Chapter 3. The Old That Is Strong Does Not Wither.            

Arrows rained down like hailstones.  

And from the wrong side too, Bilbo noticed in surprise as he awaited the onslaught with feet slightly apart, Sting tightly gripped in clammy hands. Under the dying light of the fireworks he could see spiders dropping from the trees to their left, hitting the ground like large, ripened fruits. The unexpected carnage was decimating the spiders on the trees, and causing a panicked, riotous flight to the forest floor.

Which was most fortunate, since otherwise it would have been very dangerous for their two elven archers to try and force them to the ground on their own, Bilbo thought as he wielded his blade, keeping a nasty creature at bay. All around him the fighting spread, as spiders poured down from the trees and were welcomed by elven, dwarven, Southron or newcomers’ blades, all joined into the slaughtering on unspoken accord and, for the time being, untroubled by whence those timely arrows had come.

The Shire! he cried, pushing Sting into the approaching creature with a bold move.

Which proved insufficient. With more strength than he had anticipated, or perhaps carried away by its own speed, the spider continued its skittering motion, pushing Bilbo backwards with irresistible force.

“There!” A long blade pierced the spider’s side and stopped its advance. “Watch out, little master, the ichors will give you a nasty rash!”

Looking up in relief Bilbo saw the pale face of the wounded man, who wielded his blade awkwardly with his left hand but still with deadly accuracy.  “My thanks,” he managed to gasp while he struggled to dislodge Sting from the hairy body. He saw then warning on the man’s face as he again lifted his sword, and he turned around quickly, to face a rushing hairy ball empty-handed.

“Under the wagon, Halfling! Cover!” Sámid gasped as he surged behind the spider and slashed it open with an up thrust.

 “A Halfling? Here?” the wounded man rasped, squinting to gain a better sight in the dwindling, multicolored light. “Let me!” he urged, putting his blade under his wounded arm –which he had freed from a makeshift sling- and pulling Sting effortlessly from the dead spider. “Move!” he shouted then, pushing Bilbo aside with his body and sending Sting into another approaching creature.

“Halbarad! Torches!” the other tall man shouted as he danced around two large ones, looking around frantically as the light died out. His voice thundered over the fireworks in the otherwise strangely silent battlefield.

“Help me, Halfling!” the wounded man commanded. Forgetting his blade, Bilbo scrambled after the wounded man’s tall shape to the fire, keeping an eye on the dark forms of the spiders that scurried everywhere around him and the nimble, agile figures jumping from the trees, blades glistening red, after them.

“More elves?” he wondered, and stopped on his tracks mesmerized by the skilled swings and cuts of their angry blades.

“Light, Master Bilbo!” Grerin called out, sounding urgent.

Forget the elves, Bilbo! he berated himself, hurrying to their fire. He picked up a flaming branch and looked around wildly for the owner of the strained voice.  

And found him. Grerin was playing hide and seek behind one of his barrels, chased by a particularly big spider. With the silent, light feet of his kin, Bilbo tried to circle around the creature to gain its back, only to find himself suddenly faced with the creature’s undivided attention. He had never suspected that spiders could jump like that! Fazed by this unexpected development, he hesitated for the blink of an eye. Then his Took side awoke and, without thinking, he plunged the fiery branch into the creature’s many eyes and jumped back. The spider skittered and scurried and skipped sideways, until a well-aimed axe blow ended its dance.

“Not so close to my barrels!” the dwarf grunted, wiping sweat from his forehead while all around them the fighting peaked and the fireworks died out. The spider had caught fire and now flamed merrily, casting an uncanny glow on the battlefield.

“More fireworks?” Bilbo chuckled, as he checked the field for his blade.

“Pork fat. Hold on, Borin, I’m coming!”

Exhausted by his surge of warlike spirit, Bilbo decided to leave the dwarf to help his kinsman and chose a safer course. The wounded man was again engaged in spider-killing and no one had given more thought to lighting up the battlefield, if only to see how many enemies were left. So he took the task upon himself. Picking up flaming branches and sticks, he spiked them to the ground in a wide circle around the fire but still apart from the combatants, who now faced a new threat. A fresh wave of spiders, just arrived from deeper in the forest, watched them from the tree tops. To Bilbo it suddenly seemed as if they were pondering how to reach the path while avoiding the ranks of warriors that were arranged before them.

“Well, I can now take a seat,” Bilbo told himself in relief, retreating to the other side of the clearing to the path, behind the line of fighters. The bows sang again, and the first crop fell from the trees. He counted at least eight archers now, fanned before the dwarves and the newcomer, who wielded their irons with careless ease. “What use do so many powerful warriors have for a Halfling’s trembling hand? I might as well start looking for our ponies!” he sighed, scanning the darkness towards the path and the forest half-heartedly as the battle regained its frantic rhythm.

“Your knife, master Halfling,” the other Man, the wounded one, half called and half gasped, waving to him. He was sitting on the ground, also well behind the line of fight, with his sword on his knees and his wounded arm nursed against his chest.

“Apparently I am not the only one who thinks himself useless now,” he said cheerfully. He picked his way carefully among the foul-smelling corpses, which resembled small mounds in the flickering light. “Where is Sámid?” he wondered as he reached the man’s side and bent to pick up his dagger from the ground.

