Chapter 8: The Northern Capital

The next two days of their journey to Annúminas passed surprisingly calmly. The Road was again full of people; watchtowers with vigilant guards were visible everywhere. Rogvold took care of arranging their lodging; the dwarf, when he had a moment, buried himself in the Red Book and kept the hobbit awake at night, pestering him with questions. Having nothing else to do, Folco listened carefully to conversations in the inns where they stopped, but here too, as in Bree, people could discuss anything and not say a word about what concerned the travelers.

Thus passed two full days. On the third day, accidental companions showed them a village burned in the spring, which was five leagues from the Road, and here Folco for the first time saw with his own eyes the fruits of war between men.

In the middle of a wide circle of empty fields, still unsown since spring, stood blackened chimney stacks, like gnawed bones protruding from piles of rain-washed charred logs. The flames had spared no single building, devoured the gardens surrounding the village, and even neatly cleared the wattle fences and hedges along the outskirts. The friends silently trudged past the burnt-out shells of houses, leading their ponies by the reins. None of them dared to disturb the peace of the dead ashes.

“And why didn’t the people return here?” the dwarf’s hoarse voice finally broke the silence. “Why didn’t they rebuild?”

“They went west,” Rogvold replied quietly. “The locals believe that nothing should be built on the site of a village destroyed by enemies until everything is overgrown with grass, which will absorb the evil fate of this place.”

“Fate!” The dwarf snorted disrespectfully. “Swords should be held tighter in hand!”

The Road in these parts veered sharply to the west of the burned village, bypassing a tight cluster of tall, wooded hills.

“Listen, what if we go straight?” the hobbit suddenly suggested. “Straight through these hills. There’s a road there, you see? And, I think, we’ll come out right on the Road. We’ll cut off a lot. Don’t you know this road, Rogvold?”

“Oh, we can,” he agreed. “The Road really makes a loop here, so why should we ride back and forth for nothing. Though, I’m seeing this road for the first time, just like you, Folco.”

They left the silent ashes behind, and their horses walked along a dusty country road winding between abandoned, weed-grown fields. The terrain here was uneven, the fields slightly hilly, like a thrown-off blanket. Here and there among the yellowish-gray squares and rectangles stood surviving barns and hay sheds; near the doors, tall, almost Folco’s height, poisonous green nettles grew.

The country road gradually became narrower and narrower, and it was clear that no one had walked on it for a long time. They were approaching the forest. The road, which by then had turned into a narrow path, plunged into thick bushes that filled the hollow between two high hills with steep slopes. The dwarf stopped and, squinting, looked intently at them.

“These are not just hills,” he stated confidently. “There’s rock under the layer of earth, and it’s very ancient and strong.”

They entered the forest. They had to bend low over the horses’ manes – the intertwined branches hung over their very heads, so that tall Rogvold had to bend almost double. However, soon the tedious, small hawthorn ended, and they found themselves on a narrow, barely visible path winding among thick alder thickets, here and there pierced by the dark green spears of young firs. The ground was covered with a dense layer of dry rustling leaves; silence fell over them, and Folco saw out of the corner of his eye how intently the dwarf began to look around, his hand habitually resting on his axe.

“What’s wrong, Thorin?” the hobbit whispered. “Did you notice something?”

“Look at the ground,” the dwarf replied in the same tone. “The road is abandoned, but someone rode on it very recently!”

“Where, where are the tracks?” the ranger hurried over. “Come on, everyone back! Don’t trample them! Folco, hold this!”

Rogvold thrust the reins into the hobbit’s hand and jumped to the ground. Thorin and Folco, so as not to hinder him, moved back a little. The ranger began to search the path, carefully feeling the ground with his long fingers. Folco peered closer. Fresh hoofprints were indeed visible on the path; they had not yet filled in, and Rogvold identified them as yesterday’s.

“Angmar horseshoes again!” The ranger straightened up, his face troubled. “One rider came. But where did he come from here?”

They went back, and the mysterious tracks were found only at the very edge of the thickets – they came from the east, along the edge of the fields.

The friends stopped. Folco felt uneasy – to ride like this, headlong, when, perhaps, somewhere there, in the forest gloom, a merciless enemy was lurking! Let him be alone, and there were three of them, but still…

“Maybe we should go back?” the hobbit suddenly suggested timidly.

