While the chaos reigned supreme within Mikhul’s Redoubt, I barely noticed anything else since my immediate concern is to take the aggression away from Lyria and my companions. A task that could be easily achieved by attracting the attention, and the wrath, of the remaining arachnes. The explosion, no doubt, helped me in turning their bloodlust-filled eyes in my direction.

As I meandered through the twisting dry landscape of barren lands, where the Storm Lord decided to rally the Stone-Cleavers, I realised how to track the remaining arachnes. The lands, the orcs communed are almost barred, with thin vegetation and arid days with colder nights. The arachnes, the comfort-seekers that they are, would have holed themselves in a cold, dark and humid shelter during the period. Armed with this knowledge, I hurried, searching for the nearest entrance to the aqueduct.

It is obvious that there must be an access to the aqueduct somewhere, at least from one spot because of the natural rock formations which could be cut to lead fresh water into the ramparts. Driven by the impending doom, my heart laboured harder -- ignoring the lethal wounds sustained and the not yet fully recuperated state of my own physical body -- urging me to make haste. Crawling among the crumbling ruins of boulders, I emerged into a wide-open square. Though far enough to be considered safe from the butchery and the permeating scent of blood; the open terrain did not allow enough privacy to catch my breath. Bending forward, the next moment felt immense discomfort in my left shoulder area, heralding an immediate pain. My last stunt undoubtedly opened one of my recent, not-so-fully healed wounds.

Grabbing a small plank of discarded wood and ignoring all hygiene regulations, I bit on it as I slowly twisted and prodded the left shoulder testing the extent of the tear. In an immediate response, sharp pain blossomed across my chest just as two long dark shadows converged on my position. Swiftly rolling over with fluid motions, ignoring the searing pain, I continued crawling through the open space. Bringing the right elbow forward, closer; in alignment to my forehead, I crawled desperately. The long shadows grew closer.

I rolled around till I laid on my back, slowly forcing myself up to scan my environment; gradually gathering thoughts while my hold on one of the flasks that I carried tightened. The two Arachnes prowled, stepping carefully around the debris without hurrying; alert to my moves and finally stopping a few paces away from me.

Slowly looking up towards the two creatures, I greeted them apologetically mingled with contorted cruel mirth, “Nice of you to personally receive me. So where is the red carpet rolling?”

Both the Arachnes backed slowly with cat-like grace.

“You can trick a child but not a wise adult,” half-cautioned, half-gloated one of the Arachne.

Neither of them stopped as they slowly circled, testing me out. Voluntarily allowing my fluttering eyelids wide open, I breathed in, watching the thin silhouettes of the two strange creatures stalking my vicinity. Tired of the neverending ritual of circling, I settled down and calmed my nerves. With a celerity of a striking serpent, I liberated a flask from its holding strap and smiled to look innocent.

Still, they did not pause but in contempt of my actions, they circled further away from me. Not contempt. They are scared of me.

Daunted or not, the two arachnes could put a band of troubles together in moments should they summon their implanted spiders and their hosts. In fact, I am aware that within moments, the grounds where I stand would be swarmed with the puppet orcs. A few heartbeats were all that were left, separating me from my eventual demise. I need to act fast.

I rushed ahead, in a feigned attempt to swiftly pass them both. I quickly scanned from right to left waiting for each creature to take the bait. Without fail, they would not let the chance slip by; to go against the nature of an apex predator -- to let their cornered prey escape. Closing in on me, while one aimed directly at me, the other turned directly opposite and zeroed in on my left flank. After a brief moment of uncertainty; to allow them to grasp my indecisiveness, I forcefully spun my torso around, in a vague attempt to face them both.

Four pairs of arms wove in conjunction and in perfect coordination, as webs were cast widely in my direction. Several coils, that could easily ensnare even a raging wyvern, were projected a few fingers breadth away from my face. Just as I predicted, standard Arachne practice when facing a stronger opponent. Ensnare, exhaust and drain the opponent of their vitality before going for the kill. Narrowly dodging the strands, I beamed a fleeting smile much to the chagrin of the arachnes and threw the flask. The tinkle of shattering glass absorbed their attention, followed by the revelation that the contents now soaked the thick strands of web-connected to them. The mere idea that the contents are combustible meant nothing to them; encouraged by the knowledge that I do not possess any immediate source of fire, they renewed their efforts to entangle me.

