Web of Shadows

Chapter Eleven of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Snow fell again, heavier than the days before, as we bade our farewells and made our way again under the darkening canopy of the Dim Forest. Ivan, ever wary, rode ahead upon his fine charger, followed in order by Sir Belvenore, I riding upon Crilli’s pony, and she upon Sir Merciful’s steed. Myron still sat upon his unruly mare, and, last of all, came Bruin the Bear upon his stout warhorse.

Ivan led us deeper yet into the forest, under the heavy ceiling of winter’s withered fuinoria leaves, but soon he found the path he sought. He called it “the road,” but this road was fit not for cart or wagon. It was scarcely more than a worn path that snaked and wound through the darkness with many other possible routes branching off here and there and disappearing into the dim. No straight way seemed possible, and without an able guide such as our woodsman, one might quickly lose the road and wander hopelessly lost in that twisting maze of shadows though endless colonnade of enormous trunks. Many deadfalls hampered our way, again and again, forcing us to weave away from the trail and back, and I often feared we might turn about entirely in the darkness. Our way slowly climbed in elevation as we ascended forest’s spine up the Taura Ridge. From time to time I seemed to see dark forms lurking near the trail and eyes of unknown creatures staring from the shadows.

This deep into the forest, no flake of snow fell upon the ground, for the overshadowing canopy held it all aloft, forming over our heads a soggy dripping blanket which blocked out even more of the sunlight, leaving us ever in a perpetual dusk by day and a deep starless blackness by night as Nerull would have it. Thick silence muffled all the wood round about. As if the silence forbade interruption, none of us spoke a word to one another. Only the steady plod of the horses hooves upon the soil made sound. Despite the cold, dark, miserable nights, we kept our flickering campfire small and dim, both for caution and of a necessity, for dry wood consenting to burn proved scarce, and the smoke hung about us, choking the air.

A Cry for Help

So we travelled in this manner for a day and a night and half a day again, or so we believed from the turn of dusky half-light to absolute pitch blackness and back again. Then came a sound on that second day: a thin voice hallooing for help.

“Many wicked things dwell in these dark places,” Ivan warned. “Some ghost or devil calls out to us to lead us into his trap.”

“Not so,” insisted Myron, who by virtue of his magical ring, appeared wholesome faced and even handsome in the dim light. “That is the voice of our goblin boy.”

“All the worse then!” Bruin drew his new blade from its sheath. “That devil child would lead us into some ambush.”

Again we heard the plaintive cry, faint and muffled beneath the boughs, sad and pathetic in our ears.

“I should like to know if he lies in wait for us with some wicked ally that knows of our coming,” Myron sniffed and grimaced. “Perhaps the Baron Wulurich himself.” Myron’s comely countenance could not mask his disagreeable manner.

Ivan dismounted, “I will go on foot by stealth and learn what I may. Stay here and take your rest; I will return.”

Myron shrugged and slid from his steed, offering, “With the magic of my touch I can render you unseen to spying eyes, though they may yet smell you and hear you.” Ivan consented to the dweomer. Myron laid a hand upon him, and before our very eyes, the man faded into the gloom, completely unseen. Even his clothing, his armor, his shield, and his axe vanished before our eyes.

Bruin whistled his appreciation, “Now, for once, that’s a useful trick!”

“How long will it last?” Ivan’s voice asked from out of the air.

“So long as you move with stealth, you remain unseen an hour or more. But if you must strike a blow, the magic betrays you. Such is the nature of the spell,” Myron explained. “See what is to be seen and return to us.”

The rest of us dismounted and stretched our legs a bit. I nibbled at some dry rolls while our hungry steeds foraged about for what might be edible from the spongey rot of the forest floor. Myron rummaged about in the magically deep pocket he had sewn into his robes, and Cirilli whispered in the horses’ ears.

“I am ill at ease. Too long he has been gone,” Sir Belvenore remarked. As if in reply, we heard a thin and distant sound of the man’s voice calling out for help. We all froze, holding our breath, waiting to hear if the sound would be repeated.

Cirilli cried out, “Ivan! Ivan! Where are you?” We joined the shout, but in truth, we did not know which direction to shout or to rescue him, since we had not observed the way he went. We fell silent, listening for another shout, but we heard nothing at all.

“We must find the guide, or we are forever lost in these cursed woods,” Myron moaned.

Horror

“Someone comes!” Cirilli warned, leaping back. We heard William’s voice shouting in the woods, near at hand. He came careening through the trees, but we could see nothing in the darkness of the shadows. Myron took up a torch, spoke a magical word, and the torch burst into a bright flame. A moment later William came tumbling and tripping toward our light, shrieking as he ran.

