Chapter 6: Wolf Stone

Thorin wrapped the hobbit’s head in a black cloth, leaving only narrow slits for his eyes; the other dwarves did the same. Grani pushed the Gates’ doors, they soundlessly parted, and blinding sunlight burst into the opening – evening was already descending, long sunset rays beat directly into the faces of the dwarves emerging onto the surface, and if not for the bandages, they would surely have gone blind. On a pile of stones near the entrance to the underground sat two Rangers with bows in their hands – Gerdin and Resvald. At first they couldn’t utter a word and only stared in amazement at the appeared comrades as if at visitors from beyond the Thundering Seas, and then rushed to them. The others immediately ran to the Gates at their joyful cries. However, the dwarves weren’t hurrying to join their jubilant exclamations; they threw bags from their shoulders and plopped down where they stood, as if the gentle sunlight in one moment cut the invisible bonds that had kept their strength and will fit for immediate action and battle. The dwarves answered the Rangers’ endless questions listlessly; at first they exchanged puzzled glances, but then probably decided that their friends were simply exhausted, and led them to camp where tight bundles were already being ripped open and a big festive supper was being prepared.

Folco was immediately in Rogvold’s embrace, then the others didn’t fail to clap him on the shoulder or ruffle his head. The dwarves dragged themselves to camp, slowly, heavily, as if through force; the hobbit felt that he too had only one desire left – to fall asleep as soon as possible, to try to forget at least temporarily the experienced pain and perhaps to see Hornbori in a dream. The dwarves buried him when the hobbit lay unconscious, and he couldn’t say goodbye to his friend. The suddenly overwhelming bitterness of loss made him groan. Hornbori! Having saved everyone and perished himself, he should have taken a worthy place in the Hall of Waiting, beside the Great Durin himself…

Wood crackled in the fire, a clear and warm July night hung over the Misty Mountains, bird voices came, and along the edge of the trembling crimson circle cast by the fire sat side by side people and dwarves. The horns raised in stern silence for Hornbori were emptied, tart golden wine of the south burned the hobbit’s throat: on the other side of the fire the old hunter rose.

“So what did you see there, friends? Did you find what you were seeking?”

“We found it,” Thorin answered, gloomily looking at the ground. “We found and saw everything that a Mortal was capable of seeing. And the one who approached closest to the Power of the Mountains remained there… Write to the Steward, Rogvold! Write that the Devourers of Mountains have moved west. That’s all we can say.”

Thorin dropped his head on his chest and fell silent. Beside him the dwarves froze like statues, their limply dropped hands seemed lifeless. The dwarves were silent, looking at the ground, the people exchanged anxious glances – the celebration wasn’t working out.

“Why don’t you ask what happened with us here, above?” Rogvold broke the silence. Thorin looked at him.

“Three times terror came upon us from the Gates,” the old centurion began. “We barely endured, it was impossible not to succumb to it, and whoever resisted sometimes fell unconscious. We saw distant smoke in the south, as if someone was giving signals. In the north we saw the glow of fire.”

“Let’s better sleep,” Shorty suddenly yawned. “Night will pass, morning will bring counsel…”

The puzzled people dispersed, heavy sleep closed the eyelids of the dwarves who escaped from the clutches of Darkness, and only two sentries kept watch in the deserted camp.

The sun passed its zenith, the day was declining when the exhausted dwarves finally began to wake. It seemed all their strength remained there, in the blackness of Morian tunnels – so empty and cold their gazes had become. Reluctantly they followed Thorin who called them somewhere, slowly and unwillingly swallowing the late breakfast prepared for them by the alarmed people. The Rangers, looking at the dwarves with surprise, left them alone for the time being.

Thorin led his kinsmen to a small ravine behind the camp. They sat wherever; the hobbit looked around at his friends – the dwarves sat as yesterday, sluggish and indifferent – only Dori’s burning eyes remained the same, and Shorty somehow particularly imperturbably leaned his back against a young hornbeam. The hobbit was gradually also overcome by dull and hopeless indifference; he was still there, below, where the daring dream of the Morians and Dori about the revival of the First Dwarf’s kingdom was buried. Earthly affairs seemed petty and insubstantial to the hobbit, and he began to understand his friends – what were they to do next?

Thorin, rising, asked the dwarves this same question.

“Why waste time!” Dori clenched his fists. “The Devourers of Mountains are leaving from under Moria. We have the Ring that helped overcome the fear they inspire. We need to gather a militia! We’ll cleanse the ancient realm of the filth that’s settled there! And these underground ones… let them dig wherever they want! So we need to split up, send messengers to Erebor and the Iron Hills, and also to Eriador and the Blue Mountains – to all our settlements!”

Hot-tempered Dori jumped to his feet, as usual chopping the air before him with his hand. No one answered him. The silence dragged on, and then Bran spoke – an old and experienced dwarf whom no one could accuse of cowardice.

“Until the Hall of Waiting I’ll have enough now of what I endured in Moria,” he said hollowly. “What will you do against this Power, Dori! Yes, I know, you won’t retreat and will fall with valor – but what does it matter to those whom you’ll lead after you and who’ll share your fate? And who will follow you? I, at least, won’t dare a second time…”

Dori ground his teeth and spoke with restrained passion:

“If we all talk like this, the glory and strength of our tribe awaits a shameful end! We didn’t clash with the Devourers for real even once, and this must be learned, as Grani said. I don’t know why he’s silent now! Maybe these Devourers can have the vault brought down on them, maybe arrange undermining, maybe let in water! But we need to do something.”

Bran only waved his hand and sat down, showing not the slightest desire to argue with his furious comrade. Instead Balin spoke:

“How do you know, Dori, that all the underground enemies have left from under the Mines? How do you know they won’t return?” The dwarf drawled words slowly and indifferently, as if out of duty. “How do you know the limit of their Power? We learned nothing about their nature, their intentions, much less their vulnerable places! We were overthrown after the very first encounter, without managing to understand or even see anything! You hope in the Ring, but how many can it protect?” Balin shrugged. “As for me, I think we should all go to Annuminas. There’s still plenty of glorious iron there, good work, and good beer. To go down,” he shuddered, “I have no strength.”

