Chapter 7: Three on the Road

They reached Bree without any incidents. On the Road, everything was still calm; a large caravan was approaching from the White Downs, the hobbit drivers seemed cheerful and carefree, and when asked by Folco, they readily replied that the road was calm, couldn’t be better… Soon they all reached the Bree-land gates.

“Well, shall we spend the night here or continue on?” Rogvold asked Thorin and Folco.

“At night?” the dwarf doubted, looking at the sky covered with low clouds. “What if it rains? Where will we hide?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll spend the night in Astor – it’s a village about ten miles north along the Green Road. There’s an inn there, and a good one at that. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck here all winter. Well, let’s go.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Thorin waved his hand. “Come on, Folco, let’s load the bags…”

While the dwarf was paying Barliman, Folco led the loaded horses out into the street. Passing people glanced at them with bewilderment – where were they going so late in the evening? Rogvold waited, sitting in the saddle;

soon Thorin appeared, carrying a sack with the captive dwarf on his shoulders.

They said goodbye to Barliman, who had come out onto the porch, and, glancing warily at the shaggy clouds, set their horses in motion. Their path lay North.

The Green Road was as wide as the West Road; riding along it proved easy and pleasant. Around them stretched inhabited, carefully cultivated lands of the Bree-land outposts, a road sign “White Downs” flashed by. To their left, wooded ridges gradually drew closer, which Folco and Thorin had seen on their approach to Bree. To their right lay wide fields interspersed with groves, and occasionally ravines. Unlike the West Road, the Green Road had many more people walking and riding on it; travelers were practically never alone. Here too, they preferred to travel in groups, but in two hours of travel, they encountered an Arnorian mounted patrol three times; high watchtowers were visible on the roadside hills, and armed warriors with large bows stood on them, carefully surveying the surroundings. Folco’s heart felt lighter. Here, the presence of a strong, self-assured authority was palpable.

They arrived in Astor – a village of forty homesteads – in the evening. Rain began to drizzle, greedy clouds swallowed the crimson sunset light, it became cold and damp, and Folco was incredibly happy to see the gentle lights in the windows of houses half a mile away. They spoke little on the way – Rogvold was intently pondering something, muttering indistinctly to himself and occasionally pestering Folco with questions about the details of the hobbit’s experiences in the Barrow-downs; Folco stumbled over his words, trying to express the inexpressible, but nevertheless Rogvold was satisfied. The dwarf listened to their conversation, and then pulled down his hood and immersed himself in his dreams…

They passed through the gate, made of three poles, more resembling the entrance to a cattle pen, and approached a low but sturdy and recently renovated palisade. At the real gate stood guards – local residents with clubs and spears; they cursed these freeloading warriors for making them postpone important household chores and come out into this rain and slush. They let the travelers pass without any questions, being entirely absorbed in finding appropriate nicknames for the warriors; Thorin, Rogvold, and Folco entered the village unhindered.

The inn turned out to be full, and they were offered to settle in the hay barn, but they were brought an excellent, though simple, dinner. After about an hour of shouting and arguing, they managed to win a place for themselves, they quickly ate, fed the dwarf, and went to bed. The dwarf and Rogvold fell asleep surprisingly quickly, but sleep did not come easily to Folco.

“Everything is interconnected,” he thought. “And the dwarves sent to Isengard for orcs, and the raids on the road, and these inexplicable events in the Barrow-downs… Everything is connected, but how can I prove it to others? They’ll just laugh at me… " He played with his new leather belt with throwing knives hanging from it. “But it’s good that I’m here…”

With this thought, he fell asleep…

The morning was gray, low shaggy clouds hung over the village, and a fine drizzle fell from time to time. Folco woke up late; from early morning, the bustle of departing guests kept him from sleeping, and as soon as it became a little quieter, he fell soundly asleep again.

Thorin woke him up – he had brought an oak tub of water and splashed a handful in the hobbit’s face. Folco twitched, sneezed, shook his head, and sat up in bed – or rather, on a pile of hay covered with cloaks.

“How did you sleep, Folco?” Rogvold greeted the hobbit. “Let’s eat, and then hit the road, we’ve already lingered here, and I still need to talk to someone here.”

Rogvold disappeared around the corner of the hay barn that served as their lodging. The hobbit and the dwarf began to eat.

“It would be good to reach Hamsal today,” Thorin said thoughtfully. “It’s thirty miles from here.”

“Have you been here before, Thorin?”

“Of course, and more than once. The road is good, settlements stretch all the way to the city. What’s here, it’s a pleasure to walk here, unlike the Wilderness!” The dwarf sighed. “No matter how far you walk there, there’s no dwelling, no food. You make do with what you carry. Nowhere to sleep, you build a small fire, cover yourself with a cloak – and fall asleep however you want. And you can’t hide from the rain, or the wind. Oh, it will be a difficult road, brother Folco! Look, don’t change your mind later. Better now.”

The dwarf lowered his head and fell silent. An awkward pause ensued. Folco could not utter a sound. He was unbearably ashamed. No, he would not turn back now for all the beer in Buckland! To suffer all his life, cursing his faint-heartedness, and to be tormented by the bitter realization of irrevocably lost time, wasted years! No, it was better to go forward, to the Wilderness, to the Barrow-downs. To Mordor, finally! There was no turning back!

“Eat up, it’s getting cold,” Thorin said gruffly, also not looking up. “Made up your mind? Speak up, don’t keep me waiting.”

“I’m coming with you,” the hobbit squeezed out.

“That’s good,” the dwarf replied, brightening. “Where has Rogvold disappeared to? It’s long past time to leave.”

He stood up and headed for the exit.

They waited for the ranger for about fifteen minutes, but he still didn’t appear. Thorin’s patience ran out, and he went in search of him, strictly instructing the hobbit not to stray from their baggage and not to take his eyes off the dwarf, who was tied to one of the poles nearby. Folco nodded obediently and, having nothing else to do, took out his knives and began throwing them at the wall – it turned out, it must be said, not badly.

It was at this occupation that the ranger and the dwarf, who had suddenly appeared, found him. Both looked alarmed and concerned; without much talk, they immediately began to pack up, telling the hobbit to saddle the horses. A few minutes later, they were already riding out of the inn gates. Folco shivered, wrapping himself in his cloak – the wind had not died down, and the drizzling rain did not improve his mood at all. Small drops lashed the hobbit’s face; he had to pull his hood so far down that the road was only visible right in front of his pony’s nose; the dwarf and Rogvold rode beside him, and the old captain recounted the news he had heard that morning.

“They say a new tax rescript has arrived, again raising them to support the militia. The people grumble a little, but they understand that something must be done about the bandits. Recently, people arrived from the northeast – looking for places to settle. On the border, they say, it’s too dangerous now. Squads of Angmar mounted crossbowmen are penetrating Arnor and causing great devastation. People are trying to fight back somehow, but villages are quickly emptying, new and new detachments of militiamen are occupying them, but so far nothing seems to be working. One visitor from Annúminas said that an unprecedented number of dwarves from the east had gathered in the capital this autumn. Some of them came to work, but most do nothing, neither sell nor buy, but spend all day shouting in taverns. The disputes are very heated, but it hasn’t come to a fight yet. Some believe that the dwarves of the Misty Mountains are going to war against Angmar, while others claim that nothing of the sort – on the contrary, the dwarves want to conclude an alliance with Angmar, and then they will show everyone.”

