Chapter 11: The Sheath of Andaril

December passed, the New Year came, January went by. Everything remained as before: Folco labored in the sweat of his face in the kitchen, Thorin - in the smithy, and - a surprising thing! - even the Kid took up sense. One day he begged Thorin to take him along and there surprised all the masters with his ability to chase and engrave. He covered an ordinary, common blade with such patterns and so quickly that the rumor of his skill spread through the weapon workshops of Annuminas. Soon in the evenings Thorin and Folco could observe how, whistling something softly, the Kid sat before the burning fireplace, having laid before himself on a block a long steel blade, and unhurriedly scraped with his wondrous instruments, which had been found somewhere at the very bottom of his bag.

As the weeks of the cold, very snowy winter passed, heaping in the yard snowdrifts to the full height of a tall man, more and more often dwarves whom Thorin had marked as future companions began to gather in their house. They came in twos and threes in the evenings, carefully covering their faces with hoods. Among them were: Dori and Hornbori, old Vyard, who had cast aside his fears, Singed Beard, otherwise Bran, the young dwarf Skidulf, the first to speak with Thorin on that memorable evening in Annuminas, three of Thorin’s tribesmen from the Blue Mountains - Grani, Gimli and Tror; two Morians were also found - Gloin and Dvalin. Two future companions were from the north of the Misty Mountains - Balin and Stron. And one evening Hadobard suddenly appeared on the threshold of their house. Folco did not hear what Thorin, who had gone out to the entry, said to him, but when he returned, his face was gloomy and his eyes angry. Hadobard did not come again. Rogvold meanwhile found eleven hunters from among experienced rangers who had walked through forests, and mountains, and caves.

And finally came the day when Thorin, sighing with satisfaction, declared that the detachment was assembled. This happened already in the first days of February, when particularly fierce frosts crackled in Annuminas. The hobbit, unaccustomed to them, tried to go out onto the street as little as possible, and the Kid now gave him lessons at night, in the spacious tavern hall. It must be said that the hobbit proved to be a capable student and quickly mastered the complex science thanks to his natural dexterity and quickness. Folco also did not forget his bow, and the throwing knives did not rust without use.

All winter they with Thorin and the Kid eagerly caught every new report from beyond the borders, however often these reports turned out to be ordinary gossip, one could trust only what Rogvold told them.

The cold and deep snows did not allow heavy cavalry to roam through the forests in search of bandits, however the frosts also served a good turn, driving some gangs out of secret forest refuges. Several times they fell into ambushes arranged by the host, and then on the main square of Annuminas with a great gathering of people public executions of chieftains were performed, stained by many murders and robberies. The hobbit was nauseated at the very thought of this, and on such days he tried to burrow deeper under the blanket so as not to see or hear anything.

But on the Angmar border, instead of the usual mounted crossbowmen, there appeared swift, flying detachments of skiers (Folco could not understand for a long time what skis were - they were not known in his homeland), appearing and disappearing like night phantoms. Opposing them turned out to be much harder - they skillfully applied false retreats and sudden strikes from ambushes. The struggle in the northeast went with varying success.

Closer to winter the dwarves in the city decreased - many dispersed to their native mountains, only those who had nowhere to go remained. Everyone eagerly caught any rumor about Morian affairs: however instead of this came news of clashes in the East between the dwarves of the Iron Hills and an unknown short people who came from somewhere in the east. The newcomers took a liking to the well-appointed underground dwellings of the dwarves, and without long conversations began war. Inside, of course, they could not break through, the dwarves easily repelled their attempts to make undermining, but the attackers surrounded the Iron Hills with a dense ring and began to intercept caravans with provisions directed there from Esgaroth, and part rushed west, bypassing the Lonely Mountain from the north. The threat of famine hung over the Iron Hills.

A month and a half passed in agonizing waiting. Thorin walked beside himself, the Annuminas dwarves were already talking about the need to gather a militia, when a messenger from beyond the Misty Mountains brought joyful news. The dwarves of the Lonely Mountain came to the aid of their brothers together with the men of Esgaroth, Dale and other cities included in the kingdom of the Archers. Not withstanding the blow of the united hosts, the enemies fled somewhere beyond the Sea of Rhun; their army, which had broken through between the Grey Mountains and the Forest, disappeared without a trace. The dwarves sighed with relief.

