My sword, she thought, and remembered that the weapon had been hung on the bedpost to her right and she was lying near the edge of the bed’s left-hand side. She considered bolting for the door, but knew that whatever the creature was that had been waiting for her, it would certainly be upon her before she could reach the knob.
“Want you to … see me.” The voice sounded familiar.
Myrmeen heard the striking of flint and saw a tiny flame light near the wall. Suddenly a torch flared to life and in her mind Myrmeen heard the voice of Burke, her first tutor in the art of fighting, who said, Now, while both of its hands are occupied. Go now! What are you waiting for?
Who’s to say it has only two hands, Myrmeen thought as she scrambled deeper into the room’s shadows and drew the sword from its scabbard, thankful that she had learned to sleep in her leathers. She was smelly and uncomfortable and would remain that way until she bathed, but at least she was prepared to fight. She tried to cry out for Reisz and Ord, but her throat constricted and words would not form, just as the scream had refused to leave her mouth instants before.
“Look … can’t scream … touched you while slept … Look!”
Myrmeen felt as if she were back in the world of her nightmares. She looked at the creature on the wall. The torch that had been lighted sat in its holder on the wall, forcing an orange-red blossom of light to caress the gruesome monster’s body. Myrmeen had been trying not to look at it directly, afraid that if she gave it what it wanted, it would have no reason to wait before it leapt at her.
“Pretty,” the woman-thing sitting on the wall said, indicating its rapidly transforming body with a flourish of a pale hand. The human part of it—its face—was beautiful, with dark, exotic features, long and slightly curly hair, and soft, creamy skin. Its eyes were elongating, becoming large ovals pocketed with myriad chambers, which glowed blood red. The woman-thing’s lips pulled back in a sneer to reveal long, curving white fangs, and its jaw began to expand outward from side to side. Traces of a fine silk wrap clung to its body. A pair of sandals and a small pouch lay on the floor. The thing’s torso was changing, growing into large, bulbous brownish black sections covered with fine hair. Each of its four human limbs were splitting in two, the flesh falling away to reveal long, thin spider’s legs that spread from one another as their sockets moved into place on the body. Small red blotches appeared on the monster’s torso, and its face suddenly split as pincers emerged.
Myrmeen leapt forward, thrusting her sword at the creature’s heart, praying that she could catch it unaware as it continued its bizarre transformation. With a scream, the woman-spider pushed away from the wall and jumped over Myrmeen, onto the bed, which collapsed with its weight. Myrmeen had not anticipated the monster’s speed. Her sword struck the wall, sending sparks of pain through her arm. She felt a rush of air at her back and heard a ripping sound. A moment later she felt the hot, wet trickle of blood down her back and realized she had been slashed. Crouching to avoid another swing of the monster’s scythelike limbs, Myrmeen launched herself at the door.
She did not make it. A long, thin cord erupted from the creature’s mouth, catching one of Myrmeen’s legs in midstride. Myrmeen fell to the floor in a heap, then turned and hacked at the sticky web that had fastened to her leg and was now dragging her backward. By the time she cut through the webbing, she had been pulled to the foot of the bed, where the woman-spider was trying to extricate herself from the soft mattress, which had proven an equally difficult trap for the creature. Myrmeen scrambled back, refusing to take her gaze from that of the creature, her hand sliding on the slime trail that had been left by the webbing attached to her leg. Her view of the monster receded and, just before she turned to see how close she was to the door, she felt her shoulder strike the wood and slam the door all the way shut.
Issuing a curse that came out as little more than a hiss, Myrmeen grabbed at the door handle, trying to bring herself to her feet despite the slippery floor. The monster was ripping the mattress to bits, screaming in its high-pitched wail of frustration, and a cloud of feathers rose into the air. A slight laugh that sounded like a catch in her throat escaped Myrmeen, and she wondered if she had gone mad, being able to laugh at a sight such as this.
Her smile faded as she realized the woman-spider was transforming again, replacing some of its monstrous aspects with human attributes that would allow it to free itself and take full advantage of the close space.
