But not this morning. The task at hand would require Malthus's full attention and would approach the limits of his considerable abilities. It would also drive the general population of Hurst deep into the grasp of his plan. Years of plotting would start coming together today. Complete victory over the Western Realm should arrive within months; then, it was on to the desert.
He raised his aquitaine and adjusted the interlocking wheels, then raised it into one of the wider sunbeams. His fellow conspirators should be safely hidden by now, so he dropped the small device into a pouch and knelt in the center of the clearing. A small blanket lay spread out on the grass and leaves. On it rested a dark red stone, a jar filled with a greenish liquid and a small earthen pot. From inside the covered pot came the occasional sound of light scratching, as if something scurried about the dark interior. A wooden tube perhaps a foot long hung from the warlock's shoulder on a leather strap. He dropped it to the blanket and pulled off one end, then tipped the scroll case. A tightly rolled piece of parchment fell to the ground. Discarding the case, he spread the parchment and weighted both ends with rocks. This accomplished, he picked up the red stone and clenched it between the palms of his hands. He closed his eyes and began to chant softly.
Ten minutes later, the leaves on the edge of the clearing blew outward abruptly, as if a great gust of wind had originated in Malthus's hands and blown in all directions. The temperature plummeted. The warlock continued his spell, even when the stone he held grew warm. Within minutes the sweet odor of burning flesh filled the air. A thin wisp of steam arose from his clasped hands.
His eyes finally opened and he climbed to his feet. The warlock took ten steps forward and stopped, kicking a small area clear of leaves before setting the stone on the ground. It glowed as if just taken from the center of a blacksmith's forge.
Moving more quickly now, Malthus returned to the blanket and retrieved the jar and pot. He carried both to the glowing stone and set them on the ground, then uncovered the earthenware. A curse rose to his lips when he found the pot empty, but he soon located his quarry clinging to the bottom of the lid. It was a small, furry spider, barely the size of the warlock's fingertip. He brushed the tiny creature onto the glowing rock and quickly doused it with a splash of the green liquid. The spider tried to scurry away, but its legs had adhered to the stone.
Nodding to himself, Malthus returned to the blanket. He knelt once more, facing the stone and its struggling captive. This time, the warlock's eyes remained open. He drew a long silver dagger from his belt and held it with his arms spread wide. The ancient words on the scroll came easily to his lips and the air grew even colder, as if he had sucked every last drop of energy out of his immediate surroundings. A trio of birds fell from the sky and twisted in agony on the ground for a moment.
The grass between Malthus and the lodestone turned brown and dissolved into the dirt. The warlock ignored these events as his eyes swept over the arcane symbols. He felt the tingling vortex of power that swirled invisibly around him and knew that an interruption in the cast would, at best, render him mindless. The thought failed to intrude on his concentration, however; he had prepared far too well for that. He recited the spell smoothly and without pause, nearly shouting the final word as he thrust the dagger through the palm of his opposite hand.
A thunderclap split the air and a vicious onslaught of hailstones slashed at the warlock's unprotected body. The freak storm ended as quickly as it had begun, though, leaving the glade silent save for the labored gasps of the bruised and bleeding warlock. Then a high-pitched keening arose. The wriggling body attached to the stone swelled, exploding out of itself. The red glow disappeared as the stone was engulfed by the spider's abdomen. In a matter of seconds the creature was the size of a tracking hound.
Black smoke billowed from the scroll where Malthus's blood had sprayed across the parchment. The spider continued to grow, shuddering and twitching in agony as it approached the height of a tall dwarf. The scroll burst into flame, bright orange spikes of fire tinged with black. By the time the parchment was consumed, the spider's underside cleared the ground by twelve feet. It froze in place for a moment as the wracking convulsions subsided, then rushed at Malthus with dizzying speed. The warlock, still kneeling, raised his bloody hand and the creature came to an immediate halt. The underside of its thorax and abdomen pulsated with red light.
