David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

The assassin rolled underneath the spider, his sabers slashing in a silver flurry. It shrieked and smashed its belly down, but Haern was already gone. He slashed its legs, spilling ichor to the ground. When it spun, giant fangs biting, he dove back underneath with a sideways roll. With every revolution, he sliced his sabers into its belly, soaking his cloaks with the discharge.

The bulbous back to him, Harruq gripped Salvation in both hands and struck. The spider reared onto its back legs, its forelegs pounding great dents in the ceiling. When it landed, it slammed backward, smashing its abdomen against Harruq and the wall. The red hairs on its back were like thorns, shredding his exposed skin. The legs turned, flinging Harruq across the room. This time he missed the pile of pillows.

“That hurt,” he said, getting to his knees. His gaze settled on the tarantula hissing at him from only a few feet away.

“Ah, shit.”

The thing spun around, whipping its legs at him. Long spikes protruded from its back two legs, each the size of a broadsword. The first caught his forehead, tearing open a bright red gash. The other deflected off his armor, the blow stealing his breath and jolting him back. The tarantula continued spinning, its back legs arching out just above its body.

“A little help!” Harruq shouted. Haern weaved outside the range of the spider’s legs, studying. He stepped closer, and then retreated just as quickly. A spike nearly took off his head. He repeated this, pulling back seconds before acquiring an impaled skull. The spider continued its spin. The third time, Haern did not pull away. He ducked down, his sabers slashing. The spider screeched as the end of one of its back legs flew across the room, trailing fluids.

Harruq swung Salvation wildly, hoping for similar results. Instead, a great impact sent his sword flying from his hand. Unarmed, the half-orc had no option but to crawl away on his back.

“I so hate spiders, I so hate spiders,” he said repeatedly.

Haern watched the shifted pattern in the tarantula’s spinning. It was incredibly quick, the spikes on its legs deadly, but it was still just an enlarged version of an unintelligent animal. The spin, which worked against all enemies it encountered in the natural world, was all it knew. The only change was the equivalent of a limp due to Haern’s cut. The assassin danced in and out, his sabers slashing. Another chunk of leg flew across the room. The giant tarantula was vulnerable.

He leapt high into the air and landed atop the spider’s abdomen. Both sabers pierced through the tough exoskeleton and into the slender heart tube that ran through its center. The spider rocked back and forth in its dying throes. Haern flipped away. Harruq rolled and crawled, desperate to evade the flailing legs. The spider’s loud screech rose higher and higher. Still spinning, it charged at random, smashing into walls until in one sudden convulsion it shriveled its legs underneath itself and died.

Harruq stood, frowning at the gunk covering his armor.

“That has to be the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,” he said. Haern, also covered with ichor, chuckled and pointed at the half-orc.

“I have to agree, but where did you find a mirror?”

“Ha ha ha. Shaddup you.”

Harruq approached the spider, still feeling queasy at the sight of it curled up in death.

“Stupid thing,” he said. “Probably smashed my sword further in when it ran into the wall.” He looked around, trying to see Condemnation, but could not.

“Guess you will have to dig for it,” Haern said. He clapped the half-orc on the back. “Good luck.”

Harruq’s heart sank. “Can you go get it for me? You’re a whole lot more nimble.”

“It’s your sword,” Haern replied. Harruq grumbled, and then climbed up a leg, shuddering with each touch of the hard, bristly hairs. He found the ruptured eye, and sure enough, the sword was nowhere visible. Closing his eyes and keeping his nose as far away as possible, Harruq pushed his hand inside. The slurping noise nearly made him vomit. He slipped in further and further, until his hand touched metal. He grabbed it and pulled. Condemnation ripped free, its red glow dimmed by the gunk covering it.

“Hope I never have to do that again,” he said, shaking as much of the nasty stuff off his hand as he could. He hopped off, preferring the jolt to his legs over climbing down the dead spider’s leg.

“Any ideas how to get out of here?” Haern asked him.

Harruq gave him a funny look.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

The assassin shrugged. “And you’re supposed to be the strong one. So if I can’t figure a way out, you need to punch us a hole.”

“What is blocking the top of the stairs?”

“A magical wall.”

Harruq chuckled. He retrieved Salvation and then clanged both swords together.

“You know, I do have an idea.”

T he barkeep downed his fifth glass, showing no signs of it affecting him. He had listened to the muffled sounds of battle, his neck hairs standing on end every time the spider screeched, but now all was quiet. His customers were gone, and it was too late for more to arrive. Perhaps it was time to call it a night.

A tapping against his magical wall interrupted his drink.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“Please, help me,” said a weak voice on the other side. “The spider is dead, but I’ve been bitten. Please, the poison…”

“I’m sorry, but you’re supposed to die,” the barkeep told the wall. “Nothing personal, of course.”

“A drink then,” the voice whispered. “Please, a drink before I die. I have gold.”

The barkeep’s greed kindled. If he left the bodies down there for Thren and the rest to return, he would get nothing. If he could loot the bodies first, however…

“Very well,” he said. “I can’t refuse a dying man his drink.”

He picked up a silver wand resting atop the counter. Thren had given it to him, along with instructions of when and how to use it. He poured a drink, tapped the wand twice, and then said the correct words. The wall dissipated into dust, revealing Haern lying on his stomach, his hands shaking and his voice weak.

“Here you go,” the barkeep said. He reached out the cup to Haern. To his horror, a strong, healthy hand grabbed his wrist.

“That’s alright,” Haern whispered, his eyes full of life. “I’ll help myself.”

He twisted the wrist into a painful lock. The barkeep’s eyes bulged, and he turned his body to prevent the bone from snapping. Haern rose and shoved the man into the bar. Another hand slammed his face against the counter. Bottles of ale scattered, breaking and pouring everywhere.

“Where are they?” Haern asked.

“I don’t know anything,” the barkeep said. “They paid me to lock you in, that’s all.”

Harruq pounded up the stairs, his swords ready. He swung one next to the man’s head and left it there, embedded deep in the wood.

“Care to answer that one again?” he asked.

“I said I don’t know!” the barkeep shouted. “I serve drinks. That’s it!”

“These drinks?” Harruq asked, glancing at some of the bottles lining the shelves. He grabbed one at random, popped it open, and took a swig. “Aaah, good stuff.” Then he knocked the entire shelf to the floor. The barkeep winced with each shattered bottle, pondering the prices he had paid. Haern grabbed the barkeep’s head and forced him to watch the half-orc tear his place apart.

“Mmmm, brandy,” the half-orc said, guzzling a bit from a barrel. He used his other sword to split the barrel and spill its contents to the floor. He did the same for three more, sampling each one before destroying it.

“Gonna get trashed before all this stuff is gone,” he laughed, booze dripping down his chin.