If it wanted to kill me, it could have done so in my sleep, Myrmeen thought. It wants me afraid. It wants me to suffer.
“You destroyed my home!” it shouted.
Myrmeen wondered which of the many lairs she had helped burn had belonged to this being.
“You took everything! Every memory I had!”
Dragging herself to her feet, Myrmeen saw that the woman-spider had sprouted long, sinewy human legs that were covered with fine brownish black hairs, and its torso had reduced in size. The monster’s face had become more human, but it had retained the pincers and four of its eight spider-limbs. Myrmeen knew that in the time it would take for her hand to pull the door open, the monster would be upon her, driving its swordlike arms through her body.
I’m going to die, she thought, I’m going to die for nothing. My death will have no meaning.
The thought gave her the determination to fight. Anchoring herself, Myrmeen raised her sword and waited for the woman-spider to leap from the bed.
The creature moved with blinding speed. To Myrmeen, it was standing still, then it was before her eyes, and suddenly it vanished in the time she had to take a single swipe with her sword. There was a large gash in her upper arm, and she looked up to see the woman-spider sticking to the wall beside her, wiggling her tongue obscenely. Myrmeen turned and struck with her weapon, the sword slamming into bare wall where the monster had been only instants before. She heard it skittering across the ceiling and wondered how she could win in a battle against this creature.
The torch, she thought, and suddenly thought and action were one for the statuesque fighter as she snatched the flaming torch from the wall and threw it upon the bed, setting fire to the remnants of the mattress and frame. Then she grasped an oil lantern from a nearby table and threw it upon the bed. A cloud of flames rose up and scorched the ceiling. She felt her lungs strain to deal with the sudden lack of air in the room and heard the woman-spider wail again. Keeping her sword before her, Myrmeen opened the door and felt the rush of air from the hall as it briefly sucked the flames in her direction. Before she could escape, though, she felt a slight impact on the back of her neck and she was yanked upward.
The woman-spider was staying close to the ceiling, having transformed almost entirely into a seven-foot-long spider with pincers that opened and closed in rapid, hungry movements. Threads had caught Myrmeen by the space between her shoulders and by the fleshy part of her right calf, keeping her off balance as she was lifted into the air. Myrmeen’s hand closed tightly over the hilt of her blade and she swung at the threads that were yanking her steadily upward, slicing apart the strands that secured her back when she was four feet in the air. Suddenly she was supported only by her leg and she fell back, her head scraping against the floor as she found herself hanging upside down and completely at the woman-spider’s mercy. Driving her sword into the partially opened wooden door, Myrmeen pushed the door closed, trapping herself in the room once again. Then she pulled with all her weight until she felt a section of her flesh tear from her calf. Suddenly she was free, dropping to the ground with enough impact to drive the wind from her.
Before Myrmeen could regain her footing, the woman-spider ran down the wall and attacked. The warrior was able to bring up her sword, jamming it between the incredibly strong set of pincers that jutted from the woman’s face. The pincers threatened to close over her features, shredding the skin of her face if they connected. The creature screamed. Myrmeen used her leverage to push against the creature, driving toward the rapidly spreading flames.
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The woman-spider hollered as the flames licked at its back. Myrmeen grabbed at the door handle, ripped the door open, and stumbled into the hall, hoping to pull the door shut and trap the creature in the burning room. Just before it shut she heard a scream and felt the hard wood slam against her as it exploded outward, jumping off its hinges, sending her from her feet. When she looked up, the woman-spider was standing in the doorway, the burning room at her back. As it advanced on her, Myrmeen scrambled to her feet and raised her sword in time to ward off the first strike of its spider limbs. Myrmeen felt as if her blade had connected with an iron club. The creature was moving more slowly, its lightning-fast reactions dulled to the point that Myrmeen and the hybrid could battle as equals.
Myrmeen’s sword flashed as she forced away her fear and concentrated on hacking at the woman-spider, which advanced on her with clicking pincers and burning eyes. The monster had retained its human legs, leaping nimbly back and forth as it pressed the attack and retreated. It used its four spider arms to fight with the skill of a quartet of trained swordsmen and refused to allow Myrmeen an opening to drive her blade at the creature’s face or the sensitive, soft places between its hard, sectioned torso.
