Chapter 7: Isengard

It was hot summer.

The sun dried the steppe, and escaping the heat, the friends kept to the edge of forests gradually bending eastward. Having made a wide detour around Dunland, two dwarves and Folco made their way to the Gates of Rohan to then move up the Isen – the only road to Isengard. The Southern Tract remained two dozen leagues to the southwest – they decided not to waste time on a detour; besides, in the forest it was easier to find both shelter, food, and water. These were remote places – to the east, between forest and mountains, lay unfriendly Dunland; to the west – the steppes of Enedwaith where Rohirric shepherds often drove out their herds; to the south the only thread stretched through the desert of the Tract guarded by the Mark’s Riders.

By the hobbit’s calculations, they’d been walking from Moria for full two weeks already. After that terrible ambush arranged for the Rohirrim by their jaw-cutting enemies, the friends met nothing suspicious.

One evening the shadow of a huge owl flashed over their fire, but whether this was the one that served Radagast – who could say? Folco often questioned Thorin about what he intended to do in Isengard itself; the dwarf shrugged and answered somewhat embarrassedly that he didn’t know yet himself but hoped to find some traces of the “master.” In any case, he added, it would be good to catch some orc from there and find everything out from him. And then finish him off! – Shorty invariably concluded on such occasions.

On the thirtieth of July the hobbit awoke with some unusual mood – he’d never had such before. As if he stood on the edge of a well full of crystal moisture in the middle of a desert, as if he approached the corner of a gray blank wall beyond which joyfully blazed magical radiance – this was a premonition of something very bright, so pure that the whole surrounding world might seem only a meager frame to a beautiful gem of the unknown. Something slightly warmed the hobbit’s chest; he felt warmth emanating from the dagger.

Folco jumped up as if the bed burned his back. The dwarves slept peacefully – it was still very early, and the first dawn ray had only just peeked under the green curtains of crowns closed above their heads. Something pulled the hobbit away – into the depth of the dense beech forest. He walked at random, without thinking or reflecting, and immediately felt that the dagger became colder. He took several steps back, and the dagger again began emanating weak warmth. Folco trembled in anticipation of something extraordinary and slowly, not removing his hand from the wonderful gift of Olmer, strode through tall undergrowth, constantly poking now right, now left like a blind man; in reality he was catching that single direction which the blade indicated to him. In those minutes he wasn’t racking his brains about what this could be, and he wasn’t afraid. Fate was leading him to something extraordinarily important, and he didn’t resist.

The thickets around him became ever denser, and then he was pulled into a deep ravine. Folco had already gone far from the camp, and a thought flashed – what if his friends miss him; but at that moment the branches parted, the trunks moved aside, and he found himself on a small round glade at the very bottom of the ravine, overgrown with emerald-pure grass, surprisingly soft to the touch. Above the glade, like a tent canopy, closed spreading crowns: the forest peace was flooded with tender greenish light from rays breaking through the leaves. In the middle of the glade the hobbit saw two flat gray stones set upright, opening toward him like a book; between the standing stones on the ground lay a third – flat, split in half; from the crack grew a blue flower unknown to the hobbit. Its corolla resembled a rose but was almost twice as large, and each petal not only wove into the strict harmony of the flower but was also specially curled in its own way. Amazed, Folco opened his mouth, and then grabbed his dagger. There could be no mistake. The Flowers on the blade were precisely copied from the one now growing before him. The hobbit bent over the plant. The flower emanated a strong, unlike-anything smell in which bitterness amazingly combined with sweetness. From this aroma Folco’s head spun, and he involuntarily sat on the stone.

At this moment the hitherto motionless branches rustled slightly, wind ran across the grass; the blue Flower swayed, trembled, and its petals began falling off one by one. Slowly spinning, they flew past the hobbit and, barely touching the ground, suddenly flared with soundless transparent flame. As if enchanted, the hobbit followed their flight, their rotation and trembling; from the side it seemed these were defenseless living beings being dragged to execution. The flower’s stem bent as if trying to hold them, and the hobbit, growing cold, suddenly read in its movements a passionate, soundless plea – not to let them die on the earth which seemed to greedily pull its black lips toward the next victim. Obeying this strange feeling, Folco extended his left hand – and at the same moment the entire corolla collapsed.

A handful of blue and light-blue petals fell onto the hobbit’s palm – and sharp pain pierced it, the hand as if turned to stone; but Folco clenched his teeth, and though sweat immediately appeared on his forehead and the pain reached already to his head and began with special fury to drill his temples, he didn’t shake off the petals slowly melting in a blue cloud between his fingers. His legs didn’t hold him; he leaned heavily against the stone, not taking his gaze from his palm. For a moment in the bluish haze he fancied the outlines of someone’s beautiful face framed by silvery hair; then everything disappeared.

The hobbit slowly slid into the angle formed by the two standing stones, pressed into it with his back. The world around him was changing – the forest and glade disappeared, he saw high white dunes with solitary brown-green spreading pines and an endless blue plain and understood that this was the Sea, at which he’d never been before. He sat on a flat stone at the very water, sadly looking at the incoming waves. When the next wave rolled back, from white foam some twenty paces from shore emerged the gleaming black edge of a sea-gnawed reef, and he sitting by the Sea threw pebbles trying to hit this uneven crest before the next wave covered it. A transparent tongue of wave licked the fine sand at his feet shod in boots he hadn’t worn since spring; on his shoulders was mail, on his head – a helmet. Suddenly his left palm hurt. The pain was old and familiar, and he with an unhurried, long-learned movement reached to his belt, and his fingers found some flask. His double sitting by the Sea knew what was in it; Folco in the forest had no idea where it came from. He slowly unscrewed the cork, poured into his aching palm a little sharp-smelling potion and began with slow, smooth movements to rub it in. All this the other one had done many times, but Folco who found himself in his body could only guess what it meant. He tried to move – it didn’t work, the body moved without his will. He understood that he could only watch and listen, and stopped trying. His hands moved by themselves, his head turned by itself. What was he doing here, in this place? And it was indeed him – these were his hands, though on the right appeared a long, deep scar, but all the marks of bruises and falls familiar from childhood were in place…

Meanwhile behind his back heavy steps sounded, boots creaked on white hot sand. The one sitting wasn’t at all surprised – evidently he knew their owner – and didn’t even turn. An ugly shadow fell on the sand, and a voice that seemed strangely familiar to the hobbit spoke with unusual notes of concern and sympathy:

“Does it hurt much, Folco-ven?”

“It’s nothing,” the one said slowly. (Lips moved without Folco’s intervention.) “It’ll pass now… How much longer to wait?”

The words were pronounced unhurriedly; the speaker knew what he was waiting for, as did the one sitting behind his back. Instead of an answer, suddenly quiet distant singing reached his hearing from behind the high dune, then the splash of oars, and then from behind the sandy steep emerged a ship which the hobbit had never seen before either; the hobbit, but not the one sitting by the Sea. Long, narrow, with a high-raised prow decorated with a bear’s head, with a short mast with a sail drawn to the yard, the ship went on oars protruding from holes in the upper part of the side – fourteen on each side. On bow and stern loomed some figures waving their arms.

The ship was turning straight toward them. When about thirty fathoms remained to shore, round stones attached to chains splashed heavily into shallow water, and after them someone jumped from the bow. A moment later Folco, to his amazement, recognized Thorin – but why was his friend so gray and had suddenly somehow become shorter? Thorin walked, parting the water with his chest, from under his helmet silver-colored hair escaped, a terrible scar stretched diagonally across his whole face, but his eyes sparkled merrily, and he greeted those standing on shore, shaking a highly raised axe. And after him hurried Shorty, who’d become quite short; he shouted something and whistled dashingly, sticking four fingers in his mouth.

The one sitting behind the hobbit’s back rose and approached right to the water.

“Did you find them?” he spoke, addressing Thorin already emerging onto shore. “Did you find them? Will they come?”

Smiling cheerfully, Thorin nodded, stepped forward stretching out his hands to them, and Folco marveled again how his friend had aged. The dwarf’s lips already moved, but at that time the light dimmed, streams of blue mist swirled around, and Folco came to himself…

He still sat huddled between the two gray stones placed together, and above him the dwarves stood frozen. The sun beat directly in his face – judging by everything, noon had already passed. His head spun and ached, but the pain quickly passed, and the hobbit felt how his body unexpectedly quickly filled with new strength and vigor.

Not immediately, breaking through the curtain not yet retreated in memory, he told his comrades about everything that had happened.

“Yes, not for nothing we marveled at your dagger,” Thorin said in amazement, shaking his head. “At this place – good charms, whoever laid them. But only what does your vision mean?”

“That we still have a long, very long path and that it won’t be cut short in the near future,” Shorty said thoughtfully.

“Hm, interesting, did you see what will definitely be or what might be?”

“Even Galadriel’s magic mirror showed only what can happen if you act the same way as you think during divination,” Folco spread his hands. “However, it happens that you have nowhere to go… Frodo and Sam, it seems, had no choice – they had to reach at any cost. And we? Does such a clear Duty lie on us now?”

“I’d like to know what that ugly shadow was, as you said,” Shorty muttered. “And the voice, you say, not quite unfamiliar?”

“Okay, one can indulge in guesses endlessly,” Thorin rose.

“Let’s go as we went, judge by conscience and try everywhere to separate good from evil – and we’ll see what we come to… Folco, are you all right? We were quite frightened when you disappeared – but found you by tracks, the morning was dewy.”

“No, I’m fine,” the hobbit jumped up easily. “But who still arranged this place?”

“Maybe it’s a grave?” Shorty suggested. “It really looks like one…”

“Or maybe not,” Thorin shrugged. “But it’s clear to me that elves had a hand here! Who else but them? Not Saruman…”

Folco thought. Something strange was happening to him, as if those two hobbits into which he’d split – one aged, much-seen and understood, and the other, present – couldn’t merge again into one whole. His hearing and vision noticeably sharpened; already now he could at will concentrate on the barely audible stirring of some beetle in the grass and catch all the finest changes in these sounds; his eye could see much farther than before…

They stayed some more time at this amazing place, though it had long been time to go, but here breathing was extraordinarily easy, wonderful fragrance was diffused in the air, no longer causing dizziness. And the only thing that alerted the hobbit – when on the soft earth near the forest stream he saw the trace of a huge wolf’s paw… The track was old and already blurred, but clearly noticeable.

Two more days passed. The forests remained behind, ever closer became the gigantic peak of snow-capped Methedras; they made their way along Dunland’s southern border to the last spurs of the Misty Mountains. Here they encountered many summer camps and watchtowers of Rohirric shepherds driving their magnificent herds on the expanse of hilly meadows. Once a patrol of mounted lancers stopped them; here the travel permit carefully preserved on Thorin’s chest came in handy.

“Where are you headed, worthy ones?” asked the elder – a tall gray-haired warrior on a spirited gray stallion – returning the parchment, politely but insistently.

“We were heading to Isengard,” Thorin explained calmly. “We wanted to see for ourselves what remained of the White Hand’s fortress…”

The warrior unexpectedly grew stern, and his hand fell on the hilt of his long sword.

“Strangers, you evidently don’t know the King of the Mark’s decree? No one should enter the Watch-wood surrounding that accursed fortress.”

“Why is that?” the dwarf asked calmly. “Who can forbid us to enter it?”

“It’s not for you, respected dwarf, to discuss the orders of the Mark’s Ruler, but in memory of the friendship between our peoples I’ll answer you. In the Watch-wood many who dared enter under its crowns have vanished without trace! The Power of the Forests, which once came to our aid, has now become willful and doesn’t want to know any authority over itself anymore. Therefore the King gave this order. We’ve stationed guards along all of Wizard’s Vale not to let incautious travelers to this accursed place. So you’d better turn back.”

“But how did it happen that the Forest turned against people?” Folco asked with fright.

“Well, it happened…” the warrior said with annoyance. “Once, I know, we were friends – the people of the Mark and the inhabitants of terrible Fangorn. Our songs preserved memory of the great battle at Helm’s Deep when the Forest arrived in time and helped defeat the unholy orc hordes. But then… More precisely, already after the death of the valiant King Eomer, friend of the Great King of the United Kingdom himself,” he pronounced these words with reverence, “his son, King Brego, decided to restore Isengard – it was a troubled time then, the last war with the orcs of the Misty Mountains was going, and for this it was necessary to cut down part of the Watch-wood. From this, they say, it all began… But we were in our right! Nan Curunir is our lands, there were always steppes there, and why should our king have to ask permission from some forest demons! The King is master in his land, isn’t that so? However, this is a matter of days long past. We, of course, didn’t quarrel with Fangorn. The Forest spread east and north without touching our lands; our people left attempts to reach Mesigard. But the Forest doesn’t turn back everyone who enters it. Some disappear completely! Therefore our barriers stand there. You’d better not go there, worthy ones – you’ll only waste time. Thorin snorted.

