Web of Eyes

by Jaime Castle

  “I told you that fire was going to draw attention,” Torsten said.

  “Oh, and you think it had nothing to do with the volume at which you berated us?” the Panping witch spat. “Get off your high horse, knight.”

  “I remember when we had a horse,” Whitney said.

  “Not now!”

  “Everyone, be quiet!” Torsten shouted.

  Just then, one of the creatures passed close enough to be illuminated by the witch’s magic.

  Its piercing red eyes glowed, reflecting the searing brightness of the firelight. Two horns, short and stubby, jutted out of the top of its skull. Hair framed its face, peppered its upper body, and smothered its lower half which ended in a pair of hooves.

  Torsten knew what it was immediately, though he couldn’t believe his eyes. Satyrs were mischievous, vile creatures who were said to be able to smell fear. Torsten had never come into contact with one and had never heard them spoken of in conjunction with the Webbed Woods. He couldn’t even remember a time when he’d heard word spoke of them, only sung by the bards down by the docks—and Iam knows their tales could never be trusted.

  “What the yig and shog is that?” Whitney gasped.

  “Satyr,” Torsten and the witch responded simultaneously. They shared a look. Torsten’s expression betrayed a modicum of approval, but he quickly returned his attention to the beast... which he promptly realized wasn’t an apt description. It stood only three feet tall.

  “It’s a baby,” the witch said.

  “A baby?” Whitney said. “That’s a baby? I’d hate to see its parents.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you’re about to,” Torsten said, leveling his sword.

  Two more of the creatures appeared from within the brush. These stood nearly the height of Torsten. Their horns curled around like a goat’s and ended in a nasty looking hook. The child was unpleasant, but these creatures were hideous beyond compare. Their sharp, narrow features gave their faces the look of vultures, everything tapering toward the point of their aquiline noses. A neat row of jagged teeth glinted in the fire. And their eyes were red as hot embers.

  They spoke, words a gallimaufry of grunts and neighs.

  “What are they saying?” Whitney asked but no one answered.

  Torsten allowed his muscles to relax and stepped forward. Movement behind him and to each side told him they were surrounded. Satyrs were as legendary for their agility as they were for their tricks. They could have all three of them sliced and skewered before Torsten managed to take out the child.

  “Uh, Torsten?” Whitney said.

  “They smell fear.”

  “Then I must stink.”

  “How many more?” Torsten asked, not daring take his eye off the three in front of him.

  “At least nine,” the witch said.

  Vigilant Eye that’s too many.

  The creatures were said to live in dens, and Torsten would bet his armor they’d accidentally stumbled upon one.

  “We mean you no harm,” he said. “If we are trespassing on your grounds, we will leave.”

  The larger of the three hopped forward twice, then crouched.

  “Get ready,” Torsten said.

  “For what?” Whitney asked, voice cracking.

  As if in response, the rest hopped forward. The knife-eared witch's flame grew larger. Whitney’s back grazed his. He hoped the kid was ready for a fight. Torsten wasn’t prepared to meet Iam on the great cloud, not yet. His work wasn’t over.

  He swung his sword in a horizontal arc, not intended to make contact. A warning. Satyrs were the spawn of fallen gods and Elsewhere, but they were intelligent enough, he hoped, not to want any of their family to die senselessly.

  The leader whistled sharply. Torsten heard scattering from all directions. The baby in front of him turned tail—literally—and fled.

  “The little ones are leaving,” the witch said.

  “That‘s a good sign, right?” Whitney whispered. “Right?”

  The leader shuffled again.

  “Put the weapon away, knight. It will do you no good in any case,” said the largest of them. His voice was high and felt like gravel against Torsten’s ears. For a moment, Torsten considered doing as asked.

  “Your manipulation won’t work on me, demon,” he said.

  “A pity,” the beast said, “I thought this would be quick.”

  “We do not desire a fight, although I will not hesitate to send you sprawling back from whence you came. Return to the dark planes of Elsewhere, or find yourself in the fires of exile.”

