“Look out,” a sudden scream erupted from Tharkas, who from his vantage position had a clear view of the puppet orcs closing on Lyria. Before any of us could react, Theko rushed, drawing a long dagger which he somehow procured and slammed into the rushing orc. Despite the larger stature of his adversary, Theko still managed to knock, tumbled and rolled further a few paces with his opponent. When he finally rose, the dagger he held, dripped with freshly drawn blood. Like a fountain made by a perverse architect, blood flowed from a clean cut on the throat of his opponent. After two small jerks, his adversary closed his eyes and ended his struggle with a gracious indebted look in his eyes.

A bolt flew past and stuck one more of the unwilling puppet orc, at the side of his wide temples, knocking him down, lifeless. Taltil, stood still, high atop a crumbling pillar; holding a small crossbow which she reloaded with rapidity. She made one brief nod, signalling her intention to give cover for our retreat. Ignoring my signs of protest, she resumed firing at foes -- striking victims from both sides. Spatters of bloody stains dotted her path of carnage. Hoping from one crumbling pillar to another with feline celerity. Taltil clung in an impossible stance, and almost perfectly still like a giant lizard stalking its prey.

Moving steadily closer to us, were ranks of murderous and blood-thirsty warriors. The puppet orcs.

Their chosen targets lay scattered in uneven piles. The lucky ones were lifeless, the unlucky ones were dragged to bolster their numbers. Neither Theko’s ferociousness nor Taltil’s slaughter did hinder their advance. Their movements were pure fluidity and calm purpose. To my immediate dismay, I found a fresh source of hindrance in our midst -- Tharkas.

“They are still orcs. Stone-cleavers and unwilling participants” voiced Tharkas. Of course, he would object to slaughtering his kin. His frustration was obviously evident in his demeanour, each of his steps was mindless slow tread. No gesture between him and the other fleeing orcs.

My gaze lingered over him for a long while he apologetically twiddled his thumbs. Realising that no acknowledgement would fall from my lips, he continued, “It is not their fault. They are as innocent as any of us. Could you not save them?”

“Tharkas,” I took a deep breath to allow a small pause for the severity of my following words to sink in, “They are already dead. It is the serum from those implanted spiders that numbs their pain. Without it, they would die a slow and agonizing death.”

Despite my words, instead of infused anger, I could only detect faint traces of hope and determination in Tharkas’s hardened face.

“But you could relieve them with an honourable death?” His question was more of a request. I could not even comprehend what honourable mean in this situation nor did I pause to request him to elaborate on his wish.

I was faced with multiple options and so were the constraints. I trust Lyria’s ability to fight but not while carrying Urganza. With only Theko and Taltil to support, I was very much aware that Lyria had a difficult task ahead, impeding the assault and traversing treacherous ground covered by pursuing orcs. In the circumstances, our best chance would have been to stop the pursuit with Tharkas. Judging by his attitude, Tharkas would not fight against fellow orcs at his full potential. So instead of progressing as a single unit, I averted to the ancient strategy. I sent Tharkas ahead to prepare a suitable cart. At least that way I could ensure a measure of comfort for Urganza. With Theko as an additional escort for Urganza, as long as they keep moving a fast distance, they are bound to make contact and hopefully, place themselves under the protection of someone -- preferably the Dusk Reavers. That is if the fringe living Dusk Reavers did not fall a victim to the ploy of the tenebrous weaver.

That left me with Lyria and Taltil. Both are admirable fighters in their own way yet unprepared for their current plight of dealing with a pack of unwillingly controlled orcs. Taltil’s shots now came more regularly but otherwise, she still remained unnoticed and uncared. Besides, she earned my strongest respect by killing the superior adversary in the form of a massive pus-leaking ogre -- an opponent who, under normal circumstances, cannot be felled by a single crossbow bolt. Yet Taltil, managed to eliminate the behemoth of a competitor without struggle. Without pausing to admire the fruits of her skill, or even to receive praise from me for her kill, she hoped on further, moving on to new targets.

Lyria fared better when it came to vicious attacks, despite being hindered by the weight of Urganza. She stuck first in flurry, next in cruel simplicity, kicking and killing a foe who lay shattered at her feet. She continued, performing her blows with swift efficiency, dispatching three across the faces. The fourth, against his will and still terrified by her growing aggression but forced by the reckless drive of the implanted spider within, attacked. Lyria dispatched him effortlessly by reversing her grip on her Warhammer; lifting the bulky orc off his feet as the attack connected. When he fell, I was unsure if he was unconscious or dead. But Lyria pushed ahead, aware of the perilous struggle that lay before us.

Watching Lyria lead ignited something in me. A deep unknown flame. An unexplainable urge to join her and revel in the slaughter. Though it was comforting and encouraging to find my inner warrior moment, it was the meagre joy of sharing an activity with her that outshone all other exhilarating emotions. I found it rather intoxicating, a rare chance to share the same dangers together as -- a beautiful tiefling and a drow couple -- carving a path of crimson whirlwind across the field.