“Very well, worthy one, I don’t know your name. Thorin son of Dart has heard your words and thanks you for them. We’re turning back…”

The hobbit stared at his friend in amazement. Shorty clenched his fists, but Thorin with one look made them keep silent. Setting an example, he obediently turned his back to Methedras, and they unhurriedly moved south to the distant hills beyond which lay the bed of the Isen. The Rohirric patrol rode at a walk behind them for some time, then, waving farewell, the elder turned west; the magnificent horses quickly disappeared from sight.

Thorin immediately stopped and threw himself flat on the ground, ordering his friends with a sign to do the same. The dwarf pressed his ear to the ground and lay motionless for long.

“I’m no ranger, of course,” he muttered, raising his head, “but it seems to me they really galloped off somewhere west. Well! They do so, but we’ll do thus! We’ll wait for night and go north. If they’ve quarreled with ents, that doesn’t concern us. Let’s try our luck!”

“Are there no other ways?” Shorty inquired, unscrewing the flask lid and passing it round. “Somehow through the mountains?”

“I thought about that,” Thorin answered, cutting smoked fish. “Probably one could somehow approach from the west too, but none of us knows the local roads. No, first we’ll try here. We’ll be careful and won’t rush forward headlong. Besides, I hope that in case of anything Folco will somehow negotiate with the ents.”

“Me?!” The hobbit choked, pressing fists to his chest. “Me?!”

“Don’t keep saying me, please! Or didn’t you read the Book? Remember how Peregrin and Meriadoc managed to get along with the ents. I don’t think this erased from the memory of Fangorn’s masters. What are three hundred years to them? The same as a day to us or even less. So let’s have a bite now and rest. Those nice bushes are visible there!”

When night descended on the hills and bright southern stars sprinkled the clear sky, Thorin shook his friends drowsing in the warmth. They went north, but soon it became clear they needed to bear right not to clamber up and down steep slopes, constantly dismounting and leading ponies by the bridle. Trying not to lose sight of Remmirath, the Star-net, they began deviating east. The black masses of the Misty Mountains gradually rose ever higher, covering half the sky. When the moon crossed to the west, they made a short halt. Settling at the foot of an old hawthorn, they lit pipes. Shorty was already nodding, but the hobbit suddenly felt somehow anxious. He rose on his elbow trying to look around, but in the secluded hollow where they were resting, dense gloom reigned, and only the crest of its western slope was scantily lit by pale lunar rays. The hobbit shifted restlessly. A new anxious feeling was growing into certainty – from somewhere there, from the west, approached a threat… Still unclear, but with each minute his inner vision penetrated ever deeper into the night, and Folco sensed dull animal malice – keen scent searching among trampled stems for threads of their remaining smell, transparent eyes boring into the night, and yet other eyes full of hatred and anticipating blood. Folco’s hands reached for weapons; Thorin noticed his movement.

“There… there…” Folco gasped, “something’s crawling toward us, Thorin! I sense it! And it senses us too…”

“What are you saying? How do you know?” Thorin was surprised, but the hobbit with unexpected passion grabbed the lapels of the dwarf’s jacket.

“Arm yourself, Thorin! Shorty, don’t sleep! They’ll reach us now…”

“What, that one from the Barrows again?” Thorin let his pipe fall from his mouth and began pulling on his mail.

They froze, and then beyond the near hills sounded a malicious and long howl – but this was not at all the howl that had frightened the dwarf and hobbit at the very beginning of their toilsome path. This was the voice of a living creature, and Folco, as if he’d been struck by lightning, remembered the wolf tracks by the stream.

Their ponies tossed and snorted in fright. Hastily arming themselves, the friends stood back to back; large shivers shook Folco, he peered into the darkness until his eyes hurt; instinct told him the enemy was already very close.

“What to do, Thorin?” Shorty said grimly, spitting. “How long will the three of us hold out?”

He didn’t manage to answer. On the silvery crescent of the western crest appeared some shadow, behind it another, more and more… Green lights of eyes burned, dull and malicious growling was heard; at this moment the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and its light flooded the western slope. The friends saw gray bodies of huge wolves, almost as tall at the withers as a hobbit’s height, and amazing riders sitting on the wolves’ backs. Squat, stocky, in pointed caps, they sat with legs tucked very high so their heels were almost on the wolf’s spine; in their hands the hobbit saw spears and bows.

“Iy-ya-hey!” rang a thin and high screech, and from all sides toward the motionlessly frozen friends rushed dozens of unseen riders. Furious wolf growling mixed with warriors’ war cries, arrows whistled. Shorty suddenly groaned and staggered but immediately straightened, and Folco who’d already started toward him for help answered the enemy with his first arrow. Thorin’s crossbow clicked sonorously – two saddles emptied, but could this stop the rest? In the blink of an eye – the hobbit managed to loose only three arrows – the riders were right before them.

Everything happened so fast that Folco didn’t manage to be properly frightened. Something struck him hard in the left shoulder and rang as it bounced off the scale mithril mail. Immediately a huge wolf lunged straight at him; in the gaping jaws fangs flashed for a moment – but only a moment, because Folco, twisting, clove the monster’s head with the Gondorian blade of Great Meriadoc. The rider jumped aside and, snatching out a short sword, furiously rushed at the hobbit.

The world around Folco disappeared, narrowing to the small space directly before his face. Battle excitement pushed out fear, and Shorty’s lessons hadn’t been in vain. Deflecting the opponent’s blade with a light sideways movement, Folco made a deep lunge, and the faithful steel of his distant ancestor pierced the unprotected throat of the enemy. At the same moment the hobbit felt a push in his side, but the dwarves’ work proved beyond the swords of the attackers. The blade slid powerlessly along the hobbit’s armor, whom with a lightning blow felled another opponent.

A new wolf leaped at him, and again the hobbit managed to defend himself – the beast fell under the irresistible axe of Thorin, chopping from the shoulder right and left. However, then the hobbit felt a strange emptiness on the right – turned and, as if in delirium, saw Shorty slowly toppling, knocked down by a wolf that had leaped from the side. The monster’s teeth clacked but couldn’t bite through the throat protected by mithril. The hobbit’s sword immediately plunged into the wolf’s side, and it fell writhing to the ground. Shorty jumped up before the attackers could take advantage of their temporary success.

Time seemed to stop, the battle didn’t cease. But in vain the enemy archers tore at their bowstrings – arrows broke against the mithril armor impervious to earthly steel; in vain wolves lunged at the dwarves trying to knock them down and drag them apart – Shorty and the hobbit dodged deftly, while Thorin stood like a rock and his axe met the monster before it could reach him. In vain the riders pressed upon the friends – their swords couldn’t pierce the reliable mail coats.

Leaving on the grass two dozen riders and fourteen wolf carcasses, the attackers rolled back. Between the combatants appeared an empty space of about thirty fathoms. For some time hoarse exclamations in an incomprehensible language came from the crowd, then the riders began mounting their saddles one by one. A moment later the head of the detachment disappeared over the hollow’s crest.

All grew quiet. On the trampled grass soaked with human and animal blood, the dead bodies stood as black heaps of gloom. The hobbit stood with his tired arms lowered. Not a single thought was in his head; he swayed, looking with glazed eyes at Thorin who’d dashed up the hollow’s slope. Shorty, with bloodied blades drawn, stealthily walked around the clearing inspecting the fallen enemies, and if he found a wounded one – a short swing of his dagger finished the job. Thorin returned.

“They’ve hidden,” he reported hoarsely, dropping his axe in the grass. “But how far – ask Durin? Are you whole, Folco? And you, Shorty?”

“I’m all right,” Shorty calmly responded, “but our hobbit, any moment he’ll crash down!”

Folco indeed felt ill. Looking at the slain, he began to shake – in the moonlight the slaughter looked especially terrible. His legs gave way, and had Shorty not caught him, he would surely have fallen.

Folco sniffled, unsuccessfully trying to wipe his cheeks with his mail sleeve. His gaze accidentally fell on his hands – they were dark, covered with another’s blood. The hobbit hastily grabbed his flask and didn’t calm down until he’d washed his palms. Only after that, together with his friends, could he look around, and the first thing they saw – these were their ponies, pierced by a good dozen arrows each.

“Well, well…” Thorin drawled. “So, we’ll have to go on foot now. Folco! How much farther to this valley?”

“Three days – if on our own two feet,” the hobbit answered gloomily, having come to himself. Shorty whistled.

“From the valley mouth to Isengard is sixteen miles,” Folco informed his friends. “We’ll cover it in one full day. But first we have to get there! We need to cross, I think, two chains of hills – there’ll be the Isen.”

“Well, let’s go farther,” Thorin rose. “We can’t leave weapons or tools – so we’ll have to part with some provisions…”

“Part with provisions?!” Folco howled. “Even so breaking our legs on these slopes, and on an empty stomach too?!”

“We just need to reach the Forest,” Thorin patiently began explaining to him. “And there either we’ll find the ents or ask for help at some Rohirric post. If only we reach the Tract whole, and there’s ale and hot soup at an inn,” he smirked. “What gluttons you hobbits are!”

“Here we sit,” Shorty suddenly entered the conversation, “and these daredevils on wolves might not have gone far!”

At these words the hobbit again began looking around fearfully. Without delay, they set out. The dwarves shouldered almost everything their dead horses had carried, and the friends strode away, constantly looking back. The hobbit kept his bow ready. And this precaution proved far from unnecessary.

The friends would never have noticed the wolf – the beast knows how to crawl unseen – if not for its rider who brushed his high cap against a hawthorn branch. The hobbit shot almost without aiming; a malicious howl sounded, and the wounded beast rushed in flight, carrying its luckless rider.

They doubled their caution. Avoiding moonlit places, they made their way through secluded ravines and hollows, climbing into the very depths of thorny bushes. The hobbit crept soundlessly; the dwarves, however, crunched branches at full volume, puffed, grunted, cursed indistinctly, so that Folco constantly froze in fear that they’d be heard now and tracked.

However, until morning no one else met them. The hobbit clearly sensed the invisible presence of the enemy behind their backs, but they kept cautiously, not approaching the dangerous wanderers. He told his friends about this. The dwarves, already beginning to get used to the accuracy of the hobbit’s premonitions, met his words without surprise.

“How long will they trail after us?” Shorty puffed, sweating under the unbearable pack. “These are Rohirric domains, aren’t they afraid?”

“There are enough of them to deal with a small patrol,” Thorin answered in a voice hoarse from strain. “Remember we mustn’t catch the Riders of the Mark’s eye either. So watch carefully and move your legs, and the sooner we reach the Forest, the sooner we’ll be out of danger. Whatever they say about the Watch-wood, I believe in it.”

“But I wouldn’t rush into it so headlong,” Shorty objected. “Or have you become a forest elf, Thorin? One might think you’ve wandered forests all your life?”

“All my life not all, but I’ve had to walk through them,” Thorin answered, ignoring Shorty’s smirk. “And where else can we go?”

“You yourself said – to the post!”

“So these nice doggies can spill the Rohirrim’s guts?! No, no need to drag others into this. Once they already tried to take us – didn’t work! Henceforth they’ll think before climbing. Just don’t take off your armor, maybe everything will work out.”

Morning came somehow suddenly, all at once; rays breaking into the deep valley illuminated the hobbit swaying from fatigue and his companions for whom, it seemed, both a sleepless night and heavy load behind their shoulders were trifles. The endurance of dwarves had long become proverbial.

They spent the day huddled in dense thickets at the very bottom of a basin between three hills. Folco slept without waking until evening, and having woken, felt ashamed – his friends had stood watch for him. However, he’d rested and now could go farther.

At dusk they set out again. As before the night sky was bright and beautiful, the moon sailed calmly across the clear vault. The hobbit turned his face to the sunset and looked for Earendil’s Star – the Fire-kindler was rising over the near hills, and its gleam seemed to give new strength and drive away dark fears. The hobbit gripped his sword hilt tighter and strode briskly after Thorin.

Morning caught them on the bank of the swift Isen. Having crossed the second ridge, they ran into a dense wall of low young forest; the dwarves reached for their axes, but Folco, again obeying some intuition, grabbed his friends’ hands.

