“With no spiders, I hope?” asked Thorn.
Vanx spun in a circle, batting and patting at himself to be sure.
“The benefit of traveling with torches,” he muttered, “is that you can burn them away ahead of you. I hate spiders.”
“I like them just fine when they are served with mushroom gravy,” said Thorn, who was trying not to chuckle at Vanx’s silly dance.
“What is it with this place?” Vanx asked as Thorn climbed off of Poops and started walking.
“Why is it called the Rotted Root Way?”
“Well, as the name implies, the shaft was formed when one of the Heart Tree’s roots burrowed and extended out away from the nexus. Mind you, this was long ago. The root probably started this way eons before the Hoar Witch came, but eventually, as the root grew and extended and drew in nutrients from the earth, it got a dose of something foul. Maybe she poisoned it, or maybe it just took in too much of her corruption. Whatever happened, the root grew infected and slowly began to rot. You might ask the oracle, if we–sorry—when we make it back. He would know more about it than I. His father was one of those who cut the root and sealed off the corruption.”
“So the space we’re walking in was once occupied by a root of the Heart Tree, and the root has just decayed away?”
“Still decaying, by the feel of it.”
“Yup,” Vanx said.
He was thinking that maybe the fungus-like stuff on the walls and floor was root bark or something similar.
“At least I can walk upright.”
They moved along in silence for a while; the only constant in the darkness was Poops’ steady panting. Of the three, the dog had the poorest vision, but Poops was unconsciously tapping the link he and Vanx shared and was seeing as much through Vanx’s eyes as through his own.
“Tell me of the sword, the Glaive,” Vanx said.
“How is it that a sword, especially one that appears as evil as that one does, can be called an instrument of healing?”
The blade looked like a jagged lightning bolt. In Thorn’s hands it seemed like a two-handed weapon, which meant it was big enough for Vanx to use as a dagger if the need presented itself. The weapon’s intimidating look, or maybe the battle lust swirling through his system, made him hope he had the chance.
“You’ll see firsthand why when we are in the Hoar Witch’s dungeon,” Thorn said, “but I’ll try to explain it. The blade was known by another name before Ayorw Gladiolus, a great pixie warrior, wielded it against one of the Hoar Witch’s monsters a long time ago. Before then it was called Bane of Witchborn. The Hoar Witch’s creatures, as you already gathered, are of multiple origins. A touch of the Glaive’s blade brings a powerful jolt of healing magic. The spell tries to heal the wolf and the badger and the scaly serpent all separately, not as a whole, thus rending apart the witchborn creature by rejecting the parts that don’t match.”
He stopped and turned with a proud, cocksure expression that Vanx could barely make out.
“It’s very effective.”
This came out with a little less confidence, as if a thought had just struck him. He turned and resumed his place leading, the procession, then finally added more, under his breath.
“At least it used to be.”
Vanx could cast a modest selection of spells himself and he understood magic well enough to grasp Thorn’s concern. Enchanted items were strange and fickle—some lasted for eons—others served a single purpose and then extinguished themselves of the power that was infused in them.
“How long ago since it was used?” Vanx asked. “How often?”
“Once, long before I was promoted to general of Queen Corydalis’s personal guard. I was just a sergeant back then. General Wartbloom used it to kill a crazy, flying eagle-winged primate that some Overland fae trapped in a snare. That was almost a century ago, back when we could frolic freely in the Lurr without worry of being snatched up or mauled by one of her creatures. I used the weapon recently on my quest to get the crystal my queen used to call you, but we met no witchborn on that campaign, at least not in battle.”
Thorn stopped again and bowed in reverence. He then turned with a strange and anticipatory grin on his face. Vanx guessed that all of the battle berries the little elven general had eaten had him lusting for a fight, too.
“It’s a sharp little sticker though, I assure you. I killed a few dozen of Pwca’s horde and a nasty wyvern with it.”
