Chapter 1: The South Road

The wind blew, and the night rain drummed steadily on the canvas stretched over the wagon, bringing on sweet sleep. Folco opened his eyes and shivered - cold streams of air broke through the cracks. Nearby dwarves snored under blankets, it was already growing light, and it was time to get up. The hobbit sighed and sat up, clasping his arms around his knees. It was the third day since that memorable evening when they had passed the Arnorian border, and the sixth since leaving Bree; yet it seemed to Folco that long months had passed. The whole world had contracted to a narrow roadside strip; the monotonous ribbon of the ancient South Road, also called the Greenway or Unfinished Road, went straight through sparse forests and groves interspersed with small sections of cultivated fields, pastures and hayfields. Twice their path was blocked by forest-covered ridges of hills stretching from west to east, low and greatly smoothed - far-extended edges of the South Downs, however the Road did not turn, it cut through the hillocks like a gigantic sword; Folco noticed that in places the Road’s bed had been dug right through the body of the rises. The gloomy spruce forests of the northern Arnorian plateau had given way to rows of maples and ashes whimsically mixed with each other; like watchtowers, gigantic ancient oaks towered along the roadsides. There were beeches and hornbeams; along the roadside ditches bright flowers already gleamed red. Warm southern winds bore on their mighty wings the fragrance of the wild plains of Minhiriath; from the unfamiliar aromas and scents Folco’s head sometimes even spun. The empty, unpeopled spaces bloomed luxuriantly, rid of skillful but sometimes troublesome human hands. Today, however, it had suddenly blown from the north; during the night the hobbit had awakened more than once from the cold.

Yes, the landscape was changing, and right before his eyes. Villages had become rare - the distance between them fit into a day’s march; remembering the ill-famed West Road, Thorin did not risk stopping for the night in uninhabited places. They encountered less and less people coming toward them - they traveled only in large wagon trains numbering up to several hundred carts and wagons.

The villages too had changed greatly, becoming larger and more populous. Each was now surrounded not by a simple palisade, but a real fortress wall, though of wood, not stone. Not one managed without a hundred militia; there were special postal stations with relay horses, so that the king’s relay could reach the gates of Rohan as quickly as possible. At first these villages seemed to Folco a reliable refuge; however two days ago they had come upon a large ash field, already washed away by rains and overgrown with lush grass, and he understood that here walls and militia did not always save.

However, so far luck accompanied them, and the road was not too tiring - not much harder than the journey to Annuminas. Folco’s heart was light and somehow especially clear; no doubts or hesitations remained, he had again yielded to the magic of the oncoming road and for now did not look into the future. Remembering Bilbo’s and Frodo’s journeys, every evening he carefully wrote down everything that had happened during the day, even small squabbles among his companions in the detachment.

In the short time Folco had managed to know his companions well; and if fierce Dori, verbose Hornbori, cautious and thorough Bran were known from Annuminas, he had gotten close to the rest on the road. Vjard was a bit cowardly, loved beer somewhat more than others, but turned out to be an unsurpassed master of tempering and also stone carving; he also knew surprisingly many ancient dwarven tales. Young Skidulf was venturing beyond his caves in the northern Grey Mountains for the first time, obeyed Thorin in everything and for now looked and listened more than he spoke himself. It seemed to Folco that he was somewhat overconfident, but strong and unfailing in work. Thorin’s three kinsmen - taciturn Grani, Gimli and Thror - rarely entered into general conversations, preferred short and unambiguous phrases. They were going to Moria to fight and did not hide it, and with whom - according to Thror, that was completely unimportant to them. Balin, a middle-aged dwarf from the north of the Misty Mountains, turned out on the contrary to be very sociable, talked much with Folco, questioned him about elves, himself told many stories from his people’s past; however, when it was time for everyone to tackle something heavy or unpleasant together or his turn came to clean pots and chop wood - he turned out to be far from among the first. But he wielded an axe quite well, which even such a battle master as Thorin acknowledged. Balin’s countryman Strond was reputed to be an expert on orcish habits. Strond quickly became close with Maly - their characters were similar: both cheerful, never downcast, only Strond, as Folco understood, could look and see deeper than Maly, and his eyes betrayed considerable, sometimes bitter, life experience.

To the Moria dwarves - Gloin and Dwalin - Folco looked particularly closely and questioned them more than others. However, they could say little - they had left Khazad-dum long ago and had not witnessed those frightening events because of which the detachment was going to Moria. However, they perfectly remembered the layout of all the Morian halls, and most importantly - the system of secret signs that allowed dwarves not to particularly trouble themselves with memorizing endless schemes of tangled underground corridors - to learn it was impossible even in a whole long dwarven life. Gloin somewhat resembled Hornbori in his gift of skillful and beautiful speech, but never spoke idly. Dwalin never tired of sighing about those beautiful times when the Moria dwarves befriended the elves of Eregion, together extracting knowledge and perfecting themselves in the art of metalworking. He sincerely grieved about this, and Folco understood that for him the past was still alive, and for the sake of once again, for the umpteenth time, reviving Moria or at least trying to understand what was really happening there, Dwalin was ready to give his life. In his grey eyes, a rare color among dwarves, was read inflexible will, yielding to Thorin’s will in nothing; the hobbit developed great respect for Dwalin. Needless to say, both Morians, as befitted dwarves, wielded weapons excellently.

The dwarves told the eagerly listening hobbit much that was interesting; after the long journey with them Folco probably knew about this people more than anyone among living or lived hobbits, more even than old Bilbo - during his wanderings his companions had not particularly chatted with him.

