“What are you doing?” Annika asked, a warble of fear in her voice.
Chelsea whirled about and stumbled to her feet, gripping the blade with both hands. Blood ran slick between her fingers. Her chest was tight, her stomach churning. “I’m not giving up. Not now. I didn’t come this far to lose my best friend to a bunch of fucking cultists. I came here to find out what happened to Arthr and the others, not to fucking die!”
“You’re just going to make this worse for yourself,” Annika said, trying to find her feet but not making it past her knees.
Chelsea’s whole body shook. The footsteps were now imminent. “You wanna lay down and die, be my guest. But leave me and Amanda out of it!” She stared downslope at the corridor plunging deeper into the earth. From that tunnel, the light of hellish torches poisoned the blue tint of the stone. A half-man charged out from the passageway, galloping on inhuman legs. Zurt. The one who had done this to Amanda, his own granddaughter. The one whose damned book had brought them here to the breast of the spider god. It was no human; its blackened body, limbs ruined and twisted into blasphemous spider appendages, was a mockery of the Warrens’ bloodline. At his back, a small phalanx of Websworn emerged, wielding vicious spears in their clawed hands. The words of their evil chant were now clear.
“A-hai, Urn-ma Nemo! A-hai, A-hai!”
As the crowd poured in, their eyes flashed with a violent hunger. The shadows of the gate fell over them. Chelsea was caged, trapped. Back to the wall, no way out. Just over a dozen pale morlocks emerged from the tunnel. They spread, stalking along the walls. The Websworn, half with spears and half bearing ceremonial knives and torches, allowed the inhuman shaman to lead the procession.
“A-hai, Urn-ma Nemo! A-hai, A-hai!”
Annika tried to climb to her feet again but slipped back to her knees with a hard wince. “Chelsea, don’t do anything stupid!”
“Shut up,” she spat. The knife was impossibly heavy. She could barely hold it straight.
Unlike that bastard in the yellow robe, Amanda’s grandfather seemed to have little interest in toying with them. Though his steps had slowed, he still marched uphill toward them with a purposeful haste. Ten paces behind, the others closed in as well. The chants echoed off the walls of the room, a resounding hymn of death.
“A-hai, Urn-ma Nemo! A-hai, A-hai!”
Her hands shook. She caught sight of the shaman’s stained eyes and laid her uncertainty to rest. Her knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on her weapon. She heard Kara trying to reason with her, but it was too late. It was do or die. She bellowed a murderous howl and leapt into a wild sprint. The hard edge of the knife’s hilt bit into the bones of her hand, but she didn’t care. Blinded by desperate rage and tears, she charged downslope toward the monster.
As she flew down the stone-covered slope, the spider-shaman raised the kill-end of one inhuman chitin appendage. A blackened blade, a scythe of onyx. Kara was screaming her name. Annika was yelling, cursing her. She even heard a feeble moan from Amanda, but she paid it no mind. She wouldn’t give up. The shaman’s tongue molded words of alien origin, as though sanctifying the point of his arm-blade for the sacred bloodletting. It was a hellish sound that plunged Chelsea’s mind even further beyond the event horizon of desperation.
But before Chelsea could reach the shaman, before he could eviscerate her with his unholy appendage, a low sound whistled from behind her.
A whoosh sailed just over her shoulder, and a fresh panic sliced into her concentration. The object collided with the monster’s torso with a wet crunch. A gasp of shock washed through the cavern. The old half-man collapsed, blood leaking from his ruptured chest and pouring over the black spikes that covered one side of his body.
Chelsea faltered and then stumbled, her momentum nearly carrying her onto the fallen man. She fell upon the gravelly slope. Stones bit at her knees and shins, and her knife clattered to the earth. Her palms met cold rock and ripped. But despite the pain, she could only stare, baffled, at the dead guard’s stone spear embedded in the shaman’s chest.
Behind where Zurt now lay wounded, the remaining Websworn adopted a defensive posture, weapons readied. The spears and knives were angled high, toward something behind Chelsea. Something atop the slope. She shook where she’d fallen. The fear pulsing through her veins nearly kept her from looking back upslope, but she forced herself to turn her neck.