The woman-spider advanced on Myrmeen with a feral expression, its eyes glazed with the pure, sensual delight of the battle, the joy of the anticipated kill.
Myrmeen understood why the creature was grinning: It was regaining its strength as it launched itself against the fighter, while Myrmeen was becoming worn and tired. Suddenly the creature used all four of its arms to gather Myrmeen’s sword arm above her head. The woman-spider took a step forward and slightly beyond Myrmeen, then brought one of its legs between the fighter’s, trapping Myrmeen with her dark, powerful limbs. A hoarse whisper—a would-be scream of fear and defiance—left Myrmeen’s throat as the woman-spider brought its face close to the fighter’s, its pincers moving close to Myrmeen’s soft, vulnerable eyes.
With her free hand, Myrmeen reached back and grabbed the woman-spider’s hair, pulling as hard as she could to keep the monster’s awful pincers from blinding her. Myrmeen instantly regretted that she had not tried to put out one of the creature’s eyes instead. The woman-spider’s face inched closer as Myrmeen leaned back in the deadly embrace and felt the muscles in the small of her back begin to ache. The woman-spider parted its lips and spat a stream of white ichor at Myrmeen’s throat.
Why not my face, Myrmeen thought, then understood that the creature had wanted Myrmeen to see the pincers coming, desiring the numbing fear Myrmeen would experience instants before the crablike claws parted one last time then closed, their sharp tips piercing her soft, moist eyeballs.
The webs constricted around Myrmeen’s throat and slowly drew her face forward as the woman-spider allowed one of its arms to fall away from the other three, which continued to keep Myrmeen’s sword at bay. The free limb poised near Myrmeen’s stomach, the tip pricking her flesh as it bit through her leathers and slowly drew blood.
“Do you know why?” the creature named Tamara asked. “Tell me. Try to scream. I bit you while you slept. Your neck bears my mark. My venom is within you, but soon you will be able to talk. Tell me, do you know why?”
Myrmeen could not answer. All of her attention was riveted to the limb that was about to skewer her and the pincers that were about to blind her. Even if she could have responded, she had no idea what the woman-spider meant.
“She is not your daughter,” Tamara said with a hiss. “Krystin is not your little girl.”
Despite herself, Myrmeen relaxed slightly, the fight slowly trickling out of her. Then she noticed the way Tamara’s head was cocked to one side, the inquisitive stare of a wolf that had all the time in the world to devour its prey. Myrmeen realized the woman-spider was trying to magnify her anguish to the highest degree possible before putting her to death.
“It’s all a lie,” Tamara said.
It doesn’t matter, she thought, that won’t change the way I feel about Krystin. But what if it’s true?
Myrmeen was able to rip a single battle cry from her lips despite the toxin Tamara had injected into her throat when she slept. If she was going to die, she would die as a warrior, a prayer for vengeance for herself and her daughter on her lips as her life was claimed.
The pincers did not blind her. The spider-arm did not run her through. Tamara released her hold on Myrmeen and backed away, rapidly becoming human once again.
A child shouted, “Myrmeen!”
The fighter knew Krystin was behind her. She motioned for the girl to stay back as she fixed Tamara with her gaze. A strange look passed between them and, with horror, Myrmeen identified the nature of the expression both women shared: recognition.
Tamara fled into the shadows and was gone. Myrmeen turned and took Krystin in an embrace. The girl’s repeated contact with Shandower’s gauntlet during the long trek from Calimport had infused her with some of its power. That power had been enough to burn much of the poison from Krystin’s system.
“Love,” Myrmeen whispered. “Love you, too.”
Krystin stared at her, sadness welling in her eyes, overcoming her shock. She opened her mouth to speak and found herself silenced by Myrmeen’s raised hand.
“The others,” Myrmeen croaked. “Must warn them.”
“But—”
Myrmeen took Krystin’s hand and dragged the girl with her. “Now!”
