Rise of the Spider Goddess

by Jim Hines

  As they walked closer, the cause of the light became clear. The tunnel stopped abruptly, opening into emptiness.

  Jenn and Pynne crept up to the very edge of the tunnel and looked out.

  They were on one side of an enormous cavern, hundreds of feet from the opposite side. Jenn gasped involuntarily as she looked down.

  Far below, a fiery red river of lava flowed across the cavern floor, vanishing into one of the walls. “All this is inside the mountain?” Jenn asked, awestruck.

  I’m beginning to question the geological consistency of this environment.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Pynne answered.

  They stared for a moment, just looking out at the immense emptiness that stretched before them.

  “Well, now we know why it’s so hot,” Jenn commented.

  Pynne frowned. “What’s that on the far side?” she asked, pointing.

  Talking cow? (Which probably only makes sense to people who are old enough to remember The Far Side.)

  Jenn squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Stay here,” Pynne said. Then she leapt out into the air, flying toward the other side.

  “What am I going to do?” Jenn asked, rolling her eyes, “follow you?”

  She peered out over the edge, waiting for Pynne to return. The cavern walls seemed to drop straight down forever, coming to an abrupt stop when they met the river of lava. Jenn blinked and shook her head as a brief wave of dizziness passed over her. Pulling her head back into the tunnel, she sat against a wall and waited.

  Pynne returned soon, landing gracefully in front of Jenn. She wiped the sweat from her forehead.

  “There’s a passageway on the far side of the cavern, too,” she said. “I suspect that there was once a bridge between the two tunnels.”

  Jenn nodded. “That’s nice, but I don’t see how it’s of any use. I can’t exactly fly across, you know.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Pynne continued. “I also saw something else on the way back. There’s a ledge built into the wall a couple of feet below us.”

  “Where does it go?” Jenn asked.

  “Down,” Pynne answered. “Then there’s a door that probably leads back into more tunnels.”

  “I couldn’t see it when I looked out,” Jenn protested.

  “I know. It looked as if it were designed to be hidden from anyone on this side of the cavern.”

  “Well,” Jenn said thoughtfully, “we need to get deeper underground, right?”

  Pynne nodded. “But I’m not strong enough to fly you down,” she added.

  “Damn,” Jenn muttered to herself. Then she peered out over the edge again. She was still unable to see the ledge Pynne was speaking of, but this time she saw something else.

  “Look at this, there are holes on the cavern wall.” On either side of the opening, two large holes had been dug into the rock. “Hold my hand,” Jenn said, stretching farther out.

  Pynne grabbed the hand and leaned back, using her weight to keep Jenn from falling. “You know,” she said, “it might be a good idea for me to be the one checking this out. Unless you’ve suddenly sprouted wings?”

  Ignoring her, Jenn studied the holes for a moment. On impulse, she stuck her hand into one. Then she allowed Pynne to pull her back into the tunnel.

  “It’s only one hole,” she said. “It curves around on itself on the inside.”

  I’ve read this scene three times, trying to visualize what they’re looking at. I failed. I’m sure I had it all figured out in my head at the time, though.

  “That’s probably where they would have anchored the bridge,” Pynne guessed. “Whoever ‘they’ were.”

  “Who cares?” asked Jenn. She untied the rope belt at her waist and leaned out again. Threading one end of it through the hole, she tied a quick knot. “Will that get me down to the ledge?” she asked.

  The rope stretched a good two feet below the floor of the tunnel. Pynne nodded slowly.

  “Then let’s go!” Jenn said excitedly. Grabbing the rope in one hand, she carefully sat down, dangling her feet over the edge. Then, closing her eyes, she allowed herself to slip out of the tunnel.

  Pynne launched herself into the cavern and turned to help steady Jenn.

  Lowering herself down, Jenn kicked out at empty air. That must be where the ledge is at, she thought to herself. Then she looked down.

  Pynne saw the color drain from her face. Grasping her gently by the waist, Pynne whispered reassuringly. “You’re not going to fall. Just lower yourself a little more, then jump onto the ledge.”