At the top of the incline, the cool light from the gate shone around a standing figure. The stark silhouette’s posture was wide and uneven. Arms hung limp at its sides. Five long, grasping appendages extended and retracted in a quivering rhythm. “Useless,” Arthr said in a low growl that barely exceeded a choked whisper. “Useless.”
Tears clogged Chelsea’s eyes. Her rapid breathing couldn’t satisfy her pounding heart. “Arthr . . . ?”
The nearest Websworn gave a panicked look to the archon squirming on the ground and raised a finger at Chelsea. He vocalized a slur of half-words that were echoed by the Websworn behind him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushed toward her, brandishing his sacrificial knife. Chelsea cringed and raised her arms defensively as the blade fell toward her.
Before the blow could come, Arthr closed the distance like a bullet. A savage roar exploded into the air. His fist blasted across the Websworn’s jaw, snapping its head to the side with a loud crack. The impact threw the cultist to the ground and sent fragments of filed teeth spilling across the cobbled slope. Another gasp swept the room, and the rest of the Websworn retreated a further step, backs to the wall, spears and torches at the ready.
Trembling, Chelsea looked up at Arthr. His blood-drenched arms hung at his sides, flexed. His hands were quivering fists. His face was painted with red streaks running from a jagged clot on his forehead. His eyes were wide, dilated. His jaw shook with each labored breath he took. Those breaths were shallow and uneven; they were the breaths of a growling beast, a monster.
Every muscle in Arthr’s body burned. His skin was on fire, and his nerves spread a paralyzing pain through his spine to each shaking extremity. But whatever meaning that pain may have once had was now a memory.
“Arthr, what are you doing!?” Annika shouted from atop the incline. Her voice was distorted, as though it echoed from some deeper cavern.
“Useless,” he snarled, lurching toward where the monstrous old man lay impaled upon the ground. “Useless. You think I’m useless. I’ll show you. What useless looks like.”
Panting, he wrapped his fingers around the shaft of the spear he’d thrown, still embedded in the shaman’s chest. He pulled it free, and a wet squelching sound sprayed into the quiet air. The man rolled over, clasping his leaking chest in his remaining human hand. His ill-formed spider legs groped and slashed up toward him. The dozen Websworn standing around crept closer with their drawn weapons, as though the removal of the spear had somehow turned the tide of the war.
Arthr stared down the mob. “Useless. Could someone useless do this!?” He planted his foot on the half-man’s chest, raised the spear into the air, and plunged the tip down into the shaman’s neck. Another gasp swirled about him, attempting to snuff out his consciousness. The man’s limbs thrashed and fought, batting at the shaft of the spear with a helpless gurgling. But the resistance was ineffectual. The rest of the tribesmen could only watch in horror as he settled the blade with an iron grip and opened the cult-elder’s throat. A tide of blood overflowed from the old man’s neck, running across the stones like a hot river.
From wall to wall, the semi-circle of tribal cultists considered him with awestruck terror.
“Urn-ma Zurt,” one of them muttered.
“But what of Urn-ma Nemo’s gift?” cried another.
Arthr pulled the spear free again, carving through what remained of the leader’s neck. The body seized and then went limp with a wet bubbling. Arthr stumbled two steps forward, and the horde of Websworn receded slightly. Those armed with spears held them defensively while spitting some grotesque half-En
glish creole at him. One of his remaining spider legs scraped the earth as he walked. The sensation grounded him, focused him. Fighting the nerve pain from his missing legs, he placed his other hand upon the shaft of the stone spear and held it out before him.
Some of the Websworn cast nervous glances toward their slain leader, as though they expected his magic to raise him from death once more. Arthr’s muscles trembled. The taste of blood hung thick in the air, and he allowed himself to be permeated by the stench. His remaining appendages, assaulted by shocking tremors, bent into obscene angles around him as he glared at the mob. “The hell are you afraid of?” he asked in a bestial snarl. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
Spiracles soaking in the empowering scent, he let out a hellish scream and shot forward. He swung his spear in a graceless arc. The closest of the Websworn didn’t even have time to blink before the stone blade ripped his throat out from the side. Arthr threw his momentum toward the greatest portion of the horde and whirled his spear in a mad sweep. The blade sliced deep into the arm of another cultist. The victim fell back out of attack range, gripping its gushing forearm. Arthr pursued, howling a mad screech.
