Spiderlight

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Lief addressed the vast woman and made some request of her, sliding over some pieces of metal—no, coins, came the unwanted knowledge. This was commerce, where the metal served as a memory for past services in some way, so that Lief’s historical actions were somehow remembered to the woman, to be rewarded with the two wooden mugs of Something Suspect that he had now been given. Nth struggled with the concept, trying to understand why it worked and whether anyone wanted the metal for itself, or just for what it represented. The thought reminded him irresistibly of his own predicament: a thing that had value to these humans without them finding in him any inherent worth. He was a cipher, a means to an end, to be spent and forgotten.

  “Cheer up, may never happen,” Lief told him, raising a mug. “Here, this is beer. You drink it.” He spoke slowly, as if to a child.

  Nth searched his secondhand memories and discovered that Penthos had not had much to do with beer. Holding the mug in both hands, he sipped gingerly at the fluid, finding it thin and uninspiring, then losing himself in revulsion at the motion of his own lips.

  “Stop making faces,” Lief advised him, glancing about. “I’d say, ‘People will stare,’ but hell, in a place like this, why would they? Just keep the glasses on and you’re not the third weirdest thing within these four walls.” He drained his mug and waved at the woman for a refill. “I guess this isn’t what you wanted to be when you grew up, eh?”

  Nth looked at him blankly, feeling an urge to answer and yet not understanding the question. He drank more beer instead.

  “Me neither,” Lief confirmed, as though he had. “Missions? Quests? The service of Armes? Not my business. It’s true, though—Darvezian’s bad for anyone’s business. There used to be more places like this—ignored by Dark and Light alike. Then he started pushing, and his soldiers were suddenly everywhere, and everyone started taking sides. And a few of my friends tried to turn his offers down, and never lived to regret it, so naturally I decided I had to do the right thing, and take a stand against him. Also I got caught stealing from Dion’s temple, and so it was either this or the mines. So I guess we’re not so different, eh? You and me?” Again that strained smile, searching for commonality in Nth’s newly inherited face. “Or not. I guess not.”

  “I don’t want to be here.” The words came out barely loud enough to hear over the hubbub, and still Lief flinched.

  “Damn me, I forget you can actually talk,” he said. “Maybe you shouldn’t do that, so much. You do weird things with your mouth when you do. I guess you’re still learning.”

  His last three words rang out into a sudden silence that descended on the taproom like nightfall.

  Lief turned around, saw something he plainly didn’t like and turned back again, eyes fixed on the wall behind the bar.

  “Don’t look.”

  Nth twitched, given an instruction but with no idea what not to observe. Something of his quandry must have communicated itself to Lief because the little man hissed, “It’s a Doomsayer; one of Darvezian’s elite. Bad guys, real bastards. Don’t look.”

  The sound of heavy metal footsteps rang across the room like sword-blows.

  “Where is she?” A hollow, steel voice to match the feet.

  Nobody answered. Every human that Nth could see seemed to find their drinks, the tabletop, or the backs of their hands endlessly fascinating.

  “There was a priestess of Armes here,” the harsh voice went on. “I want her. If someone tells me where she is before I count to five, there will be a shiny coin for them. If someone tells me before I count to ten, there will be a lack of a stabbing for them. After that, I shall be liberal with the stabbing. Tell me, where is she?”

  There were no words, but the silence behind Lief and Nth changed character distinctly. Lief looked round, face twisting, and Nth took that as implied permission to at last see what was going on.

  The first thing he noted was the enormous armored man dominating the entire taproom. His helmed head brushed the low ceiling, and his shoulders were wide enough to make two Liefs side by side. The iron slabs of his mail were black, chased with red sigils that spat and glowered with power. He had a sword at his belt that looked heavy enough to split rocks with, but the weapon seemed to be gilding the lily, given the raw strength that virtually radiated from the man’s gauntleted hands.

  After that, Nth could not help noting that at least a dozen patrons were pointing directly at Lief and himself.

  “Fuck,” Lief decided. Then the ogrish figure was stomping over.