Yes, in the East they have not yet forgotten which end to take a sword by, - Thorin remarked, having listened to this story.

On one of the clear days at the end of March, when the sun, already descending toward the horizon, shone with all its might over the city, Folco wandered into a distant part of the North Side, where he had never been before. It cannot be said that this part of the City was worse than others, but the difference in prosperity was still felt. And the houses were painted not so carefully, and there were fewer decorations on them, and there was not such cleanliness as in the center. People were dressed more poorly, and the food in taverns was noticeably worse.

He passed several alleys, and then, to shorten his path, went along a narrow path laid along back yards. The quarter was greatly elongated, going around it would take too much time, and the hobbit again, as near the burned village, decided to go straight.

He had already gone quite far into the depths of the quarter when he was as if struck, forced to freeze and hastily fall flat, not paying attention to the liquid mud underfoot. He heard quiet, barely audible singing coming from the yard of a house standing somewhat apart. This singing he could not confuse with anything - he had already heard it in the night approaching Bree, when he and Thorin hid in the roadside ditch, and across the road, going into the depths of the Barrow-downs, walked the Black Company!

All trembling from unprecedented excitement, he cautiously crept up to the fence lined with some bushes. Soon he was lucky to find a crack through which he could see the whole yard.

In the middle of the space enclosed by walls and fence, near several apple trees forlornly spreading their branches, people sat in a circle on the ground. A small bonfire was unable to dispel the evening gloom, and the hobbit could not make out their faces. Sitting cross-legged, they slowly drew out a mournful song in an unknown language.

One of those sitting rose, unhurriedly thrust his hand into the depths of his immense cloak and extracted from there a small box. The singing became noticeably quieter, but in it now especially clearly were heard both longing, and malice, and a call, and an unkind hope. The man with the box opened it and placed it on a dark mound next to the dying bonfire. Those sitting, as if on command, all at once extended their hands toward it, leaning forward with the most sincere faith and supplication. The song fell silent, several seconds silence reigned, and then the top of the mound was suddenly illuminated, and Folco shuddered. He saw a small triangular object resembling a pyramid of a well-known ghostly white color, which was impossible to confuse for one who had been in the heart of the Barrow-downs. The hobbit’s guess immediately received another confirmation. With new force sounded the ominous singing, and in time with it the white pyramid changed color to blood-red, the edges flared with bright crimson-ruddy lines. There remained no doubt - before Folco was a piece of the Deceitful Stone! Those sitting suddenly jumped to their feet, picking up from the ground weapons not noticed by him earlier - short, thick swords and curved daggers. The men whirled around the flickering scarlet fire, throwing high the crimson-flashing blades.

However, the flickering of the Stone soon faded, and immediately the dancers stopped as well. They again dropped to their knees, extending their hands to the extinguished fire, and then, as if taking something from the air with a handful, pressed their cupped palms to their faces. One of them finally rose and hid the amazing Stone, the rest immediately disappeared behind one of the doors opening onto the yard.

Having stood a little longer, Folco also climbed out of the bushes, looked back several times, wanting to better remember this house, and at full speed rushed home. Calling the guard is pointless - he must see Thorin as soon as possible!

The dwarves, gradually changing in face, listened to the confused story of the breathless hobbit and immediately grabbed their weapons.

Kid, quickly for Rogvold!.. Though no, wait, by the time you explain what’s what, we’ll manage to dig seven shafts… All right, let’s try ourselves!

With these words Thorin rushed into the street, after him, fastening his dagger on the run, the Kid rushed. Folco sighed and followed them. On the way they picked up Dori and Bran, who lived nearby, and already the five of them hurried to the North Side.

Folco unerringly found the suspicious house.

Are you absolutely sure? - Thorin doubted. - Everything is quiet… And it doesn’t differ from the neighboring ones in anything.

Instead of answering, Folco dived into the bushes near the fence and without special efforts found the notches left by his knife. Thorin nodded with satisfaction.

Who lives here? - asked Bran, catching his breath, adjusting the axe at his belt. - Werewolves?
No, - Thorin whispered in response. - Those whom we saw in the Barrow-downs…
Oh, we’ll have fun! - Dori hissed predatorily, with an imperceptible movement pulling out his shining axe, taken despite the prohibition. - I’ve missed action, waited almost all my life.
All right, we’ll do it this way, - Thorin cut him off. - Folco and the Kid and I are climbing over the fence now, we’ll look on the ground. You and Bran will cover us in case of what.

