Chapter 3: The Gates of Moria

The road was coming to an end. With each day they approached the Gates of Moria, by Gloin’s and Dwalin’s calculations, three to four marches of road remained to them. The unknown pursuers seemed to have left them alone or simply kept at a respectful distance. Men seemed to Folco a bit confused, dwarves on the contrary concentrated and decisive - between business they checked and sharpened picks and chisels; from somewhere from the depths of their baggage appeared stone-cutting hammers. Thorin took inventory of all supplies and announced that it was time to tighten belts if they didn’t want to starve in the future. The landscape around became even more dreary from the abundance of abandoned houses and deserted villages - just in the last two days friends had counted about ten of them. They still observed all possible precautions, but everything around remained calm.

Folco only now began to seriously think about what exactly he intended to do in Moria and whether it wouldn’t be better to remain with the men above; his mood again spoiled. He almost every night tried to summon in his thoughts the image of Gandalf or Radagast, but in vain. His thoughts as if were being drawn over by some grey sticky fog; in it drowned memories, and the hobbit suddenly with surprise admitted to himself that he could with difficulty recall Milisenta’s face. He became even more attached to his weapon; Maly didn’t stop his lessons with him, and it must be said, the young and deft hobbit achieved considerable success. The past began to be covered with haze, the future was vague and impenetrable, in the present however one had to rely only on oneself and on the cold steel that now lay so well in his hands! Mastery of weapons made him stronger, and he was grateful to it for this, as to a living being.

By his calculations, it turned out that the twenty-eighth of May had already come, when he and Thorin found themselves together a bit ahead of the rest of the detachment, stopped for a midday rest. Together with the dwarf they rummaged through the surroundings, going quite far to the sides - Thorin was trying to find at least traces of those watching them; he could not reconcile himself that they still hadn’t captured anyone from them. At first the hobbit was occupied by this crawling through the surrounding bushes bent double, but as time went on and scraped knees and hands scratched by branches made themselves known more and more insistently, desire noticeably decreased, and when the dwarf climbed into some too overgrown with thorny bushes depression, the hobbit decisively rebelled and declared that he would wait for him above.

Thorin disappeared into the green tangle; for some time the loud crack of breaking branches reached the hobbit, gradually moving away; rejoicing in the rest, Folco sat right on the ground, leaning his back against the tangle of branches of a spreading hawthorn. Several minutes passed, Thorin didn’t appear. The hobbit stood up, walked back and forth across the small clearing onto which they had come shortly before they parted. At its other end grew a mighty hornbeam; on the brown bark was visible an ugly burl growth, and Folco, partly from mischief, partly obeying an unclear desire, threw a knife at it: the steel scraped, embedding itself tightly, and in the same second the hobbit heard behind him a slightly mocking and seemingly familiar voice:

“Not bad, honorable hobbit, very not bad… Why?!”

Before Folco could remember where he had heard this voice full of hidden power, he understood with horror that “why” preceded his desire to reach for a weapon: like, reach or don’t reach - it’s all the same to you… Folco turned around doomed, too stunned to think through his actions.

At the far end of the clearing showed a half-overgrown cart track; on it stood two men, the branches of bushes still swayed weakly behind their backs. Folco shuddered and barely restrained a cry.

Right before him, some ten paces away, having placed his hand on the hilt of a long sword, frozen in tense expectation was the hunchback Sandello. He looked at Folco coldly, mercilessly and indifferently. And beside him in a well-worn long grey-green traveling cloak, having crossed his arms on his chest, stood a tall, stately man with an even fair beard and the same long hair falling to his shoulders. His lips smiled slightly, under thick brows - the left was a bit higher than the right - he couldn’t make out the color of his eyes; but in them was guessed a will unknowable to others, going its own paths. This gaze commanded - and it was obeyed; it was pleasant to obey its possessor… The features of this man’s face were correctly proportioned - high forehead, smooth cheekbones, even, as if cut through, line of lips, giving him an open and proud appearance. The cloak concealed his figure, but one felt that he was endowed with considerable strength, not displayed but hidden for the time under the plain clothing of a wanderer. He had no sword, and only when he took a step and the cloak slightly opened did the hobbit notice hanging on a wide leather belt a long straight dagger.