Folco tried to write down everything he heard, but two stories were especially memorable to him. One was told to him almost on the first day of travel along the South Road by Vjard, whom Maly had replaced on the wagon’s driving seat, and the old dwarf had moved temporarily into the saddle. His story flowed slowly and calmly, he spoke somewhat pompously - after all, it concerned the unimaginably distant days of the First Age, legends of which were now preserved only among dwarves. He spoke of times when the world was young, and Great Durin was surrounded by mute, nameless cliffs. The First Dwarf began with few companions; the Firstborn helped them, and among the attendants of the King of Khazad-dum one dwarf named Thror stood out in mind, skill and patience. He spent much time with the elves, learned much from them, they said that he too was captivated by the unearthly beauty of the Lady Galadriel and, wishing to make her a worthy gift, began to accumulate gold and mithril. However, then it was still far from the days of the great glory of the Black Chasm, as the elves called Moria, its main veins still awaited their hour, one had to shift through huge masses of empty rock, and Thror tired of this. He invented and made a miraculous sieve, possessing the ability to select gold from everything that was thrown into its maw. It was enough to pour into it without stopping even the poorest ore, so that at the end of the day one could extract from it all the gold that had been scattered to dust among grey mountain sand and stone crumbs. Labor was eased manifold; the dwarves began to grow rich quickly, settlers from the Grey Mountains poured into Moria, where by that time it had become restless - another war was going on between men and orcs. Thror accumulated the amount of noble metal he needed, forged from it a fabulously beautiful diadem decorated with beryls covered with the finest carving, and gave it to the Lady. The sieve had now become unnecessary to him, and Thror simply forgot about his creation. However, others did not forget. Because of it in Moria a real war almost broke out, and then Great Durin ordered Thror to destroy his creation. “Well no!” Thror answered. “I’d rather leave with it, if its existence threatens our brotherhood!” Everyone began to beg him to stay, and he, hesitating, agreed, but hid the sieve so that until the awakening of Durin’s Bane nothing was heard of it, and then, understandably, there was no time for that. Since then among dwarves lives the dream - to find the magical sieve, many floors and walls of Moria have been opened and lifted by restless seekers, but in vain…

“And that’s very good!” Vjard added on his own at the end, but why it was good, he did not say.

The second story, or rather, a short parable, was told to the hobbit by Balin.

“Why is Khazad-dum so immense, eh, what do you think?” he said to the hobbit one day with a laugh. “You think a whole mass of workers worked there? Not in the least! Most of it was laid under Durin, when there were still very few dwarves. So listen! Dwarves and mountains have the same roots. Stones can also speak, and some can even move. This was so in the Ancient Days, and they say in those fabulous times the First Dwarf was helped to create the great Underground Kingdom by the mountains themselves - by sending him Rollstein.

“What’s that?” Folco was surprised.

“Ha, Rollstein! That, my good hobbit, is such a thing that you could remake the whole world in your own way, and without any…” He looked around and quickly added: “And without any rings and wizards. Rollstein looked like the most ordinary stone, though quite large, they said about the size of a young bull. It rolled by itself, you understand, my good Folco, it rolled by itself and broke through a tunnel in any most solid rock. The Dwarf had only to follow it, like a plowman follows a plow. Thus most of the Morian corridors and galleries were laid… But it could roll not only in the thickness of rocks, but also on the surface. They say that it was precisely Rollstein that helped Great Durin repel the first onslaught of orcs.”

“And where did it go afterward?”

“No one knows,” Balin sighed. “It was sought long and persistently, and not only by dwarves. This after all is very handy - to demolish fortress walls! But all these efforts were in vain, and we got a proverb: if you see a rocking stone, don’t rush to shout that before you is Rollstein - better first look who’s rocking it!”

Meanwhile the rain had stopped, nearby Thorin muttered and turned over - it was time to get up. A new day of their wanderings was beginning: by Thorin’s calculations, today they faced an especially difficult march - to the next village was no less than ten leagues.

“Are you already up, Folco?” the dwarf was surprised, shivering from the morning cold. “Run then to the host, let him serve breakfast. And I’ll wake the others meanwhile.”

The hobbit hastily washed in a barrel of rainwater standing by the corner of the house and went to the host - an elderly cunning Breelander who had been living in these inhospitable places for thirty years already. Coming out from him onto the porch, the hobbit involuntarily stopped.

In the spacious yard, surrounded by a strong and high fence, their wagons stood in a cluster, buried to the hubs in whitish morning haze. To the right above the fence could be seen a tall watchtower, to the left - the gabled roofs of neighboring houses. The sun had barely appeared over the horizon, the sky was clear; the day promised to be hot. From under the wagon covers voices were already heard, the lanky figure of Rogvold appeared; Maly and one of the hunters, Glen, went to the tavern for breakfast, other men and dwarves were already leading out horses and ponies, beginning to harness. From around the corner emerged Thorin together with Bran, beside them walked, moderating his pace, the commander of the local Arnorian militia in a blue cloak and with heron feathers on a low blackened helmet.

“So you are determined to go today? Wouldn’t it be better to wait about a week, from the north a large wagon train is expected…” the Arnorian was saying as he walked.

“What’s the matter?” Thorin answered with a question. “Is the road unsafe, or what?”

“Not entirely quite so unsafe,” the Arnorian hesitated. “But recently a message came that a suspicious detachment was spotted a bit south. They were chased, but they scattered through the forests - try digging them out of there! And further along the Road - the Grey Defile, their favorite place!”

Interested in the conversation, dwarves and men gradually surrounded them, including Rogvold.

