Venom and Song

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “If she dies,” said the Spider King, “the whole group will be diminished. I suppose that’s too much to hope for. What else?”

  “The Elves have compromised the Dark Veil.”

  “Yes,” said the Spider King. “That is how they defeated your battalion.”

  “What I mean, my king, is that the Elves had a garrison of archers hidden within the Veil.”

  “They did not alert our border guards?”

  “No, they were there already . . . waiting for us. And when they were convinced that we were finished, they disappeared with the Seven into the canyon.”

  The Spider King’s eyes narrowed for a moment. He stroked his dark goatee all the way down to its carefully trimmed point. He looked down at the map of the Thousand-League Forest. “Of course,” he said. And then he began to laugh. The chiseled muscle in his upper chest flexed as he laughed, deep, hearty guffaws that filled the room with sound. He arched his head back and roared with laughter. His mirth stopped abruptly, and the Spider King swept his hand across the map, sending figures skipping across the table and tearing three-jagged rifts in the animal skin.

  “My king?” said Ferral tentatively.

  “My good Ferral,” said the Spider King, “you have just solved the greatest mystery of this age. Where have the Elves of Berinfell gone? Thousands fled the city, this we knew. But in eight hundred years of searching, we were never able to determine their new location.”

  “And . . . now you know? Surely not the Veil?”

  “No.” He laughed out the words, “Not the Veil. Underground, Ferral. There are catacombs beneath the Dark Veil, running far to the west. Did you know that?”

  Ferral shook his head.

  “Yes, we used to mine a dremask vein there . . . before we found a better source. We never did explore those twisting passages beneath the ground. That was a miscalculation. We all believed the Elves would go to their strength—into the trees. There they could oppose us with some success or . . . lose themselves for hundreds of years. No . . . instead, they went to their weakness.”

  “I still don’t understand,” said Ferral.

  “The Elves cannot bear to part with the sun . . . it will kill them, if they remain secluded in darkness long enough. But they have gone beneath the surface . . . and they have access to this place via the huge storehouses of water—aquifers—beneath the Veil. I will send a thousand scouts to investigate. But in the meantime I must alter the scope of our search.”

  “How so?”

  “We must catch them in the sun,” said the Spider King. “They must come up. They must. As they have been for quite some time, it seems. We need to search the clearings in the forest, shelves of rocky mountains, the high branches of the tallest trees. Anyplace where they might soak in the sun.”

  “But we have not wings,” said Ferral.

  “No,” said the Spider King. “Not yet. But we will.”

  Ferral scratched at his own briar patch of beard. “I am not sure what you mean, my king, but we may not need wings after all. There’s one more bit of news.”

  “Go on.”

  “There is a Wisp among the Elves.”

  The Spider King tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “A Wisp? How could you possibly know that?”

  “I saw one of the Elves dissolve into smoke and then re-form.”

  “You saw this . . . in the Dark Veil? Even with the ambient gloom in that place?”

  “There was a great fire behind him. I could see him plainly. The Elf stumbled, dissipated into smoke, and then re-formed. He, in Elven likeness, ran off with the others as if he were one of them.”

  “The beauty of those creatures,” said the Spider King. “And how useful. They can vanish as fast as thinking only to materialize moments later in the guise of anyone. For all you know, Ferral, I might be a Wisp.”

  Uncomfortable silence hung between them. A flickering shadow fell over Ferral, and when he turned to look, he nearly jumped out of his skin. A hooded Drefid stood behind Ferral. I am going to die, Ferral thought as he looked up into the Drefid’s cold white eyes.

  “Good to see you, Asp,” said the Spider King. “I hoped you’d come today.”

  “I have much news,” he said, his voice like ice scraped across rough stone. Asp lowered his hood. From Ferral’s angle it looked like the Drefid was crowned with fire. But it was only the candle chandelier hanging behind him.

  “There’s been quite a lot of news shared here today,” the Spider King said, gesturing at Ferral.

  “You know about Mobius, then?” asked the Drefid.

