by Jeff Wheeler
Sweat began to glisten on Hettie and Annon’s brows as they continued to labor. Only Shion could work with unflagging strength, his expression dark and brooding. The pace was slow and tedious, and it became apparent that the spiders had been more than thorough in securing the way against intruders.
“At least the Weir won’t be able to reach us here,” Hettie murmured. She raised her arm to slash another strand. A spurting sound occurred just then and Hettie was hauled off her feet by her outstretched arm.
“Hettie!” Annon yelled, lunging forward, but Shion was faster. He grabbed her by the belt and pulled her back.
“Cut the strand!” Shion barked, yanking as Hettie squirmed.
Annon managed to slice through the bond that had snared her and she fell to the ground with a thud. Her legs began to kick and twitch and when Annon rolled her over, he saw her eyes had rolled back in her head as she convulsed in heavy spasms. A bloodstain bloomed from the front of her shirt.
A discordant chittering sound filled the air and new lines of webbing began to streak down at them. Tyrus drew a blade and fended off the webs as they came for him. At that moment, Phae doubled over in pain, seized by a violent cramp in her abdomen. She crumpled to the ground, pulling in her legs, groaning with anguish. The pain wracked her, blurring her vision as the web strands began to stick to everyone. She heard voices cry in alarm and felt something land next to her on the ground. A furry, stout spider leg was next to Phae’s cheek, and she writhed and twisted away. Another pain struck her on the side as she rolled, and she saw the large black stinger protruding into her shirt. It withdrew immediately, dripping crimson.
“Shion!” she screamed, experiencing a surge of fiery pain.
Looking up, she saw him slashing wildly, beset by four spiders at once, a mass of quivering furry legs and spindle sacs that shuddered and bobbed in the fight. In horror, she watched another twisting Hettie into a bundle of spindly webs, wrapping her in the strands with effortless ease. Phae tried to sit up but the spider that had stung her batted her down. She felt her legs lashed together and suddenly the world was spinning, faster and faster, whirling round and round, her stomach so tender that she blacked out.
Paedrin pushed aside the branches, parting them enough to squeeze through. Inhaling again, he lifted free of their clutches and breathed in the cool morning air. The sun was just peeking through a long mane of puffy clouds, coloring it such a startling shade of pink that he gaped in wonderment. He drank in the rays of the light, feeling it on his face. He inhaled again, rising even higher, floating over the sea of treetops. It was such a strange sight, like a vast plain of rolling hills, except he was looking at the rounded caps of skeletal oak trees, some still clutching dying leaves or clumps of mistletoe. The view of the sky was intense and he felt tears prick his eyes at the beauty and majesty of the dawn and the gratitude for life.
“What do you see?” Baylen called from far down below. Paedrin had almost forgotten the Cruithne.
“A glorious sunrise,” he said. He invoked the power of the Sword to keep his height as stable as he could and began to cast around in each direction. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he saw it. “I see something! That must be the center of the woods.”
“How can you tell?”
“There’s a big hill made of stone. It’s not that far. It rises above the rest of the forest.”
“A mountain?”
“No, not that big. It’s a cleft of rock. There are . . . ruins. I see ruins. Looks like a castle keep was once built there. Some broken stairs leading up from the woods, facing us. It’s really not that far.”
“How big?” Baylen asked.
“It’s probably the size of the Arch-Rike’s palace in Kenatos. Now that I look at it . . . it seems very much in the same style. The parapets are all fallen and broken, but there are segments of wall still standing. Some archways that haven’t collapsed yet. It’s overgrown with brush, but I think it’s the way. If we can get there before turning back, both of us, then maybe that will help in the future.”
Even though the sky was beautiful and radiant, the woods were still cracked and diseased. The smell in the air was moldy and sick. He looked around in each direction, wanting to make sure he had seen everything.
“I’m glad I came up here,” Paedrin called down. “I see some huge spiderwebs over that way, blanketing an entire section of forest. If we keep the way we’re going, we’ll miss it entirely.”