“So how long must we wait for a passing wagon train?” asked Forg, the ranger’s comrade.

“A week, or even all of ten days,” the warrior answered. “Wagon trains don’t gather so quickly.”

“We cannot wait,” Dori firmly frowned.

“We cannot,” Thorin confirmed. “Now then, let’s all go, let’s talk!”

They gathered in the narrow space between the wagons, prudently posting guards around so they would not be overheard. They sat closely, on top of each other, and spoke in half-whispers - there was no need to call for caution.

“Better to wait, a week or even ten days will decide nothing in our business - after all we’re not rushing to a fire!” Rogvold began. “And they surely have spies here. And as soon as we set out in small numbers, without guards, these scoundrels will have an excellent opportunity to slaughter us in the Defile. I’ve been there, Forg and Alan too, it’s a bad place. Imagine a narrow space between two high and steep hills overgrown with dense forest and thick undergrowth. The Defile stretches a good league, or even one and a half - if they station archers along it, we’ll be shot at point-blank range, and we’ll be able to do nothing. I believe that to risk here is inappropriate, this is not the case.”

Rogvold fell silent and surveyed the men listening to him with obvious approval and somewhat skeptically the dwarves.

“Today is the eighteenth of April,” Dori spoke quietly, restraining anger, and Folco noticed how Thorin secretly took the speaker by the hand. “To Khazad-dum we still have to go another twenty days, if not all twenty-five. That’s, count it, almost all of May. Summer by the signs is expected to be hot, mountain snows will begin to melt, the lower tiers of Moria may turn out to be flooded… What will we have left? Who knows how long we’ll have to sit in the Black Chasm before we understand and find out anything? And then it will turn out that we urgently need to summon the militia - and how to manage before winter? No, when you go on such business, into complete unknown, you cannot dawdle. If they block our way - we’ll break through in battle! There are fourteen of us, and twelve of you, and Folco - an excellent archer. If we strike wisely, and fear has big eyes, so our number will seem ten times greater!”

The dwarf Dori was unexpectedly supported by Alan, the youngest of all the Arnorian hunters.

“I was in the Grey Defile last autumn,” he began, sweeping back from his forehead long blue-black hair. “And I won’t say that to set up an ambush there would be so simple. The forest along the Road has been cut down and burned, and on the left hill - in addition, the remains of an Arnorian guard post. Rogvold is right saying that with archers, if they sit there, it will be difficult to deal, but they won’t be able to approach close to the Road, besides I haven’t heard that brigands shoot well with bows. To strike from around the corner, in the back - that’s please, but they don’t conduct proper battle. Besides, we can always send someone more nimble ahead, so as not to go blindly. And so there are no arguments, I’ll say right away: I’m ready to go.”

“Wait, Alan, you spoke well, but the main thing now is different,” Thorin raised his hand. “If we still go, then how is it best to defend? You men are experienced, advise us!”

“The very best is not to stick your head in, to trouble,” Rogvold grumbled. “But if Alan himself saw all this and Moria will truly begin to flood, then perhaps the best thing would be to do this - we leave immediately, and about three leagues away we send scouts to the sides. It’s best to go left, to the east.” He turned to Alan. “There begins a long strip of oak groves and ravines, it stretches to the very Defile, there one can get through unnoticed. All the rest meanwhile go unhurriedly - and put on armor under your cloaks! If there’s no one there, we pass through the Defile with all precautions and as quickly as possible, but if there is… then I think it’s best to spook these villains, lead them aside, if there turn out to be many. I fear that’s how it will be,” the ranger sighed, “they don’t go in small detachments now. We can’t fight with two dozen against several hundred!”

“And still it’s preferable to deal with water than with arrows,” said Glen, one of the hunters, stubbornly bowing his head. “What, will it be better if we’re all shot there like partridges?”

“In my opinion, the most important thing is to find out whether those sitting in the Defile have bows and how many of them,” Dwalin entered the conversation. “If there are few archers or none at all, then we can go boldly.”

“I believe we have nothing to discuss!” Forg sharply leaned forward. “We’ll talk when we know everything! For now we need to decide only one thing - are we going forward or not?!”

Silence fell. Thorin and Rogvold simultaneously began surveying the faces of their companions. Someone looked straight ahead, someone averted their gaze; finally the ranger broke the silence:

“Well, let’s count who’s for what. Well, in turn.” And he turned to the men and dwarves who had been silent until now.

“Go,” Grani exhaled grimly, and Gimli and Thror silently bowed their heads in agreement.

“Wait,” Glen cut off, still stubbornly frowning.

“Maybe we really should wait a while, eh, dwarves?” Vjard spoke timidly. “Rogvold spoke sense at first…”

“I consider it shameful to hide from this filth,” threw Grimnir, a tall, gloomy comrade of Alan’s. “We still have to settle accounts with them…”

“It’s foolish to stick your head in the mouth of an unkilled dragon,” Balin shrugged.

“It’s shameful to listen to you, dwarves!” Strond’s eyes flashed. “Maly, why are you silent?!”

“And what about me?” the latter began to justify himself, apparently having dozed off again during the argument. “If we go, we go. Anything’s better than sitting.”

“Better to sit than to lie… in a grave,” objected Igg, another of the hunters, no longer young, an old comrade of Rogvold’s.

“We’ll all be there sooner or later,” Resvald shrugged, supple, agile as a cat, with amazing green eyes.

“We have nothing to wait for,” Bran decisively thumped his fist. “Go!”

“Agreed,” calm Veort nodded his head imperturbably.