“Wait! We’re going into the forest subject to the ents! How can we cut living trees!”

The dwarves sighed and following the hobbit climbed into the impenetrable weaving of flexible young branches and trunks. They moved very slowly, but the green nets finally parted, and they found themselves on the flat bottom of a wide valley. Right before them in a narrow channel with steep precipitous banks the Isen rushed; between the thickets and the river bank through tall bushes led a narrow road going north. Having found themselves on it, the friends saw this wasn’t an ordinary country lane but the remains of a once very wide, stone-paved tract. Now dense greenery hid its edges, insistent grass pushed apart the tightly fitted slabs; free space remained barely for three riders to pass. Thinking, the hobbit supposed this was that very Saruman’s Tract along which once King Theoden’s detachment galloped to Isengard; then the Riders saw a quite different picture… The land scorched by Saruman’s orcs’ labors lived and grew green again.

The friends strode along the road that led straight to the foot of gigantic Methedras. The hills became ever higher, their slopes ever steeper, and soon on both sides of the valley reared up impregnable walls of gray cliffs. The forest along both banks became darker, denser, and older.

Thorin decided to risk and go straight – if the hobbit still had strength. Strangely enough, the second night’s journey came much easier to Folco than the first – as if some invisible hand supported his load, taking upon itself part of its weight.

Twice they had to hide in roadside thickets from Rohirric horsemen riding back and forth in large, well-armed detachments. Folco again warned the dwarves of their appearance – after the incident with the blue flower his sense of danger had noticeably sharpened. The hobbit had reflected more than once or twice on this case – and found no other explanation for his ability to sense approaching danger.

Hours passed, the sun rose to zenith, it became hot and stuffy. In the still air of Nan Curunir not the slightest breath was felt; Shorty grimly declared that by evening a storm was inevitable.

On the way Folco tried to make out the remains of the black pillar with the White Hand; he remembered that the Hand itself was broken by the ents, but the pillar should have been preserved; however, the forest around them had become so dense that seeing anything proved impossible.

The Tract broke off unexpectedly, much earlier than came out by the hobbit’s calculations; a whiff of smoke came from ahead, and they hurried to hide in dense undergrowth. Having freed themselves from packs, they carefully crawled forward, but soon the hobbit whispered to the dwarves that this way they’d rouse the whole post and that he’d go on alone. Thorin grumbled but had to yield.

Crawling on his belly, the hobbit soon found himself at the thickets’ edge. And the first thing that struck his eyes – a solid wall of forest giants that had flung skyward crowns like green clouds about half a mile from him. From the green tunnel flowed the Isen; gigantic branches dipped their foliage into the water, forming something like a grating barring the stream flowing under the fortress wall. The forest filled the whole valley; before it on a small section of clear bank stood the Riders’ watch post – several small houses fenced with a palisade; a smooth stream of blue smoke rose into the sky; several horses wandered unsaddled near the fence. On a watchtower the figure of a sentry was visible.

The hobbit was about to crawl back but couldn’t immediately tear his gaze from the Watch-wood. Gigantic trunks stood frozen like a formation of warriors; their bases drowned in gray moss, brown lichens hung from the bark – around them was no undergrowth. It seemed some gigantic knife had cut off the old forest’s edge, baring its depth. The hobbit’s gaze glided long along the brown-gray trunks, and gradually in him revived Shorty’s apprehensions. The Watch-wood didn’t seem peaceful. On the contrary, here and there in the grass black spots left by fire were visible – as if flame approached from grass to tree roots but stopped every time meeting on its way damp, moisture-saturated mosses. At the post all was calm; but how to slip past the keen eye of Rohirric guards? Folco racked his brains long but, having thought up nothing, returned to his impatiently waiting comrades.

“In daytime we can’t reach the forest,” Folco reported to the dwarves. “The Riders are alert, and from the tower one can see far. They’ve cut down all the bushes, can’t crawl through. We must wait for night.”

“So I should climb into this forest of yours at night too?!” Shorty was indignant. “I know these forests – either you’ll fall into some pit, or the trees will twist your head off themselves!”

“But you’ve gone through so many forests with us!” Thorin was surprised.

“But what forests were those?” Shorty whispered. “Can’t you see this one’s alive?! It doesn’t love strangers. And we’re also with axes. They’ll crush us there, I swear by the Morian Hammers!”

“And I swear by Durin’s beard that I’ll crush you myself first if you don’t stop shaking!” Thorin hissed. “Did we break our legs for nothing? Fought the wolf riders for nothing? Learned about the ‘master’ for nothing?! You’d better keep quiet or give me beer, my throat’s parched. We must get through – and we’ll get through to Isengard!”

“Well, if we don’t get through, what – throw ourselves into the Morian Moat or something?” Shorty snapped back. “Do we have the One Ring? And before us – the Mountain of Fire? Aren’t we taking on too much?!”

“All right, Shorty,” Thorin waved his hand. “I see the Forest really isn’t to your liking. Well, stay here! You’ll guard our packs, it’ll even be better – Folco and I will go light.”

Shorty jumped as if he’d been struck in the face.

“So you’ll go without me?!” he whispered furiously. “And you decided I’ll stay behind just because I don’t like this Forest?! Oh no, my friend Thorin! Strori will follow you anywhere! And if he turns back – only together with you!”

Shorty’s eyes burned, his lips trembled, he was beside himself, and Folco didn’t immediately understand that the one he’d always called by a not very pleasant nickname had a name – Strori…

“Don’t get heated, friend,” Thorin lowered his eyes. “Of course we’ll go together.”

They set out at dawn when over the Isen still lay unusually dense and thick fog, vividly reminding the hobbit of that unkind morning by Wolf Stone. At night they’d woken only once – when the southern wind, having slightly dispersed the staleness of the valley air, brought them distant echoes of wolf howling. Crawling, not daring to raise their heads, they moved along the very water where young sedge could give at least some cover; however, the hobbit placed his main hope in the fog.

They covered half a mile in about an hour. And only when Thorin crawling ahead sighed with relief, embracing with his palms the top of a very thick root, did the hobbit dare raise his head. Around them as before everything was hidden in foggy haze.

“Here we are,” Thorin whispered.

They settled to rest under the extreme tree – a gigantic ash, from time to time glancing at the clearing left behind. Folco tried to concentrate, attempting to determine – was there danger ahead, but nothing worked. To his inner vision the forest seemed a solid veil covering a heap of embers smoldering in ashes, but these embers weren’t hot but, on the contrary, cold and most resembled distant stars gathered together.

“Someone’s will covered this land with a curtain from us… So, it seems, Legolas used to say,” thought the hobbit.

In the Watch-wood itself at first it seemed to him neither frightening nor uncomfortable. On the contrary, the soft moss so beckoned to lay one’s head and give rest to tired legs. Here, at the very edge, there was neither mysterious twilight nor particular staleness in the air – no more than what was everywhere in this valley.

The hobbit carefully touched the ancient rough bark – and felt how in the warm depths of the tree constantly flows the current of life-giving juices. He caught a barely noticeable change in the single rhythm of the mighty giant’s life and understood that they’d not only been noticed but the news about them had been transmitted – through the solid network of roots somewhere far, to the mountains. One couldn’t say Folco was frightened, but he grew alert.

Having rested and refreshed themselves properly, they decided to go farther and rely on luck. They rose, got into their straps, took several steps.

“How we might not get lost here,” Shorty muttered with an extremely concerned and displeased look.

“The Watch-wood should stretch at most four miles,” the hobbit reassured him. “To the right are mountains, to the left the river – how can you lose your way?..”

Soon the brownish smooth trunks closed from them the last gleam of the pre-forest glade, and they immediately found themselves in that very secluded arboreal realm through which two young hobbits had wandered more than three hundred years ago. The motionless air was filled with incomprehensible smells – the hobbit couldn’t understand what kind. Light almost didn’t penetrate here, to the bottom of the ocean of leaves; walking became difficult, but then they noticed right before them something like a path – it wasn’t barred by gigantic roots resembling huge snakes, and densely interwoven at the sides and above it branches formed something like a living corridor. Rejoicing, the friends strode forward and walked so for some time until Thorin stopped and declared that they’d either made a circle or he understood nothing about his mountain craft. He looked at Shorty, and he nodded.

“You see, Folco,” Thorin turned to the hobbit. “This path is somehow with tricks. It went straight, then suddenly started turning. I thought at first – just so, but now I see: it’s leading back to the edge. This won’t do. We’re turning off!”

However, this proved much easier said than done. A gust of wind ran through the treetops. The forest rustled as if from indignation when Thorin, scratching his face and hands, climbed from the deceptive path into the thicket.

It seemed every bough aimed to catch them; roots themselves protruded from the ground, and the travelers stumbled every few steps. However, they stubbornly made their way ever farther and just as stubbornly didn’t bring axes into use. It was amazing how the dwarves managed not to lose their way in this incredible weaving; time passed, and despite all obstacles, labored breathing, and painful scratches, the three friends advanced forward.

Never before had the hobbit been in such a forest. The Watch-wood lived its own special life; in every twig and every shoot enormous life force was felt; Folco sensed around himself thousands of attentive eyeless gazes vigilantly following his every movement. He began noticing that trees also responded differently to his approach – some aimed to tangle feet with roots, others blocked the way with gnarled boughs, still others aimed to throw right into his eyes dry, lifeless leaves appearing from who knows where in the August forest. Every step came at considerable cost, and the hobbit understood why – in this forest stood thousands of huorns, half-trees-half-ents, and they could be especially dangerous. He again closed his eyes, trying to see something with his second sight, but the image of glimmering under the blanket cold ember-stars didn’t change – except that the prickly lights had considerably approached.

And the trees kept pressing; around roots earth began to swell, branches scraped as they bent toward the travelers’ heads – and then they were genuinely frightened. Around them, creaking, a living green curtain turned, closing its deadly embraces. An axe flashed in Shorty’s hand.

The hobbit immediately hung on the dwarf’s arm.

“Stop! Stop!” he pleaded with his friends. “We’ll only destroy ourselves! You won’t do anything here with axes!”

“Then with what?!” Thorin growled, pushing away a particularly insistent branch. “If you know what to do – do it, before they tear our heads off!”

“O Elbereth Gilthoniel!” Folco whispered the name of the Great Lady. “O Treebeard, Lord of Fangorn!”

His hands pulled from the sheaths on his chest the cherished dagger. Immediately under the ground and above it, somewhere in the thicket of branches, swept a long drawn-out creak, as if it were some command; for a moment everything around them froze. However, already in the next second the forest around them again came into movement. Before them opened a low green tunnel; trunks parted, roots crawled aside, and branches began quite noticeably pushing the friends in their backs. Obeying the clearly expressed order, they silently strode forward, inwardly guessing how this would end. Thorin tried to turn aside – but where! In his path instantly wove an impenetrable wall through which getting without an axe was impossible. Following the path predetermined for them by someone’s will, they walked into the very depths of the forest.

“This is some hobbit!” Thorin muttered. “How did you guess? Of course, we should have reminded them about the elves… But where are they leading us?”

The answer had to wait quite long. The path leading them noticeably bore left, to the edge of the mountains girdling the valley. It became slightly lighter; the trees calmed as if convinced the strangers were going where needed. Several more minutes of walking – and the path led upward. A stream gurgled down the slope.

Suddenly the path broke off. They found themselves in a small space surrounded by forest giants that had closed crowns above it. From a cliff rising vertically upward fell a silvery stream giving birth to the stream they’d seen earlier; across the silky grass were scattered several stone boulders. In one place the cliff overhung the green platform, and there they saw something like a large bed spread with grass, a flat stone slab like a table, and several stone jugs along the wall.

“Like the Spring Hall,” the hobbit thought. “Could I really see Treebeard himself?..”

The dwarves tramped near the rocky wall. Shorty kept splashing cold water from the waterfall on his face; Thorin paced the narrow platform muttering something under his breath. Folco closed his eyes – the cold ember-stars were very close!

At that same moment the branches with quiet rustling lifted and through the appeared gates into the semicircle entered a very strange figure. The friends froze, staring at it with all their eyes.

Yes, this could only be an Old Ent and no other. Three hundred years hadn’t diminished his fifteen-foot height, hadn’t furrowed with wrinkles his smooth brown skin, and perhaps only his gray beard, the tip of whose hair resembled ancient lichens, had become slightly longer. His fingers – seven on each hand – were as flexible and mobile as before, and still radiated with an amazing greenish color his wonderful eyes that had so struck once two young hobbits who’d ended up in Fangorn. But probably there was much less calm in them then than now, and this was the first thing that flashed in Folco’s head – the Old Ent was above all calm.

