Spinneretta found herself barely able to move. Her terrified heartbeat threatened to stop altogether. Yellow robes. Vant’therax. Their backs encircled her and Kara in a perimeter so tight her spider legs could have touched all three robes at half-length.
A harsh crack sounded from where the blade from behind should have fallen. A single gruesome hand, its fingers no more than facsimiles of Spinneretta’s own legs, wrapped around the cult-woman’s throat and lifted her aloft. The woman’s jaw was wide, twisted into a limp gape. Her eyes bulged, trying to escape her deep purple face. Still clutching the blood-drenched dagger, she pried at the Vant’therax’s chitin fingers, but to no avail. The robed creature growled, and its grip tightened. The woman’s neck snapped into an acute angle, accompanied by a chorus of crunching vertebrae. Spinneretta’s stomach rolled as she watched the Vant’therax cast the cultist’s limp body to the ground.
“False Ones!” came a hoarse cry from somewhere beyond the walls of yellow fabric. Spinneretta’s pounding pulse was so loud it rendered the voice featureless. “You have at last deigned to show yourselves.”
The Vant’therax nearest that voice, who formed the point of the formation, slowly craned his gaze over his shoulder. Spinneretta saw a placid expression upon the creature’s time-beaten face, though his eyes were narrowed, severe. “Do not move,” he said. With that, he turned away once more and addressed the tribal leader in a booming voice. “Call off your slaves, Websworn. Abandon your quest. As long as we draw breath, you shall not lay a finger upon the children of the Fifth.”
“Draw breath!” The pale-skinned thing cackled. “You are outnumbered, fools. You cannot use your shadow magic to take them with you. And with the Urn-ma abandoning your ilk, even dull blades can tear the life from your soulless shells!”
“I warn you now to pull back,” the Vant’therax said. “Or we will be forced to kill you all.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the shuffling of panicked footsteps beyond the ring of yellow robes as the horde of cultists paced and circled them. Cinnamon’s body was pressed low to the ground, a feverish rattle emanating from her throat. Spinneretta panted, fear thundering through her blood, through each breath. The dry scent of sand and dust was now an overpowering, timeless musk. They were surrounded. There was no escape.
A visceral cry sounded beyond the yellow wall, and between the gaps in the fabric she saw the cultists collapse upon them. Their forms shifted and buckled as the Vant’therax braced and repelled the assault. Furious shouts clamored all around. The Instinct made each sound distinct, deafening: robes ripping, flesh being torn, bones shattering.
What the hell is going on? The cult they’d come to stop and the Vant’therax at war, the yellow robes surrounding them like a phalanx—had she gone insane? All she knew now was that they had to get the hell out of there.
As the shouts grew louder, she seized hold of Kara’s hand. The gap between the two Vant’therax behind them widened a few inches as they fought back the tide of black robes. Spinneretta didn’t think; she just fell into a loaded crouch. “Now!” Her muscles surged and she shot off, spider legs flashing as she hit a bestial gallop. Cinnamon was on their tail as they flew between the billowing yellow robes and past the bloodthirsty cultists beyond. Cries of anger and pain flowed from all directions, but there was no time to mind them.
One of the black robes nearby leapt at Spinneretta, his body twisting in the air like a marionette. His knife arced down at her, but it was a trivial dodge. As the attack sailed harmlessly through the air, a rustle came from behind. Over her shoulder, Spinneretta spotted a yellow blur. A single blow broke the attacking cultist’s body into a mangled heap. Her heart raced when that yellow-robed figure set its two columns of eyes upon her. She turned and willed the Instinct to carry her faster toward the maze of buildings beyond the walled plaza, toward the safety of the shadowed alleys and silent dust-blasted facades.
But a great hand seized her by the neck, fingers winding tight around her throat, and then ripped her from the ground. She gasped, her breath struggling to get through the obstruction pressed against her windpipe. As her legs flailed and her back struck the Vant’therax’s chest, Kara turned back from several paces ahead. Spinneretta coughed and pried the fingers off of her throat far enough to yell. “Run! Don’t worry about me!”