“To perish because of such nonsense… No, I don’t agree!” Dovbur started up, his grey beard angrily bristling.

“Oh come on, old man,” red-bearded Gothor placed his hand soothingly on his forearm. “Haven’t we fought enough? We don’t even know yet whether there’s anyone in that Defile or not. I’m for finding everything out. And I also agree with Grimnir: to retreat is shameful.”

“But we’d be cautious,” Gloin suddenly declared. “The goal is too important, and we’ll still have time to sacrifice lives for it.”

Dwalin silently nodded in agreement, and Folco saw Thorin’s eyebrows twitch in surprise.

“And I stand by what I said - we must go forward,” Alan repeated what he had said before.

The very tall, very strong Grolf, who easily bent the thickest horseshoes and surpassed even Thorin in strength, only smiled meekly and spread his hands.

“We must go, that’s that,” he muttered under his breath, as if embarrassed to speak loudly.

Gerdyn, who never parted with his long hunting bow, sighed and sadly nodded his head. In Annuminas he had left a large family. It was obvious that he was ashamed of his words.

“We should be cautious…” he squeezed out of himself and lowered his head.

“I don’t even need to think - only forward!” Dori chopped his palm before him, and Hornbori, who eternally sparred with him, for the first time agreed with his eternal opponent in arguments.

Forg slowly and negatively shook his head.

“The majority, in general, is for not delaying,” Thorin summed up. “It remains to ask very few. I, for example, believe we must go, but very carefully. Well, suppose here we’re cautious once, but what will happen when we turn off the Road? And you, Rogvold, what do you say? And why are you silent, Folco?”

“Me?” the hobbit suddenly became frightened. “Well, what can I say sensible here? No, I’m - like everyone.”

“The majority is for going,” Rogvold said gloomily. “I understand Dori - we cannot delay. But of the men five are against rushing forward headlong. I don’t like this venture either, but since it’s turning out this way…” He spread his hands.

The men who had objected to breaking through protested loudly.

“We contracted to go to Moria and then remain on the surface, not to lay down our heads in skirmishes with all kinds of scoundrels! This is not our business, there’s militia for that!” Glen jumped up indignantly.

“All right,” Forg grumbled. “After all, we knew what we were getting into, and that there would be fewer of us than dwarves, too. If it’s decided - it’s decided. Six of ours are also for going. So let’s not waste time!”

Rogvold rose easily, youthfully.

“Come on, come on, bring out the wagons,” he began to hurry the dwarves and men who were setting to work. “To the Defile is a long way, and the sun is already high.”

Having dropped their disputes, men and dwarves quickly brought their small wagon train out through the gates. Thorin went to settle with the innkeeper for lodging and food, and Folco tagged along with him.

“What, departing?” the host met them. “Right, no point sitting around here. The fair in Rohan will close soon, so you with your goods need to hurry. And what they chatter here about bandits - don’t believe it too much. To these guardsmen every scoundrel already seems like a whole army. So go boldly! By the way, if it’s not a secret - you’re probably carrying weapons?”

Folco felt uneasy from the oily voice of the pot-bellied innkeeper. His small cunning eyes glistened too slickly.

“What we’re carrying - that, forgive us, is our business, honorable host,” Thorin answered the innkeeper. “Take the money and farewell.”

“Easy road to you, easy road,” the innkeeper bowed low after them.

The detachment quickly left behind the cultivated fields, passed the last guard post of the guardsmen - the warriors waved farewell after them - and moved further along the Road to the southeast, past wide meadows sparkling with fresh greenery and low, gentle hills, here and there overgrown with hawthorn. The sun rose, it became warmer, and only from the north still blew an unseasonably cold wind for spring. Occasionally they came across small groves; gradually they became more numerous, and on the very horizon loomed an indistinct bluish line.

“That’s the Forgotten Ridge,” Alan showed the hobbit and Thorin riding beside them. “And there, where the Road leads, is that very Grey Defile. In my opinion, it’s time for us to stop.”

He turned to Rogvold, and the former centurion silently nodded.

“Put on your armor, friends,” the ranger said quietly. “It’s time for the scouts to turn off. It will be better if you reach those trees a bit to the left of the Road.” He pointed forward. “You have about two hours’ walk there. Stop, put the carts in a circle and wait for us. But if we…” he paused, “don’t return, then go back to the village and wait for a passing wagon train.”

“Wait, and who will go?” Hornbori suddenly asked. “That’s precisely what we didn’t decide.”

“I said I would go.” Alan stepped forward. “Who else is with me?”

Without hesitating a moment, Resvald, Grimnir and Grolf stepped forward.

“But you’ll be needed here,” Rogvold objected to them. “Dwarves are out - you absolutely don’t know how to walk through forests, honored ones, no offense meant.”

And then the unexpected happened. Folco, who had been timidly pressing to the side, whom talk of brigands had plunged into considerable confusion and who had just been gloomily figuring out how best to hide so as not to accidentally come under a sword in battle, suddenly came out into the middle.

“You, Folco?” Thorin exclaimed in bewilderment. Maly simply told the hobbit to stop being foolish, but Rogvold raised his hand soothingly.

“Our hobbit, though small in stature, is deft and quick,” said the ranger, with furrowed brows quickly extinguishing mocking smiles on the men’s faces. “I have had occasion to be convinced of his valor and resourcefulness. Besides, hobbits walk more silently than a cat, and as for shooting skill - no hunter of Arnor can compare with them! We will be very careful,” Rogvold assured Thorin, who had tried to object to something, and jumped into the saddle. “Wait for us there until evening,” he shouted to those remaining, and the three scouts turned their horses left, into the roadside grove.