Much flashed at that moment in Folco’s memory: both Bree, and Annuminas, and the tavern, and the old chronicler - and he understood or guessed that before him was Olmer, the gold-seeker from Dale?!

He froze in confusion, not knowing what to do - to run, shout “help!” or grab the sword after all?!

Olmer, it seemed, understood this. Having stepped forward, he smiled amiably at the hobbit, turned to Sandello and, shaking his head, said with light reproach in his voice:

“No, Sandello, no. Don’t turn craft into habit…”

“I obey!” the hunchback wheezed, bowing even more and not taking his fascinated gaze from Olmer.

In him were such devotion and trust that Folco involuntarily thought that the old chronicler was mistaken. Such can’t be bought for any money…

“No need to give free rein to fear, honorable hobbit,” Olmer continued meanwhile, turning to the hobbit. “Not every passerby even in our time is a robber, you, I see, have completely stopped trusting even yourself. Come here, don’t be afraid, we won’t harm you, I swear by the Great Ladder!”

And Folco obeyed. He truly wasn’t afraid anymore; he somehow at once believed Olmer, though inside not yet completely dissolved the sticky lump of recent fright. Warily and slowly stepping, the hobbit began to approach the motionlessly frozen Olmer and Sandello.

Going toward them, the hobbit had several moments to better examine the one who called himself a gold-seeker. Looking from below upward, he saw above the ties of the cloak a powerful neck with noticeable wrinkles crossing it, betraying the considerable years lived by Olmer - more than one could give looking at his tanned face. Olmer also stepped forward, and the hobbit saw his high leather boots with arcs of wear from stirrups on the insteps. Sandello didn’t lag a step behind his master.

“I’m glad I met you, halfling,” he said with a friendly smile, “though I don’t know your name. My name is Olmer. I’m glad to see you walking the road of men and want to repay you an old debt. Yes, don’t be surprised, in Bree they treated you unjustly, and the one who first offended you bore punishment. And you, dear Sandello, were also wrong, taking up for the mocker who started the quarrel!”

The hunchback shuddered and bowed his head.

“Well and you, honorable hobbit, made a mistake by going with a sword against one who had thrown steel. You’re very young, and I don’t blame you, but henceforth against a stick take a beer mug.” He again smiled barely noticeably. “Sandello! You were lucky he drew his sword, otherwise who knows how it would have ended?! But,” he interrupted himself, “all this is in the past, and now I want there not to lie between us this old misunderstanding.”

Folco stood silently, embarrassedly looking aside - to look Olmer in the eyes there was no strength. No one had ever spoken with him so respectfully and so openly - as equals - no one, not even Thorin, not even Maly. It was pleasant to listen to the possessor of the voice: they weren’t flattering the hobbit - simply the strong one recognized also his strength, though not in everything, and regretted the mistake, and Folco felt himself almost satisfied for that old defeat. The last remnants of fear disappeared; he wasn’t afraid even of Sandello, who looked at him now a bit surprised and interested: Folco couldn’t find words and only embarrassedly shifted from foot to foot, however deep in consciousness was born also an uneasy thought: and why does Olmer need all this?!

Silence fell. Olmer looked at the hobbit expectantly, and he understood that he needed at least to introduce himself in response to the courteous speech. With difficulty, overcoming the still remaining numbness, he pronounced his name. Olmer amiably inclined his head slightly and threw a quick glance at Sandello. He stepped forward and calmly extended his hand to the hobbit.

“Don’t hold ill will toward me, son of Hamfast,” he spoke slowly, touching Folco’s trembling palm with his supple, cold, but incredibly strong fingers, “I admit that I was wrong then…”

Words came to him with difficulty, but Olmer didn’t take his attentive gaze off the hunchback, and Sandello continued to speak. Folco looked him straight in the eyes (which he barely had spirit for) and again, as still in Bree, saw in them a shade of understanding and hidden bitterness.

“The hunchback speaks sincerely,” the hobbit suddenly thought, “though pride hinders him.”

“You held firm,” Sandello continued. “To tell the truth, the second time I barely dodged. However, now it doesn’t matter anymore. Please, try to forget.”

“I… I don’t know,” the hobbit mumbled, getting lost under the suddenly tensely testing gaze of the hunchback, “such things aren’t so simply forgotten.”

