Ring of Darkness

Chapter 12: The Old Chronicler

In the second half of the next day the inseparable trio set off for Theophrastus’s house. Spring more confidently entered into its rights - over the city spread a dazzlingly blue heavenly vault without a single cloud, and the bright sun generously poured on the world straightening after the winter cold streams of life-giving warmth. Along the pavements here and there muddy streams still ran; blackened, settled snowdrifts still lay under fences and in shady places, but spring had still come, and with it - hope for the better.

Folco merrily squinted, turning his face to the warm rays; the Kid carelessly whistled, and Thorin at times even hummed something. Folco occasionally glanced at his comrade in surprise - where had the hopeless despair that seized him at the city gates gone?

Passing along the Main Street, at Thorin’s request they turned into a large money-changing shop. Having waited until the next visitor exchanged his silver for bright Annuminas gold, Thorin respectfully addressed the important, pot-bellied money-changer, extending to him on an open palm Terwin’s coin:

  • O worthy one, we need your help and your advice. Look at this coin. Tell me, have you encountered similar ones? Or perhaps this very one accidentally passed through your hands? Look at it more carefully - it is distinctive.

The sleepy face of the money-changer did not change when he lazily took the coin extended by Thorin, but his eyes, small, slightly swollen, but very sharp and attentive, bored into the coin like two small augers. He spoke slowly, turning the silver disc before his eyes:

  • An old skilding from the times of Arachorn II. A rare, very rare thing in our time. The coin is indeed distinctive - it has a hole in the form of a seven-pointed star and graffiti… No, honorable dwarf, I can say for certain - this thing did not pass through my shop, nor through other money-changing offices of the City either. I would know, believe me. And in general the thing is, of course, very interesting. The Dunedain had unusually pure silver - such is rare now. They weighed it so accurately that even in my father’s time in the best shops of the city these coins served as a measure of weight for precious metal. And also the masters of that time added to the alloy white silver, which was once brought by dwarves from beyond the eastern mountains.

  • Mithril? - asked the Kid, who had been listening avidly to the speaker.

  • Mithril? - The money-changer smirked slightly. - Then it would not have been possible to make this hole in it. Mithril, my good dwarf, is valued much higher than gold, and if there were even a tenth part of it here, with this coin one could buy half the city. No, this was also a very durable metal, giving the coin hardness and resistance to wear. Yes, - he extended the coin to Thorin with visible regret, - the thing is, of course, not ordinary. They have now completely disappeared from circulation and remained only in collections. Would you not like to exchange it for current coin? I would add to the twelve and a third full-weight trialons of face value another six and a half for the purity of the silver and three and a quarter - for rarity. You won’t get more in any shop, I swear by the scales and scissors!

  • No, honorable one, we do not intend to either sell or exchange it. - Thorin hid the coin in his bosom. - This is a memory of my deceased friend, and showing it to you, I hoped that perhaps it would be possible to find some lead… Sorry it didn’t work out.

  • Such a distinctive coin no one would exchange, especially in the capital, - the money-changer smiled. - They would rather try to secretly sell it to some lover of antiquities. I would advise you to visit Arkhar - his shop is not far from the “Horn of Arachorn” tavern.

Folco bit his lip and remembered what was said. Having thanked the fat money-changer disappointed by the refusal, the friends left the shop and strode further, toward the modest house of the old chronicler.

Thorin struck three times with the door knocker on the resonant bronze gong fastened to the left of the door. After a short time steps sounded in the depth of the house, the door swung open, and they saw standing on the threshold a slender girl, almost a child, in modest dark clothing. Her only ornament was a golden ribbon pulling together her lush light-brown hair.

Thorin coughed from surprise, but the girl spoke herself:

  • The master is waiting for you in the study. Leave cloaks, bags, as well as knives and axes in the hallway. Nothing will happen to them here. In our house it is not customary to walk with weapons.

Having said this, she took a step aside, freeing the way, and they entered a spacious, somewhat gloomy room with walls covered with thick brown wood. Along one of them stretched a long rack with many boar tusks arranged at all levels, so that any guest could choose one suitable for his height and hang a cloak or caftan.

The Kid and Thorin, reluctantly, grunting and biting their lips, hung on the tusks their baldrics - Thorin with mace and morningstar, the Kid - with sword and dagger. Folco, however, put his knives under his jacket, as he always did in Annuminas - the hobbit was accustomed to weapons and, finding himself without them, felt uncomfortable.

The dwarves finally sorted out their armament, and the girl made an inviting gesture with her hand, heading for the stairs.

“It’s like in the room of the Old Took in their main estate, - Folco thought abstractedly, following his friends. - Here, it seems, nothing has changed for long-long years.”

The staircase did not even creak under the weight of the stocky dwarves. They climbed to the second floor, which at first glance turned out to be an exact copy of the first - the same spacious room, the same six identical doors on both sides, and only instead of the entrance door Folco saw a wide window occupying the whole wall. The sun was already setting, and the room was all flooded with its bright radiance, so that after the twilight of the hallway they had to squint and cover their eyes.

  • I greet you, - suddenly the familiar voice of the chronicler sounded nearby; blinded by the sun’s rays, the friends did not immediately notice how he came out of one of the doors. - Please come to my parlor.

He hospitably threw open the doors and courteously let the guests pass ahead. They found themselves in a small room with a fireplace in the far wall, with three windows, now covered with shutters. The walls were draped with dark brown fabric. Near the fireplace stood a low table, four cozy armchairs and a tall desk at which one could write standing. The floor in the parlor was covered with dark boards, unusually tightly fitted together. To the left of the fireplace in the wall without windows was visible another small door, and above the very fireplace hung an ancient tapestry depicting a tall, stately old man with regal bearing and long, loose gray hair in snow-white robes with a black staff in hand and a long sword in blue scabbard at his belt. He stood half-turned to the viewer, but his head was turned, and the entrant was met by the severe and penetrating gaze of seemingly living eyes. On the old man’s face lay the seal of infinite weariness and deep, though bright sadness. The enchanted Folco could not refrain from questions.

  • Oh, this is an amazing thing, - Theophrastus answered, obviously pleased. - This, my hobbit sir, is none other than the great wizard Gandalf the Grey himself! - The chronicler cast a quick glance at the stunned guests, admiring the impression produced. Having held a pause, he continued: - He was captured by an unknown artist in the Grey Havens, shortly before the almighty sorcerer left our world. This tapestry was presented to the Great King, then the reigning grandson of Elessar the Elfstone rewarded your humble servant with it. - The chronicler slightly spread his arms to the sides and bowed ceremoniously. - Since then it has lived here, above my fireplace. But why are we standing? - he suddenly remembered. - Please, sit by the fire, fill your pipes, and let’s begin the conversation.

They sat down and took out their pouches. Soon bluish smoke floated through the room. Theophrastus stood silently, with a kind smile surveying the guests with his penetrating eyes. Seeing that their pipes were in order, he unexpectedly for everyone addressed the hobbit:

  • Was the road from your beautiful country easy? How are things in the Shire? I rarely manage to talk with anyone from your people - hobbits wander into Annuminas rarely, and I myself am already old for long roads. So, what is happening with you in recent years?

To tell the truth, Folco was confused. But the calm voice of the old chronicler, the coziness of his house that had seen much in its time did their work. At first slowly and uncertainly, and then more and more cheering up, Folco began to tell Theophrastus about everything he could remember from what happened in the Shire during his short life, and what he remembered from the Shire chronicles, which they became fond of writing after the Scouring of the Shire.