“And about Bree? Nothing heard?” Thorin asked, surprised along with everyone else by the last report.

He too was surprised. After all, there were not many dwarves left in the Misty Mountains themselves; they had gone very deep, and earthly matters concerned them little.

“Nothing about Bree,” Rogvold replied. “Wait! The raid will last no less than three or four days; by then, we’ll have covered half the distance.”

“And about the Barrow-downs?” Thorin persisted. “It can’t be that nothing was said! I’ll never believe it!”

“They spoke of the Barrow-downs,” Rogvold lowered his voice. “Don’t think, Thorin, they’re not blind here. They just watch from their pigeon loft. One grumbled while I was getting food – an unseen evil has started in the Barrow-downs, fire reaches the sky, but not everyone sees this fire. Whoever sees and doesn’t sleep will manage to escape, and the rest that evil devours in an instant. Not bad, eh? By the way, he told me something else interesting: that some people wandered in the barrows in the evenings, but where they came from and where they went is unknown. Our people, of course, noticed them and reported it to the elder and the sheriff.”

“And the sheriff?” Folco asked eagerly, momentarily forgetting even the rain.

“And what about the sheriff? He sent a patrol there, the horsemen circled the edge, circled, but didn’t go deep – they were seized with dread. They didn’t see anything, of course, and then one night the Deceiving Stones lit up. What happened there, he said, you can’t describe! Some climbed into the cellar, some rushed to run into the forest, some started burying their goods. I asked him directly: well, did anyone grab stakes and axes? No, he said, only two such people were found in the whole district. The local smith, Hled, I knew him – a flint, not a man. And one in Bree, I haven’t heard of him, named Heidrek.”

“How did they see the Deceiving Stones from here?” the dwarf wondered.

“Fire, they say, reached the sky. Every barrow was a pillar of flame. However, strangely enough, no one in Bree mentioned a word about it! However, here too they prefer to keep silent about it. Who knows, maybe they think it’s dangerous to talk about such things aloud?”

Folco listened to Rogvold’s unhurried speech, and his heart pounded. Now he no longer regretted the warm bed or the rest. How could his kin be engaged in their petty and insignificant affairs when a gigantic wave of formidable events and omens was rising around them?! And only he, Folco, son of Hamfast, a hobbit “not of this world,” a errand boy in his native homestead, only he managed to feel and understand this!

Rogvold fell silent. The horses trod softly on the slippery road, soaked by the tedious, prolonged rain. The clouds showed no sign of dispersing, the wind still did not abate. They had long passed Astor and were now riding across a wide plain, which on their right abutted a ridge of wooded hills. Ignoring his soaked cloak, Folco tried to sit so that he could look around and at the same time protect his face from the wind. He succeeded, and now he looked with interest at the unfamiliar country. It was still beautiful, even on this inclement day.

Far to the left, a dark thread of a river flashed, strips of forests on its banks, a settlement of several dozen houses; a narrow country road branched off from the Great Road, bisecting a solid mass of harvested fields. Here and there, solitary haystacks not yet brought under cover were still visible, but there were very few of them, and Folco decided that the owners here lived frugally:

This was evidenced by the carefully maintained fence, the neatly filled potholes on the Road itself, and even the intricate log cabins over the roadside wells, adorned with skillfully carved faces and figures. Despite the rain, work in the surrounding villages did not cease: the Road was bustling, and the three friends constantly rode in sight of some large caravan. In a few hours, they passed four villages: all clean, with sturdy, palisaded houses. The rain did not stop, Folco’s cloak soon became completely soaked, and when, according to Rogvold’s calculations, the sun had passed its zenith about two hours ago and was already beginning to set, they decided to stop. Fortunately, shelters had been built along the entire Road for the convenience of travelers. The friends took cover under one of them. They also found some firewood prepared by someone before them, and they hastened to light a fire. Bright orange tongues of flame merrily danced over the dry grass placed under the wood;

soon the fire was crackling merrily, scattering scarlet sparks around it.

Folco threw off his soaked cloak and shivered, moving closer to the fire. Steam rose from his damp clothes, smoke stung his eyes, clogged his throat, making it difficult to breathe, but it was living warmth, into which he could plunge as if into a hot bath. After the damp chill of the Road, this seemed to the hobbit, unaccustomed to the hardships of travel, the height of bliss…

Soon the fire was trampled out, and the friends moved on under the gray clouds that covered the entire sky, from edge to edge.

They spoke little. Sometimes Thorin would suddenly begin to mutter something to himself in his incomprehensible language; Folco caught the measured rhythm of guttural sounds and realized that the dwarf was either reciting poetry or singing something. Rogvold seemed immersed in some cheerless thoughts. The hobbit became burdened by this almost funereal silence of his companions; he began to question Rogvold about his life and everything he had seen, especially interested in the Last March mentioned by the ranger during their first meeting.

“Ah, those were glorious times!” Rogvold seemed glad of the opportunity to talk and recall the past. “At the very Ice Bay of Forochel, where a gloomy and strange people live, who rule the land of Hringstad, the Nameless Mountains stretch to the east. Long, long ago, long before the War of the Ring, long before the Last Alliance and the Fall of Númenor, long before the founding of Minas Tirith and Umbar, in short, in the days called by the Elves the Elder Days, beyond those mountains lay a wondrous land where, they say, the Great Enemy Morgoth once dwelt…”

A thunderous peal of thunder interrupted his speech. The sky was torn by a branching, dazzling lightning bolt that burst directly over their heads. The heavy roar made Folco press his palms to his ears. They froze in place, stunned and shocked. The horses shuffled uncertainly; finally, Rogvold touched the reins and continued his story, but now in a lowered voice and sometimes falling silent expressively.

“So, our army marched north from Annúminas, heading for the eastern edge of the Nameless Mountains. Our scouts, who in those years ventured very far, all the way to the Rune Sea, reported to the young Steward, and he, in turn, to the King, that large detachments of orcs had been spotted there. They kept themselves quieter than water under grass, moving in large caravans, obviously looking for places to settle. We decided to intercept them. The weed must be pulled out by the root before it has time to grow and produce poisonous seeds. The King himself led us, and we, the warriors of Arnor, were simply happy, as never before in our lives – finally we took up the cause for which we lived! We passed through the western borders of Angmar, its inhabitants came out to the King with an expression of submission, they decided that the campaign was directed against them. Fools! The King does not fight with Men, for they are all his subjects; he only punishes those who transgress his laws. Soon we entered deserted, uninhabited areas; we marched past wild gray rocks and ringing mountain rivers, making our way by dozens of roads to one assembly point. The orcs did not expect our blow. The mounted armored cavalry scattered their hastily built shield wall; the heavy infantry completed the rout. A grand hunt began. We drove them day and night, not allowing them to scatter. My hundred searched rock after rock, cliff after cliff, cave after cave – and from everywhere we extracted enemies who had hidden in every nook and cranny. We did not waste time catching and tying them – we simply drove them and drove them before us. Sometimes arrows flew at us, or some desperate group of orcs decided to sell their lives dearly and rushed at us from cover; I lost eight men in such skirmishes, but they failed to break through our barriers. Soon we began to find orcs who had died from wounds or been finished off by their comrades. What were they hoping for? – I asked myself then and found no answer. And the number of dead orcs grew – the old and the children could not endure. And then came the day when all the hunting parties gathered on a huge field at the foot of the Nameless Mountains. The gigantic gray walls of the rocks cut off all escape routes for the surrounded, as we then thought, and from three sides our forces advanced on them. But the orcs turned out to be far from cowards, they prepared for battle, although they knew that they had no hope, and we involuntarily felt respect for them. Evening was already falling when they suddenly sent their chosen ones to our camp. They were brought to the King. Then I learned that they asked him to spare the life of at least one out of every twenty children who had survived by that time, and to let them out of the encirclement. The King, of course, refused, adding that with the spawn of Darkness, they, the descendants of Elendil and Aragorn, could only have one conversation. The orcs swore that they would leave for the east forever and forbid their great-grandchildren from coming to Arnor, insisting that they had done nothing wrong to the people of the Kingdom, but the King was adamant. The next morning we lined up in battle formation. Before us, on the foothills, a huge mass of orcs darkened. They dragged their surviving carts up, piled stones – in short, they prepared for defense as best they could. We attacked, and the battle was fierce, the orcs fought like madmen. But they had nowhere to go, and they could not withstand our shield-bearing infantry – they were simply crushed, as if between a hammer and an anvil. And when it was all over, we discovered with astonishment and anger that the orcs had tricked us:

