Rise of the Spider Goddess (20 page)

Faster than any natural creature could move, the spider leapt again. Jenn screamed and brought her dagger up, hoping to fend off the creature.

Without thinking, Nakor crashed into her, shoving her out of the way. He tried to swing his rapier at the spider, but was too late. It landed on his chest, sending him stumbling back.

Panicking, he clawed at the spider as it prepared to bite. His hands passed through it with no effect, and Nakor watched in horror as the pincers tore through his shirt and pierced his chest.

He felt pain spreading through his body. Stumbling to his knees, Nakor tried desperately to heal himself, to purge his body of the poison racing through his veins. Then everything faded to blackness.

* * *

Nakor was in a large, empty room. Everything was white. The floor was covered in white tile, as was the ceiling. The walls seemed to be made of some sort of polished white rock, and pure white pillars formed a perfect circle around Nakor. The overall feeling was one of emptiness.

“The character wakes up in an empty, featureless, white room.” Translation: the author couldn't be bothered to do any description. (Either that, or Nakor had been transported into The Matrix.)

Confused, he looked down at his chest. The shirt was undamaged, giving no evidence of the spider's bite.

“Hello?” he called out, looking around.

His voice echoed around him. Then, slowly, a figure began to materialize in front of him.

Nakor didn't move. He just watched in silence the man, dressed in grey robes, stepped forward. He was tall, probably an inch past six feet. His long hair was pure grey, and his face displayed the lines of age. Graceful pointed ears displayed his elven heritage, as did the pure green eyes that stared intently at Nakor.

You can tell this guy is very important because he has green eyes.

For a long time, neither spoke. Nakor began to get the impression that the elf would be perfectly content to stand in silence for the rest of eternity, if need be.

Eventually, Nakor broke the silence. “Where are we?”

The elf frowned. “That's a difficult thing to explain.”

His voice was clear and strong, showing no signs of age. “I guess you could say that we aren't anywhere.”

Nakor raised an eyebrow.

Raised eyebrow count: 19

“Who are you?” the elf asked.

“My name is Nakor. And you are?”

“I am the caretaker of this place. My name is Averlon.”

“You're Averlon?” Nakor asked incredulously.

“Not precisely,” he elf answered with a faint smile. “But I was created in his image. Averlon made me, a long time ago, and left me here to wait.” He shrugged. “I have no other name, and the true Averlon no longer has need of it.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Perhaps I've been waiting for you, Nakor,” Averlon answered. “You have passed the first test, and are obviously no priest of Olara.”

A dark frown spread across Nakor's features. “Test?”

“Had you been such a priest, your reaction to the spider would have been quite different. You would have gladly laid down your life and allowed it to kill you, if that was its desire.”

Wait, you mean all we have to do to fight these evil priests is dump a bucket of black widows on them?

“In addition,” he continued, “by sacrificing your life to save your young friend, you proved your loyalty.”

“Pynne is dead,” Nakor said bluntly. “Your test killed her.”

Nakor completely misses the implications of that “sacrificing your life” bit here.

Averlon glanced down momentarily. “Surely you understand the necessity of preventing Olatha-Shyre from falling into the wrong hands. I am sorry if your friend was harmed, but perhaps we will be able to do something to rectify that situation.”

“Such as?” Nakor demanded. He was too angry and hurt over Pynne's death to worry about being civil.

“All must be done at its proper time,” Averlon said softly. “First you must prove to me that you are the one who should receive Olatha-Shyre.”

“How do I do that?”

“You can't,” Averlon answered with a smile. “This is the other problem I face. There is nothing you could do to prove yourself that could not be faked by one with evil in his heart.”

He looked into Nakor's eyes. It was a disconcerting look, but it was somehow familiar as well. Then Nakor remembered. It was the same look that Thomas had given him back in his small monastery.

“Therefore,” Averlon continued, “we must rely on what you have already done.”

Nakor said nothing as Averlon reached out to gently rest his first two fingers upon Nakor's temple. There was a momentary flash of pain.