Theophrastus with a light movement pulled the cord hanging among the folds of the drapery - somewhere in the depth of the house a bell tinkled. Behind the small door noticed by the hobbit to the left of the fireplace, light steps sounded, and into the parlor entered the girl who had opened the door for them. She carried in her hands a thick notebook in soft black leather binding.

  • Satti will help me better remember your story, honorable hobbit.

Theophrastus sat in the remaining free armchair, and the girl stood at the desk. Folco took a breath and continued. He himself did not notice how gradually the crimson sunset glow began to fade in the windows, gradually he turned to his own story, in order to lead the conversation, as was agreed with Thorin, to the incident in the Barrow-downs. Theophrastus listened very attentively, slowly stroking the carved armrest with long fingers and all the time looking straight into the hobbit’s eyes.

Little by little his story passed to the description of their meeting with Thorin, though the hobbit prudently omitted the true content of their nocturnal conversations. He told about Buckland, about the Old Forest and finally got to the Barrow-downs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the barely noticeable nods of the dwarf - everything was going as planned. Thorin at first intended to start the conversation himself, but now it was clear that the hobbit would manage no worse.

  • And now we would like to ask you, honorable Theophrastus, - the dwarf entered the conversation when Folco stopped to catch his breath and wet his throat with a sip from the jug of beer standing on the table, - can you not explain to us what is happening in the Barrow-downs? What we saw is strange and… rather scary, I would say, what are those gray wraiths alone worth!

Shuddering, the girl for a moment raised her rounded eyes that had become quite childish. Theophrastus, however, lowered his gaze, and his eyebrows slightly converged.

  • Probably this is one of those mysterious traces of the dark past left to us by the Great Darkness, - he said quietly, and it seemed even the logs in the fireplace began to crackle more quietly and somehow more fearfully. - No one knows exactly how it began. It is known that in these Barrow-downs are buried the fallen in numerous internecine wars rulers of Corlion, a small kingdom on the southern borders of the present possessions of the Northern Scepter. At that time Arnor turned out to be divided into several parts, the rulers of which feuded with each other, they shed the blood of their brethren and began to incline toward evil. In the archives of Elrond Half-elven, the departed beyond the Sea lord of Rivendell - you know where that is? - I found a legend that these rulers did not find peace beyond the Sundering Seas, but, supported by the great power of Sauron, turned into malicious bodiless spirits feeding on the warmth and blood of the living. However, they were created - or arose themselves - before the One Ring was forged, and turned out to be not subject to it - that’s how I understand what is happening. Probably they are now deprived of a master… Or perhaps there is some other explanation. - He shrugged. - I think only Cirdan knows, and even that is unlikely. He never was interested in the affairs of Middle-earth, the Sea subject to his people eternally draws him. Yes, these wraiths are a terrible thing, so our honorable hobbit showed exceptional courage!

Folco blushed from the praise.

  • But you are not the first who asks me about the Barrow-downs, - suddenly having thought for a moment, Theophrastus continued. - Many years ago this same question was asked of me by another man. But you, incidentally, even saw him.

He looked with a smile at the amazed friends - two of them, because the third, the Kid, was already peacefully snoring, having leaned his head, as on the first evening, against the hobbit’s shoulder.

  • You saw him yesterday, he was with me in “The Scabbard of Strider,” - Theophrastus continued. - His name is Olmer, he is a gold-seeker from Dale. I have known him for twelve years already, he often told me much interesting from events occurring in the East. And once he asked about the Barrow-downs too. This was on his last visit, he generally appears in Annuminas rarely, about once a year, and our present meeting took place after a five-year break. Oh, he told about amazing events! For example, about an unprecedented eight-day battle on the shores of the Sea of Rhun, in which he fought on the side of the Easterlings against an unknown people who came from the south, from beyond Mordor. According to him, the rivers of the Rhun-lands carried the corpses of men and horses for three days after the slaughter…

It was clear that the old chronicler had become carried away, and Folco decided to take advantage of this.

  • But why were the guards hunting him then? - he asked, trying to show that he was extraordinarily interested in the chronicler’s story, and not to betray their true intentions prematurely.

  • I am not surprised by this, - the chronicler shrugged. - All those who are engaged in the extraction and sale of gold, no offense to the honorable dwarves, sooner or later come into conflict with the laws of the Great King, which do not always anticipate all turns of events… And about the Barrow-downs I answered him almost the same as you - I have nowhere special to get new information, but now, after your story, I will answer that one should not fear the crimson fires and gray wraiths - one should only hold the bow firmly in one’s hands and not weaken in heart, as one hobbit I know named Folco Brandybuck did!

  • But there was another hobbit who did not fear the fierce underground forces, - the embarrassed Folco objected. - What about Frodo, the famous Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer?!

  • Did he happen to encounter these wraiths? - Theophrastus raised his eyebrows in surprise. Now it was the hobbit’s turn to open his mouth.

  • But this is known to everyone in the Shire from young to old! And in the Red Book it is said in detail…

  • In the Red Book?! - the chronicler perked up at once. - Who among my brethren of the pen has not heard of this amazing narrative, which has reached us only in brief, unreliable and incomplete extracts and later retellings! The Red Book - the cherished dream of any chronicler! Has the honorable hobbit not read it?

In Theophrastus’s voice sounded passionate supplication. It seemed that for him now nothing existed more dear than this coveted, almost fabulous work. He leaned forward all over, his fingers intertwined, beads of sweat appeared on his high dry forehead. And Folco decided.

  • Yes, I read it, - he answered slowly, - and can even show it to you, honorable Theophrastus!

Thorin jumped up from his armchair in fright, the girl cried out from surprise, Theophrastus - the old, honorable and respected chronicler - jumped up as he probably could not have in the best years of his youth, and clutched the shoulders of the taken-aback Folco, whirling with him around the parlor, not singing, not even shouting, but directly bawling something insanely joyful. The skirts of his dark spacious cloak flew about, his hair tangled, but he noticed nothing. From the noise that arose the Kid woke up and in the confusion grabbed the poker standing by the fireplace.

Finally Theophrastus calmed down and, breathing heavily, released the hobbit.

  • I am your irredeemable debtor, honorable Folco, - he said, and the friends turned away in embarrassment - on the wrinkled face of the chronicler flashed a bashful tear. - O blessed fate that sent me such joy in my old age! But, - he suddenly recollected himself and became serious, - if you only show it to me, it will be the same as giving a hungry man a crust of bread and then snatching it from his hands without letting him bite off a piece! O Folco, son of Hamfast, may Bright Elbereth keep you, you could do a great good deed by allowing me to copy it!

  • But we are about to depart, - the hobbit tried to object weakly, - and I cannot leave it in anyone’s hands, may the most worthy Theophrastus forgive me.

  • Yes, yes, I understand everything, - the chronicler hastily nodded. - Who would leave such a treasure! But I do not ask for that! Be my guests for the next seven days, and during this time under your supervision ten of the most skilled scribes will copy it, working day and night! We will carefully take it apart, and then sew it back together. No need to fear for its safety, he extended his hands soothingly, - we have done this many times, we know how to handle the originals of great manuscripts! And you can now demand from me anything that will be in my power…

The chronicler lowered his hands and wearily fell silent, as if he had given his all during this outburst. His head gradually inclined on his chest. Folco listened to him with mixed feelings of surprise and awkwardness. But he did not yet know how to refuse and therefore quietly said “yes.”

When the chronicler’s raptures subsided and they agreed that the hobbit would bring him the Red Book the next day, the impatiently waiting Thorin finally asked what interested them:

  • Honorable Theophrastus, we inadvertently heard part of your conversation with Olmer from Dale, as you called him. And one thing will not leave my head: why does he, judging by your words a remarkable man, speak so angrily about elves?