while negotiations were underway, a significant part of them, with children and women, had gone into the mountains. We rushed in pursuit. Those secret mountain paths, along which the orc trail led us north, proved steep and dangerous. The path sometimes hung over a bottomless abyss, sometimes ran into seemingly impregnable rocks, but each time we found some inconspicuous branch along which the fugitives had gone. On the seventh day – only on the seventh! – we caught up with them. There was no battle – we simply threw them all off a cliff. That’s how it all ended. The rocks below turned red with dark crimson orc blood.

Rogvold smiled grimly and was silent for a while.

“The next morning we began to decide what to do next. The easiest thing was to return, for we had fulfilled the King’s command, but unknown paths beckoned us, and we, a detachment of five thousand men, decided to move on, to seek a way out of these narrows and, perhaps, to look at that amazing country that had long been called the Highlands by us. We moved on, marking every mile we passed. Now it became much more difficult to find the way further, but we were patient and persistent, we had enough food, and we did not give up. Seven more days passed in hard labor. On the eighth day, we passed the last pass, and a huge, boundless plain opened before our eyes, stretching north, east, and west, as far as the eye could see. Here and there, small hills were visible, we noticed several small rivers that originated in the Nameless Mountains and flowed somewhere to the northeast. Their banks were covered with sparse groves of stunted, low-growing northern trees. There was no sun – the entire sky was hidden by solid gray-lead clouds without the slightest gaps. And nowhere were there any traces of man or beast. The earth was enveloped in a shifting fog. Descending from the foothills, we seemed to be knee-deep in gray moisture. A strange, unforgettable feeling gripped us – we found ourselves in a time preserve, where time, tired of the hustle and bustle of the Great World, had forever stopped its course and where, it seemed, it went to rest every night. This was not a human world, friends. There was no place there for men, nor for dwarves, much less for hobbits. Strange creatures lived there, living by their own laws. I don’t know who they are, those gigantic ghostly spiders, clouds of volatile cold fire, multi-headed snakes that can crawl through the air. I don’t know, but I assume that this place became the abode of the shadows of those creations of Darkness whose countless evil deeds deprived them of eternal rest. One way or another, the shadows of these warriors of Ton-gorodrim have not disappeared, and to this day they wander around the dwelling of their sleeping master. We quickly became convinced that they were incorporeal! When we first saw them, we were terribly frightened, we grabbed our swords and bows. But the gray shadows, always lamenting something in a long-forgotten language, paid no attention to us. Our arrows and spears passed right through them, doing no harm, and once among us there was a brave man who stood in the path of one of the ghost spiders. The shadow passed through him, we saw his figure inside the monster, but it limped on, and the brave man returned to us safe and sound. We stopped paying attention to them and moved on, now almost at random, keeping to one direction – north. As before, we carefully marked all possible landmarks so that we could get out of here later. But we could not go far – we were running out of provisions. We went three more marches, but noticed nothing suspicious – only the fear that had arisen in our souls immediately after crossing the Mountains grew stronger and stronger, an unreasoning and inexplicable fear that was very difficult to resist. Gradually, more and more phantoms appeared around us – whole herds of them gathered near our camps; moreover, they developed a disgusting habit of taking their walks right through our camps, and it could no longer be called accidental. Very unpleasant sensations, br-r-r! – Rogvold shuddered all over. – As if you are plunging into a stale, rotting liquid – and the smell inside these monsters, I tell you! And at the same time, as I said, they are completely incorporeal. Well, never mind, enough about that.

We pressed on, secretly hoping to see something extraordinary, perhaps the ruins of the Fortress itself, but we saw nothing. Around us still stretched the same boundless plain, and the gray shadows still dragged their ghostly bodies. And we turned back. The return journey passed without any adventures: the landmarks we had left were in their places, no mistake had been made, and we reached the mountains exactly on schedule. Thus ended the Last March, after which the Arnorian militia sat idle for thirty years. Only in recent months had it seriously taken up arms. However, these are still only minor skirmishes; it has not yet come to real campaigns.

Thorin and Folco listened carefully, trying not to miss a single word. After riding in silence for some time, the dwarf suddenly slapped himself on the forehead.

“Rogvold! How did the orcs suddenly go north as an entire people? And what – were they no longer afraid of the sun?”

“I don’t know,” the former captain replied with slight confusion. “Generally, if you want to live, you’ll crawl under anything. We forced them to fight during the day, but they, in my opinion, fought with equal desperation both at night and during the day. And why did they go as an entire people? I suppose they first sent their scouts, who found the Highlands for themselves. There are no people there, no sun either – almost always thick, impenetrable clouds. They looked it over, and then they all moved en masse. We, unfortunately, overlooked these scouts. By the way, beyond the Nameless Mountains, we found traces of orc camps several times!”

“So… these Uruk-hai managed to hide there?” Folco became alarmed.

“What did you say?” the ranger asked him again. “What did you call these orcs? Some unfamiliar word…”

“Uruk-hai,” Folco explained. “I read that’s what those monsters who served Saruman were called. They were much stronger and larger than their brethren and, like your orcs, Rogvold, they weren’t afraid of the sun. Brrr! Horrible creatures, as Frodo describes them. So what about those orcs in the Highlands?”

“Who knows!” Rogvold shrugged. “We didn’t go there anymore, everything was calm on our borders. Of course, if they multiplied there for thirty years… By the way, this spring, in skirmishes between Arnorian warriors and flying detachments, such orcs were often seen among the dead.”

“So, perhaps they have long been allied with Angmar?” Thorin worried. “Then it’s time for the dwarves to take up their axes again! The wars of men – no matter how you look at it, they are the wars of men, and orcs – that is our ancient, most evil, in short – Eternal and Chief Enemy! We fought them even under Great Durin!”

“Fought, but not with those,” Rogvold shook his head. “After the War of the Ring, if anyone survived, it was the strongest, cunningest, and most agile. Besides, they are not fighting in dungeons now.”

“You haven’t seen our infantry on the surface yet!” Thorin snapped. “Wait to judge.”

“I haven’t seen them,” Rogvold readily agreed, seemingly unwilling to argue with the dwarf. “I haven’t seen them and I don’t know, so I really won’t say anything. It seems Angmar has indeed rallied around someone, and that someone is leading his fierce young men to our borders. Someone has gathered the free-living people and managed to incite them against us. Someone has found the remnants of orcs in the North, and is trying to find them in the South. And in addition, the Barrow-downs have come alive! It’s not cheerful, to say the least.”