  “Yes, and much more,” said the Spider King. “But I have many things to discuss with you. The muster on Earth proceeding as planned?”

  “Of course,” said Asp.

  The Spider King nodded. “As I thought.” He came around the table and stood beside Ferral. “Wait here then, would you?” he said to the Drefid. “I have some things to show Ferral. He has been of great service to our cause.”

  Asp nodded. “As you say.”

  The Spider King led Ferral out of the Plotting Chamber and down a dimly lit auxiliary hallway toward the rear of the fortress. It smelled of old metal and something else, a pungent, stinging aroma. In silence, they came to a large arched door made of blackened iron. The Spider King reached into the collar of his tunic and pulled out a thick key. He held it up for Ferral to see and then slipped it into the keyhole and turned it. There was an echoing metallic click.

  When the door swung open, a wall of heat washed over Ferral . . . heat and stench. “You possess more wisdom than the average Gwar infantryman,” said the Spider King. “I wish to expose you to more of our operation, our ultimate plan. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, my sovereign,” said Ferral, amazed. Things had worked out much better than he’d hoped.

  “Then follow me and listen.”

  The first eighty yards of this narrow tunnel were completely dark. Ferral walked cautiously behind the Spider King, listening to his master’s voice and taking great care not to accidentally cause him to trip or stumble. The scent was menacing, bringing tears to his eyes.

  “Yes, Ferral, it was incredibly shrewd of you to escape from the Elves at the Veil. The news you brought has left me breathless with new plans. Underground . . . who would have thought the Elves would go underground, so far from their precious sun? Children of Light, bah!”

  Red light from far ahead began to illuminate the passage, and soon the tunnel walls vanished as the Spider King and Ferral emerged into an enormous cavern. The heat was more oppressive, and there was a peculiar deep throbbing, more felt than heard. But it was the myriad of sights that stopped Ferral in his tracks.

  The path upon which they now stood stretched hundreds of yards across the cavern. Curving ramparts, some going up, some down, branched off from the main path like dozens of arteries from some massive organ. The vast floor area was lined with octagonal sections like honeycombs. These were all sizes, and some of them were covered with white filaments of webbing. And moving among them were beings whom Ferral mistook for Elves. They were everywhere. Some wheeled wooden carts full of sickly yellowish orbs. Others carried crinkled spider skins on their backs. Still others were on their hands and knees dipping cloths into barrels of some clear gelatinous substance and wiping it onto small sections of the honeycomb. And everywhere Ferral turned, there were Gwar taskmasters roaming the ramparts. Their whips, cudgels, and polearms were busy keeping the slaves focused and busy.

  “Humans, Ferral,” said the Spider King as he began to walk again. “They are tending to the spider fields, building our army, a force powerful enough to conquer two worlds.”

  “Two?” Ferral squinted. The air burned his eyes. “You mean . . . Earth?”

  “You are most assuredly officer quality,” said the Spider King. “Yes, Earth. It is fertile ground for our expansion. They are simple, reliant on their technology, and very, very soft. Even now, we are planning an invasion of their pretty w
orld. Slaves used to be enough. But not anymore.”

  They had traversed more than half of the main passage. Ferral saw much larger honeycombs here, many covered in a thin drape of webbing. Warspiders teemed within. Then he saw something that made him turn away. Quick as lightning, one of the larger Warspiders darted over its chamber, impaled a slave, and dragged him back.

  “Unpleasant, isn’t it?” said the Spider King. “Horrible way to die. And you know, I heard that spider’s thoughts. It was ravenous, like so many here.”

  As far as Ferral was concerned, the sooner they arrived at the other side of the cavern, the better. Timidly he asked, “Sir, do you think I might play a role in the conquest of this other world?”

  “Yes, I do,” he replied. “That’s why I brought you down here. You needed . . . a broader perspective.”

  They reached the other side and left the cavern behind. Climbing a curling, torch-lit staircase burrowed deep into the heart of the mountain, the Spider King spoke over his shoulder to Ferral. “Earlier, Ferral, you said Mobius’s plan failed. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, my king,” puffed Ferral, out of breath from the climb.