Even as he asked, he felt -rather than saw- movement from the corner of his eye. A spider he had deemed dead suddenly stood on its spindly legs and scuttled angrily towards the unsuspecting man. Instinct took over again, and without thinking Bilbo reached for the man’s sword, somehow managed to lift it without beheading him, and succeeded in landing it on the spider’s hard-to-miss large body.

“Watch out!” he managed at last, tossed this way and that and dragged by the spider’s death dance. Even as he clung to the sword and struggled to wrench it from the spider’s body, he saw two more creatures that had managed to circle the ranks of warriors and now scuttled towards them – or perhaps the path- in panic. “Watch out!” he cried again, seeing that the wounded man had finally succumbed to pain and now lay flat on the ground.

“Halbarad!” he panicked, remembering the name he had heard the other man shout. Pressing with both feet against the unpleasantly soft body of the spider he managed to yank the sword free. Unbalanced, he fell backwards and rolled clumsily, entangling himself in the folds of his cloak and impeded by the cumbersome blade he was not about to drop.  

“Little-one…” one of the approaching creatures hissed almost mournfully.

Bilbo froze. He had forgotten the unnatural sound of those raspy, hairy voices. “Sámid!” he cried in relief, seeing the Southron running their way. Sweeping with his curved short sword, the man cleared a path for himself that sent the spiders closer to the lying man, who stirred feebly and groped for his sword blindly, snatching Sting instead.

“Sámid!” Bilbo cried now in outrage as the Southron ran away without looking back. With a last effort, Bilbo stood to his feet and swung the blade on a flat arc that managed to cut three legs from the closest spider.  Allowing himself to be carried away by the weight of the sword, Bilbo spun on his heels. The man grunted and gasped laboriously behind him. When he came again to face the spider, Bilbo took advantage of his impulse to raise the blade and then let it fall with all his might against the creature, slicing it up neatly.  Dragged by his drive, he fell to his knees and then let go of the blade and tried to roll away, but was not fast enough to avoid the spider’s body collapsing on him.

Just as he struggled to crawl from under the dead creature while keeping an eye out for the second spider -which had been approaching Halbarad- he heard a wild cry and saw a flash of white crashing from among the trees towards him and something large stomped past him. When he opened his eyes again, he noticed a pair of bright, wild-looking eyes in a balding skull spying from the undergrowth beyond.   

“Halfling!”  It was the wounded man, somewhere above him. Weakly now, he tried to drag himself from under the undead, hairy, sticky, exceedingly legged weight, sure that Halbarad needed his help. As he struggled, he again met the eyes of the creature hiding by the trees some thirty paces from him, the light of the torches sparkling strangely on a pale, sunken face. As the creature fixed him in a glare and then ran away with an angry hiss, Bilbo’s hand closed tightly on something smooth and cold.

“But that was in Gollum’s cave,” he murmured, as darkness and exhaustion crept upon him. “When I found the ring…”

Naur! Naur dan I ungolhoth!

The voices roared mightily over the silvery, hurried Sindarin commands and the more earth-bound dwarven curses, but Bilbo heard them all in the distance. He saw the flash of white, blinding light as he drifted away and then something heavy fell on him and he knew no more.

                                                                                                          ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Unlikely as it might have seemed –after all, the Southern Patrol was supposed to patrol the southern reaches- Legolas had somehow expected to find his eldest nephew caught up in whatever was happening in the forest that involved fireworks. As soon as the first sparks and coloured stars appeared in the autumn sky, he barked an annoyed command for his patrol to move on in all haste.

But he was not prepared to find him, attended only by his guard, standing on the ground and facing what at first glance looked like a cloud of at least two dozen spiders tightly packed on a small grove that ended right over Mallereg’s head.  The odds were so uneven that for a brief moment he told himself this was just a ruse intended to lure the spiders into the clearing. A worried shake of Penalag’s head confirmed what he had feared. His adventuresome nephew had managed to step into that dangerous situation on his own.

Even in his state of utter bewilderment he noticed approvingly how his warriors had spread in a long line, the better to reach the vanguard and rearguard of the colony with their arrows at the same time. That way they expected to create enough confusion to give Mallereg and Thalaûr time enough to unsheathe before the spiders at the front poured into the ground in panic. He nodded grimly. Under the unsteady light and thunder of fireworks both sides seemed mesmerized, but the enchantment would not last long, and then those on the ground would get the worst part.

The first volley flew away even before he had lowered his hand completely. Then came a second, and a third; all followed by the satisfying dull sound of plump bodies hitting the ground. Out of practice, half of the patrol followed him to the ground after just the barest signal, while the rest jumped to the trees closest to the spiders and scanned the thicket before dropping from the opposite side and effectively encircling the creatures. As he hacked and plunged and thrust and slashed, Legolas tried to keep an eye on his nephew and his assorted company, mulling an irritation that had multiple sources.

“Spiders this north!” he groaned as he looked for more creatures. “And he on his own…Watch out, Thalaûr!” he warned.