Folco’s ears burned with shame for the recent cowardly thoughts that had possessed him. Somewhere deep in his soul he even now regretted his truly mad act, but there was nowhere to retreat. He adjusted the folds of chainmail under his cloak, moved his sword more conveniently, the belt with knives, adjusted higher the quiver with bow and arrows.

They rode unhurriedly and cautiously along a deep, heavily overgrown ancient ravine. Above their heads the forest canopy closed; however the sun here stood higher than at this time of year in his native Shire, and the ravine did not look gloomy at all. The bottom was covered with young fern shoots; higher up, in bright places, raspberries mixed with nettles had grown wildly.

Rogvold and Alan rode ahead, from time to time conversing quietly and glancing at the sun.

The ravine led them into a fairly wide basin between three converging hills. To the left, to the north, showed transparent young birches and rowans - a joyful deciduous forest. From northeast to southwest before them stretched diagonally the first ridge of the Forgotten Ridge, covered with tall dark forest.

Alan, who had ridden ahead, suddenly raised his hand warningly, and Rogvold hastened to him. Holding his breath and grasping his sword, the hobbit also rode up to the two trackers bent over the ground.

“Careful,” Rogvold hissed at him. “Don’t trample the tracks!”

The hobbit understood and could make out little in the small, barely noticeable ruts and immediately pestered the men with questions.

“Several mounted men passed here,” Alan explained. “Passed this morning from north to south, over there.” He waved his hand, indicating a dark opening in the thickets where what looked like some semblance of a path seemed to go deep into the trees. “What horseshoes - can’t make out, but the horses aren’t too large. However, whoever rode through here, it’s bad - the path is known to the locals and most likely under surveillance. And we’re stuck here in plain sight!”

They hastily hid in the thickets and turned right. Alan and Rogvold carefully made their way between flexible branches, bending to the very manes, it was easier for the short hobbit. They left behind the joyful clearing and went deeper into the forest of the Forgotten Ridge.

It proved difficult to overcome only the first few fathoms; then the undergrowth retreated, its place taken by low forest grasses. Under the dense canopy of foliage somewhere bird voices called quietly to each other. The trackers listened suspiciously for some time but noticed no trick.

From the Road to the clearing they had ridden about an hour and a half; about the same again they made their way southwest, hiding in the dense forest, until Rogvold commanded a halt.

“Further on horseback is impossible,” he said in a whisper. “We’ll leave the horses here, though it’s risky, of course, but there’s no way out.”

In the thickets, at the bottom of a small ravine, they hid the horses, removing from them what might betray them by jingling. Crawling up, following the trackers, Folco looked back - the pony looked at him with mute reproach. The hobbit hastily turned away.

Now they slowly and cautiously crept in short dashes from trunk to trunk, bent double. Everything around remained quiet and calm, and the hobbit involuntarily began to feel that they were playing some strange, though entertaining game. He lost track of time, and only when the sun accidentally broke through the green canopy did he understand that time had already passed noon.

Everything happened in an instant. Alan walking ahead suddenly collapsed as if mowed down into the grass near a mighty tree root. Folco and Rogvold carefully crawled up to him.

“Look!” Alan whispered to them. “See? Right there beyond the tree - their sentry! These brigand gentlemen are not so simple…”

In the green mess ahead of them at first it seemed impossible to make anything out, and no matter how much the hobbit peered, he saw nothing. But his companions saw and understood everything they needed, and now they moved in a bypass crawling. Ahead Alan wriggled like a supple snake, slipping like a mole under hummocks and roots; behind him the hobbit pressing to the ground, trying not to lose sight of the tracker’s boot soles; Rogvold brought up the rear.

Crawling proved difficult, sweat flooded his eyes, his back unaccustomed to such movement quickly began to ache. “What if they’re in the trees?!” Everything inside the hobbit went cold. However, minutes passed, and so far everything remained as it was. Folco could see only grass and bugs before his nose and wondered: what did the men expect to see there? However, soon his doubts were dispelled by a barely audible murmur that finally reached them. They froze. Words could not be made out, they needed to get closer. Alan very slowly and carefully slid forward, making a sign to the hobbit to follow him. Folco began to tremble, it seemed to him that they would be discovered any moment; however they calmly crawled further and hid in ferns, from where they could see and hear the speakers. Only now did the hobbit dare to raise his head.

Ahead, under a mighty spreading beech, sat two brigands casually leaning against the trunk - by appearance ordinary Arnorian peasants: one already elderly, in a shabby cloak, with a long spear and clumsy woodcutter’s axe, the second young, in a leather cap and a good caftan clearly from someone else’s shoulder, belted with rope, with a sword and also with a spear.

“Eh-he-he,” scratching his grey beard, the elderly one was saying, “our life is lousy! We live worse than any beasts, through forests like mad we gallop. Any moment guardsmen will swoop down and to the aspen tree… Oh, hardships! And for what is our fate so cursed!”

“Stop whining,” the young one cut him off, grinning unpleasantly. “Rejoice, Beard, that you’re still alive! And is it really so bad we live? Your boots are of the best Rohan leather. And from where? Before you nosed the ground, and now you’re your own master! We live for real! And as for forests… Don’t think, we’ll save up some money, and we’ll dash to the north, there’s land, they say, plenty, take as much as you can lift… So bear it and don’t groan, don’t bring on melancholy.”

The young one settled more comfortably and whistled something carefree.