“Pwca?” Vanx asked, and Thorn went into a tale about a real devil that dwelled nearby and commanded a legion of flesh-eating rats. The elf couldn’t say why the devil did the Hoar Witch’s bidding, but he did give a detailed account of several of the other things, both natural and ill-formed, that he and his troops had faced over the last hundred years or so.
Vanx had to admit that it was an impressive list, especially the clever trapping and slaying of the twin serpent to the one that killed Gallarael.
Vanx hoped to get a chance to finish off the other one. Gallarael’s death sent him into a seething, jaw-clenching rage that was still burning through his blood sometime later when they emerged into an open cavern space. They didn’t so much see the opening, as they felt the sound of their passage expand and reverberate away from them. And then there was the touch of moving air as it cooled their sweat-slicked skin. Two important characteristics of the great, undefined space became apparent almost immediately. One was that the floor fell sharply away. This they learned because Thorn walked right off the ledge and only Vanx’s keen vision and Poops’ sharp reaction saved him.
Thorn was settling as he wiped the dog’s slobber off his shoulder pack, and that’s when the other important feature revealed itself.
They weren’t alone.
Something huge and hovering bobbed in the open space above the chasm into which Thorn had nearly fallen. The thing was only a pale smudge. The shape of it was hard to make out, even with supernatural sight.
“Cover your eyes,” Vanx warned in a quick whisper just as he cast into being a stark, apple-sized orb of light. Vanx thrust the orb up over his head, letting the illumination reveal what it was. As his mind and eyes grasped what he was gazing upon, he nearly soiled himself.
A mammoth albino thing with long spider legs dangled from a thick strand of webbing. A long stinger dripped amber venom from where it curled like a waiting cobra high over its body and down toward them. Its myriad eye clusters all reflected bright metallic green, but the thing was obviously stunned by the harsh light. Poops darted to a place behind Vanx’s legs, but was barking and growling savagely. Had the arachnoidal monster been able to overcome the light, it could have easily speared one of them with its vicious spike, for all three of them were frozen in shock. Miraculously, the creature’s own surprise at the bright light caused it to flee, and it scrabbled up its web into the shadowy heights beyond where the magical orb could reach.
Looking around them, Thorn saw a way around the sinkhole and pointed it out. Not three dozen paces away, the smaller passage of the rotted root would serve them as an exit from the huge spider’s lair. It was about eight feet across, roughly circular in shape and far too small for the terrifying Insectoid to follow them into.
“Come on,” Thorn reached back and gave Vanx’s sleeve a tug. “There’s not enough battle berries in the world to keep me unafraid of that thing,” Thorn said.
As they rounded the chasm they could plainly see a lacy web would have saved Thorn from falling to his death, and they both wondered what the twitching cocoons off to the side were.
As they passed beyond its view and back into the darkness of the root-formed cave, Vanx decided that he probably didn’t want to know.
It was a good while later when they heard the first tormented pleas for death. The pitiful call was coming from ahead of them and Thorn spoke his concerns over the venomous thing having access to the rest of their route, or worse, that there could be more than one of them.
It was after a second voice called out, a sound m
ore pain-wracked, unintelligible moan than spoken words, which Vanx finally managed to answer.
“Be careful what you wonder,” his voice was a parched croak of a chuckle.
“Or you just might get it in spades.”
“We say clovers because they grow in patches of a zillion.”
“Yup,” Vanx let out a long, breathy sigh. “Let’s rest. Keeping this light has worn me a bit. I fear those calls are but some sort of lure to a trap.”
“Wet your whistle and I’ll dig out the bread and stuffed mushrooms.”
Vanx found a dry place along the hard curvature of the shaft and settled heavily. Poops sat beside him and the dog eagerly lapped water from Vanx’s cupped hand when it was offered.
“I hope you have some more of the berries,” said Vanx, after a long pull on his water skin. “By the Goddess I’m going to need them.”
Thorn nodded affirmatively, then cocked his head as the haunting voice echoed to them again.
“Please end this. Please just kill me.”