The Kid’s nimble hands in one moment tore off several boards, and Thorin was the first to crawl inside. Folco, all trembling from the combat excitement that had seized him - he was afraid of nothing, after all, friends were nearby! - moved after him. Everything went quietly, no one noticed them.

Where did this thing stand? - Thorin whispered, turning to the hobbit crawling behind. - There’s also some bonfire here…

They crawled slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible and carefully feeling the ground with their hands. The Kid was the first to find something - he suddenly briefly gasped and began to call his friends.

Quiet you! - Thorin hissed at him. - Found something - well done, we’ll look later. With your puffing you’ll raise half the city!

On the mound the hobbit’s sensitive fingers caught a small, barely noticeable to the touch triangular depression. Thorin ran his palm over it several times and sighed.

Yes, there’s something… Well, let’s now rummage around. Yes, and which door did they go into? Second from the right? Let’s look now. Hey, Kid, crawl after me, and you, Folco, stay here. We’ll be right back…

Folco froze, looking into the darkness with wide open eyes in despair. Not daring to disobey the order, he painfully gripped the bow he had prudently brought with him and was already figuring out how he would send an arrow into the head of the first enemy to jump out of the door, when suddenly not far from him rustling sounded and the Kid and Thorin appeared.

Interesting matters, - Thorin reported. - This is quite a large barn, it stands separately. We walked around it in a circle, but all the doors are locked with external bolts! The Kid managed to look inside - it’s dark there, but still - empty! There’s no one there!
Maybe they moved to the house? - the hobbit suggested.
I don’t think so, - Thorin answered. - We crawled to the path. It’s all trampled by heavy boots, but still it’s clear that they walked not toward the house, but toward the outer gate! Looks like they’re gone! So let’s rummage some more, and then… Then we’ll drop in on a visit to the local owners!

They again set about ironing the wet earth around the trampled mound. Suddenly the hobbit’s fingers, already accustomed to the cold and wetness, landed in something soft, dry and still warm. Folco understood that he had stumbled upon the bonfire. He was about to turn aside when he felt something hard and flat. The hobbit called out to the dwarf in a whisper:

Thorin! There’s something here in the ashes!

He had already understood that he had felt a small knife, the length of his palm, with a simple handle - under his fingers it seemed completely smooth - and very sharp. A few moments later he found two more such knives in the ashes.

After several unsuccessful attempts to make out anything in the darkness surrounding them, Thorin cursed in a whisper and finally told the hobbit and the Kid to cover him with their backs and the folds of their clothing, quickly struck a spark and lit one of the tarred wicks always with him. In the trembling light of the small torch they were able to properly examine the find.

There was no doubt - they held in their hands exact copies of those swords that had been left at the large bonfire in the Barrow-downs. Thorin ran the blade across his sleeve, brought the fire closer - and they saw the same mysterious stamp with a broken line resembling a ladder viewed from the side. Thorin spat angrily and extinguished the torch.

And are there any bones there? - he said quietly and himself extended his hand to the bonfire.

His search was short. Soon his fist was full of charred broken bones. Had to light the wick again, and now the hobbit, acting as an expert, determined that these were bird bones, most likely - chicken.

For complete happiness we now lack only those in gray, - the dwarf hissed in Folco’s ear. - All right, there’s nothing more to do here, we know the most important thing. And now - let’s go back, put ourselves in order and visit the house.

They still crawling got out. The neat Thorin even hammered back into place with the handle of his mace the previously torn-out nails.

Together with Dori and Bran waiting for them, they strode around. Soon they found themselves at the door of the house, lopsided, in some places dried out, the windows were dark, and only in one, under the very roof, a barely noticeable dim light faintly glimmered. The friends somehow cleaned off the mud stuck to their clothes, concealed their weapons under cloaks, and Thorin, approaching the door, knocked strongly and confidently.

Contrary to their expectations, the door was immediately opened. In the darkness behind it in the air floated a candlestick with a burning candle supported by an invisible hand. The hand belonged to a short, thin figure wrapped in a cloak, which stood motionless, silently looking at Thorin.