“You think I do?” Dori looked heavily at Balin.

“Enough now,” Shorty suddenly dropped. “We didn’t merit the Devourers’ attention, they’re indifferent to us. And who knows if they even noticed Hornbori at all, may the slab over his bed never crack! Look!”

He raised his left arm bent at the elbow. Along the brown sleeve crawled a greenish shiny beetle. Shorty blew, and the light inhabitant of the grass country was immediately carried away. The Small Dwarf looked at his comrades.

“But did I wish it evil?” Shorty finished. “I might not have noticed it, and even the fact that I raised my hand means nothing. Everything could have been simply by chance.”

“You speak well,” Grani smirked, his lips trembling and twisting. “But my knees are shaking as soon as I remember it all! We have no place there, brothers, no place! What can I say – don’t wave your fists after the fight. Let whoever is stronger than me try… But I’d rather go to Annuminas with Balin.”

“And why do you so stubbornly mention the Ring, Dori?” Viard said in a timid patter, looking aside. “Is it with you? Did you crawl up to its fallen keeper? And anyway, why is Thorin silent? The Ring is with him now, everything depends on him.”

Thorin sighed heavily and cast an almost guilty glance at Dori frozen before him. He sighed again, ran his hand along the axe handle, and said quietly, barely audibly:

“I won’t go to Moria again, Dori. They’re stronger than us, and something tells me that the fate of our tribe this time will be decided not in the underground but here, on the surface.”

At Thorin’s very first words Dori went terribly pale and staggered; for the first time Folco saw the furious dwarf in such despair.

“You won’t go…” he almost moaned through his teeth. “Curse upon your head, on all your lineage to the twelfth generation!”

Dori moved his palms away from his face, angry tears stood in his eyes, and suddenly through them blazed the flame of his unrestrained anger, the axe whistled through the air.

“One on one, coward, one on one!” he shouted at Thorin. “Give back the Ring, traitor, give it back!”

And Dori jumped forward. No one expected such agility from him, but who could imagine that Shorty would be even faster? The Small Dwarf hung on Dori’s shoulders, gripping him with arms and legs;

Dori couldn’t keep his balance and crashed onto the grass; wasting no time, Shorty twisted the weapon from his immediately weakened hand. Dori lay with his face buried in the grass and didn’t resist, his shoulders suddenly trembled treacherously.

Thorin didn’t jump back, didn’t grab his axe, didn’t even stir, remaining sitting as he sat.

“Leave him, Shorty,” he ordered his friend.

He grumbled but climbed off the prone Dori, who still didn’t raise his face.

“Listen to me, Dori,” Thorin spoke softly. “Our roads diverge – it came time for me to understand what’s happening on the surface, you decided to fight for the depths. But must we part as enemies? Tell me, tangars,” he addressed the others, “what do you want to do next? No one except Dori wants to go to Moria. Where will you go now?”

“We’re to Annuminas,” Balin threw out.

“Who else? Stroi, Skidulf, Viard, Bran…”

“We’ll return to the Blue Mountains,” Grani cut off grimly.

With him, as always, were Gimli and Thror. Gloin, Dwalin, and Dori stubbornly kept silent. Dori struggled to rise, looking up at Thorin from below.

“What will you do, brothers?” he asked the Morians.

Dwalin sighed and spread his hands.

“We’ll go to the Lonely Mountain.”

“Good! Dori, are you with them?” Thorin stepped forward and thrust his hand under his shirt. “I don’t know yet where I’ll go, but most likely Thror’s Ring will be more needed by you than by me. Dori! Take it.”

The shocked dwarves froze. Dori only looked at Thorin with wide-open eyes. He stepped toward him, holding out on his palm a gleaming golden band. Dori shuddered and somehow confusedly and helplessly looked back at the Morians.

“Take it, Dori,” Gloin said hollowly. “I swear by the Morian Hammers, you’ve earned it. Dwalin and I will go with you and after you, believe me!”

With trembling hands Dori accepted the Ring from Thorin’s easily unclenching palm and slowly put it on his finger. Gradually his shoulders straightened, his eyes flashed with new fire; he bowed before Thorin in a low, respectful bow.

“I don’t know if I’ve earned it,” he said quietly, straightening. “But I swear by the eternal fire of the Forge and the sacred beard of Durin, I accept it only to help the revival of Moria. I swear!” He clenched his fists, his voice trembled. “Now we can go to Erebor and bring from there not thirteen but thirteen hundred tangars! And then we’ll see whose will prevail!”

“Well then, we have nothing more to seek here,” Thorin summed up. “The people should go home too… We set out today!”

“And where will you direct your path yourself?” Viard suddenly asked Thorin.

“It’s a long story,” Thorin smirked. “And no need. I’m going to meddle in people’s affairs, Viard, and here few approve of that. However, I completely forgot. Shorty! I didn’t hear your decision…”

“Mine has long been decided,” the Small Dwarf peacefully responded, chewing a blade of grass. “Where you and Folco go, there I go. I have nothing to do in Annuminas. Maybe I’ll be of use to you…”

That same evening, when the commotion of gathering had settled, Thorin, Folco, and the old hunter sat on stones not far from the Gates of Moria, admiring the magnificent summer sunset. Thorin told the shocked and silent man about their underground adventures.

“…But the most important thing, Rogvold,” are the words of the captive orc. A new master has appeared, one who’s gathering under his hand the remnants of those who served the traitor Saruman. He babbled something about the last battle with the elves, about how all his kinsmen would rise for him. Don’t forget, tell the Steward about this, convince him not to delay! The storm must break, and to meet it one needs to have enough troops at hand. Let the Steward send messengers to the Blue Mountains, let them not spare gold and words about old friendship and the old alliance between the United Kingdom and the tangars of the West, let him at any price achieve that the hird be ready, that our detachments can march to the Capital any day. The hird will reach Annuminas in seven days, remember this! Seven days, no less."