  “Where is she?” the Doomsayer demanded. “Speak!”

  3: The Third Rule of Arachnophobics

  “WHERE IS SHE?” the Doomsayer demanded. “Speak!”

  “I don’t know!” squeaked Lief, just before the mailed hands caught him up by the collar, lifting him effortlessly into the air.

  “Where is she? Or there will be a stabbing,” the huge man promised. “Possibly more than one.” He was ignoring Nth, perhaps because Darkness knew Darkness, and the Doomsayer had assumed that nothing like the transformed spider could possibly be associated with his blessed quarry.

  “Gone,” Lief got out, choking around his own twisted collar. “Don’t . . .”

  “Where!”

  The little man’s eyes flicked sidelong at his drinking companion. “Help!”

  Nth stood.

  The Doomsayer finally noticed him, the helm tilting toward him without much curiosity as he continued to throttle Lief. “Don’t get involved, brother. This isn’t your business.”

  Nth took a step back. Lief exploded into what was probably intended as a tirade of profanity, but came out as little more than a gasp.

  The Doomsayer nodded, approving Nth’s discretion. “Now, where—?”

  Nth sprang at him. In that moment he knew he was compelled by Lief’s order, by Penthos’s magic, and yet at the same time he wanted to do it. There was no particular loyalty to his enforced companions in him, but he was angry and frustrated and tormented, and he finally had a chance to give rein to his utter disgust at his situation.

  His long-limbed frame slammed into the Doomsayer, staggering him, so that Lief ended up cartwheeling behind the bar with a whoop. Then Nth was clinging to the armored frame with hands and feet as the huge man tried to peel him off.

  Nth pried, opposing limb against limb, fingers creeping between the metal plates and pulling with all his strength. It was his first chance to see what this monstrous body could do.

  A curved shoulder-guard ripped free almost effortlessly, rivets popping from sockets and leather straps parting. The Doomsayer struck at him, a mailed fist bouncing from Nth’s ribs with a flare of pain. This human body felt pain differently, though. It lacked any of the immediacy of the real hurt Nth had been expecting. With a spasmodic twitch of his limbs he wrenched the man’s breastplate partway off, starting with the exposed shoulder, and then went for the throat. His jaw gaped wide—rather wider than human, had he only known—and his shark-ranks of curved teeth ravaged for his victim’s neck.

  The Doomsayer had his huge sword out now, but he had no way of bringing it effectively to bear against his clinging enemy. Nth’s teeth latched onto him—not his throat but the lip of his helm.

  The taste of steel and Dark magic was in Nth’s mouth, and he twisted his neck, prying with unnatural strength, feeling his fangs dent the metal most satisfactorily and peel the helmet from the flesh beneath. Then the chinstrap gave way with a shuddering snap, and he had a brief glimpse of a pallid, terrified face, a fringe of wiry beard, fear-maddened eyes.

  He bit, tasting fierce, salt blood in an exultant rush, and the sheer visceral pleasure of that loosened his grip, so that the Doomsayer was able to throw him off at last, leaving Nth crouching poised atop the row of barrels that made up the bar, and the armored man pawing frantically at his gushing neck with one hand.

  The other held that monolithic sword and, with a swift motion, Nth took it from him. He had a glimpse of Lief staring up at him, fascinated and
horrified, as he brought the weapon down with all his strength. Penthos did not understand swords, therefore neither did Nth, and so the clubbing blow hacked through the Doomsayer’s upraised arm without skill or finesse, a display of brute force sufficient to dismay any number of master fencers. The force continued down, crumpling blade and mail, and hacking Darvezian’s elite to the floor.

  In the resultant appalled silence, Lief stood up shakily.

  “I think we’ve gone past last orders,” he said. “Let’s go get Penthos and have him track down the others, ’cos word of this is going to be everywhere from here to the Dark Lord by this time tomorrow.”

  “You weren’t there,” Lief said. “You didn’t see. It was bloody terrifying, I can tell you.”

