Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  Garn saw his contorted features and knelt beside him. Streams of blood ran down the side of the runepriest’s face, but the runes tattooed into his skin glowed with a faint, white light, shining thorough the blood. He looked like a phantom, an avenging spirit.

  “Take the ring off,” Garn told Ruen, but Ruen couldn’t reply, could only writhe on the floor. The dwarf grabbed his hand, trying to wrench the silver band off Ruen’s finger. Ruen stifled a scream. Gods, the pain. “What does it do?” Garn shouted next to his ear.

  “Strengthens … bolsters anything that touches it.” Ruen could say no more. Deafening echoes, the sounds of close fighting, rang in the cavern. Goblins, bugbears, and the drow commanding them swarmed the Hall of Lost Voices.

  Lying on his side, Ruen had a strange view of the chamber’s dominating feature. Carved dwarf faces—six of them—stared down at him from the far wall. Each carving was at least ten feet tall and five feet wide, the mouths in each face slightly open, as if they were great generals issuing commands to their troops. The Hall of Lost Voices was named for the smiths these likenesses were based on, according to Garn. He’d been able to tell Ruen a bit of the place’s history before the drow attacked.

  Another wave of pain shuddered through Ruen. Garn cursed and tore the ring from his finger.

  Almost immediately, the pain ebbed, and it no longer hurt to draw breath. Ruen sat up slowly, using the wall of the trench as a prop. Not ten feet away, a dwarf pelted across the chamber, chased by a web of blue-black lightning. Ruen lifted a hand feebly, as if he could will the dwarf to run faster, but he couldn’t.

  The spell slammed into the dwarf, driving him to the ground. Ruen heard the warrior’s skull crack when he hit, but he was dead before that. The black lightning crawled sickly along his skin, opening up small cracks in his flesh. The air sizzled and reeked. Blood and poisonous spiders poured forth from the wounds, dozens of the creatures covered in gore.

  “Godsdamn killing blasts!” Garn shouted. “Kreldorn, we’ve got another one!”

  One of the other dwarves in the trench turned and muttered a short prayer. Ruen recognized it and knew to put his head down as a hail of stones appeared from nowhere, showering the dead dwarf’s mutilated body. The spiders ran from the hail of pellets, but they weren’t fast enough. The rocks crushed them. After a moment, nothing recognizable remained of the soldier’s body. The dwarves had been reduced to mutilating their own dead in order to drive back the spiders.

  “Can you stand?” Garn shouted at Ruen. “We’re falling back. We’ve got to draw more of the drow into the chamber.”

  Ruen dragged himself to his feet. Garn tossed him the silver ring. “Don’t put it back on yet,” he advised, “unless you want some more of that bowels-emptying pain.”

  “What was it?” Ruen helped Garn and Kreldorn lift an unconscious dwarf and carry him quickly across the chamber. A hail of crossbow quarrels followed them as they took cover behind one stone outcrop after another.

  “We call it the Lash,” Kreldorn growled. He was a gray-bearded dwarf with scars crisscrossing the left side of his face. “Drow spells turn all your own magic into pain.”

  “Yours is worse, if that ring amplifies magic,” Garn said. “Don’t put it back on until the battle is over.”

  Ruen could see no such end in sight. Dwarf and goblin corpses tangled their feet as they fell back to a more fortified position beneath the carvings on the wall. Ruen tripped over a bugbear corpse and scraped his knee against the ground. He had to push off the creature’s body to lever himself to his feet.

  His hands traced rough, scarred flesh. Ruen glanced down and saw a livid mark carved into the dead creature’s flesh. He thought it might have been a slave mark, indicating which House the bugbear belonged to, but the carving ran in intricate lines and whorls all across the slave’s back. The drow would not be so elaborate in marking their property. He didn’t have time to ponder it further, though. The drow were mustering for another assault. They gave the unconscious dwarf over to the clerics for healing and dived for cover.

  Spell glows illuminated the stone faces in eerie white light. Ruen blinked, realizing that at least some of the spells cast in advance of the army were aimed at the carvings. A breath later, he understood why.