Seeing that glazed and determined look in her sparkling eyes, what could possibly be more preferable than to live or die beside her? Lost in my thoughts, I grabbed a long slender choppa orc sword lying on the ground and rushed past Theko to join Lyria in her fight. Lyria carved relentlessly, a path of devastation; one which I wanted to be a part of -- to exist within the glorious destruction that she sculpted. The heaviness of the orcish sword did very little to hinder my now blazing fervour. I rushed to cover Lyria’s unprotected flank, a move which made me slightly flustered. Still, dodging and weaving around, we protected each other’s weaknesses. I chopped another orc and kicked the poor soul, clearing the path for Lyria.

At a distance, a loud horn sounded, the call for the rally of the Ashen Bulwarks. The leadership of the Ashen Bulwarks responded slower than my expectations but within the parameters of the present situation, the rallying call was definitely swift. Wide tower shield raised high, an impregnable phalanx, in the colour of dull ash which earned them their name, the Ashen Bulwarks quickly took their position without any clamour.

Ignoring Lyria’s warning I rushed forward -- a surprising action that saved our lives. There, before me, a few paces ahead and only a narrow sprint away lay an almost pulverised corpse. A body contorted strangely atop a dust-covered half-cracked pedestal. Imbedded into the flesh from jaw to chest, was a slightly iridescent and barely distinguishable Pantone green insert. Like a phantom stalking through the dread of the night, a very vile miasma issued and slowly permeated the grounds. While the scene itself was worthy of perfection and admiration for the art, the inquisitive thought alarmed my ears -- The daughters of Sinvaintra were never gullible. Of course, there would be plans within plans and machination propelling within machinations.

The sanctuary promised in the safety of the Ashen Bulwarks seemed like a fading distant dream. Nor could the faraway Dusk Reavers navigate the horrorsome web of poisons shrouding the immediate vicinity in time. The Sister of Tenebrous Weave has ensured that any form of resistance organised within the chaotic grounds would fall short of its intended goal. With the region almost falling under her control, escape will be answered with a pursuit.

I glanced once more at Lyria, overwhelmed by the sudden intimacy in the middle of a dreadful fight. As our eyes met, I knew instinctively that she too was experiencing what I felt moments ago. Then as if sensing my thoughts, a wicked smirk danced on her face. Perhaps she already was assured that we would survive because she and I share a destiny -- an unexplainable strong bond. In a shameful acknowledgement, I slowly reached to Lyria and tenderly caressed her cheek -- enough for her to experience a further increase in closeness. As her breathing became uneven, I traced the outline of her trembling lips with the tip of my fingers. In response, Lyria dropped her massive Warhammer, coiled one free hand into mine and pressed kisses to my palm that felt divine amongst the peril. I pulled in closer but neither of us could do anything beyond holding ourselves while staring into each other’s eyes. Urganza, who hung battered on Lyria’s shoulder squirmed breaking our private moment.

Pointing in the direction of the Ashen Bulwarks, I instructed Lyria to rush.

“Get Urganza there. There should be someone in command. Take all the contingent that would follow, and meet with Tharkas. He will lead the way,” I said firmly but with assurance to Lyria. My voice, was a harsh whisper that conveyed the urgency to her.

“We leave together,” protested Lyria as I expected.

I slid to her flank before answering, “I am with you,”

It was impossible to lie while looking directly at her face.

Lyria appeared as if another protest would issue from her but a brief moment of our momentary passion guided her trepidation further and she accepted my answer without any further thought.

As Lyria, shadowed by Theko marched towards the Ashen Bulwarks, I held a moment to watch her gallant stride; taking solace in the brief span of time that we were allowed to reconnect. I admonished myself for showing weakness; allowing myself to be led by a mirage; a mirage to lose myself in the thrill of a battle with Lyria; a dream of a life and death with her; a dream fuelled by a rampant perversion of my mind. For on the other scale, rested the unbreakable bond with Delyn. My burgeoning affection towards Lyria -- her desperate attempts, her perseverance through the tribulations -- though tugged invisible strings at my heart, did nothing to dispel my fears for my daughter’s safety. It was time for me to confront Sinvaintra’s aspirations, alone.

It was not difficult to trace the one responsible for this mayhem. Even though the tenebrous weaver was well hidden, in her arcane layer, practising her malicious ritual to swell her numbers, the pleading victims dragged by the puppet orcs left a clear trail to follow. But before, I could confront her, force her into mediation or slay her, her might needs to be challenged. Facing a single lone Arachnoloth alone is a mission for the brave or the fool-hardy but facing a tenebrous weaver supported by an Arachnoloth and assisted by a handful of Arachnes is suicidal.

The choices I faced were limited, each tethering dangerously close to the reaper’s land. The Arachnes, curse their five or six eyes, sleep with one eye open. Ambushing them is not even a remote possibility. Their psychic connection to their minion spiders would bring down their horde of controlled slaves should I prolong the fight. Their six arms mean, a multitude of weapons to be wielded. Every aspect of the Arachne makes them a formidable fighter; agile, ruthless and ambidextrous. Their tendency to lay low; stalk their prey and strike when they are least expected, makes them a consummate assassins. In short, they are the most natural-born hunters employed by the dark-elves.

