Curse of the Spider King, page 4
part #1 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
Like a deep wound in the dusk sky, an angry sun bled crimson from behind the hills east of Berinfell up into the shreds of high clouds and the falling curtain of night. Against the darkening blot of red, a pair of long, segmented limbs of a Warspider tentatively reached over the top of a black hill. Convinced of its safety, the Warspider quickly clambered over the crest. The creature’s armor, as well as its Gwar rider, was draped in gray and sable shrouds to blend in with the twilight. The oversized arachnid was visible for just a moment before disappearing into the shadows of the valley. Hundreds more followed—the bulk of the Spider King’s mobile army. Each approach timed so that only one could be visible upon the hills at a time, and only for an instant. If observed, it could easily be dismissed as a trick of the eye.
The rolling hills that guarded the eastern flank of the Elven capital city of Berinfell had seen its share of would-be invaders throughout the ages. Armies of the Nemic, the Saer, the Taladrim—all had tested their mettle against the Elves—and failed. For just a hundred yards from the walls of Berinfell Stronghold, a treacherous cavern yawned. The Gap, as the Elves called it, curled protectively around the city. Atop the immense stone walls of the fortress and hidden in the tall trees on the east side of the Gap, the finest archers from the legions of the Seven Elven Lords fingered their bows and waited.
No one would dare assail the Elves on the western flank, tucked deep in the Thousand-League Forest. For in the wooded realms in the world of Allyra, the Elves were perilous.
So in spite of the open hills and shelterless valley, in spite of the deep ravine, and in spite of the biting rain of arrows that could whistle in at any moment, attackers always approached from the east.
And so they did on this night.
The Elven archers—stationed on wide, open platforms called flets in the few towering trees on the east side of the Gap—had been watching, but their keen eyes had not seen the stealthy invaders. Swiftly, the Warspiders advanced on the trees. Their Gwar riders, who could see clearly in darkness, were deadly accurate with their heavy crossbows. Arrows flew. The Elves fell from their perches.
When he was certain that no Elven sentries had survived, Gwar Field Commander Cathar leaped from his Warspider. Going from spider to spider, he signaled all Gwar generals to dismount. Once gathered, they stepped as close to the brink of the Gap as they dared. Cathar leaned forward and looked down at the bottomless blackness. One wrong move, he thought morbidly, and a Gwar could die of starvation before he hit bottom.
But he knew there would be little concern for falling once the spiders had finished their job. He turned to his generals, three teams of six, and nodded. Each one removed an odd, oblong flask from a very tight shoulder holster. Cathar held his bottle as far away from his body as possible, pointed it toward Berinfell, and slowly wriggled its stopper free. There came an undulating hiss and then something like a loud, painful sigh, and Cathar felt the bottle warm in his hands. Then tendrils of luminous smoke began to leak into the air. But unlike common smoke that unravels and dissipates in the slightest breeze, this vapor held its form. It poured forth and curled to and fro like an airborne serpent. It collected in a swirling mass that presently became a hideous, leering face.
“Go on,” commanded Cathar. “Be off with you.” The face twisted into a snarl before dissolving back into its serpentine form. With another hiss, it raced away, across the gap and into the darkness.
“Blasted Wisps,” Cathar muttered as he stoppered the bottle. The other Gwar generals released their captives as well. In all, nineteen Wisps slithered invisibly toward the walls of Berinfell.
The Gwar commander strode back past the lines of Warspiders, placed the flask back in its holster, and removed a pouch from his side. He shook the pouch until two small stones rolled into his palm. He took one in each hand and struck them together, producing a blue spark. The light flared for a second and glistened on Cathar’s greasy sideburns that spilled out from his oak-leaf–shaped ears and ended with an unruly patch on his chin. Scouts lying prone atop the hills saw the signal and answered with a brief flash of their own. Cathar grinned. The rest of the Gwar infantry would come now, followed by the Drefids. The Elves would never know what hit them.
