“Away, now, Jacy,” urged Inyx. “They know where I am.”
“This way,” said Noratumi, dropping the crossbow and drawing his sword. Inyx followed the best she could, her every muscle aching and her soul weary of the killing. She knocked off one grey-clad soldier and skewered another before joining Noratumi inside a small room hidden inside the thick wall.
“What is this?” she demanded. “I won’t be trapped like a sewer rat. Not in here. There’s not enough room to even swing a sword.”
He said nothing, leaning heavily against a wall. Stone grated against stone and a thick door slowly swung wide. Steps descended into darkness below.
“An escape path,” he said. “With luck, others wait for us at the bottom. If not….” His eyes glazed over at the thought of being virtually the sole survivor of Bron.
Inyx didn’t need encouragement to start down the stairs. Noratumi closed the door behind, barring it with special wooden wedges. In a larger room below huddled a dozen warriors, caked in blood and scarcely better off than the grey-clads they had killed.
“Where now?”
“That’s the difficult part, Inyx,” he said, barely looking at the others. “We must make our way outside, across the courtyard, and to the keep.”
“No way exists for such an escape,” said one of the others. “We’re trapped here. Can’t get a dozen paces, much less that far.”
Inyx peered out a spyhole in the stone wall and saw that the man spoke the truth. But a plan formed in her mind, one as desperate as it was daring.
“We leave. Now. Follow me.”
“Wait, Inyx,” cried Noratumi, but the man saw his protest came too late. She had opened the hidden door and exposed them all to danger. Either they followed her or they all died within the walls of Bron. Jacy Noratumi was the last out, and the first to protest Inyx’s mad scheme.
“That’s death to go in there!”
A quick thrust and Inyx ran through the first soldier she came to. The next guard in the magically bored tunnel was at the other end. Feet padding softly on the stone, she ran hard to reach the other end. The wall seemed to stretch for an eternity, but Inyx found sunlight and blue sky waiting for her at the other end. A quick backhand cut eliminated the guard she found indolently waiting, not expecting any armed retreat back through the tunnel.
“The countryside is ours. Which way, Jacy?”
“Horses. We need horses or they’ll ride us down.”
Inyx lifted the tip of her sword and pointed toward a crude stall nearby. Silvain and k’Adesina hadn’t wanted to enter the city without keeping sufficient horsepower in reserve to carry them to safety if the attack failed.
The small band painfully made its way down the hill to the corral. The more severely wounded were helped by the others. Inyx did a quick count. Only six of the dozen who had joined them would live. The others were doomed, even if the grey-clads didn’t overtake them.
“Let’s split up,” she suggested. “Half go that way and the rest of us down the valley, toward the gap and the crossing canyon.”
Noratumi started to protest the folly of dividing their forces, then saw that this was Inyx’s way of insuring that the strongest survive by sacrificing the weakest. It tore him apart inside to give the order, but the six worst wounded rode off as decoys while the remaining eight, hardly stronger, rode hell-bent for the dubious safety offered by still another range of mountains.
Even as they rode, the drumming of hooves came from Bron. The pursuit had been joined. The only question was whether or not the other party of wounded gave them enough of a lead to escape.
Inyx doubted it, even as she spurred her horse to more speed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The mountain arachnids came up the ridge, fanned out in a semicircle and blocked any possible escape. Lan Martak stood with his back against a cliff of cold, cold stone. He looked down into a raging river easily five hundred feet below. It was suicide to jump into that churning, boiling waterway without knowing how deep it was. Even if it were deep enough, the force with which he’d hit the water might be too great. The shock could kill as surely as a knife to the gut.
If he stayed, the spiders got him. Lan made an instant decision, tensed, and took two running steps forward. The third one found only five hundred feet of space beneath him.
He screamed.