In the light of the torch we observed the terror that played across his goblin face, and I was convinced at once that his flight was sincere and without trickery. I observed his disheveled state. His neat little cap and jacket were gone and in their stead he wore a tangled shroud of filmy webbing. No sooner had he reached the clearing of the path where yet we stood than a net of sticky web erupted from the trees above and encased the fleeing goblin in a cocoon of gauze. A heartbeat later a hideous mass of hairy jointed legs, ogling flashing eyes, and snapping mandibles dropped on the lad like a common house spider might leap upon a hapless fly caught in its web. No common house spider this creature! I thought it as large as my pony. The spider bit down upon the goblin, and the writhing cocoon fell limp at once.

Now at that moment Cirilli did a thing most unexpected. Snatching up an old piece of vine that lay upon the forest floor, she leapt toward the hideous creature, snapping the vine like a whip. In her hand it transformed miraculously to a great whip of thorns which lashed and snapped at the monster. Unfazed by the whip, the spider skittered upon her and bit at her, causing her slight body to jerk and writhe. Ever brave Sir Belvenore dove hard toward the spider, swinging the elven blade the lady Nyssa gifted him. He put the lady’s gift to use, severing several twitching limbs from the monster. The spider leapt back. It shot a string of web to the boughs above and then retracted the rope to pull itself up and away from the reach of Belvenore’s blade. He struck at it again as it ascended into the dark canopy above.

Splitting Up the Party

The attack terrified our steeds. They screamed and reared and surely would have bolted blindly into the woods had not Bruin and I been quick to grab at the reigns and hold them fast. While we were thus occupied, Myron scanned the boughs above, waving about his blazing torch, and caught sight of the shadow of a second spider, larger than the first, lurking above us. Mryon invoked a hasty spell and threw a volley of magical darts toward the lurking menace. Stung by Myron’s magical barbs, the spider fled back into the darkness.

I attended to William to see if he yet lived. I hoped he might tell us of Ivan’s fate, but alas, the poison had left him paralyzed (though at the time, I thought him dead). Cirilli also nearly swooned under the poisonous bite she suffered, but she soon recovered herself and shook off the venom. She nevertheless turned her attention to attend to the horses, whispering in their ears and calming their anxiety.

“What is to be done? We must find the woodsman!” Myron said.

Still shaking, Cirilli answered, “Go after them! Father Tabor and I will stay with the horses.” I frowned at this, for it seemed out of place on her part to speak on my behalf. But if the truth had been told, fear gripped me tightly, and I had no heart for hunting spiders in the dark shadows. I have an unreasoning fear of spiders; even the common barn spider and household spider unnerves me. As a little hobbniz-boy, the mere sight of spider gave me a rash and set my skin to crawling. How much more so these great frothing and clacking hairy-legged nightmares which could drop suddenly from the dark branches above.

Myron motioned to Bruin and Belvenore, saying, “Let the priests stay with the steeds, come with me to find the woodsman.” Without further discussion, the three men made off in the direction from which William’s flight had come.

Cirilli and I watched Myron’s torch disappear into the woods. Left in the dim, we listened breathlessly for any skittering sound. We heard only the occasional drip of the snow melting from the leaves in the canopy above. Dread and horror hung in the dim light around us. I imagined spiders crouching above us, slipping about from limb to limb, ready to pounce upon us and the horses. “I say, tut tut! How about some light then?” I suggested, trying to sound brave.

Cirilli called upon the gods, invoking their divine power to grant us the gift of illumination, even as I had taught her, but I observed to some dissatisfaction that she named Ehlonna, Lady of the Wood, and not our Lady of Changing Seasons. The gods answered her beck, and we had a sudden swell of divine light to drive back the shadows, brighter than the light of lamps and torches. 

When I saw that no arachnids lurked about, I plucked up my courage and attended further to William. Using a small dagger, I cut away the mass of webbing from his body, and to my surprise, I found that he still had breath in his lungs. “He is alive,” I said. We did our best to clean him up and bring him around, but the spider’s poison held him in a deep sleep. Lest he should suddenly awaken unobserved and slit our throats or slip off into the darkness, I bound up his wrists.

Our companions did not return. I suggested without conviction that I should go and seek them lest they stand in need of any healing or blessing. Cirilli shook her head and said, “I will go Father. Stay with the steeds lest the men return here.” I stammered an objection, but without waiting for my reply, she hurried off into the dim shadows. 

Now I stood alone and miserable, talking to the horses and urging them to be brave. I thought to myself, “Suppose none of my companions return and I am left alone to face the spiders.” I tried to distract myself by reciting my devotions, but a terrible sense of dread hung over me all the while.

