Chapter 9: The Wind of Angmar

Having decided not to tempt fate, the friends joined a large merchant caravan heading to Annúminas. Summer had passed; September was underway, and the aspens had already turned red, birches trembled in the wind with branches that had begun to bare: torn leaves swirled over the Road. On the fifth day, the caravan reached Sarn Ford without any incidents, where the ancient road that led to the Tower Hills beyond the western borders of the Shire began - for Folco, this was the road home.

He stood on the shoulder of the main road, leaving the dwarves to compensate for travel shortages of beer in the nearest tavern, and looked to the northwest, where the road disappeared in the gray distances, as if merging with the horizon covered by low continuous clouds. The north wind was blowing, and the hobbit shivered, wrapping himself in his well-worn traveling cloak. Only here, finding himself a few days’ journey from home, did he suddenly realize how tired he was of all this endless and, in general, fruitless wandering. The empty crossroads was dreary and uncomfortable, around lay a foreign land - what was he doing here? Folco didn’t want to go anywhere anymore, neither to Annúminas, and certainly not to Angmar - it was time to return home. There they were already hauling turnips and rutabagas, carrots and cabbages to the barns, selecting the very best for the October fair; Uncle Paladin was bustling back and forth across the yard, constantly scolding lazy young hobbits, and under the large beer cauldron a fire was already being laid, and select barley had already been prepared, and cabinets with festive dishes were being unlocked, and in the kitchen about two dozen pots bubbled and puffed, and his aunt commanded her restless daughters-in-law; and on the slope above the river his comrades had gathered - Rorimac and Berilac, Saradoc and Gorbulas, Mnoghorad and Otto, Fredegar and Toddo - to have fun throwing arrows, multicolored shields with targets were set up, and Fredegar was already rolling out a pot-bellied beer jug; and dances were planned for the evening, dust was being wiped from pipes and drums - in summer, during the busy season, there was no time for them… Oh, how he wanted to go home! And then, from out of nowhere, a gnawing pain in his heart made him decide at once: let the dwarves think what they want about him - he must visit Buckland before - perhaps! - setting off on new wanderings. He must sleep under his native roof, show himself to family and friends… See Milisenta… What about her, how is she, and most importantly - with whom? Maybe she’s been married for a long time…

The hobbit turned and walked away from the river, away from the bridge, back along the log pavements to one of the inns where they had stopped. He passed the trading square, full of a noisy crowd busily selling and buying, here were the right gates, here were friends sipping beer, and a mug foamed in his hand, and… how to tell them that their roads diverge? Folco didn’t dare and postponed the conversation until morning.

The rest of the day passed in sweet idleness. By evening, a fine drizzle began to fall from the gray clouds that had been covering the sky all day. Folco sat by the fireplace, and for some reason his mood became darker and darker. Something told him that he would not see dear Buckland soon; in the dancing tongues of fire he suddenly seemed to see the blazing walls of some city, and a cold snake crawled into his soul with a heavy premonition of trouble. The dwarves snored peacefully, and the hobbit sat and sat, throwing wood into the fire, as if afraid to be in the darkness. The wind howled ominously somewhere in the attic; like someone’s dry hand scratching at the window was the branch of an apple tree growing in the yard. Something creaked and turned in the corners, a loosely closed shutter banged - in all the usual sounds of the large house, the hobbit seemed to sense the approach of some evil force that hated all living things; he hastily climbed under the covers with his head, and this unexpectedly helped, he immediately fell into oblivion.

…Was it a dream or reality? From the gray mist, the tall thin figure of a man with a huge owl on his shoulder suddenly emerged. The hobbit recognized Radagast.

I finally found you, - the former wizard spoke quickly and anxiously. - My strength is not the same, there’s little time. Listen! Trouble has come, from where I expected it. Angmar has risen! Hurry, I need you in the north. I’m waiting for you in Bree. Hurry…

Waves of wavering gray mist swallowed Radagast’s figure, and the hobbit, drenched in cold sweat, jumped up on the hard bed, staring wildly into the darkness. What was it? A strange dream or really a warning? His heart was beating wildly, his lungs lacked air… Could Thorin have been right? Could it be war? Only now did Folco feel the icy breath of the terrible word with his skin. War! What would happen to his Buckland? To the Shire? He must warn them, send notice!

The hobbit desperately shook the peacefully sleeping Thorin. The dwarf didn’t immediately grasp what his friend wanted from him when woken from sleep, and when he understood, he sat up, his mouth gaping wide.