We beg the pardon of the honorable owners, - Thorin began, - we need someone who stopped with you in the barn…
They left, - came the impassive answer, and Folco could not understand whether this voice belonged to a man or woman and how old its possessor was.
They left not so long ago, - the voice continued meanwhile. - They stopped here for a few days while trading in the City…
And where they are from, you don’t happen to know? - the dwarf asked as if nothing had happened.
How should I know… - The voice of the respondent trembled slightly from a hidden smirk. - I sometimes let overnight to my place those who have no money for a hotel in the center. And I am not interested in their names, as long as they have paid the fee and obtained permission to trade.
How long were they with you? - the dwarf persisted.
Three days.

In the voice was heard neither surprise nor irritation. It seemed it had always been so, happened so often that the owners of this house had grown accustomed to giving such answers to anyone who out of the blue was interested in their lodgers in the middle of the night. Thorin sighed and bit his lip.

And what kind of people? What language did they speak, how were they dressed?

Thorin as if casually pushed inside with his mighty shoulder.

And who are you yourselves? City guard? But since when must citizens of the Reunited Kingdom give account to dwarves?!

The figure quite rudely pushed Thorin away, and the dwarf, not expecting this, gave way slightly back. This was enough for the door to slam shut before their noses with a thud; a muffled voice sounded:

If you try to break in - we’ll answer with arrows! After a brief consultation the dwarves considered it best to retreat, especially since they had already learned the most important thing. But on the way back Folco persuaded them to climb into the yard again and bury deeper in the ground the knives found at the bonfire.

They walked back in silence. Dori was eager to raise all the familiar dwarves and consign this snake’s nest to the flames, and he was restrained with difficulty.

We learned enough as it is, - Thorin calmed him. - People of the Black Companies have access to the City. Who they are is not so important. They serve the Evil of the Elder Days, which means we must again take up axes.

This evening in Annuminas turned out to be cheerless. Less than two weeks remained until the day of departure, and here such matters! The Kid, sent for Rogvold, dragged the huntsman out of bed, not paying attention to the cursing of the enraged Oddrun. The former centurion listened to their story and grabbed his head.

Tomorrow I’ll go to the Steward, - he said through his teeth. - This is too much! Well, never mind. We’ll strengthen the guard, we won’t allow this filth to walk unpunished through our capital! Did you remember the house? They’ll deal with it immediately.
Bran stayed there, - Thorin inserted.
Reasonable, very reasonable, - Rogvold nodded. - I’ll go right now to the city guard, let them cordon off the house. No one will be able to slip away!

However, morning brought the friends only disappointments. Thorin, the Kid and Folco were raised from bed by an angry and sleepless Rogvold. Entering, he angrily tore off his cloak and, crumpling it, threw it into the corner.

There was found one half-blind old woman, the widow of a small trader, - the huntsman began gloomily. - She indeed rents out the barn and rooms in the house to visitors. That evening two asked her for lodging, dressed very simply, of short stature. She says they sailed from across the lake in a boat. According to her, all their fees were in order, and she accepted them. And now, - the huntsman smirked, - she thanks the Almighty Stars that she didn’t refuse them! At night, she says, someone was breaking into the doors, thank them, they said: “Sit, mother, we’ll sort it out ourselves,” and then downstairs one of those breaking in roared with an inhuman voice. She was terrified!.. And then these unknown two say to her: “We’ll go for the guard.” And left. We come, and she says to us: “How good! Did my guests send you?” I didn’t let on, nodded. She knows nothing and saw nothing. A strange sort of old woman. However, she’s known in the City… In short, they led you around by the nose, friends!
Well, what can be done, - Thorin grumbled, - we can’t sit in Annuminas now until the end of time tracking down these scoundrels! There’s work up to our necks. Only very little remains until departure, ponies not bought, carts not repaired, provisions not packed… Rogvold, try somehow to hammer into the heads of the local guards not to just confiscate axes from dwarves!

After all the experienced worries it was necessary to properly wet the throat and fortify oneself with something more abundant, and in the evening of the same day Thorin, the Kid and Folco sat in a cozy small tavern not far from the city gates under the sonorous name “The Scabbard of Strider.” According to the Kid’s assertion, which no one could dispute by virtue of his great experience, the best beer in Annuminas was served here. The hall of “The Scabbard” was elongated in length, under the windows wide benches; on them dozed several people, wrapped in well-worn, shabby cloaks. There were few people: four - at the long table in the middle, at which the three friends also sat, and several - at small tables along the blank wall. Folco had already noticed that in almost all the taverns of Annuminas, besides large common tables, stood several smaller ones so that those wishing could converse more calmly.