  They were some distance from Shogg’s Ford now, holed up in a stand of tangled trees and supposedly cloaked from hostile divination by Penthos’s magic. Free of any pursuit, their gaze had turned to Enth.

  There was still a little blood about his mouth, Dion saw. The creature stared back at them, those owlish, freakish eyes thankfully masked by its dark lenses. It seemed to have a defiant, mulish expression on its face, although she appreciated that might just be her preferred interpretation. Probably the thing was not human enough to have true expressions.

  “It’s dangerous,” Harathes stated, glowering at the hateful thing.

  “We knew that,” Lief told him.

  “We didn’t know just how much,” the warrior insisted. “That could have been any one of us. It could have ripped Dion’s head off before we could stop it, at any time.”

  “Penthos, you can control it,” the priestess observed.

  “Well, of course,” the magician agreed. “Alas, I was meditating when the incident occurred, but in my presence a mere thought would suffice to stay its hand.” He cast a withering look at Harathes. “For some of us, that means ‘quite fast.’”

  “We need to bind it,” the swordsman insisted. “Cage it, maybe.” He looked to Cyrene, seeking support, and she nodded.

  “And transport it how?” Lief asked. “And if we parade him around tied up, someone’s going to decide to take him off us, just to see why. And we’d be slowed down. Look—”

  “Penthos.” Dion’s voice silenced them all.

  The magician regarded her, uncertain whether he was about to be told off.

  “Can you give it commands, instructions it must abide by? Laws to live by, in fact.”

  “Of course, a simple matter. In fact I achieved as much when I gave Lief the—”

  “Yes, right, well,” the small man interrupted hastily. “Let’s not rake up ancient history.”

  “What laws?” Cyrene asked.

  “Well, that is what we must decide,” Dion told her. “We must be safe from it, now we’ve seen how . . . well Penthos has wrought, in giving it this form.” She sent a pained glance at the magician, whose proud beam immediately dissolved into bafflement.

  “Please, more complaint, even now?” the mage whined plaintively. “I—seriously, you don’t understand the sheer artifice of what I’ve done—”

  “You didn’t have to make it into a murderous killing machine,” Cyrene told him hotly.

  “My dear, it was already a . . .” Penthos looked from her to Dion. “I really don’t understand how this is my fault.”

  “Tell it, it must not kill or harm anyone ever again,” Dion stated.

  “Very well,” Penthos began, drawing a great sigh, but then Lief spoke up.

  “Hold on, what if we want him to? If we need this thing, he’s going to have to defend himself, at least, if we get attacked. We’ll get ourselves killed just as easily if we’re nursemaiding him. And besides, like I say, you weren’t there. Yes, it was bloody scary seeing him in action, but he tore a Doomsayer apart. That’s the sort of party trick we could use some time.”

  Dion ground her teeth. She wanted to deny it, to enforce her original will, but Lief was too good at making sense. The thought of actually needing the monstrous creature to fight was abhorrent, but perhaps no more abhorrent than the thought of anything else about it. And there would be a great many enemies between them and Darvezian. Having lost the original struggle with her conscience over using the thing at all, this new battle seemed doomed to failure.

  “Well, then, it can’t harm any of us. Give it that law to live by. Or anyone of the Light.”

  Penthos grimaced. “I don’t really think it has the capability to look into the hearts of men, alas. I can have it not harm us, and . . . not anyone without our express instruction, or unless it’s attacked itself?”

  Dion nodded grudgingly. “And it needs to do what it’s told, by any one of us.”

  Penthos nodded equably. “It shall be done. So, and to summarize, it mustn’t harm us. It mustn’t harm anything else unless defending itself, or unless we tell it to. And it must do what it’s told. By these laws it shall live.”

  “It will have to do,” Dion agreed unhappily, aware that any human system of laws would have loopholes to exploit. “So let us hope we do not need it for long. Which brings us to the subject of the spider’s path. Creature, attend me.”

  She had the full blessing of that dark gaze.