“I don’t like spiders.”
“I agree with you. Best to stay clear if we can.” A series of black shapes rose from the trees and began flapping toward him. “Ah, looks like more Cockatrice are coming this way. They see me. I’d better come down.”
Paedrin maneuvered through the branches again, hearing the sound of the coming creatures. He dropped down to the forest floor quickly, motioning for Baylen to follow him in the direction he had seen the ruins.
The Cruithne was dirt stained and weary. They had been walking all night long. The sound of the Fear Liath had made sleep nearly impossible, but Paedrin felt like they had to keep moving, even if they were walking in circles. Standing still meant death. With the dawn arriving, he knew the Fear Liath would go back to its lair again, unwilling to meet its own death from their blades in the daylight.
“Do you think we’re going to make it out of here alive?” Baylen asked as they started to march toward the ruins.
“Anything is possible, my friend. Do you have the feeling that the Arch-Rike isn’t very concerned about us? Maybe the Boeotians are attacking Kenatos right now and that’s drawn his attention over there. Or maybe he doesn’t believe we can escape because the trees will steal our memories. I don’t know what he’s thinking, actually.”
“He’s probably trying to track down Tyrus. I pity him. But as you said, if we can get close enough to the center, it’ll help whoever comes after us.”
The sound of flapping emerged from above the treetops. Paedrin kept his eyes on the mesh of branches and wondered if the Cockatrice would wriggle down and attack them. He had the perfect weapon to scatter them again and would not hesitate using it a second time. But strangely, the creatures flapped further away, paying them no mind.
A strange exhilaration filled Paedrin’s chest. They were very close to the center of the Scourgelands. He was convinced of it. Somehow, he had managed to go even deeper than Tyrus. Perhaps deeper than any two men had ever gone before. What a wild and forgotten place. Even the dark, brooding trees had a strange, ancient beauty to them. The sunlight could not quite penetrate the cowl of the oaks, but the light was evident and felt strangely reinvigorating. Some of the oppressiveness was gone from the air.
He glanced back at Baylen, chuffing along next to him.
“Do you want to stop and eat? Rest a while?” Paedrin offered.
“Right now, I’m wishing we had that device Tyrus carries. I’d be tempted to vanish back to Kenatos for fresh bakery bread. Apple butter is very good too. I’d lather it on right now.”
“Stop,” Paedrin complained, his stomach growling. “Don’t talk about food right now. I’m almost tempted to eat the mushrooms.”
“Not worth the disease. I’m sure they taste like bark.”
“Well, you’d better get thoughts of Kenatos out of your head, Baylen. Neither of us will ever go there again. I’d still like to purge the Shatalin temple, but if the Arch-Rike cannot be killed, I may need to change my plans.” He sighed. “We do our best. It’s probably better not to assume too much.”
They continued on the long hike, wending through the trees at a brisk pace despite the fatigue of having walked all night. He wondered where Kiranrao had ended up. Had he made it free of the Scourgelands yet? Paedrin had the sinking feeling that their paths would cross again. A frown creased his mouth at the thought.
Before midday, when the sun was beating down on the woods from directly o
verhead, Baylen and Paedrin emerged from the tangled thicket. Great trees had been uprooted and toppled, the tangle of roots exposed. A small clearing had been made, the earth freshly churned. Past the clearing, another stretch of woods led up to the mound of stone that rose over the Scourgelands like the shell of a tower. Great stone clefts stood proudly in the noon sky. Nestled on the clefts were the bones of an ancient fortress. A few saw-toothed walls still remained, but most had crumbled into dust. Several black shapes swirled in the sky above the mammoth hill, vultures or something even worse. A grayish-brown mist, like a dust cloud, hung in the air above the woods.
Baylen and Paedrin stood still, watching the ominous mound, feeling a silent whisper of dread. The broken trees were strewn about haphazardly. Paedrin was about to step onto the turf when Baylen held him back with a stiff arm.