“Go back?” Thorin roared. “Never! That I should retreat without a fight?! He’s alone! And there are three of us! What’s wrong with you, friend hobbit?! Perhaps your bowstring has loosened? Or your knives are dull? Forward, and no excuses! Let’s go, Rogvold!”

“Yes, a story,” the ranger sighed. “Well, come what may! Maybe we’ll spot another one of their detachments.”

“I’ll go ahead,” Thorin declared belligerently. “And you, Folco, stay right behind me and prepare your bow – shoot at anything that moves!”

Cautiously and slowly, like scouts near an enemy camp, they moved along the path. When they passed the bushes, the experienced Rogvold had to go ahead, because the path had almost disappeared.

The alder thickets stretched for quite a long time; in the autumn shedding forest, for some reason, silence reigned, even the wind did not sway the tops of the trees, sheltered by the mighty bodies of the hills. Soon the path went through a small fir forest; obviously, the clearing made once ended here, but then the travelers completely ran into a solid wall of an ancient fir forest. They had to dismount. Now they walked in a row. Rogvold in the middle, his gaze fixed on the tracks – to the horse hooves were added the tracks of a man wearing heavy boots. Thorin on the left, axe at the ready, and Folco on the right, arrow on the string. Everything was calm, and then from the dwarf’s bag with the captive dwarf, tied behind the saddle, some plaintive, gurgling sounds were heard, and then he whimpered thinly.

“Silence, may Khrugnir flatten you!” Thorin jumped to the bag and shook it thoroughly. “What’s wrong with you? Do you want to go into the bushes again?”

He bent down and said something in the dwarf language, abruptly and angrily. A plaintive, indistinct babbling came from the bag.

“What’s he saying?” Rogvold turned around, annoyed. “Finish with him, Thorin! Let’s go.”

“No, wait! He’s saying interesting things,” the dwarf suddenly replied. “He says we shouldn’t go any further. He says this is a bad place, he feels it in his gut.”

“But what’s bad about it?” Rogvold was surprised.

“No! Not here – there, where the tracks lead, I suppose.” The dwarf again said a few incomprehensible words, addressing the captive, and listened intently to his answer. “He feels some black force here,” the dwarf continued uncertainly, “or maybe I misunderstood something. But he asks us to return!”

“Now we won’t go back for anything,” the ranger cut in. “Angmar horseshoes and some black force – that, you know, must be investigated. Let’s go, Folco, be ready!”

The hobbit nodded silently, held a second arrow between his teeth, and adjusted his quiver more comfortably. They crept forward.

Folco silently made his way between the trees, leaving both the dwarf and the man behind him. Hobbits know how to walk like shadows, without touching a single leaf or stepping on a single twig that could betray their presence with a treacherous crackle. In his lowered hands, Folco held his bow with an arrow on the string and looked carefully around. The ground, covered with a thick layer of brown fallen pine needles, poorly preserved tracks; only a master like Rogvold could distinguish them; the hobbit often had to turn around, and then the ranger would point him in the direction with a wave of his hand. Thorin walked behind, leading the horses.

Mindful of the Barrow-downs, Folco constantly listened to his feelings, but there was no fear, nor was there any premonition of an opposing force – and at the same time there was something he could not name. No, not alive, not dangerous: some misty, unclear shadow, like a thundercloud that momentarily covered the sun on a clear summer day.

Ahead, a clearing appeared between the fir trees. A few more steps – and they found themselves at the edge of a fairly large round glade, about ten fathoms wide. To the left, something persistently caught the eye, some irregularity in the thickets surrounding the glade. Folco stopped and looked there. Rogvold immediately froze and crouched even lower to the ground. A few fathoms from them, a low rampart of dry, lifeless gray earth grimly blackened, surrounding a deep funnel, almost human height. It was the fact that nothing grew on this rampart that attracted the travelers’ attention. The rampart looked very, very old, smoothed by rains and spring waters, greatly spread out – but completely lifeless. Not a single blade of grass grew on its surface, and the earth looked as if it were ash from some gigantic furnace. The friends cautiously approached and looked down.

It seemed that something had struck the slope of this forest hill with enormous force, scattering the earth around and burning everything that could and could not burn, to a depth of a good twelve cubits. Like a bone from a wound, at the bottom was molten, cracked stone, lying, as the dwarf had predicted, under this entire hill. The walls and bottom of the funnel were bluish-black, as if covered with some greasy, indelible soot.