The scene quickly unfolded into a display of agility and creative veiling of webs in rapid succession. Before long, more strands intertwined -- filled with the remnants of the last flask -- and as if existing in an ad hoc cocoon, the two arachnes stood in the centre. Eventually, the whole square became enveloped by a massive weave, unravelling towards the end in multiple directions, and issuing from the two arachnes, almost as if dangling from an inverted chandelier from the ground. Their lips snared in vicious anger as their repeated attempt to snare me failed and I was still free to move.

Breathing heavily due to exertion, I stood and wiped some sweat from my wet brow with a long sweeping gesture. For a heart filled with apprehension, I surprised myself by standing steadily and facing the two arachnes.

“Why run? Why delay your preordained fate?” cooed one of the Arachne.

“Our spiders sing to us. We sing to them. We beckon and they come. soon.” said another.

I let my eyes roam over the broken pieces of flask littering the square. More than one flask, broken and their contents soaking the strong combustible strands of web, giving the strands a lambent glow was all that I need to know.

“Can your spiders move their hosts faster?” I asked not bothering to hide the wicked grin.

“Faster than what?” they repeated in unison.

“Faster than steel striking flint.”

Before the words left my lips, I drew in from my inner reserve of latent strength and struck the jagged steel edge of the choppa orc sword against the ground. I used two huge swings in quick succession. Twin arcs of brilliant orange spark flew from the impact and like a wild rain spread radially out -- along the oil-soaked weave. Both the arachnes remained equally stupefied to the extent of their own erratic assumptions and clung steadfastly onto the webbing. They couldn’t free themselves. Their feet scrambled along desperately squelching the strands. Every fibre of me wanted to throw my hands and dance madly -- to enjoy the pulverization of the two arachnes; to experience a pleasure rivalling that of an intense orgasm -- at their scream of agony.

And then the intense bloodlust -- a long-suppressed emotion; abandoned since the birth of Delyn -- embraced me like an old friend.

A chorus of voices yelped and bellowed pleading cries, joining the burning screams of the two arachnes. An unfortunate side-effect of the implanted spiders abandoning their hosts at the death cry of their mistresses. The magnitude of the screams rivalled that of the bawls from the victims of the foulest of demons. Even the cruellest and loathsome of the drow interrogators would fail to elicit such a scream from their tortures. Even the blood-thirsty and battle-hardened among the orcs cringed from the sound that echoed amidst Mikhul’s Redoubt.

As I removed myself from the flaming inferno, my eyes fell on the towering form of Raslian Goblinpelt, leading a small but heavily armoured group of minotaurs, orcs and a few ogres to boost their numbers. The weird group extracted themselves from the overwhelming chaos and with the determined movement of someone who knew where and when to strike, the tall minotaur led his band of marauders through the terrain.

Is Raslian taking revenge for the attempted desolation of the Storm Lord’s subjects? Definitely not. The minotaur, as consummate a warrior as he could be, he was all too similar to Maapu in this regard. If avenging the Storm Lord was his driving factor, then he would have stalked Urganza and by extension, had his skull split wide open by Lyria. This is something else.

Most probable explanation; former allies turning on each other. After all, if the Storm Lord could forge an alliance with the One-Horned Warlord and then with a tenebrous weaver, it stands to reason that Mikhul’s Redoubt did not just serve as a rallying point for the Stone-Cleaver orcs but also the seat of several alliances with various races -- all formed suddenly and initiated under the banner of the Storm Lord.

I stalked softly around, crouching behind huge pillars or rock formations every time Raslian positioned his hawk-like gaze while rounding strategic locations. His line of sight, unwavering until his band cut sharply behind a crumbling wall. Clutching the sword involuntarily, I laid low and waited. Following them any further would be impossible without the risk of exposing myself. And then the first thud fell. The sound of something huge, striking against something metallic, with heavy impact. More heavy thuds followed. So they were breaking an entrance. I thanked my stars and waited till the last final bump sounded announcing the fall of whatever they were breaking. If I were to guess, it would be a wide portcullis.