The first stage complete, Cathar led his battalion of Warspiders to the eastern edge of the Gap. The Gwar riders dismounted and removed the reins from their mounts. The Warspiders, now spread across a quarter-mile span along the Gap, rose up tall on their gangly legs. They curled their abdomens beneath them and aimed their spinnerets high toward the walls of the Elven city. Nearly in unison, their great bodies shuddered and launched fist-sized globs of sticky webbing in a high arc over the Gap. Each one had a long strand of gray filament trailing behind it, still connected to the spider’s abdomen, the web-anchor easily clearing the Gap and landing safely on the other side. Strand after strand sailed silently through the night air until enough anchors were in place to support the weight of the Warspiders. The beasts crept heedlessly over the edge. Following their guide webs, they began to weave. In less than an hour, the Gap of Berinfell would be bridged by an enemy force for the first time in its long history.
6
The Fall of Berinfell
Elden Hemlock had seen thousands of beautiful sunsets in his days, but he thought this one topped them all. He gazed east from the high wall of Berinfell and marveled at the deepening crimson on the horizon.
Wait!
He stood stone-still. He’d seen movement atop one of the distant hills . . . or at least, he thought he had. There was nothing there now but black hill and blood-red sky. Elden began to relax.
Ah, getting punchy after a long watch, he thought.
Then he heard a strange gurgling hiss behind him. He turned and came face-to-face with . . . himself! Elden opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. There was a strange burning under his ribs, spreading rapidly over his chest. He looked down and saw the other Elden’s hand holding the haft of some strange blade that had been broken off but for an inch. Elden’s knees felt suddenly weak, and he leaned on the parapet for support. His sight withered away as he collapsed. The second Elden yanked the body of the first off the stone and, with very little effort, heaved the real Elden over the wall.
“The bridge is finished,” said Cathar, dropping to one knee.
“You are behind,” stated Varuin Khelgast, the Gwar overlord who had arrived with the legions of infantry. As overlord, Varuin wielded the Spider King’s authority in battle, and, as Cathar well knew, he was not to be questioned. Varuin lowered the hood of his cloak and looked up. The sickle moon reflected in his black eyes as he scanned the trees to the west. “It is a wonder that the hive of Berinfell has not released a swarm of Elves upon us. The Wisps have done their part, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Cathar replied.
“Quite useful, they are,” said Varuin. “But they will not stand long in the path of the Elven Lords. The time has come. Send the spiders and legions. At first resistance, light up the sky.”
“Yes, sir,” Cathar said.
“When the walls are breached, the infantry will ascend by the spiders’ tag lines. And then . . . then the Drefids will come.” Varuin motioned with one of his massive hands.
Cathar looked beyond several rows of Gwar soldiers and saw tall figures, shadows in their hooded cloaks. How many times had Cathar seen the Drefids revealed? And yet their presence—even the very thought of them—always sent a tremor through his body.
“Be swift, Cathar,” said Varuin.
“Yes, sir.”
Cathar climbed back onto his Warspider, removed a finger-sized whistle, and blew it three times. It emitted no sound that men or Elves could hear, but at once, the Warspiders crept over the edge of the Gap. The webbed bridge held strong as the eight-legged combatants picked their way across. Their riders, the Gwar generals, watched the dark walls for movement and readied their arc rifles.
Farther back, the Gwar infantry unlaced and removed their usual boots, and strapped on boots that were half-height and wide, more like heavy black shoes. The soles were padded with a slick, dimpled material called kassek. Only kassek-woven footwear would allow warriors to march safely across the incredibly sticky spider filament needed to create the bridge. Even with the kassek-woven boots, warriors took great care not to fall or touch the web with any other part of their body. Such a clumsy soldier would be hopelessly ensnared in the web and perhaps fall victim to a hungry arachnid.
As the spiders neared the walls, the infantry and crossbowmen began their slow, perilous march. Cathar’s own spider worked its way past the midpoint of the bridge when a haunting, sonorous tone came from one of the many high towers. The first war horn. The element of surprise has been lost! Cathar thought. But no other war horns picked up the call.