“Well, that’s something,” Thorin muttered in bewilderment, stroking his beard. “I’ve lived for so many years – I’ve never seen anything like it. What hit here like that, Rogvold?”

“How should I know?” the ranger replied gruffly, peering intently at the slopes of the black pit. “Look here instead! Our Angmar friend, it turns out, climbed down there!”

“What makes you say that?” Thorin wondered. “This isn’t earth here, it’s some kind of granite.”

He poked the gray earth of the rampart with the blade of his axe. A screech sounded, and a white scratch appeared on the surface.

“This is really fused!” the dwarf said, half in surprise, half in admiration. “No forge can produce such heat. Where are the tracks here?”

“Do you see – the track of a single boot right before the rampart?” the ranger patiently explained. “The man walked with small, cautious steps, but he didn’t stop at the top of the rampart and didn’t turn aside – that means he went down. I’d like to know what he needed down there.”

“Look!” Folco suddenly cried out and grabbed Thorin’s sleeve. “Look, down there… There’s someone’s face!”

The dwarf and the man exchanged silent glances. Thorin even lay his chest on the rampart for good measure. Silence fell.

There, at the very bottom, on a semicircular ledge, amidst the basalt facets smoothed by fire and water, they first saw two black, impenetrably black spots – two empty eye sockets. A little lower – the hollow of a nose, the slit of a mouth… The vague outlines of cheekbones and the left temple were discernible. But it was not a petrified human skull – either the stone itself had taken on these frightening outlines, or the flame had created them; now it was difficult to understand what was truly real here and what was a whimsical play of light and shadow on the blunt stone protrusions.

The three travelers stood silently for quite a long time, gazing unblinkingly downwards. Folco was calm. It was a strange place, of course, but there was nothing frightening about it. He had barely begun to peer more closely at the outlines of the skull when the sun emerged from behind a cloud, and the amazing vision immediately disappeared. In vain did the friends peer into the molten granite – they saw only its black, here and there glistening surface.- Look! - the dwarf suddenly stretched out his hand. - It looks like someone was picking at it there! Could it be our acquaintance with the Angmar horseshoes?

In the sunlight, in the solid layer of greasy black soot, several whitish spots the size of a palm became noticeable, where the black crust was chipped off by strong blows of something sharp, a fresh break in the stone was visible.

• I’d like to know what he was chipping off there? - Thorin muttered and, before Rogvold and Folco could stop him, he rolled over the edge of the funnel on his stomach and slid down.

It turned out to be slippery there, judging by the fact that Thorin had difficulty keeping his balance. Spreading his legs wide, the dwarf took a thick triangular blade with a hilt covered by a solid guard from his bosom and jabbed the black crust with the point several times with force. Several dark scales flew off, Thorin squatted down and ran his fingers over the chip a couple of times, then struck five or six more blows, chipping off a small piece of stone. After turning it over in his hands, the dwarf grunted and, without saying another word, climbed up. Jumping off the rampart, he looked first at Folco, then at Rogvold.

• I don’t understand anything, - he said, spreading his hands. - Under this soot is the most ordinary granite, it’s everywhere here. I must say that this rider has strength - to chip off such a piece! There. But why did he do it?

• Most likely out of curiosity, - said Rogvold. - Look, the tracks led straight across the clearing, apparently, he turned, like us, when he noticed something incomprehensible on the left. He looked, was surprised and decided, probably, to figure it out on the spot. Well, let’s see what happened to him next? Why stand here?

Thorin hid his weapon, and they moved on; having reached the middle of the clearing following the tracks of the unknown, they turned left. The footprints disappeared, only the horse’s hooves remained.

• He got on his horse, - Thorin remarked.

The rider headed for the opposite edge of the clearing, where something like a clearing was outlined in the circle of fir trees.

They passed the fir grove, the path again slid down into the dense thickets of thin young alder, and began to gradually deviate to the west, apparently bypassing the hill. The ground here turned out to be more humid and soft, it became easier to read the tracks.

• He has a large stallion, - Rogvold remarked, assessing the distance between the hoof prints with a glance. - Wait, what is this? For some reason he dismounted.

