Web of Eyes: (Buried Goddess Saga Book 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Fear over what she was capable of. Fear over what she couldn’t control.

  “Just forget it,” he said. “If you say it won’t happen again then I believe you.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said.

  “I swear, I d—shhh, did you hear that?”

  “You’re not going to trick me out of this conversa...” Her words trailed off because Whitney’s hand was suddenly covering her lips.

  “I’m being serious,” he whispered. “Put out the fire.”

  When the crackle of the fire stopped, the sound of a branch snapping echoed.

  “Was that—”

  “Footsteps,” Whitney finished for her.

  “Who would be here?” Sora said.

  “The knight said Redstar was here, but he didn’t know where. Might be him or one of his followers. Go hide over there. We’ll get the drop on whoever it is.”

  “You go hide,” she bristled.

  Whitney gave her a light shove and said, “This isn’t the time for chivalry.”

  A few moments later, a hulking shadow fell over Whitney. He drew his daggers and turned to face the giant.

  “Come on then,” he said, voice quavering just a bit. “Let’s do this.”

  The figure stepped forward. It was a meter away, and Whitney felt sweat beading on his forehead and the small of his back even though the air was brisk.

  “I knew you were a bloody fool,” said the giant, “but I had no idea you were this stupid.”

  He lunged forward and snatched Whitney by the collar. Whitney brought his blades down, but they clanked against steel.

  “Quit that, thief!”

  “Torsten?” Whitney asked, but it was too late.

  Sora leaped down from a low-lying tree branch onto Torsten’s back. Torsten grabbed her arm and plucked her off before she could stab him with her knife.

  “Enough!” he roared.

  “Okay, okay,” Whitney squawked—which wasn’t easy under the crushing force of the meat hook Torsten called a hand.

  “I ought to crush you where you stand, coward.”

  “This is the knight?” Sora grated, her throat being squeezed by his other hand.

  “There was only time to get one of us out, I swear,” Whitney gargled.

  “Say what you will, but Iam sees through your lies,” Torsten said.

  “It’s true! I’m here, aren’t I? Finishing what we started.”

  Torsten drew him so close Whitney could actually see his face in the dark. And smell him. He was coated in mud, blood, and gods know what else. It made the stench of the swamp seem like an oleander blossom in retrospect.

  Torsten growled, then finally dropped them.

  “Gods, your hands are freezing!” Whitney groaned a moment after he landed hard on the moss-covered forest floor.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t be had you not destroyed my gauntlets,” Torsten said.

  Whitney’s lip twisted. “Sorry about that.”

  Torsten rubbed his shoulder, wincing as he did. Whitney thought he noticed something sticking out of the metal through the oppressive darkness, but didn’t have time to ask.

  “What in Iam’s name are you wearing?” Torsten asked.

  Whitney stood, brushed off his silks, and said, “I think I look rather dapper, what’s your excuse?”

  Sora moaned.

  “You look like a jester,” Torsten said. “Who’s she? Trick some knife-ear harlot into helping you? Plan to leave her for dead too?”

  Fire erupted in Sora’s hand again. She held it to Torsten’s face, and Whitney could see the fear rippling through his features as he backed away slowly. Whitney wasn’t sure if it was the fire or the realization that he was standing before a blood mage.

  “Put that out, now,” Torsten said through clenched teeth.

  “Call me a knife-ear again,” she said.

  “Really?” Whitney said. “Of those two insults that’s the one you care about?”

  She shot a glower his way.

  “All right,” he said. “Your call.”

  “If I saw that flame, how many other things in these woods do you think are now keenly aware of your presence, witch?” Torsten asked.

  “Better than being strangled by… by living vines,” she spat.

  “Legends speak of evils here that swords cannot cut. If you fear vines, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  Whitney swore. “He’s right.”

  Sora growled and extinguished the fire. “Well, I still don’t like that name.”

  “Didn’t you just learn about it the other day?”

  She punched Whitney in the arm. “I’m not a harlot either,” she added.