“We must hurry,” Folco said quietly. “I’ve been having some bad thoughts lately. Everything is very scary, but it can still be fought – I understood that when Thorin and I saw the black detachment before the Barrow-downs. But who knows, if we delay, won’t it be too late?”

The conversation broke off, and an ominous silence hung over the Road.

“Fear the North, fear the North!” Pelagast’s words spun incessantly in Folco’s head. But what could he, a small and unskilled hobbit, do? Do what the entire armored host of the Great Kingdom could not manage!

“Nothing,” a very calm and reasonable voice suddenly spoke within him. “Remember, small stones bring down devastating avalanches from mountains. The accidental meeting of Peregrin and Meriadoc with the Ents, their artless tale – and the Ents, rising up, smash Isengard, save those fighting in Helm’s Deep, come to their aid in the decisive hour of the battle on the Pelennor Fields! And you keep repeating – what can I do? A great deal!”

Folco shook his head. He could have sworn he heard those words, which breathed new strength and self-belief into him. But his companions rode calmly and silently, and the hobbit realized that these were his own thoughts, the thoughts of a new Folco Brandybuck, who was repulsed by the caution of the old – a caution that so often resembled cowardice.

They rode northwest along the Road until evening. Folco even stopped looking around – the landscape did not change; around them lay inhabited, well-tended lands that seemed to hold nothing unusual. The rain stopped, and the sky slowly began to clear. The evening glow found them on the crest of another chain of hills, quite high, from which they could see far around. The last shreds of clouds torn by the fresh west wind disappeared into the twilight that covered the eastern sky, and in the west, a huge crimson disk slowly descended into the clear, transparent aerial abysses. A scarlet strip along the horizon, without a single cloud spot, looked like a satin ribbon dropped by some beauty. The travelers involuntarily stopped their horses to admire this splendor.

The land was gradually enveloped in whitish evening mists. Through their weightless veil, forests and fields, dark, winding ribbons of rivers were still visible. Everything around seemed solid, peaceful, and established.

The road went down into the valley, and soon the grayish masses of the hills hid the sunset from them. The valley, bathed in the evening gloom, moved towards them, very wide, stretching between two distant ridges.

In its middle flowed a small river, and the houses of a nearby village were visible.

“That’s Silmenville, and the next one, before the second ridge, is Hamsal,” Rogvold explained to the hobbit. “We’ll spend the night there.”

The last miles were difficult for Folco. His strained back ached, and every step of his pony again echoed in his sides; the fog turned out to be utterly nasty – as soon as they plunged into it, Folco felt himself beginning to shiver from the cold and damp. The horses were also tired – they plodded along the road, which had not dried from the recent rain, nodding their heads dismally. In Silmenville, they were hailed by guards:

“Who are you? Where are you going?” Rogvold replied that they were from Bree.

“From Bree? How are things there, haven’t you heard? They say the captain led his men somewhere.”

“He led them,” the dwarf replied. “But we don’t know how it ended. We left the very evening they set out.”

“Ah… pass through,” came the disappointed reply.

They passed the village and gradually began to approach the second ridge. Folco was already dozing off, the dwarf was audibly anticipating a hearty dinner and good beer, when behind them, from the fog, came the clatter of hooves. A rider was galloping, and soon they saw a figure emerging from the gloom. Rogvold stepped aside, making way.

The rider was rapidly catching up with them. He was leading a spare horse, and a familiar white-and-blue cloak fluttered behind his shoulders – it was a militiaman.

“What if he’s from Bree?” the ranger thought aloud. “A messenger, that’s for sure. But how he rides, how he flies! It must be something urgent.”

The horseman drew level with them, and Rogvold called out to him:

“Where from, friend?”

The rider did not answer at first, but, looking at Rogvold’s face, he sharply reined in his horse.

“Rogvold, old man! What are you doing here?” He directed his spirited stallion towards his stopped friends.

The warrior was not young; his long, high-cheekboned face was disfigured by several white scars.

“Greetings, Franmar! Long time no see! What brings you to the City?”

“Bad news, old man. Was it you who brought the information about the detachment that came out of the Barrow-downs?”

“It was us,” Rogvold nodded. Folco felt a chill, sensing something bad.

“We caught up with them the next day, forty miles beyond the Forest.” Franmar spoke quietly and quickly, swallowing the ends of his words. “Captain Erster calculated everything correctly, but in the Forest they joined another detachment, and there were almost five hundred of them against our two. Our wedge had broken their formation, but they immediately scattered. There were many crossbowmen among them. They retreated and spared no arrows. We responded as best we could, but things could have ended badly, had not forty of Narin’s men, who had outflanked them, attacked these vagrants from the rear. They became confused for a short time, we managed to cut them again, but they escaped once more. We chased them for a long time, but we never managed to engage them in a proper battle. During the pursuit, several young and hot-headed men broke ahead, and they were caught with lassos.” Franmar took a breath and wiped his sweaty face with his palm. “Among them was the captain’s younger brother, Halfdan. We found them a few hours later. They had suffered a martyr’s death, and each had their lower jaw cut out!” All three listeners involuntarily shuddered.

“I’m taking a report about this to the City,” Franmar continued. “We lost twenty-seven men, and they lost forty-three. There were all sorts of people there! And men – from Angmar, judging by their horseshoes and harness, orcs – northern ones, it seems, and some I didn’t know – a small, short folk like dwarves, but different. Their hands are like your ankle! So they left. Scattered and gone. Try to find the wind in the field now!” He smiled bitterly. “Well, goodbye. Goodbye, old man, if you’re in the City – come by, you know my house. We’ll be relieved soon, so I’ll be home.”

“Certainly, old Franmar,” Rogvold assured the messenger. “Have a safe journey!”

“Ah-ah!” the other waved vaguely and spurred his horse.

The spare horse, arching its neck restlessly, galloped after them, trying not to hurt its mouth because of the short rein. The friends watched them in silence for some time. Franmar’s figure quickly diminished, dissolving into the whitish haze, and soon the sound of hooves also died down. Silence reigned on the Road once more.

“Well, well, what a business,” Thorin drawled. “To think! A lower jaw…”

“That’s just it, a lower jaw,” Rogvold said grimly. “Where does such a custom come from! Well, the Haradrim skin the corpses of the bravest enemies, stuff them with straw, and display them for all to see, but to do this… I heard, however, that there is such a people, far to the east, beyond the Rune Sea, a month’s journey from Dale. But where did they come from here?! I don’t understand anything!”

In Hamsal, the inn turned out to be much more spacious than the one in Astor, and there were fewer people in it. Without any hindrance, the travelers took a room, and Folco delightedly collapsed onto a wide bed. Everything spun before the eyes of the deadly tired hobbit, and Thorin had to pull his clothes off him. Folco fell fast asleep, not even waiting for dinner.

