Chapter Nine
Chapter
nine
No sooner have we stepped on board than Soren unhooks the gangplank and lets it drop into the water. When I ask him if he’s trying to prevent anyone from following us, he shakes his head.
“If we’re eviscerated, it’s better to contain the bloodshed to the ship.
That way, they can just burn the damn thing and sink it, bodies and all.
” I must look horrified, for he tacks on, “Oh, relax, skylark. When death finally comes for me, it will take far more than a few hound-sized arachnidae.” He pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “You, on the other hand, appear to be the perfect size for a spider’s snack… ”
I make a crass hand gesture.
He chuckles, but all humor flees as we turn our attention to the ship.
Up close, the signs of infestation are far more apparent than they were from the docks.
We follow the bloody trail of footsteps the young soldier left toward the stern.
A suspended corpse hangs from silken threads between two lashed barrels by the main boom; another lies by a ventilation hatch, an abandoned sword still in hand.
Not the sailors from the docks—these have been dead months, not minutes.
Their mummified skeletons stop us both in our tracks.
“Skies.” Soren whistles lowly from my side. He is so close, our arms brush. For once, I am grateful for his proximity. My fingers lift automatically to trace the sigil for the Goddess of Souls in the air. My throat is too thick to speak the invocation aloud.
May you meet the skies with swiftness. May the aether offer eternal peace.
Soren’s gaze follows my hand movements, but he does not mimic them.
The grim set to his mouth mirrors the tension in his shoulders as we continue toward the stern.
Webs coat everything in sight—clinging like moss to the masts, creeping over rigging lines.
They drape the dual stairways that lead to the upper deck where the unmanned steering wheel creaks back and forth in the current.
The round portal windows that lead into the captain’s cabin are so thoroughly filmed over, it is impossible to see inside.
We check there first—Soren taking point, me close on his heels.
A potent mix of apprehension and fear races through my blood like an elixir.
My legs tremble with it as I step over the threshold.
The interior is bizarrely untouched by disaster.
The desk is cluttered with navigational charts and correspondence.
A quill, slicked with dried ink, sits atop the stack, as though someone has only recently set it down.
The bed is unmade, blankets rumpled, pillows askew.
A pair of boots sit by the foot. A woman’s, judging by the size.
“Imeera,” Soren says, glancing around the empty cabin. “What the fuck happened to you?”
My eyes are on the weapon rack by the bed. Several weighty maces are on display, replete with spikes. I’m not a master swordswoman by any stretch of the imagination, but I figure even an unwieldy blade is better than none at this point.
“Don’t you think we should arm ourselves before we—”
A low thud startles me into silence. Not the distant rumble of the sea gate ratcheting closed across the harbor, but something closer.
Far closer. So close, in fact, I suck in a breath as my gaze drops straight to the wood plank floorboards.
I cannot hide my flinch when a second thump echoes up at us from belowdecks, followed by a low hiss that makes all the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“There’s something down th—”
“Quiet.” Soren’s whisper is barely audible. “Their hearing is nearly as good as their eyesight.”
My mouth slams shut.
He jerks his chin toward the door and moves to it. I look longingly at the weapon rack for a few scant seconds before I follow, attempting to copy his soundless gait. No matter how carefully I tread, the soles of my boots boom against the floor.
One day, I will force him to teach me how he moves with such stealth.
My heart pounds faster and faster as we retrace our steps out of the cabin and onto the main deck.
We pass several more mummified bodies hanging from the rigging, draped over supply crates.
The young sailor’s bloody footprints come to an abrupt end midship, at the shadowy steps down to the crew quarters on the lower level.
I have not forgotten the boy’s words on the dock.
Cocooned in webs! Blood sucked out! They ring in my head like a death knell as we approach the dark gap.
Gods, I wish I had my bow in hand. All I have is the rather pathetic dagger I keep sheathed at my thigh, but that is better suited to harvesting medicinal herbs than dealing physical damage.