  The cackling came again. “If a fight is not what you desire, a shred of respect would carry you a long way. These are our woods.” As if to solidify his claim, he raised his hands and several vines snapped upward, cracking against the air like whips. “What could possibly bring such feeble humans into our domain?”

  “Another human,” Whitney said. “You seen him?”

  “Ah, so your friends can speak?”

  Torsten heard an eruption of flames.

  “We can do far more than that.” The fire was instantly squelched and the Panping witch gasped.

  “Do not deceive yourself, young witch,” the satyr continued, his own preternatural light emanating from his body. It was a soft glow but provided enough light to see their surroundings clearly. “Your powers are useless against us. Did you think drawing on the magic of Elsewhere would do you good against those who have tread on its planes?”

  “I’ve heard enough of your poisonous words, demon. Leave now and be spared the wrath of Iam!” Torsten lunged and thrust his claymore. He caught only air. His shoulder wound had him slowed, but the Satyr moved as if it were a shadow. Even at the peak of his strength, he’d have missed by a good distance. It lashed out and scratched Torsten’s cheek with razor sharp claws, sending him staggering backward.

  It grunted twice and bared its teeth, yellow and barbed. Faster than Torsten could register the movement, it fell to its hands and kicked out with both hooves catching Torsten in the midsection. His glaruium armor had likely saved his life. Two dents, roughly the size and shape of the hooves, remained. Even with the armor, it stole the air from his lungs.

  The blow did, however, jolt the arrow sticking through him. His vision went white as bright lines of pain radiated across his chest. He stole a blurry glance at his companions. None of the other satyrs had attacked them yet. Whitney and Sora still stood back to back while the beasts looked on from a safe distance, shifting their weight between hooves as if ready to bolt.

  “What are they doing?” Sora asked.

  “Taunting us,” Whitney said.

  “What do you want?” Torsten groaned.

  “I already posed my question: why are you in our woods? You answered with an attack. Is this fight not what you wanted?”

  “We are here to find a warlock of the Drav Cra.” Whitney blurted the words before Torsten could tell him to stay quiet.

  “A warlock you say?” The satyr glanced across the circle at one of its brethren. “Have you seen a warlock in these woods?”

  They laughed again together. Torsten tilted his head and clamped down, grinding his teeth against the sound.

  “I assure you, anything that stepped foot into these woods did so only by our knowing. If a warlock had been here, we would know. These are our woods after all.”

  “I’m confused,” Whitney said. Torsten could tell by his tone that he was going to say something stupid… again. “I thought some giant spider named Bliss owned these woods. You have a ledger you can show us?”

  The satyr spread its arms wide, lowered its head, and released a spine-tingling hiss. “Do not speak that name!” When it lowered its hands, a vine came with it and swung around and wrapped tight over Whitney’s mouth. Torsten would’ve enjoyed hearing his muffled cries if it weren’t at the hands of a demon. No man, no matter how intolerable, deserved to suffer at the hands of an unholy manipulation of life.

  “Let him go!” the witch shouted,
extending her knife to her arm. But before she could draw blood, a vine wrapped her wrist. It squeezed so hard she dropped the weapon and fell to her knees.

  “Both of you keep quiet!” Torsten said, biting back pain and anger.

  “You are a knight of Iam, are you not?” The satyr stood erect again. The others followed his example.

  Torsten nodded and circled his eyes as if a demon would care about whether or not he could prove it.

  “Yet you travel with a blood mage?” it asked.

  “We only just met,” he said. “I don’t even know her name.”

  The satyr closed its eyes, then whispered. “Sora.” Its voice seemed to resonate all the way up through the canopy.

  Torsten could feel it spoken as if in his very bones.

  Sora yelped.

  When he’d gathered his wits, he asked,“What business is it of yours who I travel with, demon?”

  “Her link with Elsewhere is strong,” it said. “Stronger than I have felt in some time.” Another vine shot out and grabbed Sora by the ankle, heaving her into the air. She hung upside down, face to face with the satyr.