…He had wings – huge, strong; he soared high above the earth. Unknown plains stretched beneath him, some mountains were visible – he didn’t know which ones. The spaces beneath him were hidden by the evening twilight, long night shadows stretched from west to east, the snow-capped peaks of distant mountains were painted in a delicate pink, illuminated by the last rays of sunset. He suddenly wanted to fly away from the bloody sunset glow; he made a light movement with his mighty wings and rushed eastward. For some reason, he firmly knew that he had to be there now, and he obeyed a clear, though unknown, call. With a slight detachment, he thought that the Misty Mountains should appear now – and so it happened. The gigantic mountain range, stretching across all of Middle-earth, flashed and disappeared; he saw beneath him the windings of the Anduin, the Great River, and a little further away, the boundless expanses of the Greenwoods, formerly Mirkwood, darkened. His path lay even further – to the sunrise.

Beneath him stretched an endless forest carpet, without the slightest clearings or glades. Suddenly he felt that he should turn right – and he did so, and saw beneath him an unexpectedly empty place. The forests disappeared, in the midst of a ghostly white, steadily swaying misty sea, a huge bare hill rose, its base hidden by gloom. On the summit, some debris piled up in a shapeless mass, covering almost the entire hill. Looking closer, he realized that these were the ruins of some gigantic building. And in the midst of these ruins, where the stones formed something like a long-collapsed tower, he noticed a living fire.

“The wind is raging below,” a thought suddenly surfaced in his head, “why is the flame so steady?”

He understood that this was very important, important like nothing else, but why? The thought flashed and died, and he was already descending over the dark brown ruins. Describing a wide circle, he found himself on the ground. Not a blade of grass on it – he realized again, though he wasn’t looking at his feet. He cautiously moved towards where, as he firmly knew, the wind-undisturbed fire should be burning.

Rounding the remains of an ancient wall, he suddenly froze. With his back to him, by the fire under the surviving wall, stood a man. He stood, legs firmly and confidently spread; his head was bowed, he was looking at his hands, which were doing something in front of his chest. A black horse stood quietly nearby.

In this man, an enormous, ancient power was felt, as ancient as the ruins surrounding them – and he immediately remembered the Barrow-downs. He didn’t know where this certainty came from, but he knew that it was so.

Something made him look back, and he saw a vague movement in the fog. Soon, two dark figures emerged from the gloom – a massive, stocky one and a small, slender one, though not much inferior to the first in height. The second figure held a silvery bow in its hands.

“Shoot! Shoot!” a thunderous voice resounded, seemingly coming from all sides at once and nowhere at the same time, and he saw the figure with the bow raise its weapon…

Folco came to himself from a bright sunbeam hitting his face. The shutters were open, the fireplace crackled softly, and Rogvold and the dwarf sat at a table by the window. The ranger was cleaning his sword, the dwarf was polishing his axe. It was inexpressibly pleasant to lie so comfortably under a warm blanket, resting his tired body. The hobbit closed his eyes. The ranger and the dwarf did not notice his awakening and continued their unhurried conversation.

“And yet, tell me, Thorin,” Rogvold said. “How did it happen that you are traveling with a hobbit? You are a strange team, after all. I was surprised by this back in Bree – strange, I thought, a hobbit started a fight, and a dwarf defends him.”

“Well, that’s how it turned out,” Thorin replied. “I took a liking to him. Not like all his kin. Their main goal is to fill their bellies, but he – no. He needs much and much is given to him – I feel it. And he’s not a coward – remember how he shot at the phantoms while you and I were rubbing our eyes and figuring out what was what. And besides, we dwarves are a loyal folk. If we have a friend, it’s until death. That’s why we have so few friends.”

“Yes-s-s,” Rogvold drawled, and silence fell again.

Folco decided it was time to wake up. He sat up, stretched, and yawned. The dwarf and the man turned to him.

“You’re a strong sleeper, friend hobbit!” Thorin said cheerfully.

“I had a strange dream today,” Folco said thoughtfully.

Putting himself in order and washing, he told his friends what he remembered from his amazing night vision. They listened in silence, without interrupting.

“To dream such a thing!” Folco tried to turn everything he had seen into a joke, however Thorin and Rogvold remained very serious.

“Don’t laugh at your dreams yet, Folco.” The captain’s broad, gnarled palm rested on the hobbit’s head. “Sometimes our future appears in them. Fate loves to play with us, sometimes showing us individual pictures of events that have not yet happened, and the wise can choose the right path or beware of rash actions. A hill, you say. A bald hill in the Greenwoods? Is that not the famous hill on which some enemy fortress stood? I have heard such tales.”

Thorin looked at the hobbit questioningly.

“If the Red Book is to be believed, there should indeed be a castle of Dol Guldur somewhere in those parts, or rather, what is left of it,” Folco recalled.

“And what kind of castle was it?” Rogvold asked.

“The abode of the Nazgûl, the most terrible servants of the Enemy; orcs attacked Lothlórien from there. You know what that is?”

“I heard that’s what the land of the Elves near the Misty Mountains was called, but I don’t really know anything else,” the ranger replied.

“Orcs stormed the Golden Wood three times, but the Elves fought them off. And then they themselves went forward, crossed the Anduin, and gave battle! The enemy’s servants were defeated, and Lady Galadriel herself brought the walls of that castle to dust. So says the Red Book.”

“They keep harping on Dol Guldur, the castle. The Enemy!” the dwarf grumbled. “Who knows what one might dream! Dreams, of course, sometimes come true, and one shouldn’t dismiss them, but here everything is too vague.”

“Well, we’ll live and see,” Rogvold sighed. “Let’s get on the road, friends. This fight near Bree is still on my mind. How did they get so bold? They gather five hundred spears in the middle of the Kingdom, fearing nothing and not even hiding particularly well!” He shook his head, concerned. “Bad times are coming, my heart tells me.”

“And what, couldn’t the whole district be roused?” Thorin suddenly asked. “In Bree alone, there are two thousand fighters! And the surrounding villages! You would have simply crushed them, not one would have escaped.”

“What are you saying, what are you saying!” Rogvold waved him off. “Think for yourself, how can these villagers go into battle?! It’s certain death for them, no one there knows how to wield a sword. There’s a militia for that, and it should fight. It fights, and the plowmen plow, the smiths forge, and the weavers weave. Everyone should do their job properly, and not interfere in others’. That’s how it is, that’s how it was, and that’s how it will be. No, people can’t be changed anymore.”

“Well, you know best,” the dwarf didn’t argue. “Only with us, if someone like that started causing trouble and robbery, everyone would drop their work and attack together, until the enemy was finished.”

“Perhaps that’s why you dwarves didn’t create a United Kingdom,” Rogvold chuckled. “No offense, of course, but everyone to their own.”

“Why take offense,” the dwarf grumbled. “We really haven’t been able to build a kingdom since Durin’s time.”

“Well, then, to the road?” Rogvold stood up. “Are you ready, Folco? Did you feed your dwarf?”

“I fed him, I fed him,” the dwarf waved him off, standing up. “He eats like a glutton, where does it all go!”

They rode almost all day; finally, the Road dipped down into another valley between chains of hills stretching from southwest to northeast. The road crossed the basin at its widest point; to the right and left, in the distance, the ridges converged again. The flat bottom of the valley was covered with fields and gardens; a little further to the left, another village and meadows around it were visible, and beyond that – new fields, new gardens. Numerous barns and sheds stood everywhere, and dozens of paths and trails crisscrossed the valley in different directions. Anticipating rest and a glorious dinner, the friends spurred their horses.

However, the village met them with an unexpected emptiness. The gates of many houses and the inn were wide open, but no people were visible, only the yard dogs, faithfully performing their duty, greeted the arrivals with a chorus of barks.

“Where did they all disappear to?” Rogvold muttered in bewilderment as they approached the wide doors of the inn.