The whole room exploded into a single cacophonous cry. Their zeal reignited, the half-men fell upon him from two directions. The thrust of a spear caught Arthr in the upper arm, but it left only a shallow, painless slash. He answered by plunging his spear-point into the attacker’s stomach. And as the crowd closed in, Arthr tore the blade out and swung wildly. The shaft smashed against the crowd and threw two more Websworn from their feet.
The advancing men and women stumbled over the fallen. Knives and torches surrounded him, but Arthr dove into the falling attacks. His shoulder slammed into the jaw of one of the creatures, and his spear repelled another. A blade fell into his back from behind, but adrenaline dulled the pain. In a berserker rage, he whirled about and broke his spear across the attacker’s head. Splinters rained from the shattered weapon. A hot shiver radiated from where the blade stood in his shoulder. That shiver pulled his fingers into a fist and sent it into the Websworn’s jaw. The force of the impact shook Arthr’s bones and left a ringing in his joints. As the Websworn recoiled from the blow, Arthr charged forward and swung what remained of his spear’s shaft. A wet crack sounded from the cultist’s skull in reply.
Blazing fire swept through Arthr’s peripheral vision. Something scorched the skin of his neck. He fell backward, and a blade plunged across his face. White-hot fluid burst from his skin. He screamed and dropped his spear shaft, both hands searching his face for the damage. His hands ran with blood, but he was still standing, and so he ignored the pain. A second swipe of the knife glanced off Arthr’s collarbone right before he sent two lightning-fast punches into the Websworn’s face. And when the Websworn fell, Arthr went down on top of him. He pulled back his fists and unloaded a stream of brutal blows, pulverizing the cultist’s face and leaving a hot pain ringing up and down his arms.
“What is this!?” a high voice called.
At once, the crowd of Websworn halted their advance. Retreating a few steps in their circle formation, they all turned to the entrance of the chamber. Arthr’s gaze followed to where a sickly, skeletal man emerged from the passage. He was robed only in greasy off-white cloth and leather strips. Ghastly spikes and rashes of scaly chitin covered his skin, and two malformed spider appendages grew from his shoulder. One arm was twisted and broken, shattered slivers of bone breaching his blood-painted skin.
“Are you truly this incompetent?” Nemo howled. “Look at you! You would allow a failure of the old order to defeat you? I practically killed him for you!” The lanky men surrounding Arthr bent their knees, shaking. They appeared to be wrestling between formality and practicality. Formality won. Even the wounded on the ground who were fighting for life prostrated themselves toward the Helixweaver.
The Helixweaver. Nemo. The one who’d tried to lure Spinneretta and Kara to their deaths. The one who’d nearly killed them more times than he could count. The one who’d torn his legs off.
The whole world went red. Nothing else mattered anymore. Arthr stood, muscles convulsing in pain. His knuckles were screaming, covered in blood. But it wasn’t the right blood. It didn’t satisfy him. At last, he understood Kara’s fixation, the hunger that he’d once had the audacity to condemn. He understood at last what that lust felt like. He would be sated. He would have revenge. For his siblings. For Annika. For Amanda. For Chelsea.
“Give me your blade,” Nemo spat at the cultist nearest him. Trembling, the pale woman-thing handed her spear over, placing the shaft directly into Nemo’s unmangled hand. His fingers curled about the weapon and he lifted it clumsily toward Arthr. “Useless cowards,” he growled. “I will deal with him myself. Watch and learn.”
Useless, Arthr thought. Useless! The beast within took over, and he hurled himself across the ground on all fours, his remaining spider legs assisting his flight. With a feral howl—a sound of unbridled hatred—he barreled toward the Helixweaver.
With one arm limp at his side, Nemo brandished his spear and flourished his imitation spider legs. His tongue lashed at his lips. “Come! Die! Nobody shall mourn you, Anansi! Nobody shall—”
Arthr was upon him. With a massive heave of his shoulders, he threw a rising uppercut from the ground. Riding all his forward momentum, the blow crashed up into Nemo’s jaw, throwing his head back and turning his words into a wet, high-pitched whine. Blood streamed over cracked and broken teeth. The spear fell to the cavern floor as Nemo’s hand sought his mouth. As the Helixweaver staggered backward, Arthr drew his fist back again. Another crushing punch, directly to the face. The attack sent Nemo to the ground with a warbling cry.