Theophrastus hesitated, gathering his thoughts:

  • I don’t quite understand why he so interests you, but in my opinion, precisely in such strong people sometimes the feeling of the doomedness of Mortals is heightened, the awareness of the finiteness of our being. And nearby - the race of the Firstborn, the Immortals, whose leaders in immemorial times had a hand in the Curse of Men, which after all, if you think about it, led to the doom of Numenor! You must know this story better than I. His proud heart rebels against the fact that our fates were to some extent predetermined by the Immortals. Hence, probably, his dislike for the Fair Folk. I do not share his views, - Theophrastus added, - but I believe that it is his right - to say what he thinks.

  • And what is the “Great Ladder”? - Folco asked.

He remembered how the chronicler had shuddered in the tavern, hearing these words. And even now Theophrastus’s face darkened. He spoke quietly and slowly, seemingly with difficulty choosing words:

  • This is a very ancient and incomprehensible legend. It is known to few of the mortals of Middle-earth. I read about it in elvish parchments, in that part of them which is written in Old Elvish. Once among the Firstborn there existed a tradition that our world is pierced by a gigantic, almost infinite ladder, taking its beginning in the underground world of horror and primordial evil, which some call Ungoliant. From there it rises to the surface, passes through our world and goes into the cloudy heights, into the eternally blue sky and there, in the plains of immense height, ends with a star berth, to which, tired of endless wanderings along heavenly paths, sometimes the ship of Earendil moors with the sparkling Silmaril on its prow. The steps of this ladder were laid from pure mithril. The tradition does not tell who was the builder of this ladder, but there it was said that Sauron, at the zenith of his power, managed to dismantle some part of it that was closer to the earth, and used it for the construction of Barad-dur, the Dark Tower. Therefore Earendil can no longer descend under the clouds and observe the life of Middle-earth, for which he doomed himself to eternal wanderings across the firmament… What a pity that this is all - only beautiful fairy tales! - Theophrastus sighed. - The elves once believed that swearing by the Great Ladder, a Firstborn or a mortal gives the firmest promise. The servants of evil, on the contrary, swore by its lower part. That’s why I was so surprised to hear from Olmer these ancient words. I would like to know where this gold-seeker drew them from…

Theophrastus nodded dreamily and fell silent. The room was flooded with silence. Everyone was silent, and in Folco’s chest suddenly appeared an unfamiliar sucking pain, hopeless longing for the unprecedented, for all the departed charm of the old world, for its magic and for its wonders. The Kid suspiciously sniffled.

  • Yes, for us chroniclers it is not easy now, - Theophrastus continued quietly, as if thinking aloud, - people are little interested in the affairs of the past, preferring the petty and momentary cares of the present. Rarely, very rarely does one manage to meet a real interlocutor. Olmer is one of them. His life is dark and incomprehensible, but he thinks and reasons, he knows much and tells much, and therefore I always with joy meet with him… Only now not in my house, for, as I noticed, there are here certain eyes watching him more intently than necessary! - Unfamiliar grumbling-anxious notes appeared in his voice. - Yes, yes, this concerns you, Satti, don’t turn away, I noticed this as soon as Olmer crossed our threshold!

The girl blushed and quickly covered her face with her palms. Theophrastus for several more moments impressively kept silent, threatening his young assistant with a hooked, old man’s finger.

  • Therefore, when he invited me, - the chronicler continued, - I decided that henceforth I would meet with him somewhere in another place, and fate sent me luck!

He smiled at the friends, like a ray of spring sun fell on the wrinkled bark of an old oak.

  • And have you not heard, honorable one, anything about people worshipping the Barrow-downs? - Thorin got down to business, not paying too much attention to what the chronicler said. - We met a company going there, we found strange traces of strange rites… And not only in the Barrow-downs.

Theophrastus quickly gathered himself, straightened and made a quick sign to Satti. The girl hastily opened the notebook, and the light pen in her deft hands quickly glided across the pages following Thorin’s words.

  • Yes, scanty and unreliable rumors about this reached me, - the chronicler spoke slowly. - As a rule, information came from those passing through Bree, but they were vague and contradictory. In essence, you are the only witnesses who saw all this to the end! However, the old annals of the Dunedain state that even before the War of the Ring to the south of the Barrow-downs there existed some half-forgotten settlements of a strange people, very few in number. They never tried to somehow conclude an alliance or at least establish trade with Bree, never appeared there. Rangers encountered them, real Rangers of the North. These settlers sometimes helped them track down servants of Darkness, but in my opinion they did this more out of fear or greed - they demanded payment for their services. There were very few of them, I already said, and the Dunedain despised them. After the victory people began to quickly settle and plow all lands suitable for this, the ring of Arnorian villages began to quickly contract around the Barrow-downs as well, and this unknown people hastened to leave these places. No one knows where they vanished, the annual records contain no mentions of clashes with them. They left themselves. Of course, there is no connection yet with what you saw, but I can tell you nothing more. It will be better if you tell me as in as much detail as possible your whole story!

Thorin, Folco and the Kid, interrupting each other, began to tell about the mysterious house on the North Side and about everything they found and saw there. Satti only managed to dip her pen.

  • Amazing and incomprehensible, - the chronicler who had listened to them attentively said. - But the city guard knows about everything, and this is somehow reassuring. Yes… a piece of the Deceitful Stone glows the same as if it were on a Barrow! So there is some connection between it and those that tower on the peaks of the Barrow-downs. - Theophrastus raised his head that had been lowered. - I thank you for a truly priceless story. It will be entered in all the annals, I will do my best.

  • Honorable one, do you know anyone among the friends or associates of this Olmer? - Thorin continued to ask questions directly, and Folco again noticed a shadow of surprise on the chronicler’s face. - He has many brethren in his profession, - Theophrastus answered, but not too willingly. - These are desperate and reckless people, not very respectful of laws. Much is forgiven them - there is little gold in Middle-earth, almost all of it is in the hands of your tribesmen, honorable dwarves, and men are now engaged in the development of gold placers and meager surface veins. And do they say that you have clashes with them?

  • They’re not looking for veins! - the indignant Kid suddenly intervened in the conversation. - They’re not looking for veins, but our storerooms that are closer to the surface. And sometimes they dig through. True, few of such lucky ones manage to get out. For example, not so long ago…

  • Wait, Kid! - Thorin sharply interrupted his comrade with an annoyed grimace on his face. - They also look for our old reserves, which the dwarves themselves forgot about in the monstrous whirlpool of the last war. And as for the rest, that we sometimes clash…

  • Well, well, let’s not discuss this now, - Theophrastus raised his hand conciliatorily. - By the way, your words brought me to an interesting thought: that’s why Olmer so persistently interested himself with me in everything concerning Heavenly Fire!

Folco froze, unable to move; however Theophrastus did not notice this and continued:

  • I guessed that Olmer is not quite an ordinary gold-seeker. It seemed to me that he is more interested in ancient treasures - hence his questions about the Barrow-downs: there, after all, according to belief, huge riches of kings of the past are buried - hence the Heavenly Fire. According to the belief prevailing among hunters for the yellow metal, gold buried underground attracts to itself Heavenly Fire, which most often strikes precisely in such places. Yes, now it’s clear, and I was racking my brains!

Theophrastus nodded with a light smirk, like a person who has solved a problem that had long seemed very complex.

  • And Heavenly Fire - what is that? - the Kid intervened again, obviously having managed to sleep through the first part of their conversation.