Chapter
Sixteen
From a tower way up high,
we can watch the world pass by.
Sweet dreams of kings and queens,
can you tell me what it means?
– A Zythian ballad
Gallarael was glad for the rest she’d taken back at a gurgling brook. Not only had she been able to drink deeply there, and rest her eyes and fatigued muscles for a good long while, but Streak, had led her to a tree ripe with purple fruit. The offerings tasted like strawberries and cream and she ate quite a few of them. She was still in her changeling form, and would have preferred a healthy chunk of rich, bloody meat, but she didn’t complain.
A short nap followed and now, by tree-filtered moonlight, she continued her loping gallop behind her slightly sparkling little guide.
There was something following them, but it was having a hard time keeping pace. Gallarael heard it crashing and tromping as it labored to keep up. She could tell that it was big, but exactly what it was, she had no idea. Her mind whirled at the horrible possibilities.
She hoped it wasn’t another of those wicked trees. She would fight with claw and teeth against any creature of flesh that set upon her, but she felt that she would be helpless against one of the tree-beasts. Only a lucky shove of Darl’s sword had kept him out of the mouth of the last one. She’d been no help to him at all.
Under other circumstances, the marvel of the elves, brownies, fairies and sprites would have been all she could think about. Her control over the feral, instinctual tendencies of her changeling self had strengthened enough that she could think clearly in this state, but with something dogging her heels, she chose to let the primal part of her take over.
She wasn’t sure she understood what Sergeant Smilax had said about the Underland and Vanx, but she understood the part about Chelda being hemmed in at the Heart Tree. After that first attempt at intimacy back at the Iceberg Inn, Chelda hadn’t so much as hinted at taking their friendship down that path. Gallarael was relieved, for her heart was still aching over the loss of Trevin, and even if she had wanted to seek physical comfort, she didn’t think she would seek it with another woman. Chelda had proven to be a wonderfully loyal friend and confidant, though. That was why Gallarael had chosen to come to Chelda’s aid. If Vanx could be helped, Chelda would be the one most likely to know how to go about it, and beyond that, Chelda was in a fix and needed her.
A darting flash of brownish gray fur caught her eyes as something low to the ground passed a shaft of moonlight that had somehow pierced the high canopy. It wasn’t the thing she’d heard chasing her, for it was far too small. This was coyote-sized, a startled fox, or an oversized leaper. But even as she told herself those things, she knew it wasn’t true.
Another heavy crush of deadfall let her know her pursuer was still behind her. She turned back to look over her shoulder and caught a not-so-distant flash of ember eyes, high off the ground. A piercing howl erupted from somewhere close and it was soon echoed by some other haunting lupine voices. When she turned back, she found that the sparkly turquoise glow she had been following was gone.
A moment of wild panic flooded her as another wolfish creature, this one darker and the size of a larger timber wolf, cut across her field of vision. The creature showed no fear whatsoever and moved with the ferocious grace of a predator hunting with a pack.
Another of the wolfen cut across her path. This one came close enough to force her to angle off to the right. This part of the forest was fairly level and the lowest tree branches were well overhead. Only the huge, exposed trunk roots and the occasional patch of shrub or deadfall provided an obstacle. As she made the decision to find a place to turn and fight, she half wished there were low branches so she might squirrel up a tree.
Her heart hammered in her chest now, for she had seen at least four separate wolves besides the larger one that was behind her. She was certain she’d heard a few more than that out among the blackened shadows. She couldn’t possibly hope to survive, but she found a steely resolve and decided to spin and meet the biggest of them head-on. She was just about to do it when she saw a distant swath of blue light flare up ahead and to her left.
A cacophony of snarls and cackling and a deep, throaty reptilian roar came from that direction as well. The blue light flared again, and it was enough to illuminate a rock as it came hurling down over her head. She saw movement in the trees, and more oddly, the whole forest floor before her seemed to roil and shift under the crazily shifting blue glow.
