Web of Eyes

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “They were lovers, Torsten,” Uriah said. “It is the lie we’ve all been taught. That Iam stood alone in defense of man during the God Feud as his brethren destroyed each other in their arrogance. But he was not alone. She was there, and she sacrificed herself so he may end the feud. You see, to follow Iam is to follow Nesilia. They are bound eternally like you to your king and country. Why shouldn’t even Iam find love?”

  Torsten stared, incredulous.

  “I’m not asking you to believe fully at this moment,” Uriah continued. “But please, trust the man you once knew?” He extended his hand. “It is the One Who Remained who is the root of all evil in this world. Redstar’s followers showed me that after I survived her wrath. She is spider, she is satyr, she is every foul demon loosed upon our world from Elsewhere. But most of all, she is Bliss, and we must snuff out that evil in the name of the light.”

  “I’m confused,” Whitney said after a brief silence. Torsten’s head whipped toward him like a powder keg had gone off. “Aren’t we here to steal a doll?”

  “A powerful Drav Cra orepul cursed by a rejected brother,” Uriah clarified. “Redstar sought to bring it as offering to Bliss. If he truly did so, it would be where his followers claim they abandoned him, at the lair of The One who remained. The lair of Spider Queen Bliss.”

  “Blasphemy,” Torsten said again, but no one was listening anymore.

  “Then we have to go there,” Sora declared. Her strength seemed to have returned, leaving Whitney’s side and standing on her own, dark eyes glimmering.

  She appeared to care more about the quest than the thief even without any promised reward. But Torsten had encountered enough blood mages in cults and covens throughout the kingdom—followers of Nesilia and other fallen gods, or worst of all, followers of nothing at all, those who simply desired power for power’s sake. Only demons were more dangerous.

  “I will take you there,” Uriah said. “But only on one condition.”

  “And what might that be?” Torsten said through his teeth.

  “That if you find what you’re looking for there, you will consider helping us destroy Bliss. I will not judge should you walk away, but when you see what wickedness she is capable of, I believe you will see as I do, holy knight. Forget Nesilia or Iam. If you are truly tasked with shielding the Glass Kingdom, you will know that such evil cannot endure, as I do.”

  “I know what I’ll choose,” Whitney said.

  “A fight?” Sora said.

  He scoffed. “Of course, it seems fair to me.”

  The teachings of Iam warned against any mortal who would turn to Elsewhere for power, but as Torsten scanned the ranks of the three unexpected people he’d found company with in the Webbed Woods, he realized the truth. If he had to risk the wrath of Iam to save the Glass, then so be it. If the grief-stricken Queen allowed that heathen army of Black Sands to invade, the kingdom of Iam would fall regardless. They were the true power to fear, not an imagined goddess spider.

  Torsten clasped Uriah’s hand and pulled him in close. “Do not betray us.”

  “We serve the same side.” Uriah snapped his fingers, and five cultists emerged from behind trees. They wore those same terrifying, expressionless masks as they had in Oxgate, except the one in the middle. The pale, gaunt, Drav Cra warlock no longer bothered to hide what he really was.

  Whitney spun, one hand on the hilt of a dagger and the other holding Sora. “Oh, not these guys again.”

  Torsten’s hand instinctively went to his weapon as well.

  “Relax,” Uriah said. “They work with me now. We will lead you.”

  Uriah, the dire wolf, and his followers set off through the forest. Torsten eyed Whitney and Sora who, like him, hesitated to follow a fallen knight and a bunch of the Buried Goddess’ followers further into the blackness of the Webbed Woods. Sora’s uncertain expression made Torsten feel better that, at least, maybe she wasn’t a murderous cultist like them, and was merely a young, displaced Panpingese woman who’d been tempted by the dark arts and gone astray.

  Torsten took a deep breath, lowered his hand from his sword, and waved them along. Finding anything in the Webbed Woods except for killer vines and demonic satyrs seemed impossible without guides.

  What choice was there?

  XXVIII

  THE THIEF

  “There’s another!” Whitney said, pointing at one of the red blisters on a tree trunk. None of his companions knew what they were, but they seemed harmless enough, and it was passing the time.

