It had starved long enough.
“I have done nothing but serve you,” Jinxton said, his voice pleading.
“Yes, and I am quite grateful for that, Jinxton. You have proven to be one of my top soldiers.”
“So keep me, my Queen, please.”
“Do not beg, Jinxton. There is no reward in it. Go out of this life as a warrior, not a coward. Cowardice takes you to the black beyond; bravery will take you much farther.”
She slid her massive body toward him. Her shadow stretched and stretched until it covered the Blood Tree, but the dratted thing would not be consumed by her own darkness. It shone bright and triumphant in all the darkness, mocking her.
She had no choice but to take it. The mocking was a small price to pay, compared to the powers that the Blood Tree offered. It was the Blood Tree that gave her sight; allowed her to see across the worlds, to stick her leg in one portal and feel it come out another, where her enemies traveled.
Her left front leg stung at this thought. It was that leg—well, the spirit of that leg—that had traveled through a portal to search out Ignatius Mangood and his bitch of a granddaughter, Maria. The young one had hacked at the arm as if it were a weed, cutting it from its host. The Widow had screamed so loud that her voice shook free the dust on the rows of columns lining her lair. She had been snapped out of the trance that the Blood Tree had put her in, and she’d looked down at her leg to see it all there. That witch hadn’t chopped it free; it was only a dream. But the mental damage it had inflicted on her was as real as anything.
Still, the Blood Tree had allowed her to see where they were then, where they were going, and, most importantly, it had allowed the Widow to travel the portals and hurt Ignatius Mangood. She knew it was nearly impossible to totally incapacitate the wizard, for he was quite strong, but it had slowed him down, and that went a long way.
Still, the Orcs should’ve been successful—a hurt Ignatius or no.
The Widow looked down at Jinxton, and he held his head high. Death was on the horizon, but he wouldn’t let that knowledge get the best of him. His burst of begging aside, Jinxton was the most honorable warrior that the Widow’d had the pleasure of having in her army since her king and his warriors had been lost.
Still, what had to be done had to be done. She needed someone to blame, and Jinxton was there while the Orc King was not, and the Blood Tree’s roots were thirsty—so thirsty.
“I will make this as painless as possible,” she said.
They both knew that meant nothing; dying was always painful. It was the act of passing through to wherever death might take you that was sweet.
Jinxton spoke very slowly, with pain in his voice. “Thank you, my Queen. It is my hope that I may die honorably for you.”
“You will, my son. You will.”
The Widow bared her fangs. They were long, black, and dripping with semi-gelatinous venom. She would make Jinxton’s death quick. She could practically hear the Tree’s roots, screaming out like hungry pups awaiting their mother’s milk.
Her mouth opened, jaw cracking as it unhinged bigger and bigger. Saliva dribbled out and splashed on the stone floor, sizzling and sending curls of smoke up into the death-thick air.
Jinxton’s muscles tightened, though he made no move to defend himself.
The Widow closed all of her sickly-green eyes. She did not want to see Jinxton die before her. It was her duty to kill him, but unlike with the others—now a pile of bones and discarded flesh in the far corner—she would take no joy in it.
Jinxton bristled at the hot breath on the back of his neck. He smelled the stench of rotten meat, pieces of the Widow’s lost victims long forgotten between her protruding teeth. He prayed to any God that would listen.
I know I’ve not been the best soul, but I’ve done everything purely out of survival. Please. Forgive me and accept me through your gates, where I will be your servant for all of eternity.
That’s how it went. Jinxton was a servant in life and he would be a servant in death as well. He knew this; he accepted this. But who he would serve, he was not sure.
He cried out as the Widow’s fangs brushed his flesh. Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought of the life he could’ve had if he didn’t serve his Queen. Long ago, there was a woman. She was beautiful beyond words, and Jinxton thought he would marry her—this was before the idea of marriage was outlawed in the Arachnid kingdom, when the Widow was just a mad woman by the King’s side, instead of a mad woman in charge. Jinxton had fallen in love, had wanted a marriage, a family, the whole deal. It was only meant for royalty among the Arachnids, though. His bride-to-be ran away, fleeing with most of the saner Arachnids, as the Widow began to lose her mind and turn their kingdom into a dictatorship. Many were cut down in the wake of their exodus; many by Jinxton himself, but he had never seen his beloved.
As the Widow’s fangs bore into the hard, chitinous armor around Jinxton’s neck, he held onto the notion that he would meet his beloved again. If it could not be in life, it would be in death. All things must die, all reigns must end, but through it all, true love had to prevail.
He gritted his teeth and dug his claws into the palms of his many hands until cold, black blood squeezed
