“What?” the Widow said suddenly, raising her head away from Jinxton’s neck.
The hot breath no longer touched his flesh. A coldness took him—one so sweet and pure, he was reminded of the first time he laid eyes on his beloved.
Jinxton turned his head toward the entrance. It was dark, barely lit by the Widow’s peering green eyes, but Jinxton could see red orbs floating, floating, floating, until their owners broke the threshold of shadow and revealed themselves: the two guards who watched the lair’s entrance. What their names were, Jinxton was unsure. Nor at that moment, did he care. Names or not, the burning love and admiration he felt for them at that moment was too much to put into words, to put into a name.
In front of the guards, their heads lowered and postures stooped, were two Orcs. Their clothes were singed by fire—Dragonfire? Jinxton wondered—and there was dry, crusty, black blood on their faces. Upon closer examination, one of the Orc’s eyes was gone. The wound looked fresh, as if someone had pried it out just moments ago. Jinxton thought that maybe the guard had done it. He wouldn’t put it past them.
“What do we have here?” the Widow asked.
“Stragglers from the Orc army, your Highness,” the lead guard said. With a push, he launched the Orc across the stone floor. The Orc stumbled and lost his balance, hitting the floor with a crack of his knees. He cried out in anguish.
The lair seemed to shake as the Widow pivoted to face them. Long, black legs chittered. Claws scrabbled. It was ear-raking; the equivalent of two rusty blades scraping together.
“Does your king not want you?” the Widow asked. Her voice was playful. Cooing.
The Orcs didn’t talk. The other guard threw the second Orc across the stones. He landed not far from his companion, but held his head higher, prouder.
“The king rejected them. Exiled, your Grace,” the lead Arachnid guard explained. “If you ask me, they got off easy, botching a job as fine as that one.” He looked crookedly at the back of the Orc’s head. “If that was me, I would’ve slain the old wizard right where he stood and taken that music box, even if I had to pry it from his cold, dead fingers.” He slapped at his belly and leaned backward to laugh.
“Thank you, my son. That will be all,” the Widow said.
The calm in her voice frightened Jinxton beyond belief. They say there is a calm before the storm, don’t they?
“I’s just saying, my Queen, that if you send me from guard duty, I cans gets the jobs done. That music box will be in your hands before youse knows it.” The guard grinned, his fangs protruding from blackened lips.
Idiot, Jinxton silently cursed. Shut your mouth before she rips it from your face.
“I means no disrespect,” the guard continued, “but I—”
Suddenly the Widow lifted up her massive body and scrabbled down the wide steps. Bones and dirt flew from the deep cracks in the stone. The ground shook. Dust drifted from the ceiling like a fine fog rolling out over a lake. The guard flinched backward, almost stumbling over his feet. The other guard, however, stood his ground.
The Widow didn’t even so much as glance at Jinxton. She lived off of fear. The stronger you presented yourself, the better of a chance you had of survival.
Jinxton dared not move. He locked his body until his muscles burned, and looked forward at the Blood Tree. The trunk seemed to mock him, and he wanted nothing more than to rip it from its soil and chop it up into firewood—but that would be certain doom, when there was a chance he could get out of this alive. The Orcs or the guards would be the Widow’s new scapegoats, her new sacrifices.
“I said enough!” she shouted, her voice dropping many octaves, sounding like the underworld itself.
“I’m sorry—” the guard began again, but that was as far as he got before death cut his words short.
He would never talk again.
Jinxton turned his head to see what had happened, though he had already known what was going to, and he instantly regretted it.
The death of an enemy was one thing, but seeing his own kind devoured right before his eyes was worse. Though it wasn’t the first time Jinxton had seen the Widow’s great pincers seize one of her own, and it probably would not be the last, he did not relish the sight. Her pincers, as big as tree trunks and as sharp as any blade, stabbed into the guard’s side until the clink of them coming together could be heard from inside the guard’s middle, even over his gurgled screaming. A fountain of black poured from his mouth—blood—and his eyes began to dim.
Jinxton wanted to think that the guard was dead before he entered the great cave that was the Widow’s mouth, but whatever gods were out there were surely not that kind.
He could hear the guard’s strangled screaming as the Widow’s great fangs munched and crunched his bones into oblivion.
She was done with him in less than five quick bites, and she turned back to the Orcs and the remaining guard. “Leave us,” she said to the guard, and he gave her a quick bow and was on his way. She turned to him then. “Jinxton?”
“Yes, my Queen?”
“Join me, please.”
“Certainly, my Queen.” Jinxton got up, relieved that he could stretch and relax his muscles for the moment, and went over to the Widow.
“I want you to guard the door, in case our newfound friends decide to run away.”
“Certainly, my Queen.” Jinxton went to the door and stood with his legs wide and his arms out, touching each side of the stone. The door was only big enough for five Arachnids to walk through abreast, but no way could the Widow fit through. Whatever she ordered, you did…even if that order was to kneel and allow your own execution.
“Now, my new friends,