The dull clop of a horse became evident. They waited, passively, as a single rider emerged into view in the midst of the churned ground. The steed was dark brown, thick and heavy as if carrying a weighty burden. On the horse sat a solitary rider, garbed in earth-colored tones, hood shielding his head from the sun. The rider was half-bent over the steed, one arm bunched crookedly, the reins nearly slack.
A chill went through Paedrin’s heart. The horse trudged across the turf, picking its way slowly. The hunchbacked rider was quiet, the strange crooked arm drawing Paedrin’s eyes. Something felt . . . unnatural about it. An eerie call, like the early morning cry of a heron, sounded. It made Paedrin start with dread and fear.
“It came from the ruins,” Baylen muttered.
Paedrin swallowed.
The horse stopped sharply, stamping its front hoof, kicking up a plume of dust. The brown-garbed rider turned on the saddle and faced them.
Phae’s skull was pounding. She blinked her eyes open and saw nothing but a sheath of white silk. A swaying sensation made her stomach uneasy and she realized with a throb of panic that she was upside down, suspended by her feet. Her side hurt, as did her throbbing head. She swallowed, trying to control the spasms of fear that wracked her.
Her arms were bound to her sides so tightly it was difficult to breathe. The strands covered her face, her neck, her entire body with their stickiness. As she tried to twist her neck, she saw small gaps in the strands, revealing more of her surroundings.
See how he struggles still.
The voice was feminine and struck her mind like ink blotting a page. She shivered at the metallic edge to the thought-whisper.
Struggles, yes. Save them, he mustn’t. It was a different voice, slightly deeper, but still a woman’s.
He has no blood to sip. Useless.
Phae wanted to see what the creatures looked like, but she could not from the angle. She struggled to twist and sway her cocoon.
He will stay until the Master comes.
The Master will slay him.
The Master will.
Phae tried to stretch against the cords. When she was wrapped up, she had been bent over, and so she was nearly like a spindle ball. Trying to flex her legs, she felt the strands flex, but they did not break. The exertion made her side burn with pain from where the stinger had stabbed her.
The Master will slay them all.
A little drink of blood. The others will be sweet. I long to taste it.
Wait until the Master comes.
Phae tried pushing her arms apart and felt the wrap strain, but not burst. The effort made her sac begin to sway.
One is awake. The girl.
She wriggles. She struggles.
Phae saw shadows through the gossamer threads, huge, eight-legged shadows that drew nearer to her. She stopped moving, trying to suppress the shudders of horror. Were they all captured? Had none of them survived?
Can you hear us? whispered one of the spider-creatures.
Can you hear our thoughts?
“I hear you,” Phae whispered.
Pretty thing. Sweet thing. Just a sip. Just a taste. Your blood smells warm.
Would you see us, pretty thing?
Would you see our faces?
Phae stifled a horrified scream. She wrestled against the strands, trying to wriggle her way loose, but the stickiness only enmeshed her more.
One of the spider legs began to bat her gently, twisting her around. From the gap in the strands, she saw the others similarly suspended. She counted five other sacs, all wrapped in cocoon threads, suspended upside down from the oak trees. One of them, she recognized as Shion, was bound tightly and suspended from multiple strands to prevent him from moving. Several huge, dead spiders lay on the ground near his sac.
Only they weren’t exactly spiders.
Phae peered closer, trying to understand the double image she was seeing. The jostling sac disoriented her. As it slowed, the image of one of the dead spiders on the turf took form. It was the shape of a woman, lying on her back. Instead of skin there was shaggy black fur, but Phae could see the mound of breasts and the abdomen that connected to a large, bulbous spinneret. Six legs grew from the woman’s body at the sides, each like a giant tarantula’s. Most spiders had eight legs, but the last two on this creature weren’t legs at all, as the woman’s arms lay limp. Where the mouth of the spider should have been, a woman’s head thick with tangled black hair lay still, her lips deformed in a death cry of mute pain.
