Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four

It took two long days for the King and Erol Marand, the young soldier from Hatriila, to escape the forests of Junn and enter the bitter realm of Judgar. Jiila Forez left them at the convoy, heading for the village of Geermund, wounded, though less severely than the King let her believe. It was safer to let her think the village was her only option. Few returned from Judgar and the King refused to let her risk her life for him again. He considered sending Erol with her; to search for Matrekku alone, but the soldier angrily refused. Too many of his friends died in Hatriila and he was determined to stand by the King against Avarat.

Jiila tried to convince them to travel to Geermund with her, their journey to Judgar suicide in her eyes. Better they seek out allies and strengthen their numbers before setting out on such a perilous campaign. The King refused. The prophecy pointed him to Matrekku and time was running out. Without aid his son would die. If there was a way to help him hold the four, Matrekku knew it. He had to find her.

Jiila called him a fool to follow the prophecy so doggedly. He recalled the look in her eyes when they said their goodbyes; not anger but pity. This prophecy will get you killed, she said.

They entered Judgar from the south, following a river slowly turning to muddy sludge the deeper they ventured into the realm. Jiila was right about one thing; he would have failed the journey alone. Erol proved a crucial guide, steering them away from dangers the King failed to see. They slipped by patrols and avoided the forest’s predators guided by the soldier’s uncanny senses. Without Erol the King would have fallen on the first day.

They camped as darkness fell, huddled around a small fire which might draw their enemies, but softened the freezing night and kept its predators at bay. During the day they made good time, though the King knew he held the soldier back. He was old and out of shape, and often they rested when it was clear Erol could easily go on.

By the end of the third day the land around them changed completely. Gone were the vibrant colours of Junn and in their place dark purples and blues on withered leaves hanging limp from crooked trees.

It was as if the forest was dying. All sounds of life were gone and pressing on, sparse trees crowding in around them, it was silent as a graveyard. The Majia was faint, giving everything a deathly glow, and soon there were no signs of life at all; no evidence anyone had ever set foot in the place.

Cold winds moaned through the trees, shaking silver webs strewn through the branches, and a low mist swirled round their feet. There was no food to be found, no creatures to hunt or berries to pick, and the only water was thick sludge they could neither drink nor wash in. They survived on thin rations but knew they would soon be gone. Neither of them wanted to think about the consequences.

Night fell and through the thick canopy the sky darkened. Ordinarily they would have made camp, knowing it was safer to travel in daylight, but the lack of provisions drove them on. As the chill set in, both men so exhausted they could manage barely a few steps without resting, they finally found signs of life.

Dotted amid the trees were the shells of former buildings, hung with webs and covered in creeping moss. The ruins were sparse at first, but the two men followed them eagerly, soon finding many more, the skeletal remains of a long dead village. Erol lit a torch to guide them, though it barely broke the gloom, and they progressed slowly, slipping under crumbling archways and over fallen pillars. Despite the deathly surroundings they were filled with fresh hope. Where there was a village, water would be nearby.

Moving through the dead streets, the ground beneath them crunched underfoot and hidden in the mist they were horrified to find a carpet of bones. Strange noises whispered from the dark, faint tappings and clickings, and quick movements darted in the shadows, gone when they swung the torch to see. The ruins were scattered with debris; rotting frames of old beds and pieces of splintered furniture. A few times they found large clay pots, most smashed into shards, but some still intact, and pulled out their corks eagerly, hoping for water. Instead a foul smell hit them; lamp oil, useful for the torch, but no relief for their thirst.

They emerged into the main street. The buildings were close together, leading to a climb of steps rising from the mist. The webs, once sparse and light, covered everything in a thick mesh and Erol was forced to burn away the strands blocking their path with the torch and hack through the thicker clumps with his sword. Their feet stuck to the ground, as if walking in glue, and they dragged their boots free with every step, moving so slowly the King thought it would be morning before they reached the top of the rise.

Halfway up the crumbling steps, Erol stopped. He listened intently, eyes glancing around, and from the darkness came a faint tapping and clicking.

“We must go on,” the King said. Erol stayed silent, the dance of the torchlight catching his alarmed expression. The King felt it too. A sudden feeling something terrible was going to happen. Erol jumped, eyes widening and sword raised, looking beyond the King to the street below. The King turned, his own sword raised, skin prickling.

For a second he could see nothing except the fall of steps and the dark shadow of the ruins beyond, but then his eyes caught movement. Along the street a wave washed towards the steps, parting the mist, surging towards them. It was impossible. Erol was a talented tracker but found no rivers or streams in the ruined village.

“It isn’t water,” Erol said and threw the torch into the wave. The King’s skin crawled. A mass of writhing white spiders broke from the flames, twitching hairy bodies tumbling over one another, scuttling forward eagerly. The horrible clicking noise echoed up into the stairwell louder than before.

Erol grabbed the King and pulled him up the steps. With the torch gone only the thin light of dusk guided them and it was impossible to tell how much further the steps went on. The King began hacking at the webs, using the last of his strength to rip them aside and push on, desperate to reach the top.