I counted up to a hundred, reminding myself that patience is a deciding virtue, especially when the adversary is a natural-born stalker-hunter, like the arachnes I now face. I nimbly hopped to my feet and moved across with feline precision, always choosing to lay low for a few breaths at vantage positions where I could get the best tactical view of the situation -- basic tactics necessary for my survival. I finally crossed the rusted, battered down, portcullis and slowly maintained my distance from Raslian, advancing cautiously behind the group -- looking for potential traps. Undeniably, if they were prepared for the eventuality of Storm Lord’s demise, then they were undoubtedly prepared for a surprise visit from Raslian and his band. Except that the group that Raslian led was much better prepared and dealt with the hindrances with lethal efficiency.

The dimly lit tunnel which served as a doorway appeared small in the bulking presence of Raslian. The torches they carried casted dancing shadows on the walls, till the tunnel widened itself into a small cavern. Raslian stopped abruptly. His band sought around the corners, hoping to seek out the arachnes. They found none. They cursed and resumed their march. I refused the urge to follow them and instead focussed all my senses to blend in, to silence my own location.

Soon enough, the first of the Arachne descended from the ceiling. Her six unnaturally luminous eyes glistened menacingly in the dark. Two more arachnes descended. Tension filled the air till only mere moments separated Raslian’s band from an inevitable bloody slaughter. The first body dropped limp within a few paces away from Raslian, soon followed by another and then another. I slowly stalked closer to the arachne; their revelry at the moment of death dimmed their senses. A fact that I was quick to turn to my advantage.

Two unrelated, and definitely uncorrelated events occurred simultaneously.

I slid, closing the gap with the last arachne.

Raslian stopped midstep.

My right hand tightened the grip around the hilt of the choppa orc sword, pulling it back slowly, poised to strike against the slender neck of the arachne.

Raslian lifted his massive trunk of a neck and sniffed the air. Where his eyes failed, his sense of smell earned him the advantage.

I did not hesitate before slicing her, severing her head, making her a head shorter.

Raslian pirouetted and dived straight as if possessed by the patron god of madness. The minotaur hacked wildly with his twin axes, enraging the rest of the two arachnes into an open fight. A multitude of exotic weapons appeared on their six arms, countering and riposting the attacks aimed at them with relative ease. Raslian himself put forth remarkable brutality through enormous thrust and back flips, leaping over the fallen bodies of his comrades and in turn landing in a series of devastating attack combinations. Neither of the Arachne bothered to dwell upon Raslian’s approach; quite content on temporarily blocking his advance. Occasionally, they took the pleasure of killing one of his group members when they got too close or when their luck faltered.

To my own surprise, the reckless bloodlust in me, seeing Raslian fight the two arachne, had gotten almost grotesque. My senses were overwhelmed. Almost intrepid. As one of the Arachne, punched her clawed gauntlet, elbows deep, through the throat of an ogre, I took the opportunity, kicked my feet to propel myself and with a vertical slash severed the limb from the Arachne; followed by an upward diagonal swing crushing her spine. The Arachne staggered for a moment before the charged bull rush of the Raslian caught her wide across the midriff.

I did not bother waiting to read Raslian’s expression at discovering my presence. I left the din echo of weapons clashing behind and rushed outside. Raslian can take care of the rest of the Arachne. I had other targets to eliminate.

Following the trail left by the puppet orcs was easy. Almost too easy. The tenebrous weaver definitely wanted me to reach her. This was her way of rolling the red carpet to welcome me. As I progressed, with each step, I was greeted with grim orcs drained of will, bodies half-alive twitching in pain, begging for a merciful death. The lucky ones merely died screaming. Many, however, passed out permanently with their chest spasms so severe that caused vital organs to burst, spilling bright pink viscera. Seeping the insides relentlessly through the open wounds were countless small hideous spiders. With each pace I covered, the grim scene darkened till it became a perversion, the sort a sick twisted artist would paint. And then the whispers seeped in unseen from those bodies around. Whispers of big plans. Big plans involving me.