He screamed and heard the whispering sounds that were all too familiar to him from long association with Krek. Hardly had the man fallen ten feet when the first of the hunting strands glued itself to his left arm. He turned and jerked, trying to escape it. A second, a third, a tenth all burned against his flesh. He fell another fifteen feet and then snapped to a halt, dangling beneath the spiders.
Helplessly, Lan felt himself being drawn back up.
The thick silvered strands of webstuff were virtually unbreakable. He sawed through one with his dagger, but the others bound him too securely. By the time a second web had parted under his furious assault, the arachnids had him on the ridge once more.
Surrounded by the dozens of spiders towering over him, he simply lay as limp as his shaking body allowed. Amber droplets sluggishly traced their way down the strands and touched his skin. He yelped in pain, then quickly bit back any further sound. The solvent released the hunting strands from his flesh.
Only then did he attempt escape again.
He battered himself against a bristly leg, grabbed hold, and pulled himself to his feet. The spider kicked out, chitonous claw threatening to rip open his guts.
“Sorry, old spider,” mumbled Lan as he jerked out his dagger and made a swift cut. He would have hamstrung any mammal. As it was, he only produced a turgid flow from a shallow cut. No damage done, except enraging the spider.
Lan Martak dodged the mandibles clacking shut just inches above his head. Keeping low, he darted in and out between legs until he actually thought he had a chance of winning free.
The hissing as a hunting web wound itself around his legs killed any hope he had.
“No, it won’t end this way!” he raged. Lan struggled, then calmed. He hated the idea of using magic against these creatures who were so much like his friend, but survival depended on it. His personal life meant nothing in the worlds-spanning struggle against Claybore; but if he died, all hope of defeating the dismembered sorcerer died with him. The fate of worlds depended on him, yet he couldn’t bring himself to employ a fire spell against his captors. Wanton slaughter like that might please Claybore; Lan was better than the sorcerer he fought across the universe. If he didn’t live up to his own ideals, why fight at all?
A small spell, the fire conjuration took hardly any concentration. But Lan put everything he had into it. He felt the sparks dancing along his fingertips.
“He burns!” cried one of the spiders separated from the scene. “Stop him or he will set us all aflame!”
The spiders’ fear of fire matched Krek’s. Angry hissing sounded and Lan felt hundreds of tendrils strike his body, spin him around, encapsulate him. The fire burned sluggishly at his fingers and he found himself unable to bring it into full-raging heat as long as his arms were pinned. Claws turned him about, stood him upright, and then came the real cocooning. Hissing, whispering softly, the webs fell about his body, layer upon layer until only his face remained free.
“Don’t cover my nose and mouth,” he begged. “You’ll suffocate me.”
The arachnids argued among themselves about how far to go in the cocooning process. At last they decided Lan presented no further danger to them, either magically or physically. They allowed him to keep his face free.
“Watch it!” he cried, as he felt his feet yanked out from under him. He landed heavily, bruising his shoulder even through the cushioning cocoon.
A web lashed to his feet dragged him down the side of the mountain. By the time they reached the valley, Lan regretted that the spiders hadn’t simply killed him. Every joint and muscle in his body had been bruised and strained. Uttering small numbing sp
ells helped him for a while, but the use of the magic grew too tiring; he fought against the red tide of pain washing against his consciousness and threatening to drown him.
He rolled over in the dust of the valley floor and got a fair look around him. Dozens of spiders remained on patrol not twenty yards distant. Even if he could use his fire spell without seriously burning himself before the cocoon strands parted, the spiders would be on him in an instant, added webs weighing him down until no hope remained.
“There has to be some other way. But what? What?”
The man’s mind raced. The fire spell kept returning to be the one most potent against the spiders, but its use was limited by his desire for self-survival. And Lan Martak hated to use the spell if it appeared he was going to die; such retribution accomplished nothing in the present circumstances. It certainly would do little to fight Claybore.
“A spell,” he said to himself. “Cold? No good. None of the others is easily done, either.” He wished he could reach the grimoire carefully tucked away under his tunic. The spells therein might hold the key to his escape. But with arms pinned and the grimoire securely bandaged inside the cocoon he might as well have wished for total release.