“Do not be alarmed,” came Averlon's soothing voice. It was muffled somehow, as if Nakor was hearing it from a great distance. “This will not harm you.”

Mostly because you're already dead.

Suddenly images began racing through Nakor's mind. Scenes from his life were remembered in an instant, then vanished again. He saw himself hitting his human father, then a moment later he was hurling a sling bullet at a skeleton. He saw Whoo and Pynne, eating happily at his table. He saw Galadrion, walking alone in the street as she had been the first time Nakor had met her.

I use the word “suddenly” 37 times in this manuscript. I'd have to re-read to be certain, but I suspect that's 37 times more than I needed.

Then he began to see scenes from his original exploration of the temple. He remembered in astonishing detail what had happened the night that he had helped to free Olara. He watched again as she casually stabbed one of her priests.

In an instant, he remembered meeting friends, and watching them die. He saw all of the mistakes he had ever made displayed before him. The image of every person he had ever been forced to kill flashed through his mind.

Then it was over. Averlon drew back his hand, and Nakor collapsed onto his knees. Tears were racing down his face. For a moment, neither spoke.

After taking a moment to regain his composure, Nakor looked up. “You saw?” he asked.

Averlon nodded. “I saw what I needed to see.” He rested a hand gently on the side of Nakor's face. “You have endured much pain, and much anger.”

So. Much. Elf-pain.

Nakor closed his eyes and didn't respond.

“You still have much to learn, Morelain,” Averlon said.

“Morelain?” Nakor asked, looking up.

“It is the name given to you by your true parents, Nakor. It was there, buried in your memory where you could not find it.”

“But if I can't remember it,” Nakor began.

“I could not afford to be limited by what you can and can not remember,” Averlon explained. “I had to know everything. Only then could I be sure.”

Tip for writers: “can not” is not the same as “cannot.”

He studied Nakor for a moment. “Go in peace, Nakor Morelain.”

Nakor blinked, finding himself in darkness. He was standing before the crystal, grasping it with both hands.

“What exactly are you trying to do?” Pynne asked curiously.

He pulled away from the crystal, wincing at the stiffness in his arms. He paused for a moment, focussing the energy needed to create the small flame in his left hand.

Seeing Pynne standing curiously before him, Nakor smiled.

Yay! It was all just a dream, and Pynne's still alive! That wasn't a cheap or overused writer trick AT ALL.

“Are you okay?” Whoo asked.

For an answer, Nakor simply held up the scroll in his right hand.

* * *

They sat around waiting while Nakor studied the spell. There was no evidence of his ever having been gone. The statue of the spider still stood atop the crystal. Whoo still had three unused arrows in his quiver.

Upon asking, Nakor had discovered that no time had elapsed while he endured Averlon's trial. The others had been shocked to hear Nakor's description of what had occurred. Pynne, especially, had seemed rather disconcerted by the description of her death.

“So what does it do?” Jenn demanded impatiently.

Nakor looked up from the scroll. “I don't know,” he answered, a puzzled look on his face. “It's a very simple spell, but it doesn't look like it does anything.”

“In his journal, Averlon said it was a masterpiece of subtlety,” Pynne commented.

Nakor looked back down at the scroll. “It's beyond my understanding,” he commented. A few minutes later, he sighed and stood up.

“Are you ready to go?” Nakor asked.

“Shouldn't you study that some more?” Pynne asked.

Wordlessly, Nakor turned the scroll so that she could see it. Only four lines of writing spanned the top part of the page. The rest was taken up by an elaborate drawing of a spider sitting upon a jewelled throne.

“I memorized it,” Nakor said.

“Four lines?” Pynne demanded incredulously. Even the simplest of spells took up most of a page when written down. It was not possible to put a spell on paper in so brief a space.

Nakor shrugged. Rolling up the scroll, he tucked it into his backpack.

“Don't worry,” he said with a grin, “It will either work or it won't.”

Pynne groaned softly.

A more somber mood slowly settled over the group as they turned and began to make their way back out of the temple.