Inside, the spacious hall was empty, tables overturned, chairs knocked over, and shards of broken crockery crunched underfoot. A huge tomcat sat on the counter, leisurely feasting beside a broken pot of sour cream.

“Looks like everyone ran off somewhere,” the dwarf shrugged.

“But where? And why? No, something’s wrong here. Let’s walk down the street a bit more, maybe someone’s left.”

Leading their horses by the reins, they wound through the village streets. Everywhere they were met by the same scene – everything wide open and everything empty. They didn’t notice how they ended up on the outskirts. Beyond the gardens stretched a narrow strip of orchards, and beyond that, fields were supposed to begin again. The friends stopped in indecision, and then a gust of wind brought them some fierce, angry shouts. They came from just beyond the gardens.

“There! Quickly!” the ranger shouted and leaped into his saddle.

The dwarf and the hobbit hastened to follow his example.

Pushing through a narrow path through the apple orchards, they found themselves in a long, narrow field. It was there that the “missing” villagers were found.

A desperate and chaotic fight was going on there. It was impossible to tell who was on which side – everything was mixed up in a general melee. Dust rose, clothes ripped, and stakes flashed in the air.

The women added fuel to the fire: first with frantic shrieks, and then two rather large groups of them, who had previously showered each other with curses and insults, moved from words to deeds and grabbed each other’s hair.

“By Durin’s beard…” the dwarf muttered in bewilderment.

He looked at Rogvold in astonishment, but the old captain’s face also expressed only immense surprise. And then Thorin did not hesitate any longer. Ten paces from them, a young man collapsed to the ground, his head split open by a shovel blow; this brought the friends out of their complete stupor. Thorin roared, like thirty-three bears at once, he snatched his axe and rushed into the thick of it, generously dealing jabs and kicks that sent the grappling fighters flying in all directions. With the handle of his axe, the dwarf knocked stakes out of the hands of the fighters; to the most restless, he added a slight blow to the ribs. He moved through the howling, growling crowd like a knife through butter, leaving a real clearing behind him; his huge fists flashed. The dwarf’s appearance was met with a new outburst of indignation, but Rogvold, with a drawn sword, rushed into the gap between the people behind Thorin, and then Folco. Inside the hobbit, everything froze with fear, his heart pounded somewhere in his heels, but his bow was in his hands, and when some mighty bearded man with a yell raised a heavy club over the dwarf, Folco accurately shot an arrow precisely into the wood between his hands. The bearded man stared wildly at the embedded arrow, and at that very moment Thorin disarmed him.

The fight was still going on, but it was quickly dying down. Many were already shouting, “Brothers, what are we doing?!” and began to help the dwarf and Rogvold separate the fighters. And gradually everything quieted down. The people stood sweaty, breathing heavily; almost all were equally bruised – one had a broken nose, another an eye, a third groaned, holding his side, a fourth clutched a cut forehead. Four seriously wounded lay in the field – one young man and three strong men – they had been beaten with stakes. The women who had stopped the brawl rushed to the wounded, someone ran to the village for water and linen. Now it became clear that the fighters had divided into two roughly equal groups, one of which moved further away, while the other, on the contrary, moved closer to the Road. In the middle of the field, on a small, barely noticeable boundary, only the three travelers and two hefty men remained standing – one was the bearded man into whose club Folco’s arrow had so successfully struck, broad-shouldered, round-faced, somewhat resembling Thorin in his stocky figure, and the second – without a beard, but with long, chest-length mustaches. The second was much taller than the dwarf. These two looked at each other with hostility, snorting fiercely and wiping away sweat. The bearded man constantly spat blood from his broken lip, the mustachioed man did not take his torn shirt from his nose.

“What’s going on here?” Rogvold asked, looking at them in surprise.

“And who are you?” the bearded man asked ungraciously. “Sheriff or militiaman?”

“I am Rogvold, son of Mstar, a five-hundred-man captain of the Arnorian militia!” the ranger sharply replied, prudently omitting the word “former.”

Both men’s mouths fell open, and they stared at him in astonishment. However, it was not so easy to deceive them.

“Well, then… respected sir. You go your way. We’ll sort this out without you,” the bearded man drawled and turned to the people standing closer to the Road, giving them some kind of signal.

The crowd stirred and moved closer; Rogvold rested his palm on the hilt of his sword, and Folco, as if incidentally, strung an arrow and held a spare one between his teeth.

“Indeed, we’ll manage without you,” his recent opponent supported the bearded man, in turn signaling his own.

The three travelers found themselves between two fires; from both sides, grim, battle-heated people approached, and in these moments the villagers forgot their own quarrels. However, the three friends were not alone. Several people came out from both groups onto the boundary, mostly strong, sturdy, more experienced men. Now the warring camps were separated not only by the three friends, but by the bearded man on the left and the mustachioed man on the right – it seemed they were the instigators – they were not in a hurry to lead their people away.

“Hey, you there, on the boundary!” the mustachioed man shouted mockingly. “Get out before you’re trampled! We must repay these stinkers for their insults, and we will! And whoever dares to stop us, we’ll give them a beating! Understand? And you, Graet, Khrunt, Virdir, and Isung, you cowardly traitors who disgraced your native village!”

“Suttung, stop stirring up the people!” shouted one of the villagers who had come out to Rogvold; he was tall, broad-shouldered, his face framed by a grizzled beard, silver also visible at his temples, but his eyes were clear, and his hands, it seemed, could easily bend horseshoes. “Isn’t El and Trast enough for you? Or are you and Bearded Eirik trying to make us set red roosters on each other every night?!” The speaker’s face turned crimson, his huge fists clenched. “No! Enough! Let’s thank venerable Rogvold and his companions, the fog has cleared from our eyes. So we haven’t disgraced anything. This I say, Isung, son of Angar!”

“Right!” another chimed in.

He was shorter than Isung, but even broader in the shoulders. A fresh scar cut across his left cheek, and blood oozed from the wound. He spoke abruptly, angrily, chopping the air with his palm.

“Why are we breaking each other’s ribs, huh?! Look,” and he poked his own cheek, “this is what I got as a souvenir from Heldin, he’s standing right there, with whom we’ve been working side by side in neighboring fields for fifteen years! Hey, Heldin! Can you tell me clearly why we got into a fight, huh? Silent… Well, there you go!”

“He’s silent – I’ll answer!” shouted the one called Suttung furiously. “There was no need to put spokes in our wheels and tell us what to sow and how! It’s our turn – we do what we want! You’re not our authority! Am I right, guys?!”

The people around him responded with a unified roar, and only the man named Heldin tried to object. Bearded Eirik whispered something in a small circle of his adherents, while the rest of his group stood, grimly staring at the ground. Suttung’s comrades yelled and hooted. Stakes and axes, picked up from the ground, flashed again, and a crowd of several dozen people rushed together at Rogvold and his friends, who were frozen in the center of the field, and the villagers who had joined them. There was nothing to do, and they grabbed their weapons. Behind them, silence still reigned.

Folco was not afraid; there was a desperate battle-joy, an excitement; he seemed to soar above the dusty field, likening himself to the heroes of antiquity, and even smirked when Suttung led his men forward – it presented a convenient opportunity to show himself.

