The Night Parade

Eighteen

The nightmare was always the same:

Myrmeen was a child, living at home with her parents in the boarding house she one day would burn to the ground. Her father was trying to perfect a new composition, plucking notes on his lute with passion and skill, while her mother allowed her to help stuff a pillow that she would place inside a beautifully woven slipcover and sell in the market. They lay together on the sky-blue rug that Myrmeen loved so much. All she had to do was roll onto her back and look up to see the painting she treasured, the portrait of her parents, with her sandwiched between them.

I didn’t want a sister anyway, she thought. Then we would have to get a new painting.

The notes her father played suddenly changed. The music became discordant and a heavy thumping replaced the light strum of his fingers upon the strings. “I’m dripping,” he said in a murky voice. Myrmeen looked up and saw she was an adult dressed in silver armor with a phoenix headdress. The sword that had been forged for her by her second husband was in her hand.

“I’m dripping,” he repeated. “I hate that.”

This time she saw what he meant. His flesh was leaking from his bones, his eyeballs drooping to his jaw.

“Honey,” he said insistently, though his tongue was now curling up in the back of his skull, “can’t we do something about this?”

Her father had always wanted her mother to do something when a situation distressed him. Myrmeen was never quite sure what that meant. At the moment, she did not want to find out.

“All right,” her mother said, in a voice that made it clear that she no longer was her mother, or, at least, no longer human. Myrmeen heard a thump beside her and refused to look up. Another thump. Then another. Something leathery brushed against her and she felt its texture despite the armor she wore. Myrmeen twisted out of the monster’s path, refusing to believe that this was her mother.

The thing reared up to its full height, tall enough to scrape the ceiling with the top of its head. Its body was thin and skeletal, a burnt sienna mass of twisted bones and looping muscle filled with gobs of pure white feathers. Wings with the patterns of spider webs branched out from the small of the creature’s back, and its head still contained the gentle features of her mother, marred by insect eyes and pincers that had been driven outward through the cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” her mother said as she turned in Myrmeen’s direction—the word came out slurred and sounded more like Swuuud-harddd—“Sweetheart, give Daddy your arm to chew on. He’s hungry.”

“Stay away,” Myrmeen said.

“Honey!” her father bellowed. “It’s getting worse!”

Myrmeen made the mistake of looking back in her father’s direction. He was telling the truth; his dissolution was increasing. Even his bones were becoming soft and oozing. She realized in perverse fascination that his body was not so much melting as it was changing, becoming huge strands that reached out to the ceiling and floor, sticking to the walls, and forming an intricate web whose sinewy strands emitted the odor of rotting fish.

“Get in there, sweetheart,” her mother urged. “Get in there and set that terrible knife down first—”

“It’s a sword,” Myrmeen interrupted.

“It has an edge!” the woman shrieked. “It cuts. It’s a knife. You don’t want to cut your father to pieces do you? Not like the way you cut our hearts to pieces, not the way you did before. You remember, before, when we told you the other one was dead and you would be our one and only. You smiled. You thought we didn’t see you, but we did and it cut our hearts out. So don’t do it again. Be a good girl. Get in the stinking web and let us eat your heart!”

The creature advanced on Myrmeen and she woke suddenly, bolting forward in bed. She tried to scream and could only force a high, quiet squeal of terror from her lungs because she had been breathing so hard that she no longer had the air inside her to muster a scream.

Myrmeen squeezed her eyes shut. She was alone, dripping with sweat. The nightmare was just that, a bad dream, nothing to worry about. She knew that she should be used to it by now, but it continued to affect her deeply, cutting furrows into her heart each time it returned to her. The dream was a lie. She had not been happy when she learned that her baby sister had been stillborn, or when she knew that her own daughter was dead.

Of course you were.

She had not smiled, not even a little bit.

Admit it. You were relieved.

No! she screamed in her mind, her hands clamped over her face. She tried to say the word, but no sound came.

Something in the darkness made a scratching noise.

Myrmeen looked up suddenly, her warrior’s instincts taking control. The darkness in her chamber would have been absolute if she had not left the door slightly ajar, to make it easier for Krystin in case she decided she did not want to sleep alone.

