“What news do you bring me?” She sniffed deeply, taking in all the fear, all the excitement, all the…despair. Oh, but that was not good. “Why do you despair so?” Her voice climbed, both getting louder and more menacing.
The Arachnid soldier paused helplessly below that massive web. Why must I bring her the news? How fast can I pull my blade free to defend myself?
Neither of those questions would ever be answered; they were just passing thoughts. To a soldier like he, the Widow was his God. One did not defy their God unless they planned on burning in the eternal flames of the punishment.
That was not Jinxton’s intention.
“What news?” the Widow demanded again.
Stammering, Jinxton answered. “The news I bring you is not good, my Queen.”
“Not good?”
She had read him wrong. Fear was prominent in any soldier that made their way down into her lair, but Jinxton’s was more than a basic fear of her.
It was a fear of death.
“No, my Queen. The Orcs have lost. They were driven out by a Rogue Dragon.”
The Widow’s eyes lit up, and she barked laughter as she descended her throne of webs.
“Rogue Dragons? Not likely.”
“I only relay the information given to me by the Orc King. If he is spreading false information…”
“He must be. The Rogue Dragons have not been on Oriceran in many millennia. So long, in fact, my dear servant, that they’ve become legend.” She reached one meaty leg out to the wall and pushed into a loose bit of stone. The wall pivoted around as a hidden door gave way to her touch. Beyond the door, was a Blood Tree: its trunk white and ashy, the leaves the color of freshly spilt human blood. “Like my tree, Jinxton. Legend.”
“But your tree is real, my Queen. What’s not to say the Rogue Dragons have not risen again? Our intel tells us of their devout worshippers. The Dragon Tongue have grown in numbers in recent years, as if preparing for…something.”
“They are nothing but fools who could no better raise a dead Gnome than raise such a majestic and feared beast as a Rogue Dragon,” the Widow answered. With another meaty leg, she waved away Jinxton’s comment. “No, I fear our ally has turned out to not be so.”
“So he’s a liar, then? You have seen it?”
Jinxton was challenging the Widow. It was hardly noticeable, but she could sense the spike in his blood pressure and the quickening of his heart rate, and see the doubt in his eyes. She did not like to be challenged, and rarely did it end well for those who challenged her.
“I have not seen it for I have not yet looked, Jinxton. But I need not to. The Orc King is a master of deception, and a failed ally as he is a failed king.”
Jinxton nodded his agreement, all eight of his red eyes blazing in the muted and hazy light.
“We will sever our ties with the Orcs; we must look for new allies. What of the dark witches in the north?”
“Little to none left, my Queen.” Not to mention they hate us. But they can learn to like us…
“Shame, shame,” the Widow answered. “What has happened to our once great world?”
“That I don’t know,” Jinxton replied. He bent down on one knee again, bringing up his six other arms—or legs, depending on how you looked at it—and crossed them at the wrists. This was a symbol of worship from the olden days—the days when the Widow’s king ruled by her side, and the Arachnids were feared all across the land. The days of glory. “But I do know that you shall make this world great once more,” he concluded.
Seeing Jinxton give this sign brought up both admiration and loathing within her. Jinxton was not part of those days; he had not been there when the traitors took the fortress by siege, nor when the Widow came back with the Blood Tree and the music box. What right does he have to bring forth the sign? Then again, how honorable of him. How brave. Those who presented themselves before her were often too scared or too awe-stricken to do much of anything. Jinxton was different from her other followers.
“Rise,” she ordered.
Jinxton rose.
The Widow turned to the Blood Tree. “Come up here,” she said.
Hesitantly, Jinxton moved forward. It was not often that the Widow invited her soldiers up the few broken steps to the large platform from which she ruled her measly kingdom. Or ever.
Jinxton mounted the steps, taking them slowly. He stared into the Widow’s green eyes with fear; she could see it clearly.
Once he reached the top of the platform, the Widow’s massive shadow swallowed him up, and she pointed to the Blood Tree.
“Turn,” she commanded in a flat voice.
As much as she liked him, as much as she respected him, the Blood Tree required a sacrifice.
The Widow had played favorites in the past, and it had gotten her nowhere. Malakai had proven to be worthless in life, in death, and in resurrection. The Orcs were cowards; the Orc King the biggest coward of them all.
It was time to take matters into her own hands.
She did not believe in doing the same things over and over again when the results never changed—especially in this business of death and conquering.
“Please, my Queen,” Jinxton’s voice shook.
She ignored his request.
“On your knees,” she pressed.
With a struggle, she lifted herself up, her massive body a couple of feet from the surface of the dais, and pivoted to face Jinxton and the Blood Tree full on.
The dirt that the tree was planted in was dry and dusty. The trunk itself was as papery as the corpses of the Widow’s oldest victims across the lair. Looking at the tree, seeing its stark whiteness in all the black, its red leaves shining like dragonfire, gave the Widow an uneasy feeling in the bowels of her stomach. But she knew the Blood Tree was of ancient power.