“So there’ll be war?” Rogvold whispered, biting his lips in agitation.

“Who knows?” the dwarf shrugged. “I’d like to be wrong! But this master… I know he’s a man, more, alas, I know nothing…”

They were silent, then Rogvold carefully asked:

“But where are you yourself going, with Folco and Shorty?”

“I haven’t asked Folco yet,” the dwarf answered. “We’ll find out now.”

The hobbit shivered. Where now? Before him lay boundless expanses; he so wanted to see more! But… tell someone how tired he was of sleeping anyhow, like a homeless dog! He’d already forgotten when he last had occasion to eat a normal dinner – that is, with six courses and on good china plates, not from these tin bowls! Relatives, Melisenta, uncle… But really, what was he counting? The matter wasn’t finished, the search continued, and he needed to go with his friends.

“I’m with you,” he answered firmly.

“And again I say – splendid!” Thorin smiled joyfully. “Now listen to me. I thought long about the orc’s words, and nothing else comes out. I believe the ‘master,’ whoever he is, was obliged to reach Isengard, since talk turned to Saruman’s legacy! He’s either already taken control of it or preparing to. I’m going there, friend hobbit. And it may turn out this journey will be more dangerous than the Devourers of Mountains! It won’t be such a big detour, though – from here to Isengard is two weeks’ walk. In a month and a half we’ll be in Tarbad, Rogvold. From there we’ll send you word. By the way, don’t forget to scribble a couple words on our travel permit – it’ll come in handy at the Rohirric borders.”

They said farewell in the morning – nine dwarves were leaving west with the Rangers; Dori, Gloin, and Dwalin intended to cross through the Redhorn Gates to the Riverlands and then to Eriador; Shorty, Folco, and Thorin headed south. Before parting the dwarves and Folco came together in a tight circle.

“So our company’s journey has ended,” Thorin began. “But we mustn’t lose sight of each other. Dori! How can I learn about you and your affairs?”

“We’ll reach Esgaroth and write from there to Annuminas, to the ‘Horn of Arachorn,’” Dori answered, trying with all his might to seem calm. “But don’t expect news from us before November! The caravan still has to cross the Misty Mountains… Well, and then – you know where to find us.”

They fell silent. A lump rose in the hobbit’s throat – for the first time he was parting with those with whom he’d fought shoulder to shoulder and shared travel bread. A new, unfamiliar feeling stung his eyes. He sniffled and, raising his head, noticed that the others were also bashfully turning away from each other.

“And let us remember the one who remained here,” Thorin said with a sigh. “May no one disturb the peace of his bed…”

The dwarves silently bowed their heads. The farewell ended, they began to disperse. Folco climbed onto his pony’s back and tied the lead of the second horse, laden with their travel supplies, to the saddle bow. Shorty – unprecedented! – himself gave the beer he’d so jealously guarded to his friends, keeping only a small jug for himself. Rogvold rode up to Folco and Thorin who were already mounted.

“It’s best for you to reach the Rohirric posts on the Southern Tract,” said the former centurion, hiding sadness under a smile. “They’ll show you the shortest way to the Watch-wood around Isengard, but won’t go into it themselves – it has an evil reputation, though I don’t believe these old wives’ tales. Now go strictly southwest, in less than a week you’ll find yourself on the Tract. From there to the Gates of Rohan is another twelve days.”

“I wanted to go straight,” Thorin objected. “That way we’ll take only two weeks instead of three.”

“I wouldn’t risk crossing Dunland now,” Rogvold shook his head. “Who knows these highlanders, they’re a bad lot.”

“When I have a league to the mountains on my left hand, I won’t fear any Dunlendlings,” Thorin answered proudly.

They went their separate ways. Leather reins clapped, horses leaned into their harnesses; Folco and Thorin also took up their reins. Frequently looking back, the parting travelers waved to each other, sending comrades a last greeting. The barely visible path turned down to the narrow and swift Sirannon, and Folco lost the people and dwarves from sight.

Thorin didn’t follow Rogvold’s advice, heading straight south along the impregnable cliffs of the Misty Mountains. The sad land with abandoned houses and overgrowing roads gave way to wooded foothills, long and steep hills covered with sparse forests thinned by numerous fellings. Down the slopes ran streams taking their source in the mountains, clear and swift; over their transparent waters hung dense crowns of beeches and hornbeams. After long weeks of underground wanderings, the hobbit’s eyes had to get used again to the world’s multicolor.

The first three days they rode along roads still preserved here and there; on the fourth – their gaze no longer met any traces of man, but Thorin fearlessly led them into the very depths of the foothill forests. They kept the mountains on their left hand, and with such a landmark there was nothing to fear of losing the way.

At first the hobbit feared meeting some wandering band of robbers; he firmly remembered Theofast’s words about secret settlements of bold men in these parts; but day followed day, a week passed, and they still met only prints of animal paws.

One night the hobbit felt the familiar languid suffocation, vague fear rolling as a clammy lump to his throat, and understood that the Depths had disgorged onto the surface another of their spawn; but the travelers were already too far for this to affect them seriously, though the hobbit did wake in cold sweat, convulsively grabbing his weapon.

These wild lands were good and free; however, the forests soon ended, retreating on the ninth day before the onslaught of wide grassy steppes. The travelers were emerging at the borders of Dunland.

But breaking out of the long forest tongues onto the expanse of the steppe road proved far from simple. Along the forest border trees were felled and piled in long, high barriers stretching far right and left. The barriers were kept in order – nowhere was rot visible, and moss covered only the lowest trunks.

“Someone’s fencing themselves off here,” Thorin said with concern, having ridden along the simple fortification. “A man on foot could climb over, of course… But what about us?”