“It’s easy for you to talk, you’re such a healthy bruiser,” the grey-beard muttered in response, pursing his lips offendedly. “But my legs can barely walk, my sides hurt. Recently they whacked me so with a club on the back, I thought they’d break my spine! And how long must we save? Will I live to see it? Here’s why are we sitting here now, I ask? Which week from mountain to mountain, from one swamp to another. All reeking of slime, like some frog! No bath, no stove… Why are we sitting here? Guarding an empty road? Now they don’t travel it alone.”

The young one grimaced long and vexedly and finally sharply cut off the old man:

“You, grey stump! Should I tell you what we’re waiting for?! Didn’t you hear that Fatty sent a note with a pigeon - a wagon train is coming here, ten carts and three dozen folk with it - half dwarves, the rest men. They’re hurrying south, to the Rohan Fair!” The young one’s eyes gleamed greedily. “They’re carrying urgent goods! We’ll have a feast!”

“Really?” the old one doubted. “Dwarves, you know, won’t hand over their money so easily. They’ll start swinging axes!”

“Swinging!” the young one contemptuously mimicked him. “You won’t swing much when there’s a good hundred of us here! They won’t get away. And you, stop this talk, or heaven forbid, it’ll reach Arr and his swordsmen!”

They both immediately began to look around anxiously; noticing nothing suspicious, the young one continued:

“I was sitting not far from their fire when this pigeon arrived. They were all there, all fourteen, and Arr even clapped his hands and said something like ‘finally!’ So sit quietly, Beard, we don’t have much time, soon these fools will trudge to the Defile…”

The elderly one sighed heavily but said nothing. However, he was clearly uneasy, and he tried to suppress his anxiety with talk:

“And didn’t you hear how they’ll position us? Where will they put us? Again they’ll drive us forward, under arrows, and they themselves will take all the loot?”

“I heard we’ll sit on both sides,” the young one answered, spitting. “We’ll jump out from front and back, well and pile on from the sides.”

“From the sides?!” the old one gasped mournfully. “What’s that mean, running from the very top down the bare…”

“And what to do?” the young one’s eyes flashed angrily. “Can you suggest another place? All around are fields…”

“Well no, I mean, I’m saying nothing,” the old man answered gloomily and hunched over, dropping his hands on his knees.

The scouts who had lain all this time exchanged glances.

“Everything’s clear,” Rogvold exhaled barely audibly. “There are a hundred ten of them or thereabouts. Let’s go back!”

“Wait, but what about bows?” Alan asked. “And also - who is this Arr and his swordsmen? Let’s crawl further!”

“Dangerous,” Rogvold answered with lips only. “Here they surely have a couple under every tree. Any moment they’ll notice…”

“I’ll get through, I can,” Folco suddenly pleaded, burning with impatience and the reckless excitement that had seized him.

The brigands seemed to him not at all frightening - from such he would easily escape! The men, however, exchanged doubtful glances.

“But I’m quiet,” the hobbit passionately continued to assure them. “No one will hear! Just don’t go anywhere, I’ll be quick.”

“All right,” Rogvold decided. “Only you come back, Folco, please, or Thorin will chop me to pieces for letting you go… We’ll wait here. Remember the place?”

Folco nodded quickly and carefully crawled forward. The ferns softly closed behind him, and the men exchanged surprised glances - a moment later they could no longer say where their little companion had disappeared.

Folco crawled quickly and deftly, already adapted to this mode of movement; sometimes, if the density of grass and undergrowth allowed, he raised himself on all fours and each time froze for a moment to look around and listen. Soon he noticed three more brigands, by appearance no different from the first two; they were playing dice. Then he met five more, then more and more, and soon the hobbit found himself right in the heart of the forest people’s temporary camp. In the middle a fire had been lit in a deep pit - crackling reached the hobbit and there was a slight smell of smoke, but the smoke itself was not visible - obviously they were burning deadwood. Around the edges of the small clearing settled the rest of this gang; the hobbit looked very carefully but counted only five bows. There were many spears and swords, his gaze found several clumsily knocked together shields from boards and a pair of real ones, the same as those of the Arnorian militia, he noticed no helmets or chainmail. Most of the brigands were sturdy Arnorian men, by appearance - yesterday’s peasants, and therefore Folco’s attention was immediately drawn to a group of men in green sitting in a tight circle not far from the fire. Folco immediately became alert. He noticed the horns of six or seven crossbows sticking out of the grass near them, beside them lay solid shields; the heads of the warriors dressed in green were covered with real helmets. The other brigands clearly feared them and each time bowed respectfully when passing nearby. Folco could not hear conversations, but what he saw was enough.

He counted in all one hundred three men and another fourteen warriors in green. Carefully turning around, quietly, so that not a single branch stirred and not a single twig crunched, he, still skillfully hiding in the tall grass, set off back.

It took him some effort to find his friends again, who were waiting for him in anxious ignorance. Having heard his hurried account, Alan admiringly shook his head and firmly squeezed the hobbit’s shoulders, Rogvold smiled and patted him on the head. All together they crawled back.

Without any incidents they got out of the Forgotten Ridge and galloped their horses back at full speed. The sun was already declining, and they needed to hurry to manage to overcome this so inopportunely appearing barrier before dark. Five hours after parting with the detachment they again saw the familiar wagons arranged in a circle.

Rogvold told in detail about everything they had seen and heard, immediately extinguishing the boisterous raptures about their safe return.

“What shall we do?” he asked, finishing his story.

Silence fell. For several moments everyone gloomily looked at the ground, then Hornbori stepped forward.

“We can’t take them by numbers,” he began sedately, stroking his beard. “So we must take them by cunning.”