  “You are here at our service because of knowledge that the chief of your brood gave you. We need to reach Darvezian by some means that avoids his armies, his demons, and his traps. Your progenitor knew how, for she is ancient and knows many evil secrets and Dark ways. You must tell us, now, where this path is—where we must go to walk it.”

  Nth stared at the female Man, feeling the new restrictions on his behavior close about his mind like hot wires. He would never know his limits, now, until he brushed against the razor bars of his cage and was forced to flinch back.

  He opened his mouth—he had been given an instruction and could only obey it—and yet no words came out. He was aware of that great undigested knot of memory that his Mother had given him sitting like a stone in his mind. Somewhere in there was what he wanted, and yet he could not search for it. He had no idea of the shape of what he wanted.

  “Speak!” Dion insisted, and something clenched nauseously within him, so that he gagged forward, jaw almost disarticulating to vomit out—just sounds, no words.

  “Give him a chance,” Lief argued. “He’s thinking.”

  “It,” the other female Man, Cyrene, corrected. “You keep calling it ‘him.’”

  “It’s a him,” Lief said, then rolled his eyes. “He, he is a him.”

  “I always was unsure about you,” Harathes stepped up to Cyrene’s shoulder, the two of them looming over him.

  “Piss off,” Lief said. “I don’t answer to either of you.”

  “Little man,” Harathes rumbled, but Lief pointedly turned his back on the pair of them. “Dion,” he said, “listen, how did the spider give directions?”

  The priestess blinked at him. “Is this . . . are you trying to tell a joke?”

  “So Mummy Spider knew where to go. So how’s Enth supposed to communicate it to us? I bet it—he doesn’t even know where we are. At least give the poor bastard some frame of reference. Can he read a map?”

  “He should have some concept of maps, from all I gave him,” Penthos said thoughtfully. “The creature may have the makings of a good idea.”

  “Show him a map, then,” Dion agreed.

  “Hold on,” Lief objected, “did you just call me a creature?”

  Penthos frowned. “I may have done. Is it important?”

  “You are very pally with the monster, all of a sudden,” Cyrene pointed out.

  “You can piss off too.”

  “We live in unsure times,” the mage declared. “I can’t be expected to remember who’s a creature and who isn’t. Now, the map. I want to see how much the creature understands.”

  “Which creature?” Lief asked sourly, but he got the map out, unfolding it for Nth’s benefit.

  For a long while it was just a piece of paper with marks on, untidy and abstract. Th
ere was understanding there, though, buried in Nth’s mind—not what he had been gifted with by his Mother, but the human knowledge that Penthos had violated his brain with. For a moment he actively fought it off, clinging to ignorance with the desperation of a drowning swimmer, but then it unfolded itself within his head and he could relate the scrawl before him with the mental images that Mother had passed on: landmarks and trails, forests for hiding in, settlements to be avoided.

  “Speak, monster,” Dion prompted. “Where is this path, this secret way to Darvezian?”

  His long-fingered hand quivered over the map that Lief held out for him. Nth let the borrowed knowledge flow within him, welling up like pus in a wound until his fingers brushed the paper. “S . . .” The human words welled up, the cumbersome and imprecise means of communication that he hated to have to use. “Somewhere here. When we are here, I will know it.”

  “That’s . . .” Cyrene squinted. “That’s the Shadow Canyons?”

  “There’s nothing there,” Harathes spat. “Nothing except monsters like this one. It’s a trap.”

  “Well, amazingly we didn’t get the map with all the secret Dark paths marked on it,” Lief remarked acidly. “I must have a word with my cartographer.”

  “If there was some way through the barrier mountains, it would indeed be a short step to Darvezian’s tower, and from an unexpected direction—avoiding his entire gauntlet of fortresses and followers,” Penthos mused. “Well, this is what we wanted, is it not?”

  From the assembled expressions, Nth judged it not to have been what any of them particularly wanted, but Dion nodded tiredly.

  “We’ve come this far,” she agreed, and even Nth could sense that she did not speak so much of physical distance, but of compromises made. “We will follow this path, and trust to prophecy.”