The best course of action, and probably the sanest option, would have been to turn my head away from the twitching child born of a misbegotten alliance between the drow High-Priestess and a contracted demon. Instead, I veered due north; not towards the armoury but the kitchen storehouse. Pushing the creaking door open, I ventured further into the looted storehouse. Salted meat and vegetables lay strewn about; bags of grain torn and their contents still spilt in the empty room. An almost dying flame flickered, clinging desperately to the last piece of cloth wrapped on the torch. But none of them held my attention. At a corner, standing inconspicuously was a small urn containing what I sought. Lamp oil.

I grabbed a few empty flasks and filled them with the lamp oil. My eyes darted like swallows around the storehouse. Typical orc foods are always bland, with culinary delights being the least of their priorities to a full belly, but on rare occasions when spices were used, the orcs tend to go singular in their choice of flavour. Drawing from my meagre knowledge of orc culture and even less on their cuisine, I stalked through the storehouse, ignoring the bags of flour and grain that were stacked on higher shelves, till I found two well-preserved bags. One containing an exotic flavour of chilli powder and another, powdered stinging nettle.

While rummaging around further, harbouring a sliver of hope to find anything that would give me an edge in the one-sided confrontation that was inevitable, a long shadow crossed the doorway and glided inside. In a surreal turn of fate, as I pondered on ways to stalk the Arachnes, the prey found the predator. She stepped further inside and drew a deep long hissed breath.

Deep purple skin and five bulging red eyes bearing deathly stare stood out, in stark contrast, against the earthen hue of her pantile gown. Several copper-coloured braids fringed on the back of her head, spilling out from her pulled-back hair. Blood dripped off her slender arms, mostly not her own, and splashed onto the floor, leaving a sickening trail of gore as she moved. Her eyes bordering on the precious balance between lunacy and bloodthirst locked firmly on me. I appraised her competency with one glance. There will be no negotiation with her. She is here for blood, at any cost.

Her gown, cut low on the sides to allow her three pairs of gauntlet-encased limbs to move freely, cascaded like waves falling from a pulsating fountain as she moved. Her presence and gait could have been a deed worthy to be marvelled at if it weren’t for the overwhelming killing desire that radiated from her. She glided further and having finished her journey through the room, in-between arbitrating life and death, her bloodthirst grew steady pushing past almost close to lust as she got closer to me. Her lips parted in a wide grin as she lifted one of her arms and beckoned two more of her sisters to enter.

Two more figures, almost similar in their silhouette, pushed through the slightly open doorway and carefully made their creeping entry further into the storeroom where I now dodged. When each neared a full arm’s length from me, they exchanged their haunting adieux, somewhere between a purring and hissing accentuated by the uncomfortable eerie echoes reflected within the small storeroom.

I had hoped that taking some time with swinging the choppa orc sword, cutting packs of stacked grain and flour; filling the space with a smeddum fog would help lower the visibility and place me out of reach from quick and fatal strikes. To my relief, as planned, they hesitated with every step and when they looked at me, only biting scorn was directed towards me.

Finally, one decided to speak and when she spoke, it was a sibilant yet grating voice.

“Accept the fate High-Priestess Sinvaintra prepared for you,”

“Why three of you for a single lone drow?” I asked. Keep them talking. They always like to gloat when victory is assured.

“The Sister of Tenebrous Weave is wise not to underestimate,” answered another.

I swung the sword curving around, moving backwards and keeping them at bay till my back was close to the lone flickering torch. Grabbing the torch in my other hand, I hugged the wall and edged towards the exit.

“Why wield the torch? Are you not a drow?” they cajoled in unison and in mockery, “Does your sight fail in the dark?”

I darted further along the walls. The fresh air from the doorway prickled my skin.

Sensing my attempts to reach the exit, the one in the back said, “She attempts to run outside, into the daylight, with a torch.”

Cackles of laughter followed, and Then came the sneering snort.

Wielding the torch in front of their faces, I said, “Is that so? Ever heard of thermobaric explosion?” I repeated the word that I heard Vangere use a few times.

“She lost her sanity,” uttered one.

“Run! The thrill of the chase will warm our cold blood,” welcomed another.

Before the third could begin, I aimed and threw the torch towards the fog of flour clouding the centre of the storeroom. With consummate accuracy, the flaming torch travelled towards and landed in the middle of the floating cloud of flour. Within a moment, the whole mass ignited by a fire trail -- brilliant orange flames erupted within an infinitesimal moment of contact. A burst of dense conflagration surrounded the contents of the sacks which burst open, creating an avalanche of acrid smoke and flames swirling furiously around the three Arachnes, but I dared not to stand and watch my perfected makeshift explosive.

Half-diving and half being tossed, thrown out from the expulsive force and with the air forced out of my lungs, I rolled a few paces till I collapsed holding my head. As the initial shock settled, I slowly turned my head in the direction of the storehouse. I crept a few paces further away on all four, placing as much distance between myself and the site of the explosion as possible. When I finally mustered the courage to gander at the stone building, I could only marvel at the sturdy architecture of the orcs.

The Stone carved storehouse of the orcs still stood, but the same could not be said about its three recent visitors.