Chapter 2: The Empty Lands

The fever of the first battle subsided, long ago the Grey Defile and the Forgotten Ridge itself had disappeared into the approaching evening twilight, in the black clear sky the lights of stars ignited. The wagon train went through deserted plains along the grey ribbon of the Road, however the dwarves sitting on the back of the last wagon were in no hurry to unload crossbows - the enemy might try to overtake them. Forgotten were fears and doubts; on the move they knocked out the bottom of a barrel of beer, for the umpteenth time remembering the smallest details of the battle. Folco’s eyes burned, he listened to the speakers with bated breath, and then began to write down scattered phrases, and here’s what came out.

When they all made their way to the brigands’ camp, they found it abandoned. The last brigands were leaving the camp for the edge of the forest above the Road. Men and dwarves cautiously followed them. The whole gang was indeed run by several mature men in green clothing, who differed from the other brigands both in face and bearing; now they were driving their own, leaving the camp last and making sure no one could evade battle. For several minutes all was quiet, and then that very whistle sounded; they understood that things had begun, and immediately jumped up themselves. At Rogvold’s suggestion, they shouted “Arnor!” in unison to confuse the attackers; the former centurion incidentally gave orders to the nonexistent cavalry behind him, while the dwarves raised a terrible noise.

And the brigands were indeed frightened! Not one of them dared to turn and meet face to face the new, unknown danger; almost all of them fled senseless, trying to reach their own on the other side of the hill as quickly as possible, and only the “green ones” did not lose their heads. They grabbed swords and went to meet the risen men and dwarves; however there were only nine of them - they could neither stop nor even delay Folco’s attacking companions. The dwarves went closely, shoulder to shoulder; colliding with the “green” warriors, they immediately overthrew the few opponents. One was killed by Dori, another was struck down by Balin; and the dwarven chainmail proved too much for the men’s swords, although the same Dori received a sensitive blow to the shoulder in the very first moment. Those dressed in green hastily retreated, continuing however to snap back, and at the very edge of the forest another of them perished at the hand of Rogvold who had rushed forward. The six remaining understood that resistance was meaningless, however before they could break away from the pressing dwarves, Strond, skillfully parrying a desperate blow, calmly lowered his axe onto the unprotected neck of the opponent.

Their companions riding with the wagon train remained unharmed; only Maly had to take up his sword, the rest beat them off with arrows.

“But what trouble we got into, what trouble!” Alan said, choking with laughter, as if shaking his head in bewilderment. “After all, they could have crushed us like chickens!”

“Yes, if those climbing from the right hadn’t stopped, we’d all be finished!” Dori picked up. “And why did they rush so recklessly at all?”

“Got used to meeting no resistance,” Rogvold noted, taking a good gulp of excellent Bree beer, prudently taken on the road by Maly. “And when they collided with something unforeseen, they were confused. Understandable - peasants, where would they…”

Folco for some reason immediately remembered Eirik and his taciturn companions.

“And what are these ‘green ones’ that fell on our heads?” Igg wondered. “Here’s a new affliction! These, perhaps, are real ones…”

“Right,” Rogvold nodded. “It seems to me they’re from Angmar.”

“And we’ll find out now where they’re from,” Maly suddenly livened up and dove somewhere into the depths of the wagon.

In the darkness some rustling, puffing, indistinct voices were heard, and soon Maly climbed back onto the driver’s seat, dragging by the collar a dazed brigand spinning his head - a short man of middle age, with a thick half-grey beard.

Everyone just gasped. No one had noticed how the Little Dwarf had managed to grab him; from all sides rained questions; men and dwarves riding horseback instantly appeared at Maly’s wagon. Maly himself, extremely flattered, importantly answered that this brigand had not jumped into the cart himself, but had done so only at his, Maly’s, special request, reinforced by a certain very weighty argument, after which he kindly agreed to avoid unfortunate misunderstandings by having his hands and feet tied with his own belt. As it turned out, this brigand had run into Maly just at the moment when the dwarf was trying to climb back into the wagon after the skirmish with the “green ones”; the man, apparently, had completely lost his head from fear and intended to slip past, but Maly managed to grab him by the scruff of the neck, putting his dagger to his throat.

“Splendid!” Rogvold cheered up. “Now we’ll interrogate him.”

The former centurion moved from his horse into the wagon and with a jerk turned the frightened man to face him.

“Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get into the gang?” The ranger’s voice sounded hard. “Answer and don’t be afraid - we’re not militia and not judges.”

“Dron I am, Dron, son of Rif from Aldrin,” the captive babbled. “Crop failure we had, rains were, grain didn’t grow. We wrote to the sheriff, so that, means, they’d give us some help - can’t starve to death! And from him not a word. But we need to eat! So… And then one friend gave the idea. Let’s go, he says… Well I went. And what was there to do? Half our village left with the detachment. And they even threatened to quarter militia on us.”

“You sing smoothly,” Rogvold smiled. “Friends, means, are to blame for everything? And you had no head on your shoulders, what, didn’t have? Crop failure they had… If after every crop failure everyone went into brigands, what would that turn out to be, eh?”

“Wait, Rogvold, ask him about business, not about how he got to this life,” Thorin said with a frown, placing his hand on the centurion’s elbow.