  “Good . . . then you should know that Mobius had no plan of his own making. It was my plan. And, Ferral . . . my plans do not fail. They can be improperly . . . executed . . . and that is what happened, I assure you.”

  “Of course, m’lord.” Ferral swallowed and warned himself not to get too comfortable around the Spider King. I’ve already put my foot in my mouth once . . . best keep quiet.

  The stairs ended at yet another iron door, and they entered an oval chamber about thirty yards across. Torches lined the interior, interspersed with a variety of statues in shallow alcoves. In the center, two throne seats looked out through a large window into a cavern of unguessable depth. The Spider King stood in front of the thrones and stared into the darkness. He seemed to be waiting.

  During the silent pause, Ferral found himself wondering about the thrones. Two seats carved from white stone by a masterful artist, they rose up from the floor like living things. Grooved milky-white bark, marbled through by slender black veins, these seats looked like trees that had grown into the shape of chairs. Curiously, the left-hand throne was dingy and scratched, its white stone smudged as if by years of use . . . and the clinging ash of Vesper Crag. But the right-hand seat, this appeared newly hewn and polished with great care. It almost glowed with its stark, ghostly white.

  “You’ve shown great initiative, Ferral,” said the Spider King, gesturing for Ferral to join him at the gaping window. “Initiative and wisdom. Perhaps I should make you an officer, a commander even. What do you say to that?”

  Ferral bowed low before answering. “I have no words, my king, only thanks. I am at your service in whatever capacity you see fit.”

  The Spider King nodded eagerly. “I believe you are even more than commander material, my good Gwar. I have in mind a special distinction for you.”

  Incredulous of his good fortune, Ferral bowed again. “Sir?”

  “In my army, there are many commanders . . . many more officers besides. But very few, save the Gwar and Drefid elites, earn such an honor as I am about to bestow upon you.” His dark cloak spreading like a bat’s wing, the Spider King laid his heavy arm on Ferral’s shoulders. “As you know, Ferral, I do not spend very much time in my . . . more formal throne room. I linger in my Plotting Chamber, and . . . I come here to meet with my queen.”

  Ferral looked up. Queen? This was the first he had ever heard of her.

  “Would you like to meet my queen?”

  “If it pleases you, lord . . . I would consider it an honor above all rank.”

  “You are well-spoken,” said the Spider King. With a sudden, irresistible thrust of his arm, he shoved Ferral forward, over the edge of the window. Ferral’s body skidded off the slick stone. He scraped and flailed for a hold . . . and fell.

  “See if you can talk your way out of this,” said the Spider King. He backed away from the window and sat in the unclean throne. He let his head fall into his right hand and absently stroked the clean throne with his left hand. Then he waited for the inevitable.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Ferral shrieked in agony. His left leg was broken. And he felt something warm oozing down his face. Blood most likely. He lay helpless, his back to the same sheer wall of stone he had slid down moments before. Ferral had nowhere to go. “WHY DID—?” He heard movement just beyond. “There’s something down here!” He clawed at the slate behind him. But the twisting of his body jarred his leg, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. “Let me out! LET ME OUT!!”

  There was gray light above but only black ahead. And yet, there was something there. At first, he heard a faint clicking sound. Then a harsh scrape, like someone dragging a pickaxe across stone.

  His heart beat wildly.

  Ferral lunged awkwardly to his side, hoping for escape, and put his hand in something sticky. He recoiled, jerking his arm backward. There was something on his hand, crawling across his fingers. He shook his hand violently, then froze. A loud, undulating hiss came out of the darkness. It was close.

  Very close.

  8

  Safety Above

  THE EVENING after the Elven High Council Meeting, Nelly and Regis slipped away from Nightwish Caverns under cover of darkness. On foot, this Sentinel and Dreadnaught, respectively, were known to be among the most woodcrafty and stealthy of all the Elven military leaders. But for the sake of speed, they were willing to take some risks. They rode rangesteeds, a curious cross of a bull and swift-tailed deer, and galloped east through the Thousand-League Forest. They would give the ruins of Berinfell a wide birth and make haste across the valleys before abandoning their mounts and picking their way across the Lightning Fields to Vesper Crag. There, by Ellos’s hand, they would sneak into the portal and vanish from Allyra.