“Who made them?” the hobbit asked, hastily looking around as if expecting the appearance of unknown enemies from the thickets.

“We don’t know what we’ve left behind,” Thorin nodded. “Most likely some friends-comrades of that Dron you caught, Shorty. Well, no use guessing, we need to get out.”

However, much time passed before they managed to construct a ramp and lead the resistant ponies over the barrier. Soon they rode onto the steppe bay licking the mountain foothills. Beyond it on a hill groves were visible, but around already began the realm of grasses. Here the wide steppes of Enedwaith climbed up the gentle slopes of foothills stretched far west of the Misty Mountains, constraining the mountain forests higher, and here lay the country of those whom the chronicles of Middle-earth called Dunlendings, and what the highlanders called themselves, no one still knew. Remembering Theofast’s warnings, Thorin doubled his caution. Soon they passed a border sign – a carved wooden post, darkened by rains and winds, covered with images of bared wolf muzzles.

On the hills here and there became noticeable some low log structures, and near a narrow stream in the valley between two ridges the travelers saw a small village: they bypassed it by a good league – the village seemed far from peaceful. About twenty young men were exercising beyond the outskirts in shooting from bows and throwing spears; few busied themselves in their gardens – people crowded the streets as if animatedly discussing something; the wind carried to the dwarves and hobbit hiding in a secluded place the hum of agitated, excited voices. They couldn’t understand a word, but there was no mistaking the mood of the village inhabitants.

Several hours later seven riders on stocky work horses rode out of the village, followed by eleven on foot, behind whom crawled two carts harnessed with pairs of draft horses. The infantry walked with long shields resembling troughs; above their heads were raised short thick spears. The riders had small round shields with sharp forged spikes in the center and spears, longer and thinner than those of their foot comrades. Probably all the adult population of the hamlet poured out to see off the detachment – many strong men and young fellows still remained in it.

“Where are they heading, I’d like to know,” Thorin muttered, following the small detachment of Dunlendings with a heavy gaze.

After this they deemed it wise to bypass this land that hadn’t seemed particularly hospitable to them, and that same day continued their journey, turning their backs to the mountains. On the third day the borders of Dunland remained far to the south, behind curtains of oak groves reliably covering the travelers.

It was already past noon when the almost completely overgrown forest road led them to a wide clearing from which they saw a half-ruined bridge over a quiet stream; on the other bank the road climbed steeply uphill.

“What a bad road,” Shorty grumbled. “Such a road leads you on and on, and then look – you’re already in such a hole that who knows how to get out. Thorin, where did this road come from?”

“Who are you asking?” Thorin threw without turning. “Yavanna or what? We’re going right now, tomorrow we turn south, and there the Tract isn’t far.”

“May Durin help us reach the Tract whole,” Shorty wouldn’t let up. “We should have gone through the forest! Any moment they’ll attack…”

“And bite off your nose,” Thorin muttered.

“And the silence here… too quiet,” Shorty continued, turning his head.

Unexpectedly he tightened the reins and, stopping, began hurriedly putting on his armor. Thorin hmmed, shrugged, and turned to the hobbit.

“Do you notice anything, Folco?”

The hobbit spread his hands. Thorin looked once more at Shorty armed from head to toe, muttered something, waved his hand, and in turn began pulling on his mail coat. Folco followed his friends’ example, though he didn’t share Shorty’s anxiety.

Having crossed the old bridge, the hobbit was about to send his pony forward when suddenly Shorty’s quiet, barely audible call stopped him, who had lingered on the gray ancient logs:

“Hey!.. Well, well!”

Thorin and Folco hurried to him. Shorty sat in the saddle, leaning low and intently examining something between his horse’s hooves. Looking closer, the hobbit saw that in this place the rotted and moss-covered edge of the log was broken, dark-brown cubes had crumbled as if someone had struck hard with something sharp – and quite recently. They silently exchanged glances, and Thorin as if casually pulled his axe from his belt.

“Someone rode through here. Maybe yesterday, maybe earlier, but a rider crossed the bridge,” Shorty declared, straightening and in turn baring his weapon. “Let’s move, why are we standing here in plain sight…”

At a careful pace they rode up the hill and paused just short of reaching the crest, to look around and at the same time not silhouette against the sky. Their eyes opened onto a clearing overgrown with tall unmown grass; on the right it broke off to the river, and on the left stretched copses, here and there throwing forward tongues of young alder. Quite near the road, above the very cliff, stood a large black stone about one and a half fathoms high and two wide. The road descended steeply, and about a mile from them along the roadside stood strange squat houses with gentle single-slope roofs. For several minutes the friends silently examined the unusual settlement that seemed empty and lifeless.

“Well, shall we go?” Thorin broke the silence.

“Ha! What if someone’s sitting there?” cautious Shorty objected.

“Don’t guess, the village is empty,” Folco intervened, having until then listened attentively to something. “We can go boldly.”

“What makes you think so?” Shorty was surprised. “Maybe they’ve all hidden in cellars?”

“Hear how the birds are crying?” Folco squinted; the weak wind carried to them the voices of forest dwellers. “These are red-throats, I know them. They’re so wary they won’t let anyone closer than we are now. And they’re crying almost in the village itself. They’d notice people a mile away, sneaking up on them – oh, how difficult!”

“Hm!” Thorin shrugged. “That’s what it means – a dweller of the Heights! Listen, what kind of birds are these anyway? Why haven’t I heard of them before? What are they like? Big or not?”

“Not only big but tasty,” Folco smirked, pulling his quiver closer. “You wait here for me, I’ll go ahead. Maybe we’ll get some game!”

However, before separating, they had to pass the black stone standing slightly aside; Thorin insisted they examine it.