  • Heavenly Fire, - Theophrastus patiently explained, - is a very rare and amazing phenomenon. On clear starry nights, and sometimes during the day, the firmament is suddenly cut by a soundless fiery arrow. It can be seen throughout Arnor, but to determine where it fell is very difficult. They say that these are stars that have burned out their time, or maybe not, I don’t know. So the elves think… Usually the appearance of Heavenly Fire means the beginning or, conversely, the completion of some important events affecting all Middle-earth. So it was, for example, immediately after the death of the Great King and shortly before his enthronement. Old chronicles assert that Heavenly Fire was seen in the year of the death of the last king of Gondor of the Third Age, after whom Minas Tirith began to be ruled by Stewards, whose line is now continued by the descendants of the glorious Faramir, son of Denethor, lord of the castle of Emyn Arnen. One can give more examples.

  • And do they leave no traces? - the Kid continued to inquire.

  • With traces it’s more complicated, - the chronicler shook his head. - You see, honorable dwarf, they turn out to be different each time, and very few of them are known. Sometimes in this place turns out to be melted stone, and sometimes - a split tree, as if a giant lightning struck it. One case is known when Heavenly Fire set fire to the roof of a barn in one of our villages. That’s, actually, all. No one knows anything for certain, - he repeated.

By that time it had completely grown dark outside the windows. It was clear that Theophrastus was tired, and the hobbit’s empty stomach had long been rumbling. The friends rose and began to say farewell, having agreed to come tomorrow and bring the Red Book with them. Theophrastus and Satti escorted them to the door.

They trudged back to the “Horn of Arachorn,” walking in silence and each pondering something of his own. Folco threw back his head and looked at the clear night sky. Brightly burned in the east Remmirath, the Star-Web, and across the whole sky stretched the Trail of Earendil strewn with fine star dust. From somewhere from these high realms comes the wonder of Heavenly Fire, which Polagast ordered to remember. Why? What does this mean? And why is this mysterious Olmer interested in it, whom the hunchback serves? Is there some connection between the brown-bearded gold-seeker and the possessor of that commanding voice that stopped Sandello in Bree? Folco remembered that voice very well, but it did not seem to resemble the brown-bearded one’s. Gold-seeker… And Rogvold once said that Sandello for a time attached himself to this fraternity, maybe this Olmer is really just a gold-seeker, more precisely - the leader of some detachment of miners living by their own laws and therefore not too fond of meetings with the royal guard? And in general, why have we so latched onto him?! Well, he said who knows what… well, Sandello turned up near him… well, he was interested in Heavenly Fire and the Barrow-downs… So it’s all understandable. Theophrastus explained all this very well. Who knows them, these Big Folk, what they believe in!

  • So we learned nothing properly, - Thorin grumbled with annoyance when they came home and settled by the fireplace. - He said nothing to the point! He doesn’t know Sandello, this Olmer - also only so-so, from his words, about the Barrow-downs - nothing reliable, about the worshippers some old rumors… No proof! In general, it’s clear: let him copy the Book - it’s yours, Folco, I can’t dispose of it. And immediately we depart! We’ve sat here too long, too long, and we should be back by autumn.

  • And what about Heavenly Fire? - the Kid stood up for Theophrastus.

  • And what do we care about it? - Thorin’s eyes flashed angrily. - It hasn’t reached our forges yet and, may Durin help, won’t reach them for as long again! In general, tomorrow we’ll ask properly. We need to find out what’s going on in the region between the Brandywine and the Greyflood and along the Sarn Ford, how the situation is on the Greenway, who lives along it, are there bandits, how are the Dunlendings doing - from them to the Gates of Moria it’s only a stone’s throw! And then, I can’t get these werewolves, wargs, out of my head. The Bearers beat them off only thanks to the wizard’s power, and we’ll have to rely only on ourselves. All right, the night will pass, the morning will advise - let’s go to bed!

Thorin completed his assertive speech and was the first to set an example, wrapping himself head and all in the blanket, and soon filled the room with light snoring. Folco sat a while longer by the dying fireplace, stirred the coals in it. He could not sleep, and he went out on the porch to breathe fresh spring air. Sitting on the threshold, he unhurriedly lit his pipe. Having released the first rings of smoke, he thoughtfully took out one of the throwing knives always with him and began habitually to turn it in his hand, absent-mindedly watching the play of silvery lunar reflections on its polished blade. And then he heard howling.

It howled somewhere quite nearby, but barely audibly, dully, hopelessly-mournfully and powerlessly-maliciously. The hobbit jumped to his feet at once, clutching in his fist the knife ready to throw and convulsively looking around. The feeling familiar since the memorable Barrow-downs reminded of itself, scratching as with a sharp claw at the heart; the pain was strong and sharp, and Folco understood that this time they were aiming at him. He strained all his will, ordering the invisible enemy to retreat, simultaneously twisting his head with all his might in search of the adversary. Yielding to the unusually strong onslaught of unconscious fear, he retreated a step, toward the doors, groping with his left hand that trembled against his will for the ring set into the boards of the door. The pressure on him was much stronger than what was experienced in the Barrow-downs; to resist was almost impossible. Something formless and menacing slowly crept upon him from the depth of the dark yard, and it seemed he would now be knocked off his feet, trampled, crushed, and life would be squeezed out of him, like blood, drop by drop, until only a cold dead body remained on the threshold.

Folco’s teeth chattered, his forehead was covered with cold sweat, his eyes widened. His gaze, powerless to pierce the darkness of the night, vainly rummaged through the yard. His enemy had no need to reveal himself. He had to crush the guard remaining on the threshold and enter inside.

As soon as this clear, cold thought, as if suggested by someone from outside, surfaced in Folco’s confused consciousness, his darkened spirit suddenly and unexpectedly strengthened and cleared. In this order he read a proposal to buy his life by flight and in the same second understood that he must not yield to this. There, behind the door, his friends sleep a peaceful and calm sleep, feeling themselves in complete safety; there is mighty, kind and magnanimous Thorin, a bit funny but faithful and devoted Kid, his friends ready to go for him to anything - he cannot step aside, and come what may. Battle so battle! He had to hold out. Now one on one.

His legs seemed to have grown into the wooden threshold plank, his back pressed against the hard curl of the sacred beard of Durin, in his hand glittered a knife. Folco silently waited, resisting with all his might the unceasing onslaught of an evil, inhuman force. As if in reality, he saw the gray, tightly inflated semicircular bowl advancing upon him, woven from gray threads that had appeared a minute earlier; and then he with all his might threw the knife before him, so that this will-tightening veil would finally burst, and there - come what may…

The knife soundlessly and without trace disappeared into the night, not flashing a single reflected moonbeam. It seemed it had forever sunk into the extinguishing-all-movement gray swamp.

However, a moment later sounded the ringing blow of a blade stuck into wood; and this sound, so dense, alive and real, struck harder than the heaviest hammer at the silence fettering the hobbit’s brain:

a hissing, whistling sound swept through the yard, as if a lone gust of cold wind roughly tore the bent flexible branches; the gray veil, as if cut in two, began slowly and reluctantly to part to the sides, and directly before him several fathoms away Folco with a suddenly cleared gaze saw the familiar gray figure. Its contours seemed unsteady, as if melting in the surrounding gloom. The figure slowly moved toward him, he again felt persistent attempts of an alien force to remove him from the road - now it pressed his chest, making breathing difficult; but now the enemy was directly before him, and Folco knew what to do.

  • What do you want? - he mentally groaned, pretending to be broken and trying to portray this as naturally as possible.

In response sounded something like the triumphant cawing of carrion-eating ravens, heard only by him. He did not make out the words, but understood the order exactly:

  • Go away from the road. I must enter. Otherwise death. The hobbit did not retreat, and then the gray contours stirred and slowly floated toward him.

  • Do not dare to stand in the way of the Ringed!