Myrmeen’s eyes adjusted to the semidarkness rapidly and she saw an object the size of a man clinging to the far wall. She could make out very little detail other than that it was alive and moving.

My sword, she thought, and remembered that the weapon had been hung on the bedpost to her right and she was lying near the edge of the bed’s left-hand side. She considered bolting for the door, but knew that whatever the creature was that had been waiting for her, it would certainly be upon her before she could reach the knob.

“Want you to… see me.” The voice sounded familiar.

Myrmeen heard the striking of flint and saw a tiny flame light near the wall. Suddenly a torch flared to life and in her mind Myrmeen heard the voice of Burke, her first tutor in the art of fighting, who said, Now, while both of its hands are occupied. Go now! What are you waiting for?

Who’s to say it has only two hands, Myrmeen thought as she scrambled deeper into the room’s shadows and drew the sword from its scabbard, thankful that she had learned to sleep in her leathers. She was smelly and uncomfortable and would remain that way until she bathed, but at least she was prepared to fight. She tried to cry out for Reisz and Ord, but her throat constricted and words would not form, just as the scream had refused to leave her mouth instants before.

“Look… can’t scream… touched you while slept… Look!”

Myrmeen felt as if she were back in the world of her nightmares. She looked at the creature on the wall. The torch that had been lighted sat in its holder on the wall, forcing an orange-red blossom of light to caress the gruesome monster’s body. Myrmeen had been trying not to look at it directly, afraid that if she gave it what it wanted, it would have no reason to wait before it leapt at her.

“Pretty,” the woman-thing sitting on the wall said, indicating its rapidly transforming body with a flourish of a pale hand. The human part of it—its face—was beautiful, with dark, exotic features, long and slightly curly hair, and soft, creamy skin. Its eyes were elongating, becoming large ovals pocketed with myriad chambers, which glowed blood red. The woman-thing’s lips pulled back in a sneer to reveal long, curving white fangs, and its jaw began to expand outward from side to side. Traces of a fine silk wrap clung to its body. A pair of sandals and a small pouch lay on the floor. The thing’s torso was changing, growing into large, bulbous brownish black sections covered with fine hair. Each of its four human limbs were splitting in two, the flesh falling away to reveal long, thin spider’s legs that spread from one another as their sockets moved into place on the body. Small red blotches appeared on the monster’s torso, and its face suddenly split as pincers emerged.

Myrmeen leapt forward, thrusting her sword at the creature’s heart, praying that she could catch it unaware as it continued its bizarre transformation. With a scream, the woman-spider pushed away from the wall and jumped over Myrmeen, onto the bed, which collapsed with its weight. Myrmeen had not anticipated the monster’s speed. Her sword struck the wall, sending sparks of pain through her arm. She felt a rush of air at her back and heard a ripping sound. A moment later she felt the hot, wet trickle of blood down her back and realized she had been slashed. Crouching to avoid another swing of the monster’s scythelike limbs, Myrmeen launched herself at the door.

She did not make it. A long, thin cord erupted from the creature’s mouth, catching one of Myrmeen’s legs in midstride. Myrmeen fell to the floor in a heap, then turned and hacked at the sticky web that had fastened to her leg and was now dragging her backward. By the time she cut through the webbing, she had been pulled to the foot of the bed, where the woman-spider was trying to extricate herself from the soft mattress, which had proven an equally difficult trap for the creature. Myrmeen scrambled back, refusing to take her gaze from that of the creature, her hand sliding on the slime trail that had been left by the webbing attached to her leg. Her view of the monster receded and, just before she turned to see how close she was to the door, she felt her shoulder strike the wood and slam the door all the way shut.

Issuing a curse that came out as little more than a hiss, Myrmeen grabbed at the door handle, trying to bring herself to her feet despite the slippery floor. The monster was ripping the mattress to bits, screaming in its high-pitched wail of frustration, and a cloud of feathers rose into the air. A slight laugh that sounded like a catch in her throat escaped Myrmeen, and she wondered if she had gone mad, being able to laugh at a sight such as this.