  Spiders erupted from the mouth holes, the noses, and the eyes of the carved faces. Summoned from some dark, undisturbed hole by drow magic, Ruen thought, but then he remembered the rings, their ability to conjure illusory spiders. These must be similar spells, designed to create the illusion of a spider swarm and an impossible number of targets the dwarves couldn’t hope to eradicate. All of it carefully calculated to destroy the defenders’ morale.

  “They’re coming! Beat them back! They’ll eat us alive!”

  The scream came from a dwarf feebly crawling among the rocks on the battlefield. An axe slash had ripped open her thigh. She held the torn flesh together with one hand and dragged herself across the floor with the other.

  Ruen cursed. In the quickness of their retreat, they hadn’t been able to collect all the wounded. Dozens of dwarf and drow corpses littered the battlefield, and now the spiders swarmed among them, covering their bodies. It didn’t matter whether they were real or not, not to the wounded and dying soldiers who imagined their flesh covered with swarms of hairy bodies.

  The cavern they’d been fighting in was a mile long at this point but not so wide, with intermittent stalactites and stalagmites, many of which had been smashed by drow magic or the sheer pressure of so many bodies fighting together in the restricted space. The drow gathered at the opposite end of the chamber, near the widest tunnel, but only fifty or so slaves and their masters were visible. There was no way to tell how much of an army waited behind those front lines. If they tried to go back for the wounded, they’d be fodder for crossbow quarrels.

  “No, get them off!” The screams of the wounded filled the chamber, and on their heels came the sound of delighted goblin squeals and the drow’s smoky laughter.

  “Keep your heads in the fight! They’re shadows—nothing more!” cried Garn. Ingara and Arngam had spread the word about the illusions, but the sight of hundreds of the eight-legged creatures scuttling across the surface of the carved stone faces was enough to send a shudder of revulsion through Ruen, and he didn’t have the emotional connection to the carvings the dwarves did.

  The Hall of Lost Voices was not just a mining outpost. Garn had told him that the most famous dwarf smiths of Iltkazar—all of them gone now—had their faces engraved in the stones, a reminder to the miners what their sweat and sacrifices had ultimately done for the people in giving them the best armor and the finest weapons to defend their homes and families. The miners, smiths, and warriors together were the soul of the people.

  Souls that were slowly being consumed by the Spider Queen’s army.

  “Moradin! Strike these vermin down for their defilement!” shrieked Kreldorn, a wild light gleaming in his eyes.

  The rest of the soldiers took up the shout, mingled with the screams of horror and pain from the wounded. The woman with the thigh wound let go of her flesh and jumped to her feet, screaming, “Iltkazar!” Phantom spiders covered her bleeding leg. She charged across the cavern, toward the drow army.

  “Felsa!” screamed one of the dwarves near Ruen. He started to go after her, but Garn grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

  “Let her have her way,” he said. “It’s her choice how she goes.”

  Across the cavern, Felsa stumbled. Ruen caught a black flash out of the corner of his eye, as two crossbow quarrels tore into the woman’s neck. She fell on her stomach and died with her mace stretched out before her like an offering to her god. Ruen watched the blood pool beneath her.

  “You well enough to be on your feet?” Garn said, pulling Ruen’s gaze away from the woman’s body.

  “I’m fine,” Ruen said. He assessed his injuries. He’d taken a blow to the head from a bugbear’s club, and there was a faint ringing in his ea
rs from all the noise in the cavern, but the pain from the drow spell was gone, leaving only a slight tremor in his hands. Ruen clenched a fist, closed his eyes, and took several breaths to calm his racing heartbeat. The chamber reeked of blood and bugbear musk, a thick animal stench that Ruen thought he would never be able to wash off his skin.

  “Godsdamn dismal way to fight,” Garn said. He cast his gaze over the battlefield—looking for Obrin, Ruen surmised. Father and son separated soon after the battle began. Though Garn hadn’t mentioned him, Ruen could tell by the way the Blackhorn patriarch clutched his axe that his thoughts were with his son.

  “There are dozens of us here and in the cavern to the south, and others who’ve fallen back with the wounded down the side passages,” Ruen said. “Obrin could be with them.”

  “He won’t fall back, not unless he’s unconscious and they’re dragging his body away from the fight,” Garn said.

  “Here they come!”

