Written in collaboration with the players of all characters involved!
Few among even the Tawarwaith called it Greenwood still, the forest that the caravan crossed.
The floor of any old-growth forest in Middle-earth was dark, with boughs of ancient trees stretching hungrily into the sky, thick mats of leaves drinking up the precious light. But the darkness of Mirkwood was unlike any other; it was total, and it was uncanny. In the heavy windless gloom the tree-trunks broad as houses spread out into crowns matted and woven together, an angry tangle so thick it wholly blotted out the sky, turning days into new-moon nights and nights into consuming blackness, dark as an abandoned mine-shaft or tomb.
Neither silent nor lifeless were these woods, the air and underbrush fluttering and chittering with the murmurs of strange creatures; indeed the travelers lit no lanterns to push back the oppressive dark, for any light would bring down the mass of insects overhead towards them, to brush against their faces and entangle in their beards. Even so, all that lived and grew here seemed to do so under an atmosphere almost funereal, the few cries of birds and beasts wan and subdued, as if the only way to speak in the stale and rotted air was to whisper.
In day the Dwarves and their friends rode slowly in a loose single file, the goats little more willing than the ponies and the waggons constantly confounded by the ancient roots heaving upward underneath the path. Yet the first crossing this was not for all the Dwarves, and with an Elf at the head of their line they could not be too afraid—only nervous, casting their eyes out into the oppressive dark and seeing little aside from the occasional, glimmering glimpse of clustered yellow eyes.
More than seventy years ago it had been when the full strength of the Shadow fled from Mirkwood, but some of the mortals traveling the road this day had trouble seeing the evidence of it.
Bíld, the youngest Dwarf, they placed in the middle, riding the aptly-named Potato ahead of Cyanite and Thrufi’s waggon, and behind Rofda and Huldaur’s. Normally the Hobbit Finnric—the only one of their number even younger than he—would be riding alongside him, but he’d been placed at the front with Celebrinnir to help keep watch with his keen (and paired) eyes.
But Bíld’s eyes were still good, too; more than seven years fewer had he than the youngest Dwarf of that more famous Company, when the Oakenshield passed this way many decades ago. And while Bíld couldn’t be useful to the caravan as an axe-arm, he could at least feel like he was helping by keeping his gaze alert and moving across the left, the right, and the thick-layered lattice of the branches above, where the nearest thing to sky to be seen was here and there a leaf feebly glowing under the little light that reached so far down through the canopy before being sucked up, never touching the floor.
He was looking up at them when he spotted it: a bright spot moving among them on the right side of the road. It was twisting and quivering like any leaf might on the breeze—but only a second’s looking was needed to draw Bíld’s suspicion, for in the heavy air of Mirkwood there was no breeze. He pulled Potato’s reins and stood up as tall in the stirrups as on his short legs he could, squinting up through the gloom; indeed it was no figment of his imagination but a flicker of something, not the green-yellow of a backlit leaf but a bright, pure white, jittering in the lower branches to the south.
He gave his immensely fat pony a kick, managing with great difficulty to urge him again forward, traveling up alongside the line till he rode up parallel to a lightly-armored Dwarf on a goat. Leaning over Potato’s thick side towards him, he whispered, “Maurr?”
His brother looked back at him from beneath his helm’s raised visor. “What’s the trouble, Bíld?”
“There’s something moving in the trees to the south.”
The older Dwarf’s eyes snapped in that direction immediately; he considered a few seconds more before urging his own steed forward, pulling up alongside the Elf at the caravan’s head. From the back of his squat goat he had to crane his neck far back to look all the way up at Celebrinnir atop the grey Sírdal; though he tried to keep his voice low, such a distance could not be whispered across, and in the uncanny still and quiet his words carried farther than he would like. “Right side, something in the trees. Can you tell what it is?”
An answer came from the trees before it came from the Elf: a sudden tumult of low, yelping cries, ha! ha! ha!, as the white spot began dancing frantically against the dark forest’s backdrop. All the Dwarves in the now-halted caravan recognized it and looked out towards the south or around at each other; Bíld breathed out a quiet exclamation, pushing Potato forward again to join the cluster of riders at the front, while lifting off from Cyanite’s waggon a pair of black wings beat—Mänik, flying up the line as well, dark eyes peering towards the trouble.