“And what, am I not asking business?” the ranger snapped, but lowered his tone. “How many of you were there? Where did you sit, where did you hide?”

“But where would we hide…” Dron muttered senselessly. “We lived at home, and when it was needed, they let us know.”

“How did you end up here, fifty leagues from home?” Rogvold asked with the same hard smile.

“They gathered us… a month ago,” Dron answered trembling. “Said there’d be more loot in the south. And everyone went, and whoever didn’t want to, they drove with sticks. We went through the Forgotten Ridge, walked along the Road…”

“Who commanded you? Who came up with the idea to go south?”

“Those, Arr’s northerners, curse them.” Dron’s face expressed the ultimate degree of despair. “They ran everything for us, commanded everyone. Many, maybe, would have been glad to flee, like me here, but they watched closely. They also received orders and news. Orders were sent by pigeons.”

“To whom did these northerners submit?” Rogvold continued to question. “And what does ’northerners’ mean? Are they from Angmar, or what?”

The already round eyes of the captive became like large copper coins; he trembled as if he found himself naked in the frost, and in a breaking voice answered that yes, they were indeed from Angmar and submitted, as he understood from their conversations, to some powerful chieftain, whose name they never mentioned, sometimes they called him “Himself.” Thorin and Folco exchanged glances.

“And who is Fatty?” Rogvold asked after a minute’s silence.

“I don’t know, never heard,” Dron dodged. “I know - one of those who lives on the Road and sends us news. And what his real name is - even if you kill me, I don’t know!”

“All right, he doesn’t know, and let him be. So what shall we do with him?” Rogvold addressed his listening companions.

“Obviously - a noose over a branch and a rope on his neck!” Grimnir uttered decisively and gloomily. “Why pity this filth… How many he’s killed probably, the villain!”

“It’s dishonorable to kill the unarmed!” Dori threw himself up. “He’s not your prisoner, but Maly’s, and here we have neither Annuminas nor the king’s court!”

“So what, you propose to release him to all four winds, so he can go on killing and robbing?” Grimnir almost squealed. “How very convenient, honest and noble! But if you had…”

He suddenly cut himself off, turned away and fell silent. Rogvold spoke, slowly, weighing each word:

“Dori is right, here is truly not Annuminas, and we have no judge and witnesses - we have no power over this man’s life. We can only do one thing: the village is not far now, there we’ll hand him over to the militia. Let everything be according to law.”

“Wait!” Folco suddenly intervened. “In my opinion, he has already chosen for himself the most severe punishment. Besides, he told us everything honestly. Let’s release him! After all, the militia might not wait for royal justice…”

“Release?!” Rogvold looked at the hobbit in surprise. “We can release him… Who else thinks what?!”

Grimnir still remained silent, having turned away his face and sent his horse a length forward: Dori shrugged and nodded, Resvald spread his hands, Gimli, Grani and Thror nodded together. Thorin pulled the reins, the wagon stopped, and Maly hastily cut the pieces of Dron’s own belt binding him.

“Go where you want, Dron,” Rogvold addressed him. “We’re not executioners and not judges, as I already said. If you want, return home and try to atone for your guilt. No - go to all seven winds.”

The stunned Dron only blinked his eyes and wheezed something. And then somehow suddenly twisted all over, jumped to the ground, rushed headlong away from the road and immediately disappeared into the darkness.

“At least he could have thanked us, the boor,” Maly sighed.

The moon had already flooded with cold light the surrounding landscape when ahead on the Road weak lights blinked. A village approached, lodging and supper; the horses sensed habitation - tired from the day, they raised their heads and quickened pace. Soon the travelers noticed a log lowered across the road and a log tower on the roadside - another guard post of the militia. The wagon train stopped before the barrier, from above an imperious voice ordered them to name themselves and light their faces.

Grumbling something discontentedly under his breath, Thorin and the dwarves began to strike fire and ready pitch torches; Rogvold tried to shame the guards into letting the tired travelers through without extra fuss, however from the tower they only laughed in response. And only when in the trembling light of the lit torches all companions lined up at the foot of the tower, and Rogvold drew from his bosom the travel warrant, were they finally allowed to enter. The former centurion and Thorin immediately demanded to be taken to the commander: the rest, unable to think of anything except good supper, hastened with the whole wagon train straight to the tavern. And about half an hour later, when they had not yet emptied even the first barrel, outside the windows sounded the clatter of dozens of hooves and the clang of weapons - the Arnorian militia rushed to the Forgotten Ridge. A few minutes later Thorin and Rogvold entered the tavern.

Remembering the inn and the mysterious “Fatty,” they swore off chattering in taverns and to all the inquiries of the inquisitive host answered: they said they had traveled all day and were very tired.

After supper, when everyone went to sleep, Thorin, Folco, Dori, Hornbori and Maly, who never lagged behind them, held a council in a narrow circle.

“Now this is news,” Thorin was saying, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The little brigands, it turns out, are in league with Angmar! And they don’t just wander around the country chasing loot, but carry out someone’s orders! I’d like to know whose…”

“Is that so important, brother Thorin?!” Dori said gloomily, continuing to sharpen his axe and not raising his head. “Men have their paths, we have ours. Angmar folk with all their desire can’t break into the underground halls, and everyone needs weapons and gold. So let them fight! We don’t yet know on whose side the truth is.”