  “What you both are, is stupid,” Torsten muttered. “Holding a beacon of cursed fire in your hand like an invitation to a masquerade! Black magic is like a candle to demonic creatures.”

  “What about you?” Whitney asked. “Your footsteps are about as soft as a zhulong’s.”

  “Why did you say that?” Torsten asked with unexpected urgency. “Did you encounter them as well?”

  Something shrieked from the bushes, so shrill it raised the hairs on Whitney’s neck. The three went silent and backed up against each other. Torsten drew his claymore and held it at the ready, Whitney his daggers.

  “You two just couldn’t keep your mouths shut!” Sora snapped. Fire wreathed her bleeding hand again.

  “Did I mention I hate forests?” Whitney said.

  Suddenly, a slew of demonic cackles issued from every direction, echoing up through the dense canopy. Whitney’s hairs already stood on end, but now his heart was clamoring within his chest. Years of adventuring across Pantego, and he’d never heard a sound so purely wicked.

  “Show your faces, cowards!” Torsten barked, claymore gripped tight.

  “It’s too dark, they can’t,” Whitney whispered.

  The hidden creatures moved in concentric circles around them, slowly closing in. Whitney couldn’t see them, but he heard every movement. At times they sounded like frolicking children, at others something far more sinister.

  “I told you that fire was going to draw attention,” Torsten said.

  “Oh, and you think it had nothing to do with the volume at which you berated us?” Sora spat. “Get off your high horse, Shieldsman.”

  “I remember when we had a horse,” Whitney said.

  “Not now!”

  “Everyone, be quiet!” Torsten shouted.

  Just then, one of the creatures passed close enough to be illuminated by Sora’s magic.

  Its piercing, red eyes glowed, reflecting the searing brightness of the firelight. Two horns, short and stubby, jutted out of the top of its skull. Hair framed its face, peppered its upper body, and smothered its lower half which ended in a pair of hooves.

  Whitney knew what it was immediately, though he couldn’t believe his eyes. Satyrs were mischievous, vile creatures who were said to be able to smell fear. He had never come into contact with one before, only heard of their evil in songs by the bards throughout Pantego—and gods know their tales could never be trusted.

  “What is that?” Sora gasped.

  “Satyr,” Whitney and Torsten responded simultaneously. They shared a look. Torsten’s expression betrayed a modicum of approval, but he quickly returned his attention to the beast... which Whitney promptly realized wasn’t an apt description. It stood only three feet tall.

  “It’s so small,” Sora said. “Is it a baby?”

  “If that’s a baby, I’d hate to see its parents,” Whitney replied.

  “Well, I’m afraid you’re about to,” Torsten said, leveling his sword.

  Two more of the creatures appeared from within the brush. These stood nearly the height of Torsten. Their horns curled around like a goat’s and ended in a nasty looking hook. The child was unpleasant, but these creatures were hideous beyond compare. Their sharp, narrow features gave their faces the look of vultures, everything tapering toward the point of their aquiline noses. A nea
t row of jagged teeth glinted in the fire. And their eyes were red as hot embers.

  They spoke, words a gallimaufry of grunts and neighs.

  “What are they saying?” Whitney asked, but no one answered.

  Movement behind him and to each side told him they were surrounded. Satyrs were as legendary for their agility as they were for their tricks. If they wanted, they could have all three of them sliced and skewered before they even managed to take out the child. The creatures were said to live in dens, and Whitney would bet all his hidden treasures around the world they’d accidentally stumbled upon one.

  “Uh, Torsten?” Whitney said. “Any knightly plans for this?”

  “They smell fear,” Torsten said.

  “Then I must stink.”

  “How many more?” Torsten asked, not daring take his eye off the three in front of him.

  “At least nine,” Sora said.

  “Of all the ways I thought I would die…”

  “We mean you no harm,” Torsten stepped forward and said. “If we are trespassing on your grounds, we will leave.”

  The larger of the three hopped forward twice, then crouched.

  “Get ready,” Torsten said.

  “For what?” Whitney asked, voice cracking.