“A raven,” Maurr murmured, in answer to himself.
“A white raven,” said Bíld.
“Whatever is it doing?” asked Finn.
“Asking for help!” Mänik croaked in a somewhat quiet answer, wings fluttering nervously as he perched near the front group.
Bíld looked at Maurr. “Then of course we must help.”
Maurr looked back at him and sighed, “I don’t much like wandering off the road,” though the tone with which he said it already signaled his compliance. “If there’s trouble I don’t want to bring it back to the waggons.”
“But we must,” said Bíld—and he too spoke not in the tone of argument, but as a statement.
Finn’s hand was already on the haft of his spear. “Just tell me what to do,” he said, and looked between the two of them.
“Leave your pony,” Maurr answered while sliding off his goat. “Treacherous footing, and better to go quietly.” His own boots landed on the ground with just a soft rattle of his arms, though when he looked back to see Bíld scrambling off Potato he frowned. “Not you, Bíld. Better to stay back with the others.”
“But I want to help,” Bíld answered, stubbornly, “and—‘tis Bíld’s sign.”
Not Bíld Bóurrul's, but that of Bíld Valdul—Bíld son of Vald, father of Bóurr.
As Maurr stared at Bíld following that, his thick brows drew down, though in the end with more solemnity than disapproval. He turned to Finnric; “Keep him safe,” his firm instruction, as he got his long axe off the back of his goat as well.
Finn’s answer was a grim nod.
“And Mänik, if you could tell Arlis to be ready, I’d be obliged.” With that the long-moustached Dwarf turned to slide down the incline, toward the flickering spot to the south.
The south bank of the road was steep indeed; Maurr’s goat might have been able to manage it, but the ponies were no doubt glad to be left behind. It was he who took point, picking a careful way down through the clods and brambles. Traffic on the Elf-path was little, even in these days of friendship between the Forest, Mountain, and Lake, but even so the walking became much more difficult just a few yards off it. But by and by they arrived at the foot of one of those great trees, directly below that fluttering white shape, able now to look up and see it clearly.
A white raven they had assumed it, but now that appeared to not quite be the case. Now that they were near enough to better judge, they could see this was a huge bird, though between the size of an ordinary raven and a scion of Ravenhill like Mänik, that was nearly all the glinting jet-black common to those people. But several long flight feathers on the right wing were a stark, pure white, and it was they that caught the light and glinted as the bird struggled to free itself from the trap.
That trap had been hard to see from the road, but it was apparent to them now: a strand, thick but so translucent as to be near-invisible from a distance, of what looked like spider silk, only absurdly wide. Coating its whole length were globs of sticky fluid, and it was that which had glued the raven’s black wing in place, leaving only the white-spotted one to flap as called down to them—in Westron this time, though croaky and stilted—came, “Hello, help me. Help. Thank you, help.”
“Not so loud, please,” Maurr muttered back up to it. “We’re here to help now.”
“Oh no,” Finn whispers, “is it a baby?”
“Regardless, we must get them down quickly,” murmured Bíld, near Finnric’s elbow. “Spiders...”
“Aye, we can see that,” Maurr grunted, glancing back up the slope to check that Arlis, Celebrinnir, the other warriors were still keeping an eye. Then, carefully, he leaned his long axe against the tree trunk, taking from a holster near his waist one of his throwing-axes instead. From the tree he took a few paces back, staring up at the raven snagged to the line, eyes opened wide at first, then squinting.
Then—without noise or apparent effort, he threw it. It was not a short distance, and the arc was upward—even so it flew with no danger of hitting the bird, in a graceful tumble end-over-end to strike above it, blade-edge against the thick strand, cutting it as neatly as Vairë’s scissors snipping a thread. And like a ribbon it fluttered to the forest floor, raven beating one wing frantically to land in the earth and mud slow and softly.