A silvery lightning bolt flashed in the air, and Suttung fell to the ground with a cry, trying to pull out the arrow that had pierced his thigh. At the last moment, Folco realized that he could not, for no reason at all, kill a man like that, and lowered his aim. He saw Suttung’s insane eyes, his mouth agape in a desperate cry;

he even managed to notice a thin thread of saliva stretching from the man’s lips. “No, this is not a phantom of the Barrow-downs, this is a living man, what are you doing?!” someone seemed to scream inside Folco – and the hobbit’s hand trembled.

The sight of the fallen, blood-stained Suttung somehow immediately sobered the attackers. They stopped, crowding around their leader, and then Folco, once again internally surprising himself over the past few days, cried out loudly and desperately, re-stringing his bow and raising his weapon:

“One more step – and I’ll shoot you in the throat! The first one!”

A piercing cry, verging on a shriek, burst from the hobbit’s lips, frightened by his own boldness – but the threat had its effect. Heldin raised his hands high, as if stopping his comrades, and shouted loudly:

“That’s enough! Suttung got what he deserved – how long can we quarrel with our neighbors! Disperse, brothers, go home! I’m sure Bearded Eirik’s people will follow our example.”

Strangely quieted by the sight of the wounded Suttung, Eirik also came out onto the boundary that still separated the two hostile crowds.

“I think we’ve all just gone mad here!” he began. “What kind of veil has covered our eyes? Why did our neighbors listen to this Hraudun? Why can’t we sort things out calmly, without a fight? I am, of course, guilty, I confess, some kind of eclipse came over me. But now it’s all over, I suggest we make peace!”

“Miserable coward!” groaned Suttung, sitting on the ground. Folco’s arrow had already been removed and his wound bandaged. “People! Why are you standing there! Beat them, beat them! He insulted the one from whom we received so much good!”

“We didn’t ask him for that,” one of the men standing next to Suttung replied grimly. “May he perish!”

And then the people seemed to burst. They hugged, shook hands, clapped each other on the shoulders; those who had inflicted wounds on each other asked the injured for forgiveness. Bearded Eirik himself successively embraced a good dozen of his recent opponents, and then the dispute almost flared up again. Each side declared that it would better receive and honor the guests who had stopped the fight. Thorin reconciled everyone, stating that he was hungry and would gladly dine first in one village, and then in the other. They cast lots, and it turned out that they should first go to Suttung’s kin. Following the travelers came a good half of Eirik’s comrades, led by Eirik himself.

Isung’s great hall was large, but still barely accommodated all who came. A long table, immediately assembled from planks and shields, was brought to the center, covered with several tablecloths, and while the women prepared hot food, several bulging jugs of beer were served to pass the time. Folco, Thorin, and Rogvold were seated in places of honor. Heldin and Isung, Eirik and Graet, and others, about thirty in all, sat next to them. Those who did not fit in the hall went to prepare a joint evening feast as a sign of the cessation of the internecine strife.

“So what was all the fuss about, after all?” the dwarf asked Eirik and Isung, who sat next to him, and took a good gulp from a tall wooden mug where freshly brewed beer foamed. “I’ve traveled a lot in Arnor, but I must admit, I’ve never seen anything like this. How did it all start?”

The people exchanged embarrassed glances, lowering their eyes. Finally, Isung spoke:

“It started a year ago, venerable Thorin. From beyond the eastern mountains, a stranger came to our village – an ancient old man, ragged and hungry. He said that his house had been burned by the Angmarim, that all his children and relatives had died, and now he wandered through Arnor, having no home of his own. Well, our people are compassionate… They took him in, warmed him, and he settled down, adapting an old shed for living. At first, they fed him out of compassion, expecting him to start a garden and live like a human, but nothing of the sort… He didn’t want to work, but began to provide various small services for a fee – charming away a toothache, curing a cow, and so on. It turned out that he was a skillful healer and could predict the weather a day, and even a year, in advance. They began to respect him, value him, and then – to fear him. In short, he rendered many services to our village. News of him, naturally, reached our neighbors. They began to call him to Hagal – that’s Eirik’s village, but there he was of little use. On the contrary, what he did excellently for us, turned out very badly for others. At Eirik’s sister’s, I know, he killed a cow and a goat, although he could have cured them…”

“That’s why we rose up against him!” Eirik interrupted Isung. “We cursed him for all we were worth and little by little began to envy our neighbors, who, thanks to him, became richer and lived better than us. Quarrels and strife began.”

“Yes, he had a hard time,” Isung nodded. “The residents of Hagal gave him no peace, and we – oh, why did we do it! – we gave him protection. After that, between our villages, where three-quarters of the people are related to each other, it was as if a black cat ran through! We became angry and suspicious, quarrels flared up over any trifle. Finally, Suttung stirred everyone up over this field. People’s heads spun, they grabbed whatever they could, and our neighbors turned out to be no fools either. We broke each other’s sides. Thank you for breaking it up! Otherwise, who knows how it would have ended…”

“And this… Hraudun, the evildoer, where is he himself?!” Thorin asked.

“That’s just it, he disappeared,” Isung replied with annoyance. “He ran away last night, that’s the last anyone saw of him!”

The dwarf’s mouth fell open, Rogvold stared intently at Isung.

“He disappeared and left all his belongings,” the latter continued. “But enough about him! We’ve made peace – haven’t we? Let’s rejoice! Hostess! Is it ready? The guests are waiting!”

The women bustled around the table, serving game, fish, mushrooms, various pickles and jams. The travelers did not need to be asked twice and began to eat.

Gradually, outside the sturdy house of Isung, it grew completely dark; the sun had set behind the surrounding hills. It was time to find a place to spend the night. The hosts absolutely did not want to let the travelers go, but an indignant Eirik reminded them of the dwarf’s promise, and the friends had to obey. A yellowish moon was already rising in the east when they finally settled in a roadside inn in the village of Hagal. Now Eirik spoke mostly.

They learned that Hraudun was rarely seen by the inhabitants of Hagal, but from the sparse, fragmentary words of those who had encountered him, it emerged that he was a tall, almost Rogvold’s height, powerful old man with a long face, a high forehead, and deep-set eyes of an indeterminate color. He usually wore an old, worn cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. He walked with importance, unhurriedly, with dignity, and everyone wondered why their neighbors had suddenly taken him for a miserable vagrant – he rather resembled some important nobleman on vacation. Hraudun did not engage in conversations, and they did not know what his speech sounded like. Nevertheless, everyone unanimously asserted that he would certainly lead their neighbors astray. The inhabitants of Harstan, for no apparent reason, developed some kind of arrogance and pride; for some reason, they began to boast about their origins, tracing their lineage almost from Valandil himself, son of Elendil, founder of the kingdoms in Exile. At first, this seemed ridiculous, but then, because of such foolish, absurd fabrications by the Harstaners, serious quarrels began between the villages. And in the end, it came to a fight…

“So who could he have been, this Hraudun?” the dwarf asked directly.

“Who knows?” Eirik shrugged. “He came from nowhere and went nowhere. But there’s some power in him, that’s for sure. He was slippery, unpleasant, but he was certainly not lacking in intelligence. He often gave advice – to his own, of course – and never once made a mistake!”

“Did anyone come to him?” Rogvold interjected.