  “No one else is playing this stupid game,” Sora said.

  “We’ve been walking through the canvas of the world’s most boring painter. Just dark greens and black and then suddenly… look, darker green! Over and over again. I have to do something to stay sane.”

  “It’s only been a couple of hours, Whit.”

  “Longest of my life.”

  “Won’t be much farther,” Uriah said. His pet—the scariest pet alive—a dire wolf, still stalked beside him, occasionally sniffing at shrubs shrouded in darkness. His cultist followers kept a wide perimeter, nothing but shadows moving with them.

  Uriah stopped suddenly. He said something in Drav Crava and his followers gathered, then sprinted off in another direction.

  “What did you say?” Whitney asked.

  “I told them to scout ahead,” Uriah replied. “We’re not far.”

  “You’re sure where we’re going is where Redstar was last seen?” Torsten said.

  “I’m sure you’ll find his rotting remains, yes.”

  “Lovely thought,” Whitney said.

  “I didn’t say it would be lovely or easy,” Uriah said. “I’ve made it clear from the start: this quest is not smart. Bliss is the true enemy.”

  Torsten grunted but kept plowing forward. His sword was out now, and he used it to carve a path through vines and branches. The deeper they delved into the woods, the more congested they grew. Maybe it was the smothering darkness making Whitney imagine it, but he could barely stretch out his arm in any direction without hitting a tree, as if they were closing in all around them. The smell of death and decay surged stronger the deeper into the woods they traveled.

  “When you say, ‘we’re not far,’ what does that mean to you?” Whitney asked after Iam knows how much longer walking. His legs were beginning to grow sore.

  “Do you ever stop talking?” Torsten spat. “Keep quiet, or we’re going to end up attracting more enemies.”

  “Are you forgetting about the giant wolf flanking us?”

  “You can call him Gryff,” Uriah said.

  “It’s got a name?”

  Uriah raised one hand to stop everyone. One of his cultists suddenly appeared from around a tree and nearly gave Whitney a heart attack.

  Whitney squeezed Sora’s arm. Her glare frightened him further. She wasn’t lightheaded and docile from being hung upside down anymore.

  The cultist said something in Drav Crava. Uriah replied, then thanked him. He pointed over Torsten’s shoulder. “See that ridge? Her lair is just beyond, but we don’t believe her to be there.”

  “Why is that?” Torsten asked. “I’m not fluent in Drav Crava.”

  “Who cares? Count your blessings, holy man,” Whitney said.

  “A Wearer should be fluent in all language of the realm, Torsten,” Uriah said.

  “You’re in no place to lecture me on how to serve the Glass,” Torsten growled, though he knew Uriah was probably right.

  “We’ve been studying Bliss since Redstar woke her to make his offering. She has several nests throughout the woods and tends to move when her babies are in danger.”

  “Her babies—geesh,” Whitney scoffed.

  “My men had orders to go to another nest and draw her attention.”

  “You’re just telling us this now?” Torsten questioned. “Is that true?”

  The masked cultists nodded, wordless.

  “They appear to have done their jobs. If Bliss were here, her children
would already be upon us. Now, let us move hastily and search her lair for Redstar before the distraction wears off. Then you’ll see what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “I doubt it,” Torsten said.

  They continued on, but something ate at Whitney. After a short walk, he gave Uriah’s shoulder a tug.

  “I just have one question,” Whitney said, keeping his voice low.

  “Yes, thief?” Uriah answered.

  “What if we decided not to let you tag along? I mean, I don’t plan on sticking around to fight any Spider Queens for a guy who locked me in a cage, but you seem pretty confident he will.” He gestured to Torsten who was up ahead slashing a path through more vines.

  “I’ve known your leader for many years. I was certain he would press onward no matter what. All roads lead to this place. If chasing Redstar’s ghost is what's needed to open his eyes, so be it. Your quest, mine, it is as if we were all—”

  “Fated to meet,” Sora finished for him.

