Web of Eyes

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Torsten reached him just in time and deflected the blow. He dragged Whitney back as another slashed the dirt between his legs, then lifted him again.

  “It’s like fighting someone with eight swords,” Whitney complained.

  The four of them now stood side by side, Sora leaning on Whitney like a crutch. Bliss stretched out before them, purple eyes fuming with rage. The patter of her largest children closing in behind them grew louder and louder.

  “Can we run yet?” Whitney asked.

  “No. We hit her in the heart or the head,” Torsten said.

  The spider queen rushed once more. Torsten and Whitney both thrust their blades, barely nicking her armored underbelly but both taking hits from her spiny legs. They landed on their backs, hard, but recovered fast to charge back at her. Sora was on her knees, struggling to raise her knife and make another cut so she could help. Out of the corner of his eye, Torsten saw Uriah take her hand and place it aside.

  “No. This must end now.” Uriah used her knife to slice both of his palms. Then he dropped to the ground, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and clasped his bloody hands together.

  “What are you doing!” Torsten questioned.

  “I didn’t know we could take breaks,” Whitney said, panting hard before he was forced to duck under another massive leg. A second one caught him from the other direction and sent him flying into the wall of the cave.

  “Whitney!” Sora rasped and stumbled.

  Uriah began muttering under his breath in Drav Crava. A swirling cloud of black smoke rose around him, and a bright red light glowed as if he himself were a beacon.

  “What is this, Uriah?” Torsten questioned.

  Uriah didn’t answer, but he began to levitate.

  “Uriah!” Torsten shouted.

  Bliss' expression revealed concern for the very first time.

  “This will not work,” Bliss spat, venom lacing her words.

  “Torsten, ready your blade.” Uriah’s voice was… different. It carried on the air, surrounding them like Bliss' had.

  Torsten lifted his claymore. Bliss was so distracted by Uriah that there would be no better chance. She lashed out at Uriah’s floating body, but the black smoke swirled around her limbs, holding them in place and exposing her human half.

  “Strike her, now!” Uriah shouted.

  Torsten bounded forward and slashed, drawing a deep gash along her belly. Half a dozen spiders promptly tore their way through the bloody hole and leaped at him. One bit down on his bare hand.

  Whitney came too and rushed to Torsten, hacking at the spiders with his dagger. There were too many. A small fireball raced by, pathetic compared to Sora’s usual magic, but enough to hit several of them at once. They shrieked in pain as they shriveled. “My babies!” Bliss writhed, her spider legs struggling to hold her belly together.

  “Again!” Uriah called. “I cannot hold this much longer!”

  Torsten lunged, this time plunging the sword all the way through. Her legs battered him, but he stood firm, drove deeper, and twisted his blade. Black blood poured out, coating his arms and flooding down his torso.

  She stopped fighting and pulled him in closer until her gorgeous face was his whole world. Torsten remembered what happened to the dire wolf when she blew on him. He closed his eyes, preparing for her to drag him into death with her when Uriah’s blade joined his in her chest. The former Wearer of White had descended and now stood at his side, flaying her wide. That same black mist swirled around his hands and exuded from his mouth.

  Bliss' scream shook the earth beneath their feet as she lurched. She pushed them away, and the blades slid out. Blood gushed from her like a castle fount as her legs fumbled for traction.

  “Fools!” she bellowed. “I will slaughter every last one of you. I will devour your children. Even Iam could not destroy—”

  Torsten roared and swung his sword with all his might, spinning as he did, and cleaved her neck mid-sentence. Her legs crumpled, and her head teetered before tumbling down along with them. The forest hushed when it came to a stop. Then an ear-piercing cry echoed all around them. The children, mourning the loss of their mother. It was sharp and sudden and gone just as quickly. Then they all scattered into the trees.

  “That’s right, you better run!” Whitney hollered.

  Torsten looked around. Sora was spent, barely able to stand. Whitney’s filthy clothes were drenched in blood and he, like Torsten, was covered in bruises.

  The only sounds in the darkness were sharp, labored breaths, the crackling of the dying flames at their backs, and the sizzle of black magic surrounding Uriah.