They stopped, and Rogvold and Folco began to carefully search the ground. Here, the flexible alder branches completely closed over their very heads, the bases of the trees were hidden by thick, but already withered autumn grass. Next to the horse’s tracks, boot prints appeared again - the horse was stamping in place, shifting from foot to foot, and the man was walking in circles, rummaging through the bushes. There were so many prints here that Rogvold suggested that the unknown person was definitely looking for something, carefully searching every inch.

• Let’s look too, - the hunter suggested. - Hey, Thorin! Come here.

The three of them began to examine the bushes and grass, trying to understand what the mysterious rider could be looking for in this rotten place. Rogvold began to stare intently at the branches of the trees just above the path; and suddenly Folco, who was crawling at some distance from him, bent back another bunch of grass and saw a vaguely shining object in a hollow between the roots.

He reached out his hand.

• Look what I found!

On Folco’s palm lay an oval bronze fibula with a silver plate inserted in front. Its smooth, polished surface was covered with an ornament unfamiliar to the hobbit - interweaving of some strange stems and herbs, flowers turning into the bodies of outlandish beasts, gaping mouths, powerful paws with huge claws, again turning into smooth wavy lines of plants. The huge, half-headed, bulging eyes of the beasts were memorable, in them, it seemed, unexpressed, hidden hatred was frozen. Folco turned the object over - on its back was a strange brand - three intertwined snakes and a small axe above them.

• What do you say about it, Thorin? - Rogvold broke the silence. - I haven’t seen anything like it before.

• The bronze base is ours, dwarven, - Thorin answered without thinking. - But the silver plate… I can only say one thing - it’s from afar. Three snakes - I don’t know such a brand, and there is no such pattern in any of the settlements from the Grey Havens to the Lonely Mountain. And the base, I assert, is our work. The axe is the mark of the Barin clan from the Iron Hills. However, this says nothing, they sell hundreds of such things at fairs throughout Middle-earth.

• Well, now it’s clear what he was looking for, - Rogvold summed up. - He caught his cloak on that branch - a tall man, a little taller than me - and there are even a few threads left there. The clasp flew off, he fumbled, searched for the loss - but he never found it and went on his way. Let’s follow him!

However, they did not encounter anything else unusual. A few more miles through the forest, a few more turns, a few ascents and descents - and cultivated fields stretched before them again. The tracks of the rider, who, judging by everything, was riding completely unconcealed, soon led to the Road itself and disappeared here. The last thing Rogvold could say was that the unknown had turned towards Annúminas.

• In my opinion, there is nothing particularly suspicious about this, - the hunter remarked at the same time. - Someone was riding, looked into a strange place, accidentally stumbling upon it, then lost his fibula - by the way, where is it, Folco? - and finally, calmly drove onto the Road and went about his business. And the horseshoes… In itself, this still means nothing. The ways of both horses and weapons are whimsical - after the spring battles, Angmar horses could well have fallen into our hands.

They fell silent again, and the hobbit squeezed the found object tighter in his fist, which was thrust into his pocket. He kept it for himself, it was a pity to throw it away, and besides, Folco liked the unfamiliar pattern on the silver plate.

They approached Annúminas when the sun had long passed its zenith and the gray, cat-like creeping, autumn evening was beginning to set in. After five days of travel from Bree, the friends were riding through the suburbs, which seemed endless to the hobbit who was burning with impatience. Folco just kept turning his head in different directions.

Yes, this country was rich, very rich, not like his native Hobbiton, which, as Folco believed, had reached the pinnacle of well-being. There were still many miles to the city gates, and the wooden huts had already given way to solid stone houses, stretching in an endless strip along the Road. Only lonely farms were now visible in the surrounding fields, neat stone buildings were surrounded by the crimson wisps of autumn gardens, winding wisps of smoke rose into the gray sky above the tiled roofs, occasionally there were well-kept ponds with gazebos and benches on the banks for travelers to rest, and taverns, inns and pubs were found at almost every step. There were a lot of people on the Road, they moved in a continuous stream, deftly maneuvering between countless carts and wagons. The neighing of horses, the shrill cries of drovers heading to the city with flocks of sheep, the bickering of the drivers of two carts that had locked axles - a constant and incessant hubbub hung over the Road. Under the pony’s hooves, stone hexagonal slabs sounded, skillfully fitted to each other without the slightest cracks or gaps. The road widened even more and now went straight to the west.