A timely shot by one of his warriors finished the creature that loomed over Mallereg’s guard. Grunting in exasperation, Legolas turned to the task at hand. “As soon as Bôrgalas hears of this he will post Mallereg to guard the river…from the trap door inside the cellars,” he muttered with mean relish, cutting viciously at a spider that was harassing a dwarf while savouring the thought of his brother’s wrath quenching Mallereg’s recklessness for an ennin or two. “Master Dwarf,” he acknowledged guiltily with a quick dip of his chin, wincing at the contemptuous glance the dwarf managed to throw him before turning his back on him to engage another creature.

“Halbarad, torches!” he heard one of the men shout in Common. “Rangers,” he hoped, remembering the troubling account of unnumbered strangers roaming the Greenwood that Penalag had brought with him.

Legolas cast a look around. The fireworks dwindled out slowly, and in the diminishing light he thought he glimpsed an onrush across the farthest trees. He crossed the clearing then, taking out two fleeing spiders as he went, to position himself as far from the wagon and the fire as he could, to avoid being blinded by the flames. When he found a suitable spot he sheathed his long knives and waited, bow aimed at the trees, while all around him his patrol disposed of the creatures with grim efficiency. “How on Arda did they all get here, and all around Mallereg?” he sighed, affronted as usual by his nephew’s ability to find trouble, or, worse, to allow trouble find him. “I will send him to Rhosgobel!” he decided, stepping back before an angry spider that had suddenly dropped before him. Lowering his bow and letting go of one of his favourite arrows, he fingered his long blades carefully, giving way before the spider slowly, luring it away from its comrades. “They are trying to escape!” he suddenly understood, noticing how the spider advanced cautiously instead of charging against an enemy that showed apparent weakness. “The Path, Penalag!” he called out to his second, even as he plunged his long knife into the creature and winced at the stench. “They are trying to reach the Path!”

“More coming, Captain!” another voice shouted, and before he could answer Mallereg started issuing commands.

“Spread out before them, we will shoot them down as they come! Legolas, watch out for strays!”

“When he is returned from Rhosgobel I will send him to watch the Northern border…winter, knee-deep into the Forest River,” he vowed under his breath, acknowledging the wisdom of his nephew’s strategy though annoyed that he dared take command of his patrol. Mulling revenge, he turned to scan the area as Mallereg had suggested, and then his heart jumped wildly to his throat.

The Halfling dangled from a sword hilt nailed to the body of a large spider, which stumbled around wildly. The wound was no doubt mortal, but the Halfling would not let go of the sword and called out in panic to the man, who had fallen to the ground, most probably bitten. Two more spiders scuttled towards them after breaching through Mallereg’s ranks, while others tried to follow.

“Watch your left flank, Mallereg!” he shouted in warning, slashing at two smaller ones that  tried to slid unnoticed through the unguarded gap. Thankfully, two of his warriors quickly rushed to protect that area and he was free to run into the Halfling’s aid.

“Sámid!” the Halfling was shouting. Legolas saw a third man, strangely dressed in dust-and-stone coloured clothes wielding a short curved blade and cutting a path towards the Halfling. Then the man suddenly changed course and charged wildly right towards the forest. Unexpectedly, he slashed at Legolas as he ran past him. Out of instinct he raised his long knife enough to turn the blade aside, so it only grazed his forearm. Without looking back the man disappeared into the forest. While Legolas debated whether running after him, he heard a strange hiss, a cry of panic and a mighty bellow. A large white deer charged past him out of the undergrowth and into the clearing, and with a single thrust of its mighty racket of antlers gutted the large spider that was attacking the wounded man. Shaking itself free of the spider, the stag raised its powerful head, scanned its surroundings and trotted away in search of more enemies.

Naur! Naur dan I ungolhoth!

Legolas heard the voices as he frantically scanned the ground for the Halfling. And then a new fire brightened the sky as two shinning figures entered the clearing and cast sparks of flaming white radiance at the less than dozen remaining spiders, which scuttled madly everywhere, trying to flee the elven blades and the flying sparks.

“So much for sending Mallereg to Rhosgobel,” he sighed as he recognized Radagast. He squatted then by the wounded, unconscious man and turned him gently around, while all around them the battle ended as it had started. In fire.

                                                                                        ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Bilbo opened sticky eyelids to a grey patch of dawn. “When did I go to sleep?” he wondered aloud, shaking his head to put order in disjointed waves of strange images that assaulted him. It worked, as a wave of dizziness swept his mind clean of any thought. The sound of angry bickering puzzled him again soon, since he could not make out a word of what was being said.

“Easy, Master Halfling,” someone croaked to his side. Carefully this time, he turned his head slowly towards the voice.

“Master…Halbarad?” with the name, the bulk of memories returned to him clamoring. He frowned then, looking at two squabbling elves in the limit of his field of vision. “Was I hit on the head?”

The man followed his gaze and chuckled, then grunted in pain. “Your friend would have panicked again. Another double-bodied djinn indeed…” he gasped.

Not far from where he lay, Bilbo could see Mallereg chatting with his mirror image, or rather allowing himself to be thoroughly tongue-lashed by his reflection, while his companion, the one called Thalaûr, waited two steps behind him wearing an odd expression than suddenly reminded Bilbo of Otho’s when Lobelia got started on one of her favourite subjects.

