Rise of the Spider Goddess (17 page)

Jenn sat up slowly. “We better not have to come back this way,” she said between gasps.

After giving Jenn a few minutes to recover, they began walking along the ledge. It looked as if someone had scraped an enormous groove into the cavern wall. The groove was about three feet wide and five feet high, and had a remarkably flat floor. It slanted downward at a steep angle, and there were occasional steps carved into the rock to ease their descent.

Jenn swore as she scraper the top of her head against the rock above. She looked at Pynne, who walked along quite comfortably in the short tunnel.

“Great,” Jenn muttered, “a pixie tunnel.”

“What was that?” Pynne asked, glancing back.

“Nothing.”

“I think we'll turn back into the tunnels pretty soon,” Pynne said.

They stopped as the ledge ended abruptly. To the right, built into the rock, was a large wooden door.

“The hinges aren't even rusted,” Jenn said in amazement.

“You need moisture to make rust,” Pynne commented, blotting the sweat on her forehead with a sleeve. She moved to open the door.

“It's locked,” Pynne said in disgust.

Jenn grinned. “Out of the way, pixie,” she said, reaching inside her shirt.

Pynne stepped off of the ledge, hovering a few feet away.

Producing a pair of thin metal wires, Jenn knelt down in front of the door. A moment later, she stood back up. With a flourish, she opened it.

“It's unlocked now.”

Rolling her eyes, Pynne began to walk down the tunnel. Still grinning, Jenn followed behind.

* * *

Up ahead, the short figure stood motionlessly. About four feet tall, the figure rested his hands on the hilt of a large axe, allowing the head of the weapon to rest on the floor. He hadn't moved for the past ten minutes that Jenn and Pynne had been watching.

They looked at each other, confused. In the dim light given off by the green fungus and the fading glow of the lava, it was difficult to see clearly.

“I say we go talk to him,” Pynne whispered.

Jenn turned to argue, then grinned.

“I can't see you.”

Pynne could see Jenn without difficulty. “That means my magic is working again,” she said with a smile. “Stay here.”

“…it was difficult to see clearly.” A few lines later: “Pynne could see Jenn without difficulty.” This was my attempt to metaphorically demonstrate that the characters inhabit an everchanging and inconsistent world…or it would have been, if I had ever bothered to develop the world.

Jenn sat impatiently, waiting. Moments later, she heard Pynne's laughter.

“It's okay,” she called.

Standing up, Jenn walked toward Pynne, now visible, who stood contemplating the figure guarding the door.

“He's a dwarf,” Pynne said as she walked up.

It was indeed. And from the looks of it, he had been dead for a long time. The skin was dried and shrunken, where the moisture had been leeched from the body. Long, curly hair still protruded from under a pointed helm, matching the scraggly beard that dangled over the chest. Further detail was obscured by a thick layer of dust that covered the figure.

This is what Pynne was laughing about? Pixies think dead bodies are freaking hilarious!

Suddenly it all made sense. “These must be dwarven tunnels,” Jenn said. It would explain the short, cramped passageways she had been complaining about.

Pynne nodded, still studying the dwarf. “He died here, guarding the door. There's nothing around to indicate why.”

Jenn's brow wrinkled. “What could have killed him so suddenly?” she asked.

He had to read the first draft of this book. Poor fellow.

“I don't know.”

They turned to study the door before them. Unlike the last door they had encountered, this one was carved entirely from stone. The only exception was the metal lock built into one side.

“Private folks, weren't they,” Pynne commented. “Care to open this one as well?”

Jenn's lockpicks reappeared in her hands again, as if by magic. She peered into the keyhole, then frowned. Her cautious, professional side took over.

In order to be a thief, one had to be patient, careful, and a little bit reckless. This is what she had been taught for years. You never knew what you would have to do in order to pull off a successful job. Sometimes you had to trust a hunch.

“This isn't right,” she said, turning to the dead dwarf. Her repugnance at the corpse vanished as she took a large, prominent key from his belt.