Still, I feel a shade better with its glyph-covered handle gripped in my palm.
Soren looks entirely too nonchalant, given the circumstances. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat as I follow him, reminding myself with each step that panic is, above all, a paralytic.
No poison in the world more lethal than the fear running through your own veins, Eli used to say.
In my experience, the only known cure for fear is to grit one’s teeth and carry on in the face of it. Be scared; live regardless. For it is always better to die swinging at an enemy than cowering in a terrorized ball in the corner.
In theory.
But theory only goes so far—a truth I have never felt quite so acutely as the moment Soren draws up short.
I slam straight into the broad planes of his back.
He doesn’t spare me a glance as I step to his side.
He is staring intently at the opening to the lower deck…
where several long, serrated appendages are emerging one by one from the darkness.
Oh, hell.
The arachnida appears slowly, then all at once.
With a tandem flex of eight double-jointed legs, it vaults like lightning from the hold.
For a few breathless seconds, it is fully airborne above us.
I gape up at its enormous body, unable to decide which of its characteristics is the most ghastly: the segmented abdomen, black and covered in coarse hair; the dozen orb-like eyes, shiny as mirrors, reflecting my horrified expression in miniature; or the fangs, coated with a viscous white venom, clacking together as the beast hisses a foul breath that reeks of rotten flesh.
This is no hound-sized arachnida. Horse-sized comes closer—and that does not even account for the leg span.
Stretched end to end, it would almost be capable of straddling the ship.
I am so stunned by its unexpected scale, I don’t realize it’s coming straight down at me until it is far too late to move.
Soren’s body collides with mine as he tackles me to the deck.
The impact steals the breath from my lungs and slams my head so hard I see stars.
There is no time to process the pain. His arms are like metal bands, pinning me to his chest as he rolls toward the port rail.
We lurch to a stop the same instant the arachnida crashes down.
Its immense weight drives its legs into the boards like nails, splintering the wood by several inches.
A guttural scream emanates from between its fangs as it realizes it has lodged itself.
Soren drags me to my feet, not squandering the brief moment we have before the creature pulls itself free. I glance around for my dagger, which flew from my grip when he tackled me, but it is nowhere to be seen amid the lines and webs that cloak the deck.
“Forget the damned dagger!” Soren snaps. “You have better weapons.”
Even as he chastises me, he is lifting his arms, summoning two great globes of water from the harbor, each wider than the average soldier is tall.
They rise up over the railing and hover there, suspended, for several seconds.
I can feel the maegic surging through him, but his face shows not a ripple of expended effort as he holds his position, attention fixed on the foul, hissing monster not ten paces from us.
It has finally managed to work the last of its legs free of the deck.
I swallow a curse as its inverted joints compress like springs, launching it straight into the air again.
I think for sure it will come for us, but it has higher ambitions.
Spinnerets on its underbelly shoot sticky white fibers at the booms overhead, adhering to the shredded sails with staggering speed.
It begins to scurry upward into the rigging, all eight legs working together to climb faster than its size should allow.
I crane my neck to watch, mouth parched. “Soren—”
The second his name leaves my mouth, he flicks his wrists forward. Both water globes sail directly at the arachnida, enveloping it in midair. Its hiss of rage bursts out with a furor of bubbles. It attempts to climb, but its sticky web is floating, slack and useless, in Soren’s trap.
“This shouldn’t take too long.” There is a smug note in his voice. “Most everything drowns eventually.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s drowning,” I can’t help pointing out, eyeing the thrashing creature. “I think you’re just pissing it off.”
Soren grunts noncommittally. But as the minutes drag on and the monster continues to flex and flail its many legs, a faint line of strain appears on his forehead.
More bubbles stream out between the thick black jaws that chomp relentlessly against captivity.
Its beady eyes remain trained on us with unsettling wrath.
“Infernal hells.”
I glance over at Soren’s low curse. “What is it?”
“It should’ve run out of air by now. Damn thing must be from the Desert Depths. An amphibious varietal.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”