They sat, occasionally exchanging short phrases. The dwarves soaked their beards in thick snow-white foam. Folco savored the beer in small sips. The Kid was not mistaken - here they indeed served the best beer in Annuminas! The evening dragged on peacefully, and even the worriedly drawn eyebrows of Thorin, who had darkened, began to gradually part.

Not far from them at a small table near the wall sat two talking men. Folco’s gaze, wandering absent-mindedly through the hall, glided for a long time, not stopping anywhere, until it stumbled upon this pair. It’s hard to say what attracted his attention, however he felt a sudden and unpleasant chill in his chest, immediately reminding him of what was experienced in the Barrow-downs. He became alert and began to look more closely.

The hobbit did not see their faces: one sat with his back to him, the face of the second was hidden by the figure of the first. He had long, completely gray hair, a gray doublet was trimmed on top with a simple white collar. Noticeably stooped shoulders betrayed his age, and the brownish wrinkled hand of the right hand lying on the tablecloth with a modest silver bracelet on the wrist also spoke of advanced years. Near his chair stood a black cane leaning against the table. Judging by everything, this was a townsman, elderly, quite prosperous; and also, looking more closely, Folco saw a barely noticeable black spot between his fingers on his right hand - this meant that he had to write a lot.

About the second man Folco could say even less. He sat motionless, the corner of the tavern counter hid his face from the light of the burning hearth, and Folco could make out only a not-long dark-brown beard and falling on shoulders the same smooth hair. The table before them was set with plates and saucers, and they drank not beer but Gondorian red wine.

The two visitors sitting not far from the pair that interested Folco rose and went to pay. Gradually those speaking raised their voices somewhat, and their conversation became audible to the hobbit. The brown-bearded one was speaking:

I thank you for all that you have told me, honorable Theophrastus. Conversations with you have helped me greatly, but it seems to me you are still not quite right. I know, in your life you have written, of course, more books than I have had occasion to read, but I swear by the steps of the Great Ladder (Folco shuddered), - don’t be afraid, ladders can lead to the sky as well, - he added, slightly softening his voice and placing his hand on the elderly man’s shoulder. - But you wrote your books without leaving the limits of this City, and I, one way or another, had to wander a great deal and learn that in the boundless green steppes and forests of Rhun to this day are sung songs about the daredevils who fell under the walls of Minas Tirith, and across the plains of Harad every year stretch files of warriors to bow to the Black Rock on which are carved in gold the names of chieftains who fought under the leadership of the Pale King on the Pelennor Fields!

Folco did not see the speaker’s face, he heard only his voice, soft but resilient, full of hidden strength: in it sounded the experience of lived years. The voice attracted with the mighty impulse heard in it, but Folco was taken aback when the meaning of what was said reached his consciousness.

“What’s he like, for the Black Lord or something? - the hobbit thought in confusion. - What is he saying?!”

He nudged Thorin with his elbow and when the dwarf turned to him, put a finger to his lips and showed with a glance at the interlocutors, simultaneously lightly touching his ear with his hand. Thorin understood, became alert and also began to listen to the conversation.

But all the peoples you mentioned went into battle obeying an alien will hostile to all Middle-earth, they went for booty, went to burn and rob, - objected to the brown-bearded one he who was called Theophrastus.

His voice was muffled, calm, and its tone - somewhat condescending. He took a sip of wine, and under the white collar flashed the gold of a precious chain worn around his neck.

Will? - the brown-bearded one answered with a smirk. - Any will, whether alien or one’s own, if it leads men to deeds worthy of this name or even to glorious death, is in any case right. And as for booty? You know no worse than I, who have been there, that the forests of Rhun are immeasurably rich in beast and bird, and their horses are not inferior to those that graze on the plains of Rohan. The rivers of Harad carry more gold than all the dwarves of Middle-earth can mine! And this alien will did not take from them either nobility or pride. I have been both there and there, I shared roof and food with them - both in the forests and in the foothills, and with the men I met there I would boldly go into any, even the last, battle. There are many worthy people there! And even among the Dunlendings, who seem to have forgotten their old disputes with Rohan, I met men who despise those who accepted life from the hands of the victors, who begged for mercy in the battle at the walls of Hornburg, and at the same time - their descendants as well.
What are you saying?! They brought death and destruction, the doom of the freedom of the West, killed the innocent, the defenseless, sparing neither women, nor children, nor the elderly!