“It has been an honour my King,” Erol said quietly. The King turned, realising too late the soldier’s intent, and watched helplessly as he charged down the steps towards the climbing mass. In seconds they were on him. He lashed out, sending screeching bodies flying against the walls, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them, clambering over his body, inside his clothes, over his screaming face, into his mouth. The wave dragged him down.

The King could do nothing. Erol sacrificed himself to give him time and he attacked the webs in fury, pushing up, step by step, tearing and screaming.

He didn’t dare look round, knowing the spiders would be on him in seconds, having stripped the soldier to his bones. It took forever, heart pounding and his throat sore from every scream he gave pulling the webs free.

He could hear them coming. Thousands of scuttling, white legs scrambling up the steps and he charged forward with the last of his strength, tearing through the final strands and falling to the ground. He forced himself up, searching for an escape, but found himself in a circular prison of half-destroyed walls. The jungle canopy hung above the shattered dome of the roof but otherwise there was no escape from the chamber.

The hungry chattering of the spiders grew louder behind him and he turned to see them spill from the steps and pool across the floor. He backed away, brushing webs from his face, sword raised, ready to slash and cut as many as he could. He would die fighting.

The mass burst forward, lidless eyes fixed on him, sharp mandibles clicking excitedly. He drew back his sword to strike.

A long, piercing shriek.

The King dropped his sword and clapped his hands to his ears, falling to his knees. The wave froze and drew back as if afraid. Finally, mercifully, the sound ended. His hands fell from his ears, fingers dripping blood.

The wave retreated further, still chattering, but quieter now; wary. In the night sky’s pale light a shadow dropped from the forest. It was enormous, a vast egg-shaped mound, slowly descending into the chamber from a long glistening thread. Eight thick legs uncurled, bending to take the body’s weight and it landed before the King, the long strand snapping away.

The King searched the floor for his sword, hidden in the mist, but his hands found only the horrible wet webbing and he pulled them free, trailing strands. The spider reared back, abdomen jerking, and lifted its head. A familiar face looked down at the King.

“Metrekku!” he said in amazement. The image repulsed him, but there was no doubt. The face was his old friend, now warped into this nightmarish creature. The woman watched him carefully, two sharp fangs sprouting like tusks from her lower lip, and her hairless skull set with four unblinking eyes.

“It knows us!” she hissed. The King recognised the voice and shuddered. What had happened to her? He could barely look at the monstrosity without retching.

“We are friends!” he said, desperately, “You know me! I am Elvan Caldor, King of Hatriila.” Matrekku’s head drifted from side to side, studying his face.

“Friends it says, friends! Oh but Matrekku has no friends do we. Matrekku is alone. Always alone.” Her face looked miserable and she looked away from the King. “It comes to kill us! We must not trust it. Kill it first. Then we can feed!” This was a different voice, sharper and crueller, and when Matrekku turned back to him her face was a mask of hatred.

“Please, I came here for your help.” Matrekku sneered.

“Always they come when they need from Matrekku. Years we have been alone. Where was it then? Where was Matrekku’s friend? Forgotten! Forgotten!” The King fell back as the spider approached. It was true, he had not thought of her in years, not until he needed her help. Finding her like this, he wondered if he could have helped her. Could have stopped it happening.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t know.” Matrekku’s face twisted to sadness again.

“It is sorry,” she said softly, “and it brought us food. For the babies.” The King shuddered. Erol was no gift and the Matrekku he knew would be sickened by the idea. Whatever this creature was, it was no longer his friend. No human could think of the soldier as nothing more than a meal. “It comes because of the boy,” Matrekku hissed angrily, “To save him! Not for us!” The King stepped towards her, hands raised,

“Please. My son was sent away, many years ago, because of the Majiak. He hasn’t the strength to bear it. It will kill him.” Matrekku recoiled,

“See! It wants to save the boy! But what about us? What about our babies? They starve and rot. Who cares about them!”

“I can help you,” the King said, “We can provide food, meat. If you help me, I can save them.” The spider hissed,

“Liar! It wants to trick us. So desperate it is to know. But too late. Too late! How to hold the four.” She laughed , a horrible sound gurgling in her throat. The softer voice returned, “Anyone can and no-one can. Everyone tries and no-one can just be. Does it understand?” The King shook his head,

“Is there a way to control the Majiak? Or strengthen the body so it may be held?”

“Control?” She laughed again, “It does not understand the Majiak’s true nature. Cannot be controlled. Cannot be contained. Die and not die is the only way it can survive. Only where the Majia is free.” She shuddered and snapped her fangs hungrily, “We talk too much and we are so hungry.” Both voices, together. Matrekku was tired of talking and could only think of her belly. she scuttled forward, knocking the King to the ground, and rose to strike. A new voice rang through the chamber,

“Have you heard enough?”