“The young one is right, I think,” another voice chimed in. “Drink this, Master Halfling!”

Too befuddled to argue, Bilbo drank down gladly and then poured water over his head to get rid of the sticky filth that covered him. He returned the water skin to the second man with a grateful nod. “My thanks, master...”

“Aragorn,” the man said soberly. “I believe the spiders were fleeing our wizards and that was how they landed in your camp…”

“My thanks, Aragorn!” Mallereg called out in Westron in a slightly vexed voice, gesturing towards them. “That was exactly my point!”

“I do not recall asking for your opinions, Master Ranger,” the second elf put in icily, then returned to Sindarin to continue his tirade. Bilbo recognized then Thranduil’s youngest son and thought it wiser to remain silent. All of a sudden, the conversation had all the marks of a family argument rather than a military one.

“Do not meddle in the affairs of the House of Oropher, my foster father always says,” the man called Aragorn muttered, lowering his head and pretending to check Bilbo for wounds, while he struggled to hide his amusement. “Here is your blade, Master Halfling,” he said, handing Sting back to Bilbo. “A noble knife in brave hands…”

But something in the man’s previous words had caught his attention. “Wizards, you said?”

“Indeed, Bilbo, and well-met, although I thought you would be feasting in Imladris by now!” a warm, well-known voice greeted him.

“Gandalf! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, my good friend, and not just of you!” the wizard chuckled, stepping into his field of vision and leaning forth to study him. He looked tired and careworn, bus his eyes twinkled in merriment. “But there is time for traveler’s tales while Aragorn here takes good care of your battered friend Halbarad,” he added, grasping Bilbo’s hand and pulling him to a sitting position. A memory hit Bilbo then, and he turned to the wounded man.

“You saved my life! From that last spider, didn’t you?”

The man chuckled and shrugged painfully while his companion inspected his bandages. “Since I apparently failed in crushing or suffocating you I think that yes, you could say that I saved you…but just to return you the favor. Those were mighty strokes with my blade, Master Halfling,” he added with a grateful nod. “Not bad for an old Halfling….or an old wizard, Mithrandir, that was most impressive...”

“The old that is strong does not wither,” Bilbo muttered while Mithrandir acknowledged the compliment with a friendly nod. “That doesn’t sound half bad,” he mused. “Where is Sámid?” he remembered then suddenly, scrambling to his feet to inspect their ruined camp.

A group of elves clad in green and brown were disposing of the carcasses, piling them up in the middle of the clearing, where they would surely burn them. The dwarves, helped by a man in brown rags that resembled Gandalf as if they were kinsmen, were slowly returning their load to the cart, sullen looks on their bearded faces.

“He ran away when we needed him most,” Halbarad grunted. “Ouch! If I wanted my arm yanked from its socket I would go looking for another Southron, Aragorn!”

“You said he took you for ghosts?” Bilbo asked.

“You heard him,” Aragorn explained in a calm, deep voice.  “He believed us to be a  two-bodied djin… We ran into him in the forest and thought he was a spy, so we chased him…But he panicked and tried to bury Halbarad under a pile of rocks… Then he ran into me and I cannot see why he thought I was Halbarad…”

“I am offended,” the wounded man snorted from the ground.

“... and he bolted, shouting nonsense about spirits and crying in panic…I am telling the tale, Halbarad…”

“He was frightened by legends about two-mouthed ogres and soul-eating, undead spirits that he heard in his homeland,” Bilbo chimed in, smiling in spite of his aches. So these were the men Sámid had ran into before he broke into the path crying that he was being chased by ghosts! He shook his head. “He told us all kinds of tales about horrible creatures, and then thought that Mallereg and his guard were ogres, and they had to show him the backs of their heads…well, Mallereg did. But he was not a spy, he was looking for a medicine…”

“That must have been a sight,” Aragorn chuckled, but Gandalf was more interested in what the Southron had been after.

“Medicine? What kind of medicine?”

Bilbo shrugged. He had quite liked the Southron, his quiet ways and longing for his lands and his beloved. He did not want to think that he had been a spy. “I don’t know. He kept it in his pack…He was about to show it to me when Mallereg and Thalaûr turned up…He said his people would grant him honors and the Blue Wizard would give him riches…” He saw the quick glance exchanged between Aragorn and Gandalf and was about to ask for an explanation when a beautiful voice interrupted him.

“I hope you are not wounded, Master Bilbo. I am deeply sorry that you ran into this incident!” Thranduil’s youngest son was before him, clutching at a bandaged right forearm. Mallereg and his guard had lost the argument, apparently, and had been dispatched to help the rest of the patrol with cleaning duty.

Bilbo bowed deeply. “It was not your fault, Lord Legolas. Although I suppose it will take you some time to convince Master Grerin of that.”

“Leave that to my talented nephew,” the elf grimaced. “But he must have been right about those spiders fleeing something….It is courteous of guests to inform the king about their presence in the Greenwood, Mithrandir.”