Theophrastus leaned back in the back of his chair, surprise was heard in his voice.

Forgive me, honorable teacher, but now your words are simply laughable to me. War is cruel - this truth is old as the world. Who, if not you, the most famous chronicler of Middle-earth, should know that bloody scores between peoples go back into the depths of ages. It did not begin with us - it will not end with us.

The voice of the brown-bearded one became colder and harder.

But they initially fought for an unrighteous cause.

They wanted to put an end to the brightest thing in Middle-earth, to its great wonder - the Firstborn Elves, who never caused men harm!

Elves? This living singing immortality? They are alien to us in their very essence. Yes, they are the Firstborn, but who gave them the right to dispose of our fates, the fates of entire peoples?! They threw us crumbs of their great knowledge, as we throw a dog a bone during a rich feast!

The voice of the brown-bearded one filled with long-restrained anger, he almost broke into a shout.

Come to your senses, they have so many times fought hand in hand with men, saving Middle-earth from the dominion of the Enemy! Remember my stories about the Elder Days!
But even then the outcome of the war was decided by men. This struggle was above all a struggle of men, and you yourself told me that on the Pelennor Fields men fought with men.
But to fight against elves - this is to deprive us of the great knowledge leaving with them!

Theophrastus was stunned, shocked and only weakly resisted. The voice of the brown-bearded one was now filled with iron, unshakable confidence and equally unshakable will. He answered, slowly dropping words:

Sooner or later men will take all this knowledge themselves, by their own labor. We do not need handouts!
Your heart is hardened, - Theophrastus sighed sadly.
Perhaps, - the brown-bearded one answered, cooling down and lowering his voice. - But it hardened looking at the world of Middle-earth choking from the satiety gifted to us by the elves!
I cannot agree with you… How then to be with other peoples inhabiting our world? How to be with these good-natured dwarves? Look, this magnificent grating near the fireplace - their work! And as for Durin’s beard with which they decorated it, after all every people has the right to its own legends and traditions.

The voice of the brown-bearded one warmed.

You are right, they are not a bad people, especially if they exchange the pickaxe for a battle-axe!

At these words Thorin perked up and whispered in Folco’s ear:

He speaks well of dwarves! He understands us! A rare case!

Meanwhile the brown-bearded one continued:

However, we still feed them! In a hungry year a sack of gold is cheaper than a sack of wheat, and I haven’t heard that they’ve learned to grow bread in the underground! Dwarves can live only together with us, men, and now it depends on us how their fate turns.

The entrance door creaked, and two warriors of the city guard in their usual white-and-blue cloaks entered the hall. They were in helmets and with swords and seemed to be looking for someone, examining the guests sitting in the hall. Suddenly one of them nudged his comrade with his elbow, pointing with his chin at the table where Theophrastus and the brown-bearded one sat. Theophrastus was trying to hotly explain something to his interlocutor leaning back in his chair, when the warriors quite unceremoniously intervened in their conversation. One of them stood behind Theophrastus, the other approached the brown-bearded one from the right.

Honorable sirs, we are forced to temporarily interrupt the smooth flow of your conversation, - began the warrior standing next to the brown-bearded one. - We must ask one of you some questions. Listen, stranger, is this your horse standing at the hitching post, dappled gray, under a brown saddle with a red pommel?
Of course it’s mine, since I came on it, - the brown-bearded one answered calmly, not moving.
Then why… - the guard began. Suddenly the brown-bearded one made one lightning movement, throwing back his chair. Over the table laden with food flashed a fist encased in a plate gauntlet, and the unlucky warrior fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Before anyone could understand anything, the second guard, who had overturned the table and lunged at the brown-bearded one, suddenly staggered, clutched his head, groaned and slowly sank to the floor - some person who had been dozing on the bench until then had accurately hit him in the face with a heavy pot standing near him. The thrower rushed to the door, his cloak swung open from the swift movement, and Folco recognized in this man the hunchback Sandello with mixed feelings of amazement and horror.