He stopped at the forest and grass border and long, very long and thoughtfully looked at the frozen travelers. His long head with a high open forehead slowly turned together with his whole powerful torso – ents have no neck at all. The hobbit caught the piercing gaze of the Great Forest’s Master, a gaze penetrating to the very depths of his being – and didn’t lower his eyes. Suddenly he felt extraordinary calm and with involuntary surprise looked at Shorty breathing heavily, who didn’t have strength even to wipe the sweat streaming down his face. Before the ent spoke, the hobbit bowed before him in a low respectful bow.

“Hoom-hom, hoom-hom, roomty toom toom,” sounded the low and thick voice of the Old Ent, rumbling like a booming drum. “Who is it sneaking through the Watch-wood again without our knowledge? I need to question you more thoroughly. Roots and boughs! I see axes at the belts of two of you! And who is this third beside you, axe-bearers? He’s very much like those who once visited our Forest and accomplished the impossible, raising the ents to an unprecedented deed. Isn’t he a hobbit?”

“O Treebeard, you’re right,” Folco answered respectfully. “For I’m indeed a hobbit from the Shire, my name is Brandybuck (at this the Old Ent’s fingers trembled slightly), Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast. And these are my friends, dwarves Thorin and Strori; they’re from the Blue Mountains. As for their axes, I’ll answer you with words once said to you by an elf named Legolas: their axes are not for trees but for orc necks, and they’ve hewn many of them when we made our way through orc-occupied underground!”

“Well then,” Treebeard rumbled, approaching Folco. “I see you know very much about the affairs of those days, quite recent for me and surely very distant for your kinsmen. This is good, very good, Folco. There was a time – and those I knew quite young, Peregrin and Meriadoc, often visited my Forest, and we had splendid conversations about distant lands and amazing events. Ah, how many hopes there were then! But time is merciless to such as you.” The Old Ent sighed. “The day came when I received news that both my friends had gone beyond the Sundering Seas and their bodies are buried in the great city of Men, far to the sunrise from our forests. And after that hobbits ceased coming to Fangorn’s borders. But I always believed that the time would come when someone from those who so endeared themselves to the ents would again visit our realm. This day has come, and I’m glad, very glad – both of you and your friends, since you vouch for them…” The dwarves hurriedly bowed. “Be my guests! I’ll show you new plantings, young mountain forests now rustling where once stretched only barren wastes. And you’ll tell me about everything happening in the world. I love learning news! Especially when it’s not distressing.”

“But why are you so sure it will turn out not distressing?” Folco asked with curiosity, examining the ent with all his eyes. “And why would it be?” Treebeard rumbled cheerfully. “Not so long ago they were indeed dark and threatening – when the Dark Lord intended to finish off all the forests and poison the free lands forever. But he has perished, perished forever, as has the traitor Saruman. There are no more orcs in Isengard, no more of their axes! No one dares to encroach on my forests anymore, the ents are busy growing new ones. If the elves had not left this world, I would say that an ent needs nothing, except perhaps our lost ent-wives. You have heard of this misfortune of ours, haven’t you?”

The Old Ent sighed again.

“I have read of it, heard much,” Folco pronounced with appropriate sympathy. “You still haven’t found them?”

“Alas, no,” came another sigh from the Old Ent. “We were once foretold that we would find them only when both they and we have lost everything we have. During the last War, when I met your young kinsmen, it seemed to me that the prophesied hour was about to come, but men and elves prevailed again. Sauron was overthrown, our forests remained unharmed and… the prophecy was not fulfilled. So we have lived since then, finding healing from longing for our lost wives in unceasing labors… But enough of that. Hoom! What’s this? I must be becoming hasty again, as on that memorable day,” Treebeard smiled, “when we added new lines to the Old Lists. But now it’s your turn to speak. What’s happening around? What brought you here? A hobbit and dwarves – a strange company.”

Folco wanted to ask the Old Ent why the Rohirrim had quarreled with him, but thought better of it. Together with Thorin, interrupting each other, they began telling about everything that had happened during almost a full year of their wanderings. The Old Ent listened very attentively; first he wanted Folco to tell him in all details about hobbit news;

only after that did they speak of the meeting of hobbit and dwarf on the forest road one misty autumn night…

The hobbit at first followed the changing expression in Treebeard’s eyes with simple curiosity, and then with burning attention mixed with alarm. It seemed they alone replaced all facial expressions on his barely mobile face; like deep wells, they led into the depths of his thoughts, which no mortal could of course fathom, but Folco felt the ent’s mood very clearly.

Treebeard, having at first benevolently and with pleasure listened to the hobbit’s necessarily rambling account of events in his homeland (to Folco himself they now seemed very distant and quite unimportant), became slightly agitated upon hearing of the awakened Barrow-downs, of men serving long-buried evil forces; but for the ent all this was happening somewhere unimaginably far from his beloved forests and could not threaten them in any way.

The friends told Treebeard about their life in Annúminas. The Old Ent listened with genuine interest, though a bit detachedly – he did not approve of cities. He became alert again when the hobbit recalled Thraudun and his persistent attempts to set neighboring Arnorian villages against each other. This reminded him of something, and he gruffly muttered something under his breath, his eyes suddenly flashing with alarm. He began thoroughly questioning the friends about everything they knew of Thraudun. Finally, satisfied with their account, he slowly bowed his head and sank into thought.

“Humm-hom, hoom-come, hommum hom hom…” came his worried rumbling to the friends. “But we shouldn’t be hasty. Let’s hear what happened next! Tell me!”

And they told. The sun passed its zenith and began descending to the horizon, and still they talked and talked. They told of Rogvold, and of the Steward, and of the Old Chronicler, and of Olmer. Treebeard listened with attention, but these were all affairs of men, little touching him. He perked up when talk turned to the Last March and the alliance of Angmarites with orcs.

“Again those – burarum!” The Ent issued a low angry roar. “They appeared near our Forest too. Tried to sneak to Isengard – but no such luck! The Huorns know their business. So this spawn is raising its head not only here!” The ent’s eyes flashed. “Well, it’s time for men to get back to work.”

Nodding approvingly, he heard the tale of the dwarven convoy and Rangers’ journey to Moria, of the battle at Grey Narrows.

“Humm, we have long felt that something is happening in Moria unseen since the days of the Elder Age,” he said thoughtfully. “However, I can recall times when forces similar to those awakened under the mountains held sway over all the depths… These are terrible forces… Roots and boughs! Terrible! And mortal enemies of forests. Our good fortune is that they don’t come out to the surface.”

“But who commands them?” Thorin asked hoarsely.

“When the world was young, they were commanded by he who wielded the Veil of Darkness, who fought against elves and men,” the ent answered sternly. “How many forests then crumbled to dust! And whom they obey now – you shouldn’t ask me.”

“Then whom should we ask?!” Thorin exhaled hotly, wiping away sweat.

The Old Ent smiled.

“They have long departed, departed across the Sea, those who could answer you,” he said quietly. “Almost no elves remain in Middle-earth, and without their Knowledge, Darkness raises its head. However, there were also wizards in our lands, some of them even knew trees well and cared for them – like Gandalf, for example. But they too have departed… And there is only one who knows EVERYTHING. You have forgotten about the master of the Old Forest, near your very land, Folco. The elves called him Iarwain, and I shall name him as we ents call him – Sillórin, – which is, of course, very brief. Ask him! He has seen EVERYTHING!”

“Tom Bombadil?” Folco was amazed. “But he has no concern with this world, he has shut himself within his boundaries and never intervenes in anything – so it is written by those who saw him during the Last War, including my great-great-grandfather! The Enemy’s Ring had no power over Tom Bombadil, but he could not protect others from it, and indeed did not understand what it was for. So Gandalf himself said.”

“I don’t know,” Treebeard shook his head worriedly. “Help he may not be able to give, but instruct and teach – that certainly. He must know how to fight the powers of Ungoliant!”

“The captive orc babbled something about some ‘master,’” Thorin continued. “That there would soon be a final battle… Actually, that’s why we went to Isengard – to see if there were any traces of him left there.”

“In Isengard? Humm, what a laugh! No one can penetrate to it, no one! The Great King Aragorn himself especially asked us about this when he visited our Forest the last time – quite recently, but for you, of course, already very, very long ago: the leaves have changed two or three hundred times.”

“King Elessar asked you not to let anyone into Isengard?” Folco repeated in astonishment. “But why?”

“Humm-hom, huum, I confess, I don’t know,” after a minute’s thought the Old Ent spread his hands a bit sheepishly. “He simply asked me this as an old friend, saying that this tower could become dangerous if someone not initiated into these magical things entered it… He said nothing more, and I, I confess, did not question the Great Lord of Men. The ents strengthened the watch around the ruins, and now not a single living creature can sneak to the Tower!”

The hobbit and dwarves exchanged glances.

“So we won’t be able to look at it either?” Folco exhaled. “And we had such hopes, walked so many miles, fought with wolf-riders…”

If Treebeard could frown, he probably would, flashed through the hobbit’s mind as he observed the changing expressions in the Old Ent’s eyes – the warmth in them diminished, some vague hurt appeared.

“I promised the King of Arnor and Gondor…” he began.

“Wait, respected Treebeard!” Folco suddenly caught himself. “You promised not to let subjects of the Crown to this Tower, isn’t that so?”

The Old Ent slowly inclined his head in agreement.

“But dwarves are not subjects of the King of Men,” the hobbit noted. “And my kinsmen have long lived by their own wit, obeying no one! The Great King even issued an order forbidding everyone, even the King himself, from crossing the borders of the Shire. So you won’t break your word, respected Treebeard, if you let us to this Tower!”

“I didn’t think of that,” the Old Ent said in surprise. “But if so – huum, you’re demanding too hasty decisions from me!”

“But we really need to look at it!” Folco continued persuading the Master of the Forest. “We’re very troubled by this unknown ‘master’ we learned of from the orcs who served the traitor Saruman! Now they’ve submitted to a new lord. Could he really not have tried to lay hands on Saruman’s legacy? Could he really not have left traces somewhere here?!”

“Those vile orcs tried to get to the Tower, I already told you,” Treebeard spoke slowly and with growing alarm. “Truth be told, in recent months there have been far more of them than a year ago. Yes! I almost forgot! Quite recently someone was digging under the mountains. Digging, but nothing came of it – the earth there is all bones. Yes, quite recently it was,” he repeated, clapping his palms against his sides in surprise. “How could I forget?!”

“We really need to get to Orthanc!” the hobbit pronounced pleadingly. “When was it – quite recently by your reckoning? A week ago? A month? A year? We absolutely must see this!”

“If someone was conducting a tunnel under your domain, O Treebeard, Master of Fangorn Forest,” Thorin said with grim respectfulness, “we’ll find this place, we know how to do it, we are mountain dwarves. No one else can do this better.”

“A tunnel?” Treebeard suddenly rumbled. “A tunnel? Oh, I’m an old rotten stump! Come! Come quickly! However,” he was already cooling down, “we shouldn’t be hasty. As for when it was by your count – truly, I don’t know. We have our own calendar. I can only say it was after those leaves that are now on the branches opened. You should rest. Now I’ll bring some of our drink, from the purest mountain springs!”

He turned to the cliff and soon invited the friends to the stone slab that served as a table, on which stood four stone cups – one very large and three smaller. He filled them from three different jugs, softly glowing – one gently golden, another pinkish-saffron, and the third emerald-green.

“The golden is for me,” Treebeard said quietly, “the drink of old age that has seen and lived, the color of autumn leaves. The pink is of maturity, it will increase your strength, respected dwarves, and help you look at the world with an unsoured gaze. And the green is the color of youth, it’s for Folco, he, like those young kinsmen of his memorable to all ents, needs very much to grow!”

He sighed and raised his cup. The others took up theirs.

The hobbit with trepidation touched his lips to the thick moisture in the stone cup; from the drink came a soft, tart aroma of awakening buds, of blooming spring earth, which made his head spin slightly and brought some reckless daring, as if there had been no long year of difficult trials and bitter disappointments. Folco drained the cup slowly, savoring every sip of the unprecedented drink, and when he lowered it, he saw how his friends’ faces had brightened, and Shorty seemed intent on pouring himself more.