“Find the mate,” whispered Malthus. “You'll be released when the stone is whole."
The spider's pedipalp waved in unsynchronized patterns. It lowered its head so that the beady eyes pointed directly at the warlock. They remained locked that way for a moment, exhausted warlock and unnatural beast in a contest of willpower. Finally, the massive spider whirled and rushed away. It disappeared in an instant, scrambling with mad fury toward the other half of the lodestone, buried beneath the pavestones in Shipman's Plaza.
* * * * *
Hawkin stretched his arms as he strolled from the barracks. He rolled his shoulders and twisted at the waist, stretching as though he'd just awoken. Actually, the flyer had been on duty the entire previous night. He'd taken his weekly dosage of sortium in the morning meal, however, and as a result was brimming with energy. He fancied he could feel the potion coursing through his blood, warming his muscles and urging him toward the sky. The sensation of power was incredible; the first time Hawkin had consumed the sortium, he'd sprinted about the parade grounds for two hours, not trusting himself to the heights with such unfamiliar strength. That was three years ago, when he was a new recruit in the Air Corps. Now he relished the thought of that weekly burn-off, darting through the clouds and rising high enough that only the eagles and falcons kept him company.
He ran for the far side of the barracks while shrugging his harness into place. A narrow ramp leaned against the end of the building. He slipped his hands through the directionals as he ran up the incline. His feet hardly touched the tiles of the barracks roof, then he launched off the far end, spreading his wings as he dove. He shot upward with an exhilarating crack, fearing momentarily that he'd overdone it and bent the frame of the glider. The ground continued to fall away, however, and Hawkin circled the parade ground as he gained altitude. When the drilling infantry had melted into blobs of motion, Hawkin dropped the waist strap to his thighs and drifted toward the southern wall.
The air in the upper reaches was crisp and cool. He floated high enough that even the ever-present stench of Rottown was undetectable. His shadow fell across another flyer, who looked up, spotted him and dipped one wing. Hawkin waved back and banked toward the south.
The Swasinee River trailed away from the city to terminate in the sparkling blue of Lake Farnighan, just a bare glimmer from this distance. The great willows and oaks of the southern forest lay like a massive green carpet at the foot of the Black Mountains. As he passed over the gate, Hawkin dropped down a bit and counted the archers on the inner and outer walls; such habits became automatic for the flyers even when off-duty.
After aligning himself with the Southern Highway, Hawkin rode the air streams in the direction of the Stronghold. The warm breeze carried the scent of fresh leaves and a hint of moisture. Far to the east, he thought he could make out the dark edge of an approaching thundercloud. He turned his gaze back to the highway and searched for approaching caravans. Instead, an odd disturbance in the forest captured his attention. Just a few miles south of the city, the upper branches were twisting and snapping as if a small tornado were passing through the trees. He dove a bit lower, puzzled. He was well-attuned to changes in the wind; it hardly moved this morning. Also, the disturbance was approaching Hurst. Though it followed an erratic course, weaving from side to side, it was definitely headed for the city. When the creature burst onto the highway, Hawkin nearly fell from the sky. Stunned into carelessness, he bent his legs and allowed the waist strap to slip. The young flyer plummeted instantly toward the giant spider.
The new few seconds were spent frantically wrestling the glider under control. H
awkin thrust his legs back and beat downward with his arms, praying that the frame would withstand the stress. The spider paused in its travel, and Hawkin was positive it saw him. At these proportions, the flyer must bear a striking resemblance to the creature's usual breakfast.