  “Jump?” Jenn hissed, eyes wide. She had no fear of heights, but looking down into the lava below frightened her. The thought passed through her mind that the only thing preventing her from falling was her flimsy rope belt. Her arms were beginning to tire.

  “Would you rather climb back up?” Pynne asked, worried.

  “I can’t!” Jenn answered. The fear in her voice was clear.

  “I can’t! Mostly because the plot says so!”

  “Jenn,” Pynne began in a calm voice, “take your left hand and put it at the bottom of the rope.”

  Wordlessly, she obeyed.

  “Now put your right hand just above your left.”

  Jenn did so, cursing quietly as she reached the knotted end of the rope belt.

  Now put your right hand in, and then you shake it all about.

  “Okay,” Pynne said reassuringly, “now when I count to three, let go.”

  “What?” Jenn cried. She could see the ledge now, but there was no way for her to get to it. She could try to swing back and forth, but she didn’t know if her rope was strong enough. “Let go?” she demanded.

  “I’m going to push you onto the ledge,” Pynne explained.

  “I don’t like this,” Jenn moaned, closing her eyes.

  Writing tip: There’s absolutely nothing wrong with using “said” for dialogue instead of constantly reaching for other words. Though Sir Arthur Conan Doyle liked to use “ejaculated” for a dialogue tag, and he’s done pretty well with those Sherlock Holmes stories, so what do I know?

  “Would you rather just hang there?” Pynne asked. “You’d get awfully hungry after a while.” She studied Jenn’s situation. “Not to mention that you look rather silly.”

  Jenn glared angrily at the pixie.

  “It’s your choice,” Pynne offered.

  “Count to three!” Jenn hissed. “And if you let me fall, I swear my spirit will haunt you for the rest of your life!”

  Pynne grinned. “One.”

  Jenn closed her eyes and prayed.

  “Two.”

  She held her breath.

  “Three.”

  Jenn let go, feeling her stomach clench as she started to fall. Then there was a violent shove on her back, and she crashed onto the ledge. She stayed there for a minute, breathing rapidly and unwilling to move.

  A moment later, Pynne landed beside her, holding her belt. “You did it,” she said.

  Jenn sat up slowly. “We better not have to come back this way,” she said between gasps.

  After giving Jenn a few minutes to recover, they began walking along the ledge. It looked as if someone had scraped an enormous groove into the cavern wall. The groove was about three feet wide and five feet high, and had a remarkably flat floor. It slanted downward at a steep angle, and there were occasional steps carved into the rock to ease their descent.

  Jenn swore as she scraper the top of her head against the rock above. She looked at Pynne, who walked along quite comfortably in the short tunnel.

  “Great,” Jenn muttered, “a pixie tunnel.”

  “What was that?” Pynne asked, glancing back.

  “Nothing.”

  “I think we’ll turn back into the tunnels pretty soon,” Pynne said.

  They stopped as the ledge ended abruptly. To the right, built into the rock, was a large wooden door.

  “The hinges aren’t even rusted,” Jenn said in amazement. />
  “You need moisture to make rust,” Pynne commented, blotting the sweat on her forehead with a sleeve. She moved to open the door.

  “It’s locked,” Pynne said in disgust.

  Jenn grinned. “Out of the way, pixie,” she said, reaching inside her shirt.

  Pynne stepped off of the ledge, hovering a few feet away.

  Producing a pair of thin metal wires, Jenn knelt down in front of the door. A moment later, she stood back up. With a flourish, she opened it.

  “It’s unlocked now.”

  Rolling her eyes, Pynne began to walk down the tunnel. Still grinning, Jenn followed behind.

  * * *

  Up ahead, the short figure stood motionlessly. About four feet tall, the figure rested his hands on the hilt of a large axe, allowing the head of the weapon to rest on the floor. He hadn’t moved for the past ten minutes that Jenn and Pynne had been watching.

  They looked at each other, confused. In the dim light given off by the green fungus and the fading glow of the lava, it was difficult to see clearly.