  • You lie, they are long gone, you are only a pale shadow of their former power! - Folco furiously yelled to himself and with a movement practiced by hundreds of repetitions, precisely, as in a lesson with the Kid, sent the second knife, directly into the black stripe going slightly below what he would call the forehead of this creature.

And simultaneously with the blade whistling through the air, his will struck back: “What can you do to me, living and strong, of flesh and blood, you, gray mist of the past? You are powerless here! Go back to your dungeons and await the hour when not my will, but one a hundred times stronger, will scatter your last remnants to the wind! Well, what are you waiting for?! Here I am, come here!”

The knife disappeared, like a stone thrown into a pond overgrown with gray duckweed, a ghostly blue flame, like distant heat lightning, illuminated the yard and immediately went out. His will already tore, crushed, scattered the remains of the approaching enemy, the gray shadow spread flat on the ground crawled away, flowed away like spilled water, and only soundless hissing reached the hobbit’s inner hearing. The Shadow from the Barrows was powerless against him. He had repelled its onslaught, he had won!

Folco suddenly went limp, weakened and shamefully sobbed from the suddenly overwhelming fatigue, as if his legs could no longer support him; he almost fell on the threshold, pressing his forehead against the doorpost.

  • Folco! Why are you banging on the door? - On the threshold stood a sleepy, blinking discontentedly Thorin with a splinter in his hands. - How did you get here? What happened here?

The hobbit, without answering, walked unsteadily across the yard, picking up both his knives. The handles, woven from strips of thin leather, seemed scorched - the leather had blackened, wrinkled, and in places even charred. Folco began wiping off the soot with his sleeve.

  • Explain properly: what happened here? - Thorin wanted to sleep, he was annoyed by the hindrance and now tried to settle everything as quickly as possible.

  • Thorin, such things happened here, - sobbed the hobbit, again leaning exhaustedly against the door with his back. - No, we won’t talk here… Let’s go, let’s get out of here!

He pulled the dwarf by the sleeve, and the perplexed, yawning wide-mouthed Thorin entered the house after him.

In a broken whisper, flinching at every night rustle or creak, Folco confusedly conveyed to Thorin the essence of what had happened. Now, when it was all over, he could not cope with the heavy trembling that shook him.

In the flickering light of the splinter, it became visible how sternly the dwarf’s brows came together, how his jaw muscles played. His hand reached for the axe lying on a block at the head of his bed.

  • Found us, then, - evilly and merrily squinting, Thorin drawled in an undertone. - Came, then! Ringed, then! - The dwarf hastily checked whether his other weapons were in place. - So what happened to it in the end? Something I don’t quite believe that such ghosts disappear from a simple knife.

  • The knife did nothing to it, I think, - the hobbit shook his head. - Just flew right through, that’s all. It seems I still managed to push it away with something, I think so. But the veil was definitely cut by the knife.

  • Well then, everything is clear, - sighed the dwarf, - you were probably right then, Folco! I shouldn’t have taken that sword. Most likely it came for it, the cursed one! Or maybe not, who knows. In general, they remembered us in the Barrows… - He sighed. - Well, now there’s nothing to be done, we’ll look better and fight back harder, if it comes to it… Shall we sleep? Though you’d better sleep, and I’ll keep watch.

Folco lay down and listened to himself. No, inside everything was calm, nothing foretold a repeat appearance of the barrow spirit, and the hobbit calmed down somewhat.

“It won’t come today,” - he suddenly understood, and again could not say where this unshakable certainty had come from. - We will meet it again, and the third meeting will be the last… for one of us."

After this, everything immediately darkened, and Folco plunged into an unusually soft, peaceful sleep.

The next morning the hobbit, as usual, went to the kitchen - by agreement he was to work for another seven days, exactly as much as Theophrastus had asked of them. Night terrors, to the hobbit’s surprise, had vanished irrevocably, but something else approached. He suddenly realized how much he did not want to go into that unknown Moria. He could now calmly recall what had happened to him at night and understood that only a miracle had saved him; the enemy was not too strong, but even it had almost destroyed the hobbit. And if there were several of them? What then? And in general, although he had not wasted time with the Kid, what could he do in a real battle? Darkness, fear, hunger and cold… All this pressed upon him at once, deprived him of strength, making him only inwardly groan at the thought of his dear, cozy room, where he so wanted to return and which now seemed the safest place on earth. In the evening Thorin found him like this, concerned and hurrying to a meeting with the chronicler. Seeing the despondent face of his friend, he looked intently into his eyes, and then twitched his cheek, turned away and also grew gloomy, without saying, however, a single word.

Warily looking around, they reached the familiar house of Theophrastus. Satti, who opened the door, smiled at them like old acquaintances.

They settled in the same company in the same living room. Satti, as yesterday, stood at the desk, preparing to record any interesting story from any of the guests.

Now Thorin asked more questions. But before beginning the conversation, Folco not without internal hesitation gave into the trembling dry palms of the chronicler his main treasure.

  • You carried it in saddlebags just like that, not wrapping it even in thick parchment! - cried the chronicler. - And what is this?! Who among you dared to drink beer while reading such a treasure! - he exclaimed indignantly, opening the thick volume and discovering suspicious stains on one of the first pages.

Folco involuntarily smiled. For this man, books replaced everything in the world, and for the fate of the Red Book, it seemed, one need not worry. Apologizing, Theophrastus rushed out of the room, and from behind the doors his quick, commanding voice was heard, giving some orders. Soon he returned, rubbing his hands contentedly.

  • The binder has already taken up the matter, - he reported. - With us, the Book will suffer no harm.

And the conversation began, from which the friends learned that the Green Road, stretching through all the lands separating Arnor and Rohan, was well inhabited and equipped. Only in its very middle, immediately after the crossing over the Gwathlo, at the western borders of Dunland, were there empty spaces, but none of them exceeded one or two days’ journey. Along the entire Road stood strong villages, in which travelers could always find both a good table and safe lodging - safe, of course, as far as possible now outside the borders of the Northern Kingdom. There lived mainly people from Arnor, who came there to the rich and fertile lands, but there were also many people from Dunland; there were also Rohirrim who liked the local lush and extensive meadows, ideally suited for their herds. This narrow strip of inhabited lands along the Road for most of its length paid tribute to Arnor, and a smaller part, approximately from the border with Dunland - to Rohan. The people there were strong and not afraid of difficulties, but now hard times had come for them. Although the entire Road was now guarded by the Arnorian guard in the north and Rohirric cavalry in the south, life there had become very unsafe. Many daring men had gone to the free southern steppes and oak groves: after defeats in the north, many bandits had also gone there.

  • There, in secluded forest places, - Theophrastus unhurriedly recounted, - there are secret settlements whose inhabitants do not recognize royal authority and live, obeying no one. They are the main support of the unknown flying detachments in the south - they supply provisions to the raiders. In such villages they live, as a rule, in semi-dugouts, fields are arranged far from dwellings, often clearing small plots in the forests. Finding them is very difficult, although, of course, now they too, it seems, are being seriously dealt with. Last autumn, I heard, more than a dozen such settlements were burned there… Yes, my friends, although three hundred years have passed since the victory. The Road is still only a thin thread stretched across an ocean of wild and uninhabited lands. More precisely, calling them uninhabited would probably be wrong - people live in Minhiriath and in Enedwaith. But not much is known about those peoples, and they are few. There are solitary fishing villages on the shores, there are farmers and hunters…

In the east, between the Road and the Misty Mountains, the land still remains empty, there is no one along the banks of the Sirannon. Previously it was used for navigation by dwarves shipping their goods west and south, but after Moria became empty in recent years, life in these lands also ceased.