“My respected colleague and kinsman spoke, as always, from the heart, but inappropriately,” Hornbori spoke, stroking a gold ring on his finger. “Not one true dwarf will sell what he has created to a scoundrel or murderer. We are bound by old friendship with Arnor - you know this no worse than I, and I’m surprised by your words, Dori!”

“I never traded with brigand spawn!” Dori snapped. “And I didn’t mean that! Our main goal is Moria! If Arnor truly turns out to be in danger, you know what will happen in the Grey Mountains! But human affairs are human affairs. And all the turmoil in the domains of the Northern Crown is a purely human matter, and we have no business interfering for now, or we’ll make a mess. What’s it matter that the brigands have secret leaders?!”

“And it matters that these secret leaders, it seems, are connected with one of our ill acquaintances,” Thorin noted. “And it’s even good if similar connection isn’t found between these peasants who accidentally went into brigandage and those who serve the Wights from the Barrow-downs!”

The candle flickered, as if someone’s invisible lips lightly blew on it.

“Barrow-downs?!” Hornbori raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know, Thorin, I don’t know. We have no proof.”

“We had no proof of the brigands’ connection with Angmar - until today,” Thorin answered.

“So what?!” Dori asked impatiently, putting aside his axe. “Have new thoughts come to you on how to find Durin’s Horn faster?! Or from all this can be extracted a reliable spell against Durin’s Bane?!”

The conversation didn’t flow. Dori clearly didn’t approve of Thorin’s interest in human affairs; as always, Hornbori shone with eloquence, but even for him all this seemed something distant and insignificant. Having bickered a bit more, they woke Maly and went to sleep.

Folco burrowed deeper into the blankets and had quite prepared to close his eyes when he suddenly saw that Thorin was sitting, holding one boot in his hand, with a strangely motionless face and muttering something.

“What’s with you, Thorin?!” Folco asked in bewilderment and fell silent, because the dwarf suddenly pronounced: “Rollstein.”

“What’s wrong with you, tell me at last!” Folco couldn’t stand it and sat up.

“Rollstein, Folco…” the dwarf answered hollowly. “Do you know what that is?! If you see a rocking stone, don’t rush to shout that before you is Rollstein - better look first who’s rocking it! Someone is rocking Middle-earth, Folco!”

A chill ran down the hobbit’s skin, but not from the dwarf’s words, but precisely from his terrible sepulchral voice and detached look. The hobbit was going to say something, but Thorin was already speaking, speaking, looking straight ahead:

“Someone is rocking Middle-earth! After all Evil - it doesn’t disappear without trace, Folco. Its remnants scatter to distant corners, and to find them again is not simple. But if you take something like Thror’s sieve… A sieve collecting the evil remaining after Sauron! Nothing happens by itself, every turmoil has instigators, surely they’re from the Big Folk! We must search among men!”

“Why?!” Folco asked eagerly.

“In all the Great Wars since the days of the First Age only men fought on both one side and the other,” the dwarf spoke. “Elves, dwarves, and you hobbits too, were always on one edge, orcs, trolls, petty-dwarves - always on the other. And in the middle - men! Only among them can be found one who will again want to restore the Dark Tower. In men everything is so whimsically mixed, they don’t like to listen to others’ advice and teachings, they have long been accumulating spite toward elves - not all, of course, but many. That Olmer from Dale is confirmation of that. Someone invisible is waging war with Arnor - and it’s unknown how far his designs reach. And what if truly some Thror’s sieve is found, collecting the remnants of evil?!” Thorin’s voice gradually changed, became ordinary; the dwarf hunched over and sighed. “Some cheerless thoughts have fallen on me, brother hobbit. I don’t know what came over me… Before after such skirmishes I used to collapse and sleep like the dead. Well then, let us give thanks to Great Durin and the Bright Queen, who gave strength to our axes and swords! And now let’s stop talking…”

A very long day was ending, the eighteenth of April 1721 from the settlement of the Shire.

And again under the creaking wheels of their wagons stretched the great road of Middle-earth. The next day they met a large merchant wagon train going from south to north; at Tharbad it was again restless. The last inhabitants had left the hamlet of Nolk, thirty leagues east of the fortress; rumors of the black horror emanating from Moria abandoned by dwarves were spreading further and further. The faces of men darkened; dwarves exchanged glances but remained silent.

They were approaching the stronghold of Tharbad, once long ago built by knights from the Undying Lands at the confluence of two rivers. Closer to it villages along the Road became more numerous; the Grey Defile had indeed turned out to be the most dangerous place. Closer to noon on the twenty-third day before them reared up high grey towers and many-toothed walls of the ancient fortress. In the fire of civil wars of the beginning of the Third Age Tharbad had been destroyed; after the Victory the Great King ordered it rebuilt anew. The fortress stood on a long cape between the rivers Gwathlo and Sirannon; from the land the approaches to it were cut off by a deep moat. Around the fortress crowded wooden houses, surrounded by another, outer, wall. Here stood a large detachment of Arnorian cavalry, here it was safe. To Tharbad flowed rumors and news from all corners of the Two Rivers, from the foothills of the Misty Mountains, from the borders of Dunland. Having jostled at the local market or sat in numerous taverns, one could learn all the latest trade and military news.