“No, no!” Treebeard stopped him. “You can’t drink much of this. One cup will last you a long time… a very long time.” He smiled unexpectedly sadly. “How did you like it?”

The friends began thanking the Old Ent in one voice.

“I’m glad, glad, very glad,” he smiled again. “If you want to rest, then sleep – it’s quiet and peaceful here at my place, I won’t let the winds in.”

“No,” Thorin said, glancing at the sky. “I feel as if I haven’t traveled this last month! Shall we go to Orthanc right now?”

Treebeard readily agreed, hoisted the hobbit onto the crook of his mighty arm, and they strode north along the edge of the mountains through a green corridor hastily cleared for them by the Forest.

Treebeard walked unhurriedly, matching his step to the dwarves hurrying after him. Folco began cautiously questioning him about the reasons for the Forest’s quarrel with the men of Rohan.

“Ah!..” the ent waved dismissively. “They have their own ways, and I bear them no grudge. But I won’t allow anyone to touch my forests! They’re accustomed to looking at trees only as fuel for their fires and furnaces, at best – as material for their houses. They don’t understand and climb in with their axes, just like orcs, whom we beat together in that Great War!.. And then there’s the lord of the Horselords, not the same one, of course, not good Théoden,” Treebeard sighed, “he decided to become master not only over his steppes, but also over the mountains, and immediately climbed toward Isengard. He’s a man, and though a king himself, a subject of the Great Crown of the West,” barely perceptible mockery flashed in Treebeard’s eyes, “I didn’t let either his men or himself through. The fools, they began to spite me and other ents, they tried to sneak into the fortress secretly!.. And now men don’t forget to throw a torch into the bushes – if they think themselves safe. Some of them the Huorns killed.” Genuine sympathy sounded in the ent’s voice, but in it were also unshakeable firmness and confidence in his rightness. “Yes, some they killed, and since then they’ve become afraid of the Forest. Few of them dare to enter it – such we simply don’t let deep inside. And there are those who bring fire with them! But here we don’t delay. Death to arsonists!” Treebeard issued a low menacing roar. “Once old Gandalf told me not to dream of covering all the earth with my forests and choking all other free creatures, but truly, sometimes I would very much like our forests to stretch all the way to the Ered Nimrais mountains!”

Folco would have liked to talk more with the Old Ent, but the trees unexpectedly parted, and they found themselves at the edge of a large clearing, surrounded on three sides by dense forest, and on the fourth abutting the slopes of impassable grey rocks, on whose ledges trees also grew green, somehow rooted there. The Isen remained to the right, and directly before them Isengard itself opened.

More precisely, they saw only the tall Tower of Orthanc, standing alone in the middle of a calm and clear forest lake – arranged by the ents immediately after they took Saruman’s fortress. Compared to what the heroes of the Red Book saw when they turned into Isengard on their way West, only one thing had changed – an elegant stone bridge appeared, narrow and long, thrown across the lake right to the doors of Orthanc.

And yet, despite all the ents’ efforts, something malevolent was felt in this place, as if the shadow of former Evil had not completely left its ancient dwelling. The whole matter, of course, was in the Tower. The black mass, reaching upward with its powerful buttresses, looked down contemptuously on the world with dozens of squinted arrow-slit eyes; its brow was crowned, like a crown, by twelve sharp stone horns. The entire aspect of Orthanc still breathed with ancient strength and might, incomprehensible to Mortals.

Even the air here seemed different. Under the tree crowns it was stuffy in places, but the aroma of life, generously spilled through the forest, was replaced here by the smell of death; the hobbit was ready to swear he heard the stench of something rotting; he glanced at Treebeard and noticed a grimace of disgust on the Old Ent’s face.

“Huum!” he exhaled with displeasure, wrinkling his nose. “We’re going to look for the tunnel? Then I’ll call some more of our folk.”

Treebeard brought his cupped palms to his mouth and sang or called out something inviting and melodious. The hobbit gazed as if spellbound at the Tower, the dwarves meanwhile looked around businesslike, exchanging short phrases, as if the oppressive view of this place, at first glance so peaceful and beautiful, had no effect on them at all. After some time several more ents emerged from the forest thicket and froze, staring with all their eyes at the three companions. Treebeard spoke in his language. A stream of continuous, musical consonances flowed, though the Old Ent seemed only to be muttering something under his breath. At the same time the ents answered him with the same muttering. Remembering the Red Book and the famous slowness of Entish speech, Folco sighed and prepared for long negotiations, but everything ended surprisingly quickly. The ents with broad strides quickly approached them, and they all moved toward the shore of the lake.

The hobbit looked around with all his eyes, but it seemed the ents had done a splendid job here – it was impossible to discern even traces of any structures or entrances to underground passages. Treebeard walked silently, as if immersed in some memories, carefully stepping among the thickets. The dwarves followed in his footsteps. Soon they found themselves at the black base of Orthanc, glistening as if after rain. On the improbably smooth surface Folco saw a row of small, barely noticeable pockmarks, and he had only opened his mouth to ask when the Old Ent spoke himself.

“Here it is, Orthanc,” he said with a sigh, carefully lowering the hobbit onto the stones. “How we wanted to wipe it from the face of the earth, turn it into dust like everything else in this accursed fortress! Do you see these chips, Folco? That’s all we could do to it.”

“Yes, I read that some magic is contained in it, older and stronger than Saruman’s,” the hobbit said, involuntarily lowering his voice, surveying the Tower – for which he had to throw his head all the way back. Orthanc also hadn’t changed – the same iron door locked tight, the same twenty-seven steps upward, carved in the black rock by unknown builders in an unknown way.

Above the door Folco saw a balcony with twisted iron railings. The window-door above the balcony was tightly closed.

“Treebeard, tell me please, has really no one been inside here in three hundred years?” the hobbit asked the Old Ent quietly, who was gloomily looking at the stronghold that had not submitted to his people.

“The Great King Aragorn was there last time,” he answered, “and no one else ever. He himself entered the Tower alone, leaving all the guard below. I didn’t go either, I have nothing to do there. So then, friends,” he turned to the dwarves, “isn’t it time for us to begin?”

Thorin and Shorty took the sacks off their backs and slowly, dropping their heads to their chests and looking down, walked in different directions around the shore. They circled the little lake once, twice, three times… Folco’s breath caught with excitement. Treebeard betrayed his feelings in no way. Finally the dwarves stopped. Thorin slowly raised his head, spread his arms and began slowly swaying from side to side, moving carefully with small steps; Shorty squatted and also threw his head back, as if catching some barely perceptible sound audible to him alone. Suddenly Thorin froze, with a relieved sigh dropped his arms and opened his tightly shut eyes.

“Here!” He poked his finger at his feet. “The tunnel’s here!”

The place he indicated was on the opposite side from the entrance to Orthanc. Treebeard made a sign to the ents – his comrades, who had been silently observing what was happening, immediately set to work. Here the hobbit finally saw how ents in practice can deal with impregnable fortress walls. The toes of their feet seemed to come alive, separating from their owners and living their own life – they began to branch, thin but extraordinarily strong shoots penetrated into all the cracks between the stones, and then the ents began to scrape away the stone with their huge feet; a minute later the pit was already twelve feet deep and twice as wide; the ents stood on earth hidden until now under a layer of stone rubble and, without stopping, continued digging further, but now they moved more slowly and carefully. About half an hour passed when a triumphant voice came from the pit of one of the diggers:

“Fangorn, we found it!” The Ent used the Common Speech.

“Well now it’s your turn,” the Old Ent turned to the dwarves.

Thorin silently took a coil of rope from his bag, girded himself with it and handed the end to Treebeard. He adjusted his helmet and mail, tucked his axe more conveniently into his belt and disappeared beyond the ridge of overturned earth. A minute later Shorty followed him, and after him – Folco. The ents meanwhile climbed up.

The hobbit found himself at the bottom of a large pit ten feet deep. They stood on a stone floor, paved with hexagonal slabs; directly before them on one side was a black wall – the rounded base of the Tower, extending underground far to the sides, on the other side – a low narrow passage, hastily dug from somewhere to the west, from the very rocks. Around the foundation of Orthanc ran a circular gallery, which those who conducted the tunnel had reached.

“Let’s walk around,” Thorin suggested hollowly.

They moved to the right. The light quickly faded as they began to turn; fortunately, Shorty had a small torch in his pack, surviving from Morian times. At regular intervals other passages joined the circular gallery, branching off in different directions; the friends poked into one, but immediately ran into heaps of earth that had fallen from the ceiling. All of Saruman’s galleries were completely blocked. The hastily dug tunnel was the only one.

Having walked about a hundred paces, they unexpectedly came upon a low door in the black smooth wall on the left. They stopped dead in their tracks – the door bore traces of blows, the metal of the leaves was dented in places. The dwarves rushed to examine the damage.

“They beat it with picks,” Thorin concluded. “They tried to break it open, that’s clear as day. But this door won’t yield even to a battering ram – there’s a fair share of mithril here!”

“Yes, no less than a third,” Shorty nodded. “But now who will explain to me what this emblem on it means?”

Shorty brought the torch closer, and Folco saw a strange design on the dully gleaming silver leaf: three blazing arrows burst forth from violently raging waves, rushing toward a star-studded sky. Looking more closely, the hobbit realized that he saw among the seemingly randomly scattered stars the outlines of familiar constellations, only strangely shifted – Remmirath, the Star-net, was barely visible above the horizon, while the celestial Swordsman, on the contrary, stood almost at zenith.

“This is the sky of Númenor,” the hobbit suddenly said quietly, reverently touching the door with his fingertips. “Now it’s clear. This fortress was not built by the Knights from Overseas, my friends. This is the work of Númenóreans, true Númenóreans of the time of their kingdom’s flowering. This is the Second Age!..”

“And what do the three arrows mean?” Shorty whispered.

Folco shrugged. Behind his back Thorin shifted from foot to foot.

“Whoever built all this, the important thing is that someone was digging here, and quite recently – about a month and a half or two ago. But was it that ‘master’ whose traces we’re seeking?” Painful doubt sounded in the dwarf’s voice. “How can you tell?”

They silently moved on. Soon, having made a circle, they returned to the breach in the gallery’s ceiling, and Shorty was about to climb up; however, Folco unexpectedly suggested going to the door once more. A vague premonition, which had more than once correctly foretold something important in the fate of himself and his friends, reminded him of itself again. There was something in this dark gallery, something very important, past which they had walked, absorbed in seeking something completely different.

Shorty grumbled, but Thorin agreed with the hobbit, and soon they again stood before the impregnable door, barring the way to Orthanc’s secret. Folco slowly dropped to his knees, intently examining the design. The door had no traces of external or internal locks: no hasps, keyholes or the like. It turned on hinges somehow set into the body of the black stone, closed tightly, without the slightest crack. Folco carefully tried to insert the point of his marvelous blade between the leaf and the stone – it didn’t work, there was almost no gap, and besides, the dagger seemed powerless here, it lay in his palm as a cold indifferent bar. Hiding it, Folco suddenly pressed his forehead to the cold door and immediately caught some vague sound coming from within. He hastily put his ear to it and almost jumped away in horror – behind the door a human voice sounded hollowly.

Seeing his fright, the dwarves grabbed their weapons, but Folco only pushed them toward the door, wheezing one word: “Listen.”

And they began to listen. In the first second they barely suppressed a cry, and in the next all three were already pressing themselves to the door with all their might, trying to make out words. The hobbit was ready to attack the ents with his fists – they missed it, mossy-bearded stumps! The enemy had managed to sneak behind the impregnable walls – and what to do with him now?!

The words came barely audibly, but he still managed to understand part of them; the voice pronouncing them sounded soft, insinuating and therefore even more indistinct.

“From seven stars by the path of petals…” then unclear muttering, “…return when you fulfill the covenant… find, in the name of the leafy!” Again several merged words: “At dawn take the dew of nelbala flowers… measure nine fathoms and thrust…”

They listened for a long time, but could understand nothing in these vague, confused fragments. The voice now began to speak of detachments of some avengers, now of the bark of the Black Tree Nur-Nur (neither the hobbit nor the dwarves had ever heard of these detachments or this tree), now of swan ships that must arrive at some place… Folco was bathed in sweat from efforts to understand what was happening behind the door, and only when he felt his mind going for reason did he cease futile attempts.

“We can’t solve this here,” Thorin whispered hoarsely. “This is some secret of the Tower. The living would hardly speak like that… So let’s deal with what we have. Here’s a passage, dug by who knows whom. Let’s find out where it leads.”