  “I say we go talk to him,” Pynne whispered.

  Jenn turned to argue, then grinned.

  “I can’t see you.”

  Pynne could see Jenn without difficulty. “That means my magic is working again,” she said with a smile. “Stay here.”

  “…it was difficult to see clearly.” A few lines later: “Pynne could see Jenn without difficulty.” This was my attempt to metaphorically demonstrate that the characters inhabit an everchanging and inconsistent world…or it would have been, if I had ever bothered to develop the world.

  Jenn sat impatiently, waiting. Moments later, she heard Pynne’s laughter.

  “It’s okay,” she called.

  Standing up, Jenn walked toward Pynne, now visible, who stood contemplating the figure guarding the door.

  “He’s a dwarf,” Pynne said as she walked up.

  It was indeed. And from the looks of it, he had been dead for a long time. The skin was dried and shrunken, where the moisture had been leeched from the body. Long, curly hair still protruded from under a pointed helm, matching the scraggly beard that dangled over the chest. Further detail was obscured by a thick layer of dust that covered the figure.

  This is what Pynne was laughing about? Pixies think dead bodies are freaking hilarious!

  Suddenly it all made sense. “These must be dwarven tunnels,” Jenn said. It would explain the short, cramped passageways she had been complaining about.

  Pynne nodded, still studying the dwarf. “He died here, guarding the door. There’s nothing around to indicate why.”

  Jenn’s brow wrinkled. “What could have killed him so suddenly?” she asked.

  He had to read the first draft of this book. Poor fellow.

  “I don’t know.”

  They turned to study the door before them. Unlike the last door they had encountered, this one was carved entirely from stone. The only exception was the metal lock built into one side.

  “Private folks, weren’t they,” Pynne commented. “Care to open this one as well?”

  Jenn’s lockpicks reappeared in her hands again, as if by magic. She peered into the keyhole, then frowned. Her cautious, professional side took over.

  In order to be a thief, one had to be patient, careful, and a little bit reckless. This is what she had been taught for years. You never knew what you would have to do in order to pull off a successful job. Sometimes you had to trust a hunch.

  “This isn’t right,” she said, turning to the dead dwarf. Her repugnance at the corpse vanished as she took a large, prominent key from his belt.

  Pynne coughed as Jenn blew dust from the cast iron key. Then she began to wipe it on her sleeve, polishing away the last of the dust.

  “No rust,” she commented. Then she peered at it closely. “No scratches, either.”

  Pynne looked at her curiously.

  “No scrapes from sliding across the metal of the lock. No marks from being used.” She dropped the key on the floor.

  “That key has never been used to open this or any other door,” Jenn said. Then she began looking around the edge of the door, peering at the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

  “So what is it for?” Pynne asked.

  Without looking up, Jenn began to explain. “Someone didn’t want people to get to this room. That’s why it was so hard to get to the ledge outside.”

  She got down on her hands and knees, still looking around intently. “If, by chance, someone gets onto the ledge and past the first door, the guard here kills them or something.”

  “But if you want to be really clever,” she said, looking up at Pynne, “you add another guard.”

  She pointed at a tiny set of holes to one side of the door. “Then when the intruder kills the dwarf, steals the key, and tries to open the door…”

  “They die,” Pynne finished. She peered at the small holes. “Darts?” she asked.

  “Probably poisoned, if someone knew what they were doing,” Jenn said with a nod.

  “So how do we open it?”

  Jenn knelt back down and slid one hand underneath the crack of the door. She grimaced as the rough stone scraped the skin from her knuckles. Then there was a click.

  With a look of triumph, Jenn stood up and pushed on the door. It swung open quite easily, a tribute to the stoneworking abilities of its makers.

  Together they walked into the small room beyond. Then they stopped, stunned by what lay before them.

  The room was about ten feet square. A stone shelf stood about two feet off the ground, carved out of the same rock as the rest of the walls.

  “I guess this is why they had the guard,” Jenn whispered.