At the door the hunchback hesitated for a moment, but only to let the brown-bearded one pass ahead of him. They disappeared, and from the yard came shouts, the clang of weapons, then sounded the quickly fading in the distance clatter of hooves. Those lying on the benches rose, someone sat up, some only opened their eyes. A crowd of armed warriors burst into the hall, rushing to lift their wounded comrades. One of them, apparently the senior, helped raise the elderly chronicler knocked from his chair.

What! - the senior exclaimed, barely glancing at the old man’s face. - Is it possible?! Honorable Theophrastus! I really couldn’t have thought that for writing your chronicles you would need the company of this horse thief. About all this you will have to give a detailed report to the head of the guard Skilbad. And for the future I would like to warn you against unreasonable acquaintances! - He turned to the warrior knocked down by the brown-bearded one. - So what happened here, Fritz? How could you disgrace yourself so?!
Captain… - the one called Fritz wheezed pleadingly and spat blood. - I am to blame… But who could know?
All right! - the captain cut him off. - You’ll tell Skilbad everything. Let’s go, guys! And you, honorable one, - he again turned to Theophrastus, still gasping and holding his side, - let this story serve as a good lesson to you! And remember - the day after tomorrow you will have to appear before Skilbad. And for now, farewell!

The captain swiftly left, the rest of the guards tramped after him. The frightened visitors, including those who had dozed by the wall, hastened to clear out. In the emptied tavern remained only the uncomprehending owner, the rumpled chronicler, and the three friends.

Folco sat completely stunned and confused.

“Sandello is in the city! - he reasoned feverishly. - Sandello is together with the brown-bearded one! Does he not serve him?! Probably the old man knows the brown-bearded one! He must not be let go!”

Thorin, this old man!..
Right. I thought of that myself.

Without agreeing, the friends approached Theophrastus, still sitting, powerlessly hunched and rubbing his bruised side.

We see you are unwell, honorable one. - Thorin tried to put as much respectfulness as possible into these words. - Perhaps you need help with something? May we escort you home?

Theophrastus raised to them a pale face seamed with wrinkles, on which stood out deep-set black eyes, sharp and attentive, not having lost with years their luster and meaningfulness.

May the Great Stars bless you, - he answered weakly. - I always knew that you dwarves are a noble people… Yes, please, escort me. It’s hard for me to walk…

Thorin and the Kid supported the old chronicler from both sides, Folco walked ahead, holding Theophrastus’s bag and his staff. The old man groaned at every step, but gradually cheered up and could somehow answer the first questions of the dwarf and the hobbit.

Yes, O noble dwarves and no less noble hobbit, my name is Theophrastus, son of Argeleb, and I am the court chronicler of the Northern Crown. For many years I have been collecting information scattered through ancient books on the history of Middle-earth, I also keep annual records about everything that happens in Arnor - I question witnesses, collect stories and enter all this into chronicles, copies of which are sent to Minas Tirith, to the King himself. I also carry out other researches by his orders. Now to the right, please, and at that corner - to the left. Oh-oh, this is unfortunate for me…

They stopped near a neat two-story house in one of the quiet alleys not far from the Main Street. The house was painted light brown, on the bushes that had grown in the front garden buds were already beginning to swell. On the way, however, they spoke little, and when the old man began to shower thanks, standing on his porch, Thorin said, lowering his voice:

Honorable one, we are very interested in this whole story. Allow us to come and talk with you. Perhaps you will learn something new from our stories.
Well, - Theophrastus answered, - the doors of my house are always open to those wishing to acquire knowledge and understand events, as well as to those who themselves want to tell me something. Come tomorrow evening, I will be waiting for you. And for now - I need to lie down in order to come to myself after this whole story…

They bowed low to the old man, and he, answering their bow, disappeared behind the door. They slowly descended from the porch and set off on the return journey, on the way somehow fending off the attacks of the Kid who understood nothing and furiously demanded explanations. Explaining to him the essence of what happened, the friends did not notice how they got home. Thorin set about lighting the fireplace. The Kid went for water, and Folco went to the tavern. The owner immediately rushed to him:

Folco, help me out! All your sauce is finished, and here some company from the South turned up, demands only it, threatens to smash the whole tavern! - The owner was pale and frightened. - I already promised them that you, when you come, will make it… Do me a favor, Folco!

The hobbit sighed and agreed.

About an hour he fussed until he prepared his signature seasoning, and when it was carried into the hall, the not very peaceful hum of voices resounding there immediately fell silent. Folco took a breath, took off his apron and went to wash his hands.