On the black surface of the stone stood out the contours of two figures – animal and human. A broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a round face stood on her left knee, her right hand resting on a long bow, and the other dropped on the scruff of a she-wolf leaning forward with bared jaws and bristling fur. The heads of the figures, executed with extraordinary care, struck with the skill of the work; the bodies merged with the stone, going into its depth. Folco looked at the statues as if spellbound; something frightening, unkind was in them, something unusual that made the hobbit look long and intently at them until it finally dawned on him – the woman had the eyes of a wolf, and the beast had human ones! Folco froze; at that same second the sun that had hidden for a time peeked out from behind white cumulus clouds, its rays fell directly on the faces of the stone figures, and then not only the hobbit shuddered – the woman and she-wolf suddenly saw! On the seemingly blind eyes appeared black pupils directed straight at the luminary. The faces of the statues came alive; animal alertness and inhuman wisdom read in the wakened by sun gaze of the woman, and human depth and reason – in the pupils of her companion. The wolfish and human principles so intertwined in them that they seemed sisters.

The dwarves sighed in agreement and admiration, clicking their tongues as they always did seeing someone’s remarkable work.

“How did they manage this, explain to me?” Shorty muttered, approaching the stone very close.

Finally leaving behind the mysterious creation of unknown masters, they moved forward slowly and carefully. Soon Folco stopped his companions, dismounted, and crept on. He’d put back on his left hand the considerably worn archer’s glove without fingers, took two arrows from his quiver, and prepared himself.

He raised the red-throats not a hundred paces from the village edge. About half a dozen heavy red-breasted birds, filling the air with the resilient flapping of wings, burst from the greenery of low flexible growth and, skimming over the very ground, rushed away, yielding only slightly in speed to lightning-fast eagles. Their takeoff was so unexpected that not one of Arnor’s archers would have had time even to squint; not one man or dwarf – but not a hobbit! His long white-feathered arrow whistled, and a gray-scarlet bird struck the ground heavily.

Tying the downed red-throat behind his back, Folco waved to his friends waiting for him. While they approached – and they needed to cover almost a mile – the hobbit examined the nearest buildings. They looked, to tell the truth, quite uncomfortable, it was evident the village had long been abandoned;

Along rotten and collapsed fences rose dense green grass, almost hiding the time-gnawed stakes. Houses leaned, tiers settled, wind rustled dried shingles on roofs. The nearest house stood altogether forlornly baring black rafters overgrown with some moss. Death and desolation blew on the hobbit from these houses that suddenly seemed to him so like ancient old men forgotten by children, waiting and unable to wait for the return of heirs.

The three friends slowly rode along the single street, sadly looking at the black holes of windows. At one of the houses, larger than the others and at first glance not so dilapidated, Thorin reined in his pony.

“Shall we go in?”

Shorty agreed easily and immediately, Folco trudged after the dwarves with heaviness in his heart. He couldn’t get used to the sight of abandoned dwellings – in the Shire such a thing wouldn’t be dreamt of even in a nightmare.

The low plank door wasn’t even propped by anything; the long iron hinges, covered with centuries-old rust, groaned painfully; stepping over the high threshold, the hobbit glanced down and saw that both the threshold and the porch near it were sprinkled here and there with fine rusty dust, clearly from these hinges. Marveling where it could have come from and who could need to knock rust off the door hinges of an empty house, he entered inside.

It was rather dark there and smelled of absolutely nothing – the hobbit expected the smell of mold, dampness, or something similar, but no matter how much he drew air into himself, he could feel nothing. The floor boards had rotted and sagged considerably under the heavy boots of his companions; on the left in the log wall was another door. Opening it, they found themselves in a long and low room with a large hearth by the right wall; windows were arranged in the left. Along the wall stood several benches, by the hearth lay some rags, and in the far left corner stood a carved wooden post that suddenly vividly reminded the hobbit of the border sign they’d passed several days ago – the post was covered with images of wolves and topped with a skillfully carved wolf’s head. The whole post proved to be, to the hobbit’s surprise, hung with animal jaws – there were bear and badger, lynx and wolverine, elk and fox. Only wolf jaws were absent. The hobbit had to explain long to the dwarves which beast each bone belonged to. Suddenly he froze as if turned to stone when he reached for the next jaw. Right before him on a leather cord hung, hooked on a projection on the post, a white, carefully cleaned human jaw!

The hobbit immediately very much wanted to be outside and preferably far from this place. The dwarves at the sight of his find immediately grabbed their axes, but calming down, made the hobbit examine everything properly. This took considerable time, they crawled over the house from top to bottom but found nothing more suspicious, but another thing became clear to them.

“Someone was in the house,” the hobbit exhaled when they finished the inspection. “A month ago, maybe two. Rust was knocked off the hinges, the human jaw hangs on a clean leather cord, and all the others on woolen ones and are completely covered with dust. Besides, fire burned in the hearth.”

“Splendid!” Shorty hissed through his teeth. “Where have you led us, Thorin? Who lived here? Is this Dunland?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Thorin shook his head. “The houses here are at least completely different. And I haven’t heard that highlanders collect jaws!”

“Then who? Folco, at least you tell us!”

“What can I say?” the hobbit shrugged. “I read that in Saruman’s service were some ‘wolf-riders’ living somewhere in these parts, but who they are and where they went later – I don’t know.”

“And the human jaw? Where’s it from?”

“Remember what Franmar told Rogvold on the road to Annuminas,” Thorin grinned grimly. “I can’t get it out of my head – about those who cut out the lower jaws of captured Arnorian horsemen!”

“You mean to say…” Shorty began, grabbing his sword.

“I mean to say,” Thorin interrupted him, “that I won’t spend the night here for any money. Better in the forest! Let’s look for a place to overnight, the sun’s already setting.”

Trying to leave as few tracks as possible, they got out of the mysterious village and strode through the empty, overgrown field to the copses. The sun, though descending to the horizon, was still quite high; about an hour remained until dusk began.

“Fool!” Shorty slapped his forehead. “We didn’t get water!”

“You wouldn’t have gotten it in the village anyway,” the hobbit responded.