  As if in response, the rest hopped forward, forcing Whitney, Sora, and Torsten back to back. Sora's flame grew larger. Whitney’s hands were so sweaty he could barely hold onto his weapons. Fighting Shesaitju warriors suddenly seemed preferable.

  Torsten swung his sword in a horizontal arc, not intending to make contact. A warning. Satyrs were the spawn of fallen gods and Elsewhere, but they were intelligent enough, Whitney hoped, not to want any of their family to die senselessly at the hands of a mighty Shieldsman.

  The leader whistled sharply. Whitney heard scattering from all directions. The baby in front of them turned tail—literally—and fled.

  “The little ones are leaving,” Sora said.

  “That‘s a good sign, right Torsten?” Whitney whispered. “Right?”

  The leader shuffled again.

  “Put the weapon away, knight, it will do you no good in any case,” said the largest of them. His voice was high and felt like gravel against Whitney’s ears.

  “Your manipulation won’t work on me, demon,” Torsten said.

  “A pity,” the beast said, “I thought this would be quick.”

  “We do not desire a fight, although I will not hesitate to send you sprawling back from whence you came. Return to the dark planes of Elsewhere, or find yourself in the fires of exile.”

  The cackling came again. “If a fight is not what you desire, a shred of respect would carry you a long way. These are our woods.” As if to solidify his claim, he raised his hands, and several vines snapped upward, cracking against the air like whips. “What could possibly bring such feeble humans into our domain?”

  “Another human,” Whitney said. “You seen him?”

  “Ah, so your friends can speak?”

  “We can do far more than that,” Sora said. Flames erupted in Sora’s hands, painting the forest bright orange for barely a moment before her fire was squelched. Sora gasped.

  “Do not deceive yourself, young blood mage,” the satyr said, his own preternatural light emanating from his body. It was a soft glow but provided enough light to see their surroundings clearly. “Your powers are useless against us. Did you think drawing on the magic of Elsewhere would do you good against those who have tread on its planes?”

  “I’ve heard enough of your poisonous words, demon,” Torsten said. “Leave now and be spared the wrath of Iam!” He lunged and thrust his claymore. He caught only air. The satyr lashed out and scratched Torsten’s cheek with razor sharp claws, sending him staggering backward.

  It grunted twice and bared its teeth, yellow and barbed. Faster than Whitney could register the movement, it fell to its hands and kicked out with both hooves catching Torsten in the midsection. His armor had likely saved his life. Two dents, roughly the size and shape of the hooves, remained. Still, even with the armor, it seemed to steal the air from his lungs.

  He clambered back, grunting in pain and clutching his shoulder. From the satyr’s light, Whitney now realized blood dripped from the area. The creature moved so fast he didn’t even see it strike him there.

  “Okay, okay, I’m sure we can talk this out,” Whitney said. Words were difficult to get out. None of the other satyrs attacked. He and Sora remained back to back while the beasts looked on from a safe distance, shifting their weight between hooves as if ready to charge.

  “What are they doing?” Sora asked.

  “Taunting us,” Whitney said. His hand brushed Sora’s, and for a second he considered dropping a dagger and grasping her hand before he remembered how bloody it was.

  “What do you want?” Torsten questioned the leader, breathless.

  “I already posed my question, why are you in our woods?” the satyr leader said. “You answered with an attack. Is this fight not what you wanted?”

  “We are here to find an Arch Warlock of the Drav Cra.” Whitney blurted. Nothing else was working, so he went to his last resort in negotiating. The truth.

  “A warlock you say?” The satyr glanced across the circle at one of its brethren. “Have you seen a warlock in these woods?”

  They laughed again together. Whitney tilted his head and clamped down, grinding his teeth against the sound.

  “I assure you, anything that stepped foot into these woods did so only by our knowing.” the satyr said. “If an Arch Warlock had been here, we would know. These are our woods, after all.”

  “I’m confused,” Whitney said. “I thought some giant spider named Bliss owned these woods. You have a ledger you can show us?”

