley, they noticed about a dozen smaller campfires; piles of horse manure remained on the grass.

Rogvold dismounted and, bending almost to the ground, began to search from side to side, – gradually approaching the large campfire. The hobbit and the dwarf watched him anxiously, Thorin additionally constantly looking at the tops of the barrows surrounding the hollow; Folco, no matter how hard he tried, could not suppress the fear that emerged from somewhere deep in his consciousness – he could not lift his eyes, his pupils, as if enchanted, unblinkingly followed Rogvold’s tall figure striding across the valley;

the hobbit and the dwarf gradually approached him closer and closer. The ranger straightened up wearily; his face was grim and inscrutable, his right hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“Look!” He pointed to the campfire for his friends and whistled for his bay mare, who had wandered off, probably in search of the tastiest grass.

Folco and Thorin, in turn, dismounted and came closer. Among the light gray ash and black embers, they saw a pile of charred bones; the hobbit instantly trembled with fear.

“Don’t be afraid, friends.” Rogvold spoke in a muffled voice, as if he too feared something. “I understand what you both just thought. But these are horse bones – do you see the skulls?”

“Why are they here?” Thorin shook his head in bewilderment.

“Wait.” Rogvold stopped him with a sudden movement of his hand.

He squatted down and pointed with his scabbard to the very center of the fire. Folco peered closer – almost indistinguishable among the surrounding embers, three short, wide swords lay there, covered with ash.

“This is your department, venerable Thorin,” Rogvold said, still quietly. “What do you say about them?”

“I need to take a closer look,” Thorin replied, also lowering his voice, and approached the edge of the black circle.

Stopping, he looked around hesitantly, then waved his hand and stepped directly into the ash. A grayish cloud swirled around his heavy, iron-shod boots. At the same second, Folco, squeezing his eyes shut with all his might, shrieked in a voice not his own:

“Stop!” As soon as the dwarf took the first step, invisible icy claws seemed to dig into the hobbit’s heart, the ground swayed beneath his feet; he distinctly heard a furious, muffled hiss coming from somewhere below, from hidden dungeons. If the dwarf took another step – the irreparable would happen…

Thorin and Rogvold simultaneously turned sharply to the hobbit. Folco swayed from side to side, pressing his palms to his ears, but the terrible hiss, unheard by others, did not cease.

“What’s wrong, Folco?” Rogvold asked anxiously, looking into the hobbit’s eyes, full of unreasoning fear. “What happened?”

Meanwhile, Thorin resolutely approached the ash-covered swords, picked them up, and, holding the weapons under his arm, hurried towards Folco; everything swam before the hobbit’s eyes from the incomprehensible, previously unknown heartache that gripped him, his legs gave way; Rogvold caught him, the quiver hanging over Folco’s shoulder slipped, and the hobbit, trying to hold it, felt the familiar warmth of the Elvish bow with his fingers.

And then he began to fight. It seemed that touching this ancient weapon of the fairy folk gave him new strength; in reality, it was not so. But the little hobbit naively believed that such things possessed the hidden power of the Eldar, and this belief helped him – he made a desperate effort, trying to free himself from the vise that squeezed his heart. He did not see the enemy, could not openly fight him – but the fear began to recede, the pain in his chest subsided, his legs no longer gave way. The hiss was still audible, but now it contained only powerless malice. Folco blushed with effort, but stood firm.

“What’s wrong with you, tell me at last!” Thorin shook him.

“It’s passing.” Folco tried to smile, but the smile came out rather pale.

“Ugh, you scared us!” The dwarf wiped sweat from his brow. “This is a bad place, of course. I myself find it hard to breathe for some reason. All right, let’s look at the sword.”

Thorin bent over the weapon lying on the grass, took the sword in his hands, and wiped it with a bunch of greenery. On the wide double-edged blade, near the crossguard, a tiny, barely noticeable mark appeared: a circle with an upward-leading staircase, or rather, a broken line simply crossing it from left to right, resembling a staircase depicted from the side. The dwarf scratched the back of his head.

“I’ve never seen such a mark. It’s certainly not dwarven work. Although the steel is excellent and well-forged, the tempering is lacking again, and it’s roughly finished! Not a city craftsman, as they say, but a great master.”

“And where was it made, can you tell?” Rogvold asked the dwarf.

