When Sylas pulled out the last red-tipped arrow, the Orcs fell into tense silence, holding their breath as if expecting him to lash out in anger. Among their kind, strength was respected, but it was also feared, and none wished to provoke his wrath.
To their relief, Sylas showed no anger. His face remained expressionless as he declared, "Very well. Since I've drawn it, I'll go, along with the other one who drew red."
The Orcs murmured in surprise, some even grinning with joy at their narrow escape. They were astonished that their new captain actually kept his word. Strength and honesty, this, they thought, was a leader they might follow, if he truly returned alive from Shelob's lair.
The other Orc who had drawn red, however, looked as though his world had ended. He hadn't even seen the Great Spider yet, but already he felt half-dead.
So it was that, amid the mocking farewells of their comrades, Sylas and the unfortunate Orc set out with the corpse of the fallen captain, bound for Torech Ungol, some twenty miles away.
Sylas, of course, did not stoop to carry anything. He strode ahead with the air of a lord, leaving the burden of the corpse to his miserable companion, who staggered under its weight.
Only after Sylas's departure did the other Orcs realize they did not even know their new captain's name.
"What does it matter?" one sneered. "He'll be spider-meat soon enough."
The rest laughed harshly and agreed. In their minds, both newcomers were as good as dead. With the captain's seat about to open again, many began eyeing one another with suspicion, each already calculating his chance to claim it.
Meanwhile, Sylas moved calmly through the steep paths and dark tunnels of Cirith Ungol, outwardly relaxed but inwardly sharp, ready for battle at a moment's notice.
The Orc behind him gasped and sweated, stumbling beneath the corpse's weight. He dared not complain, even as Sylas barked impatiently for him to hurry.
The Mountains of Shadow loomed above them, their peaks forever shrouded in foul mist. Few trees clung to the rocky slopes, and the land lay barren, grim, and silent.
At last, they came to the base of a sheer cliff west of Cirith Ungol. The rock jutted into a jagged maze, and there yawned a vast cave mouth, blacker than midnight.
It was a hole that seemed to drink in the very light around it, a place from which no gleam escaped. The air that drifted out reeked of decay and corruption. The oppressive stench pressed down on them like a weight.
The corpse-bearer froze, trembling violently. "C-captain… this is it. Shelob's den. Let's leave the body here and run before she comes!"
Sylas's lips curved into a smile. He nodded slowly. "Very well. Put it down, and you may go."
The Orc blinked in disbelief, then brightened with sudden hope. "Truly?"
"Of course not. Imperio!"
The spell struck like a chain. At once, the Orc's will broke, and he stood glassy-eyed, obedient.
"Carry the corpse to the entrance," Sylas commanded.
"Yes," the Orc answered in a dull voice. He dragged the body forward, straight to the cave's mouth.
Sylas cloaked himself in silence and shadow, vanishing from sight as he waited.
The Orc stood like a puppet at the threshold, the dead captain slumped at his feet.
At length, a sound stirred in the darkness. Something vast shifted within.
Then Shelob emerged.
The Great Spider of Mordor crawled forth, her monstrous bulk blotting out the cave behind her. Her swollen, black body gleamed wetly in the dim light. Crooked legs ended in cruel claws that scraped against the stone. Hornlike ridges jutted from her head, and her many clustered eyes glowed with baleful fire.
A wave of rot and venom rolled out with her, so foul that even hardened Orcs would have gagged.
Looking upon her was like staring into the heart of night itself. The longer one gazed, the more the world seemed to fade, colors leached away, sounds dulled, and the very memory of light threatened to vanish.
And this was Shelob, last spawn of Ungoliant, the spider-goddess of unlight.
Among the terrors that still lingered in Middle-earth, none were more dreadful. She was called by many names: Weaver of Fate, Dark Mistress. She served no will but her own, bowing neither to Sauron nor to any other. Their bond was one of cold convenience, mutual exploitation, nothing more.
From Ungoliant she had inherited a hunger without end. Elf, Man, Dwarf, Orc, it mattered not; all were food. And Sauron, knowing her value, was more than willing to feed her. Broken Orcs, captives, the maimed and dying, anything that no longer served his wars was sent crawling or carried into her shadows.
Thus, even in times of peace, Shelob never starved. Orcs themselves thinned their own ranks by endless infighting. The weak and the wounded were cast aside, left for the Great Spider to devour. Survival of the fittest was their law; Shelob was simply the end of the line.