The dwarves with great difficulty tore away the hobbit who stubbornly didn’t want to leave the door. Continually looking back and still hearing that soft voice in his ears, Folco trudged after his friends. At the breach they were hailed by the alarmed Treebeard. Thorin shouted in response that they were following the trail, and asked the ents to wait in this place, and if they were delayed – to dig out the tunnel and follow them.

The underground passage was dug hastily, without supports, the low ceiling threatened to collapse at any second; they slowly made their way forward, constantly trying to understand by the traces left on the floor what creatures had been here. They saw half-buried by sand falling from above prints of large feet, shod in heavy boots – in size and outline most similar to human, but once there flashed a wide trace of an orcish shoe. From that moment Thorin doubled his attention.

The tunnel stretched long, very long, until finally it led them into an inconspicuous hollow between two vertical rock walls soaring into the sky. In the crack were hammered roughly forged hooks, on which still hung scraps of ropes. There was no doubt – it was here that the unknown descended from the mountains and, without attracting the ents’ attention, burrowed into the ground. On the grass remained traces of an old campfire.

The friends crawled over the clearing up and down, but the only thing they could say when, out of breath and smeared with dirt, they sat down to smoke, was that men and orcs had been here – two months ago. They found scraps of clothing, a broken knife, a hammer with a cracked handle – things made by both men and orcs.

They returned on the surface and soon again approached Orthanc. Treebeard met them with questions; they told him as best they could about what they had seen. The Old Ent frowned.

“Descended from the rocks… Well then, they won’t succeed a second time!”

He turned to the other ents and spoke unhurriedly in his language, apparently giving some orders.

“And here too it’s empty,” Thorin threw out in vexation, again filling his pipe. “Try to understand! Was this ‘master’ here, or just daring men were poking around… I, of course, think it was still him. Well, who else among men would climb here!”

“I wouldn’t speak so, for everyone at once,” Shorty remarked. “Folco, why are you silent?”

The hobbit was indeed thinking about something of his own, staring unblinkingly at the sharp edges and narrow windows of Saruman’s Tower. The voice! The voice inside. What could it be? Who has settled there, behind the impenetrable walls? Suddenly he grabbed Thorin by the arm.

“Let’s climb inside,” he proposed in a voice breaking with excitement.

The dwarves stared at him with wide-open eyes.

“Are you in your right mind, brother hobbit?” Thorin began, but Folco interrupted him:

“And the voice?! Have you really forgotten the voice in the Tower?! What is the Nur-Nur tree? What is the path of petals, and where does it lead? Who is this One? We’re standing at the edge of a mystery that no Mortal possesses – can we really now turn away like cowards?! We must take the risk, we must penetrate Orthanc!”

“And its door we’ll obviously gnaw through with our own teeth?” Shorty snorted. “You yourself told us that in Orthanc Saruman was invulnerable and could even have withstood the Nine! No, tell me, how will you get in there?!”

“Through the window!” Folco answered without a moment’s hesitation. “The one above the balcony. We need to throw up the Grapple, I’ll climb in and drop down the rope ladder to you.”

“You want to enter this Accursed Tower?” the surprised voice of the Old Ent boomed above them. “Huum-hom, roots and boughs! Unprecedented!”

“But you’ll help us, won’t you, Treebeard?” Folco addressed him.

“With everything I can, but with what exactly?”

“Tell me, do you know if all of Orthanc’s arrow-slits are locked from inside?”

“Huum, how should I know? But I’ll say that some of them didn’t withstand the blows of stones when we first entered Isengard and tried to destroy Orthanc. The ents then pelted the windows with stones, and I myself saw how the shutters on many didn’t hold. So,” he smiled slyly, “perhaps I can help you with that. Stand back!”

The friends hastily ran to the side. Treebeard unhurriedly bent down, chose among the stone blocks lying everywhere one, not very large, the size of a dwarf’s height, took aim, weighed it in his palm, and then suddenly somehow bent, straightened with a sharp noisy exhale – the stone with a whistle flew upward and struck precisely in the window opening, which became shrouded in dust and small stone chips. A ringing blow sounded.

“There you are,” the Old Ent said contentedly. “Now you can climb.”

“Let’s risk it, friends!” Folco again addressed the dwarves. “You yourselves will never forgive yourselves if you miss such a chance!”

Thorin and Shorty exchanged glances. For some time they still hesitated, but then Shorty first carelessly waved his hand and began to extract from the depths of his bag a sharp three-pronged grapple and a coil of strong rope.

“Now it’s my turn,” he announced for all to hear, squinting and thoughtfully passing the rope between the surviving fingers of his maimed hand. He took hold of the cord, about a cubit and a half above the anchor, whistled it once or twice over his head like a sling, and in the next moment the grapple rang against the stone and caught fast on the edge of the window. For good measure Shorty tugged the rope, even hung on it – the anchor held firm. The dwarves turned to the hobbit.

The hobbit bit his lip. Climbing he somehow didn’t feel like it: the Tower loomed over him with all its mass, as if threatening to collapse at any moment and bury under its debris those who dared to violate its age-old peace. Folco looked back at Treebeard. He understood his glance in his own way.

“Don’t be afraid, little one,” he boomed. “The ents will stand under the window, and if anything, jump down boldly!”

“Treebeard… Why couldn’t you break that door above the balcony?”

“We tried,” the ent answered with a sigh. “Many times, all together. But no way! You can only break the upper shutters. I chose the lowest one as it is.”

This “lowest one” was about thirty fathoms above their heads; Folco fleetingly marveled at what kind of eye Shorty must have possessed to accurately throw the anchor on the first try!

“Give me the bag.” The hobbit felt Thorin’s helping fingers on him. “Leave the mail, helmet, sword on yourself. I’ve strapped the ladder to your back. The main thing – don’t think of doing anything until you’re inside! There you can throw the ladder and whatever you want. Do you understand?”

The dwarf’s lips betrayed him when he bent down and looked into Folco’s face. The latter sighed, glanced at the ents standing under the wall, caught Treebeard’s encouraging look, adjusted his sword and grabbed the rope;

Contrary to his expectation, climbing proved not so difficult. The dwarves held the lower end of the rope firmly; the ents froze, raising their long many-fingered hands, and the hobbit gradually grew bolder. He had grown considerably stronger during the year of labors and now leisurely, without special effort, pulled himself upward. He passed the balcony; one, another, third arrow-slit; he would have liked to know what shutters closed them, but the rope suddenly began to swing, and he had to concentrate entirely on his climb.

The most difficult part turned out to be scrambling onto the ledge under the arched opening of the arrow-slit; the threatening creaking of steel teeth on stone reached his ears – the grapple was slowly but steadily slipping. The hobbit gritted his teeth and, overcoming acute pain in overstrained stomach muscles, pulled himself up and tumbled over the ledge; barely had he managed to grab the shutter mangled by the stone’s impact when the grapple broke loose and the rope, coiling in a whimsical snake, flew down, under the feet of the dwarves and ents.

“All’s well!” the hobbit shouted down. “The shutter’s knocked out, I’m lowering the ladder!” He carefully crawled into the depth of the embrasure and secured the ladder to a thick hook driven firmly into the wall, on which the shutter had just hung. Soon puffing came from below, and Thorin was the first to scramble onto the ledge, immediately filling the entire narrow space of the embrasure; with difficulty he squeezed inside. Shorty followed him, and only after that did Folco decide to look around.

They stood in an empty, semi-dark room with bare walls and a tall door in the opposite wall. Around their feet slowly swirled a greyish cloud of dust, thickly covering the entire floor, so that it was difficult to make out the complex pattern of the stone mosaic. On each of the walls there had obviously once been some mosaics or bas-reliefs; now only grey rectangles remained of them with traces of stonemasons’ chisels around the edges; someone had cut out entire slabs. They raised their eyes upward – the ceiling was bluish-black. Around reigned dead silence, which made their ears ache.

Thorin carefully approached the door and put his ear to it. Some time later he pushed the handle and the leaf swung open. Before them opened a piece of a half-lit corridor. Exchanging glances, the friends crept out of the room.

The voice fell upon them suddenly, from all sides, barely they had crossed the high threshold. It came from everywhere – and from nowhere, they couldn’t catch the direction. It was very gentle and musical, this voice, abounding in enchanting low tones; one wanted to listen to it without stopping, and Folco immediately recalled the description of Gandalf’s last conversation with Saruman and the mystery of his deceptive voice.

“…No, that’s not so, my Dear Renbar,” the voice was saying. “You will receive what you ask, more precisely, you will attain what has long belonged to you by right, the right of the strong and wise. Others will only squander that wealth, which only you alone can use for good and reasonable purposes, not immediately understood by other low minds…”

The voice suddenly broke off and a moment later sounded again, now not so affectionately and insinuatingly. Now it seemed to come from somewhere below.

“You didn’t find the path? That’s very regrettable… for you, Meshdokh,” the stern teacher spoke, addressing a negligent and lazy pupil. “You do remember our agreement?” Serpentine hissing notes suddenly cut into the voice. “And you remember what I then promised to do with yo…”

Again silence fell. A minute later some muttering reached them, but now it was barely audible and additionally in an incomprehensible language. The friends froze in confusion on the threshold. The fear, well-forgotten since Morian times, again began to creep up on the hobbit.

“Who is speaking, Folco?” Thorin spoke hoarsely as always from excitement, holding his axe at the ready and anxiously looking around.

“It seems to me that the Tower itself is speaking,” Folco answered, stammering.

“Or maybe someone’s sitting here?” Shorty suggested, seeming least of all subject to the grim magic of these walls. “If so, shouldn’t we try to get him, eh?”

“Wait!” Folco raised his hand. “There’s no one here except us… those who walk on earth…”

At that moment the voice again gained strength, and speech became intelligible. The very first sounds made them all press tightly against each other, in a convulsive and absurd attempt to defend themselves, unconsciously thrusting their blades forward. It seemed the Tower shook to its very foundation; terrible, dark and fearsome power, the power of Great Authority filled this voice – and who could resist it? Folco could never later recall whether this voice was high or low, slow or fast – the words fell like granite blocks, and the listener’s eyes began to cloud, and his own will turned into nothing before the might of the Speaker. Folco immediately understood to whom this voice belonged; understood, though naturally he had never heard it in his life, as no one among the now-living Mortals had; perhaps only Círdan the Shipwright, Thranduil and also Tom Bombadil had heard it, in those times when its possessor had not yet parted with human form.

“So, your White Council,” terrible irony filled these words, “your White Council decided to attack Dol Guldur? Not bad! You acted as befits, I praise you. You persuaded this grey braggart to lead those who want to level my castle to the ground?”

“Yes, Mighty One,” the honeyed voice already familiar to them answered obsequiously. “Gandalf the Grey himself sets out on campaign.” Strangely, though the second speaker spoke seemingly in a humbled and submissive way, still in his sounds Folco seemed to sense some deeply hidden gloating – as if a servant hating his master hastened to stun his host with some black news. “But know, Mighty One, with him goes Elrond of Rivendell, and Thranduil of the Wood, and even Celeborn himself from Lórien! They have gathered considerable forces…”

“Let them come,” the first roared. “We’ll finish them all at once…”

The voices broke off suddenly, like everything they had heard before this. For several moments the friends stood, unable to move, as if a heavy sepulchral spell had fettered their bodies. The voice was silent, and unbearable silence hung in the Tower.

Shorty was the first to shake off the stupor. He suddenly spat contemptuously and broke out in the longest dwarfish curse.

“What are you standing for?!” he attacked Folco and Thorin. “We need to leave. All my limbs are trembling! If this Mighty One speaks again, I’ll probably throw myself out the window from fear! Let’s go!”

“Wait, Shorty,” Thorin stopped his friend. “It seems Folco is right, we really did hear the voice of the Tower – more precisely, those voices that it itself once heard and remembered… This is a treasure we never dreamed of! We can now learn everything, Shorty, do you understand, everything! Everything we want! About the underground ones, and about Moria, and about wizards, and about elves, and about those, God forbid, Nine, and about orcs, and about trolls, and… about everything-everything-everything!”

“Of course, we’ll learn…” the hobbit grinned crookedly, “if we sit here another thousand years or so. Thorin, the Tower babbles as it pleases. How long will we have to wait until it says something we can understand?!”

Thorin pursed his lips.

“Well then, what do you suggest?”

“I wonder, did the Tower always speak or is this Saruman’s doing?” the hobbit said thoughtfully. “And isn’t it because of this Ability of its that the Great King closed access here to men?”