“We were hoping to run into one of Lord Mallereg’s patrols, but apparently they were too busy chasing spiders…”

“Spiders that were sent north by an unnamed threat, in such numbers as to overcome our lines. I will take your word that it was not one of your tricks what caused a stampede and sent spiders swarming into our realm,” the prince remarked dryly.

Mithrandir nodded mildly for all answer.

“We met Lord Mallereg and informed him of our intentions not five days ago…and he told us that the spiders had been stirred most probably by something around Dol Guldur, my lord,” the man called Aragorn hastened to explain respectfully. And no wonder, because the elf looked daunting now, Bilbo thought, his face unreadable as he studied them impassively.

“Yet you were about to leave the Greenwood without reporting your findings,” Legolas finally stated calmly. “Not that you have any new insight to share, we have long known that the Old Forest Road is lost, although some will not yield it gladly,” he finally sighed. “But those news about blood-drinking creatures and screeching riders frightening spiders, and Southrons roaming the woods, are all worrying enough. It is my wish that you come to the stronghold to inform the king, Mithrandir.”

“Radagast was going there when I ran into him. He has fresh news about the movements around Dol Guldur that he intended to discuss with Thranduil…”

“He also tells me that you inquired about a particularly strange creature, and made it sound important. I insist that these news should be conveyed to the king by yourself.”

Gandalf sighed and studied the two men for a while. Bilbo looked at them curiously. He could sense power there, of different kinds. But he was most intrigued by the men. They were obviously dour warriors, hardened in hundred battles, but there was more to them than that. Their guarded countenances and manners seemed to conceal some hidden power, like the one he at times had glimpsed in the wizard. He watched in silence as decisions were made with a quick glance or a slight nod.

“I think you are right, Legolas,” Gandalf finally admitted. “I will go. There are some things I need to tell the king about. And perhaps I can convince your brother that the Old Forest Road is definitely lost…”

“That feat is even beyond your powers, I fear,” the elf chuckled. “But you are welcome to try. What about you, Aragorn? Your friend would benefit from our hospitality…” It seemed to Bilbo that the man sought agreement with the wizard before answering.

“I have an urgent errand to the west, and I am already late, Legolas. Mithrandir will convey my apologies to the king, and you have already heard our tale: The dread  of Dol Guldur runs now freely as far north as the Mountains of Mirkwood. Those riders are most possibly clearing the way for orc-hosts to cross unmolested, since the Beornings are no longer capable of holding the passes safe… The situation is difficult, both sides of the Anduin, and it gets worse to the south. Tell Thranduil that he will have to strengthen his alliances with Dain and Bain, lest the Greenwood becomes completely isolated…”

“The King already knows that,” the elf said evenly. He pierced them with his clear, unwavering gaze for a brief while and then nodded his agreement. “I will send Maegolf to you, then. You are going to need herbs and bandages for your comrade, if he is to travel in that state…

“I am fit for travelling, thanks,” Halbarad grunted from the ground. “What happened to that white stag, Lord Legolas?” he asked then. “It saved my life.. and Master Bilbo’s.”

A sudden memory of a white flash charging past him hit Bilbo. He had seen that, hadn’t he? A white stag! And then he remembered too the wild face spying from the undergrowth, and the hissing and…On its own accord its hand moved into his pocket and fingered a smooth, cold piece of metal. His fingers had closed then on that, but it was not round. It was not a ring. And it had not been a dream, then. Should he tell them about the lurking creature? Legolas’ laughter dragged him from his confused thoughts.

“..And Lord Mallereg left his patrol to chase it, apparently,” he was saying. “I hope that the scouts I sent after the Southron may also find its tracks…”

“I would ask that his life was spared, since it saved ours,” Halbarad asked softly. The elf nodded in understanding.

“I will tell him that is your wish. I would like to hear more stories about two-mouthed ogres, Master Bilbo! Rest now, my friends, we will all be on our way by noon.”

Bilbo bowed low as the prince walked away and then turned to Gandalf.

“Who is the Blue Wizard?”

                                                                                          ~*~   ~*~   ~*~

“He is no longer a child, Legolas, and he is not a reckless, careless warrior but as capable and reliable a captain as yourself.”

Legolas scowled as he pushed a stinking carcass towards the pile. Had he been given a grey-owl feather every time he had heard Thalaûr complain about Mallereg’s excessive enthusiasm, or lack of precautions, he would be by now the proud owner of at least a dozen quivers full of the most silent arrows in the Woodland Realm.

But complaining was apparently a guard’s privilege.

And yet he surely owed an apology to Thalaûr. Questioning his judgment before Mallereg had not been a wise move. “I might have overreacted, Thalaûr,” he admitted and then chuckled at the dirty look his brother’s best friend shot him. “I did, I did! And I am sorry! But you must admit that the situation was grim!”

Thalaûr sighed and looked at the piled carcasses, as the warriors in Legolas’ patrol gathered wood and finished cleaning the battlefield. “They had not been there when we arrived, Legolas, so this meant that they were on the move…and unexpectedly ran into us. And they were paralyzed by the fireworks. They were fleeing. Even as they dropped down, they were trying to make for the path, you surely saw that. Had you not arrived…and forced them down on us,” he remarked wryly, “we might have got away with killing a few and moving away from them. We wouldn’t have engaged them all on our own! Our patrol is less than half a day to the West, we could have finished them safely later…”

Legolas shook his head and released a deep sigh. “I panicked,” he admitted. The guard chuckled and pointed at a last corpse at the edge of the clearing.