  The shelf was full of gold and silver. Thousands of round coins were neatly stacked in one corner of the room. In another, rectangular bars of gold were piled in a crisscrossing pattern. Underneath the shelf sat several small wooden chests.

  Oh look, we’ve found Scrooge McDuck’s money bin!

  Pynne wandered over to one side to study a pile of round, uncut gems. Casually, she picked up a ruby as big around as her thumb. “No dust in here,” she noted.

  “Maybe they had some sort of magical way to protect this stuff from the elements,” Jenn guessed.

  “Or else the door kept anything from blowing in,” Pynne said.

  Jenn walked over to a small rack of weapons. Selecting an intricately designed dagger, she peered closely at it. The wire-wrapped hilt still shone in the faint light. The blade was made of a mottled silver metal Jenn didn’t recognize.

  “Dwarven steel,” Pynne commented, looking over at the dagger.

  “What?”

  Pynne pointed at the dagger. “Dwarves are masters at working with stone or metal,” she explained. “One of the things dwarves are famous for is their ability to forge weapons that are stronger and hold an edge better than any that aren’t dwarf-made.”

  “That little knife there is probably worth enough to feed a small town for a month.”

  Try as she might, Jenn couldn’t keep a smile from spreading across her face. “A month?” she asked. She grabbed the leather sheath that had been placed unobtrusively behind the weapons rack. Slipping the dagger and sheath into her belt, she turned to study the room.

  Overwhelmed for the moment, she walked over to study a small, leather-bound book that lay unobtrusively in one corner.

  “What’s it say?” Pynne asked.

  “How am I supposed to know?” Jenn demanded. “I don’t speak dwarven.”

  Pynne wandered over and gently took the book out of her hands to study.

  “This isn’t dwarven,” she said as a frown spread across her face. “It’s elvish.”

  Out of habit, she turned to the last page. It was blank. She flipped backward through the pages until she came to one with writing on it. Then her eyes widened.

  “What is it?” Jenn asked.

  “It’s a journal,” Pynne answered, still staring at the book. “
Averlon’s journal.” She began to read.

  * * *

  You think some of the writing has been stilted before? You ain’t seen nothing yet!

  I write this, my final entry, as I sit here among the riches of the dwarves. The poor fellow who used to guard this room still stands outside, mummified by the heat of the molten rock below. If my suspicions are correct, he has stood guard there for three thousand years, ever since Olara was cast into her astral prison.

  My studies have revealed that Olara is a thief of life itself. She drains the soul in order to grow in power. I fear that in the battle between Olara and the other gods, she may have taken the life of all that used to live beneath this mountain. The Book of the Spider, which I so foolishly destroyed in my fright, indicates that this massive death will become all too common if Olara’s resurrection is successful.

  That Olara’s resurrection is inevitable I have no doubt. She is imprisoned, helpless, for the time being. But I have talked to her priests. Even now, they work at finding a way to free her from that prison, and I have no doubt that they will someday succeed.

  Dun, dun, DUN!

  To that end, I have created Olatha-shyre. I have spent weeks wandering these ancient tunnels, struggling as I tried to create my spell. It is a work of the greater magic, that art which transcends the narrow definition of magic as we know it. It is an art lost thousands of years ago, preserved only in the vaults of our temples.

  Ah, the lost arts. So ancient and mysterious and ancient. Like the Sloth style of Kung Fu, or the Tantric Hokey-Pokey.

  It is also an art which none have practiced in centuries. I have been forced to create a spell using skills which none today can teach. But finally, I believe I have succeeded.

  Olatha-shyre, the Spider’s Bane, is a masterpiece of subtlety. Its power lies in its simplicity. But I will write no more. Only yesterday, one of her priests tracked me down, seeking to destroy the scroll upon which I wrote my spell. It is for that reason that I have hidden Olatha-shyre within these dwarven tunnels.

  Today I leave, to begin my journey home. I fear I shall not live to see my friends again. The priests know that I entered their sacred temple, and they will be waiting for me when I leave. But I must devote all of my energies to returning home, for I must be sure that the knowledge of Olatha-shyre is not lost.