At that moment the terrible voice spoke again, and again they in fear unconsciously tried to flee, hide from its irresistible force; more precisely, first they heard the end of a phrase pronounced by the insinuating voice:

“…But what if Brego passes the Paths of the Dead, Mighty One? He could become stronger, much stronger.”

“He will not pass,” the one whom the first speaker called Mighty answered with a smile that shook the hobbit to the depths of his being. “And if he does…” Even traces of the smile disappeared, at that moment terrible voice filled with grim predetermination and even doom, when he continued: “Well, he who passes will indeed become much stronger and will be able to do much. But he will strive in vain…”

And again silence. Seconds of soundlessness. The hobbit, yielding to a strange impulse that came from nowhere, suddenly jumped forward and squealed thinly, straining his throat, shaking his raised fists:

“Why in vain? Why in vain? Answer, in the name of Bright Elbereth!”

It seemed the vaults of the ancient Númenórean stronghold trembled; long, very long this name had not sounded here; but the stones seemed to recognize it, and a new voice, hollow, as if coming from under the earth, the voice of a long-silenced giant, slowly and distinctly pronounced:

“The Paths of the Dead lead only to the Ways of Darkness. He who summons Death against Life has violated the covenant of the Valar…”

A hollow underground blow sounded, and the Tower fell silent.

Much time passed before the voice of Orthanc sounded again. They listened at first with unabated attention, but the Tower narrated about things completely inaccessible to their understanding. However, the hobbit stubbornly wrote down almost every word, especially trying not to miss anything if talk turned to places where any remains of ancient forces, incomprehensible apparently even to Saruman himself, were preserved, or things endowed with them. They sat in the Tower until evening itself, forgetting about food and rest. Twice from outside came the thunderous voice of the alarmed Old Ent; Shorty would stick his head out the window and respond.

When the daylight completely faded, the dwarves practically by force took the hobbit away. Treebeard met them below and was immeasurably surprised, hearing their tale.

“Huum-hom, roots and boughs! Well that’s something!” he boomed, carrying the hobbit back to Fangorn, to his foothills home. “What a pity I can’t go in there myself and listen! Perhaps I might have learned where to seek Fimbrethil… Unprecedented, roots and boughs!”

That night the friends spent on fragrant grass pillows in the house at the Old Ent’s. Folco only now noticed that he didn’t want to eat at all – either he couldn’t calm down after what he’d heard, or the Entish drink was working…

And he had indeed heard quite a lot. He learned that arrows made from branches of the Nur-Nur tree are irreplaceable in fighting the night phantoms of Kritorl; a decoction of Nur-Nur tree nuts will plunge any dragon into prolonged sleep, and when the time of flowering comes, to the Nur-Nur tree gather all the great leaders of Harad (this was the only thing indicating the tree’s location) and breathe in its scent, and, they say, their souls and hearts become harder than steel and more inflexible than granite – that’s why the Haradrim are so brave and stubborn in battle. He heard of the terrible secrets of amazing lands to the east of Mordor – there the Dark Lord hid part of his boundless knowledge, even before the fall of Númenor. He learned that Oromë the Great, the last of the Valar who appeared in Middle-earth to Mortals, during one of his hunts in the Great Green Steppes prophesied, pointing to the distant ridge of the Mordor mountains: “The day will come when after dawn the Gloom spewed forth by Orodruin will thicken again, and He Who Gathered the Shards will bar the Light…” And he also heard that the Great Stair was indeed once built; and about Ungoliant, about his narrow black passages stretching to the surface, by which spawn of the Great Darkness come into this world – like the spider Shelob. The hobbit learned of Saruman’s fear of the Nameless; that in the depths of the eastern lands one could find the old houses of two unknown wizards, two comrades of Gandalf from the Order, of whom Radagast had told the hobbit; Saruman intended to lay hands on these houses, but never managed…

The next morning, having drunk the Old Ent’s wonderful drink together, the friends again set out for Orthanc. On the way Folco, who had been unsuccessfully racking his brains over where the mosaic slabs cut out by someone from the walls had gone, asked Treebeard about this, and he artlessly answered that the Great King had come here twice – once only seven or eight years after the Victory. Then he searched all of Orthanc and took away from there an abyss of all sorts of things, including the stone mosaics from the walls.

At the Tower itself nothing had changed overnight, they climbed into the window without hindrance, and again the endless tale of the ancient stone met them, and again they spent the whole day there. Several times the Tower mentioned “the path of petals,” which they had already heard yesterday; judging by fragmentary words, this was some path that only the strong in spirit and pure in thought could pass; it led to the enigmatic “House of the High,” but who or what this was, they couldn’t understand.

The Tower also told of the Magic Rings. Most of the Rings were forged by elves in the Second Age – putting into them their knowledge and power, believing that after the defeat of Thangorodrim and the fall of Morgoth they would no longer have to face such embodiments of Evil, and trying to make the world around them purer and more beautiful.

Finally Thorin couldn’t stand it when that evening Folco, settling down to sleep, dreamily said it would be good to live here for a month or two… Thorin declared that, firstly, they had long been expected in the north; secondly, Folco himself said that one could sit here until the end of one’s days and not learn even a hundred-thousandth of what the Tower could tell; thirdly, the matter doesn’t wait – they need to seek the “master” of the orcs, and his, Thorin’s, heart senses that this business is very unclean and they especially cannot delay; so tomorrow they must leave – and that’s final!

Folco first twitched to object something, but somehow immediately wilted and unexpectedly quickly agreed with the dwarf, adding that he himself had a bad premonition that some evil is being prepared on the Arnorian borders and therefore they should hurry to Annúminas. The next day the friends began saying farewell to the Old Ent. Treebeard accompanied them to the very edge of the Forest, finally extracting from Folco a promise to visit him again as soon as he could and wanted to. The friends got into the straps, waved their hands to Treebeard for the last time and emerged from under the crowns of the Watch-wood, which had turned out in the end to be so hospitable. Before them lay the road home.

And why - who knows? After all, it was precisely because of this that Númenor fell!

• They were being careful even then, - Farnak said with an unpleasant expression, his jaw muscles working. - So they’re afraid…

Folco didn’t much like these words, but Farnak continued his questioning. The hobbit told him about the Curse of Men - their doom of Death, the strange Gift imposed on Men by the Creator of All, about the gradually growing resentment among the Númenóreans toward the elves, and finally, about the split in the Kingdom and the last campaign of the Island’s army…

• They acted like vile traitors, - Farnak threw out angrily. - Fine fellows, these elves! That’s how to thank those who fought alongside them…

• Wait to judge them, - Folco frowned. - We are not given that, we know too little.

• Then why don’t they let us know more! - Farnak suddenly cried out furiously, shaking his fists. - Why did they start deciding what we are allowed to see and what not?! Why did they close the west to us?! We, the Sea-Folk, - he waved his trembling hand at the rowers who had turned to them, - we want to sail to all four corners of the world, as long as the wind fills the sails and our hands hold the rudder! In the north, we reached the border of the eternal ice, to the blue teeth of the Giant, where the drops of water flowing from the oars turn into icicles in the air, and people fall down dead as soon as they breathe in, and where the skin turns black and peels off the hands. In the south, our “dragons” reached a place where the shore turns to the east and goes into unknowable spaces. We have been on every river in Middle-earth, both the Northern and Southern Worlds - and only the west is closed to us!

Farnak’s eyes blazed. The stunned Folco did not know what to say.

• I asked you if there were people in the past who tried to cross the Sea, - the helmsman continued. - And you told me more than I have ever heard about it in my whole life, but all this only confirmed what we know anyway - the masters of the Undying Lands have fenced themselves off from us, continuing, however, to prescribe their laws to us! Who can deprive a man of his freedom?!

The helmsman’s voice seemed to have acquired the power of thunder, the crew stood up, Folco saw their blazing eyes, clenched fists, every word of the helmsman was met with a resounding roar.

• But why did you say that the elves are being careful? - the hobbit tried to object weakly. - You don’t know why they act like that?

• Why did I say it? - Farnak smiled wryly. - Because they are being careful, and we know it better than anyone! Do you know what will happen if, - he grabbed the hobbit by the shoulders and turned him to face the west, - if I turn the rudder to starboard? We will sail for a day, a second, a third, a month, two, around will be one water, nothing but water and sun and stars - and then time will stop, and we will see the Line.

As if a sudden gust of cold wind extinguishes a carelessly left candle - so the crew immediately fell silent and frowned, and Farnak himself, contemptuously curling his lips, lowered his head.

• The Line? - Folco said in a hoarse voice. - What is it? I’ve never heard of it!

• Not surprising, - Farnak threw. - Only we and those who drew it know about it. Our ships cannot go further - they are turned back… From the side it looks like… - He frowned from the effort to express in words what he had seen. - Once we saw an elven ship pass through it - it lets them through, but not us… All right! - he suddenly broke off. - Hey, you lazybones, don’t you see we’re losing the wind?! Híarrhidi! Where are you looking! - Farnak yelled, turning away from the hobbit.

The men hastily rushed to their places. After this conversation, Farnak was imbued with if not respect, then at least interest in the hobbit, and they often talked. The helmsman told a lot and willingly, as if in a hurry to share his troubles with a rare, as he himself admitted, interlocutor. He spoke of campaigns to the south and to the north. To the south - for valuable wood, golden sand and outlandish fruits, which go to the table of the Gondorian rich, to the north - for the bone of a sea beast and strong, waterproof hides, from which in Arnor they sew clothes for armored warriors. Before the listening hobbit’s mind’s eye passed an endless series of unexplored countries and mysterious islands - some covered with eternal snow from the icy breath of the northern winds, others languishing from the heat poured on them by the sun standing exactly in the middle of the sky… And about the countless battles in which the Eldrings - as they called themselves - had to fight, Farnak spoke. About skirmishes with the gloomy, merciless tribes of the far South, where in a sea of green thickets, poisoned arrows, shot by no one knows who, silently and inexorably overtake the brave, wounds from which are fatal; how at night amazing gigantic beasts with the body of a bull and the head of a bear come to the camps, and in the morning giant spiders descend from trees as tall as a good mountain, deftly throwing their sticky web for dozens of steps; you must always be on your guard, there you can expect an attack at any moment…

Farnak spoke well, and only one thing made the hobbit inwardly cringe with unexpressed protest - when the Eldring mentioned the elves. For him, they were enemies, and he had no doubts or hesitations. They must leave, he insisted. People must choose their own paths, following only the advice of their own minds. Listening to the helmsman, Folco unexpectedly remembered the unforgettable Olmer, and suddenly an unusually clear, cold and therefore even more frightening thought flashed through his mind: what if these elf-haters conspire?

But these thoughts had to be kept to himself, and for now the hobbit took the opportunity to observe the people of the Sea-Folk. Despite the fact that the “dragon” seemed not very large, there were almost one hundred and forty rower-warriors on it: on the inner side of the board, the armament of each of them hung in strict order, ready at any second to exchange an oar for the hilt of a sword. The hobbit tried to start conversations with them, but the Eldrings were gloomy and hardly answered questions. The hobbit remembered Terwin’s coin; among the rowers there were some who looked similar to those from whose leader the hobbit had received this unusual gift; but all cautious attempts to find out anything ended in nothing. To a direct question - where they had been this spring, Farnak, with a grin, threw: where the crow had not carried the bones.

And among other stories, Farnak told the hobbit a strange legend that existed among the Sea-Folk. Allegedly, the eldest son of the last Lord of Gondor, Denethor, Boromir, who died in a skirmish with orcs at Parth Galen, left behind offspring. Boromir had a son from a simple, low-born girl, whom his father hid from the formidable Denethor, fearing his wrath. It seems that after the victory in the War of the Ring, this young man, Boromir’s son, appeared before the Great King Elessar - and for some unknown reason they had a quarrel. Denethor’s grandson left Minas Tirith - either he was exiled, or he himself did not want to live under the rule of the new King - in a word, Boromir’s son considered himself insulted and allegedly took a terrible oath to take revenge…

This story at first interested the hobbit little - what people don’t gossip about! However, he remembered it, deciding to tell it to Radagast on occasion and hear the wizard’s opinion on this matter…

And the days went by, and Folco got used to the blue expanse constantly spread around him; standing at the side and looking at the water foaming around the raised bow, he went over the events of recent months in his memory, trying to understand: what have they achieved and what, in fact, should they do next? And in general, how long will they wander? They had lost the trail of the orc “master”; they had made a mistake by leaving Moria without finding out, they should have caught a few more orcs at any cost and, with the help of the Ring, gotten the truth out of them; instead, they went down, and now Hornbori was sleeping an eternal sleep under a heavy slab in the One Hundred and Eleventh Hall, and Dori with his Ring was now probably gathering armies in the Iron Hills… The Tower of Orthanc had told them many interesting things - but what were they to do with it? They would probably get to Annúminas - and what then?