“So did I. Look. That one almost made it to the path! It is the last one in our side. But these spiders shouldn’t have been here,” he continued softly as they grabbed that last body. “We had been chasing and cleansing the area for five days! It was unpredictable, Legolas, as war at times is…”

“And we were fortunate. But how long will fortune hold?”

“Well, Mallereg seemed to think that white stag portended good omens for the Greenwood…Hold there, this one is very heavy…”

“You have to credit the young ones for their optimism…” Legolas scowled as they dragged the foul creature back to the pile. “We found a mutilated white fawn to the east. Some strange creature cut its throat open and drank its blood…and from what the Halfling said, the Southron claimed that his companion died the same way…”

“A two-mouthed ogre, perhaps?” Thalaûr snorted, as they reached the pile with their stinking burden.

“Aragorn says they saw strange tracks around the corpse of that Southron, and he glimpsed a strange creature by the river…And I do not like those stories about black riders and spiders frightened into our borders. We will need to go down there and see what is going on…Radagast’s news are not encouraging,” he added, noticing how Thalaûr had fell silent. He did not much like the idea of a scouting trip to the south either. “We will wait to burn them until they have vacated the clearing, Radagast!” he told the wizard. “I do not want the dwarves to claim that I smoked them out of the forest…” He winced when he noticed he had spoken in Westron.

“You need not push us, Master Elf,” the eldest dwarf retorted angrily. He was apparently busy checking his ponies, which had returned with dawn in a nonchalant trot, following the elven horses. Wise creatures, they had slipped away when the fighting started. Apparently, dwarves could pay attention to conversations not addressed to them while busy with other tasks, Legolas thought glumly. “We are eager to leave your dark woods as soon as possible!”

“The sooner the better, then. How is the ranger?” he called out to Maegolf, the healer in his patrol.

"In pain,” Maegolf reported. “But strong enough to take the trip. He…”

 “Good. Get ready then. Radagast and Mithrandir are going to the stronghold, choose someone to join you as an escort…the rest of us will accompany the wagon to the Forest Gate, to avoid more unpleasant encounters…”

 “Legolas…” his nephew walked up to him with a set look on his face.

 “Look around you, Mallereg. I happen to command the largest patrol here, so I give the orders….”

 “Scout coming!” someone called. Inwardly, Legolas thanked the timing, for he was spared the confrontation with his annoyed nephew. They all turned to greet the scout, who turned out to be Penalag. Emboldened by the audience, he dropped to the ground and crossed the clearing in his casual, flaunting stride, a bloodied pack on one hand and what looked like a large piece of deer antler over his shoulder. Even Mithrandir and the ranger abandoned they hushed conversation to have a look at the newcomer.

“Look, lad! The Southron’s prize!” he called out showing the pack to Mallereg, who could not drag his eyes from the antler.

“Where did you get that?”

“Why! The stag left it for us in the forest!” Legolas growled in warning and his friend turned his attention to him. “The Southron is gone. But he is wounded, and I think that the bloodsucker is after him. What a strange creature, Legolas! It hissed like a spider, and had claws as warg cub’s but then loped away jumping and scrambling like a large squirrel! I found its tracks here, and then after the Southron’s… Do you think they are in league?”

“That creature killed the Southron’s companion…”

“Then perhaps it was after the Southron’s pack. Anyway, I sent Labothal and Megorlas to track them.”

“And you found the antlers with the pack?” Mallereg could not drag his eyes from the rack, apparently. It was magnificent, apparently the whole left side of the creature’s crown. Penalag smiled and shrugged in mocking apology. It was a wonderful prize indeed, Legolas thought, seeing his nephew’s disappointed scowl. And then he remembered the white fawn they had burnt the day before who would never grow to boast such a crown. The whole forest was dying, being killed before their eyes, he sighed sadly, and there was little they could do.

“What is in the pack? He would not part from it even asleep,” the elder dwarf asked curiously. Looking around, Legolas noticed that Aragon, Mithrandir, Radagast and the Halfling all had come to hear Penalag’s report and were eyeing the pack in expectation.

“A medicine. Bilbo says the man claimed to be looking for a medicine.” Mithrandir said. “Let us see what it is that the Southrons are looking for in Mirkwood…Greenwood, I mean.”

“It was his bride-price,” Bilbo chimed in worriedly. “And how did he get wounded?” Apparently, the Halfling had got attached to the Southron, even if he had run away in the middle of the fight, Legolas thought in surprise.

“A bride-price?” Penalag asked. Legolas knew the glimmer in his friend’s eyes and smiled. These two were a good match at mischief making, and surely they all needed to release the lingering tension. “There is someone here who might make good use of a bride-pride, I think,” his friend chuckled maliciously. “Here, lad!” he added, tossing it to Mallereg. All their fellow warriors who were within earshot laughed and crowed good-naturedly, and Legolas almost choked in laughter at Thalaûr’s obvious frown. The rumour had reached even the Southern Patrol, it seemed.