In Tharbad Thorin’s and Rogvold’s detachment spent two days, giving rest to themselves and the horses. Where questioning, and where eavesdropping, avoiding direct questions and direct answers, they learned that the area east of the fortress had become depopulated - all had gone west or north. They couldn’t count on help there. Worst of all, the militia had left from there too - what use to guard abandoned houses?! About Moria they spoke in whispers and wove such tall tales that the dwarves only grimaced and covered their ears.

All rumors, however, agreed in one thing - as soon as Moria’s gates collapse, then that’s when the end will come to everything, and therefore one needs to flee as far as possible.

On the twenty-sixth of April, on a clear, quite summery warm day, the detachment left Tharbad. They left along the South Road to throw curious people off track, then under cover of night they were to turn north and come out onto the ancient road, laid still by the elves of Eregion along the left bank of Sirannon; Gloin and Dwalin swore they knew a secret ford ten leagues from the fortress, where the detachment could cross to the other bank.

The lands near Tharbad were densely populated; one village replaced another, and for a time it seemed to Folco that they hadn’t gone anywhere from Arnor; however by evening around them spread an empty, slightly rolling plain with sparse groves and ravines. Behind remained a guard post, from the militiaman’s words it turned out that further, to the south, for three days’ travel there was no habitation, and only then settlements began again, guarded already by Rohan cavalry, though a chain of Arnorian posts stretched to the very Isen.

In the dead midnight hour they turned off the well-traveled road and, trying to leave as few tracks as possible, moved northeast.

Having moved away from the road by a little more than two leagues, they stopped. Having arranged the wagons in a circle and fastened them just in case with chains, they lowered wooden shields from the sides, posted guards and lay down to sleep, for the first time on the long road deprived of the reliable protection of Arnorian swords and walls.

Folco’s turn came to keep watch about two hours after midnight, together with him Veort was to keep watch. The tracker girded on his sword, put on helmet and chainmail, Folco took bow and quiver. In the darkness they didn’t settle for the night in the depths of encountered groves, but chose a shallow depression with sloping sides, along the bottom of which ran a small stream. The fire had burned down, but coals smoldered, and at the ready was a solid supply of brushwood - just in case. Folco well remembered the story with wargs that had nearly devoured the Fellowship’s detachment a bit further east from these places!

Veort went to wander around, while Folco scrambled onto the crosspiece of the upper arcs supporting the cover of one of the wagons. At first the moon had risen above the broken black line of the Misty Mountains, but it was quickly overcast by low clouds that crept from the south. Darkness thickened; now against the background of the starry sky the hobbit could make out only the vague outlines of the nearest grove. He suddenly felt anxious and uneasy; Veort’s steps were not heard, and Folco became worried. Where had the tracker gone?! Folco, swaying and risking falling down, stood on the arcs at full height - in vain. No rustle of steps, no reflection on armor - nothing.

Frightened in earnest, the hobbit was already preparing to jump down and wake Thorin, when he suddenly felt a familiar, though considerably forgotten oppressive feeling in his chest. However, now it did not evoke in him the former panic fear.

“Wake everyone! Light the fire!” suddenly rang out Veort’s muffled cry. “What I saw just now!..” The man’s voice trembled. “Something grey is wandering toward me over the hill, like a piece of burlap, only glowing - like some figure, I was going toward it - stop, I say, and it hisses at me! Here such confusion took me that I forgot which side my sword was on… Sorcery here, no doubt! Wait… Why there it is!”

Veort almost squealed.

But Folco with tightly shut eyes already saw himself - not with ordinary, but with inner vision - how from the northeast from under the thick growth of young elms appeared a greyish glow - weak, barely noticeable; and Folco felt the approach of that very force that had tried to bend him in Annuminas; then he had not yielded, and now the old shadow was crawling again - now not as an attacker, but as a supplicant. And the hobbit caught this terrible plea, born from unthinkable and unimaginable to the living sufferings.

Nearby Veort gasped chokingly; Folco opened his eyes and saw a grey shadow some dozens of fathoms from them.

And then he pulled out the bow of elven arrows carefully wrapped in parchment and leather, preserved by him as the greatest treasure; the thin and long arrowhead suddenly shone like a small star, dispersing the approaching gloom, and the hobbit heard how the tracker standing nearby ground his teeth and how then his sword drawn from its sheath clinked. The hobbit drew the bowstring.

But the phantom approaching them also seemed to feel something and know about elven weapons. The grey spot wavered and stopped. Snake hissing reached them.

Habitually squinting his left eye, Folco aimed the star-like arrowhead at the wavering figure, as if under weak light, and mentally ordered it: “Go away! Go away and don’t trouble us anymore! See this arrow?!”

The answer came immediately - a painful moan, a sepulchral wail, a soundless and wordless weeping:

“I am a slave to what you have. I will not leave, I am powerless, I am doomed to follow you as long as it is with you… Give it to me!”

“Why do you hesitate?!” Veort whispered hotly in the hobbit’s ear. “Shoot quickly! Why have you stopped! Shoot!”

The spawn of the Barrow-downs didn’t move, itself offering itself to the shot. But at the last moment the hobbit spared the elven arrow, replacing it with an ordinary yew one.

