“Enough bites, and he will become paralyzed, and then the Spider’s minions can drag him off to their awnsheghlien lord.” He pointed ahead of them, where the network of webs was growing steadily thicker as they advanced.
“Look there. They are creating a corridor for us. See how it turns?
They are trying to lead us back into the Spiderfell!”
“We shall burn our way through,” said Michael, speaking for the first time since they had left the Shadow World. “Pass the order for torches to be lit.”
“There are no more torches, Sire,” Korven said.
“We used the last of them back in the Shadow World.”
“Gylvain!” Michael said, looking around for the elven mage. “Where is Gylvain?”
“I have not seen him since we left the Shadow World,” Korven replied.
“You don’t suppose we left him back there?”
“No, Gylvain came through the portal,” Aedan said. “But I have not seen him since. Sylvanna?”
She shook her head. The webs around them were almost as thick as cloth now, carpeted with spiders.
The procession stopped as Futhark came running back to them with several of the halfling scouts.
‘The tunnel of webs bends around sharply up ahead,” he reported,
“circling back the way we came. We cannot go on, or it will take us back into the Spiderfell. Do you wish me to create a portal back into the Shadow World, Your Highness?”
Michael’s face was grim. “And if we encounter the undead once more?
Besides, by now, the fire we started must have spread considerably, and it will take a long time for it to burn itself out. Still, we may have no choice….”
The wind picked up suddenly, and the sky overhead grew darker. They looked up and saw the morning light fading rapidly.
“It looks as if a storm is moving in,” said Korven.
“No,” Sylvanna replied, as the wind increased, “it’s my brother! It’s Gylvain!”
Thunder crashed as clouds moved in a thick, black bank above them and lightning lanced the sky. The wind continued to grow stronger, shrieking through the treetops; thunder crashed repeatedly like cannon, echoing throughout the forest all around them, and it began to hail.
At first, the hailstones pattered softly through the treetops, but then they fell harder and faster, like stones fired from slings, sheeting down and ripping through the spiderwebs, smashing the arachni ds to the ground.
“Forward!” Michael shouted, and the army raised a mighty cheer as they moved ahead. But their exuberance was cut short when another cry was raised, at first blending with their cheers, then riding over them as the troops stopped to listen. The new sound was a mixture of doglike howls and screaming voices. While hail fell like grapeshot, these new attackers came running through the trees, screaming and brandishing their weapons.
The weary troops unsheathed their blades and surged forward to fight the gnolls and goblins of the Spider. They had been waiting in ambush for them, waiting for them to try breaking through the webs so that they could move in and finish off the ones the spiders didn’t get. The hail Gylvain had conjured had ruined their plans, so they had charged.
Aedan only remembered raising his sword and bringing it down again, over and over and over, slashing all around him as the goblins and the gnolls descended on them. Weary from the battles that they had already fought, the troops rose to the occasion; their survival had depended on it. They had cut their way through the attackers, but it had been impossible to maintain any kind of ranks or formation in such overgrown terrain, The army broke up into small groups that fought their way through the forest and reformed several miles away on the plains of Diemed, but though they had made camp and posted pickets, waiting for three days to allow the troops to rest and the stragglers to catch up, there were many who never made it out of the Spiderfell.
As Aedan walked down the dark and narrow streets of the artists’
quarter, the buildings on either side of him reminded him of the web tunnel, dark with countless crawling spiders, and he felt sweat break out on his forehead and start trickling down his back. His breathing grew faster and more shallow as he walked, his eyes wide and staring straight ahead of him. The people who passed him in the streets saw the haunted, wild look upon his face and gave him a wide berth. He could not banish the visions from his mind. Over and over, he saw images of the battle in the Spiderfell, men and goblins hacking away at each other, the wolfish gnolls howling and snarling, their foam-flecked jaws snapping as they fought with the soldiers of Anuire, who had called upon their last reserves to cut their way clear.
He kept seeing the undead staggering toward him through the mists of the Shadow World, the flames leaping up, the shifting figure of the Cold Rider watching from the ridge. He heard the screams of the wounded and the dying, and they sounded so real that he had to cover his ears, but that didn’t help. The screams and images were in his mind, and he couldn’t drive them away.
He lurched against a wall, his hands up to his head, and doubled over, gasping. He struck his head against the wall several times, and the pain helped distract him from the visions. He straightened up, breathing hard, and looked around. He had taken a wrong turn somewhere.
The tavern he was heading for was one street over. Shaking his head to clear it, he breathed deeply several times, then headed down an alleyway to get to the next street.
Halfway down the alley, three figures detached themselves from the shadows and blocked his way “There’s a toll to be paid for going through this alley,