Sandello still didn’t release his right hand, and from this Folco again became slightly uneasy. The hunchback sighed.

“What must I do to atone for my guilt before you?!” he said.

“It seems I can help you in this, honorable Sandello,” Olmer suddenly intervened. “No dispute, you’re guilty, and therefore bring here our Gundabad trophy!”

“Ours?!” the hunchback raised his eyes in surprise.

“Yes, ours,” Olmer answered, “for thanks to your skill my opponent fought on foot. Bring it, perhaps it will please the honorable hobbit’s heart.”

Sandello, still not releasing his hand, still gazing tensely and searchingly into the hobbit’s eyes, sighed.

“What must I do to atone for my guilt before you?” he said.

“It seems I can help you in this, honorable Sandello,” Olmer suddenly intervened. “No dispute, you’re guilty, and therefore bring here our Gundabad trophy!”

“Ours?!” the hunchback raised his eyes in surprise.

“Yes, ours,” Olmer answered, “for thanks to your skill my opponent fought on foot. Bring it, perhaps it will please the honorable hobbit’s heart.”

Sandello released Folco’s hand and, bowing his head in agreement, hurried to the horses; returning, he extended to the hobbit a dagger in exquisitely worked black leather scabbard. On the hilt gleamed a large pale stone with a dark cross inside – a staurolite, as Folco would later learn. The hobbit involuntarily gasped – the gift was truly princely! He turned the dagger over and over in his hands, pulled it from the scabbard – on the silvery, mirrorlike surface of the blade shone Blue Flowers, engraved with amazing skill. Folco had never seen anything like it; he gazed, enchanted, at the slender blade, at the play of light on the stone in the crossguard, and couldn’t believe that all this belonged to him. He tried to thank Olmer, but the words somehow wouldn’t come; fortunately, the gold-seeker didn’t insist on long speeches.

“Well, then,” he said with a smile, slapping the hobbit on the shoulder, “I’m glad I could repay my old debt! Live well, halfling! And you, my friends,” – here his gaze fell on Thorin, – “I wish you to return just as you are now. Farewell!”

He turned and strode to his horses; Sandello barely managed to run after him. Mounting their saddles, they waved their hands in farewell and galloped away. A yellowish-gray cloud of dust rose after them, the drum of hoofbeats faded in the distance, and only now could Folco come to his senses.

“Listen, Thorin, how did he know where we’re going?” the hobbit asked the dwarf standing motionless beside him with arms crossed on his chest, a strange smile on his lips.

“Who knows,” the dwarf shrugged. “But I’d like to know another thing – how did he manage to break my axe? It was excellent steel, I’d vouch for it with my beard… But come, we need to get back, or there’ll be questions about where we’ve been wandering!”

They walked back in silence. Folco clutched the gift tightly in his hands, periodically pulling the blade from the scabbard and examining it. He simply couldn’t take his eyes off it! Thorin walked beside him, often looking back, as if hoping to catch one more glimpse of the mysterious rider and his hunchbacked servant. Finally he couldn’t restrain himself:

“Strange fellow, this Olmer. Did you notice his gloves? Black leather, very soft… I wonder what he’s hiding under them?”

Folco shrugged – he hadn’t noticed any gloves at all. Absorbed in examining his princely gift, he had paid little attention to such trifles.

“And the staff he gave me,” Thorin continued, “is also a mysterious thing. What kind of wood is it, where does it grow? I asked – he said he got it in Gundabad from a dead enemy. And you know, he spoke the truth – he really did fight there, I’m sure of it! I also got a good look at Sandello – what whip scars he has on his back! Only a master of the bullwhip could leave such marks. Where did they come from? From the same place as the horseshoes? I don’t believe they’re from Dale for a second!”

The dwarf fell silent, and for a while only the crunch of gravel under their feet was heard. Folco was the first to break the silence:

“And you know, Thorin, I believed them. Somehow it seems to me that this Olmer isn’t deceiving us. Sandello is sincere too…”

“Nothing I forgot,” Folco muttered in turn, blushing and lowering his head. “It was just a misunderstanding there, Sandello repented. They gave me a dagger as a gift…”

“Show it to me again,” the dwarf suddenly asked, extending his palm. “I want to see what exactly won you over so.”

