Chapter 3

Bruilan of the King's Advance Guard, Minas Tirith, arrived in Dale on horseback beside his friend Haleth of Rohan. It was late afternoon and they were ten days ahead of the Royal Progress' arrival in Dale, an official State Visit which included the King Elessar, the King of Rohan's sister, and the Prince of Ithilien.

"Is it my imagination, or is this place in an uproar?" Haleth asked. They had scant been allowed entry at the gate and they rode uphill to the King's Embassy through a populace that completely ignored them in lieu of dashing past in what looked like mild panic.

"It is not your imagination," Bruilan observed. "Though this is my first visit to Dale and I must say, I've no idea what passes for normal here." It was true that they wore plain travelling gear and looked rather ordinary, yet they were both used to somewhat more ceremony and welcome when on official business.

A call of "Make way!" and they swerved their mounts to the left as a long-legged horse and rider came over the top of the hill right for them.

It clattered past without salute, racing for the gate.

They looked at each other.

"Courier horse," Haleth said. "Rohan-bred."

"Going back the way we came…" Bruilan said, looking over his shoulder.

"Back to Esgaroth?" Haleth asked, though he sounded doubtful.

"To the Elven Kingdom in the Greenwood," came a new voice.

They turned to find a broad-shouldered young man standing in the street. They took him for a soldier of Dale in his long leather cloak and high-topped boots.

"Good afternoon, young sir," Bruilan said. "We are bound for the King's Embassy. Can you direct us?"

"You've found it," the man held out a hand to the large, tile roofed building on his right.

Bruilan and Haleth both looked. It was small by Minas Tirith standards, yet much richer in design and size than Haleth would have seen in Rohan.

"Our thanks," Bruilan nodded. "We are here for an audience with your King."

The young man regarded them. "You are the Advance Guard for the Royal Visit," he guessed.

Haleth nodded. "Can you direct us to the stable?"

The young man smiled. "This way," he motioned them forward and walked beside them, leading them to an outbuilding with a wide door. Once inside, the men from Gondor and Rohan dismounted and released their horses to the stablehands.

"Welcome to Dale," their guide bowed, hand on heart.

Bruilan and Haleth returned the gesture. "Can you take us to your King?" Bruilan asked.

"Lads, I am the King." He appeared to enjoy their shocked expressions. "Bard of Dale. And my apologies, but we're somewhat suddenly on alert." He motioned for the visitors to follow him across the road to the Embassy.

"My lord," Haleth sounded aggrieved. "Our apologies. We did not expect…"

King Bard only laughed. "You're not to blame," he said, leading them up stairs to guarded doors. The armed soldiers snapped to attention as he passed, leading them into a high-ceilinged, tiled foyer, richly appointed. "And let me offer the apologies. We had planned a better reception, but our day has been rather disrupted."

"Can I ask the nature of the alert?"

"Messages from the Mountain. Incursion of giant spiders from the Greenwood, out in the woods on the western slope."

Both men blinked.

Bard shrugged. "It's a first. Generally it's goblins, occasionally orcs." He shook his head. "Either one could be the real culprits behind this trouble. But…giant spiders." He walked the pair into one of his ready rooms. A sheaf of drawings lay scattered on the large table. He pushed two aside and turned one toward them.

It was an artist's rendering of five men and three dwarves with long spears confronting a wicked spider the size of a large pavilion.

"It's not an exaggeration," Bard told them. "And the dwarves of Erebor do not call alerts lightly. The King's brother is unaccounted for." He paused. "Which is disturbing news. I count the Prince a personal friend."

"Your courier is on his way to Thranduil?" Bruilan asked.

"Yes."

"Will he ride to their aid?" Haleth asked. "The rift between Thranduil and Erebor is well known."

Bard folded his arms. "Remains to be seen...but it's Dale who asks his aid. I'm the one who's called him."


Corax did not find it easy to rally the flock. His fellows were widely dispersed, the flock in complete disarray.

But he called and circled above the string of dwarf fledglings on the path below. A long line of them with Mountain Lassie, all hurrying back to the mountain.

"To me! To me!" he called. Friends joined him. "Mob, mob, mob!" More friends joined. He looked for Huq…waited for Huq. They circled.

"To me! To me!" He called. He eyed the flock he was attracting…swirling in classic muster. How many would be enough? He waited for Huq.

But the sun would be setting. It would be roosting time…resting time. And no Huq.

Go now his instincts told him. Go back to Raven Prince. Now.

"Follow!" he cried then, changing his call.

The flock repeated the command and Corax shot south, leading the war-flock.

They flew fast, swift and strong. His eyes spotted the landmarks, the pine, the rocks with lizards.

