The forest was deathly still. No birds sang, no beasts stirred. The stench of decay clung to the air, and pale strands of webbing choked the trees like shrouds. Then came the first movement—spiders, a cluster of them, dragging a freshly killed deer across the leaf-littered ground.
With a sudden roar, dwarves burst out from the shadows.
Kíli and Bilbo loosed searing bolts from their Sunflare bows, shafts of white-hot light punching through chitin and bursting abdomens. Dwalin and Glóin followed, Gravity hammers smashing through spindly legs with bone-shaking force, spider bodies collapsing into the dirt like broken siege engines. Fili, Óin, and Balin wove through the melee, blades crackling with green wind that sliced with whistling speed, cutting through carapaces as though they were cloth.
Elsewhere, Bombur, Dori, and Nori swung axes wreathed in flame, their strikes spraying sparks across the gloom; every blow drew shrieks like banshees as fire licked along the monsters' bodies. Bifur, Bofur, and Ori hurled enchanted knives with deadly precision, picking off any spider that tried to overwhelm a single fighter. At the front strode Thorin, Thror's Justice glowing blue in his hands, his shield slamming aside venomous strikes as his blade carved down foe after foe in ruthless, efficient arcs.
The spiders came in waves, confident in their size and numbers. But the company fought as one, their enchanted weapons cutting through the swarm with practiced coordination. Soon the beasts broke, scrabbling up trees in desperation—only to meet death from above.
Arrows hissed down through the canopy as the elves of Greenwood revealed themselves. Legolas and Tauriel led the dozen warriors, their shafts splitting mandibles and piercing eyes with unerring accuracy. The spiders shrieked and scattered—straight into a wall of light.
Ben stepped from the opposite side of the glade, his hands a storm of sorcery. Blades of wind shrieked through the air, searing rays of light lanced from his palms, and foot-long icicles impaled chitin. Between dwarves below, elves above, and Ben's merciless assault, the hunting pack was slaughtered to the last.
The dwarves wiped spider ichor from their weapons as the elves descended from the trees. Legolas inclined his head. "Well struck. Your spells cut through these dark creatures like the sun itself."
Ben smiled at the compliment and knelt by a twitching carcass, one hand pressing to its shell. Tauriel watched, wary. "What are you doing?"
"Finding where they came from," Ben murmured. Power flowed from his fingers, and an ethereal web sprang to life—threads of ghostly silver linking the corpses around them, spreading outward into the forest like veins. His eyes narrowed. "This was only a hunting party. The nest lies southeast, four miles."
They pressed on. The woods grew thicker, the gloom heavier, only Ben's summoned spheres of light holding the darkness at bay. Trees leaned close, suffocating, their leaves blackened as though poisoned. Bilbo muttered that the forest felt sick. Dori grumbled about the point of trees if they shut out the sky. The elves bristled, but Ben shook his head grimly.
"This is not the absence of light," he said. "It is the presence of something fouler."
Legolas's voice was low. "Long ago these woods were called Eryn Galen—the Greenwood. Our forebears chose this place above even Valinor."
"And they would never have dwelt here," Ben replied, "if true shadow lingered. But these spiders… they are descended from Ungoliant herself. Shelob's brood."
The company shivered at the name.
At last they reached the hollow. The slope sank into a nest of decay, draped in webs thick as funeral cloth. Plans were set—elves to the high ground, dwarves in wedges, Ben hunting the broodmother.
A screech split the silence.
The earth boiled with spiders, pouring from burrows and holes. Ben thrust out his hand, light exploding across the glade like dawn. The monsters screamed, blinded. Arrows fell like rain from the trees. The dwarves advanced in tight wedges, magical shields springing from their vambraces, weapons carving through chitin and bone with brutal rhythm.
Fíli, Kíli, and Ori—the youngest members of the company—held the rear ranks, steel and light flashing as they struck down any spider slipping past. At the front, Thorin and Dwalin hacked a path, hammers and blades breaking the charge. Legolas and Tauriel flitted from branch to branch, dropping would-be flankers before they touched the ground.
One giant spider lunged at Thorin—only to crumple mid-air, twin shafts through its eyes. Thorin looked up, meeting Legolas's gaze. A single sharp nod passed between them before the Dwarf Prince turned back to the fight.
Then the ground trembled. A low vibration ran through the soil, rattling stones, stilling every blade and bow for an instant. Even the spiders froze. Bilbo's breath caught as a thought slid unbidden through his mind: something far worse is coming.
The broodmother emerged from the lair, vast as a siege tower, legs like spears, mandibles dripping venom. Even the elves faltered at her sight.
She lunged.
Ben strode forward, hands blazing. A wave of cutting force sheared four of her legs clean away. She toppled sideways, shrieking ichor into the dirt. An arrow from Legolas punched into one eye. Tauriel dropped from the canopy, blades flashing, severing another leg at the joint. Thorin and Dwalin charged together, Thorin's blade severing, Dwalin's hammer smashing its side—the great beast flipped, sprawling onto its back.
The dwarves swarmed, axes and hammers pounding. The elves rained arrows into its swollen abdomen. Ben's magic cut the air, scouring away the spider's last thrashing limbs.