As the robe moved in response to some unseen stimuli, she watched Kara’s eyes flash with indecision and horror. Spinneretta bit her lip and conjured all the certainty she could muster. “I’ll be fine! Go! Now!”
A blood-painted body crashed to the ground nearby, and that was all it took to convince Kara. She turned and scuttled across the ground at a terrific speed. In a single bound, she scaled the wall of the plaza and disappeared over the other side, Cinnamon flowing right behind her.
Run. Keep running. A small laugh from somewhere moved her lips. I told you, didn’t I? That this was my burden. Thankful that fortune had granted Kara freedom, she then turned her attention to the great arms restraining her. Her spider legs pried at the Vant’therax’s digits. But his whole body lurched in reply, and the creature’s other fist buried itself in her stomach. Her lungs emptied. Her abdominal muscles clenched, drawing her knees up into her chest. The pain went right to her spine. Her empty stomach heaved, and a surge of hungry acid burned its way up her throat and splattered across the ground.
“Behave, dammit!” the Vant’therax shrieked in her ear.
The debilitating pain in her core turned the rest of her muscles into limp sacks of inert sand. Her vision blurred, and the sounds of the battle faded into a distant ringing, a movie playing in another room. The pain and the exhaustion melded into an unconquerable weight on her chest, and she lost consciousness.
Spinneretta drifted in and out of awareness. The blackness of her own eyelids was broken by vignettes of sand and dilapidated buildings along a cracked asphalt road. Each of these episodes was accompanied by bouts of struggling that soon sagged into another spell of unconsciousness.
When she opened her eyes and found the dry winds and desert landscapes replaced by pure blackness, she thought she may have been dead. The nauseous feeling in her gut, however, disproved that theory. She soon noticed blades of light cutting through the dark on one side, and only when she tried to move her hands did she realize she was lying on her back upon a cold concrete floor. She twisted, trying to negotiate herself into a sitting position, when a gruff voice from nearby addressed her.
“Don’t push yourself.”
She froze. It was one of the Vant’therax. Half-raised upon her elbows, she turned to where the sound came from and strained her eyes. A wraith-like silhouette crouched a few feet away. It was hunched over, lanky limbs braced upon the ground like an animal. Her heart hammered in her chest as she saw the dim glinting of light off his moist eyes. Two columns of four eyes each, all staring at her.
Her aching spider legs reacted, and she threw herself into a crouch, ready to leap if the shadow made a move for her. But what should have been a graceful crouch collapsed as the hollow pain in her stomach grew more intense. She lurched to one side, clasping at her abdomen. Her spider legs had to fight to keep her from falling down entirely.
A snarl rumbled from the Vant’therax’s shadow. “I said not to push yourself, didn’t I? You need rest.”
Oh, thank God, she thought. You’re not going to fight me. Her muscles gave up their struggle against gravity. She slumped against the cold concrete once more, accepting the respite without complaint. As the Instinctual surge retreated, her mind wandered back to the events that had brought her here. Surrounded by dark robes. The flash of metal as a knife dove toward her back. The swirling shadows. The Vant’therax arriving and—she swallowed hard—rescuing them from certain death. You shall not lay a finger upon the children of the Fifth, one had said.
But why would the Vant’therax want to protect them? Weren’t they aligned with the spider cult? But now that she thought about it, that knife-wielding woman had
intended to kill her with that attack, and that flew in the face of everything she knew about the cult. She had so many questions, and no certainty they’d be answered. But if nothing else, it seemed she was safe for the moment.
As she calmed down, her eyes fluttered to and fro, taking in what detail there was of the room. It was small and nearly empty. Only some ruined furniture and piles of garbage crowded the corners. The dark slate walls were covered in graffiti, and Spinneretta now discerned that the slivers of light shone from between thick planks of wood nailed across the windows. The air was dry and smelled like burned dust and melted plastic.
She coughed, and the raw taste of stomach acid stung her nostrils. “Where?” It was the only word she managed to croak out. Her throat was parched and felt like it was cracking.