Pretty thing, whispered the voice, and a feminine hand stroked the side of Phae’s face. It had fingers, just like hers, except the skin was covered in dark, black fur. She felt the other legs coil around her and she started to buck.
Just a taste, my pretty. Just a sip.
She felt teeth sink into the skin on her shoulder.
“No one is left to defend us. Boeotians are ascending to the Archives. We’ve barricaded the doors the best we can, but I have little hope. It is the end of the world. I cannot write for the tears.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXIX
The Raekni’s fangs sank into Phae’s skin, deep into the flesh. There was pain and the bloom of blood and Phae screamed. Struggling was useless; the creature’s strong legs held her bound. Her temples throbbed with pressure, but she twisted and heaved, trying to wrench herself free of the strands. Her arms were bundled up at her side and she managed to lower one arm and felt, amazingly, the pommel of the dagger still tucked in her belt.
“Phae!” Shion roared in unremitting fury.
He cares for you? the spider thought gleefully. The fangs left her shoulder, leaving it itching and burning. The strands around her face parted. See him squirm. The Master comes for him. The Master comes.
Phae saw him stretched out, suspended above the ground, as if the spiders had intended to pull him apart with all their strength. One of them scuttled over to Shion, stroking him through the sticky strands. Be patient. Your end will come soon enough. Mayhap the Master will let you watch her die?
Shion let out a groan of rage, the entire mass of strands quivering with his pent-up emotion. The strange harmonics sounded again as the vibrations took hold.
The Raekni toying with Phae turned back to her, mouth smeared with Phae’s blood.
Their eyes met.
Phae stared hard into the Raekni’s eyes, gripping her fast with her Dryad magic. The Raekni’s mouth contorted with agony, but she could not look away. The magic inside of Phae trembled, nearly failing as the core inside her filled with pain again. But Phae refused to let go of the glance, knowing it to be her final chance. She blinked, severing the connection, dragging all the Raekni’s memories with it, stealing every part of her except the mindless instincts of her nature. The memories flitted through the aether, lost forever.
The Raekni’s face twisted with confusion. She looked around, befuddled, and Phae managed to slip the dagger from her belt.
He comes. The Master comes.
Phae sensed a presence ente
r the woods. She could not hear any steps, but it was as if a quiet chill had breathed into the grove. Phae twisted the blade, bringing the edge against the strands at her belly and slit them open. They parted easily, opening her shoulder for broader movement. Hastily, she bent herself double and slashed at the webs tying her ankles and keeping her suspended. The ground met her back with a violent jolt, dazing her.
“Master!” hissed a chorus of Raekni in unison.
Phae saw the shadow in the curtain of silk and watched with horror as the Arch-Rike stepped through the gauzy mesh as if it were nothing more than air. She recognized him from Canton Vaud, when she had last seen him following the murder of the Thirteen. His eyes were cold and relentless, his lips pulled back with exertion and a bitter grimace, which suddenly turned to a smile when he saw her lying on the ground. He was about the same height as her father, though there was very little hair on his scalp, just a dusting of gray stubble. His complexion was like uncooked dough, but it was his eyes that terrified her. He glanced at her face, not her eyes, and then looked away and observed the scene.
“I wasn’t totally certain,” the Arch-Rike—Shirikant—muttered. “Some trick perhaps? Another feint? Well, it was a merry chase to the last, Tyrus. A bold effort. You’ve come closer than any man ever has. However did you persuade the Empress to throw all her forces against me? I’m almost tempted to let you live . . . just to hear the tale. But alas, I warned you. And I will keep my promise.”
Phae struggled to her feet, dagger gripped in her hand. Her heart thundered inside her chest. Who was she to face such a man all alone? If she could meet his gaze, she was certain she would win. If she could force him, somehow, to look at her.
“It’s quite a story,” Tyrus said in a muffled voice. “Before I die, tell me one thing. Is Band-Imas still alive? Is he trapped in one of the sarcophagi in Basilides?”