“It resembles blades forged between the Misty Mountains and the edge of the Greenwoods,” the dwarf replied thoughtfully. “The same three grooves, the same taper, the same proportions. But it was made, I repeat, by a great master, a smith, as they say, who heeded Durin, but he had neither the opportunity nor the desire to properly finish his work. Steel is human, and it seems to me that it is smelted from iron from the mines of Mount Gundabad, in the far north of the Misty Mountains. The dwarves left there long ago, and the orcs perished. The mines fell to men.”

They stood in a tight cluster in the very center of the round valley. Folco had fully recovered and was looking around warily, while Rogvold and Thorin were absorbed in conversation. The barrows surrounded them in a gloomy formation. The Deceiving Stones on the summits seemed like the tips of giant spears piercing the earth, as if some gigantic warriors in full armor slept deep within. The wind blew, and the sky began to be covered with low gray clouds. The hiss that had subsided sounded again, but now the hobbit was ready to meet it. “I won’t give in! I won’t give in!” he told himself, clenching his teeth tightly. He held his bow and arrows ready.

Both ponies and Rogvold’s horse also felt something. They became alert, stopped grazing, and moved closer to their masters.

Thorin and Rogvold’s conversation somehow died down; the three travelers stood silently back to back and looked anxiously at the ring of hills that closed the horizon. Only the sky was visible above the green peaks; the wind intensified, whistling maliciously and thinly at the sharp edges of the Fangs. It became cold and uncomfortable; they seemed to have invaded someone’s sacred domain, where time had not moved for many centuries. Folco was the first to break.

“Do you hear something hissing?” he whispered to Thorin.

“Hissing? By Durin, I hear nothing. Perhaps it’s the wind? But this place, I tell you… Rogvold! Why did we come here, anyway?”

“We learned many very important things,” Rogvold said through clenched teeth, his eyes fixed on the Barrow-downs. “Even the anxiety we all feel now is important.”

“Wait,” the hobbit suddenly grabbed their hands. “Do you hear? Do you hear? It’s rising… It’s climbing up… It’s coming here!” Folco almost shrieked.

“Nothing…” the dwarf began, but Rogvold stopped him.

“Wait, friend,” he said quietly. “Hobbits should feel such things better than us. I’m starting to feel something too.”

“Feel what?! What are you starting to feel?!” the dwarf exploded. “I tell you, it’s a bad place.”

The hobbit was a pitiful sight. He felt alien feet treading in their tracks; the earth did not tremble, it only quivered slightly, like the surface of water in a gentle ripple; but what the hobbit could not be mistaken about was that an alien Power was approaching, a Power with which neither hobbits, nor dwarves, nor men had dealt for a very long time.

“Calm down, Folco,” the ranger said quietly. “We can’t leave now, do you see what’s happening to the horses?!”

Both ponies and Rogvold’s mare fell to the grass, as if their legs had been cut from under them; the unfortunate animals neighed piteously, arching their supple necks towards their masters, as if begging for protection and help.

The dwarf froze in place, Rogvold paled, and then Folco, a hobbit from peaceful Hobbitland, suddenly realized that he could no longer stand, grabbed his bow, strung an arrow, and rushed headlong towards where the unknown was advancing upon them. Rogvold and Thorin rushed after him.

They had barely run twenty paces when the wind suddenly howled and blew in their faces with furious force. Folco stopped, covering his face with his hands; and at that moment, on the nearest barrow, towards which he had rushed, a tall human figure appeared.

It was very tall, two heads taller than the ranger, who was six and a half feet; wrapped in a gray cloak, in a gray-steel helmet that covered not only its head, but also its nose and cheeks; where its eyes should have been, the friends saw impenetrable blackness. The wind tore at the skirts of the gigantic cloak that enveloped the figure from head to foot; it also froze, looking down at the petrified travelers. The wind suddenly died down, and only the frightened neighing of horses could be heard.

Folco licked his parched lips. Fear seemed to paralyze him; but something stronger than fear, combined with the efforts of his own will, made the hobbit move forward. He tried to shout: “Stop, I’ll shoot!”, but the figure on the barrow took a step towards him – and the cry died on Folco’s lips, only a groan escaped his throat; and then the hobbit, somehow realizing that words were useless here, that the thing standing before him was not a human being to be stopped and reasoned with, raised his bow and, almost without aiming, plunged a two-cubit yew arrow directly into the bottomless night of the gray figure’s eye socket.

A heavy underground groan resounded; the arrow, embedded in the head of the unknown creature, disappeared in a flash of crimson flame, but it had done its work. The helmet flew off the head enveloped in gray steam, the cloak, like the wings of a wounded bird, swirled around the figure bent in half, a muffled, underground groan resounded again, and the creature on the barrow disappeared.