Gloom and fear immediately fell upon him in huge shapeless blocks, but immediately the bowstring clinked, something whistled in the air, and the plain for a brief moment was lit by a bluish flash, immediately replaced by reddish tongues of fire that flared up where the phantom’s incorporeal body had just swayed. Veort cried out joyfully, but the hobbit heard a hoarse howl that reached him, filled with cold pain and inexhaustible hatred. Squinting, he made out something small and writhing, hastily crawling away, but not to the east, but to the northwest.

Their companions awakened by the tracker’s cry were already running toward them; torches flared, weapons clanged, scarlet reflections played on polished blades; Folco raised his hand soothingly.

“What’s here?! What is it?!” Thorin stormed upon them.

“A phantom,” Folco answered him shortly. “Came again…”

Men exchanged bewildered glances, and only Rogvold, immediately haggard, pushed closer.

“I sent an arrow into it,” the hobbit continued. “I drove it away, but didn’t destroy it, but now I know exactly what we must do so it won’t appear anymore.” And, bending low to Thorin and Rogvold, whispered: “The sword from the Barrow-downs - melt it in Morian forges!”

“Right,” Thorin nodded. “I’ve been uneasy for a long time that we’re dragging it with us…”

This night they didn’t sleep anymore. They long and in detail retold all the circumstances of their encounters with the phantoms of the Barrow-downs, the second meeting in Annuminas and everything else somehow connected with this. They gasped, groaned, judged this way and that, praised Folco, wondered what could happen to a phantom from an ordinary arrow, and how it disappears for a time and then appears again, and why they need these swords, and what strange mark is on them… The conversations dragged on, and half the night flew by like one moment. Only when the first dawn rays overcame the gigantic barrier of the Misty Mountains and looked into the shadow cast by them did the travelers gradually disperse to nap.

Folco was plodding to his camp bed, yawning widely and rubbing his sticking eyes, when Thorin unexpectedly called him.

“There’s something else here,” he gloomily informed the hobbit looking at him stupidly. “Our Maly - a dwarf, no fool! That prisoner of ours, that Dron, look what he left!”

On Thorin’s palm lay a not-long - two palms - straight dagger of greyish steel with a roughly made wooden handle. It was clearly made in haste, but Thorin drew attention to something else. His finger rested on the mark near the cross-guard - the familiar, ladder-like broken line, diagonally crossing an octagon!

“You understand?!” Thorin asked meaningfully, hiding Maly’s find. “See where the thread leads?! No, something’s wrong with these brigands!”

“So these northerners and the detachment from the Barrow-downs are united by something,” Folco spoke slowly, looking at his feet. “Black Detachment - Wights - brigands… Angmar. And we’re going to Moria…”

“Yes, precisely to Moria!” Thorin exclaimed with bitter vexation. “But we should follow the trail of this mark! But you know my kinsmen,” Thorin suddenly whispered ardently, moving closer to the hobbit. “Human affairs are, in general, far from them - until danger threatens their native mountains. No one, except perhaps Dori and Maly, would support us if we proposed to turn aside and take up a new matter. Everyone wants to go to Khazad-dum. I hope that there we’ll still find something that will make our companions go another way. And who knows - is there no connection between Moria and the servants of this mark?!”

Thorin fell silent. Brushwood crackled quietly in the fire; above the eastern mountains the sky gradually turned grey. The dwarf raised his head and looked point-blank at the silent hobbit.

“I feel that this journey of ours is the first, but far from the last,” Thorin said quietly, sadly shaking his head. “Whatever we find in Moria, our road will lie further… For some reason it seems so to me. After all, I haven’t forgotten your dreams, brother hobbit.”

The next day they overslept much more than usual and set out quite late - the day was already approaching midday. Cart axles creaked, and the wagon train moved further, to the northeast. Hour passed after hour, they left behind ever new hills, streams and groves. The landscape gradually began to change - in the green grass appeared reddish stones from who knows where; on the cuts of ravines it was visible how the thin layer of fertile black soil gave way to reddish soil. Trees became fewer; but three times they came across abandoned farmsteads. The trackers didn’t spare themselves to look behind the high fences and, returning, told that people had left here recently - last autumn, but since then someone had been in the empty houses and, it seemed, hadn’t troubled to acquire keys to the front doors and gates. After this Thorin decisively declared that they had played enough games, and if they didn’t wish to lay down their heads here from a random arrow, they must ride without removing armor and having sent scouts ahead and to the sides. So it was done.

The day’s journey to Sirannon passed calmly. Though there was no road, the terrain turned out to be dry and level, small ravines could easily be bypassed; here and there appeared sections of abandoned tracks, half-collapsed fences of poles were visible. They also came across a watchtower. The Moria dwarves immediately climbed up and looked around for a long time. Returning, they gathered the rest.

“To Sirannon is no more than eight leagues,” Gloin said. “We even saw the ford. However beyond the river, to the northeast, some riders seemed to flash, but immediately hid in thickets. It was too far to understand who they were. If the ford is discovered and guarded, they might arrange a warm welcome for us!”

After a short council they decided to send scouts ahead. Dwalin, Veort, Resvald and Igg rode ahead, the rest behind; the wagon train was now led by Gloin. Jokes and conversations fell silent; everyone’s faces became heavy. No one neglected armor, and the hobbit prepared his bow. He searched for signs of the phantom he had driven away yesterday, but found none, it seemed they had rid themselves of this spawn of the Barrow-downs for long.