  • And in Dunland? What is happening there? - eagerly asked Thorin, missing not a single word.

  • Oh! Dunland, my friends, - is an amazing country! It is rich in well-bearing plowlands and excellent forests, and its depths - in iron ores. The highlanders - and this is a country in the foothills of the Misty Mountains - are a numerous and stubborn people. You remember, they had a quarrel and even war with Rohan in ancient times, they were enemies even in the years of the War of the Ring. After the Battle of the Hornburg, the highlanders quieted down and concluded peace with Rohan. They were allowed to live by their own laws, but tribute was imposed, which they pay to this day. Among them are many unreasonable youths, sometimes arranging ambushes and attacks on the great road, but they are usually caught and given up by the Dunlendings themselves - they value the current peace. Olmer said that among them they hate and despise the descendants of those who surrendered. This is like them - they are a proud people, and often pride blinds their reason. I can believe this and would advise you to keep away from their country, to always be on guard when passing along its borders.

  • And the Mark of Rohan? How are things there? - the dwarf continued questioning.

  • It prospers, like the other parts of the United Kingdom, - the chronicler shrugged, - their borders are still quiet, except for the western one, at the Gates of Rohan, where sometimes some lost detachment of bandits appears. But with Rohirric spearmen in open battle you cannot argue, and there is nowhere to hide in the steppes. There the people hold the sword firmly! They still have every adult man as an experienced warrior, such is their ancient custom, and they do not wish to abandon it, although in wealth they are considerably inferior to Arnor and especially to Gondor. In Edoras still rises the Golden Hall, and King Brego, sixth after Theolen the Great, holds council there with the elected representatives of his regions. Rohan is small, and there are few people there, they still live by horse breeding, but do not disdain agriculture. From Rohan in recent years news came mainly of new buildings in Edoras, Dunharrow, the Hornburg, life there is less hurried and clings more to the old ways. By the way, - Theophrastus suddenly grinned, - among the Rohirrim it has become customary to take as wives girls from Dunland, famous for their beauty. With the dwarves from the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, the Rohirrim have peace and friendship - however, these honored guests should know this better than I.

  • You spoke of their western borders, - Thorin carefully interjected. - And what is happening on the northern, eastern and southern?

  • With the southern it is clear at once, - the chronicler answered. - These are the domains of Gondor. On the northern borders is the great Fangorn Forest and its amazing inhabitants.

  • Ents? - exclaimed the hobbit delightedly, who loved most in the Red Book the story of the wonders of Fangorn and the victorious march of the Ents on Isengard. - Are they alive?

  • Very much alive, - the chronicler assured him. - After the victory, people learned about them. The Rohirrim first befriended them, but then the paths of the Mortal and the Long-lived, as usual, diverged. The Ents did not advance with their forests onto lands inhabited by the Rohirrim, they moved north and east, planting in previously deserted places new and new groves and copses, which over time merged into a huge massif, almost half the size of old Fangorn. What happens in its depths, I do not know, but the Rohirrim now fear the Power of the forests and do not trust it. Several times they tried to clear new fields for themselves in its southern regions, but the Ents made it clear that this would not lead to good. No, of course, there was no bloodshed, but this did not add friendliness between Forest and Steppe. The forests now stretch from Isengard itself along the foothills of Methedras and through old Fangorn, north of the Wold, along the river Limlight almost to the Anduin itself in the east, and in the north Fangorn has almost merged with the now-deserted Lorien. The Ents did not waste time in vain! - said the chronicler and fell silent.

  • But, to tell the truth, - he continued a minute later, drinking cold beer and catching his breath, - I am now more concerned with Isengard, and I am a little surprised that you have not yet asked a single question about it. The Ents, as you remember, initially surrounded its ruins with dense scrub, and people gradually forgot the road to this evil place. The Ents surrounded it, but, I think, forgot about it, completely carried away by their advance to the east and north. And meanwhile among the Arnorian hunters and rangers, who went far south in search of new hunting grounds and were not afraid to turn into Fangorn - the Ents are, after all, kind creatures and will never cause anyone any harm, on the contrary, they will help if a person entering their domain turns to them with respect and does not wave an axe unnecessarily - so, among these brave men, some strange rumors have been creeping around recently. As if in the mountains surrounding the ruins of Isengard, unknown half-men-half-beasts have begun to appear, sparing nothing living, but never entering the forest. I became interested in this, so it was so important for me to hear from you about the captured dwarf who received from someone an order to search for surviving orcs in the south. I suspected something like this, - his voice became duller, he leaned lower to the heads of his interlocutors, - Saruman’s orcs are drawn to the old lair… And now let’s move on to the eastern borders. There everything is surprisingly calm now. The left bank of the Anduin has been gradually settled by various peoples - from Rohan, and from Gondor, and from the north, and from the northeast. The once deserted Brown Lands are now almost all plowed and cultivated. On the right bank, in the highlands of Emyn Muil, excellent sheep pastures were found, so everything is calm there…

They questioned Theophrastus for a long time about Gondor. The realm of the Great King Elessar the Elfstone flourished magnificently for the long hundred and twenty years of his rule, and prudent heirs further multiplied his wealth. Minas Tirith was adorned with the works of the best dwarven builders, who even forged mithril gates. Freed from the power of the Enemy, Ithilien turned into the garden of Gondor, in the decoration of which the Mirkwood elves invested considerable labor. All regions from Pinnath Gelin to the Great Southern River flowing through Harondor from the Mountains of Shadow were densely populated. Under the shade of the White Tree in the courtyard of the Citadel, the country enjoyed peace and abundance for many, very many peaceful years. Wars occurred, but rarely. Two or three times the Great King himself went with a large army to the east and south, letting the Haradrim and Easterlings know what the fury and wrath of Gondor was; the fabulous Aidaril, the Revived Lightning, became famous throughout Middle-earth, and long after these campaigns Easterling mothers frightened children with the name of the invincible Lord of the West. The last war ended about fifty years ago, when already under the present King the Haradrim decided to try their luck again and avenge old offenses. But their hopes were not justified. The King quickly gathered all his numerous guard, summoned the Rohirrim and on the banks of the Poros inflicted a crushing defeat on the invaders. The corpses of men and horses of the southrons dammed the entire river. For several days, until they dismantled this terrible dam, the water in the Poros was red with blood, and by order of the King all night long burned fires made from enemy spears taken on the battlefield - there were so many of them! After this, Harad quieted down and even sent ambassadors with expressions of submission, pledging to pay considerable tribute, but the minor border war continues both in the south and in the east. And yet Gondor is now truly a blessed country, and may it be so forever, while the Eternal Stars burn in the sky!

Carried away by the conversation, they did not notice how the evening thickened. Reluctantly the guests rose and began saying goodbye. Less than a week remained until their departure.

The night passed, day gave way to a quiet pre-evening hour, and the friends again knocked on the door of the house of the Old Chronicler, as they had begun to call him among themselves. They continued their questioning, the conversation turned to the fate of other peoples mentioned in the Red Book. Both Thorin and Folco were especially interested in those who fought on the side of the Dark Lord or turned out somehow aside from the struggle. Thorin cautiously started a conversation about the kingdom of the Beornings, located between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. The dwarf knew it a little, because he had been there in the days of his youth; he was interested in its present day, and he and Theophrastus together compared the chronicler’s information with that brought by traveling dwarves.

  • They live in a democracy, - said the chronicler. - The king among them is not hereditary, but elected. True, the kingdom is not for nothing called Beorning - it so happened that all the kings there are descendants of the numerous clan of Beorn, memorable from the Battle of Five Armies. They concluded an alliance with Arnor and do not let any enemies through their lands, but now they think more about their advancement south. They treat forests carefully, but what to do if the number of people in the valley of Anduin is growing, new plowlands and meadows are needed. It is interesting what will happen if they meet with the Ents moving north!