Nineteen
As they followed the winding corridor that led to Reisz and Ord’s chamber, Krystin vainly tried to force Myrmeen to stop and listen to her, but the fighter silenced her each time.
“You have to know. You have to understand—” Krystin began. A hiss came to them from around the next bend, where they could see flickering yellow-orange torchlight and nothing else. Myrmeen froze and Krystin swallowed her next words. The hiss sounded again, revealing itself to be more of a whisper that was paradoxically very loud, as if the speaker had been next to each of the women.
Myrmeen looked down and saw the shadow stretching off from her boots shorten and deepen. The torches behind her were being snuffed out, one by one. Shadows suffused the corridor, stealing across the walls, moving into the cracks of doorways to seal them. A terrible voice came to them:
“Did you know that when I was a little boy I used to burn the other children? They told me to stop, told me that they’d feed me into the flames, and you know what? They did. I liked it.”
Myrmeen had heard the leathery voice before, in her nightmares. She was not surprised when the light before her grew more intense and a long, thin shadow suddenly stretched out, piercing the splash of yellow-white light that insinuated itself upon the stone floor.
A red-haired man covered in sweat turned the corner, his eyebrows and hair burning as smoke leaked from his nostrils and mouth. He wore a red shirt that was opened to the waist and belted with black leather, then ran to midthigh. The rest of his body was bare, revealing his intensely muscled physique. The patches of tight, curly red hair on his chest, arms and legs, glowed bright orange and seemed to smolder. Flames licked at his clenched fists. He smiled knowingly at Myrmeen as he said, “Your presence is requested.”
Although exhausted from her battle with Tamara, Myrmeen raised her sword. The fiery-haired man frowned and lifted his open palm, revealing a seemingly endless tunnel that appeared to be a gateway to a dimension of flames. A tongue of fire leapt across the distance separating them and flicked the sword from her hand. The metal was molten slag before it struck the ground and Myrmeen yelped as her brain registered that her hand was burned and soon would blister. She could feel the rush of displaced air and the taunting presence of unnatural heat even though the flames had retreated into the monster’s hand.
“That was rude,” he admonished, his features twisting cruelly as he fought to contain the murderous energy within him. The call of the flame rose to infuse his entire body with a white, pulsating glow. “But, then, I have not been entirely given to proper etiquette myself,
have I? My name is Imperator Zeal. I have been instructed by Lord Sixx to escort you to a private audience. Please follow me.”
Myrmeen did not move. As the man before her spoke, she heard the skittering and laughter of creatures emerging from the shadows at her back and became determined not to look over her shoulder. Krystin held on to the fleshy part of her upper arm, the girl’s nails biting deeply enough to draw blood. She also was trying not to look back.
“Do not make me repeat myself!” Zeal snarled as he pointed in their direction, his index finger losing its consistency and becoming a wavering line of fire. “Come with me or you both die!”
The corridor was becoming stuffy. The air was changing, taking on an unnatural consistency as the darkness drew closer. Myrmeen realized that in moments she would be enveloped by the living shadows of the night people.
“Are my friends with you?” she asked quietly.
“They’re all here!” he bellowed. “It’s a party! A celebration of our new beginning! Come one, come all—come now or I will boil the moisture from your bodies and have you dragged!”
Myrmeen shuddered involuntarily. The shadows surrounding her grew cold and she felt something that might have been a hand brush against her leg.
Imperator Zeal aimed his hand at Krystin’s face. “Come now or I will disfigure the child.”
“All right,” Myrmeen said quickly.
“Good decision,” Zeal said, his features relaxing slightly. “Besides, we don’t have far to go.”
They walked through the twisting corridor to the pit where Myrmeen had found Krystin several hours earlier. The chattering creatures at their backs occasionally nudged them on. Sometimes the monsters whispered taunts meant to provoke Myrmeen into turning and facing the gathering of darkness that followed close behind, but she ignored them. When she stepped into the open theater surrounding the pit, Myrmeen was not surprised to find a host of creatures every bit as grotesque as the ones she had imagined at her back. Most were human enough to stand on two legs and look out through lumps of flesh that could, from a distance, be mistaken for heads.
The Night Parade Page 23