“But wells? There must be wells!”

“In abandoned villages wells die first,” Folco said sadly. “A well lives only while water is taken from it, while it’s needed. And once they stop drawing – it dies. They say its water master leaves from offense, and with them the water too. Then the frame collapses…”

“Look, a stream,” Thorin poked Shorty. “We’ll get some there.”

They rode upstream. The stream took its source in a forest spring beating from an erosion at the very edge of the alder grove. The water proved tasty, clean, cold, with some particularly pleasant smell either of awakening earth or budding leaves… They drank long and couldn’t tear themselves away, though thirst didn’t torment them.

Having ridden a hundred fathoms left of the spring along the forest edge, they unexpectedly came upon a strange half-dugout that probably once served as a cellar. Inside turned out quite dry, thick ancient boards covered the floor, opposite the door was a small rectangular window. Without thinking long, the friends decided to spend the night here. While Thorin and Shorty went for firewood, the hobbit began gathering grass for bedding. Tearing off tall juicy stalks, he kept looking around, and though everything was calm, a vague feeling of unclear anxiety didn’t leave Folco.

The dwarves returned having chopped deadwood; the hobbit unhurriedly and with relish plucked the red-throat and baked his catch in the coals. After a hearty supper they sat for some time silently smoking pipes, looking at the slowly fading over the distant forest sunset flame, and then went to sleep.

Dark sleep without visions gripped the hobbit, but he awoke from the sensation that he was slowly drowning in something cold and sticky; he desperately waved his arms trying to free himself – and opened his eyes.

It was very early morning, nearby the dwarves snored, and from the loosely covered window onto the hobbit’s chest slowly flowed a milk-white stream of unusually dense and thick fog – wet, cold, chilly. Folco was about to reach to close the shutter when suddenly from the window reached him some vague, barely audible sounds that immediately made him alert. Carefully rising, he looked outside.

A white dense cover was tightening everything around – the field, village, road; only the roofs of houses were visible, and the hobbit marveled again: the fog at ground level was impenetrable, but higher than a man’s chest its layer seemed cut by some gigantic scythe – the distant groves were visible very clearly. And across this foggy blanket from the village to the forest almost soundlessly floated black silhouettes of riders.

At first Folco almost rolled to the floor from fear, but he’d already passed through considerable trials – and now only clenched his teeth and began to watch. He watched and counted – two, five, ten and two more…

The riders disappeared into the forest to the left of their dugout; no weapons clinked, no people called out – unkind silence thickened over the nameless field. The hobbit bit his lip, remembering their own ponies. If they start neighing – what then? And he hastily shook the dwarves, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Thorin, as always in recent months sleeping lightly, woke from the first touch to his shoulder; one glance at Folco’s alarmed face was enough for him to be on his feet, pressing to the window. It proved harder with Shorty – he began grumbling out loud about how it’s such an early hour and they’re already waking him and breakfast is still a long wait. Thorin suddenly turned from the window and furiously hissed something in a language unfamiliar to Folco;

Shorty broke off mid-word and grabbed his sword.

“Who is it, Thorin?” he whispered.

“Don’t know, maybe Rohirrim, but who knows them? Better wait and watch.”

“You watch, and I’ll go to the ponies – tie their heads,” Shorty threw on the way and disappeared into the milky haze beyond the doors.

Folco and Thorin followed him. Waiting for their friend, the three of them crawled forward to the very edge of the copse. Somewhere very close, in the fog-woven forest, lurked a detachment of unknown horsemen.

“And in the village?” Thorin turned to the hobbit. “What in the village?”

“Didn’t see,” Folco answered. “I noticed them when they’d already ridden away from it.”

“Maybe they’ve already passed?” Shorty dropped with faint hope.

“And if not?” Thorin cut off, not taking his gaze from the damp haze before them. “We’ll wait!”

And they began to wait. Gradually over the edge of the distant forest in the east, over the crest of even more distant Misty Mountains, rose the disk of the day’s luminary; the fog dissipated, the glade sparkling with pre-dawn dew opened to their gazes. The village became visible as if on a palm – from here it seemed dead. Thorin looked at his companions.

“We’ll wait until noon,” he said quietly. “At least until the dew dries. We need to see what’s happening right and left of us and whether we can quietly get out of here.”

Suddenly a muffled horse’s snort reached their hearing somewhere to their left, and Thorin smiled harshly.

“There they are… Lie quiet!”

Time dragged on, over the field thickened light cloudlets of haze rising upward from the sun-dried dew. A light southern wind started to blow, the voices of daytime birds sounded ever louder; from the leaves almost right overhead an oriole sang; the next gust of wind again brought them a horse’s neigh – it sounded somewhere far away, beyond the village, on the road invisible from here between the last houses and the forest. Thorin pressed his ear to the ground.

“More mounted,” he exhaled without rising. “We’re caught! Looks like these are gathering here.”

And then the silence unexpectedly collapsed, torn by the whistle of dozens of arrows; a moment later furious cries sounded, mixing with frenzied horse neighing; blows of steel on steel also reached them.

“A battle…” Shorty whispered and pulled his sword from its sheath.

From behind the extreme houses suddenly emerged a dozen or so riders – on tall, magnificent chestnut horses, with green shields and green pennants on spears. They flew not choosing the road, straight through the field to the forest, one after another throwing their green shields with white crosses behind their backs. After them from behind fences emerged foot soldiers with bows and crossbows; black arrows flashed, one of the horses reared and crashed down, its rider managed to jump off deftly but immediately fell himself, clutching the arrow that pierced him through. The rest raced on; the distance quickly increased, it seemed they would escape;

but in the forest a low horn roared, and toward them poured the cavalry that had hidden there until the time. Green-black cloaks swirled; spears were leveled, and many crossbowmen struck accurately on the move. Several men and horses from the fleeing detachment fell, but the survivors closed ranks with amazing speed; knee to knee, head to head, they struck in a tight fist into the ranks of their opponents who hadn’t managed to close together. A crash, clang, and a single cry as if torn from one chest – and seven who’d broken through, leaving spears in the bodies writhing on the grass of their enemies, galloped on to the forest, scattering those who tried to oppose them.