The water, eternally boiling with white foam, ran under the side, and Folco, looking at it, suddenly remembered his recent vision near the blue Flower, and it was as if he was pierced - Thorin was already old… which means they will wander for many years… so is he destined to ever return to his homeland?! Will he really have to spend his whole life in endless wanderings?! And, without delay, he asked Thorin the same question when they went down under the short forecastle to have dinner.

• I know one thing - we will wander as long as necessary, - the dwarf cut him off sternly.

• And how long is necessary? Where will we go after Annúminas? I wouldn’t mind visiting home, by the way… I haven’t been seen there for a long time…

• It will be necessary for as long as it takes to catch this “master” and put an end to the new threat, - Thorin shrugged. - And after Annúminas, we will probably go to Angmar.

The Kid choked, Folco barely stayed on the bench. From this name, a long-forgotten cold and the horror of the revived Barrow-downs wafted over him. Looking at their amazed, bulging eyes, Thorin smirked slightly and continued:

• And where else to look for those who are rocking Middle-earth? And if we see this coat of arms in Angmar - a three-pronged black crown - consider the matter almost done.

• And… and then? - Folco barely managed to say.

• Then there will be war, - Thorin threw harshly. - It’s time to understand what’s what, Folco. Evil, evil has once again made its nest at the foot of the Angmar Mountains! The sooner this nest is burned to the ground, the better. But what’s the point of guessing? For now, we need to get to the northern capital, our friends are waiting for us there, and a message from Dori may arrive.

Meanwhile, the ten days appointed by Farnak had passed, and exactly on the appointed date his “dragon”, helping itself with oars, moored at the mouth of the Baranduin, where there was another large anchorage of the Sea-Folk ships. Folco had no idea that his native river, so smooth and calm under the windows of his house, could spread so wide, carrying dozens of different vessels. Here, the goods brought from the south, having moved from the holds to the backs of mules, into heavy, creaking carts and long merchant caravans, set off on a short journey to the Arnorian borders. There were also many barges floating down the river, similar to the one on which the friends had sailed on the Song. Folco learned that south of the borders of his native Hobbiton, which was closed to people, at the crossing over the Brandywine, where the road that began in Delving crossed the river, there was also a large transshipment of goods; some of the merchants unloaded their goods there.

It was time to say goodbye to Farnak and his crew. Finally, Folco, Thorin, the Kid and Híarrhidi decided to go to a tavern to wet their whistles after a long journey.

They were walking along the riverbank, clad in a solid armor of countless piers, making their way through a motley crowd of Eldrings, respectfully bypassing the impressively frozen at every intersection Arnorian patrols, when their attention was drawn to an unusually long, narrow ship, rapidly approaching the shore on twelve pairs of oars. Its sharp, high-prowed nose was decorated with the image of the head of a beast unknown to the hobbit with two long fangs protruding far forward from its mouth: driven by powerful strokes of the oars, the ship was rapidly approaching. A black and red flag fluttered on the mast.

Híarrhidi whistled in amazement as soon as he saw it.

• Wow! Skiludr himself, I swear by the eye of the storm! The brave one!

From the deck of the ship, ropes were already being thrown, and a little later, people began to jump from its side onto the pier one after another, without waiting for the gangplank. Several guards hurried to them; the fair-haired leader who came forward threw something short to them, and when one of the Arnorian soldiers blocked his way, he suddenly silently pointed to the river surface, along which, one after another, new “dragons”, five or six more, were approaching, mooring to the side of the first ship. The guard stepped back in confusion, and the leader calmly walked on. The rest of his men followed him. The Arnorian warriors hastily dispersed in different directions, leaving two to watch Skiludr’s ships.

• Tell me, who is he? - the hobbit asked Híarrhidi, nodding at the rapidly receding back of the fair-haired leader of the Eldrings.

• Oh! Skiludr is a force! - the helmsman’s assistant said seriously and respectfully. - He is his own man and does not need laws or treaties. He has eight hundred swords! And what swords - not like the Arnorian pot-bellies. He did not accept peace with the Kingdom, but he is so strong that he cannot be taken in open battle, he cannot be caught at sea… However, I have not heard that he was particularly brutal - no, he does not even fight, but simply lives on his own, as he wants. But it happens that he takes the ships of Gondor.

• How did he dare to come here?! Can’t he be captured?

• Haven’t you heard how many swords he has? Try to touch him! They wouldn’t even leave ashes of the city! And the commanders of the Arnorian armored warriors know that we, the other Eldrings, those who have accepted peace, will not help Skiludr, true to our word, but we will not enter into battle on the side of Arnor, they will have to manage on their own, and they are not capable of that… Hey! What are you doing?

His last exclamation was addressed to the hobbit, who had suddenly frozen with his mouth open. The dashing warriors of Skiludr were still getting out onto the pier, and among them a familiar swarthy face suddenly flashed. Folco had not forgotten it and would not have confused it with any other - the very man who had given him Terwin’s coin!

Hearing this, Thorin immediately grabbed his axe and resolutely declared through his teeth that whether this tramp had eight hundred swords or eighty thousand, he certainly wanted to have a word with this fellow. The bewildered Híarrhidi began to warn them; the hobbit explained the matter to him in two words. The helmsman’s assistant shrugged his shoulders in surprise.

• Where could they have gotten this thing, venerable Thorin? We don’t go deep into foreign lands, and it’s unlikely that your friend, as you say, could have ended up on the coast. And isn’t it possible that this coin changed many owners before it fell into the hands of the last owner?

• Then I want to know from whom he received it! - Thorin said stubbornly.

Without losing sight of the seafarer the hobbit remembered, they hurried after the warriors of Skiludr, who were walking in a tight crowd. Suddenly, about two dozen of them turned into an inconspicuous beer cellar, and the friends followed them.

Downstairs it was crowded, noisy, and smoky. Suspiciously-blissful servants scurried between the huge tables, carrying trays of foaming mugs, and on the benches a boisterous sea host sang songs, played dice, quarreled, and traded. Skiludr’s men were greeted with a friendly roar - many hugged, obviously old acquaintances were meeting here. Unlike the other people, the newcomers were quieter and more dignified.

The hobbit, the dwarves, and Híarrhidi settled in a corner. The helmsman’s assistant did not stop grumbling at them and answered Folco’s question with obvious reluctance, where the man who had praised his cooking was from.

• It’s even further south of our southern borders, there is such a people there, the most desperate of them often come to us…

• I’m going, - Thorin lunged, but Folco stopped him.

• I’d better ask him, - he laid his palm on his friend’s sleeve.

Making his way between the rows, the hobbit gently touched the man’s shoulder. The latter turned around immediately, the momentary wariness giving way to a bewildered smile. Folco bowed politely, saying that he had a few words to say to the venerable…

• By the Great Water, - he interrupted him with a laugh, - yes, this is none other than the very fellow who so gloriously feasted us in the northern capital! What wind brought you here? Did you change your master?

• That’s not so, venerable, I don’t know your name, - Folco continued politely. - But if you’ll allow me, I’d like to ask…

• Where did you get this?! - Thorin, who had crept up to them unnoticed, suddenly roared over the hobbit’s ear and, of course, spoiled the whole thing. The smile disappeared, the stranger did not even glance at the dwarf’s outstretched palm with the ill-fated coin.

• And who are you to give me an account? - He measured the dwarf with his gaze.

• Whoever I am, - Thorin growled, shaking off the hobbit who was trying to pull him away, - but I want to know and, I swear by Durin’s beard, I will find out where you got what I myself gave to my friend at parting! And if your answer does not satisfy me, I swear, I will settle accounts with you for Terwin!

The Eldring listened to the dwarf’s impassioned speech with a smirk, smiled wryly, then slowly, quietly and distinctly threw such words in his face that Folco was stunned, and Thorin turned so purple that it was as if a fire had been lit inside him. The next moment, the dwarf’s axe hissed through the air in front of the offender’s nose. Around them, they roared, whistled and hooted.

• A glorious pair, I swear by the Sea-Father!

• Hey, give them room! Room!

Fans of such spectacles hastily dragged away the tables, clearing a space. No one tried to separate the disputants, not even the owner. With a last hope, Folco glanced at Híarrhidi, but he had disappeared somewhere.

The opponents were closing in. Both were without mail and helmets, in the Eldring’s hands a long straight sword gleamed dully. Thorin walked forward with his axe at the ready. From somewhere in the back rows the Kid burst out with blades drawn, but they immediately piled on him, and someone very sensible said to the Kid, gasping for breath:

• The fight is fair and with equal weapons. What, don’t you know the rules? Challenge someone yourself or you can continue the fight later if things go wrong with your buddy.

• What’s this? - someone’s low and stern voice suddenly thundered from the door invisible to the hobbit. - Gront!

Pushing aside those who hastily stepped back with respectful bows, Skiludr himself was striding rapidly toward the quarrelers - in a simple leather jacket, with a long sword at his belt. Over his shoulder, Híarrhidi’s tense face was visible.

Thorin’s opponent immediately lowered his blade.

• What happened? - Skiludr asked curtly, casting an icy glance over the scene.

Gront bowed, spreading his hands guiltily.

• Nothing special, my tan, - he said. - This honorable dwarf wanted to test the strength of my sword.

• Henceforth know that the steel of dwarves is better, - Skiludr threw coldly. - Tell me! - he commanded, turning to Thorin.

He snorted indignantly, but restrained himself and began to speak. When he finished, nothing could be read on the face of the Eldring leader.

• I understand you, - he said, addressing the dwarf. - But I must say at once - you are looking in the wrong place. I swear by the Eternal Sea, my people did not kill your friend. Gront received this thing for bravery, and where and from whom - is another matter. We do not tell the first person we meet the names of those doing business with us. You will have to be satisfied with this answer or - well! - try your luck. But those sitting here know, - the Eldring waved his hand around the hall, - in his life Skiludr has not said a single false word. Even to enemies.

He turned and silently walked to the door past the men who immediately gave him way. Gront started to follow him, but then stopped and beckoned the hobbit.

• I really am innocent, - he said quietly in Folco’s ear. - Your friend is too hot, and it would be good to shorten him a bit, but, so be it, in memory of our good meeting, tell him that this thing was given to me by one… from the East, with whom we went together… it doesn’t matter where and why. Well, shall we fight? - he asked loudly, addressing Thorin. - I did not kill your friend, I swear! You can’t check me anyway, so decide - do you believe me or not.

He turned away and calmly started talking to some of his companions. Thorin spat angrily and approached closer.

• But tell me at least, I beg you, - these words were difficult for the dwarf, - from whom did you receive it? If such a thing happened to you, wouldn’t you try to avenge your friend?

• I have already told your companion everything I could, - Gront answered imperturbably. - I can repeat - he is a great chief… from the East. But even this doesn’t mean anything - he could have received your coin from someone else’s hands…

With these words he turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Híarrhidi approached the frozen dwarf and hobbit.

• Well, you came up with something! - he shook his head reproachfully. - It’s good that tan Skiludr himself happened to be nearby, I had to bow to him, otherwise you would both have been cut to pieces - this is usual business with us.

It was time to part. The friends gathered their considerably thinner bags, loaded them on the backs of ponies bought here and, having paid and said goodbye to Farnak, moved along the main street of the city, which gradually turned into a well-trodden road. The houses ended, but along the riverbank piers still stretched. Struggling against the current, one of the long “dragons” was rising upstream. Looking closely, the hobbit recognized Skiludr’s ship - only his sails bore the image of a seagull, and from the ship came a song:

Under the evening star In the quiet splash of sails We argue with stupid fate At distant shores! Sailors, fighters, wanderers, Steel of swords, mail, shields, Black-and-fiery banners - At rich shores! Under the evening star Along the path of silver We sail toward battle Into the smoke of a bloody bonfire. The overturned sky Beckons with the nearness of a star, Scattering bread crumbs In the thick of gloomy water. Under the evening star Amid the radiance of waters Teases us at night The reflected firmament…

The road turned sharply to the right, circling the riverside hills, and the song fell silent.