Arthr panted, each infernal breath stoking his hatred. He stared down at Nemo. The false king was slurring unintelligible threats while blood dribbled from his lips. His mangled spider appendages were curled about his shoulder, twitching from the pain. Arthr would have loved to tear those limbs off, crush them, cast them to the stone with rehearsed words of mockery. But such bombastic spectacles were for the weak, for egomaniacs who thought themselves the heroes of their own tragedy.
He reached down and seized Nemo by his arachnid appendages and began dragging him across the sharp cobbles. Wet jeers and taunts splattered against the ground. With each trudging step, the hatred in Arthr’s stomach churned and smoldered. When he reached the far end of the cavern, he wrenched Nemo up to his knees and slammed his back against the wall. The bastard attempted to stand, but managed only to slump against the wall’s surface, groping for support with his mangled arm and appendages.
All around, the Websworn gasped and stared, muttering awed incoherencies. Arthr breathed deep, soaking the scent of blood into his lungs and letting it fuel his rage. In Nemo’s eye, he beheld reflected phantoms of the past. He saw Patrick Rhodes. He saw the Marauders. He saw the Vant’therax in the Vault. No breathing room. The time for mercy was long gone.
Arthr attacked. His fists fell in wild blows upon Nemo’s face. With each full-bodied strike, he let out a guttural shout that echoed deafeningly through the death chamber. Knuckles pounded bone. His fists slammed against Nemo’s skull over and over. Streaks of syrupy blood painted the wall behind his head. And when a ruthless hook sailed across Nemo’s jaw and sent him to the ground in a flaccid heap, Arthr fell upon him with all the primeval fury of a hurricane.
Drunk on adrenaline and pain and blood and fury, Arthr smashed in Nemo’s filed teeth, cutting his own hand to the bone on the fragments that remained. Blood spilled from his lacerated knuckles, but he only screamed louder. At some point, his pummeling tore Nemo’s jawbone from its joints. His hands felt like he was punching solid stone, yet he just kept howling and striking. Even when Arthr felt the monster’s cranial bones begin to collapse he still did not cease. Something cracked in his fingers, in his metacarpals, but he didn’t care. Each snap and crunch that gushed from the Helixweaver set his body ashiver. His fists crushed in the monster king’s
orbits, pounding bladed chitin growths into flesh like railroad spikes into rain-soaked mulch.
Arthr only stopped his beating when the pain in his hands at last made continuing difficult, and Nemo had long ago ceased moving.
Ragged sighs seething from his core, Arthr teetered to his feet. Everything felt numb, except for his hands. There was no sound at all in the cavern, save the plip-plop of blood droplets. Hunched over, arms hanging limp, he turned and glared at the gawking band of Websworn. The group recoiled at his glance. Their eyes all traced the outline of the king they’d thought invincible. Horror and disbelief twisted their faces into Halloween masks.
Arthr growled at the creatures. “Are these. Your magicians?” One of his shuddering spider legs gestured behind him, toward the bloody pulp that had once been Nemo’s head. “Your king? Messiah? Prophet?” His breath grew heavier, wetter. The edges of his vision grew dark. Each heartbeat bent the walls of the cave into melting statues. He stretched out one of his demolished hands and extended a finger upslope, behind Annika and Kara and the others, where the stonewrought portcullis stood. “Open the gate,” he said. “Right the fuck now.”
Chapter 50
Smoke and Mist
Spinneretta emerged from the mist portal into Zigmhen again. She righted herself before she struck the ground, and landed hunched upon splayed spider legs. She shrugged off the nauseating sensation of portal travel; even if her stomach felt upside down, she had no time to feel sick. She threw her gaze all around, getting her bearings. Mark’s sister’s pendant lay covered in sand behind her, mist swirling from the portal it birthed. The ruins of Th’ai-ma surrounded her; though she’d seen them only a short time ago, they now looked different—haunted, desolate, melancholy. Biting back against the lonely memories that rose from her mind’s core, she set her sights upon the spindle, above which the Rorschach-ink rift twisted and yawned.
Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 69