The hobbit reached into his shirt and suddenly felt that he very much didn’t want to give the gift into anyone’s hands, whoever they might be; but Thorin was Thorin, and Folco mastered himself.

The dwarf carefully received the dagger extracted from the scabbard still hanging on the hobbit’s chest, with blue Flowers on the blade. He turned it this way and that for a long time, tested the point with his finger, tried to bend it, scraped at the hilt with his nail; gazed long at the stone by the crossguard; finally satisfied, he silently extended the dagger to the hobbit who had been anxiously following him; Folco hastily hid it and unexpectedly felt relief – this dagger, it seemed, possessed some strange power over its new owner.

“Never seen anything like it,” Thorin suddenly admitted, spreading his hands. “This isn’t our work, and the steel isn’t either. Excellent steel, by the way – both strong and flexible… And how the pattern is applied – I can only guess. Our smiths don’t know how to do this, I would know. This stone, though, is familiar to me – staurolites aren’t considered precious, they’re quite fragile, easily worked, but one this large and with such a clear cross – that’s also a rarity. I’d like to know why he needed to give it to you! To you – a dagger, to me – this staff… How am I even supposed to make an axe-handle from it?!”

They fell silent. Before both their eyes stood that amazing spectacle – Olmer and the hunchback. Each recalled the details of the extraordinary meeting.

Having passed through the entire clearing, Thorin suddenly slapped his forehead:

“Fine pair we are! Trampled the hoof tracks!”

“Who trampled, and who looked and remembered!” The hobbit stuck out his tongue at his friend. “Horseshoes with five nails, between the first and second, counting from the left, such a three-rayed star… Yes, anyway, there they are, don’t you see?! But let’s postpone other conversations for later – they’re surely already looking for us!”

They reached the camp just as an alarmed Rogvold was dispatching mounted men in all directions to search. The hobbit and dwarf had to make excuses with hastily invented tall tales, and only at night, when the caravan stopped at the edge of the forest beside a village abandoned by people, did they gather a council of their few closest friends.

They sat in darkness, carefully plugging the gaps in the wagon’s canopy and wrapping themselves in blankets – by evening an icy wind had unexpectedly pulled down from the mountains. Kid, Rogvold, Dori and Bran came. They already knew the story of the “Sheath of Strider,” Olmer from Dale, and the old chronicler; Folco and Thorin told them in full detail all that had happened.

“Let’s start with what we have,” Rogvold began after Folco fell silent and licked his lips, dried during the long tale. “The tracks of horseshoes, they’re really unusual.”

“Couldn’t be more unusual – such a mark!” Bran pronounced thoughtfully.

“Pity I didn’t see them myself,” Rogvold sighed. “However, such a brand is unknown to me. What could this star mean?!”

“The star’s clear enough,” Thorin answered. “It’s called Izelgrid and in ancient times signified the unity of the three Underground Elements: Stone, Fire and Water. But I haven’t heard of any of the tangars using it as a brand!”

“But couldn’t one of the human smiths have thought up such a simple symbol himself?!” Rogvold asked.

Thorin couldn’t think of an answer, and then Kid unexpectedly spoke up.

“If someone gives me a mug of hill beer, I’ll probably say where these horseshoes are from!” he suddenly smirked slyly.

“You?! From where?! Speak!” everyone started babbling at once, but Kid stood his ground.

“First beer! And not that thimble that stingy Thorin just poured, but my mug!”

Expressively shaking his head and twisting his lips, Thorin poured Kid the required mug. The Little Dwarf unhurriedly drank, grunted, wiped his chin… A pause ensued. Kid surveyed his watching friends with a sly glance.

“This sign – Izelgrid – is put on his wares by one rangtor from Erebor,” he casually tossed out. “I knew him. He quarreled with his people from the Lonely Mountain and went north, to the Dragon Plateau. He makes such horseshoes, moreover adding copper to them, which makes them heavier but softer and better fitting to the hoof…”

“Rangtor?” Rogvold asked in puzzlement, but Thorin explained that dwarves call a tangar a loner, living and working at his own risk, an outcast who has left his kinsmen.

“He’s quite a gloomy character,” Kid continued, “but a great master. I met him when I went to Erebor, five winters ago.”