  He turned back and smiled like the old cotter in every village. That one you can’t help but love and listen to as he rambles on. Like old man Wetzel who’d somehow turned Sora into a blood mage. Whitney wasn’t sure if he liked that smile.

  “He’s not our leader,” Whitney remarked.

  “Do not fool yourself, boy,” Uriah said. “Sir Torsten Unger is everyone’s leader in the Glass.”

  “Ah, hog’s piss,” Whitney spat. “Only reason I’m in this shog is me.”

  Torsten stopped at a clearing and looked back. “Iam’s hand is in everything that happens on Pantego,” he said. “It’s not our place to question it.”

  Whitney’s eyes nearly rolled through the back of his head. He didn’t think Torsten had been listening, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to take anything back.

  They reached Torsten’s side and saw why he’d stopped. In the small clearing of trees was a protrusion of rock with little more than a narrow hole in the side. There was no way it could be Bliss' place. Whitney had expected something more, something grander—like a dragon’s lair. Truth be told, he’d never seen a dragon’s lair, not even that of a sleeping one. The one he’d once snuck by was a tiny wyvern stuck in a birdcage. A curiosity belonging to some Panping mystic in a monastery that smelled like incense and loneliness.

  “Welcome to Bliss' lair,” Uriah said. “This is where Redstar led his followers before they discovered his true intentions and left him for dead. If Pi’s orepul is anywhere in these woods, it will be here.”

  “Then let us find it!” Torsten all but shouted as he began trekking forward again.

  “Wait,” Uriah said.

  “What now?”

  “Even if Bliss is not present, it’s not wise for us to traipse in there like we own the place and draw her attention back. Her senses are nothing like ours. They are divine.”

  “What do you suggest then?” Torsten said, seething.

  “You brought a thief for a reason, didn’t you?” Uriah placed a hand on Whitney’s shoulder. “You see? Fate is again with us.”

  Whitney was barely paying attention. “Wait, what?”

  “I believe you should go in alone, search the lair for Redstar—or what remains of him—and find what you came here for.”

  “No way. I am a thief, not a monster slayer.”

  “This should be nothing after Darkings' place,” Sora added with a snicker.

  “You go in then! I can’t summon fire.”

  “As I’ve said, Bliss has been drawn away by the others,” Uriah said. “Her children follow her like chicks to a hen. There shouldn’t be any monsters to slay.”

  “Shouldn’t? Shouldn’t be any?” Whitney took a step back.

  “I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Torsten said. “By Iam’s Light, this is clearly the reason I broke you out of prison, greatest thief in Pantego. If you still want that name, this is how you earn it.”

  Whitney folded his arms. “It’s ‘world’s greatest thief.’”

  “Pretend it’s only a dragon.” Sora gave him a playful slap on the back.

  He released a nervous chuckle. They were right. All that boasting that he could steal from a mythical spider, and now he’d be forced to prove it.

  You and your big mouth, Whitney.

  Running seemed like the smarter option, if not for the warm breath of Gryff the dire wolf against his back.

  They all began walking again, slower this time, and he scurried to keep up.

  “What am I supposed to do if I get in there and a massive spider attacks me?” he asked.

  “Were you taught to pray as a child?” Torsten asked.

  “Was that a joke, Sir Knight? I’m so proud of you.”

  “What a blessing,” Torsten grunted.

  Whitney sighed. “Fine. I’ll pop in for a—hey look! The stars are finally peeking through.” Lights glittered around the stray branches and vines bridging the break in the canopy over the cavern’s narrow entry.

  “Are those stars… swaying?” Sora asked. They visibly swung back and forth, like the crystal balls in the Glass Castle during the masquerade.

  “Those aren’t stars,” Uriah said. “Those are eyes.”

  Now that the Celeste’s light illuminated the woods, Whitney could see thousands of eyeballs hanging by threads of webbing everywhere he looked. He retched. Sora cursed as some of his stomach contents splashed onto her boot.

  Knowing what they were made the smell of death became nearly overwhelming, even if he imagined it. Whitney pulled the front of his silly, silk shirt up over his nose but if it helped at all, it was minimal. He regretted not choosing something more practical from Darkings' house.