The Vant’therax turned to look her over once more. “You will not be leaving, so it makes little difference where we are.”
Indignant anger tried to surface, but all it did was hurt her empty stomach. Taking me prisoner, huh? She wasn’t too worried about the revelation. Should the Vant’therax prove a threat, she could escape to the Web whenever she wished. That plan, however, left too many loose ends unaccounted for. It was just as useless an option as it had been in the first place, and would do nothing to stop the cult from unleashing their calamity. She tightened her lips as she thought about what was going to happen next. “Where’s Kara?” Her voice sounded like it was coming out of a crackling speaker.
This time, the Vant’therax just ignored her.
She pushed herself up again, faltering a little as her stomach rolled and tightened into a knot. “Where’s my sister?” she asked again, this time more forcefully.
“Lie down and be quiet.”
His hostile tone should not have surprised her, but she found the inconsistency troubling. When she could think of no linchpin for it all, and no further words of challenge arose in her, she slunk a short distance back to the wall and flopped down. Her stomach sent a sharp protest through her core, and she grasped at it out of reflex, uttering a low hiss.
Some time passed without incident. She listened to the drone of the wind beating on the walls of their shelter and let her eyes drift shut. Worry wrapped her chest too tightly to allow for any sleep, but she still found the white noise somehow comforting. When strong gusts came, her hands and spider legs absorbed the vibrations in the floor. Breathe in, breathe out. All the way down. Fill that gap.
The door to the room banged open. Spinneretta shielded her eyes from the sudden blinding light with two of her spider legs. Another silhouette stood in the doorway; it was taller than her lanky warden.
“Dirge,” the newcomer said in a commanding tone, “outside. Now.”
Dirge looked up at the intruder and growled. “Has Nexara been found?”
“No. Now get outside and guard.”
He rose like a cloud of vapor until he stood as upright as his pronounced hunch would allow. “Don’t tell me you have Faul searching? We want her alive, not pounded into pulp.”
“Faul is on a separate mission,” the silhouette said. “Until he returns, you’re guarding.” Though she could not see it, Spinneretta thought she could hear his teeth clenching in restrained fury. “Now get outside and guard. I will speak with Arachne myself.” Dirge snarled but was apparently in no station to object. With a violent thrash of his limbs, he pushed his way past the shadow and into the bright light beyond the door. The shadow slipped inside and eased the door shut behind him.
Spinneretta’s eyes went to work readjusting from the scalding brightness. She blinked a few times, but could only see a colored rectangle burning where the door was.
“Are you awake?” the newcomer asked.
She began to sit up from where she lay, cringing as her abdominal muscles clenched. “Yeah.”
“Good. How do you feel?”
“Like someone punched me in the goddamn uterus. If you guys want to fucking breed me, then you should probably see to it that it remains intact, yeah?” She finished sitting up and pressed her back into the wall, her vision beginning to heal. At least this monster seemed more civil. Feigned hospitality was better than outright hostility, in any case.
The Vant’therax glided closer, stopping a couple paces from her. “Allow me to apologize. We would not have had to subdue you had you not attempted to flee.” He was quiet for a moment and then sank to the ground in a posture similar to how Dirge had sat before. But something about this posture was different; his trunk was pressed low, his face flush against the floor. “I am Silt. You may consider me the current leader of the Vant’therax if you so desire.”
Spinneretta blinked at him, confused. Was he bowing? A cough shook her frame, and she cringed as her worn throat constricted. “Great.”
Silt made a noise of confirmation and then moved toward one of the piles of garbage and furniture in the corner of the room. “I don’t suppose Dirge was kind enough to feed and water you?”
“No.” She was at once apprehensive of what this Silt guy meant by feed and water. Before she could spend too much time worrying about the possibilities, he returned and crouched down before her once more.
“Here,” he said, passing her a dull canister that glinted faintly in the dusty light.
Her finger wrapped about the cylinder, and she cautiously accepted it. It was plastic, with a worn rubber grip on the bottom half. “What is this?”