“Perhaps we can exchange our prizes, Penalag,” Mallereg observed merrily as he carefully unpacked the parcel.

“Why should I, lad? I already have a wife!”

“Then perhaps whatever is in here will be more appropriate for a wife than a horned crown…Tauron!” his nephew cried, and dropped the pack angrily. Thinking it was part of the jesting, everybody chuckled except for Thalaûr, who hastened to kneel down to examine the contents of the pack.

“Did it bite you?” he asked tensely to his charge. Only then did Legolas notice that it was not a joke and squatted beside Thalaûr, immediately followed by the rest.

“By Elbereth, what is this?” he gasped. Two very young spiders twisted their legs weakly, trapped in a large cloud of webbing in which a ball of eggs was wrapped as well. Unsheathing his knife, he finished the two creatures quickly. Then, with extreme reluctance, he turned the parcel upside down and emptied its contents. Another soft ball of eggs fell to the ground. He lifted worried eyes to Mithrandir as those watching stepped back hurriedly in shared disgust. “Medicine?” he wondered.

“From the webbing?” Radagast pointed out. Everybody living in the Greenwood knew that spider webbing was even better than yarrow leaves for closing a bleeding wound, but it had never occurred to them to  breed spiders as domestic animals for their webbing. It was sheer folly.

“There is another possibility,” Penalag said slowly, as if dreading what he was about to say. “The Southrons use the venom in the sting of their little desert dragon to poison their blades…and also as part of the antidote…” He shrugged and refused to elaborate, but it was more than enough.

Legolas took a deep breath. Suddenly his playful mood had vanished. Surely the Southrons were not looking for spiders out of good will. Scowling, he replaced the grim contents in the pack and sighed tiredly. “The king will have to be informed of this… make ready to leave immediately,” he barked to his warriors.  He straightened up and watched as everybody returned to their tasks, still shaken by the discovery.

“A nasty surprise…I should have checked first.” Penalag sighed, standing beside him. “Did it bite you, Mallereg?”

“They were almost suffocated, poor creatures. Legolas, listen…”

“I am sending you to the stronghold, to escort Mithrandir and Radagast and inform your adar and mine. Tell them that I am escorting the dwarves to the Forest Gate and explain to them all that you have gathered here. They will no doubt want to strengthen the border patrols to the south and…”

“I will not. My patrol is one day from here, we have been chasing spiders for six days on row now and I am not leaving them and going home just because the captain of the Home Guard suddenly decides that I have to. The Southern Patrol is escorting the dwarves to the Forest Gate. By the way, I have managed to convince Grerin not to demand retribution for his losses…Besides, your daughter insisted that you had to be home for the festival! So you take your warriors, Captain, and go home with the wizards and the baby spiders...and that beautiful cut on your arm. It will need stitching, I think…”

Legolas frowned and cast annoyed glances from Thalaûr to Penalag, who failed miserably at concealing their amusement. “But you cannot miss the festival, I have heard that you are the guest of honor as an important announcement is made!” he retorted evilly, enjoying how suddenly Thalaûr’s laughter froze.

But his nephew was too much for him. He chuckled and patted Legolas’ back condescendingly. “Do not believe all that you hear, Uncle. My brother will understand. I suspect that my father has finally decided to give him a full command… and that is why Sûlgalen wanted all of us to be there. Tell Borgil that we will celebrate conveniently in another occasion, as I introduce him into the finest features of command. For now, I am too busy showing my future father-in-law what a level-headed, dependable, responsible husband I will make one day for his little daughter, though not for now,” he added with an impish grin, casting a soft, amused smile at his guard, who seemed about to explode.

Defeated, Legolas had to chuckle. “I think he already knows, nephew. Go then with your dwarves and rangers and Halfling, and may Elbereth shine over your path!”

“The same to you, Legolas. At your leisure, Thalaûr! Come, master Grerin!” he called then in his friendly manner, striding towards where the grumpy dwarf waited, arms crossed on his chest, while Aragorn, Mithrandir and Maegolf carefully helped the wounded ranger onto the wagon. “How about you give us those few remaining fireworks? I am sure that the king will really appreciate them!”

“He is good!” Penalag acknowledged with a soft whistle when the dwarf shrugged, shook his head and finally scrambled on a crate to rummage inside the ruined barrel.

“You mean insufferable,” Legolas grunted, still annoyed by how Mallereg had managed to manoeuvre him with the slightest effort.

“You were the same when you were his age, Legolas, or else where do you think your daughter got her weird sense of humour?” Thalaûr grunted. “Tell Sûlgalen to expect revenge. She will not know when or how. I am patient…”

“Come on, Thalaûr, it was your own doing! You chose to believe that the rumours about a great announcement at Narbeleth festival were about Mallereg and Lendiell’s betrothal. He would never do that without asking you first! And after all, where would you find a better son-in-law?” Legolas pointed out sagely, watching in grudging admiration as his nephew came to them with a handful of fireworks under his arm.

“Give these to Borgil, Legolas. He will know what to do with them. Oh, and tell my grandfather that I offered the dwarf a return trip free of charge on his behalf! Come, Thalaûr, we are all ready to go!”