However, the crossbowmen didn’t sleep – the escaping riders found themselves in a mobile net woven of short black strokes. Horses fell, their riders trying to rise sank powerlessly to the ground… The last of those escaping fell at the very edge of the saving thickets.

The victors unhurriedly rode around the prostrate bodies, finishing off two wounded. On the battlefield it suddenly became very quiet – only now did Folco notice that no sound came from the village either.

The mounted warriors dismounted, picked up eight bodies of their own. A stocky man in a black helmet with a high thin point to which was tied a long bundle of black horse hair gave orders. He sat on a tall black stallion not far from where the friends hid, and they heard his speech – quick, abrupt, completely unlike the smooth speech of Annuminas inhabitants.

“Hey, Farag, tell the khelgi-baan to have his khazgi stop tearing jaws from the straw-heads! We need to hurry, let him lead them out of the village!”

The warrior who received the order, spurring his horse, galloped to the village, and the commander was already turning to the next:

“Bring the cage with ulagae, Glofur! I need to send reports, and all of you – gather ours, stop stripping bodies if you don’t want to break stones in Dunharrow or feed the wandering oaks in Fangorn!”

A short man dressed in dark ran up to him with a large woven basket. Opening it, he thrust his hand inside and extracted some creature unfamiliar to the hobbit, greenish, the length of a forearm, with webbed wings. The flexible body writhed like a snake’s, a weak whistling unlike anything sounded. The commander pulled something from under his shirt, shoved it into a leather tube on the creature’s collar, and tossed the winged beast upward. Leathery wings cut the air with a hiss, the creature soared up and, flapping its wings frequently, flew north.

“What a monster,” Shorty whispered nearby, opening his mouth wide.

Meanwhile from the village gradually stretched foot soldiers, and the hobbit instantly forgot about the curious flying lizard – men walked such as he’d never seen either in Bree or in Annuminas or on the Southern Tract. Short, little taller than dwarves, almost as stocky, they walked waddling on thick crooked legs; under lowered helmet faceplates faces couldn’t be made out, behind their backs stuck out horns of unusually long and thick bows. Some carried brown shields, small and round, with black and red horse heads; toward them from the forest were led low and seemingly unusually long horses. The riders vaulted into saddles with the movement of experienced horsemen without touching stirrups; the sharp-eyed hobbit made out short spears strapped at the saddle bows.

Their companions seemed ordinary men – tall, slender, dark-haired. They were diversely and well armed – swords, spears, crossbows, axes, spiked war clubs; on long shields tapering downward flaunted an unfamiliar emblem – a black three-toothed crown in the center of a white field.

The detachment was mounting, and here Folco, peering, saw behind the backs of several riders strangely familiar puny figures.

“Nothings…” Thorin hissed, squinting and peering into the mounted ranks. “Nothings together with mounted crossbowmen and some khazgi who tear jaws from the defeated! Splendid company!”

Meanwhile the cavalry moved at a quick trot through the field to the bridge over which the three friends had passed yesterday. The victors had caught about ten of their opponents’ horses; now they carried the bodies of their own – there were barely fifteen of them.

Soon everything quieted, the detachment disappeared around the hill’s bend, and the dwarves and hobbit all lay in their shelter, not daring to raise their heads.

“Well?” Shorty asked in a loud whisper. “What next?”

“We should look at the village,” Thorin squeezed out, and it was evident he had no desire at all to drag himself there, but he was overcoming himself. “Maybe there are still living there… We need to find out what happened here?”

“Yeah, and what if they’re still in the village?” sensible Shorty objected.

“That’s why we need to sneak up unnoticed and look. Though unlikely – that leader hurried them not to throw us off the scent!”

Carefully, along the forest edge, they crept as close as possible to the outskirts. In the village all was silent, only from time to time the unhurried clatter of hooves sounded.

“Horses are wandering…” Folco whispered. “Horses are wandering near their dead masters…”

He sighed and shivered with cold. He’d seen a real battle from the side for the first time, and he didn’t like it at all. Ruthlessness had never been characteristic of hobbit nature, and they bore encounters with it openly with difficulty. The mortal combat in no way resembled beautiful engravings from ancient books depicting great heroes, waving banners, and fleeing enemies.

They quietly rounded the house’s edge and found themselves on the single village street. And here war showed the hobbit what it’s really like – not in books and not in pictures.

On the road lay dead bodies in heaps – many, several dozen, contorted corpses bled out, blood pooling here and there in depressions like rainwater. Over the warriors who’d finished fighting swarmed with loud buzzing swarms of large blue-green flies. And everywhere – in fences, walls, trees – and in bodies – stuck long, very thick arrows. All the fallen were pierced through, as if they wore no armor at all – black jagged points stuck out. Folco felt nauseous; the dwarves looked no better.

They carefully tore themselves from the garden fence and slowly walked along the street, carefully bypassing bodies. All the fallen – and this made the hobbit feel even worse – were quite youths, almost boys. The hobbit, having at first forced himself to look at them, now as if bewitched couldn’t tear his gaze from the beautiful, regular faces, from the hair scattered in road dust, stained with blood, fair hair, from their eyes already beginning to cloud with haze. On the shields lying here and there of the fallen was a very familiar coat of arms – a white galloping horse on a green field. The young warriors, all as one, were Rohirrim. The ground here and there around the bodies was churned up, some lay with swords in their hands; passing one of the houses, the friends couldn’t tear themselves away long, looking at three young warriors nailed by arrows to the wall who hadn’t released from their hands blades that nevertheless managed to be stained with another’s blood. From their chests stuck thick black-feathered arrows that had gone so deep into the wood that Thorin only with enormous effort tore them out when they silently, without conferring, began laying the fallen in the shade.