  The shout came from the front lines. Ruen looked up to see bugbears and goblins swarming across the cavern. In response, a chorus of battle cries deafened Ruen as the dwarves surged up from their stone trenches.

  Garn stood, opened his arms, and cried, “Give me your strength, Soul Forger. Father of the deep places and sacred stone, give me aid!”

  Massive stones the dwarves had piled up as protection rose suddenly in the air and hovered ominously over the battlefield. Garn took a step forward, and the stones moved with him.

  The attacking slaves saw the floating stones and staggered, breaking their charge. Behind them, the drow hissed and screamed in Undercommon, sending out webs of black lightning to prod them. They charged ahead, not so frenzied now, instead moving hesitantly, and let the dwarves slam into their lines in a crush of steel.

  With a grim smile, Garn took another step forward. He swayed on his feet.

  He’s weak, and it’s taking all his concentration to maintain the spell, Ruen realized. He stood and took up a protective stance ahead and slightly to the right of Garn. “I’m here,” he murmured. “Mind your spell. I won’t let them touch you.”

  On impulse, he bent and slid his silver ring onto the dwarf’s smallest finger. Using it was a risk, but if Ruen was right about what Garn was about to do with his spell, it would give them an advantage.

  Garn’s eyes widened as Ruen slid the ring over his knuckle, and a broad smile spread across his face.

  “Let’s have some fun, then,” Garn said in a strained whisper. He made a fist and punched the air. One of the larger stones shot across the cavern, hit the ground rolling, and plowed into a group of four goblins, two of whom were killed instantly. Garn moved forward and wiggled his fingers, sending a hail of smaller stones against a charging pack of bugbears. They went down under the force of the smaller pellets hurled at lightning-fast speeds.

  But the attacking force came in fast. Ruen spun to face a drow soldier darting toward Garn like an obsidian shadow, a rapier drawn and ready in his hand. The drow saw him and lunged, but Ruen slid to his knees, coming up beneath the drow’s guard. Energy and focus hummed from all his extremities. Ruen gathered the energy and drew it inward, funneling it all to his right hand.

  Thinking, Everything is energy, he breathed in and out, and the power moved within him, building and swelling until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

  Ruen drove his open palm into the side of the warrior’s leg. Dimly, he sensed the impact of the drow’s armor against his hand, but the pain he should have felt was absorbed by the energy and sloughed off harmlessly.

  His punch was anything but harmless. Bone snapped, and the drow staggered, crying out in agony. Ruen came smoothly to his feet and thrust his other hand against the drow’s rapier hilt, pushing it above his head and away from Garn, the drow’s intended target.

  Now that they were standing face-to-face, Ruen could look the drow in the eye. He saw the pain and hatred in the warrior’s face, but he also glimpsed a deadly resolve Ruen hadn’t counted on. Bones in the drow’s leg were shattered, but he would crawl on his belly to reach Garn if he had to. Ruen read that truth in the drow’s eyes.

  His right hand tangled with Ruen’s as they fought for control of the rapier, and the drow used his left to fumble at his belt for a dagger. Ruen stamped viciously on the drow’s foot, and the warrior howled in pain. He started to fall, and Ruen tried to step out of the way.

  Too late, he realized it was a feint. The drow leaped forward, wrapping his arms around Ruen’s waist. They hit the floor, but Ruen had the drow in strength. He flipped them, putting the drow on his back. The drow’s head cracked against the floor, leaving him stunned for a breath.

  It was enough. Ruen reared back and drove his fist into the drow’s chest. He poured all his pent-up energy into the strike and felt it reverberate through the drow’s armor, a wave that passed through flesh, shattering ribs and breastbone. The killing wave reached the drow’s heart, and through his spellscar, Ruen felt the drow’s death a breath before the drow did. The coldness, the cracks in the drow’s life force, spread out from that one central point where his fist made impact. The warrior’s eyes widened, he opened his mouth, and then his gaze became a fixed stare. His rapier clattered to the floor.

  Ruen rolled off the drow, shoving the body away from him. His hands tingled as if they’d been asleep. It was a familiar feeling, unpleasant but hardly alarming. It happened every time his monk abilities interacted with his spellscar.