Elven archers sprang up on the parapets and took aim. Their bows sang as long-shafted arrows surged into the coming ranks of the Gwar. Dozens fell dead. Still more careened from their saddles and found themselves sprawled on the webbing and unable to get up. It had only been a moment, but Cathar had seen enough. He drew back the firing cord, raised his arc rifle, and fired. Even as the black arc stone sped into the night sky, it kindled to a fiery blue. But as it plummeted toward the Elves, the arc stone flared such a bright white that Cathar averted his eyes. The stone exploded in a ball of white flame, which consumed several Elven archers.
Soon it seemed that falling stars filled the sky over Berinfell. The Gwar expected that each blazing stone cast would kill tenfold Elves.
The Warspiders claws delved into thin crevices of the mortar walls, their Gwar riders gripping sturdy tethers. Arrows aimed precisely at the joints of the spiders’ legs glanced off or broke on the spiders’ armor. The giant beasts clambered up in spurts, pausing to dodge falling rocks and arrows, and reached the parapets virtually unhindered.
But not for long. Elven flet soldiers slung their bows and loosed their siege axes. The first spider to crest the walls lost its forelegs to the lethal blows of the Elves. Their axes bit between and behind the plate armor, cracking exoskeleton and severing sinew. With horrible shrieks, spiders fell away from the walls and plunged into helpless masses of Gwar infantry below.
As the second wave of Warspiders climbed the wall, they released strands of a darker, almost black web from their spinnerets. The web trailed to the ground—where the Gwar infantry, spread all across the base of the keep, took hold, and began to ascend. Swords and axes met as Gwar and Elf came face-to-face. The Warspiders successfully crested the walls in greater numbers, and their Gwar riders directed them through the melee deeper into the city. They were searching for doors, and each they found—be it wood or iron—the Warspiders tore it from its hinges and tossed it away. Gwar infantry surrounded each new entry point and dispatched Elves as they issued forth. But a Gwar horn blast summoned their attention back to the eastern wall above the Gap.
Larger Warspiders with long, red forelegs clambered over the walls. Their riders, hooded and robed, sat impassively in their saddles. For a moment, an eerie hush fell over the area. The huge Warspiders stopped and raised themselves high on their limbs. As one, the Drefids removed their hoods, revealing shadowy figures with long white hair, burning embers in otherwise empty sockets, and knife blades extended from their boney knuckles.
Flet Marshall Brynn stood transfixed in the dancing shadows of torchlight at the top of the inner wall’s curving stairway.
Screee! The Warspiders’ talons scraped the outer stonework of the stronghold. Brynn froze, but not because of the battle raging outside. She had seen an Elven warrior, one of her own flet soldiers, draw a blade and strike down another Elf in cold blood right before her eyes.
“Elden!” she cried, rage bursting free at last. “Elden, drop your sword!” Agile, even in full armor, Brynn raced frantically down the stair.
Elden never glanced up at his commander. His cold stare lingered on a more immediate threat. Another Elf leaped over the fallen flet soldier and brought his curved blade crashing down on Elden. Elden blocked, barely. His enemy’s sword had come within an inch of his scalp. And before Elden could recover or counter, his enemy slid off the weak parry and drove his sword through the armor protecting Elden’s ribs. The blade went deep and up, surely into Elden’s heart. But Elden did not collapse.
He grinned at his attacker with a sickly, misshapen kind of smile. Then he brought his sword down hard on his enemy’s helmet. The Elf fell away dead just as Flet Marshall Brynn stopped short three steps above. She flashed her rychesword, her movements a blur. Elden countered and attempted to duel for a moment, before Brynn slashed his weapon from his hand. It clattered to the stone, but before Elden could reach it, Brynn wheeled her blade around and carved a gash into Elden’s neck. But there was no blood. There was no wound. Elden vanished, leaving only swirling eddies of thin black smoke.
“What devilry is this?” Brynn cried. She stood out of breath on the bottom stair and held her rychesword as if she might drop it.