Sticky Situation

Meanwhile, my companions were hard set in a battle with the spiders in their own lair. They later told me the tale for the benefit of my journals. Here is how it all came to pass, starting with the moment that Ivan left us.

When Ivan first crept off into the dim wood, walking under Myron’s spell of invisibility, he followed the plaintive sound of William’s cries until he came to a dark place draped in curtains of sticky webs. There he espied William, hung upside down in a great spider’s net strung between the trunks of two trees. Supposing he could perhaps cut the goblin down without being seen, he did shimmy up one of the trunks, wielding his woodman’s axe. No sooner had he landed the first blow of the axe, severing the rope-like cords of web, than the spell betrayed him, just as Myron had warned. William saw him at once and cried out, “Master Ivan!” The webbing broke loose and collapsed under the blows of the woodman’s axe. William tumbled to the ground, and Ivan dropped back to the forest floor to untangle the flailing goblin. He did not see the spiders in motion above him, but they had their eight-eyed gazes fixed upon him. One cast a net of web over him, another dropped onto his back and sank its poisonous bite into his neck. Ivan cried out for help, and it was that cry which we heard from some distance. Before he could answer our frantic and panicked shouts of reply and inquiry, his body fell limp. William, however, broke free and ran in the direction of the sound of our voices, pursued by spiders, as I have already narrated.

Now here is how it went with the others when they set out to find our missing guide. As they later recounted the tale, Myron and the two remaining men at arms found their way to the spiders’ lair. They came to a place draped in webs, where great sheets of webbing hung about like curtains and tapestries in a royal hall. By the light of Myron’s torch, they espied a spider, high above them, hanging in the space between two great trees. The front arms of the creature were in quick motion, rolling a man into a cocoon of webbing. This they rightly guessed to be our lost companion. Indeed, on glancing about, they espied Ivan’s axe suspended in a web, not far above the ground.

By the light of Myron’s torch, they dimly discerned more of the foul web-spinners moving across the strands of webbing strung from tree to tree in layers above them. The spiders ran along the webs like the Atolai tightrope walker at Gorna’s Richfest carnival. Myron hastened to work a masterful spell by which he might lull creatures to sleep. Drowsing under that enchantment, one great spider fell to the ground and landed at their feet. Bruin unsheathed his elven blade—that gift from Nyssa’s armory—and slew the slumbering foe, severing its twitching legs. Observing the grisly death of their sister, the spiders showed their ire, chattering and jeering, hissing and clicking. They shat their webs and cast their nets. Sir Belvenore and Bruin swung helplessly at the air, dodging and wheeling about, as uncounted spiders skittered back and forth and all around on their webs above. All was legs, shadows, webs, and darkness.

Myron conjured up a magical orb of fiery light into his hand and threw it. His aim proved true. He struck one of the larger spiders, and it skittered off in terror, shrieking as it went. Its sudden panicked flight inspired fear enough to compel the others to pull back into the shadows.

“I yet have this,” Myron said. Reaching deep into the enchanted pocket on his cloak and rummaging about therein, he withdrew a crossbow and its bolts.

Bruin implored, “Have you no more spells?”

Myron shrugged and handed the weapon to Sir Belvenore. Belvenore prepared the crossbow while Bruin shouted up into the darkness. Peering into the dim light above them, they could no longer see the spiders for they had withdrawn from the lower webs, but they could still make out Ivan’s swaying cocoon.

“Dead or alive, we cannot leave him there,” Belvenore stated.

“We need more light!” Myron said, handing his torch to Bruin. Reaching deep inside the magical pocket of his cloak once more, he withdrew an enchanted sun rod and struck it to blazing light. The shadows fled. Dazzled by the brightness, the spiders fled for the shadows.

Bruin made an attempt to climb the tree, but to no avail. “Hold,” said Belvenore, “Take up your shield. I am smaller and sprier than you, and I can make the climb to cut him down. Take this crossbow, and if one of them should come near me, put a quarrel in its sagging stomach.”

Belvenore stripped his heavy armor. Taking the sun rod and his elven blade, he shimmied up the trunk of the tree nearest the web in which Ivan hung. Some way up, he encountered heavy webs. As he fought his way through the sticky mass, a brave spider scurried down for the attack, clamping onto his shoulders and biting him most sorely. Bruin launched a bolt from the crossbow, but only grazed the assailant. Belvenore fell from the tree, the spider still clinging to his back all the way to the ground.