As he gained height he saw the creature contract in on itself, bunching its legs beneath its body. A horrifying thought struck him and he beat his wings even more frantically. Sure enough, the spider sprang into the air. Hawkin saw it coming and screamed, but the unnatural beast fell short of its prey by a good distance. The flyer fought the urge to panic and climbed a bit higher, then oriented himself toward Hurst and dove. Despite the spider's incredible speed he gained a good lead as he whipped through the downward arc. Unfortunately, the wind had picked up slightly and blew from the north. Hawkin flapped his arms and rose again, thankful for the extra surge from the recent sortium dosage. Heart pounding, he dove once more. The spider scrambled closer but didn't jump. Hawkin heard the scrape of the creature's legs against the packed dirt but kept his eyes to the north, where the highway narrowed and vanished. He knew the city wasn't far beyond the horizon but every foot felt like a mile.
Hawkin led the spider on a harrowing chase, pulling away with every dive, falling back in between. They continued this way for the space of two miles before he realized he was no longer leading the unnatural creature. He was almost certain the spider had lost interest in him; it actually pulled ahead occasionally. Whether leading or following, it continued toward Hurst without slowing. The horrified flyer was sure the city walls would present little hindrance to the creature. Just as the thought shot through his mind, the southern gate came into view.
The flyer climbed immediately, conscious that every wasted second brought the spider closer to Hurst. When he judged his elevation sufficient, Hawkin made a peculiar shrugging motion with one shoulder. The right wing of the glider locked in place outstretched, and he slipped his hand from the directional on that side. He snatched a small, glass vial from where it was bound to his harness. Bringing it to his mouth, he wrenched out the cork with his teeth and tossed the tiny vessel into the air. The vial erupted into a pyrotechnic display, shooting streamers of flaming red in all directions. Hawkin flinched, but the wash of light brought no heat.
Blinking the crimson spots away from his eyes, he squinted toward the north. Dark shapes ran atop the wall, and the flyer knew his flare had been seen. The spider continued on toward the city, mindless of the display above. Hawkin followed and prayed that the warning would be answered in time.
* * * * *
Alexander exited the inn and turned automatically to the north. His feet headed for Shipman's Plaza while his mind wandered. A wisp of an idea teased the back of his mind; it had begun formulating just as he awoke. It refused to surface throughout breakfast, so he turned his thoughts to the day's activities. He planned on meeting Adriana at midday; the counselor's morning was busy with business in the keep. Until then, he had decided to occupy himself with a visit to the site of Rominfeld's murder. He was certain that all evidence of the fight would be gone by now, but the Huntsman wanted to get a feel for the place itself.
One aspect of the bard's demise stood out for him compared to the other victims. While all others were slain in relatively remote locales, the deviant had taken a considerable risk in attacking Rominfeld. The alley next to a busy pub was likely frequented numerous times throughout a given night. Also, the city watch appeared quite vigilant. A creature such as that described by the ratter would be difficult to march through town, even in the dead of night.
Something flashed to Alexander's left. He looked around, searching through the sparse foot traffic. The glinting light appeared again just as a rickshaw thundered by; Alexander dodged around it impatiently and angled across the road. When the signal appeared a third time, he spotted the source. A small figure was huddled against a wall on a narrow side street. It held a piece of polished metal in one hand, which reflected the sunlight in Alexander's direction. When his head turned toward the alley, the person stepped away from the wall and pulled her hood away from her face. It was Kandys.
Alexander started toward her, and the thief's head snapped to the side. He followed her gaze instinctively and found a pair of soldiers staring at her. They stood on his side of the street, one dwarf and one man, and argued briefly. With an exasperated shrug the dwarf led his comrade across the road. Kandys was gone in an instant, bolting down the side street. The dwarf gave a surprised shout, and both soldiers took off after the fleeing woman. A rickshaw slewed to a stop as they crossed heedlessly. Pedestrians scrambled out of the way; a gnome cursed as his basket of vegetables broke on the pavestones. Alexander watched the soldiers disappear down the alley, counted slowly to three, then set off after them.