  XXXIII

  THE KNIGHT

  Yarrington.

  Torsten swore he’d never been so happy to see the glory of the capital in all his life. From the dark, towering trees of the Webbed Woods, to the white-stone spires and crystal spindle swirling atop the distant castle—he’d been to war in plenty of places but never had the difference been so stark. Mount Lister’s snow-dusted, flat top glistened under the bright winter sun as a backdrop to it all.

  He sat atop his steed staring down upon the city from a nearby hill. It seemed more peaceful than ever. Redstar was slung over the back of his saddle, bound, gagged, and so far he hadn’t tried any tricks. Uriah’s sword was strung along the side of it, finally able to be returned to its proper place.

  Whitney and Sora sat on the horse behind him, the thief finally quiet for once in his Iam-forsaken life, and Sora finally at full strength after Torsten had felt Iam appear through her to save them all. He was sure of it. And because of that, he was about to allow a known blood mage to enter the capital.

  The world really has changed...

  They’d traded for two horses at the first stable they found outside the Webbed Woods. There were few southern villages left that hadn’t already been razed by the growing Black Sands army, so stocky, southern shorthairs were the only option. Whitney hesitated to give up his stolen arrow-shaped amulet in exchange for such inferior beasts, but he eventually gave in when he realized walking was the only alternative.

  Torsten couldn’t help but feel like the young man was finally starting to see the weight of their actions. How a quest, so foolish in its description, could help save the Glass Kingdom.

  “Are you planning on sitting up here all day?” Whitney asked. “Sora can really use a bath.”

  “Excuse me!” She smacked him in the back of the head.

  “What? We all can. Nice, warm, castle water. A fresh rack of lamb. Rosemary potatoes.”

  Torsten glanced back at him, incredulous. Then his stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing but the stale bread Uriah—Redstar—had given him for days.

  “We’re heroes, Shieldsman,” Whitney said, clearly protesting the look Torsten sent his way. “It’s the least we deserve. We rescued a hand-sewn damsel—dame?—in distress, thwarted an Arch Warlock, and slew an evil, goddess, spider... thing.”

  “Is a name of worth not enough?” Torsten questioned.

  “You have met him, haven’t you?” Sora said. “Nothing is ever enough.”

  “You’re learning,” Whitney said.

  “Stop.” Torsten held out a hand and nodded toward the doll tucked into Whitney’s belt.

  “I said you’d get it when we reached Yarrington.”

  “This is close enough. We will be better received if it is in my hands.”

  Whitney looked to Sora, who seemed too preoccupied marveling at the great city to care. He sighed and handed it over.

  “It’s a creepy little thing anyway,” Whitney said. “Not to mention all the gross, spider-woman blood you got all over it.”

  Torsten raised Pi’s Drav Cra orepul in front of him—the boy’s supposed soul. The thing was a wreck. A year or so in Queen Bliss' lair hadn’t been kind to it. An eye was missing, and the dark stains of blood—both old and new—and dirt would never wash out.

  That the entire kingdom could rely on something so small and worthless...
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  Torsten tucked it away. “Let’s go home.”

  “Your home maybe,” Whitney muttered.

  Torsten spurred his horse on down the paved road into Yarrington. The farms outside were quiet, touched by winter’s frost. A few lonely, old farmers tilled the soil to keep it fresh, but naught for that, only stubborn crows disturbed the stillness. Smoke climbed from the mills and homesteads, firelight glowing through hazy windows.

  Torsten always enjoyed winter. Quiet. Fewer foreign traders to monitor, and the people were usually too cold to cause much of a stir. It made his job easier, and coming back from Liam’s war campaigns had always exhausted the King’s Shield.

  It was different now, like so much else. The city may have looked peaceful on the outside, but as soon as they reached the gate, Torsten knew Yarrington wasn’t the same place he’d left. The main eastern gate into the city hadn’t been sealed in ages, yet now the tremendous, oak doors were closed and the steel portcullis lowered.

  He brought his horse to a snorting halt.

  “Who goes there?” A voice shouted down from the stony ramparts.

