Is it a trick of the eyes? Or is the tree being restored to life by the death of others? He shivered, thinking about it.
“Your pleading is not welcome here, I’m afraid,” the Widow boomed. She lifted those forelegs up, as quickly as she had done earlier, and struck down viciously.
The Orcs’ heads popped off with a sickening snap. Blood sprayed the soil and the trunk, and, to Jinxton, the red leaves took on the blackish hue of the Orcish blood. The trunk glowed. The tree seemed to get taller, its shadow stretching across the vast lair until Jinxton almost stumbled backward out of fear.
A tree shouldn’t be able to do this. It shouldn’t grow right before my eyes. What kind of dark magic is this?
As the life-force leaked out of the headless Orcs, first quickly and then at a slow roll, the tree continued to rise.
Jinxton was so enthralled that he had not even noticed the Widow’s mad cackling until she shouted his name, causing him to stir from his reverie.
“Yes, my Queen?”
“I said to move the bodies. The show is about to begin.”
Jinxton did as he was told, dragging the headless bodies over to the large piles of discarded carcasses, some shriveled with age, others fresher but decomposing.
As soon as the bodies hit the soil, something unbelievable happened. Roots thicker than Jinxton’s legs crept up out of the ground. Like greedy hands, they reached for the Orcs’ bodies. With a sucking sound, shortly followed by the breaking and crunching of bones.
Jinxton shuddered and fell backward. Dark magic. Such dark magic. He wanted nothing more than to get up and run away, but if he did, the Widow would kill him as easily as she had killed the Orcs. He would become just another sacrifice to this magic that was darker than any he’d seen before. So he stood his ground, swallowed hard, and waited for the tree to do what the Widow expected it to. He had, of course, made his own assumptions about what he would witness.
As the flash of lightning knifed through the dark chamber, he realized he was wrong. He was very wrong.
The tree disappeared right before his eyes. The air shimmered like a heat wave just above the surface of a paved road in the dead of summer. From the shimmering, an image broke through. First Jinxton saw a town—one he did not recognize. It was medium-sized, seemingly similar to a million other towns in Oriceran, but it was the calm lake and the distant mountains that gave this town’s name away.
Ashbourne. The place where legend said a great Rogue Dragon had fallen to Anwyn’s sword a millennia ago. Did Jinxton believe that legend? Not a chance… but he did not exactly believe that a Blood Tree held the power to bring back visions of the past, either, and he had just been proven wrong, hadn’t he?
Cloaked figures moved to and fro across the town. Their eyes glowed bright like smoldering flames. The image before them blew up, and now Jinxton could see forked tongues swiping chapped lips. These were the worshippers of the old Rogue Dragon gods.
Perhaps the Orcs had told the truth. It was almost impossible to pry his eyes away from the floating, shimmering screen in front of them, but he did. He looked to the Widow. She was just as entranced as he was. All of her green eyes watched attentively, and slobber dribbled from her great maw. She had even settled down on her massive stomach, letting her legs rest to each side of her.
The screen turned red as far as the eye could see. The lake seemed to be on fire. But that can’t be…
The lake parted, and a huge beast roared from the rolling waves.
Jinxton took an unconscious step back.
The massive dragon flapped its great leathery wings and roared loud enough that more dust cascaded down from the columns above them. When the dragon landed on the beach and sprayed its dragonfire, Jinxton felt his bowels turn to water.
By all the gods, it is true. It is a Rogue Dragon, resurrected.
The screen flashed again. A great battle took place; Orc and Dragon Tongue were killed, disemboweled, squashed beneath the dragon’s massive claws.
“Show me more,” the Widow said. “Show me what I need to see.”
The tree obeyed. The focus of the fighting narrowed, closing in on a figure standing high on top of a water tower. She held a sword—a great, glittering sword straight from the old legends—and on her shoulder was a worn and tattered bag that was barely hanging on by a thread.
Jinxton had never seen the girl that many were claiming to be Ignatius Mangood’s heir, but like with the Rogue Dragons, he had heard the stories.
At first glance, she was nothing to be afraid of: a tall, skinny, female warrior. It was known all over the kingdoms that, aside from the Widow—who possessed a great magic that none of the other Arachnids could comprehend—women were weaker and more fragile. Not built for war and battle. Too compassionate to take the blood of other—
An Orc had followed the girl onto the water tower, a massive Orc, and the girl known as Maria Apple slayed him as easily and nonchalantly as if he were a common housefly. Jinxton’s jaw dropped as the scene played out.
She didn’t even bat an eye. No tears, no regrets. This one is not weak. She is thirsty for blood.
Even through the wall of rain pouring down upon the scene, he could see it.
Though he didn’t notice, his hand gripped his sword so tight, his fingers began to ache.
Then, without looking the least bit concerned, the witch sprinted across the stretch of water tower and jumped high into the air.
Where was she jumping to?
An answer came in the form of an ear-splitting roar. The screen panned out, and Jinxton saw the Rogue Dragon’s great, rigid back. Maria Apple landed on