“Well, this is something!” the dwarf grumbled, turning in his hands the broken shaft of an arrow. “What archers these khazgi are or whatever they’re called.”

They went farther. Folco could barely stay on his feet and nearly lost consciousness when a little farther they began encountering terribly mutilated bodies with cut-out lower jaws! At the sight of the terrible wound that monstrously changed the already frightening dead faces, he staggered and quickly grabbed Thorin’s shoulder.

“These are the very ones, from the north,” Thorin croaked hoarsely, choking on words. “And look where they’ve gotten!.. Well okay, wait, we’ll meet again yet!”

“Look here,” Shorty suddenly bent down. “What kind of crossbow is this? Whose work is this? Haven’t seen it before…”

“Let me have it,” Thorin reached out.

For several moments he silently, squeamishly examined the arbalest his friend handed him. At first glance it seemed to the hobbit the same as dwarven ones.

“Eh, no, brother hobbit,” Thorin drawled in answer to his question. “This, friends, is an Angmarian mounted crossbow. I’ve seen plenty of these. See – here are two catches, this one – to shoot from the ground, either standing or, say, sitting. And to pull the string, you only need this lever. Clever, nothing to say! Thorin raised the alien weapon to his shoulder. “And made well. Light, grippy, the string…” he pulled the lever, “you cock with one movement. From ordinary crossbows it’s awkward to shoot from horseback, but from this one… easily. But this we saw, but this – look! – this is really interesting!”

In Thorin’s hands lay a very long and thick bow, bizarrely and complexly curved, composed of many thin plates, cunningly laid on each other and fastened. The string gleamed with metal; the bow was almost two hobbit heights tall.

“We haven’t seen this yet,” Thorin drawled. “These are the bows of these khazgi! Let’s see…” He looked for a whole arrow, pulled out one that had gone into the ground almost to the fletching, and nocked it. “I’m no archer, but…”

He began pulling the string, and his face purpled from strain, veins swelled on his arms, beads of sweat covered his forehead – and he managed to draw the bow barely halfway. Stung to the quick, the dwarf ground his teeth, strained, with a desperate effort pulled the string to his nose, and at that moment his fingers couldn’t hold. The black arrow, much longer and thicker than any the hobbit had seen before, broke free with a bass hum, a ringing blow sounded – and the shaft went almost a third of the way into the logs of the opposite wall.

Breathing heavily, Thorin lowered the bow.

“Oof!..” He couldn’t catch his breath. “Well, well!” He examined the weapon with a strange expression of respect and hostility. “Under such arrows and from such bows I wouldn’t want to stand even in a hird,” he added quietly.

Thorin and Shorty now looked at the bow almost with hatred.

“Did you see how they pierced armor with it?” Thorin turned to Shorty. “What strength! What will happen if not ten tens of such bows gather, but ten thousand?!”

“Nothing good,” he muttered. “And you were advising Rogvold to help the Steward call our people in case of trouble.”

Thorin frowned and answered nothing.

“You’re silent,” Shorty continued. “That’s right, first blow off the foam, and only then sip the beer.”

Leaving the sad place of such an unfortunate for the Rohirric Mark battle, the friends again set out – the sun was already high. On the way they could talk only about one thing – how it all happened.

“Experienced men, very experienced,” Thorin hissed through his teeth. “Look how they caught them! And sat in ambush before the fog – so as not to leave tracks on the dew, and lured them skillfully. You remember the tracks by the forest, Shorty? Though it’s trampled there, I still made out Angmarian horseshoes – thanks to Rogvold, taught me something. So, before the Rohirrim rode – well, thirty men, no more. And the boys – young blood, hot, and gave chase…” He turned away and sighed. “Well, and in the village they met them. Arrows from behind every shutter… And how accurately – only one horse killed!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have buried them?” the hobbit said timidly.

“Of course, it’s not good,” the dwarf answered grimly. “But at least we carried them to one place and covered them with branches and marked… They’ll be sought and found. But what if we’d been caught at this?”

“How could they!” Shorty sighed bitterly. “Even I can see – horsemen can’t rush headlong into a village!”

“Can’t bring them back now,” Thorin threw. He rode frowning and didn’t take his gaze from the forest half-abandoned path along which their ponies walked. About half a mile to the left of them went that same road that brought six dozen young riders to a bitter and untimely end.

“Wait! Hear that!”

From the road came the united thunder of many hundreds of hooves.

Crouching and soundlessly gliding through dense undergrowth, Folco darted to the road; the dwarves remained deep in the thickets. The hobbit reached the roadside bushes just at the moment when from around the bend appeared the head of the detachment.

Sparing no horses, along the road rushed at full speed the famed Rohirric cavalry, and in its ranks Folco saw not youths but mature, years-wise warriors; green pennants fluttered on their spears, over the front ranks the wind unfurled the green-white standard of the Mark; behind each rider hurried a spare horse. In all the hobbit counted five hundred warriors.

The mounted lancers rushed past the hobbit pressed to the ground; at first he wanted to jump out onto the road, but then realized that with the knights of the Mark it’s best to talk not on an empty forest road but somewhere in another, calmer place. Waiting until the last rider disappeared in the distance, he ran back to his friends.

“There, they’ve found them,” Thorin dropped, having listened to the hobbit. “We did right to leave in time – try proving later that we’re not in league with those who slaughtered their comrades.”

Horse thunder died in the distance, and for some time it was quiet; then from there, from beyond the forest walls, from the village they’d left, reached them the long and inexpressibly sorrowful sound of a great horn.

“Found them,” Shorty exhaled.

They were silent, listening to the mournful call.

“But what I don’t like most of all in this story,” Shorty suddenly declared irrelevantly, “is their flying creature! That’s how they exchange reports, Folco! As soon as you see such a thing – first shoot, and only then we’ll figure it out.”

They turned their backs to the village left behind and until evening rode in silence.