“We even set up surveillance behind his shed, if you can call it that,” Eirik smirked wryly. “And, can you imagine – nothing! Absolutely nothing! No one came, no one arrived, no one asked. In the evening – he’d slip into his hole and wouldn’t show his face until noon. And those who needed him went to him themselves. They’d bring an offering in a knot:

provisions or better wine – he would listen to them. He never answered immediately, he would sit, stand up, walk around, and all with such significance! The petitioners, poor things, didn’t know what to do – it was awkward, it was clear that they were distracting such a wise man with their insignificant affairs. From the outside, it was sometimes simply ridiculous! First it was funny, then they had to cry.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rogvold drawled, as was his custom. “And why didn’t you complain to the sheriff?”

“Ha! You’d complain to him if he himself was from that village!”

“And in Bree?”

“To Erster? He’s a brave captain, of course, but he cares little about us. He’s concerned with Bree and the bandits – he fights them, and everything else… I saw him a couple of times – he, in my opinion, is sure that everything is quiet as a mouse here anyway. Why complain anywhere! I’m not used to it. Although now all the villages in the district, whichever you take, are complaining. But I can’t. That’s why I incited my people to fight.”

“Erster got a beating,” Rogvold sighed, changing the subject. “He chased the flying detachment we spotted near the Barrow-downs. He chased, but didn’t catch them, barely escaped himself, lost thirty of his own. That’s for forty strangers! Is it conceivable! And how are things with you, quiet?”

“Thanks to the Seven Stars and the Great and Bright Elbereth, all is well so far,” Eirik replied. “They do roam around, of course, they do, but they won’t bother us. It’s true that we, the villagers, are a peaceful folk – I gave no one in Hagal peace until the palisade was repaired and the rust was cleaned from our great-grandfathers’ swords!”

Rogvold smiled almost imperceptibly.

“The messenger on the Road told me those crossbowmen have many. If they attack, what will you do?”

“And do you think we can’t make crossbows ourselves? We can, and how! We have them, almost, in every house, with every lad, with every lass! Women sit down to spin – a crossbow nearby. And you yourself look – there, at Tvart’s, next to the beer barrel.”

To the right of the pot-bellied innkeeper, who was in charge of the mighty beer barrels, a hefty crossbow indeed hung on the wall, and next to it – a bundle of arrows, short and thick, with heavy arrowheads.

“So we’re not sitting idly by here either,” Eirik remarked, not without pride. “Unlike in other villages, even in Harstan itself. You won’t take us with bare hands!”

“And what about in other villages?” Folco asked.

“Ha! All they know there is to tremble and secretly bury their accumulated wealth in their yards, little by little. You must have been riding, you should know.”

“You’re not the first from whom we hear this,” Thorin nodded sadly. “And it just doesn’t make sense to me, even though Rogvold explained…”

“Ah, about ’to each his own,’ he probably said.” Eirik suddenly narrowed his eyes ominously.

“He spoke as it is,” the captain shrugged.

“As it is! Of course, as it is!” Eirik’s eyes narrowed and his beard bristled angrily. “You’d better tell me who invented this, who accustomed the people to a quiet and untroubled life, so that now they don’t know which end of a spear to grab?! And here’s the result – an enemy appears, and the militia is God knows where! They chase him, chase him, but there’s no use, and there never was! Villages are burned, people are captured, and they are like sheep…” Eirik spat under the table with bitterness and anger. “Everyone must fight now, do you understand, captain – everyone! Otherwise, we will all perish one by one. Oh, why am I telling you all this – my words are like a mosquito’s squeak to you. Wait – another day will come, we will have to raise all the people – you will remember my words then, captain!” Eirik, abruptly ending the conversation, waved his hand and began to get up from the table. Rogvold, Thorin, and Folco merely exchanged bewildered glances.

Rogvold and the dwarf had long been sleeping the peaceful sleep of weary travelers, but the hobbit still lay with his hands behind his head, gazing unblinkingly out the window at the black autumn sky, covered with yellowish-gray clouds, through which the yellow disk of the moon peered. What awaited them? Annúminas was approaching… Where next? To Moria, after all, to that terrible, alien underground world of darkness for hobbits, where incomprehensible and therefore especially frightening ancient forces live and act? Brrr…

The hobbit shuddered. Feeling that he couldn’t sleep yet, he got up, put on his belt with knives, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and went out onto the porch, shivering slightly from the gusts of cold night wind. The hobbit sat down on a step and took out his tobacco pouch and pipe from his bosom. A few strikes of the flint – and the dry moss, which served as tinder, smoldered.

Folco lit his tobacco and took the first puff.

Suddenly, from behind the nearby houses, several people appeared, armed with swords and spears; bows and crossbows on their backs. Looking closer, the hobbit recognized Eirik and his friends.

“Hello, Folco! Why aren’t you sleeping?” Eirik asked him. “Well, you see, we’re going to our posts. I have little hope in the militia, so I have to rely only on my own. So we stand guard every night, taking turns, of course.”

“And how is it? Does it help?” the hobbit inquired.

“It helps for now, praise the Seven Stars,” Eirik sighed. “Go, friends, I’ll be right there,” he turned to his silently waiting comrades. “Let’s go to our posts, I’ll go around to everyone later.”

He sat down on the steps next to Folco, lighting his crooked juniper pipe.

“So, everything’s calm for now?” the hobbit asked again.

“Well, not very much so, but not very much so either,” Eirik replied. “The Angmarim haven’t appeared again, but we’ve clashed with our homegrown bandits about four times.”

“Did they attack the village?” the hobbit continued to ask.

“What are you saying, how could they attack the village now! They tried to raid the village last autumn. About two hundred and something of them gathered, probably, and showed up in the morning. They knew, the bastards, that we had traded and, therefore, there was something to profit from in Hagal! But Hjalmar raised the alarm in time, and we met them as we should. We shot at them from behind every shutter, everyone who couldn’t hold a sword took up crossbows. Well, and we pressed on! We killed about seventy, took over a hundred prisoners, the rest scattered. They’ll remember that for a long time!”

“And what kind of people are they?”

“They’re the same villagers as us, only they’ve fallen out with all their neighbors and, because of that, have taken to the woods. They have enough pride and malice, but little skill, so they mostly rely on intimidation, and if they meet resistance, they get lost themselves.”

Eirik leaned back and, squinting, blew a few smoke rings from his mouth.

“And what did you do with the prisoners?” the hobbit continued to ask.

“We took them to Bree, handed them over to Erster,” Eirik replied, “he hanged a couple or three of their leaders, I think.”

“And how long do you think this war will last?” Folco asked pointedly. “It is a war, isn’t it?”

“Aha! You understood that too?” Eirik turned sharply to Folco, his hand resting on the hobbit’s shoulder. “You’re right, this is a real war, but here, it seems, no one understands it!” He sighed heavily. “Generally speaking, it could last a very, very long time, years, even decades – as long as there’s something to take from this land and as long as it can feed the invaders. And since they can’t burn down the whole country yet, this mess will last indefinitely.”

“Tell me, Eirik, and among those you killed, whom you called Angmarim – were there only men among the dead?”

Eirik thought for a moment and reached to scratch the back of his head, hit the steel of his helmet, and lowered his hand.

“Well, we only clashed with them once… No, Folco, they were men, ordinary men, strong, tall, sturdy. Well, all right, friend Folco,” Eirik stood up. “I’ve been chatting with you too long, and my comrades are waiting for me. Sleep peacefully! It’s probably as safe here as it is in Bree itself.”

Eirik stood up, clapped the hobbit on the shoulder, turned, and quickly disappeared into the darkness. Folco sighed, sat for a little longer, finishing his pipe, and then also went to sleep. The third day of their journey from Bree had ended.