“Very fresh thought!” Dori snorted, but they shushed him, and he fell silent.

“And what cunning can be devised here?” Hornbori continued. “If I understood the honorable Rogvold correctly, the majority in this detachment are recent peasants, not experienced in military matters and in addition afraid of both the militia and their incomprehensible commanders. Therefore, probably, we can frighten them by attacking first. Wait!” He raised his hands, stopping the bewildered murmur. “We tie our carts by threes and leave four with the wagon train, who will lead it straight through the Defile, and meanwhile the rest, having made their way through the forest beforehand, will come at the brigands’ backs. As soon as our wagon train enters the Defile, a moment before they begin the attack, we’ll attack ourselves. The main thing - to shout as loud as possible, shoot arrows, throw torches, let them think that a whole army is on their shoulders. Most of them, I’m sure, will rush down headlong. We’ll need to deal with those in green and break through to the wagon train ourselves. While they come to their senses, figure out what’s happening, we’ll get out into open space, and there it will be much harder to take us! Well, how’s the plan?”

“I wanted to propose almost the same,” Rogvold smiled. “Evidently, good thoughts come, so to speak, to thinking heads simultaneously.”

Men and dwarves silently exchanged glances, trying to think everything through as well as possible. Grimnir snapped his fingers.

“They might simply trample those who go with the wagon train,” he threw out with habitual gloominess. “We have about two dozen crossbows. Let’s give each who goes with the carts about five! Loaded, naturally,” he clarified and fell completely silent.

“But we don’t have the strength to attack them from both sides,” Igg objected. “They’ll surely sit about fifty men on the right and left. Can we divide ourselves?”

“Right,” Thorin nodded. “Therefore let’s strike as soon as they make the first step forward, so that it’s already difficult for them to stop. We’ll all go from one side - say, the left. However, from which side to attack - it doesn’t matter, but on the left the approaches are more convenient, besides the road there is known.” He surveyed the tense and attentive faces of his companions. “The time has come to decide.”

As usually happens in such moments, silence fell - no one wanted to pronounce the final words; everyone involuntarily dragged out time, and the first, strangely enough, to speak was Maly. He spoke, already heading to one of the carts and businesslike pulling from his pocket a thick coil of rope:

“Come on, shall we start or what… Thorin, bring the wagon…” Everyone at once stirred, as if shaking off the inopportunely approaching numbness. The dwarves coupled the wagons by threes and began to decide who would remain with the wagon train.

“The best fighters are needed here,” Rogvold spoke gloomily. “This will be the hardest. Who will go himself?”

Maly silently stepped forward, and with him Alan, Resvald, Balin, Dwalin, Gloin, Igg and Strond.

“That won’t do,” Thorin shook his head. “Only four are needed.”

There was no time for arguments, and therefore they simply cast lots. It fell to Maly, Igg, Strond and Resvald, and they somehow immediately separated from the rest - as if someone’s hand had drawn an invisible but distinct line. Igg and Strond began unhurriedly to load crossbows. Maly lit his pipe, and Resvald got a whetstone from his knapsack and began to sharpen his sword carefully, not raising his eyes to the others already sitting in saddles.

“You set out in three hours, when the shadow from that oak reaches the grey boulder,” Rogvold pronounced hoarsely and, without turning around, led the detachment at a quick trot into the depths of the overgrown ravine.

They rode in silence. Alan and Rogvold showed the way. The sun was already descending, soft forest shadows thickened, but the end of the day was still far off. They made the journey to the round clearing along the wooded hollow without incident. Not riding out into the open space, Rogvold reined in his horse and spoke quietly:

“We won’t be able to approach on horseback very close to the camp, but we need to keep the horses somewhere nearby. Shall we leave them behind us with someone?”

Alan shook his head.

“Whom will you leave with them, Rogvold? Better we send someone ahead on foot, and we ourselves pull up as close as possible.”

“We’ll strike as soon as they attack,” Dori dropped, stroking his axe. “But for now someone needs to go ahead and finish their sentries - then we can bring the horses closer. Ready to go immediately and I ask: who’s with me?”

Folco again, as at their first stop, suddenly gathered courage. He took out his bow and silently raised it above his head. However, they immediately shushed him.

“No way, Folco, today I won’t let you go anywhere else,” Thorin declared decisively. “I’ll go myself! Balin, follow me!”

Without giving anyone time to recover, the three dwarves disappeared into the thickets. Alan and Grimnir rushed after them.

The rest silently waited, sitting in saddles. After waiting about half an hour, Rogvold carefully led the detachment after the disappeared companions. They moved in a long chain, leading horses by the reins; so passed another hour or so. By Rogvold’s calculations, they should any moment now be near the brigands’ camp.

The branches ahead of them unexpectedly stirred (Folco nearly cried out, and an arrow nearly slipped from his bowstring), and Thorin appeared with companions. His clothing in two places was slightly splattered with dark red; he was gloomy but calm.

“The way is open,” he said hoarsely, licking his lips. “Here it’s almost nothing to go… Dismount, let Folco and someone else hold them. Come after me. There’s one secluded place here…”

The hobbit from resentment and despair for a moment lost the power of speech, and when he came to his senses, he was already surrounded by calm horse faces, large purple eyes looked affectionately and anxiously. Near Folco remained Dovbur - he seemed quite pleased with this.

“Well why are you standing?” he snapped at the hobbit in a whisper. “Tie up the harness, how else will you lead them?”