“Horseshoes from Erebor…” Thorin drawled thoughtfully. “And Theophrastus said – he’s from Dale. Well, maybe it’s true… But what good does it do us?!”

“At least that if he lies, it’s not always,” Folco interjected.

“True enough,” Rogvold nodded. “Our hobbit is quite right. So in some things we can rely on this Olmer’s words.”

Thorin merely shrugged.

“Now further,” the former centurion continued. “His gifts. Our Folco’s dagger – an absolutely amazing and incomprehensible thing. Where could such a thing come from?! Who could have made it?!” In response the dwarves merely spread their hands. “If this isn’t your work, honored ones, then whose?”

“One can guess endlessly,” Bran muttered. “Maybe it was made by descendants of Knights from Overseas even before the Enemy’s fall. Maybe it was crafted somewhere in the east, about whose wonders so many tall tales are spun.”

“He said – it’s their Gundabad trophy,” Folco reminded them.

“Gundabad?! Let’s think about what’s been there these last few years,” Rogvold scratched his beard. “No, somehow nothing comes to mind. Maybe the dwarves heard something?!”

Thorin and Bran in turn spread their hands, but Dori suddenly leaned forward.

“I heard something,” he began slowly, furrowing his brow. “Somewhere in those parts a detachment that attacked Erebor last autumn disappeared without trace – remember? In Annuminas I once met an acquaintance who was passing through the kingdom of the Beornings just in those days and heard that the border guard raised the alarm and a large detachment of forest dwellers set out northward. I know nothing more about this, but one way or another, those who came from the east vanished without trace.”

“Well, maybe so,” Thorin said uncertainly. “Only too many of these ‘maybes’!”

“That’s all we have left,” Rogvold shrugged. “Well, maybe Bran’s right, and the dagger really is from the east. And your staff, Thorin?!”

The dwarf pulled out from under the bags piled at the bottom of the wagon a long pole or staff that seemed yellowish in the dim light of the oil lamp. They turned and twisted it for a long time, shrugged their shoulders. Kid even tried it with his tooth; the best dwarf blades cut it only with difficulty and quickly dulled. The dwarves again spread their hands. No one could even remotely suppose what this was and where it came from.

“What are you going to do with it, Thorin?” Rogvold finally asked, returning the mysterious gift of the gold-seeker to the dwarf.

“Make an axe-handle,” the dwarf muttered.

“By the way, Thorin, did you know him before?!” Folco suddenly remembered. “What kind of nickname is Evil Archer?”

“Knew him… long ago, though,” the dwarf answered reluctantly, turning away. “We made his acquaintance,” – he smiled crookedly – “about thirty years ago, when he was still young. We were fitting new city gates in Archedain, and he… He was also a stranger in that city, they showed him to us when he was shooting pigeons on the wing for a bet on the fair square, never missing once. That’s how he got his nickname then, and I quickly forgot his name… And I didn’t recognize him right away – he’s still changed a lot, though his face is still not old. But we finished our work and went back to the mountains, and what became of Evil Archer, truth be told, little concerned me.”

“And what shortened beard of Durin did he mention?” the hobbit continued his questions, but ran into the cold silence of Thorin, who had withdrawn into himself.

“Let’s not talk about it,” he quietly asked the hobbit. “Because of that beard I once quarreled with our elders… Alright, enough about that! So what happened with this Sandello now?”

Having heard out the hobbit, the dwarf twisted his lips doubtfully.

“But they were driving a herd of mature four-year-olds, fit for the saddle!” the centurion interjected. “We mustn’t forget this when we write to the Steward – remember, dear Thorin, that this Olmer is still being sought.”

The dwarf frowned.

“He found us himself, and our disputes with him are our disputes,” he cut off gloomily. “Our quarrel doesn’t concern Annuminas!”

“They might be seeking him for something quite different,” Rogvold answered, pursing his lips. “It’s not right to shelter one who should stand before judgment. We don’t seize the innocent!”

“And still it’s unclear: why did he need all this?” Dori muttered. “What did he say – that the meeting wasn’t chance?!”

“Why guess,” Bran said gloomily. “I’d like to know what this Olmer meant by – ‘I wish you to return just as you are now’? Could he know something about Moria too?”

“We’ll find out when we get there,” Thorin dropped in the same tone.