Wait, where are you going, Folco? - the owner who had suddenly emerged from somewhere stopped him. - These southerners there swallowed their tongues and now demand to be shown this craftsman! - The recently pale face of the tavern-keeper now shone. - Come on, come on, it’s not right, no need to hide, let them know our people!

The tavern-keeper almost by force dragged the resisting hobbit into the common hall. In its corner, at several tables pushed together, sat about ten or twelve sturdy men, swarthy from the summer tan that remained, in short leather jackets. Their hair, unlike most Arnorians, was cut short. They greeted Folco with unanimous shouts of approval. One of them, tall, hook-nosed, black-bearded, but still quite young, rose from his place and approached Folco, peering at him inquiringly with penetrating gray eyes.

We thank you, honorable master, for your skill, - he said, slightly inclining his head. - Now we see that mastery does not depend on height!

He spoke with an accent unfamiliar to the hobbit, sometimes placing stresses on the first syllables of words. Folco blushed with pleasure and mumbled something indistinct in response.

I and my comrades, as a sign of our gratitude, ask you to accept this. - He extended to the hobbit an open palm on which lay a large silver coin such as the hobbit had never seen before. - Take it, we give it from a pure heart.

The hook-nosed one again inclined his head. Folco timidly extended his hand and took the heavy, pleasantly pulling disc. His eyes were struck by the strange calluses on the stranger’s palm - two straight long ridges stretching strictly across. Folco tried to guess what occupation such marks could indicate, but failed.

The black-bearded one meanwhile nodded to him once more and made some sign to his companions. They rose from their places together and headed for the doors, their hook-nosed leader strode after them.

Folco climbed to the owner with questions, but the tavern-keeper could say nothing: neither who these people were, nor where they came from. In conversation with him they called themselves southerners, and that was the only thing he knew about them. Folco had nothing left to do but return home and tell Thorin this whole story.

So you too are becoming famous, brother hobbit, - the dwarf joked in response. - What are you dissatisfied with? Be proud! I would jump to the ceiling with joy in your place.
Thorin, what could such calluses be from? - Folco ran his finger across his palm.

The dwarf thought, and then shook his head:

That can be from turning something in the hand. But who they are - I don’t understand… Yes, by the way, what did he give you?

Folco handed his friend the coin. Thorin stared at it intently for a minute without raising his eyes, and when he finally raised them, Folco was struck by the change that had occurred in him - the dwarf’s mouth was painfully twisted, tears stood in his eyes. A heavy, mournful sigh escaped from Thorin’s chest. The stunned Folco was speechless, not knowing what to say and how to comfort his friend; Thorin spoke himself, occasionally wiping his nose with his sleeve and bashfully lowering his eyes:

I know this coin… I would recognize it out of a thousand, and how not to recognize it if I myself made this notch on it and myself punched the hole when I gave it to my friend Terwin, who disappeared without a trace four years ago! I have preserved from my ancestors this old skill of the last Dunedain. I treasured it, and when we parted, I gave it to Terwin, who was going to Erebor. Now I know for certain that he did not disappear without a trace, but was killed! - The dwarf furiously struck his fist on the table. - This coin could only be taken from him along with his life! Quickly to the city gates, perhaps we can still intercept them!

However, at the gates a bitter disappointment awaited them. The unknown men were not going to linger in the hospitable capital of the Northern Crown. According to one of the guards, quite recently a detachment of horsemen had left the City, matching the description of those Folco met in the tavern, and at a trot went south.

They all had spare horses, and not one each, - the warrior added. - You can’t catch them, you’ve missed your chance…

The dwarf gnashed his teeth and squatted, covering his face with his palms. Folco helplessly trampled nearby.

However, Thorin was not for nothing reputed to be one of the bravest and most stubborn dwarves among his tribesmen from the Blue Mountains. Despair could not long possess him, and when a moment later he straightened, neither grief nor despair was noticeable in his gaze - only his thick eyebrows, slightly singed by the forge flame, came together even closer. He was calm and resolute.

No time to give way to weakness, - he said gloomily. - I have a strange feeling now - I will yet avenge my friend, I am somehow sure of this. Away with sad thoughts! To work, brother hobbit, Moria awaits us, and tomorrow - this old chronicler…