Tears filled Folco’s eyes, he again became a small, frightened and useless hobbit, as he had felt before meeting Thorin. He was left behind, not allowed, and now here he was fussing with these bridles, tying them to a long rope, while his friends were there, ahead, and who knows what’s happening to them? To endure this was impossible. Having spun around in place for several minutes, Folco couldn’t stand it and carefully crawled forward, getting out of the shallow depression where he and Dovbur were hiding. Forgetting about everything, he crawled forward and unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a slope - he had gone to the right more than needed. Carefully parting the branches of bushes, Folco raised his head slightly above the grass.

His eyes opened onto the Grey Defile - a narrow straight passage between two high and steep-sided hills. The forest on the slopes indeed seemed burned, but the slopes were already covered with lush, tall grass; here and there stuck up black charred stumps. Below the road wound like a grey ribbon; the hillsides were empty, along the edge of the forest on the Ridge crest the bushes stood in a solid wall. Nowhere any slightest signs of a human. Folco glanced right and shuddered, seeing that their wagon train was leisurely approaching the entrance to the Defile. The hobbit took out his bow and arrows. Come what may, but he would not abandon his friends! Let Dovbur figure things out there himself…

The last minutes stretched into hours. It seemed the wagon train would never overcome the fathoms separating it from the fateful Defile. Folco by habit reached to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants and suddenly heard a suspicious rustle to his left. He pressed to the ground and tensed all over. However, they didn’t reach him. Someone, puffing, was settling nearby in the bushes, and making so much noise that it seemed it could be heard all along the Road; Folco gathered courage and looked out. Holding in strong, work-worn hands a long spear, behind the bush hid that same elderly brigand whose conversation with the young one they had managed to overhear. He looked around indecisively and fearfully, fussed, fidgeted, coughed, constantly adjusted his belt, but did not release the spear from his hands. Folco had already quite aimed at him - not for real, however, but only in case they noticed him, as he told himself - but then the wagons had already completely entered the Defile, and when the last wagon drew level with Folco, the silence over the Road was cut by a sharp and trilling, dashing brigand whistle.

And at once the wall of bushes along the forest walls collapsed; from above on the slopes from the forest gloom dozens of men emerged: a many-voiced howl and roar announced to the surrounding hills. Branches crackled, and beside the hobbit, leveling his spear and yelling something, the elderly brigand rushed down to the slowly moving wagons. However, he didn’t run far. The melodious hum of a bowstring sounded, the taut string rang smartly against the leather gauntlet on the hobbit’s left hand, an arrow whistled, and the old brigand rolled on the ground, shrieking frantically and clutching his pierced thigh with his hands. Folco again could not shoot so as to kill - the old man was pitiful, not terrible, evoked compassion, not hatred.

And as soon as the brigands from both sides of the Defile rushed down, their howls were drowned out by someone’s united and powerful cry; to the left of the hobbit was heard the clang of weapons and piercing screams, screams of horror and despair. The hobbit heard the low and menacing roar of Thorin commanding something - and the brigands on the left tumbled down like peas, falling, rolling over and rolling down to the Road. Those running to the wagon train from the opposite side stopped in bewilderment; meanwhile after the brigands from the bushes burst out dwarves and men, in bright armor, with gleaming, fear-inspiring swords and axes in their hands. Below rang out sonorous clicking - the hobbit’s companions going with the wagon train were hitting those running up with crossbows. Before the line of dwarves rolled back a small group of warriors dressed in green - there were only five or six of them. Now an axe of one of the dwarves suddenly flashed especially brightly, and one of the “green ones” fell into the grass, the rest stopped resisting and rushed down, after the ignominiously fleeing brigands. Some of them fell from crossbow bolts; no one even thought to grapple with the opponents shooting from there, the fleeing bypassed the frozen wagon train from front and back. The four surviving “green ones” on the left side meanwhile ran to the Road and rushed right between the wagons, however their path was blocked by a short stocky figure in chainmail and helmet, but with sword and dagger in hands instead of the usual dwarven axe. A second - something flashed, as if a tongue of flame burst from Maly’s hand, and one of those attacking him collapsed into the road dust, three hastily jumped back. Meanwhile Folco’s other companions reached the carts; the brigands ebbed to the opposite slope, hastily scrambling up and disappearing into the thicket; one could see how the warriors dressed in green tried to stop them.

“Horses! Time to bring the horses!” a terrible thought pierced the hobbit, and he rushed back at full speed to Dovbur. He was already leading the horses out of the hollow. They hastily jumped into saddles and drove the animals left, trying to cut off as much as possible. Below the cries did not subside, but the clang of steel was not heard, however from time to time rang out sonorous claps of crossbows.

Branches whipped the hobbit in the face, and he had to think only of protecting his eyes. However, they quickly passed the thickets and burst onto the slope. Above the carts dust already swirled - dwarves and men did not spare whips; brigands chaotically rushed about on the opposite slope.

“Drive! Drive!” Thorin’s frenzied voice reached the hobbit.

At this moment something sharply and unpleasantly squealed over the hobbit’s ear - from the other side of the Defile the “green ones” were hitting them with crossbows. Without thinking another second, the hobbit pulled the bowstring. One of those shooting poked into the grass, and the hobbit understood that this time he had hit properly. Under the hooves was already the Road, and nearby - the grey sides of wagons and drivers lashing the horses. The grassy slopes flew back, arrows no longer whistled - ahead showed the exit from the Defile; the hills sharply turned aside, and the Road again burst into the expanse of the free Minhiriath plains. Behind still were heard some howls and cries, but they quickly fell behind. Free wind beat in the face. The Grey Defile was behind; the wagon train had broken through.