As if waking up, his friends finally ran up to Folco; the dwarf still clutched one of the swords found in the ash. Folco breathed heavily, unable to tear his gaze from the spot where the enemy he had struck had disappeared.

Behind them, neighing sounded again. They hastily looked back – Rogvold’s ponies and horse stood up and, uncertainly, as if still freeing themselves from invisible bonds, headed towards them.

The dwarf comically shook his head, endless astonishment frozen in his dark eyes. Rogvold stood beside him, straight and motionless; he had turned terribly pale, and now it was clear how old he actually was.

The dwarf was the first to recover. Holding his axe ready, he quickly ran up the barrow and circled the spot where the phantom had just stood. Rogvold and Folco remained below, the hobbit with grim determination strung another arrow, though he felt that there was no immediate danger. Rogvold still stood motionless and silent.

“It’s empty here,” Thorin shouted from above. He waved his hand and began to descend. Then Rogvold finally spoke.

“Well, if anyone told me, I wouldn’t have believed it, I would have ridiculed them as a deceiver,” he shook his head, not even trying to hide his astonishment and shock. “These are things – the Barrow-downs have come alive! Is it all happening again?”

The dwarf, who had descended, approached them. Thorin heard Rogvold’s last words and asked what they meant.

“I already told you that during my service to the Steward, I heard plenty of ancient legends and Elvish lore,” Rogvold replied with a wry smile. “And I recall that many legends say that the Barrow-downs come alive when a new evil awakens on earth.”

The dwarf scratched the back of his head again.

“But what was it, after all? Well, that thing that our accurate hobbit shot so successfully? It wasn’t a human, that’s clear.”

“It was a Wight, friends,” Folco whispered, and was surprised himself that he had the strength to utter that terrible word. “Remember the Red Book, Thorin, remember the Barrow-downs and Frodo’s blow!”

“Wait, what blow?” Rogvold didn’t understand.

“I’ll explain later,” Thorin waved him off somewhat impolitely. “But you’re right, Folco! Frodo Baggins dealt with it then with an ordinary sword. Why shouldn’t an ordinary arrow work?!”

For some time, all three stood hesitantly in one place. Rogvold could not recover from the encounter with the underground force, the dwarf expected a new attack every second. Folco, however, simply lost all sense of reality. The world faded and blurred around him; strange visions flashed before his eyes – endless steppes across which long, winding columns of troops in glittering armor moved like giant snakes; unfamiliar banners fluttered, strange but sonorous and rhythmic speech was heard; on a huge field, other columns, all in silvery robes, marched towards these columns. Folco understood that these were Elves. The vaults of ancient barrows trembled from the passing armies of the Last Alliance, heading for a decisive battle with the Enemy at the black walls of Mordor, and the Wights, in terror, hid in the deepest underground caches; but the armies left, and the secret life that had arisen among the valiant dust of the great warriors of the past, devouring their remains and now eagerly pursuing living prey, regained its courage…

“Well then, shall we go, friends?” Thorin said after a pause. “I think there’s nothing more for us to do here.”

“Indeed, it’s time for us to go,” Rogvold echoed.

It was clear that the old warrior was ashamed of his momentary confusion, but the paleness had already left his face.

“We’ll take this sword with us,” Thorin suggested. “Our story to the Steward is growing with new details and clearly needs proof.”

With these words, he wrapped the found sword in a rag he found in his pocket and hid it in his bosom. At the same moment, Folco grabbed the dwarf’s hand.

“Don’t take it with you, brother Thorin,” the hobbit said quietly. “I feel: there are unkind words and dark thoughts on it. It is left here for dark forces. Don’t take it! I can’t say why, but that’s how it seems to me.”

“How will we confirm our words?” Thorin wondered. “The Steward won’t even listen to us.”

“I beg you, throw it away!” Folco’s voice became pleading.

The hobbit didn’t know where such thoughts came from, and he suffered because he couldn’t properly explain everything to his companions. Thorin, however, merely waved his hand carelessly and went to his pony. With his head bowed, a swarm of vague but gloomy thoughts and premonitions in his soul, Folco trudged after him. Rogvold, who had been silent all this time, was already mounting his saddle.

However, they did not manage to get out of the strange valley. Right in front of them, on the top of the nearest hill, a gray phantom reappeared, exactly like the one the hobbit had shot a few minutes earlier. Folco involuntarily turned around – behind them, near the Deceiving Stone, another Wight was visible.