* * * * *
Two-dozen archers lined the outer wall while half that number of spearman milled about the gate below. The massive doors had been closed and bolted, and the inner portcullis was set to drop at an instant's notice. The men on the wall watched the trails of red smoke dissipate and scanned the sky for the flyer who had dropped the flare. The Sandlanders camped by the highway now milled about the empty zone between the inner and outer barriers. There'd been some brief arguing about what to do with the foreign troops in the face of an unidentified threat. Though no one wanted to leave them unprotected, they also didn't want the responsibility of bringing the Burning Men inside the city defenses.
The black-robed soldiers arrayed themselves between the two gates, weapons ready. The majority of them faced the outside. Above, the archers spoke quietly amongst themselves, some nervous, others certain that the signal had been an accident. Each man had an arrow ready.
A rush of stamping feet heralded the arrival of a pike crew, mostly dwarves. They carried long, stout spears and halberds and were followed closely by the captain on duty for the south wall. Like the other archers, the captain didn't sport a nose ring. Most of the archers knew him—those that didn't recognized the emblem on his collar. They came to attention, half turning to the captain, the other half searching the grounds beyond the wall.
“Captain Barrikar,” said one of the men, “we haven't spotted the threat yet."
“There's the flyer,” called one of the other archers.
Barrikar strode to the front of the company, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he walked. “Fan out in a line,” he said. “Every man ready to fire. The infantry can take messages if—what in all the hells is that?"
A collective gasp and a few shouts sounded from the wall as the giant spider hurtled into view. It rounded a slight bend in the road and barreled down a straight path to the gate just behind the figure of the diving Hawkin. Whistles pierced the air from high above as the other flyers caught sight of the chase. A bow clattered to the stone walkway, and one of the archers leaned over the edge, losing the contents of his stomach to the ground below. The man beside Barrikar was babbling incomprehensibly. He still held his bow, but the nocked arrow flipped around madly as the man's hands shook. Barrikar motioned to one of the dwarven pikemen.
“Take him away, and any others who panic,” the captain said. He fought to keep his voice calm as the monstrous spider approached. “Disarm them so they're not a hazard."
The dwarf nodded and signaled his men. Three stunned archers were led or carried away from the line while Barrikar gave orders to the remainder.
“Half the company to my left, fire as soon as it's within range. To my right, hold for a count of three. Alternate volleys as such, and get as many arrows as you can into that ... thing, before it hits the wall."
“Captain, do you suppose it can—"
“I'd wager your month's pay on it. First group, fire!"
A hail of arrows shot through the air. Hawkin had already begun to rise, aware of the danger. Nearly a dozen shafts sped toward the maddened creature, and over half found their mark. The steel points merely bounced off its tough skin, skipping away as they struck at shallow angles. A de
spairing groan sounded all about the captain, but his men stood their ground and drew again. The second flight was already reaching the beast. One shot had a bit more luck; it managed to pierce the armor-like hide and stick in the top of the spider's thorax. The monster never slowed. Two more clouds of arrows rained down on it, then it was on the wall.
The speed with which it traversed the wall was unbelievable. The archers scrambled back as the pikemen rushed forward. Two stout dwarves thrust their nine-foot spears straight into the face of the onrushing horror. The hafts snapped and one dwarf dropped to his knees, clasping a broken arm with the opposite hand. The other soldiers attempted to brace their weapons against the ground or set themselves to attack as the spider crested the wall. A halberd skidded off the side of the thorax, scoring a bloodless cut near one of the leg joints. Once again, the creature showed no sign of pain. It tore into the defenders with unchecked fury, lashing out with claw-tipped legs that had gripped the outer wall as if it were made of soft wood. Chain mail and boiled leather offered almost no resistance to huge mandibles. Screams, shouts, and curses filled the air.
A body hurtled down into the dead zone between walls, crashing to the ground amidst the Sandlanders. Four of the Burning Men bellowed orders to the others, who quickly formed into tight boxes with their weapons drawn. For half a second, the sunlight was eclipsed as the spider bounded from one wall to the next. The astonished desert men could only watch as the monster disappeared from sight.
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