  Later that same night, Grimwarden found Mr. Wallace pacing outside of Autumn’s room in the infirmary. “How is she?” asked the Guardmaster.

  “I wish I could tell you,” Mr. Wallace replied. “Claris won’t let me in to see her. I’ve been waiting more than an hour.”

  “Good heavens! Is something wrong?”

  “Judging by all the inane giggling I’ve been hearing, I don’t think so. Ah, I cannot wait any longer. I will come back some other time.” Mr. Wallace departed by the winding hall, vanishing in the flicker of dremask torches.

  Grimwarden was not nearly so patient. He had to see Autumn. He knocked briskly on the chamber door and announced, “Grimwarden here to see Lord Miarra.” He put his ear to the door and heard a staccato burst of laughter. That was too much for Grimwarden. There was very little that made him angrier than being forced to wait. One exception was being laughed at. “Now see here—!” he said as he barged in. He stopped short as Autumn cartwheeled by, missing the door by only a few inches. Grimwarden watched her land with a perfect round-off near the far side of the chamber. “Autumn?” he asked absently.

  “It is,” said Claris, sitting on the edge of Autumn’s bed.

  “Remarkable!” Grimwarden exclaimed. “Autumn, do you feel quite well?”

  “I feel much better,” she replied. “Did you see my tumbling run? I can do a handspring. Wanna see?”

  “Um, no thank you,” he said. “I’ve seen quite enough, I think.” He turned to Claris. “There’s no one among the Elves whose medical opinion I value more than yours, Claris, but are you sure Autumn ought to be doing such things as . . . handsprings?”

  “I know how this must look, Guardmaster,” Claris answered, standing out of respect. “But all that remains of her wounds are healthy pink scars. What perplexes me the most is Autumn’s internal healing. When I first dressed her, I was more than a little afraid that the Drefid had pierced her liver . . . her stomach, too. She was in great pain, and the region looked an ugly purple as if infection had already begun. Now, she seems as fine as can be. My salves and medicines have never worked this quickly. Per
haps we have witnessed a healing by Ellos?”

  “Perhaps,” said Grimwarden. “I mean . . . any healing is by Ellos’s hand. But I would have thought the wound would have required much more time to heal, especially after all that bouncing around with Jett and, of course, the turbulent waters of Daladge Falls.”

  “Do you suppose Autumn has a dual gift?” asked Claris. “Could it be that she is also a quick healer like Jett?”

  “If she is,” Grimwarden replied, “it would be the first time that gift manifested in that bloodline. . . .” His words trailed off and he remained thoughtful for a moment. “Well, whatever the reason, I am delighted to see Autumn”—he paused as Autumn cartwheeled by— “doing so well. I came to find out how soon Autumn will be in shape enough to make the journey to Whitehall.”

  “She could leave tomorrow,” Claris said.

  “Tomorrow? That is spectacular news!” said Grimwarden. “We’ll leave tomorrow night, then.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Claris. I want you to join us. You have staff enough here.” He thumped a meaty fist into his open palm, then winced because of his wound. “Given the nature of Vexbane, combined with the young lords’ gifts . . . accidents are bound to happen.”

  After more than two hours of twisting, turning tunnels—always rising, sometimes steeply—the Elven party bound for Whitehall entered a wide cave. Its sides seemed coated with thick moss. It smelled of the deep woods, of leaves decomposing into mulch, and of damp earth.

  “Did you feel that?” asked Kat.

  “What?” asked Kiri Lee.

  “A breeze,” she replied. “Just a whisper. It felt cool. Nice.”

  “Aye,” said Jimmy. “I felt it. Smelled it, too. Fresh, like the moors in Ardfern . . . in the mornin’.”