Rogvold, with youthful agility, dismounted and, drawing his sword as he ran, rushed to intercept the figure descending from the northern barrow. A dark fighting flame flared in the dwarf’s eyes; he snatched his axe and charged towards the figure walking towards the fire from the south.

The two new phantoms were exact copies of the first, but Folco felt neither fear nor determination. It was simply very strange, as if he were peeking at the performance of some secret ritual not meant for outsiders. Overcoming his momentary confusion, he drew his bow.

The phantoms walked so fast that even a horse would have difficulty keeping up with them. Only now did Folco notice that when they moved, the grass beneath them did not bend and they cast no shadows.

An alien will again tried, if not to frighten, then at least to confuse the hobbit, but Folco, who had just destroyed one of the Barrow-downs’ spawn, firmly believed in himself and feared nothing more – at least at that moment.

The huge gray figure rushed past Rogvold; the ranger’s desperate attempt to reach the phantom with his sword failed, the gray shadow was now rapidly catching up with the dwarf, who, without turning, ran towards the second phantom. The gray folds of the cloak trembled, something like a misty cloud appeared before the walking phantom, instantly taking the form of a long two-handed sword.

“Thorin!!!” Rogvold cried out desperately.

The dwarf heard and turned around. He found himself between two fires – phantoms were approaching him from both sides. Now he had only one thing left to do – fight. Folco saw the dwarf suddenly crouch softly, hold his axe in front of him, and alternately glance left and right; Rogvold rushed to his aid with all his might. But the old ranger was already beginning to gasp for breath, and the hobbit raised his bow.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” he mentally screamed and released the first arrow.

It struck the left shoulder of the first phantom, which was now only ten or fifteen paces from Thorin. The gray shadow convulsively twitched, tongues of crimson flame appeared above its shoulder, and a wide ring of fire began to spread across its cloak. The phantom darted to the right, and the second arrow missed its target. A muffled, sepulchral groan reached the hobbit’s ears again.

The phantoms turned away from Thorin, now heading directly for the campfire. Folco’s arrow burned to ashes, a fire from nowhere burned a huge hole in the cloak – in it something bluish-black showed through. Folco pulled a new arrow from his quiver, but at that moment both phantoms reached the campfire.

Folco froze, lowering his useless bow; both gray figures immediately melted away, but before that, the two swords remaining in the ash flew into the air, lifted by invisible hands, and disappeared into the folds of the cloaks.

Thorin lowered his axe, the hobbit hid his bow; breathing heavily and holding his left side, Rogvold approached. They silently looked at the campfire. No, they hadn’t imagined it – the swords were gone! Exchanging silent glances, they walked back to their waiting horses.

They got out of the Barrow-downs without any adventures, but Folco kept restlessly turning on his pony and looking back every minute. The feeling that had suddenly awakened in him again gave him no peace. The cold, malicious hiss that had announced the appearance of the first phantom relentlessly followed them, but the man and the dwarf still noticed nothing. The sun climbed across the sky, a south wind blew, and when the three travelers were already riding onto the Road, Folco suddenly clearly heard words spoken in a cold, inhuman voice – to him alone: “Do not rejoice, we shall meet again.”

Or did he only imagine it, and it was just the wind rustling in the leaves?

Rogvold and the dwarf were animatedly discussing what had happened.

“Amazing!” Thorin, still flushed with battle fervor, said loudly and excitedly. “Still, if it’s a phantom, why can it be killed with an ordinary arrow? I remember how Frodo Baggins…”

Here the dwarf was interrupted by Rogvold, who knew nothing about this, and Thorin had to retell him the recently read pages of the Red Book. Rogvold listened attentively and thoughtfully stroked his beard; then he asked where Thorin had managed to read this priceless legendary document – after all, copies of the Red Book were nowhere to be found! Rumor had it, a copy could be found in Gondor…

The dwarf looked down and replied that he had “seen” the Book while in Hobbitland; Rogvold grunted and asked no more questions, but agreed that something truly strange had happened, and added that most likely the black warriors had made a large halt in the Barrow-downs, during which they had burned three horses on a bonfire.

“If it weren’t for the three swords, I would have thought these horses were simply slaughtered for meat,” Rogvold explained. “But now I see that’s not the case. Most likely they were killed with these very swords. Each with its own. And then burned on the bonfire and the swords thrown in there too. But why?! And why would phantoms need weapons left on a campfire? What’s the connection here? After all, those two went specifically for the swords… That’s what bothers me!”

Suddenly, a gust of wind brought a malicious horse neigh from somewhere deep within the Field of Barrows. The horses shied in fright, the friends paled and stared at each other in silence.