  The breath of life and the aura of death. Death always proved stronger, in the end, and it was no different this time. Cold seized his body, and his bones ached from fighting without his ring.

  Ruen tried to ignore the sensations and sprang to his feet. Garn had moved a few feet away, hurling more rocks at the enemy. It was as if a storm had enveloped the chamber. Mighty cracks of thunder shook the foundations of the cavern each time the runepriest cast a stone down on his enemies. Garn’s eyes glowed with the light of his spell. Those same glows outlined the runes on his face, making him look more and more like an avenging spirit.

  The enemy had taken notice as well. The slaves cringed and ran from the hovering death that moved inexorably across the cavern. The drow did not run, but Ruen saw their wizards gathered near the tunnel mouth, watching Garn’s progress.

  They’ll turn all their spells loose on him in a moment, Ruen thought. He makes too big a target.

  He didn’t have time to warn Garn. A pair of drow warriors charged the runepriest. Crouching low, Ruen ran to intercept them. He flung out his arms and caught both drow at the chest. The impact shot burning pain into his shoulders, but the drow’s forward momentum halted, and they both went down.

  Fragile, Ruen thought. These drow aren’t brawlers, and they’re not used to these kinds of attacks, blows that go through their fine armor.

  Ruen knew he couldn’t keep up his defense of Garn forever. He called out for aid, and several dwarves stopped their charge and fell back to form a protective perimeter around the runepriest.

  “That’s right, you dogs, run!” Garn screamed in fury as more drow and bugbears fell before him. His voice carried on the thunder of falling rocks. Shaking all over, he thrust his fists into the air.

  Ruen fell into a crouch, sweeping the legs out from under another drow. They were attacking side by side with the slaves, but the enemy spells he’d expected hadn’t yet come. What were they waiting for? Ruen tried to see the tunnel mouth, but the shower of rocks and the close press of bodies and flashing weapons made it impossible to see the drow at the far end of the battlefield.

  Distracted, Ruen saw the blade slicing at him out of the corner of his eye only just in time. He ducked, but the axe bit deep into his flesh. Ruen swung around and grabbed the bugbear’s wrist, twisting its arm behind its back. The creature squealed and dropped its weapon. Ruen brought his hand back, aiming for a blow to the bugbear’s spine. He halted in mid-strike.

  Beneath the creature’s filthy, blood-splattered armor, he glimpsed a familiar marki
ng carved into the bugbear’s flesh. Unlike the dead bugbear he’d seen earlier, this slave’s mark glowed faintly and pulsed with a blood-red light.

  Instead of striking the creature, Ruen forced it to its knees, careful to keep pressure on its axe arm to hold it in place. With his other hand, he ripped the flimsy armor aside to get a better look at the rune. It was obviously magical, but he had no idea what it meant.

  Glancing across the battlefield, Ruen noticed a pattern he hadn’t seen before. Dread swelled in his stomach. The goblin slaves fought mostly together, not counting the creatures that broke ranks and ran from Garn’s hail of stones. But the bugbears fought scattered throughout the cavern, spaced evenly amongst the dwarf attackers, as if they’d been assigned to those places.

  “Garn!” Ruen shouted, frantic, but there was no way for the dwarf to hear him. He shoved the bugbear to the ground and forced it on its back. Ruen took out his dagger and pressed it to the creature’s throat. “What are your masters planning?” he growled in Undercommon. The creature whimpered and stared at him blankly, its face creased in pain. Ruen punched the bugbear. Bright blood welled up around the creature’s mouth. It squeezed its eyes shut, tensing for another blow.

  Ruen cursed, digging his hands into the creature’s filthy tunic. He reached up and laid his palm flat against the creature’s cheek. The bugbear’s eyes widened with fear. It expected violence, but that wasn’t Ruen’s aim. He felt his spellscar react to the creature’s flesh. The bugbear’s heartbeat surged through him, strong, yet wild and fearful. Ruen gasped at the burning red pain he felt from creature’s shattered arm. He pushed forward, past the pain, seeking—there!

  A blemish spread throughout the creature’s body, a creeping darkness in the shape of a spider’s web—or perhaps that was merely Ruen’s perception of it, compounded by his fury and dread.