Raven Prince in the cave with the Many-Legs.

And this time he wasn't alone.

Corax circled his war-flock above the rocks. Attack! Attack! He called. Big big many-legs. Eye peck!

Yes! They called back. Ravens liked a good war-flock attack. His fellows were eager.

Corax screamed his battle rage and flew down, the first to land square in the opening of the dark cave, full of webbing.

For a moment, he stood there alone, crouched in nest-defense position, wings out and back. One raven, easy prey.

The Many-Legs erupted from the dark place.

And the war-flock arrowed in, flying past its flailing legs and striking beaks at a hundred shiny eyes.

Attack! Attack! The flock leapt and pounced at the Many-Legs as it hissed, trying to bat ravens aside but not really able to defend itself. It backed up, retreating. The war-flock followed it, their calls echoing in the cave and Corax thrilled at their noise.

Yes! He hopped into the air several times, wings up, urging the fight. Yes, yes, yes! Then he looked aside.

Web, web, web. He darted forward. Peck and retreat. The leather scented like Raven Prince. Peck and retreat.

Two other ravens joined him. Raven Prince. Web, web, web. Peck and retreat. Then a few more ravens helped.

They tore at the covering, breaking the spider's work apart. And there were two Friends in the webbing. Raven Prince, yes. And another one, not a ravenspeaker. Not a Named Friend.

With his fellows, Corax made quick work of the webbing.

The Friend was waking, ruffling.

Run, run, run, Corax shouted.

But the Friend was not a Ravenspeaker. He didn't understand the warning.

He could see the hand of Raven Prince, now. See his face, thready webs in his hair. But he lay still. Asleep, asleep, asleep?

But the Friend was awake, his hand reaching for the bright shiny long knife.

Run, run, run!


Skirfir woke to the loudest, most raucous raven screeching that he'd ever heard, and it grated on his nerves like nobody's business.

Mahal… His head ached something fierce, worse than a morning after too much ale.

And he was tangled in something.

He forced his eyes open.

Webs.

Du bekar! He swore to himself. Spider attack… It was flooding back into his dull brain. Get up!

He spotted his long knife on the cave floor, grabbed it, and struggled to his knees. A furious raven screeched at him, beak so wide he could see its angry red gullet.

"Yes! Yes!" He cut webs away from his legs, managed to get up on his feet.

Mahal, he'd never seen such a thing. There had to be a hundred ravens cramming the cave, and they were screaming and attacking the spider—hunkered down in the back in self-defense.

It was a frightening sight, but he didn't think that would last for long and he knew a chance when he saw it.

Kili…The Prince!

Skirfir saw him, unconscious on the ground, ravens pecking away at the webbing.

No time, he realized, seeing the spider testing the birds with little feints. It might be blinded, but that wouldn't keep it from lunging forward.

He sheathed his knife and took his first steps, staggered, then shooed the birds out of his way. Grasping Kili's hands, Skirfir managed to lift him into a shoulder carry, catching up the Prince's sword and dragging a good portion of web behind.

The prince was big for a dwarf, but not fat. Still, he weighed several stoneweights. Skirfir could just lift him, and he grunted as he turned for the fading sunlight and half-carried, half-dragged his prince away.

Where to go was the problem. But the ravens, one in particular, seemed to have ideas. They leap-frogged to the right, and Skirfir, thank Mahal, could think clearly enough to follow the lead.

There. Another opening in the rocks, this time long, low and narrow. Ravens dropped to the ground, darted in, then darted out. It was far too small for a giant spider. It would even be a squeeze for a dwarf.

Skirfir eased his Prince to the ground, hit the dirt, and peered in. There was a short drop-off, then a hollow interior that was larger than the low opening suggested, and that was all Skirfir needed to know. He rolled Kili inside, cringed at the thump as his prince dropped the few feet to the floor, and scooted himself after.

Mahal, his head hurt.

In the fading daylight he managed to pull Kili as far back from the opening as he could—hoping he'd be out of spider reach should one come poking around.

"Kili, wake up!" Skirfir tried to rouse him, grabbing his prince's shoulder and shaking him. Patted his face. Wished he had a skunk pod.

But Mahal, there was no sign of awareness in him. Skirfir, alarmed, checked his breathing, his pulse.

Yes, his chest was rising and falling. His pulse strong.

But his skin was hot to the touch, his face flushed.

Skirfir loosened the Prince's jacket, opened his shirt collar.

And that's when he felt Kili shivering, tremors that signaled something Skirfir didn't understand.


Kili was hot. Sweating with it.

"Funny that you should feel so hot while I am doomed to watery cold…"

Kili pulled himself inward. He wanted to hide, wanted cover.

