Chapter 39. Widowmaker.

  It was a story Sid had never heard before—or a memory he’d just forgotten. Because the man lived under the legion of Minyeara for so long. Minyeara is the goddess of Sloth—no not the animal. Her followers were often lazy. Emotionless. Just kind of lifeless. Zero minded droolers. Zombies if you will—not the cannibalistic ones either, just empty bodies. Well those who didn’t play a role anyways. The reason behind this apathy was her Tokens. The ones she placed in the skirts of her territories. The cattleman. Nasty things that feed on aura. Sucking her followers dry of all their glory. Leaving their stars dented and dull. It earns her faith without having to destroy her followers in battle—it’s a slow process but it worked. She also had a system with her brother Briareos, god of greed.

  How did Minyeara not suspect Sid as that nasty Rot-Claw—if it was supposed to be him. Well, that’s a damned good question. One I don’t really have an answer for. I don’t know perhaps it was the fact that he didn’t really follow her. Maybe it was because he kept to his own, only smithing. Never to morph again. Never causing commotion. Forgetting that day. Forgetting his past traditions. Forgetting himself. Or maybe it’s because Minyeara was a lazy cow herself and didn’t care, only paying attention to her numbers. Who knows how he was able to stay undetected for so long. Growing so old. Becoming so dull minded and absent to the world, but he did and he was.

  It was true though. Sid had no faith for the Seven, any of them. Same was true for the fact that he just lived under the nose of Minyeara. He no longer followed that forgotten temple of envy, or any at this point—well no that’s not true. Sid follows a calling now. A primal calling from the pines. Something he couldn’t explain, but if the timbers asked for assistance Sid was sure to answer now. He probably would never admit it—but he liked that feeling of completion. The one that came with chopping the great twisted tree. Same with the feeling he shared with Fenrir. The connection he felt with the grounds. The uplifting atonement of jubilating triumph. It was that one—he loved that golden feeling. It might have been half the reason why he allowed Abram and his donkey to walk with him. It sure as hell wasn’t this story. He was convinced this was a tale Abram was pitching just to sway him to play for his god—er no his pioneer—Lakora. She did have a pretty name. He kind of liked it. Something about that name just resonate with him, maybe he had an ancestor with the same name. Either way he had had about enough of Abram’s voice.

  “That young boy hid in them woods for seasons on end too. Rumors say he survived by the critters of the woods Sid. Clever little cub he was too cause he listened to them critters. Drinking froms the fresh streams theys showed him. Eatings the nuts and berries they forage befores the frost. Ye know Sid lesser men would have perished in thems woods but nots that boy. That boy was gifted.”

  “So, what happened to him then? You know if the child was such a survivor why hasn’t this so-called savior came forward and stopped the Seven?” Sid asked. He was rather irritated with the story. It made no sense, not to him anyway. What, was Sid supposed to be the child in the story. Ridiculous he was brought up in the settlement of Slack-Jaw—a development ruined by a beast it was named after—lazy I know. Well believe it or not that crappy place was one of the first settlements of the lands. In centuries they accomplished those primitive mud huts—I tried to tell you that slow lethargic living was just how they liked it, simple cave dwellers—where was I now? Right, the story was a load of crap. He would not be falling for it, it literally felt like a trap. Sure the man in the story had the same name as his father. Not a big deal Grover was a common name. The fact that his name in full was Grover Tyriel Birch the third—well that was kind of weird, but not enough for him to think about it no more than eight times.

  “Well, mes gettin theres Sid little bits ats a time.” Abram snarked. Everyone knows you can’t just jump straight to the end of the story. Where’s the build up. The theatrics. The tension. He loved telling a good story. Abram believed he was a remarkable story teller, and the fact that Sid was talking to him— specially about the story—was the purest sign that it was a good one. Lifting a finger he pointed at the trees in the distance. “Looky there. What do ye suppose that is?” it was a rhetorical question—or so he thought.

  Sid looked to where the man was pointing. Seeing what looked like old crones’ hair. Tight thin ropes of it strung out and drooped across the branches. Stretched over the neighboring shrubberies like wedding veils. It aged the forest with taunting mystery, not beauty and womder. Pines and underbrush all coated with such fine and lacy and aging substance. All the trees started to grow thick with the stuff. “I have no idea, Abram. I’ve never seen this stuff before, I don’t adventure.” He said, reaching for some.

  “Don’t!” Abram shouted. Forcing the big guy to pull his hand away like the bush would bite.

  Damn—Arieo was really praying to the Stallitusks Sid would have grabbed that webbing. Oh how he would of loved to see that.

  “That be Widowmaker silks. Stuffs has a rather mean bite to its. Evens after its beens used up like it be.” Abram informed, finger following a live strand that had a sheen silver to it. That specific thread was tight. “C’mon lets be moving withs a light foot. These things like tos eats as the dew sets. Birds and things get caught in these webs and thrash about.” He continued to explain while pointing at the tight silver thread. “Watch where ye steps toos. Widowmakers likes to makes traps alongs the grounds betweens the trees. Theys feel the vibrations in thems. Hell they could already bes on there ways downs here.”