“Water.”
Her thumb found the lid and snapped it off. She lifted the thermos to her nose and sniffed at the sloshing liquid within.
“You needn’t be suspicious,” Silt said. “Why would we have gone through the trouble of saving you if we intended to poison you?”
Spinneretta wanted to object to his reasoning on principle alone, but she was too thirsty. She leaned back and took a huge gulp. Though the water was lukewarm and carried the sour, pungent taste of the plastic it was held in, she didn’t care. The cooling stream felt like it was healing decades of desiccation in her throat. She drank down several mouthfuls of water before gasping out a chestful of stagnant air. A few hoarse breaths later, she took one more giant mouthful and capped the thermos. “Thanks,” she muttered, passing it back to Silt.
He took it from her without a word, popped the lid back, and took a sip himself. “Do you hunger?”
“No,” she said. It was the simplest answer. She couldn’t tell how much of the pain in her gut was from hunger and how much from blunt force trauma. Either way, she was afraid to find out what the Vant’therax had on hand to feed her. Besides, something more important weighed on her mind. As the mounting surreality of the situation grew heavier, she cleared her tingling throat and addressed the Vant’therax. “So what the hell was that back there?”
“That was the Yellow Dawn, and you very nearly handed them their prime objective.”
Sweat began to form on her forehead. “Prime objective?”
“The eradication of the Yellow.”
The words nearly stopped her heart. The eradication of the Yellow. But if the spider cult was the cult of the Yellow King, and the Yellow Dawn sought the eradication of the yellow, then that meant that . . .
Silt made a coarse noise in his throat. “The Dawn seeks the destruction of everything sacred to the old paradigm.” He lowered his voice. “They seek the massacre of all survivors of NIDUS, and of the King’s bloodline.”
She gasped. “They want to kill us?” Her own words stunned her, and she couldn’t stop herself from shaking. It should have been obvious from the encounter, but hearing it in such plain terms frightened her, shattered her entire worldview. Her heart began to pound faster, filling her aching abdomen with barbs of throbbing ice. Her mind swam with questions, but her mouth had gone cotton-dry. “But I thought our purpose was to . . . to produce an heir for the King. Why would they want to kill us?”
“That is precisely why they seek your death. With NIDUS’s viable projects all gone, you and Nexara are the only remaining catalysts by which t
he King’s goal of creating the perfect race of human-spider hybrids may be realized. And that makes you the greatest threat to them.”
“Th-that’s ridiculous!” she shouted. “How are we a threat? It’s not like I would ever . . . ”
Silt’s eyes narrowed at her. “Arachne. Why did you come here?”
Spinneretta licked her lips, thinking. If the Vant’therax were willing to fight the new cult to protect her life, then it stood to reason they were still loyal to the King’s bloodline. That meant she couldn’t betray her intentions of regicide. A shaky breath filled her lungs, and she covered her face with her hands. “I just wanted to stop the cult from hurting anyone,” she said. “Even if I had to give myself to them.”
Silt was quiet for a moment. “I see. You did not know their goals were divorced from our own.”
She didn’t answer him. She just tried to quell the sick feeling in her gut. Kara . . .
The Vant’therax snickered an airy snort, which transformed into a sigh before it ended. “Given our past, I doubt you will consider us anything other than your enemies. But please do not misunderstand. Despite the rather crude accommodations, you are not a prisoner. We are hiding you for your own protection.” He started toward the door.
“My protection. Yeah. That’s it. Has nothing to do with that whole breeding me thing, huh?”
“I wouldn’t think a girl snatched from the jaws of death would be so picky about minutiae. But even if you choose to ignore the purpose for which you were born, the fact remains that you are the daughter of the King. And that makes us your servants as well.”
She started. “W-wait, what? Servants?” A laugh. “Holy God, has the whole world gone mad?”
He frowned. “Please, get some rest.” The door opened, and she again covered her eyes with a set of legs. Silt lingered a moment longer before speaking one final time. “If you need anything, I will be waiting outside.”
Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 36