He called me to Bree… But what about my countrymen? - The hobbit bit his lip till it bled.
Wait, - Thorin threw gloomily, furiously scratching his beard. - Are you sure that all this wasn’t a dream? - Folco helplessly spread his hands. - Oh, these dreams of yours, may Durin enlighten me! Well, what can you do? - He stuck his head out the window. - The night seems bright, the road is visible… Come on, wake the Kid, and I’ll take care of our ponies…

Rousing the Little Dwarf proved difficult, and in the end they pushed him, half-asleep, into the cold night wind. The full moon gave enough light; along the deserted ghostly road three friends hurried toward the distant black horizon, where the sky merged with equally black earth.

Morning, cold, sunless, they met a good eight leagues northeast of Sarn Ford. During the day, these places turned out to be much more cozy and inhabited. Resting after the night’s ride, the friends sipped beer at a roadside tavern; the last roosters had just crowed, a herd had just passed, the sleepy innkeeper brought them full mugs. This establishment stood at the far edge of the village, so they were the first to hear the frantic clatter of hooves of a rider racing along the road from Bree.

Folco’s heart sank. Who could be driving a horse so mercilessly at such an early hour?

The answer came quickly. At the fence, an exhausted man, barely staying on his feet, reined in a lathered stallion. His white-and-blue cloak was spattered with mud, matted with sweat hair stuck out from under his knocked-off cap.

Hey, is anyone here? - the rider’s hoarse voice rang out, and the owner rushed out to meet him. - Wake the people! - the newcomer commanded imperatively. - Come on, move faster! I can’t wait, I need to be at Sarn Ford by evening.
But what, what is it? - the owner babbled, looking up at the warrior respectfully and fearfully.
What?! - the other roared, noisily gulping the beer brought out by the innkeeper. - And that all the villagers are ordered to hide in the forests with all their property and, until they’re told, not to return! Clear?! More beer…
But why, from whom should we hide? - the innkeeper trembled.
From whom - you don’t need to know, - the warrior threw gloomily. - The army is going on a campaign, you’ll be left without protection for a while… Anything could happen… That’s it! - he threw sharply, not letting the innkeeper ask about anything else. - Everything I should have said, I’ve already said, now I’ll repeat the same to the people… Well, quickly raise everyone!

He turned and, stepping heavily, entered the tavern, almost falling onto the bench. Stumbling like a blind man, the owner ran to the nearest house and desperately began pounding on the gate. A dog barked, then indistinct voices were heard… Meanwhile, Thorin cautiously touched the messenger’s shoulder.

Forgive me, honorable, while there are no others, tell us, what’s the matter? Can’t you say, then at least nod. War? - And Thorin froze for a moment, having pronounced this word with difficulty. - War with Angmar?

The warrior flinched and looked at the dwarf in surprise, and everything swam before Folco’s eyes. With a heavy sigh, the warrior bowed his head, and Thorin continued:

We have long heard alarming news, and it wasn’t hard to guess… But all three of us want to fight against the enemies of Arnor too. Where do we need to go? Where is the militia gathering? And also - are dwarves going with you?
Well, you have questions, honorable. - The messenger frowned and looked at him suspiciously. - I don’t know anything like that!

From the street came the hum of many alarmed voices, the warrior rose and went out, once again throwing a mistrustful and wary glance at Thorin.

Faster, faster to Bree, - Folco could only say.

Sparing neither themselves nor the ponies, they found themselves in Bree three days later. The hobbit would forever remember the deserted villages - people fled wherever they could, knowing and understanding nothing, taking out everything they could. The friends spent nights at abandoned inns, by evening the hobbit could barely stand on his feet from fatigue, and nothing came to him in dreams anymore.

I don’t understand, - Thorin said through his teeth once, seeing several carts with household goods disappear into a nearby forest. - Why such an order - for everyone to hide? Why not a general assembly?

His question remained unanswered - only once they were overtaken by a large detachment of Arnorian horsemen heading north; leaning down from his saddle, the commander shouted to them to take cover as soon as possible: Thorin tried to find out what was happening, but the rider only waved his hand and spurred his horse…

Bree met them with empty houses; at the outskirts two belated residents were hastily securing carts, Folco involuntarily heard their conversation:

What’s going on, neighbor! What have we come to! Where to hide now, eh? And the mill… I took off the millstones, but where to put them? Should I bury them? Otherwise they’ll steal them, you never know…
Bury them! Good idea. My wife, stupid as she is, even she understood - she buried all the pokers and pots herself…
Hey, honorable! What’s going on here? - Thorin called out to them.