Her smile faded as she realized the woman-spider was transforming again, replacing some of its monstrous aspects with human attributes that would allow it to free itself and take full advantage of the close space.

If it wanted to kill me, it could have done so in my sleep, Myrmeen thought. It wants me afraid. It wants me to suffer.

“You destroyed my home!” it shouted.

Myrmeen wondered which of the many lairs she had helped burn had belonged to this being.

“You took everything! Every memory I had!”

Dragging herself to her feet, Myrmeen saw that the woman-spider had sprouted long, sinewy human legs that were covered with fine brownish black hairs, and its torso had reduced in size. The monster’s face had become more human, but it had retained the pincers and four of its eight spider-limbs. Myrmeen knew that in the time it would take for her hand to pull the door open, the monster would be upon her, driving its swordlike arms through her body.

I’m going to die, she thought, I’m going to die for nothing. My death will have no meaning.

The thought gave her the determination to fight. Anchoring herself, Myrmeen raised her sword and waited for the woman-spider to leap from the bed.

The creature moved with blinding speed. To Myrmeen, it was standing still, then it was before her eyes, and suddenly it vanished in the time she had to take a single swipe with her sword. There was a large gash in her upper arm, and she looked up to see the woman-spider sticking to the wall beside her, wiggling her tongue obscenely. Myrmeen turned and struck with her weapon, the sword slamming into bare wall where the monster had been only instants before. She heard it skittering across the ceiling and wondered how she could win in a battle against this creature.

The torch, she thought, and suddenly thought and action were one for the statuesque fighter as she snatched the flaming torch from the wall and threw it upon the bed, setting fire to the remnants of the mattress and frame. Then she grasped an oil lantern from a nearby table and threw it upon the bed. A cloud of flames rose up and scorched the ceiling. She felt her lungs strain to deal with the sudden lack of air in the room and heard the woman-spider wail again. Keeping her sword before her, Myrmeen opened the door and felt the rush of air from the hall as it briefly sucked the flames in her direction. Before she could escape, though, she felt a slight impact on the back of her neck and she was yanked upward.

The woman-spider was staying close to the ceiling, having transformed almost entirely into a seven-foot-long spider with pincers that opened and closed in rapid, hungry movements. Threads had caught Myrmeen by the space between her shoulders and by the fleshy part of her right calf, keeping her off balance as she was lifted into the air. Myrmeen’s hand closed tightly over the hilt of her blade and she swung at the threads that were yanking her steadily upward, slicing apart the strands that secured her back when she was four feet in the air. Suddenly she was supported only by her leg and she fell back, her head scraping against the floor as she found herself hanging upside down and completely at the woman-spider’s mercy. Driving her sword into the partially opened wooden door, Myrmeen pushed the door closed, trapping herself in the room once again. Then she pulled with all her weight until she felt a section of her flesh tear from her calf. Suddenly she was free, dropping to the ground with enough impact to drive the wind from her.

Before Myrmeen could regain her footing, the woman-spider ran down the wall and attacked. The warrior was able to bring up her sword, jamming it between the incredibly strong set of pincers that jutted from the woman’s face. The pincers threatened to close over her features, shredding the skin of her face if they connected. The creature screamed. Myrmeen used her leverage to push against the creature, driving toward the rapidly spreading flames.

The woman-spider hollered as the flames licked at its back. Myrmeen grabbed at the door handle, ripped the door open, and stumbled into the hall, hoping to pull the door shut and trap the creature in the burning room. Just before it shut she heard a scream and felt the hard wood slam against her as it exploded outward, jumping off its hinges, sending her from her feet. When she looked up, the woman-spider was standing in the doorway, the burning room at her back. As it advanced on her, Myrmeen scrambled to her feet and raised her sword in time to ward off the first strike of its spider limbs. Myrmeen felt as if her blade had connected with an iron club. The creature was moving more slowly, its lightning-fast reactions dulled to the point that Myrmeen and the hybrid could battle as equals.

