Web of Eyes

by Jaime Castle

  He traced his eyes in the name of Iam, and before the group picked up their pace, Abigail returned the holy gesture. His spirits lifted.

  Not all bad after all.

  Now he just needed to keep the Black Sands distracted long enough for the slaves to put a good distance between them and their captors. If they were caught escaping, their fate would be far worse than shilling shog.

  He backed up behind the mess of zhulong, searching for the most bashful. He spotted one—young by the looks of it, its tusks still coming in—waiting at the back instead of joining the fray.

  Torsten had never ridden a zhulong, but he’d spent a lifetime on horseback. He approached it from the side so he didn’t make eye contact, grabbed its tusk, and gently tilted its head down until it could see him with one eye. The young beast remained docile and permitted Torsten to climb onto its back. As young as it was, it still proved difficult for Torsten’s armored legs to wrap around its thick sides. Now he understood why the Shesaitju wore leather and cloth instead of metal greaves.

  Torsten grasped a handful of its scaly frills with one hand, then gave it a kick. It was like striking steel. The beast tore forward through the mud so fast he nearly toppled off. Sinking down, he used the frills to guide it through the opening in the fence. With his other hand, he brandished his claymore, a sword so large it would require two hands from any normal sized man.

  “Abbat mos! Spy!” A Shesaitju shouted over the din of feeding beasts.

  “Iam, forgive for what I must do in your name,” Torsten whispered before slashing down from the back of the zhulong at the man. No sooner did the soldier hit the mud than horns rang out all across the camp. A murder of crows, frightened, rose up from naked trees, a cloud of black blending into the dark sky.

  Torsten turned right and his mount bowled through a table covered in hide, freshly tanned and stretched, in the process of becoming armor. Soldiers scattered. Others ran for spears and bows. But Torsten swept his massive claymore from side to side like a scythe in harvest season. There was no formal declaration of war against the Shesaitju, but he felt no remorse as his blade rent flesh and split bone. Men from this camp had slaughtered innocent villagers for little but to send a message to the Glass Castle.

  He rounded a corner and a host of spears stabbed up at him. He parried two with a single swipe, and the rest snapped against the tough hide of his zhulong. The richest Black Sandsmen made armor out of the creatures’ skin, and now he knew why. Its tusk split a man’s stomach and lifted him through the air, his body sliding off like meat from a kebab. In front of him, Muskigo and his royal guard stood waiting.

  Unlike the rest, these men wore gilded steel armor. They formed a circle around Muskigo with their round shields raised, spears sticking out. It was certain death if Torsten charged them, even atop a zhulong, but a chance at an afhem was tough to pass up.

  Torsten stared straight into the man’s eyes as he neared and they stared back, black as night. Neither cowered or showed interest in doing so. Muskigo straightened his shoulders, rolled his neck, and stood tall. Torsten waited until the last minute, then guided his mount to veer right, avoiding the spears. Even as he passed, he and Afhem Muskigo never broke eye contact. Then, just as he went to turn away, Muskigo’s black lips creased into a smile.

  His quest was more important than claiming the life of one vengeful afhem.

  Someone ahead bellowed something in Saitjuese. Torsten turned just in time to see a mounted zhulong bounding toward him. A spear plunged toward his head but he dipped left, swinging his sword in a wide arc that caught the attacker across the forehead.

  The zhulong slammed into each other and sent Torsten’s mount into a wild spin. He squeezed its frills and hung on tight until the beast found its footing. A slew of arrows promptly zipped past his head, one nearly nicking his ear another glancing off his pauldron. A few stabbed into the zhulong’s haunches where its body met the long serpentine tail. It surely wouldn’t have pierced the beast’s hide, but it was startled.

  It took off at full speed, squealing. Torsten was along for the ride now, but they were headed south out of camp just like he wanted. He glanced back and saw three more mounted warriors hot on their tail. Their older zhulong closed the distance quickly.

  One launched an arrow that found a soft spot in Torsten’s armor and burrowed into the meat of his right shoulder. Another closed in from his left and stabbed at his zhulong with a spear. The Shesaitju knew their beasts well. It howled as the blade sunk through the fleshy underside of its hind leg. Torsten fought the pain in his shoulder and swung down, chopping the spear in two. He leaned out and grabbed the sharp side of the broken weapon, another arrow missing his throat by centimeters.

  He released the zhulong’s frills to transfer his sword to his off-hand. With the other, he flung the spear. It pierced the bow-wielding warrior through the chest and sent him tumbling into the swamp.

  Torsten quickly tossed his sword back to his right hand. Sharp lines of pain shot down the arm as he moved it into position to parry the attack of the third warrior.

  “Run, beast!” he roared and kicked his zhulong in the sides as hard as he could.

  The fog and the darkness were stifling, but ahead he saw a patch of blackness deeper than everywhere around, growing taller and wider. The form was jagged, ever-changing, like waves around a ship long at sea. He was so close. The two riders caught up, forcing him to fight them off at the same time. He clenched his jaw as he worked his blade, deflecting every blow.

  He could see the form of the trees now. An endless warren of towering trunks taller than he’d ever seen and hanging vines as thick as his legs. The place looked like the foulest realm of Elsewhere, yet nowhere had ever seemed so inviting.

  His mount didn’t feel the same way.

  It stopped short at the first root protruding from the woods. Torsten flew over the zhulong’s head and rolled between two trees as tall as the Glass Castle. He rolled and popped to his feet, whipping around with his sword in both hands, stumbling backward.

  His zhulong turned and ran perpendicular to the row of trees, never daring to get within an arm’s length of the place. The pursuing warriors had stopped dead in their tracks as well. Their mounts squealed in fear, and their eyes spoke of dread.