  Whitney frantically screamed into his gag and swung his arms.

  Torsten raised a hand to quiet him.

  “If you only just met her,” the Satyr said. “Then you would not mind if we kept her. With her bond, she would likely produce formidable offspring.”

  Torsten’s stomach turned over. The satyrs were mysterious creatures, but Torsten remembered hearing stories of them from Uriah when being trained. Iam’s knights studied all the offspring of evil, whether they were legend or not. The tomes said satyrs were all male—using lesser races to bear their young.

  “Sora!” Whitney cried. He finally got his daggers up and sliced the vine off his face. Three satyrs hopped in front of him as he tried to run to her. One of them threw a hard fist across his jaw.

  “I cannot, with a clear heart, allow you to take her; no matter what she is,” Torsten said.

  “Then it is a fight you want, Torsten of Yarrington?”

  Now it was his turn to see how unsettling it was for the demon to know his name without him ever having spoken it.

  Torsten knew two things about demons. Never trust them, and that flattery was the best way to bargain with them. “I wish only to pass deeper into the… your woods.”

  “Have you anything else so magnificent to offer?” The satyr extended a hand and ran one of its sharp claws across Sora’s cheek. She squirmed, but the blood rushing to her head and the fear visibly gripping her kept her quiet.

  The satyr leaned forward and sniffed in a deep breath. “Fear,” it whispered, dragging out the word.

  “I have this!” Whitney said from the ground, stealing the beast’s attention. He ripped an amulet off his neck and tossed it to the satyr. The creature studied it, the thick line of hair across its forehead furrowing before it flicked the necklace back at Whitney’s feet.

  “Do not waste my time with ugly mortal trinkets,” it said.

  “Seriously,” Whitney said, glancing at Sora, “it’s not ugly.”

  Torsten shifted his stance and studied the watching eyes. The satyr had already made him look foolish when he tried to strike it, but a fight seemed inevitable. He had no love for blood mages or the Panping who had claimed the lives of so many of his brethren, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of any mortal being sacrificed to such wicked beings. He even considered offering Redstar if they ever found him, but knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to. Iam was nothing if not merciful, and so too should his servants be.

  “Somewhere, in these woods, there is a warlock more powerful than she will ever be,” Torsten said pointing to Sora. “So powerful, he has masked his presence from you. Help us locate him, and you will be rewarded.”

  The satyr laughed. “And what, mortal, could you possibly reward us with. Your silly gold autlas? Garish jewels? You mortals have no idea how worthless your riches truly are.”

  Negotiating with demons? How did it come to this?

  Torsten had no idea what he could even offer. He tightened his grip, feeling the bite of the arrow in his shoulder as his muscles tensed. Fighting was the only option left.

  “Release her, or I swear you will feel the wrath of Iam.”

  “You’ve already made that threat, Knight. See where it has landed us? I think we will keep her.”

  A guttural sound from the woods drew the satyr’s focus. The vine wrapping Sora’s ankle shriveled to its natural form and she fell headlong to the dirt. She groaned, clutching her head.

  The satyr backed up. “What is this? What trick are you playing?”

  Torsten didn’t know what was happening but he reached down and helped Sora who was crawling toward them.

  “Was that you?” Torsten asked.

  She shook her head, still trembling.

  The satyr glanced over his shoulder in both directions, panic twisting his hawkish features.

  “What’s happening?” Whitney questioned, now free to run to their side as well.

  A deep growl resonated from the depths of the darkness. A new sound. Torsten’s thick fingers squeezed the grip of his sword until his knuckles turned white and his shoulder felt like it was going to erupt into flames. He’d just mustered the strength to raise it when suddenly, the gnashing snout of a dire wolf broke through the darkness. It crashed into a pair of satyrs, catching them off-guard and throwing them to the hard, dirt floor. Their screams could have even curdled the blood of King Liam himself.

  Then it pounced onto the lead Satyr. The demon batted it away but received a long gash across its chest for the effort.