Bíld ran over to attend the raven, taking his shears from his pocket to cut the trailing spider-silk off and then scooping the bird up in his free arm, Finn close at his side. “Are you hurt?”
The raven clicked and burbled in Bíld’s grip. “Hello, Dwarf, kraak. Help, thank you.” And then following was a hushed, but excited babbling not in Westron but bird-speech, pale eyes looking up hopefully at the Dwarf, who alas looked back with incomprehension.
“I’ll bring him to Mänik,” Bíld said to the others.
“Good thought,” murmured Maurr, still looking upwards into the trees. Visible to them now that they were closer and looking were a few thicker, less glossy lines acting as anchors to the ground; Maurr’s eyes followed those up to see the structure of the web above, strung between the trees. The gap cut with his axe wasn’t the only hole in it; here and there was damage, leaves and twigs and other debris that had fallen and become stuck in it. “Web looks old.”
“Maybe we should all go back to the others,” Finn suggested, torn between staying with Maurr and following his charge.
“We should, aye,” Maurr murmured, though his feet were carrying him away from Finn and Bíld, eyes on the ground while he pulled his side-axe from his belt and fixed it in his prosthetic hand. He was looking for this throwing-axe, fine Erebor make, which he thought he’d heard hit the ground.
Finn looked again between the two, hesitating, and then up toward the treetops. Nothing seemed to be moving there, at least not at the distance his Hobbit-eyes were easily able to pierce. Meanwhile Bíld was starting to move back up the slope, though slowly, not wanting to move too far from his companions. “Do you want me to go with Bíld?” he asked finally.
“Aye, but let’s all go together. Just a moment for me to find my axe.” And he did find it, stuck in a dirt-mound a few more paces out, and stooped to retrieve it.
That was when the branches did move, and the gazes of Bíld and Finnric both snapped up towards it; “Nizdurul!” the former barked reflexively, and just as reflexively, Finn moved between him and the danger. Suddenly the air was alive with the whip of cords of silk, not drifting like ordinary spider-webs but so thick and heavy they fell fast like braided rope, each one trained on Maurr. He was startled—three loops landed on him, tightening around his torso. But before the next second two axes were rolling and flashing, and three loops were severed.
His eyes went up and he fell back into an axe-dancer’s ready stance, but as he dropped one foot back behind him his boot went through a loop that had fallen on the ground; its unseen puppeteer tightened it, and with a yell he fell onto his back, leg pulled out from under him. Then the leaf-litter scattered under the whump of a great weight dropping to the ground from above; a hairy black shape that advanced on the downed Dwarf with its forelegs raised. But before it could reach him it screamed, reared back, spasmed, and collapsed; an arrow had already been put through its abdomen and a javelin through its thorax.
“Help Maurr!” Bíld yelled, ducking down to draw his head out of the line of their company’s fire, running hunched over the squawking raven as the Dwarves on the road above began scrambling for their own crossbows and axes and Finn readied another javelin, not in time to pierce the second spider that rushed out suddenly from the dark—but as it bore down on Maurr its fangs slammed into the metal of his left fist as the Dwarf swung defensively with his side-axe, missing with his blade but fending off the bite. And up he hacked with his right-hand axe, right into the spider’s underside; it shrieked, and with a kick of his free leg he hefted it off of him, rolling it in range of a Hobbitish spear that plunged into its thorax again and again..
Yet that loop was still around Maurr’s foot and pulling him rapidly; strong enough this silk was that as it went taught it pulled the full weight of the armored Dwarf off the ground and inverted into the air, twisting. He tried to cut the line, but there came a fresh volley of strands from above, snaring his clumsier left arm and pinning it in against his body. The more strands attached the faster he lifted, till he was in range of a third spider that dropped from the gloom of the canopy onto a low branch, seizing him with its forelegs. It punched down once with its fangs; Dwarf-mail deflected them. It bit down again, deep—but then recoiled with a startled screech, scrambled, lost its balance and fell, a heavy crunch followed shortly by the lesser thud of the leg Maurr’s axe had severed.
Hard to see in the black of Mirkwood, the dark splatter of blood, as the threads ‘round the Dwarf pulled him up and out of view.