  They watched Torsten as he slowly backed away. After a few steps, the Shesaitju warriors were gone. After a few more, he couldn’t even see the sword in his hands, or the arrow protruding from his armor, only a layer of copious darkness enveloped him. Darkness only found in the Webbed Woods.

  XXX

  The Thief

  IT WASN’T THE darkness of the Webbed Woods that had Whitney’s flesh rising into little bumps. It wasn’t even the overwhelming silence but for the gentle rattling of a canopy far above and the occasional scuttle of unseen creatures. It was the fetid smell of dried blood and old flesh. Death. Like he’d just stepped into the largest graveyard known to man.

  He shuddered. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  He’d had one since the moment they arrived. It was a straight shot south to the Webbed Woods from Bridleton. No more interruptions from dire wolves or crazed cultists. Their horse sloshed through Fellwater Swamp, cutting through a layer of fog so copious Whitney could barely see its mane in front of him.

  They didn’t run into a soul, and then the tremendous trees of the infamous woods loomed. Their stolen horse hurled them off instead of entering. It was on foot from there, into darkness that was somehow worse than blanketing fog. Searching for someone and something for which Whitney had no idea where to start looking or even what exactly to look for.

  Whose bright idea was this? He couldn’t even remember any longer.

  “Quit being a baby,” Sora said. “I thought you’ve robbed a dragon?”

  “I never said it was alive.” Whitney couldn’t see Sora’s face well, but he’d come to know her eye roll by memory and was sure it accompanied her groan. “Besides, this is different. You can see a d
ragon. We’ve been walking in near-darkness for half-a-day after the horse ran away and we haven’t seen anything. Have you noticed there hasn’t even been a bird chirping, or a night bug, or anything? It’s just quiet. Eerie quiet.”

  “If you were a bird, would you live in here?”

  “If I were a bird I’d be an even better thief… Eek! Was that you?”

  “What?”

  Whitney didn’t get a word out before he felt something slither around his gut. It tightened suddenly and yanked him against a tree.

  “Sora!” he yelped.

  He reached for his dagger, but whatever the thing was wrapped one of his wrists and blocked the weapons around his waist. It moved like a tentacle or a snake, but it wasn’t slimy. It felt almost like…

  “The vines!” Whitney said.

  He tried to pull himself free, but a vine wrapped his ankle and squeezed it against the trunk. Another found his throat.

  Sora’s raised her bandaged hand in front of his face. A fresh streak of blood stained it, and from her fingers roiled an orb of flame so perfectly round it was as if she held a glowing crystal ball. The vine immediately retreated.

  “Took you long enough,” Whitney said, panting.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. Whitney saw a momentary flicker of concern on her face, which vanished as soon as he nodded. “You should have heard yourself squealing. And I thought I was the girl.”

  “You’re just jealous of my incredible singing voice,” he said, rubbing at his neck.

  “You’re insane.”

  “Maybe, but remember what I said about sneaking around in here without fire? Ignore me.”

  She turned, her hand casting flickering orange light on the trunks of towering cypress trees. A slew of vines draped all around them shriveled away in hiding. Whitney stared up but could see nothing but darkness beyond the glow of her magic once they were gone. There was no sky. There wasn’t even the tree-top canopy. Just night eternal.

  Whitney gripped the amulet he’d stolen from Constable Darkings as they walked, rolling it absentmindedly between thumb and forefinger.

  “I still can’t believe you nearly got us killed for that ugly thing,” Sora said.

  “What?”

  “That stupid thing,” she said pointing to the amulet. “You don’t even know what it is.”

  “I know what it is!” Whitney whispered as loudly as he dared.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “It’s a…” he flipped it over a few times. Even in the dim light of the flames, the amber stone glimmered. “It’s a… an arrow-shaped amulet with a gem worth more than Troborough. And look, little flecks of something else, probably diamond, on the tip.”

  “It’s useless and we could have died.”

  “What about you? You were supposed to set a signal fire not burn the entire house down.”

  “Oh, now you care?”

  “I think we should talk about it before anything happens here and you bring a tree down on top of us.”

  “I just… I lost control. It won’t happen again.”

  “Your fire may be magic beyond my unmystical comprehension,” he said, exaggerating the word, “but I’m going to need more than that. What if next time you take the entire town with you, just like Trobor—” Whitney froze before the word came all the way out.

  Sora stopped mid-step. “What?” she said, seething. “Say it.”

  “All I’m saying is that part of being a thief is being inconspicuous. If we start leaving a trail like that?”

  “You seemed pretty happy when you got out of there with your stupid necklace, shouting your real name like a boastful…” She groaned in frustration.

  Whitney knew he’d struck a nerve, but he could tell by her lack of punching him in the arm that her frustration wasn’t solely directed at him. He remembered her expression as she watched the fire consuming the Darkings’s house from afar. He thought then that it was pity, but now he realized there was fear there too.

  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.”

  “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?”

  “The Knight said the Drav Cra warlock 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 spat.

  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 could feel sweat beading on his forehead and the small of his back even in the chilliness of the woods.

  “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 dagger.

  “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.”

  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 a coating of mud, 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 his 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. Loyal followers of Iam renounced drawing on the magic of Elsewhere, believing it heresy.

  “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?” Torsten asked.

  “Better than be 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 bristled.

  “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 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.

  XXXI

  The Knight

  “SHOW YOUR FACES, COWARDS!” Torsten barked, claymore gripped tight. Holding it had his arrow-pierced shoulder burning in pain, but he’d fought through worse.

  “It’s too dark, they can’t,” Whitney whispered. Torsten would have smacked him if he weren’t preoccupied.

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