Two of the spiders trotted over. One of them spoke.
“You have been chosen for an honor totally unworthy of you, human.”
“What’s that?”
“Food for the Webmaster’s hatchlings. Hoist him aloft.”
Lan Martak screamed as the strand around his feet tightened. He felt himself rushing upward into the sky, feet first. His forehead brushed the ground for the briefest of instants and then he dangled head down fifty feet in the air. Lan controlled his triphammering heart and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy suspended so far above the valley floor.
Lan Martak felt the sticky strands around his ankles quiver and shake as if some huge being nibbled at his flesh. The involuntary movement on his part caused a slight swing. He got an unwanted view of the valley, the web from which he dangled, and the sides of the canyon. And on one slow circuit he saw a spider slowly making its way toward him along the aerial pathway.
He swallowed hard, trying not to panic. His magic had availed him little. Without the use of his hands he couldn’t properly conjure. At one point he had even decided it was better to die in flames than to hang here awaiting dozens of hungry spiderlets—but he hadn’t been able to conjure up the fire spell at all.
Now they came for him. To eat him. Pieces slashed off and fed to newborns.
He might live for days before finally perishing.
The spider came closer and closer, Lan only getting brief glimpses as he swung to and fro faster and faster, due to the added weight on the web holding him.
“You appear distraught, friend Lan Martak. There is no need,” came the familiar voice. “I am not the one who will eat you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Krek.”
“It ought to. Not every human is destined to be dinner for future Webmasters.” Krek looped strands of his own sticky web material about the existing web and dropped so that he stared Lan in the eye. The human felt a surge of vertigo. For the spider, this was a perfectly natural way of conversing. What did it matter if one or both of the parties was upside down?
“I don’t want to be dinner for anyone, much less a hatchling of some damned Webmaster.”
“I am a Webmaster,” Krek pointed out gently. “But far removed from my domain.” Lan thought the spider was going to cry as he launched off on still, another bout of nostalgic yearnings. “It seems that Murrk has hit upon what is the ideal situation. You see, his mate desired to devour him, as was her right and duty, but he convinced her that better nutrition lay in cocooned humans. An elegant solution to a problem, one that never occurred to me. After all, humans do taste funny. ’Tis a true pity I am not back in my Egrii Mountains with such a notion. Klawn and I can be reconciled. Ah, my lovely, petite Klawn.”
“You’ll never see that domain again if you let them eat me.”
“Why not? I walked the Road long before meeting you. While my plight was different then, it is no less perilous now. Imagine, a Webmaster of the Egrii Mountains, lost amid worlds, spurned by his own mate, combating evil. ’Tis the stuff of legends, but living it is less than happy for me. With Webmaster Murrk’s solution, my dilemma might be soluble after all.”
Lan said nothing, composing his thoughts to argue with the alien brain. Krek was his friend, but the spider did not think like a human. To him being eaten was a fact of life, even if it was a fact he so cravenly ran from.
“What of this place?” asked Lan, changing his tactics. Any information gleaned about his arachnid captors might suggest ways of freeing himself from this heels-over-head predicament. “Have you spoken with the spiders about Claybore?”
“They know of him and the grey-clad soldiers he brings, but they count them as of little importance.”
“What? But they can’t. Claybore’s dangerous!”
“To these fine spiders, he is only another human. I can appreciate their problem in discerning the difference between a skull and torso riding a mechanical contrivance and an ordinary human. The similarities are ever so obvious. One head, an insufficient number of appendages, no mandibles or sleek, furry legs.”
“Can you rally them against Claybore?”
“I do not believe that is possible. Not in the sense you mean. To fight against Claybore and his troops if they enter this valley, yes. They will do that. To sally forth and do battle elsewhere, never. Or at least not unless the situation changes dramatically. It is difficult enough protecting this valley from the sorcerers in Wurnna.”