Hour passed after hour, and when, by Gloin’s calculations, no more than two leagues remained to the ford, Dwalin, sent ahead, suddenly emerged from bushes before them.

“We rode to the ford itself,” he reported. “And even crossed to the other bank. Veort and Resvald remained there just in case.”

The lush steppe grasses on the sides more and more gave way to stiff-leaved shrubs; under their roots appeared glimpses of reddish earth. The hills became even smoother and more worn; it seemed to Folco that they were riding over a gigantic washboard - now up, now down. The sun had already descended quite low, and between the hillocks stretched long-armed pre-evening shadows, when they heard in the distance the noise of water; having crossed over the last hill, they found themselves on the bank of Sirannon.

Once an almost dried-up stream thanks to the tireless labors of the dwarves of Khazad-dum was now again swift and full as of old. It flowed in a narrow canyon with reddish slopes; the banks below were covered with brown pebbles. The southern bank in this place smoothly descended to a low rapid; silvery streams fell down from a height of two fathoms. The river at the rapid itself was indeed shallow - to a dwarf’s knee, to a hobbit’s waist. On the northern bank, higher and steeper, just opposite them, between two hills, lay a deep depression going straight to the northeast. Veort climbed out of the bushes near the edge of the canyon.

“Everything’s quiet here,” the tracker said. “Resvald is on that bank, it seems quiet there too.”

“But you said there was navigation on Sirannon?!” Folco was surprised, turning half-face to Thorin and looking at the foamy rapids below.

“Wait to be surprised,” Gloin smiled. “Now you’ll learn why this ford is called secret. But first let’s cross!”

They dismounted and waded knee-deep in water, leading horses by the bridles and struggling with quite strong current that tried to knock them off their feet. Soon the last wagon entered the depression on the northern bank, and Gloin and Dwalin unexpectedly lagged behind, disappearing behind coastal stones. Everyone stopped in bewilderment.

A dull underground noise sounded - as if a huge accumulation of water had finally found its way down, and at the same moment the height of the threshold began to decrease. The flat slab quickly descended until it completely disappeared into the dark depth. The river’s surface closed, its waters now flowed calmly and smoothly; the noise also subsided.

“This is the work of the dwarves of Khazad-dum,” Gloin said, anticipating questions. “It was built not so long ago - about a hundred and fifty years back. It’s known to all who lived in Moria, but remains a secret to all others. Don’t ask us to show you the secret of this device - we gave a terrible oath never and under no circumstances to reveal it.”

Having wondered for several minutes at the incomparable mastery of the dwarves, the travelers began a slow and long climb along the depression running through the hills. Reddish slopes were covered with low bushes, a light wind swayed the stems of fireweed beginning to bloom. They moved in a long column, and Folco noticed how Rogvold became agitated, how several men scrambled up the slopes and disappeared behind the crests. The depression forked. They turned right - a long slope led east. The road gradually rose, and soon they climbed onto a plain. Having crossed another hillock, they found themselves on a wide and smooth road winding between hills and ravines, paved with red-brown slabs. The slabs were fitted to each other so tightly that it would be impossible to insert even an awl into the crack between them: the road led strictly from west to east.

“This is the Riverway,” Gloin waved his hand. “It was laid still by elves in immemorial times, and then gradually fell into decay. We paved it anew from the Gates of Moria to Tharbad itself.”

To ride on the smooth and level road was pure pleasure, even the horses walked more cheerfully.

After three hours of travel they came upon a roadside settlement - empty and abandoned. The windows of solid wooden houses were carefully boarded up, some small log structures disassembled, and in some gardens even blackened pits - traces of dug-up fruit trees. Everything spoke of the fact that from here they had left unhurriedly, neatly taking out almost all property.

In the village they met an Arnorian mounted patrol - two dozen silent riders in full armor; and they would not have avoided thorough questioning if the commander of this detachment had not turned out to be the son of Rogvold’s old friend. From the militia they learned that the area ahead couldn’t be called empty - they had seen some detachments of ten-twelve riders, leisurely riding in different directions.

“They don’t look like ordinary brigands,” the commander added. “They sit too well in saddles and wield bows. They look like Dunlendings, but not all. So be careful!”

“And why did people flee from here?!” Resvald inquired curiously.

“It’s dangerous here,” the militia commander answered reluctantly. “Lairs of all kinds of filth are nearby. They raid in large detachments, and you can’t put a thousand in each village. So they leave. They even removed posts from here! Only we still walk this land back and forth, we look, we scout, we try somehow to resist, but so far unsuccessfully.”

The Arnorian patrol moved west, to the fortress, and Rogvold’s wagon train continued its journey east. The rest of the day passed without incident, and toward evening they stopped in a shallow ravine under the thick crowns of elms and ashes. In the bushes at a distance settled the guard; Folco was immediately set to cooking; the rest waiting for supper sat down by the fire.