“That was not Elden.” Guardmaster Olin Grimwarden strode to the foot of the stair and knelt at the side of the fallen Elf. “It was a Wisp."
“A what?”
“A Wisp.” Grimwarden’s broad shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. “They are enemies of old. Vapor-beings, shape shifters. We thought they had all died out generations ago. But now they reemerge, loosed by the Spider King to wreck our defenses.” Grimwarden stood, hefted his spear menacingly, and took Brynn by the hand. “The Wisp you dispatched is not dead. He will quickly take on another form. And there may be others within our ranks.”
“Can’t they be killed?”
“Only by the two-edged sword,” replied Grimwarden. “Speak the Words as you strike, and the Wisp will be sundered.” He looked with regret at the familiar phrases inscribed along the haft of his spear. “If only we still forged all our weapons as we did of old—”
Grimwarden flinched as bone-chilling shrieks tore through the clamor. Flet soldiers froze in mid stride and clutched their ears. “Drefids have come. That means—”
“Our archers have failed.”
“Then our defenses are undone,” he said. “Fall back, flet soldiers! Fall back to the west wall. Alert the Sentinels! Protect the lords!”
The Elvish High Council in Berinfell was the nerve center of the Elves, who resided across the many continents of Allyra. In the Great Hall of the Western Stronghold, the Elven Lords usually held court—but on this night there was a special celebration. Seven children had been born to the Elven Lords in the same year. It was considered something of a miracle. Now each of the children had reached the first-year mark, and it was customary to have a ullic ceremony.
The ceremony took place in the center of the hall, a grand, white marble room resembling an arboretum. The sweet notes of harps mingled with the music of flowing water passing through leafy tree branches into dappled pools around the wide chamber.
Among the marble columns and living trees that grew in the midst of the hall, more than one hundred guests had gathered. Knights and female warriors, flet soldiers and flet marshalls—all who could be spared from their duties on Berinfell’s walls. Among them stood Gwar attendants, those whose families had long ago allied themselves with the Elves. There also stood Berinfell’s mighty Sentinels. Descended from an ancient Elvish bloodline, the Sentinels were known to follow the old ways. Their woodcraft was second to none, and their usual missions took them far and wide on tasks considered too dangerous for the typical knight. Sentinels rarely gathered together in one place, but even they would not miss the historic events of the ceremony.
Elrain Galadhon, the high cleric, emerged from the back of the hall. He stepped between the tall white thrones of the Seven Lords and approached a white altar marbled with bright silver. He turned around just as the Elven Lords and their spouses approached. They were dressed in white and gird with ceremonial golden swords. And in their arms, they carried their precious children. All eyes turned to the children.
Perhaps it was the pageantry of the event or the special splendor of the setting; perhaps it was the pristine innocence and beauty of the children; or it might have been the location of the Western Stronghold, almost entirely surrounded by thick trees, two and a half miles—nearly a full league—from the eastern wall and the front gate. For whatever reason, no one in the hall heard the distant sounds of battle. In fact, it wasn’t until just after the high cleric had waved the ceremonial scepter over the last lord’s child that one of the Sentinels noticed something was amiss.
Elle stepped down from the dais and walked curiously toward the arched entryway of the Great Hall. The Sentinel glanced out the window. The trees outside were still. Odd, she thought.
Then she heard a steady cadence of boots on a stone floor. And when the shadows appeared at the end of the hall—broad, brutish shadows, perhaps numbering in the hundreds—Elle knew. She turned to warn the others just as Warspider limbs crashed through the stained glass windows in the back of the hall.
Flet Marshall Brynn and Grimwarden rushed to the long passage leading to Berinfell’s Great Hall. But as they neared it they knew something was wrong. “No music,” said the burly Grimwarden, his square jaw taut.
There’d always been sweet music cascading from the Great Hall into the surrounding passages. Brynn turned and signaled to the flet soldiers behind her. They silently drew their short swords and siege axes and approached the Great Hall in formation.