  “Where are the trumpets?” Whitney whispered.

  “Torsten Unger!” he shouted up. “King’s Shieldsman. The Wearer of White.” It was only as the words left his lips that Torsten remembered he was lying. He’d never actually said out loud what he no longer was.

  “Sir Rand Langley’s the Wearer now!” the guard replied. “I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here.”

  “Did I just hear him right?” Whitney said.

  “Quiet,” Torsten snapped. He looked back up. “Fetch Sir Wardric Jolly! He'll be expecting me. I bring a gift that may very well save our young, ailing king.”

  The guard hesitated, but soon disappeared, leaving them to wait in the cold. A northern breeze bit at Torsten’s nose and cheeks, though it was welcome compared to the fetid stench of swamps and cursed woods. He took a moment to inhale the chilly air through his nostrils when Whitney tapped his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Rand?” Whitney said. “He’s the way-too-young knight who took my crown. What is that guy talking about?”

  “It wasn’t your crown, and it’s complicated.”

  “No, alchemy is complicated. This is simple. Are you the Wearer or did you lie to me when I agreed to this insane adventure?”

  “The Queen Regent is impulsive. When we return, she will see reason, and you’ll get everything we agreed upon. You have my word.”

  “Your word? Are you even a knight?”

  “Well...”

  Whitney’s jaw dropped.

  It hadn’t occurred to Torsten until they defeated Bliss that he may not be able to offer what he promised should they succeed. He didn’t care about disappointing Whitney— the thief had done more than enough to deserve disappointment—but a vow made under the light of Iam was a sacred thing.

  “I knew I didn’t like him, Whitney,” Sora said. “We should leave right now, before he turns on us, too.”

  “Look,” Torsten said. “The Queen Regent sent me off in anger. When she sees what we return with, all will be forgiven. I will ensure you get what was promised, thief.”

  Whitney took a long hard look at the road from whence they came and scratched his chin. “Fine. But I swear: if you go back on it, I’ll burn that doll. Or maybe I’ll sneak back into your Royal Crypt and turn your beloved King’s old crown back into sand.”

  “My word is my bond. If I’m unable to anoint you, I have friends in the castle who will honor my final request.”

  “What about her?” he asked, nodding to Sora.

  “I agreed upon nothing with her.”

  “We’d be dead without her, and you know it.”

  “Perhaps there is redemption for you, thief. Whether you fled and left me to die in those ruins or not, you returned and stood by to the end. But no Shieldsman, I, nor any other, can, in good conscience, bestow a name upon a known practitioner of the dark arts.”

  “But you said it yourself, you’re not a Shieldsman.”

  Torsten bit back his anger. “All I can offer is that she may walk free. I will say nothing of her malfeasance and see to it she is rewarded appropriately in autlas, as any aid to the Crown would be. Perhaps enough that she may pursue a decent art.” He eyed her disapprovingly with the last words. “Her fate rests in Iam’s hands now, and after what I witnessed in that forest, I have faith she’ll find the right path.”

  “She saved us all! You said it yourself, ‘Iam worked through her’, or some mumbo-jumbo.”

  “It’s okay, Whit,” Sora interrupted Whitney. “I don’t need a name or gold. The Crown’s never offered a poor, outsider like me anything anyway.”

  “Well, then what do you want?”

  Chimes from Yarrington Cathedral rang out before she could answer. Then the gate creaked as old gears inside the wall slowly turned, grinding against one another. The doors opened to reveal Sir Wardric atop a strong, regal-looking stallion. It had only been a few weeks, and the already-elder statesmen of the King’s Shield looked as if he’d aged a decade. His graying hair and beard were haggard, his face creased like a stone quarry.

  “Wardric, you have no idea how good it is to see a familiar face,” Torsten exclaimed cheerily. He chose not to dwell on how the two of them left things, almost killing each other. As Torsten stretched out his arms in greeting, Wardric’s expression was as solemn as it had been then.

  “I figured you weren’t coming back,” he said.

  “I have captured the Queen Regent’s traitorous brother and returned what was stolen. Please, I must speak to her.”