No matter how much they waited for this moment, the city walls appeared suddenly. The suburbs suddenly ended, a long line of city fortifications stretched from north to south - high crenellated walls a full thirty-five fathoms with thick round towers. White-and-blue and white-and-blue banners fluttered weakly on the pointed tower roofs, the sharp-eyed hobbit even spotted the gleam of the armor of the guards guarding the wall in the gaps between the battlements.

The Road ended at the huge city gates, eight or even nine sazhens high; their iron leaves were decorated with images of people and animals, and at the very top, against the background of blackened iron, shone the seven snow-white stars of Elendil. The gates were not just in the wall, but led first into a long and rather narrow corridor, more like a mountain gorge; on the sides, in the walls, many narrow loopholes blackened. From the towers located to the right and left of the gate, thick chains of a drawbridge descended, on which an endless maelstrom of people was constantly spinning. At the gate itself stood a guard - eight warriors in full armor and with them three officials in gray-blue cloaks with the emblem of the Kingdom. The officials asked the people entering the city something and wrote it down in a large book lying on a special stone counter.

• Get your money ready, - Rogvold turned to his friends. - However, you should know, Thorin.

• Why should we pay?! - the dwarf was indignant. - Last time they only took a toll for bringing in goods!

• Times are changing, - the hunter gently explained to Thorin. - You’ve heard, a lot of money is needed to maintain the squad. Where to get it? All the gold mines are in the hands of your brethren, which means that funds can only be taken from the people, and if so, then old taxes are rising and new ones are being introduced. After all, you need to rebuild everything destroyed and burned, replenish the army. Therefore, a toll is now taken at the Main Gate, venerable Thorin.

The dwarf grimaced in displeasure and waved his hand. Meanwhile, they found themselves in the thick of the crowd. A company of bearded dwarves, who had driven a whole train, was making a noise behind them; to the right, two young warriors with several stripes on their sleeves and the image of an eagle in front on their cloaks were talking quietly among themselves, slightly haughtily distancing themselves from what was happening.

At last, the three travelers reached the official who was collecting the toll. Without looking at them, he pulled up his sleeve with a habitual movement and dipped a goose quill into the ink.

• Your names? The purpose of your visit? - he repeated, probably for the thousandth time that day. - Do you have any goods?

The proud dwarf did not want to talk, and Rogvold hurriedly told the official everything that was required and slipped him three quarter-measures.

“Money again,” the hobbit thought sadly. “It’s so inconvenient - they all pay for me.”

The hunter was already pulling Thorin along, the first of the dwarven carts had already rumbled up, when the official suddenly turned to Thorin again:

• According to the latest order of the Steward, you dwarves are forbidden to appear on the streets and in other public places with battle axes, - he said weightily. - So deign to hide it in your bag, venerable Thorin, son of Dart, tie it up tightly, and upon settling in - leave it at home every time you go out somewhere. This, by the way, also applies to you, venerable ones, - the official turned to the gloomy-looking dwarven carters.

• What is happening in the honest Kingdom! - Thorin cried out. - Brothers! Why are we silent! When has it ever been that we, dwarves, walked without any weapons?

The dwarves who were listening supported Thorin with a powerful roar. The official looked around anxiously, made some imperceptible sign, and a dozen and a half spearmen immediately stood behind him. He raised his hand and shouted, trying to drown out the indignant hum of voices:

• Stop! Do not dare to contradict orders! No one is going to take your weapons from you yet. I said: you are obliged to keep your axes at home and not appear with them on the streets!

• What should we walk with? - one of the young dwarves accompanying the train jumped forward. - After all, carrying weapons is not forbidden to others!

• Knives, daggers and small axes are allowed for now, - the official answered. - But leave swords and axes in the storerooms! Who are you going to fight in our City?!

There was nothing to object to the latter, and the dwarves, with sour faces and disgruntled muttering, began to hide their weapons.

• And whoever violates this decree for the first time, - the official continued in the meantime, - a fine of twenty-five trialons is imposed on him. The second time - one hundred trialons, and the third time the guilty person is subject to exile from the City! Is that clear to you?

His answer was the gloomy silence of the dwarves and some approving shouts from among the people.

Right! They’ve gotten out of hand, they’ll be committing robberies any minute now!

• Who will commit robbery? Us?! - Thorin yelled. - You thick-headed fools, you’ll be asking us for help yet!