“Wurnna?”
“Where this Iron Tongue rules. He makes life most deplorable in this valley, what with his raids and ugly spells. The locals do not like him one bit.”
“Why does Iron Tongue even enter this valley? What’s here that draws him so?” Lan felt lightheaded from so much talking. Dangling upside down did nothing to improve his circulation or disposition.
“Here, nothing. But on the far end of this mountain range, in spots reached only by traveling this valley, seem to be mines of some sort. Murrk knows that the humans imprison their own kind and ofttimes even kill them in pursuit of whatever is locked within the ground.”
Lan frowned. Was gold or silver so important that the wrath of the spiders was dared?
“Murrk is the Webmaster?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, a fine specimen. So regal, even royal in appearance, as befits a Webmaster.” Krek vented a gusty sigh that caused the entire web to bounce from side to side. The effect on Lan was even more pronounced. The man closed his eyes and imagined he was aboard a wind-powered sailing ship pitched on twenty foot waves. It didn’t help his churning stomach settle down.
Lan gasped out, “Stop moving. I… I’m getting sick.”
“Well, mage, heal thyself,” the spider said primly. “I rather enjoy the sensation of being once more in a decent-sized web, a hundred feet above the ground, feeling the gentle zephyrs wafting through the fur on my legs, tingling and ever so lightly teasing. That is a sensation second to none.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Do not despoil the landscape, friend Lan Martak. Murrk would not approve. He is most jealous of preserving this terrain for posterity.”
Lan had to fight down the rising wave of nausea and almost gagged. But life or death hung in the balance. That thought entered his head and he started to laugh at the unintentional pun. Hung in the balance. Harder and harder he laughed, until hysteria seized control.
It was a more difficult battle fighting down this fear-fed laughter than it had been the physical upset.
“You take this setback hard, friend Lan Martak.”
“Krek, can you get me down from here? We’ve got to escape this valley. If… if you like, you can return, but I must get away and find Inyx and the others. Fighting Claybore is all I want to do. It’s what I must do.”
&
nbsp; “Come back? Why would I do a silly thing like that?”
“But I thought you liked it here. The way you’ve been talking, I thought you …”
“Murrk is Webmaster. I cannot remain in the company of spiders at less than my former rank. It is too demeaning. As long as he rules this valley, I am merely a traveling dignitary. For me to stay is out of the question. Lan Martak, you say the most peculiar things.”
“Then get me down!” Lan’s temper flared. His outburst caused the bobbing motion again. For once he silently thanked Murrk for hanging him so far above the ground. Up here there was no chance of banging his head on the ground.
“It is not that simple. I thought I had adequately explained it to you.”
“Explained what? Get me down!”
“You are only a small victim in the war between spiders and humans on this world. Whatever is mined from the ground is very important to Iron Tongue and the others of Wurnna. They desecrate the valley, threaten spiderlings, even use fire to drive warriors away. Such high-handedness is not to be tolerated.”
“What could they be mining?” mused Lan. This entire world remained at war, no matter if Claybore were added into the equation or not. Spider fought human, whether from Bron or Wurnna it made no difference. Jacy Noratumi fought Iron Tongue for imprisoning his subjects. And now Lan knew that Iron Tongue used those slaves from Bron in mines.
“Murrk says the stone glows in the dark. Is that of any real importance?”
“I have never heard of a rock doing that, at least not without either phosphorescent moss or slime on it. Or an ensorceled rock.”
“Why would anyone place a spell on all the rock coming from a single location? If Iron Tongue desired that, why choose stone from a region guarded by my fellow arachnids?”
“Those aren’t questions I can answer dangling like this, Krek. Free me. Let’s run for the end of the valley.”
“We would be stopped within yards. Murrk is doubling the number of his patrols. Claybore and the grey-clads march constantly in the direction of Bron, and the Webmaster does not like such intrusions.”
[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue Page 9