From the Beornings the conversation naturally turned to the Greenwood, and Folco again asked: really there are still elves there?

  • And why shouldn’t they remain? - the chronicler shrugged. - They found business in Middle-earth, which means it is still early for them to go across the Sea.

  • But what about their immortality? - The hobbit repeated the question he had once asked Thorin.

  • Did you read the Red Book attentively? - in turn, the chronicler asked. - Both after your departure and today I first of all turned to the translations of the honorable Bilbo Baggins from Elvish, containing the most important information about the Primal Epoch. And here’s what it turns out: Sauron invested a considerable part of his ancient power in the creation of the One Ring, so he disembodied when it was given to the fire of Mount Doom. At the same time fell the power of the Three Elven Rings, united by the One in a certain magical black chain. But in the legend of the Primal Days I read the conditions set by the Valar after the First Victory for the elves remaining in Middle-earth. So, it says clearly: they can live here until they tire of the neighborhood with the Mortal. Then they will sail home from the Grey Havens. For the Descendants of Elrond everything was much sharper - either leave, preserving their belonging to the people of the Firstborn, or become Mortal, remaining in Middle-earth. Arwen Undomiel chose the second path… Well, Folco, here not everything is so simple. Galadriel spoke of universal subjection to all-powerful time - but look at Cirdan! So even the all-knowing Lady could be wrong in something. In this world no one is given to know the truth to the end, even the Wisest of the Wise err. And as for me, I think that without the Three Rings, for the elves who invested their power in them, there really was nothing to do in Middle-earth, for the life of the Immortal has some meaning only if they have a truly great Goal, to achieve which great means are needed. Those who lost it left our world, and those who never possessed the Rings and were not subject to them remained. True, Cirdan once possessed the Ring of Fire, but gave it to Gandalf himself, so I believe that the day will come when Cirdan too will move to the Lands Beyond the Sea. But who knows when this will happen? And as for Thranduil, you can still find his palace now if from Esgaroth you move up the Forest River.

  • It would be good if so, - Folco sighed. - A world without elves - it is somehow not the same. Too gray and boring.

  • Thranduil has more than once ordered weapons and various ornaments from the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, - Thorin added. - I heard this the other day from kinsmen who came from there.

Theophrastus briefly told them about the Lake Kingdom, and so they gradually, step by step, reached Rhun, the huge space adjacent to the inland Inland Sea, where from ancient times lived a mighty and warlike people of Easterlings, who had caused no little trouble to the Southern Kingdom.

  • According to Olmer, Rhun is a rich land, - Theophrastus continued. - The Easterlings are partly nomads, partly farmers. Their settlements stretch from the southern edge of Mirkwood to the bend of the Great Rhun, where the Great Steppes spread and their countless herds and flocks graze. The lands around the Sea are plowed, and the coastal Uplands give the Easterlings iron. Their domains extend into far Rhun - a month’s journey south and east. They are numerous and stubborn, but in olden times, having fallen under the power of the Dark Lord, they could not uproot from their souls the firmly rooted root of evil. I already said, even after the Great War they more than once rose against Gondor - and each time they rolled back with loss. The Great King himself came to their lands, devastating them, - and yet they did not submit. They have excellent cavalry, fast and elusive, but there is also infantry armed with large axes, like the honored dwarves, and Olmer saw among them real mounted knights clad in full armor. They strongly reckon with kinship and even for battle build up by family clans. They have no state, there are separate leaders in this or that locality, usually heads of large families, sometimes numbering thousands of people. If a young man from one clan marries a girl from another, the families unite. Thus their separate tribes gradually form, which, however, firmly keep the oath once given by those who survived after the campaign of the Great King - never to wage internecine wars. They are dangerous!

  • So those who attacked them from the south could be our friends? - Folco immediately asked.

  • Yes, it is our good fortune that wars still flare up among the eastern peoples, but think yourself what it would be like if they agreed and moved west together? The war would be long and bloody… No, in the East we have no friends - there can only be temporary allies, - Theophrastus answered. - Now the Easterlings are weakened, and this is good, but the last several winters there were mild, summers - moderately rainy, the steppes are full of juicy green grass - and their numbers will soon increase.

Thorin also asked about Mordor. Folco anxiously awaited how this ominous name would resound in these walls, but nothing happened.

  • Mordor is empty and deserted, - Theophrastus answered. - Who would live there after all that happened! Minas Morgul was destroyed, and in the Teeth and the tower of Cirith Ungol stands a mighty guard. A chain of posts in the East guards the peace of the dead land, and may it remain so until the end of ages.

  • And south of it, in Harad? - Thorin asked. - You said, about fifty years ago there was a big war there.

  • Yes, Harad was greatly depopulated after the battle on the Pelennor Fields, - the chronicler nodded. - But in the mysterious southern lands peoples quickly heal their wounds. No one knows what is happening in far Harad. Some information concerning the affairs of Near Harad and Khand comes from Umbar, our southern outpost, recaptured from the corsairs under the Great King. There several tribal unions were formed - one in Khand, which stretched along the Mountains of Shadow, another - in Near Harad, a third - in the lands east of Umbar. Like the Easterlings, the Haradrim are good both on horseback and on foot, but if the former prefer the horse, the latter prefer their own legs. Their infantry is very strong! When it stands in close formation, covered with heavy shields, it is very difficult to deal with. They have much native gold, and Gondor even trades with them. They show us their submission in every way, but somehow I don’t really believe in it.

  • And what do they fight with? - asked Thorin, always interested in weapons.

  • Their infantry is armed, as I said, with large hexagonal elongated shields and swords, short and thick, with which they can pierce any mail, except dwarven, of course. They also have special detachments of spearmen and archers, without protective armor, who attack the enemy at the beginning of battle and disorder his ranks with a cloud of arrows and throwing spears, there are slingers showering the enemy with a hail of weighty balls of baked clay. They do not forget the war oliphaunts that aroused such admiration in the honorable Samwise Gamgee. They are a strong opponent! The last victory cost us dearly.

  • And what is the Black Rock that Olmer mentioned? - Folco asked.

  • None of my Gondorian acquaintances who went with troops and embassies to the south saw it, only heard of it. This is, as far as I could understand, something like a shrine of this gloomy people. There burns the Ring of unquenchable fires… No, really unquenchable, for, according to Olmer, they are fed by the earth itself. Do not ask me what they are, I myself could not elicit this from Olmer. But believe me, it was there that their ancestors swore allegiance to the Dark Lord, who laid in the rock some talisman, intended, they say, on the decisive day for their people to rise to the surface and give them power over all the adjacent lands.

  • Wait, honorable Theophrastus, you said - Umbar is now in your hands? - the dwarf asked a question again. - You expelled the corsairs, so why not set up other posts even further south to watch over all of Harad? And, by the way, what is there, even further south?