Pynne coughed as Jenn blew dust from the cast iron key. Then she began to wipe it on her sleeve, polishing away the last of the dust.

“No rust,” she commented. Then she peered at it closely. “No scratches, either.”

Pynne looked at her curiously.

“No scrapes from sliding across the metal of the lock. No marks from being used.” She dropped the key on the floor.

“That key has never been used to open this or any other door,” Jenn said. Then she began looking around the edge of the door, peering at the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

“So what is it for?” Pynne asked.

Without looking up, Jenn began to explain. “Someone didn't want people to get to this room. That's why it was so hard to get to the ledge outside.”

She got down on her hands and knees, still looking around intently. “If, by chance, someone gets onto the ledge and past the first door, the guard here kills them or something.”

“But if you want to be really clever,” she said, looking up at Pynne, “you add another guard.”

She pointed at a tiny set of holes to one side of the door. “Then when the intruder kills the dwarf, steals the key, and tries to open the door…”

“They die,” Pynne finished. She peered at the small holes. “Darts?” she asked.

“Probably poisoned, if someone knew what they were doing,” Jenn said with a nod.

“So how do we open it?”

Jenn knelt back down and slid one hand underneath the crack of the door. She grimaced as the rough stone scraped the skin from her knuckles. Then there was a click.

With a look of triumph, Jenn stood up and pushed on the door. It swung open quite easily, a tribute to the stoneworking abilities of its makers.

Together they walked into the small room beyond. Then they stopped, stunned by what lay before them.

The room was about ten feet square. A stone shelf stood about two feet off the ground, carved out of the same rock as the rest of the walls.

“I guess this is why they had the guard,” Jenn whispered.

The shelf was full of gold and silver. Thousands of round coins were neatly stacked in one corner of the room. In another, rectangular bars of gold were piled in a crisscrossing pattern. Underneath the shelf sat several small wooden chests.

Oh look, we've found Scrooge McDuck's money bin!

Pynne wandered over to one side to study a pile of round, uncut gems. Casually, she picked up a ruby as big around as her thumb. “No dust in here,” she noted.

“Maybe they had some sort of magical way to protect this stuff from the elements,” Jenn guessed.

“Or else the door kept anything from blowing in,” Pynne said.

Jenn walked over to a small rack of weapons. Selecting an intricately designed dagger, she peered closely at it. The wire-wrapped hilt still shone in the faint light. The blade was made of a mottled silver metal Jenn didn't recognize.

“Dwarven steel,” Pynne commented, looking over at the dagger.

“What?”

Pynne pointed at the dagger. “Dwarves are masters at working with stone or metal,” she explained. “One of the things dwarves are famous for is their ability to forge weapons that are stronger and hold an edge better than any that aren't dwarf-made.”

“That little knife there is probably worth enough to feed a small town for a month.”

Try as she might, Jenn couldn't keep a smile from spreading across her face. “A month?” she asked. She grabbed the leather sheath that had been placed unobtrusively behind the weapons rack. Slipping the dagger and sheath into her belt, she turned to study the room.

Overwhelmed for the moment, she walked over to study a small, leather-bound book that lay unobtrusively in one corner.

“What's it say?” Pynne asked.

“How am I supposed to know?” Jenn demanded. “I don't speak dwarven.”

Pynne wandered over and gently took the book out of her hands to study.

“This isn't dwarven,” she said as a frown spread across her face. “It's elvish.”

Out of habit, she turned to the last page. It was blank. She flipped backward through the pages until she came to one with writing on it. Then her eyes widened.

“What is it?” Jenn asked.

“It's a journal,” Pynne answered, still staring at the book. “Averlon's journal.” She began to read.

* * *

You think some of the writing has been stilted before? You ain't seen nothing yet!

I write this, my final entry, as I sit here among the riches of the dwarves. The poor fellow who used to guard this room still stands outside, mummified by the heat of the molten rock below. If my suspicions are correct, he has stood guard there for three thousand years, ever since Olara was cast into her astral prison.