  The satyr spread its arms wide, lowered its head, and released a spine-tingling hiss. “Do not speak that name!” When it dropped its hands, a vine swung around from a nearby tree and wrapped tight over Whitney’s mouth. Two more restrained his arms.

  “Let him go!” Sora demanded, raising her knife to her arm. Before she could draw blood, a vine wrapped her wrist. It squeezed so hard she dropped the weapon and fell to her knees.

  “Both of you keep quiet!” Torsten said, biting back pain and anger.

  “You are a knight of Iam, are you not?” The satyr stood erect again. The others followed his example.

  Torsten nodded and circled an eye with one finger as if a demon would care whether or not he could prove it.

  “Yet you travel with a blood mage?” it asked.

  “We only just met,” he said. “I don’t even know her name.”

  The satyr closed its eyes, then whispered, “Sora.” Its voice seemed to resonate all the way up through the canopy.

  Sora yelped. Whitney might have too if he could open his mouth.

  “What business is it of yours who I travel with, demon?” Torsten asked. If the demon knowing her name had shocked him as well, he didn’t let it show.

  “Her link with Elsewhere is strong,” it said. “Stronger than I have felt in some time.” Another vine shot out and grabbed Sora by the ankle, heaving her into the air. She hung upside down, face to face with the satyr.

  Whitney frantically screamed into his gag and swung his arms.

  Torsten raised a hand to quiet him.

  “If you only just met her,” the Satyr said. “Then you would not mind if we kept her. With her bond, she would likely produce formidable offspring.”

  Whitney‘s stomach turned over. The satyrs were mysterious creatures, but he remembered from the songs about them that all satyrs were male—using lesser races to bear their young. He’d thought it ridiculous at the time.

  “Sora!” Whitney cried. He pulled free, got his daggers up, and sliced the vine off his face. Three satyrs hopped in front of him as he tried to run to her. One of them threw a hard fist across his jaw and knocked him off his feet. The beast hit harder than any guard he’d ever encountered.

  “I cannot, w
ith a clear heart, allow you to take her,” Torsten said. “No matter what she is.”

  “Then it is a fight you want, Torsten of Yarrington?” the satyr leader said.

  Now it was Torsten’s turn to show how unsettling it was for a demon to know his name without him ever having spoken it. Whitney could tell he was struggling, trying to keep calm.

  “We wish only to pass deeper into the… your woods,” he said.

  Good one, Shieldsman. If Whitney knew two things about demons. Never trust them, and that flattery was the best way to bargain with them. He only wished he hadn’t been so overcome by fear and thought of it sooner.

  “Have you anything else so magnificent to offer?” The satyr extended a hand and ran one of its sharp claws across Sora’s cheek. She squirmed, but the blood rushing to her head from being upside down, and the fear visibly gripping her kept her quiet.

  The satyr leaned forward and sniffed her. “Fear,” it whispered, dragging out the word.

  “I have this!” Whitney said from the ground, stealing the beast’s attention. He raised the amulet he’d stolen from Darkings over his head and tossed it to the satyr. The creature studied it, the thick line of hair across its forehead furrowing.

  “It’s a precious amulet. It belonged to the great mystic… uh… I forget her name.”

  Do not waste my time with ugly, mortal trinkets,” the satyr said, then flicked the necklace back at Whitney’s feet.

  “Seriously?” Whitney said, lifting it back over his head and glanced between the shiny amulet and Sora. “It’s not ugly.”

  Torsten shifted his stance and tried to bring his sword to bear. One of his arms shook as he did. The satyr had already made him look foolish when he tried to strike it last, but a fight seemed inevitable, and their best chance at fighting was too injured to get his sword higher than his hip.

  Whitney remained on his hands and knees and slowly edged toward Sora, hoping none of the demon eyes would notice. She stared down at him, terrified, more than he could ever remember her being. He could rip her free and make a run for it, let Torsten fend for himself. It wasn’t the best plan, trying to outrun demons, but he’d only just started to enjoy his line of work again with Sora involved. He didn’t want to lose that already.