• Enough, Thorin! - Rogvold raised his voice, losing patience. - After all, this is our Kingdom, not yours. We don’t meddle in your affairs and we respect your laws.

• You won’t find such stupid laws with us! - Thorin grumbled in response, but still obeyed and put his shining axe in his bag, with the axe head up.

• Let’s go, Thorin, let’s get out of here! - the hobbit, who was seriously frightened, pulled his friend away from the gate. - Why are you getting involved with them?

The dwarf was grimly silent. They passed through a long, narrow corridor between two walls, drove through a second gate, where there were also guards, and finally found themselves inside the City.

They turned right and drove for quite a long time along the road that ran along the walls. Soon, the hobbit, who was not used to such crowds of people, began to feel dizzy: who did they not meet on their way! Merchants and innkeepers, blacksmiths and tar-makers, wool-beaters and fullers, lumberjacks and tailors, warriors and astrologers… And each had a special Mark of his guild, union or guild on the left side of his chest. All the passers-by were well-dressed - some had a black work apron, some had a formal, expensive gray-pearl caftan, but everything had the stamp of general contentment and well-being - even the ineradicable smell of tar from the tar-makers seemed pleasant, and they wore their clothes, stained and scorched, with great dignity. Rogvold did not have time to name the hobbit the passers-by and the coats of arms of their guilds.

Several times they also met hobbits, they kept together, as a rule, around some carts;

having looked closer, Folco recognized a very familiar turnip! His tribesmen had a completely stupefied and bewildered look, and Folco involuntarily felt ashamed. “Do I have such a stupid face now?” - he thought with fear.

At last they turned left and entered the first street. Along its edges ran specially arranged gutters for water drainage, lined with pinkish stone. The houses became taller - now almost all of them had a second floor and stood close to each other. Many of them had signs of various shops and workshops located below. Seeing a boot above one of the doors, Folco first thought that a shoemaker lived here, but it turned out - a leather merchant; crossed swords meant not an armorer, but a hardware store. Well, all sorts of taverns and pubs were located every two houses on the third.

Thorin had cooled down after his outburst at the gate and was now looking around with some pleasure at the neat rows of clean houses, obviously remembering familiar places.

• And where are we going now? - Folco asked Rogvold when they made another turn and found themselves on a very wide street, not inferior in width to the Road, where there were especially many people.

• First, let’s go to my place, - said the hunter. - First of all, we need to deal with the dwarf. I’ll go today and hand him over to the appropriate place. At the same time, I’ll talk about your meeting with the Steward, if he’s in the City.

• We need to find a place to live, - said Thorin. - Forgive us, Rogvold, but we can’t impose on you. You’ve already spent a lot on us, and I’m used to living on my own and not depending on anyone. Don’t be offended.

• I’m not offended at all, Thorin, - Rogvold remarked politely, but Folco understood that the dwarf’s words had still hurt the old hunter.

• What street is this, Rogvold? - Folco asked quickly to break the awkward pause.

• The Street of the Great King, - explained the former centurion. - The main street of Annúminas. My house is not far from here. And over there, in front, you see - towers and domes? That’s the Steward’s palace. We’ll stop by my place, I’ll take the dwarf where he needs to go, and you look for a place to live, if you’ve decided so…

Folco bit his lip - Rogvold was definitely offended. They turned off the Street of the Great King and once again wound through the narrow alleys. Soon the hobbit completely lost his bearings and realized that now he would never get out of the City without outside help.

• Here we are. - Rogvold’s voice trembled slightly.

• We’ve arrived… - the dwarf grumbled. - Well, if we’ve arrived, we’ve arrived.

• Let’s go have dinner, - the former centurion jumped from his saddle. - Take your ponies, I’ll give the orders now.

He went to a small two-story house with pointed windows and a carved oak door in the middle of the facade. Next to it were wide gates that led to the inner courtyard. The hobbit and the dwarf dismounted. The journey was over.

They tied up their horses, pouring the last remnants of oats from their saddlebags for them. Thorin looked around, spat and untied his bag. Soon his axe was already in its usual place.

Upstairs, on the landing of the wooden staircase leading down from the second floor to the courtyard, a door creaked and Rogvold’s long figure appeared.

The former centurion threw off his well-worn traveling cloak, unfastened his helmet, and Folco felt that the hunter’s voice no longer had those cold, metallic notes, that self-confidence that had been so clearly felt in him throughout the long journey.