Rather than risk letting him vanish (perhaps forever), Finn left Bíld to get help and followed after. The thick tree against which Maurr had leaned his long-axe was smooth-trunked and branchless for several times the Hobbit’s height, so after pausing only to take one deep breath he began to climb up the spoke of the web leading up from the ground, hand over hand, quickly.
“I hope Atli wasn’t just making stuff up,” he muttered to himself, scrupulously careful not to touch the strands that spiraled off. But what the old Dwarf had claimed seemed to be holding true; these spokes weren’t treacherously sticky, and he ascended free and nimbly, leaping up and across to another spoke, then another. He was already into the branches before the warriors of the company had reached the foot of the tree, then from those branches into higher yet, not looking down for fear of heights but for fear of losing sight of Maurr. As a child, he had climbed trees rather than webs, but despite that and the dangers present he was transported briefly back in time to when he would have imagined himself as a nimble squirrel springing from branch to branch, safe in the treetops.
As he rose in the trees the branches, though still thicker ‘round than a Dwarf’s body, they began to twist and entangle, growing together into a scaffold bearing structures that immediately made him think of the tales of Mad Baggins. Dense nets of silk were spread from branch to branch, falling in curtains between the trees, forming tents above and mats below over which a Hobbit could picture the “fifty at least, more likely two hundred” spiders of Bilbo’s tales crawling and climbing. But the webs of this colony were half-fallen, ripped, and dirty; hundreds of spiders weren’t skittering over them, but only two, and one of those two was at the bottom of a hammock, on its back, legs curled in.
Ahead on a branch was the last, giving off a low, creaking, muttering sound, not from its mouthparts but from its long legs frantically working, binding in its silk a struggling figure as fast and as far from its body as it could. Finn moved as quickly as he could, but quietly, lest the spider’s attention move from its captive to the would-be rescuer, spear at the ready—three branches away, two branches, one—until he was close enough to strike. His spear easily pierced its thorax and he twisted it with the thrust, then pulled it out to quickly stab it again and again. It shrieked—in a way spiders should never shriek—and tried to whirl on him, forearm-length fangs flailing. But it could not reach, for the Hobbit pinned it in place with his spear, until its struggling weakened, and with a great heave he slung it off his spear and the branch entirely, letting it crash down through the leaves on its fall to its death. Then, just to be on the safe side, he launched a javelin at the spider that was either dead or sleeping; whether it was dead or sleeping, the force of the shaft stabbing it through pushed it through the weakened web to join its fellow on the forest floor, eliciting muffled, distant shouts from the party below. The danger thus eliminated, he turned his attention to Maurr.
“Careful, I’ve got you,” he said, and knelt to begin cutting through the silk that bound the dwarf. “You know, they really ought to post signs down there -- watch for falling spiders.”
“Heh,” grunted Maurr as his face was freed; he was smiling, but with gritted teeth, and his face was paler than Finn had ever seen. “N-not abandoned after all.”
“Well, it might be now. But you, never. How badly...?”
Maurr steadied himself on the branch with his right hand; he’d lost that throwing-axe again at some point, it seemed. And behind his shoulder, at a weak point in his partial armor, his blue cloak bore a gigantic puncture—and was beginning to turn a deep purple with blood. “I don’t feel good,” he murmured faintly, licking his lips. “Face is numb. ... Feel foolish.”
Finn’s own expression betrayed none of the worry and even fear he felt at last. “We might need to get you a new cloak,” he said, and asked cheerfully, “Do you think you’d want one of the same color, or a different hue entirely?”
“Maddoct—” and then he paused, eyes unfocusing as if from a wave of sudden dizziness. “... ‘s going to be so mad.”
“No, no he’s not, he’s going to be glad you’re all right,” Finn said, and then shouted below to the others he hoped were coming, “I have Maurr, but I’m not sure he can climb down—can I get some help carrying him safely?”
“Don’t think I can walk, no,” Maurr slurred; then again, softly, “Maddoct...”
“We’re going to get you to help, just hang on.”