My studies have revealed that Olara is a thief of life itself. She drains the soul in order to grow in power. I fear that in the battle between Olara and the other gods, she may have taken the life of all that used to live beneath this mountain. The Book of the Spider, which I so foolishly destroyed in my fright, indicates that this massive death will become all too common if Olara's resurrection is successful.

That Olara's resurrection is inevitable I have no doubt. She is imprisoned, helpless, for the time being. But I have talked to her priests. Even now, they work at finding a way to free her from that prison, and I have no doubt that they will someday succeed.

Dun, dun, DUN!

To that end, I have created Olatha-shyre. I have spent weeks wandering these ancient tunnels, struggling as I tried to create my spell. It is a work of the greater magic, that art which transcends the narrow definition of magic as we know it. It is an art lost thousands of years ago, preserved only in the vaults of our temples.

Ah, the lost arts. So ancient and mysterious and ancient. Like the Sloth style of Kung Fu, or the Tantric Hokey-Pokey.

It is also an art which none have practiced in centuries. I have been forced to create a spell using skills which none today can teach. But finally, I believe I have succeeded.

Olatha-shyre, the Spider's Bane, is a masterpiece of subtlety. Its power lies in its simplicity. But I will write no more. Only yesterday, one of her priests tracked me down, seeking to destroy the scroll upon which I wrote my spell. It is for that reason that I have hidden Olatha-shyre within these dwarven tunnels.

Today I leave, to begin my journey home. I fear I shall not live to see my friends again. The priests know that I entered their sacred temple, and they will be waiting for me when I leave. But I must devote all of my energies to returning home, for I must be sure that the knowledge of Olatha-shyre is not lost.

Averlon Lan'thar

PS, If I don't make it, please delete my browser history.

* * *

Carefully, Pynne shut the book. “Thomas said that he made it to the temple, but died shortly after he got there.”

Jenn nodded without saying anything, overwhelmed by the incredible sense of age coming from the room around her.

“All of this has been here for thousands of years,” she whispered.

“Obviously Olara's priests never found this room,” Pynne commented. “I wonder how Averlon discovered it.”

“Probably read about these tunnels back in his temple vaults.” Jenn looked around the room. “So now what?”

“Averlon said he hid the scroll somewhere in these tunnels,” Pynne said, “so I guess we keep looking.”

“Well, I'm not going back the way we came.”

Pynne grinned. “Like I said, dwarves are masters at working with stone. They could have built an easier way in and out of this room, then hidden it from view somehow.”

It took them about a half hour to find it. Jenn, opening one of the chests, noticed a round protrusion of stone from underneath the shelf. After examining it closely, she reached out and tugged on the small knob.

All right, get your mind out of the gutter.

A two foot square portion of the wall opened into the room, bumping against the chest. Grunting, Jenn and Pynne shoved the heavy chest to one side, allowing the door to swing completely open. They peered through the small portal.

“Grab what you want to take, and let's go,” Pynne said, squeezing through the opening.

Jenn looked back, studying the riches that lay before her. “Aren't you taking anything?”

“Too heavy to fly with,” Pynne commented. Then she winked. “Besides, we can always come back.”

With a grin, Jenn followed her through the small doorway. then a thought struck her. “What about Averlon's journal?”

The thief leaves without taking any of the gold or jewels? That's about as in character as Mister Rogers busting a beer bottle and starting a bar brawl.

Pynne's voice took on a more somber note. “I think it would be safest here, don't you?”

The book had remained safely hidden from Olara for two thousand years in that room. Jenn nodded slowly, and pulled the door shut behind her.

As the door shut, the light from the lava flow was lost. Once again they were plunged into blackness.

Out of curiosity, Jenn knelt down and felt for the outlines of the small door. There was no trace of anything unusual.

“It probably can't even be opened from this side,” Pynne commented, hearing the sounds of Jenn's search. “If we want to get back in, we'll have to do it the hard way.”

She smiled, hearing Jenn's groans. “Shall we keep looking?” Pynne asked.