Thrashing about underneath the eight-legged horror, Belvenore managed to shove his elven blade into fiend’s abdomen. The spider sprang off from atop him, dripping ooze from its wound, and quickly clambered back up the tree from which Belvenore had only just fallen. Sickened and shaking from the poisoned bite, the good knight tried to make the climb a second time as Bruin reloaded the crossbow. This time he climbed higher than at first but ultimately his strength failed him and he fell headlong. Surely he would have been dashed to the ground had he not tumbled into a net of webbing stretched out between the trunks. The webbing held him fast and saved him from a frightful fall. The sun rod dropped from his hand, leaving him dangling and swinging in the darkness. From the branches above, the wounded spider leapt in at once to make the kill, but the injured beast must have missed his goal. It fell all the way to the ground, trailing a thread of web. It landed not far from where Bruin stood with the crossbow at the ready. The spider tried to skitter away with a bolt lodged in one of its eight ogling eyes. Bruin dropped the crossbow, took up his great sword, and chased after it, massacring it with ferocious blows.

Belvenore hacked at the webbing that held him fast. The cords and threads gave way under the edge of his elven blade. “By all the gods!” he shouted as he cut himself free. The untethered webbing dropped him gently to the ground. Utterly exhausted, he laid there, shuddering and shaking under the influence of the venom.  

Cirilli”s Whip

Uncertain of what course of action to take next, Bruin and Myron helped Belvenore strap on his armor, all the while watching warily for another attack.

At that time, Cirilli, following the light of the sun rod, found her way to the lair to see what had become of our companions. Myron explained, “We cannot climb up to cut him free, for the spiders are upon us as soon as we ascend.” Cirilli regarded the situation silently, estimating the distance from the ground to the web above where Ivan hung in a gauzy cocoon.

“I have a spell,” she said confidently. Taking up some bramble and wielding it like a man wields a scourge, she snapped it toward Ivan’s web. The bramble extended into a magical whip of great length and wrapped itself about the tethers of Ivan’s webbing, holding fast. “Now take hold and heave!” she said. Bruin and Belvenore pressed in close and took hold with her. Hand over hand, they strained and pulled at the magical whip. The webbing stretched and snapped, thread by thread until, at length, the web released. It gently lowered Ivan’s cocoon in a mass of hanging thread to the reach of Bruin’s arms.

Bruin and Myron cut him free. My companions made a hasty retreat, for now the spiders swarmed in closer, hissing and cursing, angry at the loss of their supper.

All this while I sat guarding the steeds, unaware of what drama played out in the spiders’ den. Dread encompassed me. To drive off the darkness in my heart, I prayerfully offered petition to my Lady of Changing Seasons, to all the proper gods of Old Aerdy, and even to Ehlonna if the truth must be told. When at last my prayers were heard, my companions came, fleeing from the darkness behind them, shouting in the woods. Bruin led the charge with Ivan slung over his shoulder like a great sack. Spiders pursued them in the branches above, casting out their webs like fishermen casting nets. Blades flashed; men shouted. I called upon the gods to deliver us. Belvenore and Bruin turned and made a bold stand, and even Myron made a heroic show. He stabbed at the beasts with his enchanted dagger and flashed the light of his sun rod at them. Our horses, all tethered to a single tree, screamed and reared, their eyes rolling wildly as the spiders drew in closer.

Cirilli boldly took up her priest’s mace and struck at one of the horrors. Her blows splattered its innards like melted cheese. For my part, I summoned the sickle of Merikka to smite at those frothing, flailing horrors. Again, the terrors withdrew, leaving us for the time.

My acolyte and I administered what aid and healing prayers we could to Ivan and Belvenore, but we knew we must move quickly. We draped Ivan’s still slumbering body over Sir Merciful’s steed behind Cirilli and fastened him to the saddle with a rope. Bruin tucked William under his arm like a package. The goblin hung limply, still under the swoon of the venom.

“Which way? Which way in the dark wood? Shall we be lost?” Belvenore lamented as he mounted his steed.

“Ride! Any direction!” Myron commanded. “Before they come for us again.”

We urged the horses for speed, and they were eager to give it to us, but with Ivan draped over the rump of one steed, we could not move much faster than a trot. Not nearly fast enough to outdistance the eight-legged abominations sure to follow. We had not gone far when we discerned them in the shadows behind us, pursuing our path, leaping from bough to bough.

“This ends now,” Myron declared grimly. He reined in his unruly mare and turned her about to face the oncoming menace. The rest of us likewise reined in our steeds, and, after a moment of uncertainty, we wheeled about and drew close to make a final stand.

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DM’s Note: This entire episode should have been a quick encounter area, not a whole session, but a series of astonishingly bad decisions and bad die rolls turned it into a nightmare for the party.

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Artwork: Spiders in the Dimwood, ChatGPT4 + DALL-E