  A whistle sounded from the woods. The shaggy, brown, dire wolf responded by pressing a massive paw firmly against the satyr’s chest, claws drawing thin lines of blood. The other satyrs scrambled and retreated.

  “What the…what?” Whitney said under his breath.

  Torsten would have told him to hush, but the thief’s sentiments were echoed in his own mind.

  “Torsten, my friend!”

  Uriah Davies stepped out of the woods, monk’s robe swishing at his heels, a torch in his hands.

  “Uriah?”

  He whistled again, and the dire wolf stepped off the satyr. Then he walked up to it, drew his sword, and slid it against the demon’s throat.

  “They are under my protection,” he said. “Is that understood?”

  The satyr’s hooves kicked and he bleated. The wolf growled and snapped, a stream of saliva spattering from its black lips. It was then Torsten realized the dire wolf was the very same pack leader he’d fought off days ago. His sword had left a deep, hairless wound across its massive chest.

  “Yes.” The word came more like the hiss of a serpent. The satyr stumbled to its hooves and hopped away, limping.

  XXXII

  The Knight

  WHILE WHITNEY ran to attend to the witch, Torsten stared at the hulking wolf standing behind his old friend and former Wearer of White, Uriah Davies. He had no idea what to say, or even think.

  Uriah extended his torch in front of Torsten’s face. “What’s the matter, old friend?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Only a friend I no longer recognize.”

  “I hope to change that,” Uriah said. “I’ve been tracking you long enough to see the licking you gave those gray-skinned cur. I decided I couldn’t let you march down here and get yourself killed alone like a fool.”

  Torsten swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “How, Uriah?” he asked.

  Uriah glanced from side to side as if surprised by the question, then realized where Torsten was looking. “The wolf? The goddess’s tongue fares well with them. Far more efficient than a sword.”

  Before Torsten could answer, he heard Sora snap, “I’m fine!” at Whitney. Then she stomped over. “Is that a dire wolf in South Pantego?” she questioned.

  “I told you before, the warlock named Red—hold on.” Whitney turned to f
ace Uriah and pointed a dagger at him. “What are you doing with this beast? You involved with Redstar?”

  The growl of the wolf shut him up quickly.

  “Ah, you must be Whitney,” Uriah said. “We narrowly avoided each other in my encampment outside Oxgate, but I hear you are not shy about professing your name and your cunning.”

  “Sounds like me.” He chuckled nervously and backed away as the wolf circled in front of Uriah, never averting its piercing gaze.

  “Whitney, let me handle this,” Torsten said.

  “This is a friend of yours?” Whitney asked. “Cult leaders, thieves, and blood mages… you really should work on your company.”

  Torsten clenched his jaw.

  “I’m so sorry for how you were treated,” Uriah said, still looking at Whitney. “The knight and I are old friends.”

  “If cages and blades are how you treat friends, I’d hate to be your enemy.”

  “Wait,” Sora said. “This man leads the cult that captured you?”

  “What do you want, Uriah?” Torsten interceded. “I already told you, I will not be party to… whatever darkness it is you have turned to.”

  “It is the light, brother. The truth that I have found. This mad search for the Queen’s lost brother is a waste of time and effort. We should be focusing our efforts on killing Bliss.”

  “I appreciate your help, Uriah…” Torsten said, beginning to walk away, “…but our lives no longer travel the same path. This is where we part ways.”

  “Please, Torsten. Trust me as you once did. There is evil in this place that doesn’t care what god we whisper to in the darkness.”

  “I do not worship in secret as you do, friend.”

  “You must listen to reason,” Uriah said. “The spid—”

  Torsten stuck out his massive arm and clutched Uriah by the throat. The wolf snarled, but his old friend waved it down. “Enough!” Torsten bellowed. He was so irritated he tried to heave Uriah off his feet, but pain flowered in his shoulder again. He clutched the arrow wound he’d carried since escaping the Black Sands and fell to a knee. He had to use his sword to stay upright.