When I finally reached the site where, the Sister of Tenebrous Weave along with her aid, the remaining two arachnes, the Arachnoloth and hundreds of puppet orcs waited, only pure disgust emanated from me. A wide arcane circle, covered with mystic sigils and bathed in blood and viscera, was all that stood between us.

The tenebrous weaver extended a spindly hand towards me, replete with flippant dauntlessness. For someone with such a young countenance, her spindly hand looked out of place on her body. She looked down her pulchritudinous leather-clad form and clicked her tongue in dismay. Turning her head in a symbolic fashion, she inspected the assembled group, scanning with a deep soul-draining gaze. She finally turned her eyes towards me. An unbelievable pride flashed in her peerless olive-green eyes.

“Surrender,” I grovelled, “Promise to become my ally.”

I enumerated. cheek smirked. Unequivocably contemptuous.

Something stirred in me. The air thickened. Darkness curdled me, urging me to strike the insolent drow. The whisper became cleared than ever before. A taunting voice that until this moment only stalked my dreams, I now heard vividly. Nudging me to unleash unholy wrath with a promise of assistance, a reward for cooperating and finally, an undeniable offer to hold Lyria forever. The voice both soothing and luring despite its grating and taunting subtone held me in trance. Its offer, too hard for me to resist.

Its unseen hands gripped my shoulders, demanding that I give into my inner primordial emotions. The offering of power continued to draw me in; to revel in the ability to ignite a vile inferno at a whim, to bind Lyria to my will. And I snapped -- from the seduction of the abyss. I will never make that mistake again. My teeth gnashed together at the irredeemable rancour. Gritting my jaw muscles to combat the frantic rage building up in me, I screamed surprising all who assembled, including the Sister of Tenebrous Weave.

The tenebrous weaver clad in her deep eminence purple mantle with golden embroidery over her ancient leather corset and pants, directed her undivided attention towards me with a hard squint in her eyes. The rest of her face and her body language remained neutral, without any indication of her current mental state. In striking contrast, the Arachnoloth, a full six heads taller than the tenebrous weaver, pale white almost translucent skin; with the body of a slender young girl till her torso, supported on a grotesquely deformed body of a spider, hissed venomously at my theatrical action. Her long iridescent green hair tumbled down to her back like a waterfall amongst big emerald mountains. In a flurry of movement, she turned to look at our surroundings. Her wide lavender eyes gleamed with enthrallment and precise threat. She furrowed her silver eyebrows with enraged frustration at being restrained from unleashing her demonic malevolence.

“On your knees,” I hissed with a distinct sibilant threat to my voice, “Yield.”

The tenebrous weaver finally spoke, a voice melodious with the hardened sharp edge of tempered steel, “You are shorned. Not even a dark elf anymore and yet your audacity still moves your tongue.”

She gave a small nod to her companion. At her signal, the Arachnoloth jeered at me as bloodshot strands of saliva and bile spewed. Bones cracked with faint audibility, eliciting deep howls of pain from the poor hapless captive orcs. The screams mingled and stirred a potent glow in the arcane circle before me. A perverse opulent glow lit the sigils inside the circle, while the screams continued to empower the ritual. Tendrils of green smoke coiled from the circle and the vague form of a hydra stirred within.

I suppressed my sudden burst of laughter at the absurd notion.

“A deep hydra? Against me?” I scoffed impudently, grinning fearlessly at the foolish choice of an adversary.

“You do realise that I developed the method for reliably slaying hydra with a small force,” I said, laughing.

“Correction,” the tenebrous weaver cleared her throat, “an empyrean hydra,”

“The High-Priestess has been selectively breeding it for over centuries, especially for you.”

Faced with a threat of titanic proportions, calculating all the odds in my favour, I filled my lungs with a deep breath and decided on the aged-old tradition of strategic withdrawal. I turned my back and ran.