As they passed out of the dwarven tunnels, Nakor suddenly cried out in pain and grabbed his hand. The flame went out, and they were in darkness once more.

“Ouch,” Nakor whispered.

“What happened?” Jenn demanded.

“My magic stopped working when we passed through that door,” he answered. “I burnt my hand.”

Whoo laughed quietly as he pulled the secret door shut behind them. “Next time just grab an extra torch.”

Together, Whoo and Nakor led them back down the corridors, to where the trap door still hung open above them. The faint glow given off by the fungus on the walls allowed them to make their way without incident.

Once there, Whoo and Pynne flew up, carrying the rope Nakor had brought. Then they lowered one end and leaned back, bracing themselves as well as they could.

Jenn went first, as she was lighter than Nakor. The pixies flapped their wings, struggling to support her weight. Whoo gave a sigh of relief as she grabbed one edge of the hole and pulled herself through.

There was a loud flutter of wings, and Flame emerged. He hopped away from the others and peered curiously down at Nakor.

With Jenn helping, Nakor was able to climb up through the trap door. Then he recoiled his rope and replaced it in his backpack.

“Let's go find Galadrion and get out of here,” Nakor said, walking back toward the octagonal room where they had last seen her. “She must have taken a different tunnel,” he mused. “But eventually she'll have to come back to that room. We can hide and wait for her there.”

“What if another of those priests find us?” Jenn asked.

Nakor glanced at her. “We'll just have to hide really well.”

As it turned out, they didn't have to hide at all. Galadrion was waiting for them when they entered the room. She wasn't alone.

Her arms were held by two men who stood to either side of her. A little ways away, a black-robed priest motioned for them to come closer.

“Welcome back, Nakor,” the priest said in a mocking voice. “We've been waiting for you.”

He looked over at Galadrion in confusion. She stared back at him and shook her head slightly.

“Please toss your weapons into a pile,” the priest continued.

Still watching Galadrion, Nakor slowly drew his rapier. He looked back at the priest, remembering the earlier fight in this room. Galadrion's clothing still had burn marks from that fight. Wordlessly, he dropped the rapier on the ground.

Soon, Whoo's bow joined it, followed by Jenn's newly acquired dagger. Within moments, a small pile of weapons lay on the floor before them.

The priest raised an eyebrow and pointed at Jenn. With an angry glare, she reached inside her shirt and tossed her other dagger into the pile.

Raised eyebrow count: 20

“Thank you,” the priest said. Then he snapped his fingers, as if suddenly remembering something.

“Oh yes,” he said, “I'll need Olatha-shyre as well, if you don't mind.”

Nakor looked at him curiously. “Olatha-shyre?”

“If you wish to play games, we can,” the priest said. “However, the consequences will not be pleasant.” He pointed a finger, and a beam of energy shot into the wall above Jenn's head. She jumped aside and looked back, seeing a scorched black mark where the beam had hit the stone.

“I have a finger-laser!
Pew, pew, pew!
”

Nakor nodded slowly. He slid his pack off his shoulders and reached inside.

“Nakor,” Pynne hissed.

He looked sadly at her. “I know.”

Then he took the scroll from the pack showed it to the priest. With a laugh, the priest sent another bolt of energy at the scroll. It crumbled into ashes.

If I was a bad guy, I'd want to make sure I was actually destroying the real scroll, as opposed to, say, an old scrap of elven pornography Nakor picked up in the woods or something. But what do I know?

Nakor cried out, grabbing his hand. Whoo and Pynne looked at each other in despair.

“Now,” the priest said with a smile, “You will come with me.”

As they were led out of the temple, Nakor looked back at Galadrion. He wondered how they had captured her, and how these two men were able to hold her prisoner. Then he looked closer, studying them by the light of the torch the priest carried.

Neither of the men were breathing. Galadrion had been captured by a pair of vampires.

Galadrion had smiled as Nakor and Whoo escaped through one of the doors. She hoped they would be able to find the spell they were looking for. Or perhaps Pynne and Jenn would find it. At least they had gotten away, she thought to herself. Then she turned back to look at the priest who knelt beside her.