Bard was taken aback by Gandalf's question. Rummaging through his memory, he replied, "I did see that hobbit on the docks this morning, looking rather bored, fishing. I gave him a few tips and then went off to help the townsfolk. I haven't seen him since."
Gandalf glared, anxiety edging his voice. "Then he vanished in that window of time. He wasn't at the inn when I left, and I just searched the Lake-town column and couldn't find him. Where could Bilbo have gone?"
Hearing this, Tarnes frowned for a moment, then his features eased. He spoke gently to reassure him. "Do not panic. Bernahl and Igon are still in Lake-town, and the Storm soldiers are on watch. Bilbo will not come to harm. Hobbits have a knack for being overlooked. He may have slipped past your eye."
Gandalf exhaled. "I know, but I still cannot set my mind at ease."
Radahn spoke next. "Tarnes, I will hold Ravenhill and Dale with the Redmane Legion. You can return to search for your friend without worry."
Tarnes nodded, then turned to Gandalf. "Let us head back together. You check the docks, and I will see if Bernahl found anything."
The unease spread quickly. Thorin came over. On hearing Bilbo had vanished, he said, "Count me in. Bilbo signed a dwarf contract, and his safety is my responsibility to the end." He turned to Bard. "As for housing in Dale, ask Dain."
Thorin brought over a war goat, mounted it, and rode after Tarnes and Gandalf toward Lake-town.
When they arrived, it was Igon who met them, not Bernahl.
Igon watched Tarnes swing down from Torrent and then dropped a bombshell. "Bernahl is missing."
Tarnes' eyes widened. Bilbo's disappearance had not shocked him, but Bernahl's set alarms ringing. Before he could conjure a darker conspiracy, Igon produced a folded note.
"Bernahl left this," Igon said. "He noticed Bilbo was no longer at the docks. He went to look for him and told us not to worry."
Tarnes took the note. The tight, familiar script loosened the knot in his chest. He repeated its contents to Gandalf, then gave Igon a look. "Next time do not fling it at me like that. I thought something had happened to him."
That morning, Lake-town's docks lay iron-gray under a clear sky. Bilbo Baggins crouched at the wet edge of a pier, rod across his knees, line trailing into glassy water.
Ash from last night's pipe clung to his sleeves. The worms in the crock by his boots had long since frozen, like his enthusiasm since his first cast three hours ago.
"Perhaps I should try blueberry jam for bait. Do fish here eat that?" Bilbo muttered, tugging the slack line and glancing toward the town gate.
Wheel rims grated on gravel. Bard's hoarse, weary voice carried faintly. "Women and children first. Wrap every damp-prone piece of furniture tight with oilcloth."
Bilbo's fingertips rubbed the gold ring in his pocket. The cold metal trembled subtly, a forked whisper sliding into his bones.
They have won a battle and are busy with other things. Thorin is thinking about how to divide the gold in the Mountain. Dain counts the fallen of the Iron Hills. Even Gandalf and Tarnes are stewing over the dragon. Who will mind a hobbit who cannot catch a fish?
The rod jerked down.
"Bite."
Bilbo sprang up. His boots slipped on ice-slick boards. He staggered and hauled hard, dragging up half a blade smothered in weeds and rust, an orc scrap tossed into the lake days ago.
He slumped. "Oh, blast."
The Ring's cajoling chimed clearer in his head.
What are you going to Dale for? To be the dwarves' jester at their feast, or a Redmane burden.
He cast again into the icy water as if he had not heard a word.
By noon, as Lake-town's migration din faded, he gnawed his last honey-cake and realized his lone shadow was all that remained by the docks.
Far off, the Storm soldiers marched their shifts, iron boots ticking like a clock hand.
No, surely not. Has everyone already gone?
"Gandalf. Mr. Bard," he called.
The wind shredded his shout. Silence folded over the hobbit.
A raven skimmed the lake, fresh fish in its beak, bright eye curious at the fisherman who had caught nothing all morning. It beat its wings toward Ravenhill.
Bilbo's fingers delved deeper into his pocket. The ring shimmered with a sly gleam in the dark.
They do not need you. The elves of the Hidden Valley never forget a guest. Let the brave guard their honors. While they drink victory ale beneath the Golden Tree, you will be warming your toes by Elrond's fire.
"Yes. Rivendell. I can go to the Valley," Bilbo murmured, dazed.
He trudged north along the frozen shore and did not notice when the trees thickened and the light dimmed under the Dark Wood.
At first, a few silver strands hung between boughs, web-mist brushing his curls like morning fog. The deeper he went, the more trunks he saw bound in silk.
A shiver shot through him. His hand snapped back from the Ring. He finally looked, truly looked, at where he stood.
"Only some spider silk," he told himself, forcing steadiness, and turned. The path behind lay smothered in webs.
His right hand slid to the brass short blade at his waist. The metal flashed a faint gold at his touch. Warmth from the hilt cleared his fogged head.
Above, a faint scuttle. Huge shadows rippled through the ragged light.
Wear me, and their eight legs will not scent your fear.
Slip it on now, and it will wriggle free the moment the spiders close in.
His thumb pressed the band. Tarnes' voice cracked through his core like thunder, and he yanked his hand away.
The blade's tiny gleam died.
Six calf-sized spiders dropped from the canopy. Fangs dripped luminous green venom that hissed in the loam.
Bilbo ran. His coat snagged in silk. He slashed free with the brass blade and bolted.
Hobbit instinct shoved him into a hollow, where the walls hung with cocoons that rose and fell as if breathing with him.
Hands trembling, he clapped his mouth shut and prayed his trail would be found.
Only the click of fangs outside answered him, rhythmic tapping that seemed to whisper, "Sweet meat... fresh sweet meat."
His hand slipped to his pocket. The Ring rolled into his palm. A vision bloomed, Tarnes and Gandalf toasting at a victory feast, Thorin's company laughing with knife-sharp glee.
At the mouth of the hollow, bulky shadows layered over the light.
Wear me, glide through their banquet, or stay and be a warm cradle for their eggs.
Bilbo touched the band, then pushed it deep into an inner pocket.
"Cradle, my foot."
Snarling with rare fury, he yanked out last night's tinder and pitched the flaming sliver into the cocoons. Webs caught with a whoosh, flooding the hollow with light.
The spiders screeched and recoiled. Bilbo burst out and fled.
Dockside wind whisked fine snow. Bernahl strode over frozen planks.
He had meant to hoist the corner-crouching hobbit, tease him as Tarnes did, then toss him up behind his saddle and ride out with Bard's folk.
But the dock lay empty, only a stiff worm dangling from a hook.
"Bilbo."
The wind swallowed his call. He scanned the boards and spotted a wide, familiar tread in the drifted flour of frost. A hobbit's footprint.
He followed at once. The prints grew erratic through reeds. Scrapes on ice said he had slipped and fallen.
By a snapped dead branch, Bernahl found a crumb of honey-cake with a bite taken from it. He sighed. "Even wandering off, he never forgets snacks. Hobbit to the core."
He looked north, where the trail ran, and saw the brooding line of Mirkwood.
Tarnes, your friend is troublesome.
Back at the dock, he found pen and paper in a hut, scratched a note, weighed it under a jar, and set off at a run.