At last, Thorin surged forward. With a roar, he drove Thror's Justice straight into the broodmother's head. The monstrous body shuddered once, then lay still, ichor pooling beneath it.
Silence fell.
The nest was broken.
---
The gates of Dol Guldur groaned open, their blackened iron splintering as though resisting the touch of the living. Gandalf, Radagast, Saruman, Elrond, and Lady Galadriel passed through, their steps echoing hollow across the ruined threshold. The fortress lay in ruin and silence, but all of them knew better than to be deceived by appearances.
Gandalf and Saruman moved to the fore, staves glowing faintly in their hands. Together, in the tongue of Valinor, they commanded the shadow to reveal itself. Their staves struck the stone with a resounding crack. Rings of white light pulsed outward, shattering the veil. The illusion broke, revealing the true rot of the fortress.
They advanced into the courtyard. For a long breath, nothing stirred. Then, a voice—cold, heavy, ancient—rolled through the darkness.
"You Have Come Too Late!"
The air thickened; the walls seemed to breathe shadow. Galadriel alone stood unshaken as the others raised weapons and staves. Sauron's voice thundered again:
"My Army Marches On Erebor. The Line Of Durin Will End—and With It, The Hope Of This Age!"
The ground split. From shattered stones and ruined halls, the Nazgûl emerged, their forms cloaked in black malice, swords gleaming with Morgul venom.
Steel rang. Elrond met them first, his sword singing in his hands, each movement as graceful as it was deadly. Sparks flew as he parried and riposted, cutting through shadows. Saruman spun his staff, each strike unleashing concussive shockwaves that hurled wraiths backward. Radagast struck his staff into the ground, and green light flared—roots and brambles erupted, snaring wraiths, crushing their formless limbs.
Gandalf moved like a storm, Glamdring flashing alongside his staff. Light blazed from its tip, searing through the dark. Three wraiths faltered before him, staggering under the brilliance, and with a cry he drove Glamdring into one, unraveling its shadowed form.
Galadriel alone wielded no weapon. From her hands poured raw radiance, light that burned shadow and peeled it away like mist before the dawn. The Nazgûl shrieked and unraveled one by one, their forms torn apart, until silence fell once more.
But the respite lasted only a heartbeat.
A tower shuddered and burst apart in fire. From its ruin, a vast flaming Eye rose, shadow and flame intertwined. The courtyard shook under its gaze.
"It Has Begun." Sauron's voice thundered. "The East Will Fall. So Shall The Kingdom Of Angmar Rise!"
The White Council staggered under the weight of his presence. Gandalf clung to his staff, his breath ragged. Elrond lifted his blade though his arm trembled. Saruman's robes whipped about him as he strained against the pressure. Radagast cried out as cracks spread across his staff. Only Galadriel remained tall, though her face had grown pale as death.
The Eye's pupil widened, and within it Sauron's old armored form coalesced, wreathed in flame. At his side rose the Nazgûl again, newly restored.
"The Time Of The Elves Is Over," he declared. "The Age Of The Orc Has Come."
The wraiths advanced. Gandalf, Saruman, Elrond, and Radagast readied themselves, but they halted as Galadriel stepped forward.
A green light kindled about her. In one hand shone the Phial of Eärendil, its light burning with the memory of the Two Trees. On the other, Nenya flared bright, cold fire dancing along the facets of the Ring of Adamant. Radiance erupted from her, flooding the courtyard in brilliance. The shadows screamed as the Nazgûl were hurled back, blasted into the Eye itself.
Galadriel's voice thundered, deeper and more terrible than her own:
"YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE, SERVANT OF MORGOTH!"
The flaming Eye shuddered, its fire guttering. Sauron's armored form fought against her will, chanting in the Black Speech, the courtyard flashing with flame. Galadriel advanced, her words lashing like lightning:
"YOU ARE NAMELESS. FACELESS. FORMLESS!"
Her voice rolled like thunder, shaking the very stones. The Eye burned brighter, shadows lashing outward, but her light only grew.
"GO BACK TO THE VOID FROM WHENCE YOU CAME!"
With that command, her power exploded outward. The Eye's fire extinguished, its flame collapsing inward. Sauron's form was flung skyward, torn from the fortress, hurled screaming toward Mordor.
The light faded. Galadriel sagged, her radiance gone. Elrond caught her before she fell. Gandalf rushed to her side, pulling from his satchel a crystalline vial filled with silver light. All eyes turned to it, drawn to its pure brilliance.
"A gift from our new friend," Gandalf said softly. "A restorative draught. Drink this, my lady."
Galadriel's hands trembled as she took it. She drank, and warmth returned at once to her face; color bloomed back into her cheeks. Strength steadied her limbs, and soon she stood again, the empty vial glinting in her grasp.
"A generous gift indeed," she murmured. But her eyes turned dark as she gazed eastward. "Sauron has fled to Mordor."
Elrond's voice was grim. "Gondor must be warned. We must set up a watch on the walls of Mordor."
Saruman folded his hands. "The more pressing concern lies at Erebor. An army of orcs marches there even now."