  Sid shuddered at this thought. He didn’t care what happened to the child in the story. Right now, he only watched the tree tops. The branches became so cloudy with silk. The trees looked greyish white, so heavy with cobwebs and cocoons. One would never know the sun was only just on it way. However, those radiant rays of warmth would not break through the webbing. It would only illuminate the horror behind. Like a folks and props behind the tent during a shadow show. Only this showing was costly—it would cost him an arm or a leg, I’m kidding that’s a shitty pun—seriously though this was an act he did not want to stick around for.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Abram watched while the creepy shadows above crept along. Never slower. Never faster. Never even set the pace. The shadows moved when the group moved. The group moved when Abram moved. He moved slowly. Constantly stopping to check Arieo’s legs. He didn’t want his fuzzy pal getting laced up in that nasty stuff. Never having the pleasure of handling the webbing himself, like Sid, he’s only heard the stories. However, Abram was a bit more informed about the Widowmaker. He’s also read a few bestiaries—not cover to cover, but enough for an understanding about the creatures in the mountains of the area—anyways. Those who have been bold enough to study with a closer hand, all have written the same. That web has a stinging oil like substance along it. The Widowmaker will check every active strand it placed as a snare, lining the forest floors and tree tops. The oil is very sticky. If one got caught up in the stuff rumors say it burns with a cold heat. Thrashing only makes it worse because you could just get yourself more snared. Deadly creatures of the forest.

  Too make things worse, Sid had half his sights—or sight, ….whatever he only had one eye. That eye was only focused on the shadows above. Gross shadows. Things of bad dreams—no their just bad, doesn’t have to be in a dream. Widowmakers, spiders, most creepy crawlies, he didn’t like them. Really anything with more than four legs was disturbing in his mind. And the smell. It was damp, yet dusty. Not like mildew but like—old skin. Not the leathery kind of smell either. His neck released a faint pop-popping while his eye pulled from there to there. Trying his absolute best to keep track of all those shadows up there. Impossible. He could only grip obsessively at the black stone in the pommel of his sword. Slow shallow steps caused him a gentle turning.

  The fire-tales were true. Every single one of them. This webbing or silk. It coated every branch. Everywhere. The tree bark. Berry bushes—shame he was hungry too. Branches all the way to the tree tops. Just cobwebs. It was wrapped up with absolutely no grace in mind. The forest looked to be old and fading. Really the only sign of life was the wriggling shadows above. Horrid. It was just awful.

  “Sid watch yer step!”

  It was too late. Throwing his hands out, dropping his blade—and horse blanket. Sid came crashing down with a hard thud. He was far too distracted by the shadows above. Never watching the grounds. Didn’t think he needed too, following a wagon. He didn’t notice the tree he crossed paths with, while Abram and Arieo cut threw an old cobwebbing. He walked into a low set dewy trap. He had become snared.

  What an idiot. Look at him. Oh this was great. Arieo lifted his lips, exposing those blocky teeth of his. Honking with laughter. He swished his tail and kicked the wagon a few times.

  “Arieo knocks it off.” Abram chuckled, straightening his face—this was a serious matter.

  “Help me, Abram!” Sid panicked on the ground, eye looking up. “Abram what do I do?” He begged for an answer. Fingers fumbling with the thread that burned at his legs, and now his fingers too.

  “Abram!” That brave mustache barked at bleeding fingers. Tips smoldering with that dull yellow fume. The grass around him started to sizzle as the thread opened the skin over his shins. “Abram what do I do!?”

  Why wasn’t his blood burning through the threads. He was supposed to be the Bear-King. The rot or erosion or whatever that pure darkness was. That crude compound in his blood should be stronger than the mere silks of a Widowmaker—unless the Widowmaker was that of Lakora’s making. Was that massive spider a primal creature? Was it a pioneer of sorts? ….wait should that even matter? The man was an apocalypse token—a hail-mary if you will. Shit—was Sid even a Rot-Claw? Every other interaction made Abram question his stars.

  Gods he just needed to get Sid to Stallitusk Sanctuary—why would folks still call it that. It’s not like its Sanctuary anymore someone really ought to change the name—last time he was there the castle was a damned free for all. Meaning all Seven were playing there—the place was, …well a fucking shit show. That’s really the best way to describe the place. He hoped it had settled since then.

  “Abram!” Sid lifted his hands. Strands of sticky web cling and burn. That single taunting eye swelled, while a mustache barked again. “Abram!”

  He could only watch Sid. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do. Except for one thing, a beautiful green emerald, one set in the pommel of a glorious sabre. One with a golden hilt, and many, many polished stones throughout the hand guard. That emerald flashed with a shimmering blink, while Abram threw the flap of his coat, pulling the blade from the sheath at his hip.

  Perfect. This what Arieo had been waiting for. His master was going to take one of Sid's ears. He wanted him to lose an ear. Not an eye—although that was amazing too—wait what’s his master doing? No—how frustrating.

  Fenrir’s pure whites could be seen from under the wagon. Shadowy nose testing the air. He didn’t like it and sunk back into the depths of the underneath.

  Sid was watching though. Damn. What a blade. This was truly a metal masterpiece. Something Sid would have loved to look at closer. Maybe had Abram started their first interactions with the showing of this sword he would have a different outlook on the man. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so irritating. Maybe that voice wouldn’t be such a bother. Instead, he would have to admire the blade—no the piece of art. He would have to look from his sitting in the dirt. While tangled in the web of a Widowmaker. “Will that cut through?”

  “Boy mes sure hopes it does Sid. Otherwise mes and Arieo are leavin yas.” Abram lifted the blade. Slicing through the air with a sharp action. One could literally hear the air be halved with that motion. The edge of that beautiful blade wedged into the dirt. “C'mon try and stands. Me ain’t goin to cuts the bit along yer legs Sid. But if wes can gets yers legs enough to run, someone at the castle should be ables to.”

  Sid nodded. This was a great idea. He didn’t care. Just get him up and out of this damn forest. He was ready to go to the castle. He made up his mind he would be settling there. He would not be walking back through this nest—a fucking hammer and anvil wasn’t worth it. Abram was right that mighty castle would be a grand place to stay and help rebuild. There would be fish and berries and dark mead and stables. It didn’t work though. That thread of webbing was still strong. Still sticky. Still tangled and snared.