"Dwarf. Durin's spawn. Filth."

Kili was refusing to speak to it. Fire and water, fire and water.

And he was hot. So very hot.

"Your silence will not keep you alive, nasty skulking dwarf. We have a friend this time, joining us for the little party. Would you like to meet this friend?"

Kili said nothing; he was refusing to speak to it. You are nothing. You are not here.

But this resulted in anger…resulted in a sudden flare so hot it seared his face, burned his hands.

"No!" he cried out. "No, I would not like to meet the friend!"

The heat vanished.

"Meet the friends anyway."

Kili stayed still. This was fear, this place.

He heard clicking, sensed something spider-like.

Goblin. He tried backing away. Goblin/spider/orc.

"Impressive, isn't it? Why don't you just say hello…"


Skirfir thought it must be close to midnight. Three ravens had stayed, and they hunkered around the little shelter with heads tucked under wings, looking like pitch black lumps in a dark grey world.

Kili's shivering had evolved to tremors, and then writhing.

Skirfir got him to sit up, and the writhing subsided back to tremors. Skirfir stayed there, arms wrapped firmly around his prince, unable to sleep.

Spider venom. He knew that was the cause of his own raging headache. But the prince was having an entirely different reaction. He had gone from fevered to something worse.

And they were trapped here, at least until sunrise.

Skirfir placed his hope in the ravens…that one of them would bring help from the Mountain.

Until then, he held Kili tight in his arms, trying to hold onto hope.

Their positions had been somewhat reversed, four years back.

He'd been an untrained lad with only his hunting bow to commend him. In the face of an overwhelming onslaught of Easterlings, anyone with at least one arm that could hold a big stick was welcome in the defense of Erebor.

He had gone with his father, Órgolvur the Smelter. Three days they fought beside each other outside the gate. On the third day, Órgolvur took a massive flail to the head.

Skirfir, exhausted and scared, had hunkered down and stayed with him, unable to think of what else to do. He couldn't leave him…not just laying out there among the dead, men and dwarves and Easterlings, all bloody and piled in twisted messes.

Skirfir clenched his eyes tight at the memory of it.

And hours later in a smoke-hazed evening, a small group of warriors combed the wreckage, heading back to the gates. A tall, dark haired archer with a steel sword had seen him there.

Had knelt beside him, blood on his face, and reached out to close Órgolvur's dead, staring eyes.

"Your father, lad?"

Skirfir only nodded.

A whispered prayer for Mahal to welcome his warrior. "He lies on Erebor stone. Mahal will take him home, now."

And with that the warrior stood and lifted Skirfir up by the arm.

"You have a bow, but you're out of arrows," he said.

Skirfir hadn't noticed.

"Come in and re-supply." The warrior had steered him away, walked him to the main road, just cleared enough for supply carts to trundle in and out. He'd boosted Skirfir and set him on the back of one as it slowly passed, hopping up after him.

They rode in numb silence all the way back to the main gate. Inside, the warrior shared a re-supply of arrows, gave him a pack of rations and a water skin, and settled him on the wall at his side with a squadron of other lads for a long night of watch, the kind where everyone took turns catching any kind of sleep they could get.

Skirfir had tried to sleep. The one time he drifted off, he'd awakened with tears on his face.

The warrior had sat beside him, and then wrapped an arm around him, just like this, soldier to soldier, in that cold, despairing night.

He didn't tell him not to cry. He told him to honor the memory of his dead.

It was then that Skirfir had vaguely understood that this warrior meant to undertake ushmar for him, though at the time the honor escaped him.

And it was the next morning when Skirfir heard for the first time, "Hail, Commander. There's a message from your brother, the King." And saw the dark-haired warrior rise to answer the summons.

Commander Kili, Prince of Erebor.

Loyalty, honor, and willing heart. Skirfir had always heard his father Órgolvur use those words when he spoke in reverence of the Sons of Durin, and that morning Skirfir had stared wide-eyed and swore a silent pledge to himself: from that day on, his allegiance belonged to his Lord Prince until the moment he drew his last breath.

And Mahal...if he had anything to do with it, it was not going to be in a little cave under a pile of rocks hiding from a damn spider, no matter what size beast it was.

But there were spiders out there. He could hear them…


Ushmar = guardianship (refers to the dwarven tradition of older males informally adopting fatherless underage males and undertaking the role of parent-mentor…as Thorin did for Fili and Kili, and as Kili has done for Skirfir. Ushmar is generally undertaken by a warrior who witnesses or discovers the actual parent's death in battle. Kili, as prince, might have passed this duty to someone else in the case of Skirfir...but he never thought twice about it.)