She saw an elven form then, but it was partially devoured and seemingly being pulled under the churning ground. Another hurled object flew past her face and splattered against a tree beside her as she darted past.
A wolf hit her then, hard and from the side, with enough force to send her long stepping and sprawling into the writhing gray mass of the forest floor. Something wet splattered across her back and a deep, savage growl drowned out the rest of the noise.
A huge set of jaws clamped down on her lower leg. She pulled her face out of the leafy earth and tried to rise, but couldn’t. It was only then that she realized she and her attacker both were being swarmed by thousands upon thousands of beady-eyed rats.
That it could even speak was amazing in itself. That it was alive at all was beyond belief. The tormented pleas for death had finally gotten to Vanx. There was no way that he could ignore such a horrid request. He tried to resist the urge to seek out its source, but he knew that the voice would haunt him for hundreds of years if he didn’t at least try to oblige.
If it had been human once, it was no longer so. Bloated like a long-submerged corpse, the cocooned body seeped and oozed an awful-smelling yellow-green pus from several places. The pale, pumpkin-sized head dangled limply; its facial features were stretched and distorted by the massive swelling and the skin was pale, almost translucent. Green and purple veins pulsed erratically beneath the thing’s cheeks and forehead.
Suspended just a few feet above the muck-stained cavern floor, the cocoon was incorporated into the anchor strands of a vast, upward-expanding web. When a slight, lipless seam opened in the head, and a loud, desperate voice resumed its call, Vanx knew that this was the origin of the howling plea.
Poops barked and backed a few paces at the creature’s sudden yell, and “Please kill me,” choked into a frantic, “Who’s there? If you can hear me, kill me. Hurry, please.”
Poops’ fearful growling and barking reflected Vanx’s emotions perfectly.
What might have once been an eye split open, revealing a milky orb and a teardrop trickle of yellow-green pus.
“Hurry, before it returns. Please,” the thing begged.
“The Glaive?” Vanx asked Thorn.
Thorn shook his head no.
“Do it and let’s be gone,” Thorn said as he scanned the huge, web-filled cavern above them.
Vanx’s orb of light only penetrated the lacy gloom so far. There was no telling what was hiding u
p there in the shadows, and Thorn clearly didn’t want to find out.
“To heal that could only bring it more pain.”
“Please,” the voice started, but the ring of Vanx’s steel as it flew from its scabbard cut it off. With a swing, and a drop to his knee, Vanx sheered the upside down head from the rest of the cocoon. The sweet, cloying stench of infected meat filled the area as a river of lumpy gray gore poured from the stump. Then suddenly the whole structure of the web lurched, and lurched again.
“By Babd, it’s coming,” Thorn warned.
The Glaive of Gladiolus came out of its shoulder sheath, but Thorn pointed it toward one of the several tunnels leading away.
A harsh, clicking sound came from above them and the webbing shook and vibrated again as the huge scorpion-tailed spider beast scurried down into view. The thing appeared to be horribly angry over what they had done to its sustenance— angry enough to brave Vanx’s magical light to attack them.
Vanx, who’d eaten a fresh handful of battle berries when they’d rested, gave an uncertain grunt of dissatisfaction at the elf’s choice to flee, but he followed Poops, who was right on the elf’s striding heels.
Vanx was nearing the opening when Poops exploded into a red hot state of excited fury that lit Vanx’s battle lust into a raging inferno. He was forced to stop his headlong rush because the dog was now backing noisily out of the passage, while over his shoulder Vanx saw that the strange arachnoidal beast was still closing on them.
Vanx held his sword in his right hand, and in his left was the orb of magical light. He barely managed to redirect the nasty finger-long stinger with his blade as it came down at him. The defensive move forced him to dive and roll. He had just enough time to see a hulking, fully armed minotaur, as it backed Thorn completely out of the caveway with two swiftly whirling blades.
Vanx was suddenly engaged again with the darting stinger, and that took all the concentration he could muster to avoid.
That Frigid Fargin Witch (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 4) Page 10