Igg began to tell an old story from the times of the Great King, then Veort sang a new song recently composed somewhere on the border; Folco was struck by the words of longing and hopelessness sounding in it. The melancholy that had come over them was dispersed by the dwarves, who together bellowed several ballads. Meanwhile the hobbit managed the simple supper: in mugs beer foamed, and under the dark crowns it became surprisingly cozy and peaceful. The fire scattered fiery sparks, and on faces strangely changed in the crimson reflections danced reflections… They sat, ate, drank, sang and went to sleep.

In the morning the hobbit awoke easily - as if he had slept not in a wagon lost somewhere in the Wilderness, but at home, in Buckland, in a cozy and peaceful room. He had dreamed something bright, but what, he didn’t remember.

Without any incidents passed the last two days as well. The mood in the detachment rose - to the Gates of Moria not so much remained. Around summer was already fully in charge, though it was only the first of May. Among the greenery surrounding the Riverway nothing could be made out; fearing sudden attack, they went with paired scouts thrown far out. The hobbit very much wanted to be among them, but they wouldn’t let him go.

“Sit,” Resvald instructed him. “Any of us can be replaced, but where to find a replacement for such a cook as you?!”

At noon on the first of May ahead rode Grimnir and Alan - scouts usually consisted of men able to move secretly in thickets - and from the summit of a forest-covered hill they noticed how in the valley about ten riders quickly flashed on short but swift horses; behind each hung a bow. The scouts raised the alarm. For some time Folco only blinked his eyes in confusion, looking at the hastily arming dwarves and men. Crossbows were loaded, the side and rear scouts pressed to the Road.

They cautiously moved forward, every second expecting an arrow from the branches. Over the Road thickened tense silence.

Folco sat, stuffed by Thorin’s merciless hand between sacks near a small crack in the wagon’s cover. On his knees the hobbit had arranged his bow ready to shoot; with his eyes he pressed to the crack, however the green walls around remained motionless, and the occasionally flying cry of a jay said that the scouts also saw nothing suspicious yet.

However in the evening, when they arranged the wagons in a circle, chained them, lowered the sides and began to dig a pit for the fire, the rear scout that had lingered rushed up to them. Igg jumped from his saddle and rushed to the middle.

“Saw them.” He spoke quickly and hotly. “Riders. About thirty. Following us, but not along the road, but along it, on the left. Dressed and armed differently - there are archers, there are spearmen. Their shields are round and elongated. Emblems, coats of arms - none.”

Glen and Forg silently confirmed his words.

“How did you notice?!” Rogvold, immediately tensing, asked shortly.

“Forg decided to listen to the ground from time to time,” Igg explained. “And heard. We first decided it was your hooves echoing, but then all three listened - no. Then we turned to meet them, lay down in a ravine, in a clearer place nearby, and spotted them - they were bypassing a windfall.”

“Heard anything from their speech?!” Rogvold was already testing the sharpness of his sword with his finger.

“No. They rode silently, but clearly after us! One of them leaned right - rode to the road, then returned. Said something to the others, but so quietly we couldn’t make it out. Well we got out of the windfall - and back. We won’t sleep tonight, brothers,” Igg finished and, squatting, began to sharpen his blade.

The rest silently exchanged glances. Folco again felt an unpleasant chill in his chest.

“Guard by six pe… damn, by three people and three dwarves,” Rogvold ordered. “Check crossbows! Don’t remove chainmail! Take sheepskins, we have spares there - otherwise we’ll freeze in iron at night. Let the fire go out…”

Slowly, with inaudible, creeping steps night approached them. Dense low clouds covered the sky; a light sigh of wind swept through the tree crowns. The sentries dispersed to their places: the rest lay down in the middle of the circle and tried to forget themselves. However hours passed, somewhere nearby an owl hooted hollowly, over the clearing in uneven, trembling flight flashed silent shadows of bats - but everything was calm. And Folco, despite his firm decision not to sleep this night, didn’t notice himself how his eyelids closed.

In the morning of the second of May they carefully examined the ground around their camp, and Grolf stumbled upon several fresh prints of heavy boots without heels. In three places near the circle of wagons, behind bushes convenient for observation, they found trampled grass - everything spoke of the fact that the surveillance continued.

“These are all those from the Forgotten Ridge, plague on their heads!” Igg uttered gloomily. “We told you - no need to stick your head in! Where were you rushing?! And now here we sit and wait - from behind which tree will an arrow fly?!”

“What use now to whine and sigh?!” Dori got angry. “We can’t wait for attack, we must attack first! We’ll strike unexpectedly at those dragging behind us, feel them with points and blades!”

The dwarves growled approvingly, some of the men joined them. Rogvold wanted at first to object to something, but remained silent. Grolf stood up.

“Fortune smiles on the bold,” he said gloomily, surveying his companions with a heavy gaze. “Enough shying away from every bush. They secretly watch us - we’ll answer the same! Let the hunters themselves become game. Let’s set up an ambush and try to capture someone from them, as last time. Ready to go scouting.” He pulled his sword halfway out of its sheath and drove it back with a clang.

Having quickly struck camp, they hastily drove the horses, hurrying to at least tear away a bit from the pursuers, whoever they were. On the move they galloped through a shallow depression stretching from south to north with a heavily overgrown eastern slope; from the west, on the contrary, was visible only sparse growth of low bushes. They lay down on both sides of the road, having driven the carts away. Agonizing waiting began.