  Wardric bit his lip. “You should come with me, Torsten.”

  “What happened?”

  “I dare not speak it here. Come.”

  Torsten urged his horse forward, looking down upon it with shame in the light of Wardric’s tall steed. Whitney and Sora followed.

  “Who are they?” Wardric asked.

  “They helped me bring Redstar to justice and are to be rewarded justly.” Torsten glanced back at them. Whitney wore that same wry grin he’d been found wearing in the Yarrington dungeon on the day they’d met. Sora’s scowl, on the other hand, made him reach for his holy pendant he no longer wore. “They can be trusted.”

  “So be it.”

  Wardric spun his horse, and Torsten caught up. It was only once he passed the guard’s tower he realized the state of Yarrington. He’d seen many cities, and—outside of the docks—the capital had always been the cleanest. No longer. It was as if the citizens had stopped working. Horse shog stained the streets. Beggars and paupers donned the porches of every shopfront, crowding the usually bustling entry plaza. Commotion broke out down one of the avenues, armed soldiers holding back a mob of rag-clad citizens hollering that they were starving.

  “The Black Sands hit many granaries when they raided those towns,” Wardric explained as they rode as if reading Torsten’s mind. “As if the poor harvest this season from the drought wasn’t enough. Stores are low, and we had to send as much as we could to fortify our fortresses throughout the kingdom against possible uprising.”

  “We should fortify the South first,” Torsten said. “I sent riders with news about the afhem gathering an army in the Fellwater. Did they reach you?”

  “Yes.” Wardric reached into a satchel and removed Torsten’s necklace. It was covered in grime, barely recognizable as the holy eye. He handed it over.

  Torsten exhaled as he took it and threw it back over his neck. He hadn’t realized how exposed he felt without it until it was back.

  “I worried they wouldn’t make it,” he said.

  “They’re safely locked up for spreading lies and fear-mongering.”

  “Lies? Fear-mongering? I saw the force with my own eyes, Wardric. It’s the largest army we’ve faced in a decade, I swear to you.”

  “It’s not me you must convince.”

  “Oleander,” Torsten muttered to himself, hanging his head. “Surely Rand
—”

  “Is a spineless whelp,” he said, finishing Torsten’s sentence. “He stands guard outside her locked door while she sits with her son. Half the men whisper of a coup, the others lose faith in Iam and the White.”

  “How is the boy?”

  Wardric brought his horse close and leaned over to whisper. “He still has not woken. The physicians say nothing more can be done, and now the Queen Regent won’t allow anybody in. He could already be dead for all we know.”

  “Don’t speak like that!” Torsten snapped, less because he was angry, and more because if Pi was dead than his entire quest was in vain.

  “Hey, what’re you two whispering about?” Whitney hollered from behind.

  Torsten’s hands squeezed his reins so tight his knuckles went white as Brotlebir snow.

  “Well, you know her better than anyone left,” Wardric said. “If that really is her brother, sate her with revenge, and then, maybe, she’ll open her damned eyes. Otherwise, we’re doomed to wind up like the others.”

  “Others?” No sooner had the word left Torsten’s mouth than they reached the walls of the Glass Castle itself. Bodies hung by their necks from the parapets facing the street, some in robes, some stripped bare. At first, he hoped they were all cultists or traitors but then recognized one.

  “Deturo? What in the name of Iam?” Torsten traced his eyes.

  “He couldn’t heal Pi after she waited so long,” Wardric said. “Nor could the others.”

  Torsten didn’t know the royal physician well, but the old man had always been kind and as knowledgeable as his white beard was long. His left eye was missing. A raven sat upon his shoulder, blood on the tip of its beak.

  Others were more doctors, healers, or clerics of Iam. There were also soldiers. Not King’s Shieldsmen, but many of them wore the armor of castle-guards. All dead. He rode slowly, down the line, absentmindedly staring into all their bulging, blank eyes. Then, another stuck out; The Master of Rolls, Frederick Holgrass, the noose fresh around his neck. A member of Royal Council, hanged for all of Yarrington to see. Yet, it was not him which made Torsten’s throat go dry.