Still laughing, Legolas bowed in goodbye to the excited Halfling as the wagon bumped towards the path and then turned to his patrol and the wizards.

                                                                              ~*~  ~*~   ~*~

Bilbo had been sorry to say goodbye to Gandalf so soon. There were so many questions he had not got to ask the wizard! And he would have really liked to meet Gandalf’s companion, who had talked about the white stag as if they had been fast friends! But his disappointment was tempered by the merry presence of the Greenwood warriors, and he could always look forward to raiding Elrond’s library in search of answers.

Mallereg had led them to his camp and there they had feasted on boar and venison as if they were honoured guests in Thranduil’s halls. Why, they had even savoured the king’s prized Dorwinion!

“I did not know that the patrols enjoyed this most wonderful vintage, Mallereg,” he observed approvingly after savouring a second goblet. “Thranduil is certainly more generous with his wine than Elrond!”

“Thank you, Master Bilbo!  am sure that my grandfather will appreciate the compliment!” Mallereg replied in all seriousness, while Thalaûr and Aragorn choked in their goblets, shaking in irrepressible fits of laughter.

Bilbo did not answer. He loved the elves’ lightness and playful spirit, even if he did not understand all their jokes. That night they sang and played music and told stories under the stars. By the time the moon was going home, even the dwarves were mollified, plied with food and wine to the point that Grerin even accepted to drink to the Elven King’s health and the forest’s.

Next day Mallereg sent part of his patrol ahead to clear the path, while the rest escorted them at a slower pace to the Forest Gate.

“I hope the rest of your trip will be duller from now on, but safer too. May Elbereth’s stars shine on your path, Master Bilbo,” the king’s grandson said when the time for leave taking came, bowing low before him. “You have brought many blessings to the Greenwood, and you will always be a welcome guest here. And I will make sure that a special delivery from the king’s cellars is included in our next consignment to Imladris,” he added with a conniving wink.

Bilbo was moved, as every time he was made aware that his adventures had left a mark on the people he had met, and that they, too, would think of him when they reminisced about those times. It was comforting in a way, to know that he would be part of those people’s thoughts and memories as they would surely be part of his, even if they never met again under the sun. Their lives would go on for long, but he would always be part of them, and that helped ease the pain of the parting.

“May the Greenwood stay strong and prevail before the Shadow, and may your people thrive long under its leaves, Lord Mallereg!” he returned bow and blessings with deeply felt sentiment that was met with grave approval by the elven troops. And with that they rode away, and Bilbo said goodbye to Mirkwood for ever.

“They are strong people, and resilient. The Shadow has taken so much from them,” Halbarad observed softly as the wagon bumped south to the Ford. He and Bilbo travelled with the load, while Aragorn walked behind them and the two dwarves shared the driver’s seat. The joggling and jostling were surely jarring the ranger’s wounds, but he did not complain. Bilbo offered him some water and nodded.

“And still they are merry like children, under that serious and dangerous front…” he said thoughtfully.

“All that is gold does not glitter,” the ranger called Aragorn said almost casually as he caught up with them and grabbed Bilbo’s water skin from Halbarad’s hands. He cast an impish grin at Bilbo and then trotted up to exchange indications about the road with the dwarves.

Shaken by a sudden memory, Bilbo cast a quick glance at the shabby, aged-looking man and then carefully searched his pockets and brought out the gold brooch he had casually found on the ground in the clearing while he struggled to get from under the dead spider. It was a very old, eagle-shaped cloak pin that looked exactly as the one he had once given in token of friendship to an elven child in the Last Homely House.

When they reached Beorn’s place Bilbo had not yet found an answer to the riddle that puzzled him. How had that brooch reached the hands –the cloak- of that ragged, scruffy old man who seemed to have a fast friendship with Gandalf? And how had he known the tale that went with the brooch? He stood there wondering, while the dwarves busied themselves unpacking their load and distributing it on the backs of the ponies and a couple of mules. Beorn’s place had become a crossroads for travelers and traders now two stables, a warehouse and a guest house stood scattered on the green area close to the river. The dwarves would leave their wagon there until their return -and the barrels of pork fat in payment-  and continue their trip on ponies.

“We are remaining here for a while, Master Bilbo. Halbarad is not yet ready to try the Cirith Forn…” There he was again, that strange ranger, looking at him with the fond, mischievous, challenging expression that so confused Bilbo.

“I hope he recovers soon. I owe him my life…”

“And we owe you his, and we rangers do not forget lightly. Have a safe trip, Master Bilbo, and may you find Elrond’s cellars welcoming!” the man chuckled, and with a brief bow and a warm smile he turned his back on Bilbo and went to help his wounded comrade into the guest house.

“Are your ready Master Bilbo? We want to cross the Ford today!”

With a last glance at the house, Bilbo nodded and joined the dwarves. For many days he trudged on in cold, early winter sunny days, all thoughts banned from his mind except those about the road and the joy of being abroad, until one cold morning they entered a valley where the air was limpid and the winds blew softly and the trees still had leaves on their branches, and he knew he had got home.

To Be Finished in the Epilogue.

A/N

Naur! Naur dan I ungolhoth!: Fire, Fire against the spider host!