The King twisted his head to the stairwell. Atop the archway stood Jiila, one hand holding her bow, an arrow strung and ready to fire. In the other she held a large clay jug. She had driven a torch into the stones, and the flames threw shadows across her face. Matrekku scuttled around, confused and angry,

“See! It has allies! Sneaking around. We knew it wanted to kill us. We knew it!”

“Did it tell you what you need to know?” Jiila asked again. The King struggled backwards, hindered by the webs on the ground, and nodded. Matrekku had answered his questions but the answers were as he feared. No-one could hold the Majiak and survive. His son would die.

Jiila lifted the jug,

“For Erol,” she said. She threw the jug into the air over the writhing spiders and drew back her bow. The arrow flew, shattering the pot and showered its contents over the white mass. A pungent stench filled the air, stinging the King’s eyes. He covered his mouth and scrambled further back, suddenly knowing what Jiila intended. The spiders were frenzied, scuttling in confusion but starting to break away. Swiftly Jiila drew another arrow, dipping its tip in the flames of the torch, and fired it into the mass. There was an explosion of fire.

Matrekku wailed, scuttling back, watching her children burn. Their blackening bodies twitched and the room shook with their shrieks. Jiila threw her bow over her shoulder and snatched up the torch. She drew her sword and sprang from the archway, landing in the shadows along the left wall, safe from the flames. The King was on his feet, still unarmed, and looking round desperately for Matrekku, but the spider had vanished. Suddenly Jiila was by his side,

“Are you wounded?” she said, searching the chamber for signs of Matrekku. The King shook his head,

“She won’t let us leave. You killed her young. She’ll hunt us” For the first time since he’d met her Jiila smiled, stepping away from the King into the centre of the chamber.

“No she won’t,” she said, “I’m hunting her.” Then she was gone, moving so quickly the King thought she vanished into the air. Matrekku landed where she had been standing, screeching in fury, claws scrabbling in the mist.

“It dares to attack us!” she screamed, “In our home! It kills our babies.” The last words were howled in pain and the King felt a sting of pity for the creature. She whirled around, searching the floor for signs of Jiila, and her gaze fell on the King. “It leaves its friend unprotected,” she hissed, “We will kill it first.” He backed away, feet dragging in the mist, and stumbled against a wall. Matrekku tensed, abdomen quivering, preparing to strike.

Before she could move, Jiila rose from the mist behind her, sword flashing out. Matrekku howled, springing to a wall, leaving one severed leg twitching on the ground, oozing black blood. Jiila had already vanished. The King stared in amazement. The mist was barely inches deep. Where was she hiding?

“It called us friend. To get what it wanted. But we knew it lied! We knew it tricked us!” Matrekku cast her head from side to side, eyes furious, searching the mist. Impossibly Jiila rose beside her and struck again, sending another twitching leg tumbling. Matrekku roared in pain and sprang away again, landing in the centre of the chamber, her movements clumsy and panicked. The fury in her eyes was replaced by fear. They darted to the walls looking for an escape. Jiila rose in front of her.

It was an unfair fight. As furiously as the trapped spider fought, the woman slipped through her flashing legs, hacking each away until only its body lay quivering on the floor before her, wailing in agony. With one last strike she cut off Matrekku’s head, turning and walking back to the King before it had fallen into the mist.

The King was frozen in amazement.

“Who are you?” he said, “Really?” Jiila slipped her sword into her belt and held out her hand,

“Your only hope,” she said. He stepped back, ignoring the hand.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that before.” Jiila lowered her hand and sighed.

“My family were fighters,” she said, “I was the only girl.That is all you need to know, for now.” It was a weak explanation but she would say no more. For the second time she had risked her life to save his and he had no idea why.

“You will be rewarded, when it’s over,” he promised. She smiled again, broader this time, eyes sparkling mischievously,

“You can bet on that my King.” She pulled him to his feet and turned to the archway. The fire had burned out and mounds of charred twitching bodies poked through the mist. Hurrying down the steps, they took Erol’s sword, to replace the one lost in the chamber. Both were poor quality, taken from the bandits who had attacked the wagon, but they were better than nothing, and Jiila’s stolen bow had proved invaluable.

They escaped the lair, night growing darker around them, and only after several miles did Jiila allow them to stop, satisfied it was safe enough to make camp. After checking the surrounding forest, she sat cleaning her sword and the King collected wood for a fire.

“What did she tell you?” she asked, easing back against a tree.

“That there is no hope for my son.”

“There is always hope Caldor.” Perhaps she was right. He thought of the prophecy; the certainty of his son becoming the bearer of four. “So where now?” Jiila said, turning her sword in the light of the fire. The King recalled Matrekku’s words.

“Where I knew I would end up all along. That part of the prophecy at least is true. Matrekku mentioned a place where the Majia is free.” Jiila frowned,

“The wastelands? But there’s nothing there. Except…” She stopped, seeing the serious look on his face and laughed, “Really ?” The King smiled and nodded,

“I must go to the Mines of the Dead.”