So it was that now, catching the scent of blood, Shelob emerged from her lair.
The Orc's corpse lay in the dust. With frightening speed, she loosed a stream of silk and bound it tight, her two front limbs flicking like a weaver at her loom. Then her clustered eyes fixed on the Imperio-bound Orc.
Before he could even twitch, she lunged. The poisoned sting struck home, dropping him into twitching unconsciousness. Webbing followed in thick cords, cocooning him in moments.
Only then did her attention shift.
Dozens of unblinking eyes turned, not to the food at her feet, but to the shadows beyond. She had scented another.
Sylas's concealment was broken. Knowing she had already found him, he cast aside the Disillusionment Charm and stepped into view.
Her eyes gleamed. Hunger flared. Yet after sniffing the air, puzzlement stirred across her monstrous features.
"You are no Orc," came her voice, rasping, jagged, like rusted iron dragged over stone. The sound was terrible, the voice of a creature that had not spoken in ages.
Sylas did not flinch. He had heard speech like this once before, when he and Thranduil had battled another of Shelob's kind in Mirkwood. It was no surprise that she, elder and stronger, could speak as well. But her presence pressed down like a shroud of night.
Her aura was suffocating. It was as though invisible webs had closed around him, dulling his senses, smothering thought, drowning light. To look at her was to sink into mire and shadow, losing the self.
Sylas's mind wavered, then hardened. With a surge of will he raised Occlumency's walls, his mental fortress barring the darkness from seeping in.
The wooden cudgel in his hand lengthened, reshaping into his staff.
And without hesitation, he raised it.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light burst forth, a killing flash that tore through the gloom and streaked for the monstrous form.
Shelob shrieked, hurling a mass of black silk before her. The curse struck it with a blast like thunder, tearing a hole through, but not piercing through to her flesh. The web had caught it, like an elastic net snaring a spear of death.
The shock of it made Sylas's breath catch. The Killing Curse, checked, even deflected.
The web still smouldered, a ragged hole smoking where the green bolt had struck. And yet, the rest of it held fast.
Sylas's eyes narrowed. If her silk could resist even the most absolute of curses, then his resolve was only hardened.
This was the material he needed. From such silk, the greatest Invisibility Cloak could be woven.
Shelob reeled back, her cluster of eyes blazing. Rage boiled out of her in a voice like knives scraping stone:
"You are no Orc… you are a Wizard. I will devour you!"
Her vast limbs, jointed and spiked with cruel claws, lashed down at Sylas with crushing force. Each blow was like the fall of a siege engine.
"Confringo!"
Sylas cried, sending a blast of shattering flame at one of her descending legs.
The explosion struck true, but Shelob's armored hide was no ordinary chitin. Her limbs were iron-hard, forged in darkness since the First Age. The spell only slowed her strike, blackened her shell, and left her otherwise unharmed.
Sylas's eyes narrowed. He braced his staff, and with a sharp flick, cried, "Protego!"
A shimmering shield of light flared to life before him. Shelob's claw crashed against it like a falling mountain. The shield held for a heartbeat, then fractured, and in her second strike it shattered like glass.
Sylas staggered back, casting spell after spell in rapid succession, Bombarda, Reducto, Expulso, but none of them pierced her thick hide. Shelob's monstrous bulk seemed without weakness, her body a fortress of shadow.
Then her eyes blazed.
Dozens of baleful orbs focused on him, and suddenly Sylas felt his mind reel. Darkness surged in, swallowing his vision. For an instant he saw nothing but endless black, his body sinking into a void. Then shapes appeared, scores of Shelobs, swarming from every angle, descending from above, even crawling up from below.
His breath quickened. His senses screamed. Which was real? Which was false?
In truth, his body had faltered. Shelob watched from outside the illusion, her fangs glistening with venom, her prey staggering blindly. Triumph glittered in her eyes.
She spat a thick rope of webbing, oily, black, strong as steel, straight at his chest, ready to bind him and drag him to her pit.
But before the silk could reach him, it struck an unseen wall. A ripple of pale light flared around Sylas, stopping the strand a meter short.
Shelob hissed. Her eyes narrowed, sensing the source.
On Sylas's left hand gleamed a faint light, the subtle aura of the ring he wore. A ring of power.