  “This is it?” he said, stalling outside the entry. “I expected something more like when I raided the ancient tombs at the Brotlebir borders. You’ve never seen their equal.”

  “In you go,” Torsten said. “This is why you were hired.”

  “I might have to renegotiate my price.”

  “You left me for dead,” Torsten bristled. “You’re lucky if you get anything at all.”

  “I didn’t—you know, if something happens to me in there, you’re going to miss me.”

  Torsten replied with a chortle, then grabbed the back of Whitney’s shirt and gave him a shove. Whitney hesitated in the maw, then felt a hand on his elbow. He turned to see Sora standing there.

  “Just be careful?” She didn’t look him in the eye, just cleared her throat and said, “Go on, oh great one.”

  “Right,” Whitney said, turning. He cracked his knuckles. “So, I just…” He motioned with his hands to indicate crawling inside. “Feet first? Head first? How does one crawl into the den of a murderous, giant spider?” When nobody offered a good idea, he decided to go with the latter and managed to squeeze halfway in. “Tight… fit…”

  “Just hurry up,” Torsten said, his voice muffled and barely audible from inside the hole.

  The tunnel was narrow and grew narrower. His hand brushed up against something soft and squishy. The red blister burst, a shower of clear liquid spraying out and covering his arm and chest. Tiny, transparent-looking spiders poured out, scurrying in every direction. He fought back the urge to throw up again.

  “Just keep crawling,” he whispered to himself. “They’re babies. What’s more harmless than a baby?”

  Where there weren’t egg sacs, the walls perspired with murky water. His mind raced back to just how many blisters he’d seen on their way into the heart of the woods. They must have numbered in the hundreds or even thousands. If each of them was this full of spiders….

  A shiver stole any warmth he had left in him.

  His mind raced back to the day at the Twilight Manor when he’d met that little ale-keg of a dwarf, Grint. It seemed a lifetime ago. How would things have turned out had he not boasted quite so proudly? Steal the crown from a king? Yig and shog, what a stupid idea. From dead and dying kings, to probably dying in the lair of a spider queen.

  Whitney a
rrived at a fork. Without a coin to flip to decide which way to go, he simply closed his eyes and chose. He had one arm in when he realized the ground beneath his hand was supple, like a web.

  Exactly like a web.

  His elbow tore through, and he plummeted, bumping and scraping flailing appendages, too shocked to scream. He braced for impact. It was impossible to tell how far down he’d gone when he finally crashed into a pile of sticks. They clamored against the wall, banging and tapping in an almost melodic, musical tune.

  “’You’re lucky if you get anything at all,’” Whitney said like a child, imitating Torsten’s voice. Then, “I’ll give you luck.”

  Something dug into his lower back. He reached around and wrapped his hand around what felt like a smooth, thick branch. He tugged, and it came loose.

  A dim light came from somewhere. He couldn’t find its source, but it was bright enough for him to make out what appeared to be a femur bone—a human femur bone. Grossed out again, he wriggled free, the ground beneath him shifting with each motion. More rattling; a symphony of death. Not sticks, but skulls, bones, ribcages, and even rusted remnants of armor from Glass soldiers rolled around below as Whitney scrambled to find his footing. It was almost as if he was swimming.

  He finally found stable ground a few meters away and hopped between both feet to shake the smaller bones off his body.

  “Perfect,” he said to no one. “Just perfect.”

  Whitney looked up and saw the passage he’d fallen through, shuddered. Somehow the cave was even colder now. He could see his own breath. He tried not to think about how many adventurers had fallen to their deaths. Enough to create a pile of bones so high that he didn’t join them.

  He searched the room. Every square centimeter of the walls and ceiling were covered in egg sacs. From above, more eyeballs hung like ornamental orbs. Each one stared at Whitney. As he turned, he found the tiny shaft where the light was coming from. Whitney thought twice, then decided anything was better than being stuck with corpses.

  He checked the ground to make sure it wasn’t another hole, then shimmied inside and thanked any gods who might be listening that it was just a short tunnel which opened into a big, dark, auricle-shaped room.