To pass the depression unnoticed was impossible - it was all visible, from the distant blue reflection of Sirannon on the left to the dark blue strip of dense forest on the right; to it was no less than two and a half leagues. To bypass - long, they decided; those who followed them must either lose much time on a roundabout road, or go straight.

The hobbit flushed from excitement looked with displeasure at the dwarves lying beside him - they snorted, scratched, turned with such noise and crackling that it seemed to him: soon all the brigands of Arnor would come running here. Folco, biting his lip, glanced left-right, and then quietly crawled forward, sliding between the low growth. He decided to reach a linden tree growing alone on the slope and hide at its foot. He managed to do this unnoticed; pressing into a small depression, he prepared his bow. From his companions lying behind about forty paces separated him.

Slowly, very slowly crept the black shadow cast by the tree sheltering him. The hobbit had already begun to doubt whether they would notice anyone, when to his sensitive, and now especially sharpened hearing reached a weak, barely distinguishable rustle somewhere to the side, very close…

The long and painful lessons of Maly had not been in vain. The hobbit managed to turn around before he even thought about what to do next; without having time to be surprised or frightened, he saw how the bushes above his head parted and from the greenery stuck out the muzzle of a huge black dog, seeming to him at that moment twice as large as an ordinary wolf. From the turned-out black lips of the dog hung drool. On the powerful neck was a collar with long sharp spikes.

Horror didn’t have time to deprive the hobbit of strength; his hands did everything before his head could interfere. A short quick movement - and the sword slashed the cheek of the already lunging dog opening its jaws; a desperate yelp sounded, and it disappeared into the thickets. The hobbit forgetting everything raised himself - and saw riders hastily turning north, just having appeared from behind trees on the western slope. A few moments later the former silence reigned over the depression. The ambush had failed.

“Well, well,” Rogvold spread his hands. “They scout with dogs! These aren’t brigands, my friends, these are some real ones. Nothing to be done, let’s go further.”

Two more days of travel passed in agonizing uncertainty. The riders didn’t show themselves anymore, however, examining the surroundings of their camps, the trackers invariably found traces of observers not taking their attentive eyes off them. They had to sleep without removing armor; but more than the weight of metal put on the chest pressed the vile expectation of a sudden treacherous blow. They started at every rustle or crackle at the sides of the road; they went for water to Sirannon almost with half the detachment, placing men and dwarves with crossbows along the whole way; they had to sleep less - each kept watch for two hours. Hardest of all for the trackers - they rummaged through the surroundings of the Riverway, hoping to find at least some trace of their mysterious companions. Traces were found, but they were enough only to confirm the constant presence of unknown pursuers.

However, despite everything, they advanced forward, and by the sixth of May no more than twelve marches separated them from Moria. The landscape around again began to change. Abandoned, overgrown fields appeared, empty farmsteads, farms and clearings. The dwarves told the hobbit that once, about five years ago, here still lived many free farmers, selling wheat to dwarves and being under the protection of the hosts of Khazad-dum, but after the beginning of mysterious events in the Black Chasm the people living here were seized by dark fear, and they abandoned their houses and fields, fleeing far to the West.

“And we happened to hear,” Gloin told the hobbit, “that last autumn the last dwarves left Moria.”

The sight of this gloomy landscape heavily affected everyone. In the detachment now was only one thought - to reach the saving Gates. Men no longer so clearly expressed their unwillingness to go inside. Folco was ready to swear that all of them were not averse to quickly hide behind the indestructible Morian walls.

Mid-May came; Sirannon, winding not far from the Road, became noticeably narrower and faster - they were approaching its source.

And the giants of the Misty Mountains had long closed the whole sunrise to them - right before them rose the mass of Caradhras, the Redhorn in the Common Tongue, memorable to Folco and Thorin from the description of the Fellowship’s attempt to cross the pass.

One evening Folco and Thorin started talking about who might now be rocking Middle-earth and what might come of it.

“All right, suppose someone from men,” Thorin reasoned in half-voice. “Bold, deft, lucky… Let’s say even someone from Angmar chieftains. With an iron hand beat out of brigands their liberties, entered into alliance with spawn of Barrow-downs, began a border war. But so what?! Another year or two, the Steward’s patience will snap, they’ll arrange a big campaign on Angmar - and what then?! Some army he’ll of course put out, but what his brigands are worth, we’ve already seen - they scatter in a flash if you press them a bit harder. How much can you fight with such?! Only good for robbing merchants.”

“And what did you say about the sieve?!” Folco reminded his friend.

“About the sieve?! Well nobody knows what can be collected and whether it’s even possible! No, Arnor can’t be defeated by military force, though I don’t much like this idea of theirs: ’to each his own.’”

“And if he finds allies in the east?!” Folco reminded.

“In the east!” The dwarf whistled disdainfully. “There, first of all, everyone’s already fighting everyone - remember what Theophrastus said - and second, here already it smells of big war! Here even Gondor won’t stay aside, and Rohan. And dwarves, probably, too! And to deal with all of us, you know what army is needed?! No, we can’t be defeated so simply! Just wait, by next year the forest fellows will be pressed even harder - we’ll see then what happens.”

And - amazing! - Thorin managed to almost calm the hobbit. They talked until it was already time to go on watch. The twentieth of May had come.