However, the Bree-folk showed an obvious unwillingness to enter into conversations with him. At the first glance at the dwarf’s gleaming armor, at his long axe with a silvered handle, they both took to their heels, forgetting even about their carts. The friends called after them in vain - they didn’t even look back.

The large village seemed deserted; only two dozen Arnorian armored men remained in it. They questioned the friends for a long time and meticulously, who they were and where they came from; finally, satisfied and having scribbled something on their travel pass, the guards let them through the barrier.

The friends hurriedly drove the ponies along Main Street.

Well, where is this… - Thorin began and broke off, because it turned out that not all the inhabitants had fled and hidden. Near the famous “Prancing Pony” several men and hobbits from the locals were hastily erecting a barricade of logs and sacks around the doors. Among them flashed the familiar face of Barliman, but there was no time to talk to him - a lanky figure with a long black staff in hand stepped into the middle of the road, and they immediately recognized him.
Quickly! - Radagast threw, entering the shop and firmly locking the door behind them.

The Kid quietly huddled in a corner, even Thorin seemed intimidated; it seemed that before them stood one of the great wizards of the past - Radagast’s shoulders straightened, mysterious power glimmered in the depths of his single eye, and his hands no longer seemed dry and senile - the traces of wrinkles on them rather resembled honest battle scars on a young but already experienced warrior.

Listen! - Radagast’s eye seemed to pierce them through. - War has begun. Four days ago a messenger galloped here from Fornost. Angmar has moved in great force toward the borders of the Kingdom; in their hearts is a thirst for gold and blood, they are coming to plunder - and therefore, I think, they won’t go deep into the country, hardly further than Fornost. But their leader… In him, - the wizard leaned over the fire, drawing the friends’ heads closer and lowering his voice, - in him I sense not just blackness, but black power, and it seems to me that I have sensed something similar before, long ago, in the past centuries of the Great Wars. I don’t know who he is, alas! And I no longer have the strength to go far. But I tell you and I swear to the truth of this my knowledge by the eternal thrones of the Valar - he will not stop at this. Passing through the camp, I heard one of the warriors close to the Steward say that he has become conceited, this King without a Kingdom. So here, he will not rest until his kingdom becomes… much, very much of what is now free, and white will change its color to black. And now I ask you, even beg you - fulfill your duty to the end. You yourselves chose the path of search and struggle, because none of you could live the old way. Walk the path allotted to you to the end, to the very highest trail!
Your words are dark, - Thorin said with difficulty. - We are now in darkness, we don’t know: what to do next? The army is going to Angmar…

Radagast’s shoulders sagged helplessly, his voice sounded barely audible:

An evil lot again makes me a herald of grief and disasters… If the free and happy life of Middle-earth is dear to you, then do what you can to protect it!
We don’t need to be called, - the Kid frowned. - We need to be told what to do!
What to do?! - the wizard suddenly thundered. - I will tell you! And be proud, for I could not say such a thing to anyone but you. Know that the root of everything is that black power that has acquired a name and form - the name and form of Olmer of Dale! And, hard as it is for me to say this to you and send you on an almost hopeless task, for the sake of all the others whom you will shield, I say - go on the trail of Olmer, the King without a Kingdom, go and kill him!

And again silence, only the embers crackled: it seemed to the hobbit that he was looking into the very heart of the earth and seeing terrible shapeless shadows that slowly but surely rise up to merge with the Darkness already spread over Middle-earth; and it seems to him that he is no longer himself, but someone with a coldly shining stellar sword and a belt flashing with crimson auroras; and only he has the power to cast back these spawn of the heavy and dark Primordial, even at the cost of his own life.

And then, when he came to himself and saw his friends and the wizard, his ears caught the unnaturally calm words of Thorin, wiping his axe with a rag:

Well then, it’s always easier when you know your enemy by sight…

And the Kid smiled his usual serene smile in response to Radagast’s questioning glance, nodding his head, after him Thorin raised his gleaming axe in agreement, then the hobbit himself, mesmerized by looking into Radagast’s bottomless pupil, silently bowed his head.

Here ends the first part of the story “Ring of Darkness”. The friends go in pursuit of the enemy. The second part tells of their campaign far to the east, of their return, and of what fate awaited the one who was Olmer, the gold-seeker from Dale.