  • To your second question no one in Middle-earth can answer, except again Cirdan, - the chronicler answered with a smile. - No one has penetrated south further than his ships. And with the corsairs an interesting story happened. Exterminated by the Dead under the leadership of the Great King himself, they seemed to have vanished forever. But this turned out not to be so. Not all of them gave themselves to evil, some were simply opponents of Gondor. But in the decisive hour they did not openly stand on the side of Sauron. After the arrival at Umbar of Gondor’s fleet, our commanders found the gates of this mighty fortress wide open, the city itself - abandoned, in the citadel they were awaited by a message left by the corsairs. It read approximately as follows: “We are leaving south. It is senseless to oppose you.” The Great King was merciful and decided not to pursue the exiles. But after his death everything turned out differently. The corsairs really went south and did not try to return the Umbar stronghold, but their number grew - both from children born to them and from peoples joining them. They accept everyone - both Haradrim and Gondorians who for some reason left our land. They closed the southern seas to us, and going there means starting a major war. Some of their ships appear in our waters too, occasionally attacking coastal settlements, but mainly robbing ships on the route from the mouth of Anduin to the Grey Havens. This is the simplest and fastest route from Arnor to Gondor, considerable goods are transported on it, which the corsairs use. Like Cirdan, they sail both north and south. I heard that they are trying to find out what is in the west. They gradually turned into a Sea People, of whom far from all engage in robbery and banditry. They are skilled and inquisitive seafarers, so even Cirdan would have to struggle. Their ships are fast and can go both under sail and by oars.

  • Wait, you say, by oars? - Thorin suddenly became alert, and then suddenly slapped his forehead. - So that’s where your acquaintance got such strange calluses, Folco! And I, fool, didn’t figure it out! Of course, such bumps - from long work with oars!

  • What are you talking about, honorable Thorin?! - Theophrastus raised his eyebrows in surprise.

The dwarf quickly retold him the story with Tervin’s coin. The chronicler shook his head and made a sign to Satti to record.

  • The fact that your gift to a friend ended up in the hands of the Sea People does not yet mean anything, - he remarked. - Silver changes dozens and hundreds of owners, and the fact that the coin was given away so easily says that they did not particularly value it. Its last owner, apparently, knew nothing about its origin or its true value.

  • And what will happen if someone from the Sea People takes it and sails west? - the hobbit asked a naive question.

Theophrastus answered him, smiling mysteriously:

  • They will not go far. The Blessed Land after the fall of Numenor moved away from the circles of our world, and the Sea was divided by a secret veil. Only an elf can overcome it, others are awaited by…

  • Death? - Thorin finished for him, but the chronicler shook his head negatively.

  • They will simply be turned back, and they themselves will not notice that they are sailing in the opposite direction. I learned this many years ago, while still in my youth, having been to the Grey Havens and conversed with the elves there. They are an amazing people, I tell you! - Theophrastus’s voice acquired the same softness and dreaminess that was heard in it when he told the guests the legend of the Great Stairway. - I did not see Cirdan himself, but talked with many of his close associates. I will not say that they so willingly entered into conversation with me, but when they spoke, it seemed to me that I heard not words, but eternal enchanting music. They told me about the Veil and about much else from the history of the elves of Middle-earth, and only when I tried to find out what the Blessed Land was, or began to question them in detail about the Valar, they politely avoided direct answers, saying only what I already knew. Even then I conceived to write a complete History of the Primal and Second Epochs. This work continues to this day, it has already advanced considerably, but too much still hinders and distracts… Urgent royal commissions, for example. - Theophrastus shook his head vexedly. - Not long ago his messenger brought me a large sum in gold and an urgent assignment - to study all the ancient chronicles and present a list of all ancient means and potions that prolong life! The matter itself is interesting, but requires too much time. This all delays the work…

Much did the old chronicler tell them during these swiftly passing days. And only at their last meeting - the departure of the detachment was scheduled for early morning the next day - he returned to what he had promised to talk with them about - the fate of the orcs.

  • Thousands and thousands of them died after the destruction of the Great Ring and the fall of Sauron, - Theophrastus spoke unhurriedly. - I carefully studied everything that the Red Book says about them. This agrees well with numerous testimonies of eyewitnesses recorded by the chroniclers of the Great King. The orcs were seized by terrible madness - the will that directed and sustained life in them disappeared. They threw themselves from cliffs, entered into mad and therefore especially terrible battles among themselves. Thousands, I say, thousands of thousands of them laid down their heads. But they did not all perish. Some, especially the orcs of the Misty and Grey Mountains, managed partly to hide and sit it out. The strongest and most cunning survived, giving rise to new tribes. But all their original limitation remained with them - these are spawns of the Great Darkness, created by Evil for its black deeds, it is difficult to expect correction from them. Despite their desperate situation, when, it would seem, they need unity, they do not cease quarrels and discord.

  • How is this known? - Thorin became interested.

  • From the dwarves, - Theophrastus answered briefly. - They will crawl into any hole, find out everything, learn everything. Sometimes they bring truly priceless information. But now I am not concerned with the Mordor orcs - with them everything is more or less clear. They sit, as I said, here and there in the Misty and Grey Mountains, there are their colonies in the Mountains of Mordor. Do you remember, I mentioned unknown creatures that appeared in the vicinity of Isengard? These interested me very much, I will not hide. The fact is that both Rohirric chronicles and Gondor’s annals speak of some special orcs fighting on Saruman’s side, not afraid of the sun. This interested me, and soon in the Rohirric repository of ancient manuscripts I came across a report about mysterious disappearances of children, boys and girls, beginning approximately from the fiftieth year before our Epoch. Saruman’s orcs differed greatly from the others, and these were not some separate orc tribes simply living in the south of the Misty Mountains. No, this was their new race! Saruman created them himself, and about how he created them, one could guess from the well-organized kidnappings of children in the neighboring kingdom. And after reading the Red Book, I had no doubts at all - the wise Old Ent Treebeard, otherwise Fangorn, came to the same conclusion long before me. Even then he understood that Saruman with truly incomprehensible skill accomplished what seemed impossible - he merged the races of orcs and men! And the result was something whose fate, I confess, concerns me greatly. Saruman was not always a villain, some traces of the old good that once constituted his essence still remained in him, willingly or unwillingly, he invested much that was human in his creations. The result is obvious - his orcs served him as the orcs of Mordor did not serve the Dark Lord: Saruman’s orcs were ready without hesitation to give their lives, entering battle at a single unflattering mention of their master. The courage of Ugluk and his unfortunate detachment could be envied by some men. And Helm’s Deep! I often remember the Last March: the way the orcs behaved there is not at all like them. That these spawn of Darkness would sacrifice themselves for their children?! Very, very much like Saruman’s legacy! And, to tell the truth, this frightens me. These half-men, half-orcs were not fully drawn into the service of Darkness, they found themselves between two worlds - the real, native orcs hate and despise them, considering them almost the main culprits of that defeat and their current pitiful lot, well, and about men there is nothing to say. The secret mountain fortresses are occupied by old orcs, their ancient masters, so now remnants of this unfortunate Saruman tribe wander the world, not yet men but no longer orcs, unable to attach themselves to either one or the other. And I am even afraid to think what will happen if someone is found who will incline them to serve him and throw them against all the others. There is such hatred in them now that dealing with them will cost much blood, - which, incidentally, happened in the Last March. Beware of them! Flee from them! That is my advice to you. And if you learn anything about them on your way - do not consider it trouble, write to me in Annuminas, if, of course, such an opportunity arises…

They said long and warm farewells to the old chronicler, and suddenly already in the doorway Theophrastus suddenly slapped his forehead and said:

  • Completely forgot! The other day Arkhar stopped by - do you know him? He saw you, was terribly surprised, well, I couldn’t restrain myself - boasted to him about the Book, and then regretted it. He is a dark man, older than he seems, and lives strangely - in his shop there is almost no trade, but he regularly buys up all sorts of antiquities, where does he get the money? In general, somehow I felt uneasy. How I scolded myself, old fool, but what’s the use now? You keep this in mind… Well, easy road to you and may the Seven Eternal Stars protect you!

The friends once again bowed low to the old chronicler. Leaving, Folco turned around for the last time - on the threshold of the old house, in the scantily lit opening, stood a tall, though bent by years figure, waving farewell to them.