"I will go there now," Gandalf said at once. He turned to Radagast. "Summon our friends—birds and beasts. We will need all the help we can get."
From his pouch, Gandalf drew a silver medallion, its runes glowing faintly, a bright ruby set at its heart. Saruman's brow arched. "What is that?"
"A gift from Benjamin," Gandalf answered, smiling faintly. "When I press the gem, he will know where I am. He will then open a portal to bring me straight to the Woodland Realm."
"Fascinating," Saruman murmured, eyes glittering. Then, to the Council's surprise, he straightened and declared, "I will come with you."
The others turned to him in silence. Saruman gave a thin smile. "Do not look so shocked. I have long been curious about our new friend—and his strange magic. If I can help in the battle and see his power firsthand, then all the better."
Gandalf gave a single nod. He pressed the ruby. A few moments later, the air before them split with a low hum, blue light spiraling into the shape of a circular portal.
From it stepped Ben, calm as a summer evening, a grin on his face.
"Evening," he said lightly. "Who's ready for a ride?"
---
The night was calm over the Greenwood. Stars shimmered above The Spirit of Dawn,anchored among the trees of the Woodland Realm. On the top deck, the company of Thorin Oakenshield sat together after supper. Pipes were lit, their smoke curling lazily in the night air, mingling with the glow of lantern-like stones that hung along the hull.
Bilbo leaned against the railing, staring up at the stars with quiet wonder. The dwarves sat in clusters, talking among themselves. Gandalf was puffing at his pipe, seated comfortably with a faint twinkle in his eye, though his mind was elsewhere.
A little apart from them, Saruman reclined in a fine armchair that Ben had conjured for him, his staff propped against the wood. He barely spared the group a glance, deeply immersed in a thick book on Transfiguration. A glowstone lantern lit the pages as he puffed absently at his own pipe.
Ben sat cross-legged on the deck, resting against the railing. He had been watching Saruman with mild amusement. The old wizard had all but admitted his chief reason for coming was to study Ben's magic—and Ben, ever gracious, had obliged, gifting him a few books on Transfiguration, Charms and Enchantments from his personal collection. Seeing Saruman—proud, unyielding Saruman—studying like a schoolboy under the light of a lantern made Ben chuckle under his breath.
Gandalf finally broke the silence. He drew on his pipe, then exhaled a long stream of smoke. His eyes, sharp even under the brim of his hat, turned to Thorin.
"We cannot afford to wait any longer," he said quietly. "Sauron's army marches as we speak. By the time Durin's Day comes, the gates of Erebor will be guarded by legions of orcs."
The words sobered the dwarves. Their laughter faded. Thorin's brow furrowed, his hand closing tight around the small key he carried, the one that promised a hidden way into Erebor's halls.
"I would not tarry if I could help it," Thorin said at last. His voice was deep, heavy with conflict. "But the hidden door will only be revealed on Durin's Day. The last light of the sun, the last moon of autumn—that is the way foretold. Even if we stood before the mountain now, we could not enter."
Ben, who had been silent, suddenly leaned forward.
"What about the front door?"
Every head turned toward him. Gandalf's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but in understanding, as though he had expected Ben to say it.
Thorin looked at him incredulously. "The frontdoor? You would have us wake the dragon?"
Ben spread his hands lightly. "Why not? With all respect, Thorin, your plan to steal the Arkenstone and rally the dwarves has a flaw. Even if you gathered every dwarf from every hall, what then? Smaug is no fool. He will not come out to face an army in the open. He will stay inside, where no siege weapons can reach him, where numbers mean nothing. And should you force your way in, he would roast you all—dozens of dwarves at a time if he wished."
A murmur ran among the dwarves. Bilbo straightened, eyes wide.
Thorin's grip tightened on the key, his knuckles whitening. His gaze fixed on Ben. "Then what would you suggest?"
Ben smiled faintly. "We go through the front. Call him out. Face him directly."
"Face Smaug?" Bilbo squeaked. "That's your plan?"
Ben chuckled. "Precisely. We are not entirely helpless, are we? We have three wizards among us. Enchanted weapons and armor. Shields that can withstand dragonfire. Potions to make you faster, stronger—completely resistant even to Smaug's flame. Temporarily, of course. And," he added, his tone steady, "I have quite a few other weapons even a dragon would find hard to endure."
The dwarves exchanged uneasy glances, hope flickering with fear.
At length, Thorin's eyes sought Gandalf. The wizard had been watching Ben intently, smoke curling from his pipe. Slowly, Gandalf set it aside.
"Circumstances have changed," he said. His voice was solemn, grave. "Once, Smaug was our only concern. Now, an army of Moria orcs stand in our way as well. Separated, we might overcome them both. But together?" He shook his head. "If dragon and army should join, there will be no stopping them."
Thorin lowered his gaze, the light from the glowstones playing across his stern features. For a long while, no one spoke. Then he drew a deep breath.
"Then there is no point in waiting." He rose to his feet, his voice hard with resolve. "If we are to reclaim our home, we must act. Rest tonight, all of you. Tomorrow, we make for Erebor."