“Who?” the guard wanted to know.
“Ignatius Mangood.”
The guards took a step back, their claws clanking on the hard rocky ground. They exchanged a look, then looked back at Queret and Palentar.
“I mean it,” Queret said, but it was too late—the guards had burst out laughing. Their laughter was so loud, in fact, something fled from a nearby tree, rustling the leaves and chittering as it went.
“Ignatius Mangood is long gone,” the other guard said. “Lost in the fires of the war for Dominion.”
“No, he’s not. I saw him with my own eight eyes,” Queret said.
“This true, Palentar?”
Palentar nodded solemnly.
The familiar guard narrowed his eyes. He’s not going to believe us, Palentar realized. The only way the guards would believe them was if Ignatius Mangood emerged from the shadows, right then and there, wielding his death stick and spouting blue fire.
Palentar turned, flourishing his robes as he did so. They made a snapping sound, like an umbrella blown outward by a strong gust of wind.
“Queret, let us go.”
“But—” Queret protested.
“Come!” When Palentar raised his voice, not many were known to disobey him; Queret least of all. Arachnids such as he were dependent on others at all times. “If these guards wish not to believe us, let them. It is their flesh that shall be feasted upon when the Widow learns of the news too late,” he claimed, loud enough for them to hear.
They turned their backs to the guards and took about five steps away from the Widow’s lair before the familiar guard spoke up in a quavering voice.
“Palentar, wait just a moment.”
A smile spread across Palentar’s face. He turned back around, and Queret followed suit.
“Do you swear it? Do you swear by the Black Stars of Onaugran that Ignatius Mangood is back on Oriceran and nearby?”
Palentar said, “I do.”
Queret echoed him.
The guards exchanged another look between them. This time there was no humor in it. Fear, Palentar figured, and rightfully so. Men were vile beings. More often than not, they were easily disposed of; Ignatius Mangood was the last of a dying breed. He was no ordinary man. He, like many others of the village of Dominion, before they were killed, practiced magic that was long forgotten in the ages of time.
Ignatius Mangood had survived the onslaught against Dominion with the help of that vile queen, Zimmy Ba, and now—Palentar had seen it in his eyes back in the village—Ignatius Mangood was out for revenge.
There is perhaps nothing more dangerous than a man who possesses the power of magic looking for revenge. It was then that he realized Ignatius had left them alive on purpose, to spread word among the Arachnids that he smelled blood—their blood.
“Then go in, Palentar, and give your news to the Widow. Just know your safety is not guaranteed,” the familiar guard said as he and his companion both stepped aside.
Through a circular doorway draped with webbing, the two Arachnids entered the Widow’s lair. The first thing Palentar noticed was the stench. Even to an Arachnid, it was a smell worse than death, worse than the stink of man.
The darkness was so complete that Palentar could not, for a moment, see where he was going. Then his eight eyes adjusted, and he saw they were in a vast hallway, which led downward.
To the Gates of Hell, he thought.
“What if she kills us?” Queret asked, his voice was still shaky. “What if she kills us and sends us to the Great Relief? I’m not ready for that, Pal. I have a long life ahead of me. I wanted to see the mountains. I wanted to stand atop them and shout out my fealty to the Widow.” He raised his voice slightly at the last part—probably hoping the Widow would hear him. Little did he know that the Widow heard and saw most everything; though since Malakai’s death at the hands of the young witch, she had not done much of anything besides mourn—not for the death of Malakai, but for the death of her chances to obtain the music box.
Suddenly, a high voice sang into their ears. “Oh, my children, I won’t kill you.”
The two Arachnids froze.
“Come, come forward, my children. Let me look upon you with my own eyes.”
It was the Widow.
The darkness ebbed, replaced with a cold, greenish light. Palentar nudged Queret forward.
There had only been one other time Palentar had come close to seeing the Widow. Many moons ago, after the victory over the village of Dominion, the generals were to be honored in a ceremony and decorated with the Chains of Insanity by the Widow herself. Palentar’s part in the battle had proven to be so instrumental that he’d been invited to the ceremony as well—but as poor luck would have it, his plans to overtake the generals were exposed, and he was demoted to watch duty—which, at the time, Palentar thought was worse than being banished to the Great Relief.
“You come with news, my children, do you not?”
Neither of them answered until Palentar nudged Queret again, this time, harder.
“Uh…y-yes, Worship,” Queret answered.
“Come forward,” the Widow said. Palentar got the impression that she was speaking with a grin on her face. “No harm will come to you. That, I promise.”
Reluctantly, Queret stepped froward, and Palentar followed. They crossed the threshold of dark shadow and eerie green light into the Widow’s chambers. The little breath they held in their lungs was forced out of them upon gazing at the Widow’s lair.
It was as vast as the empty sky. Have we traveled so far underneath the ground? Palentar thought not, but the towering walls said otherwise. They were made of ancient rock, worn and weathered by the ages. All over the walls were webs, some old, some fresh and shining. The wrapped bodies of the Widow’s victims were stuck to these webs. From the shapes, they could tell they were creatures of the Dark Forest. No men, no Arachnids—at least they hoped.
Beneath the webs were piles of bones; some were covered