Myrmeen’s sword flashed as she forced away her fear and concentrated on hacking at the woman-spider, which advanced on her with clicking pincers and burning eyes. The monster had retained its human legs, leaping nimbly back and forth as it pressed the attack and retreated. It used its four spider arms to fight with the skill of a quartet of trained swordsmen and refused to allow Myrmeen an opening to drive her blade at the creature’s face or the sensitive, soft places between its hard, sectioned torso.

The woman-spider advanced on Myrmeen with a feral expression, its eyes glazed with the pure, sensual delight of the battle, the joy of the anticipated loll.

Myrmeen understood why the creature was grinning: It was regaining its strength as it launched itself against the fighter, while Myrmeen was becoming worn and tired. Suddenly the creature used all four of its arms to gather Myrmeen’s sword arm above her head. The woman-spider took a step forward and slightly beyond Myrmeen, then brought one of its legs between the fighter’s, trapping Myrmeen with her dark, powerful limbs. A hoarse whisper—a would-be scream of fear and defiance—left Myrmeen’s throat as the woman-spider brought its face close to the fighter’s, its pincers moving close to Myrmeen’s soft, vulnerable eyes.

With her free hand, Myrmeen reached back and grabbed the woman-spider’s hair, pulling as hard as she could to keep the monster’s awful pincers from blinding her. Myrmeen instantly regretted that she had not tried to put out one of the creature’s eyes instead. The woman-spider’s face inched closer as Myrmeen leaned back in the deadly embrace and felt the muscles in the small of her back begin to ache. The woman-spider parted its lips and spat a stream of white ichor at Myrmeen’s throat.

Why not my face, Myrmeen thought, then understood that the creature had wanted Myrmeen to see the pincers coming, desiring the numbing fear Myrmeen would experience instants before the crablike claws parted one last time then closed, their sharp tips piercing her soft, moist eyeballs.

The webs constricted around Myrmeen’s throat and slowly drew her face forward as the woman-spider allowed one of its arms to fall away from the other three, which continued to keep Myrmeen’s sword at bay. The free limb poised near Myrmeen’s stomach, the tip pricking her flesh as it bit through her leathers and slowly drew blood.

“Do you know why?” the creature named Tamara asked. “Tell me. Try to scream. I bit you while you slept. Your neck bears my mark. My venom is within you, but soon you will be able to talk. Tell me, do you know why?”

Myrmeen could not answer. All of her attention was riveted to the limb that was about to skewer her and the pincers that were about to blind her. Even if she could have responded, she had no idea what the woman-spider meant.

“She is not your daughter,” Tamara said with a hiss. “Krystin is not your little girl.”

Despite herself, Myrmeen relaxed slightly, the fight slowly trickling out of her. Then she noticed the way Tamara’s head was cocked to one side, the inquisitive stare of a wolf that had all the time in the world to devour its prey. Myrmeen realized the woman-spider was trying to magnify her anguish to the highest degree possible before putting her to death.

“It’s all a lie,” Tamara said.

It doesn’t matter, she thought, that won’t change the way I feel about Krystin. But what if it’s true?

Myrmeen was able to rip a single battle cry from her lips despite the toxin Tamara had injected into her throat when she slept. If she was going to die, she would die as a warrior, a prayer for vengeance for herself and her daughter on her lips as her life was claimed.

The pincers did not blind her. The spider-arm did not run her through. Tamara released her hold on Myrmeen and backed away, rapidly becoming human once again.

A child shouted, “Myrmeen!”

The fighter knew Krystin was behind her. She motioned for the girl to stay back as she fixed Tamara with her gaze. A strange look passed between them and, with horror, Myrmeen identified the nature of the expression both women shared: recognition.

Tamara fled into the shadows and was gone. Myrmeen turned and took Krystin in an embrace. The girl’s repeated contact with Shandower’s gauntlet during the long trek from Calimport had infused her with some of its power. That power had been enough to burn much of the poison from Krystin’s system.

“Love,” Myrmeen whispered. “Love you, too.”

Krystin stared at her, sadness welling in her eyes, overcoming her shock. She opened her mouth to speak and found herself silenced by Myrmeen’s raised hand.

“The others,” Myrmeen croaked. “Must warn them.”

“But—”

Myrmeen took Krystin’s hand and dragged the girl with her. “Now!”