With Thorin's solemn oath in hand, all worries were laid to rest.
A month passed, and from the western reaches of Eowenría, there arrived a great caravan bearing five thousand full sets of equipment — arms and armor, cloaks and quivers, for the hillfolk archers who had rallied to Kaen's call.
Accompanying them were civil officials and master craftsmen, hand-picked to aid in the construction of Tusgar and to lend guidance in the governance of its swelling population. These were the hands that would shape a stronghold worthy of legend.
With these matters settled, and with only a month and a half until Durin's Day, Kaen and his chosen company once again turned their eyes to the north — to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and the dragon that slumbered beneath it.
….
Before they departed, Kaen gathered all the commanders and captains, including the two Elven princes, Elladan and Elrohir, and the Elven war-captain Thaliondir. His orders were clear: in one month's time, they would lead the full host of Eowenríel and the Elves in a forced march, crossing the wild to reach Erebor within a fortnight.
But this first journey would be in secret.
To avoid drawing the eye of Sauron or his minions, Kaen brought no guards, no banners, and no war horns. Just seventeen souls:
Thirteen Dwarves, one Hobbit, two Wizards, and Kaen himself.
They departed Tusgar at high noon and, after ten days of swift travel, reached the threshold of Mirkwood — the ancient forest known in elder tongues as Taur-e-Ndaedelos, the last great woodland of the East. Its vastness rivaled Rohan, its green gloom thick with time and memory.
Within the wood, two paths remained passable.
….
The first was the Old Forest Road, built by the Dwarves of elder days to ferry iron from the Iron Hills to the Lonely Mountain. But now it was choked by fell creatures — a shadow-haunted trail.
The second was the Elven Path, a narrow northern route once carved by Thranduil himself,for the use of Elves. Though faded and nearly forgotten, it remained the swiftest path to Erebor.
At the trail's edge stood a waystation of Elven design, adorned with statues of lithe and graceful warriors, standing watch in stone silence on either side of the trail.
But as the company stepped beneath their stony gaze, a shiver passed through them.
Gandalf moved forward, brushing aside a thick vine clinging to a statue — and there beneath the green was revealed a crimson mark, stark and cruel.
"A sign of Shadow," Gandalf said grimly.
Saruman's eyes narrowed.
"This path… has been tainted."
Thorin's voice was low and urgent.
"Shall we turn back? Is there another way?"
Gandalf shook his head.
"No. There are only two traversable ways by foot through Mirkwood. And the Old Forest Road is surely worse."
Kaen clapped a hand on Thorin's shoulder.
"We walk with two of the greatest wizards in Middle-earth. Unless the Dark Lord himself stands in our path, none shall harm us."
Gandalf rolled his eyes.
"You overestimate me, Thorin. I'm but an old man with a walking stick."
Saruman, proud as ever, scoffed.
"If Sauron stood before me, I would still cast him back. He is but a shadow clinging to past power — a spirit without flesh."
Kaen nodded solemnly.
"I believe in your strength, Master Saruman."
Gandalf, ever wiser than his prideful brother, saw Kaen's intent — to stoke Saruman's ego and secure his protection for the group. He said nothing. If the White Wizard wished to take the lead, the Grey would not complain.
….
Led by Saruman, the company entered the Elven Path. It was narrow, only wide enough for two to walk abreast. Trees loomed high above, their canopies so dense that sunlight could barely pierce the gloom. The air grew damp, heavy with the stink of rotting plants and fungi.
Soon, the Dwarves and Bilbo began to falter.
"Ugh… my head's spinning."
"Am I seeing things? I swear I've six fingers on this hand!"
"Why are there two Bilbos? Why is one walking upside-down?!"
"I'm as tall as Kaen now! Am I still a Dwarf?!"
Their voices trembled in confusion and fear.
Gandalf's expression darkened.
"Some spell is upon us…"
Saruman scoffed.
"Not magic. Toxic vapors. The rot of corrupted plants and beasts has filled the forest with gases — and these gases sink low."
"Dwarves, being short, are breathing in far more of it."
Kaen couldn't help but grin.
So this is what the father of Middle-earth's industrial knowledge looks like...
Gandalf shrugged.
"Saruman studied under Aulë, the master of craft. It makes sense. I am no scholar of poisons."
Kaen gestured toward the stumbling Dwarves.
"Then how do we fix this, before they start dancing naked?"
Saruman smirked.
"Simple. Gandalf, use your light."
….
With a reluctant sigh, Gandalf raised his staff. The air shimmered, and a pulse of radiant energy burst forth, scattering the black miasma that clung to the trees and soil.
"This violates the rules of the Valar…" he muttered.
"We are not meant to wield our full strength."
But he pressed on, staff in hand, invoking a clear and powerful chant:
"Begone, shadow! Walk in the light with me!"
From his staff surged a wave of brilliance, streaking down the forest path, illuminating all in its wake. Fallen leaves were swept aside, webs burned away, and the very ground seemed to breathe again.
Saruman gave a rare nod of approval.
"Well done."
Kaen's expression asked the unspoken question: Why didn't you do this sooner?
Gandalf grumbled:
"This is the one spell I can still cast freely. Most of my strength is sealed away."
…..
Though they had cleared the taint for now, Mirkwood remained vast. Even on the Elven Path, it would take five days to reach the Woodland Realm. They camped under twisted boughs and leafless branches, ever watchful.
Kaen used each evening to learn magic from the two wizards.
Saruman often sighed.
"Had I found you before Elrond, you'd have been my apprentice."
Gandalf, less possessive, merely smiled.
"I have no desire for apprentices. Kaen is my friend — and that is enough."
…..
On the fourth day, the forest grew thicker still, and a black river barred their path. A single ferry bobbed at its bank.
Gandalf stepped forward, eyes gleaming.
"This is the Enchanted River, one of the Woodland Realm's wards. Any who touch its waters will be lost in the woods. But reaching it means we're near the Elven border."
They boarded the boat and crossed.
But as they marched deeper, something was wrong.
The air was too still.
Webs began to appear — faint at first, then thick and glistening across the trees. Faint chittering echoed from above.
They drew their weapons.
Suddenly, Saruman raised his staff, his voice thunderous:
"Creatures of the Shadow! Show your vile forms!"
A pulse of unseen power surged outward — and from the trees above, great shapes fell to the earth.
Spiders.
Not the kind one swats in a kitchen.
But monstrous, ancient spiders, descendants of Ungoliant, spawn of darkness.
Gandalf's eyes widened.
"The brood of Shelob… spawn of Ungoliant… they are here!"
The company drew close, shoulder to shoulder, as the dark forest came alive with silk and fangs.
- - - - - - - -
T/N:
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