“And yet we’re needed by him for something,” Rogvold said thoughtfully. “Otherwise why would he reconcile his hunchback with you? And he did reconcile you! Who knows – is this the last meeting?”

They talked for a long time yet, but couldn’t decide what profit Olmer could have and what relation their journey could have to this dark, mysterious man. Giving up the puzzle, they lay down to sleep:

only two marches remained to the Gates of Moria.

Folco slept poorly. Unclear, confused dreams tormented him; to his inner sight appeared now high towers never seen by him, engulfed in strange bluish fire, now chasms filled with crimson fog and vague shadows moving in the bloody murk; or, as if in reality, he saw black gloves on the mighty hands of Olmer, breaking the axe of Thorin that had seemed unbreakable for so long. And still Folco couldn’t shake the thought that Olmer had some secret purpose, perhaps he wanted the hobbit and his companions to really break through into Moria and the gifted blade might be useful there; however, the hobbit also sensed that Olmer acted by intuition, as if moved by sudden impulse…

The last days of the journey passed in tense anticipation. The forests disappeared, yielding to a sad plain full of abandoned houses and wild gardens. The Sirannon here turned sharply right, going south along the walls of the Misty Mountains. Folco didn’t dismount from his pony, staying together with Gloin, Dwalin, Rogvold and Thorin at the head of the caravan. They doubled their caution; there was nowhere to hide, and they carefully bypassed empty farms and homesteads, avoiding looking at the black windows of empty houses that seemed like eye sockets pecked out by crows in the dead. The meeting with Olmer and Sandello still wouldn’t leave the hobbit’s mind; but no matter how much he pondered, he couldn’t understand what fate had brought this extraordinary man onto one path with them and why he needed these explanations. However, earthly concerns held fast, it seemed, only him alone; approaching the Gates of Moria the dwarves forgot everything in the world. Their eyes burned, from their lips burst inarticulate exclamations in a language unknown to the hobbit; they were approaching the main shrine of their people. “Impenetrably dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold as ice are the springs of Kibil-nâla…”

On the last day of their journey the road went along the crest of a hilly ridge, the northern edge of the Gateway Valley. They left behind the remains of a wharf, gnawed by an old fire; Folco and Thorin, unable to restrain themselves, walked to the destroyed stone steps once hewn by dwarves to bypass the Moria Threshold. With the beginning of the new Age the dwarves cleared a path for their flat-bottomed boats and rafts down the river and laid a new road over the valley. The marshy lake that once so frightened Frodo had disappeared; along the valley bottom the Sirannon ran merrily, the slopes of the riverside hills covered with neglected apple orchards.

“That was great work,” Thorin said quietly, as if to himself, with a sigh. “And it all went to dust…”

Behind them footsteps were heard – from the wagons stopped above, Gloin was descending to them. The Moria dwarf was dressed in his best clothes, his mighty chest was covered by a gleaming mail-shirt, on his wide ornate belt hung an decorated axe and a spiked war-flail. He stopped beside them and placed his hand on Folco’s shoulder – the hobbit felt a fine tremor that periodically ran through Gloin’s body. The exile stood on the threshold of his home.

For several moments they were silent, gazing at the gray walls of the cliffs among which the Gates were hidden; then Gloin suddenly smiled and lightly pushed the hobbit.

“Do you like it, Folco? You haven’t seen anything yet, when we sweep out this filth that’s seeped into Khazad-dûm again! I swear by Durin’s beard, people won’t have to abandon settled places near our Gates anymore.”

“Beautiful,” the hobbit sighed peacefully, looking at the blue ribbon of the Sirannon. “Wait, Gloin, I heard that before there was some terrible stagnant pond here, where all sorts of monsters lived?!”

“True,” Gloin nodded with a smile. “Such things were here!.. After the victory the dwarves set about draining this lake, but first they wove a net from the last remnants of mithril and caught Watcher and all his offspring, drained the water and sealed the hole to the underground rivers tightly, and then returned the Sirannon to its former bed.”

Folco wanted to ask the Morian about the details of that catch, but their companions called to them from the road. The sun had already descended to the very horizon. The Gates lay several hundred paces from them, and in the hastily set up camp a fire was already being kindled for supper. Folco sighed and trudged off to prepare the evening meal. The assault on the Gates was scheduled for tomorrow.