Saga 18- Arachnophobia

When we awake in the morning, a quick reconnoitre of the area turns up the tracks of the hunting trip, so we return to our campsite to decide what to do. Between us (well, Raven and Minstra) it is decided that I will remain behind to guard the campsite, while they follow the tracks and retrieve the lance. We are so deep in the forest that we will need to camp here again tonight, so this camp must be guarded.

I don’t mind this much, and I settle in, back to a tree, and dig in my pack for a book to read while I wait. Raven kisses me farewell, and they depart, Maron waving goodbye as they leave.

I hear Raven and Maron’s soft ‘tramp, tramp’ for a minute, before silence returns again. I return to my book, a tome of elven poetry. Mostly love poetry, showing you exactly what state of mind I am in currently. I love reading poetry, but, unlike most elves, have no talent whatsoever for it. Any book dealing with my race will tell you that we can all write poetry to make your heart burst. This is true, but my poetry makes your heart burst through boredom and anger, not strength of words. No, I paint as a method of expressing my feelings, not writing poetry. Alas however, I cannot seem to find a canvas in this forest, so I read other elves’ work instead.

I’m halfway through an extremely long ballad about an elven warrior whose lover is slain by the drow (a story I find amusing, considering my situation) when a curious sound reaches my keen ears. A chittering, or cackling, a sound I am unfamiliar with. I put down the book, and pick up my bow, notching an arrow. A good thing I did, because soon enough something steps into the clearing.

I blanch. It’s a giant spider. Giant. This thing is the size of a dog. I leapt to my feet, and loose the arrow, hitting it in its eyes, sending a spray of gunge from its head. My stomach turns, and I retch even as it falls, and another enters my glade. I quickly reload and fire at that one too, but many more enter, and they see me, and race to me, as I fire arrow after arrow, halting many, but always more race on. There must be hundreds! No, the rational part of my mind urges, there are few.

This rational part is flung aside as they get too close to shoot, and I draw my sword, slashing wildly, removing legs from one, slicing another in two, but one the size of a large cat gets me, sinking it’s fangs into my arm, and I throw it aside, yet its fangs remain sunk in my bicep even as its body hits a tree. As I stab another through the head, I am sick, copiously over the corpse as another spider slashes my leg with the razor sharp talons on its legs. My left leg collapses, and I finish the insect with a stab that leave me open to another bite. As I feel teeth enter my torso, I scream.

“Raven! Save me! Help me please!” Tears fall from my eyes, blinding me as my blade whirls and slashes. I feel resistance behind it, then freedom, then something hard. I swing again, and again, and again, until through blurred eyes I see that I am attacking a tree, and the various corpses of a dozen dead spiders lie around me, and no living ones remain in the glade. However, I see the green pus seeping from the bite to my arms and stomach, and feel the retching that poison sends. Staggering back to the camp, I rifle through Maron’s pack, searching for an antidote in my desperation.

For ease of use, Maron has painstakingly labelled each potion in Common, so all can understand. Except me. I can’t read or write Common. I scream in terror and frustration, and grab the nearest potion, snapping off the neck in my fumbling, and drink it all. I stagger back to the tree, and collapse, bleeding from a million cuts and scratches, as well as the three deep wounds I have sustained.

I remember something my uncle; another ranger taught me about injuries, that I must sing to keep my spirits up. Now that the adrenaline of combat and terror is wearing off, I feel the almost drunken feeling that blood-loss invariably leads to, and begin a song that I heard my father and uncle singing after a dinner at the palace where too much alcohol was consumed.

By the time Raven Minstra and Maron return, I’m on my fifth song, and my warbling echoes through the forest,

“’twas on the Good Ship Venus,
Good gods you should have seen us.
The figurehead was a nude in bed,
Sucking a red-hot peeeeeeeniiiiii…”

“Daie?” Raven’s call bounces through my mind almost unrecognised.

“Friggin’ in the riggin’,
wannnnn…”

“Daie!” She cries as she leaps to my side, knocking half a spider away from me as she does so.
“Maron! Get here, heal him!”
Maron does so, as Raven holds my drooping head steady, looking into my glazed eyes. A thin line of drool mixed with blood seeps from my mouth, and I give a close approximation of a smile as I slur:
“There were lots of them, Raven. Spiders. I fought them for you, because you told me to guard. I’m sorry I got hurt.”
“Easy Daie, you did well. I’m proud of you” she runs a hand through my hair, dislodging the leaves and grime stuck there.
Maron finishes her spell, and casts another, and as the sleep overtakes me, I hear Raven’s last utterance.
“I love you, Daie Vanya.”