26

As they made their way through the mounds, Hunter had the chance to examine some of those barrow entrances up close. Most were made out of stone, and their heavy iron doors were rusted shut. The entrances of others had been bricked up with plaster, mud, and rows upon rows of handmade clay bricks–though why, when, or by whom, Hunter couldn’t guess. And others were simply left uncovered, their doors blown off their hinges or missing altogether. Those were the most chilling ones, like the gaping mouths of dead giants buried under the loose earth of the mounds.

Fawkes was leading the way, Hunter followed her, and the newly-named Fyodor followed Hunter. The ravens were flying in circles above their heads, scouting the area, looking for threats or anything else that might stand out. Even they felt something was wrong in the air, because they kept their squawking and cawing to a minimum. Hunter couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. He told Fawkes, and she nodded in agreement. Somewhere out there, there were pairs of eyes stuck on their backs, watching, waiting.

“Do you think we could get out of the open for a while, catch our breath?” Hunter asked her at some point.

“And do what?”, Fawkes frowned. “Duck in the entrance of the next doorless barrow we see?”

As it turned out, this was exactly what they had to do. They were about halfway to the great mounds at the center of the valley when a storm broke out. Dark clouds covered the sky as if out of nowhere, and harsh winds blew from the mountains in the north. Then came the rain, a true deluge of freezing cold water that threatened to soak them to their souls.

“Still think we shouldn’t find cover?” Hunter shouted at Fawkes, barely audible over the roar of the wind and rain. Instead of answering, she simply pointed at the nearest tomb entrance in sight. Judging from its rusty hinges, it once had a door–emphasis on “once” and “had”. As they ducked into the dark entryway, a notification informed Hunter they’d just entered a new are.

They entered a small antechamber, barely large enough to fit the two of them, the ravens, and the direwolf. “Antechamber” was a euphemism; after decades of exposure to the elements, the stone floors and walls looked were covered in dirt and roots, making the tomb look more like a natural cave rather than a man-made barrow. Barely any light made its way inside, and Hunter’s Low-Light Vision ability kicked in, painting faint outlines around everything. There were carvings on the walls, he realized, and fragments of weathered, broken pottery on the floor. Offerings to the dead, he realized.

“What’s with this place?” asked Hunter, shivering. “Even the weather’s kind of cuckoo around here.”

“Quiet” Fawkes shushed him, throwing a worried look towards the dark corridor that led lower and deeper into the tomb. “Make no sound. There’s something down there.”

“Like wh-”

“Hush!”

“Like what?” Hunter whispered.

“A recluse. Pray to your gods I’m wrong.”

“A recluse? You mean, like, a hermit?”

“Hush!”

So hush he did. Whatever worried Fawkes, it worried Fyodor, too. The direwolf shook the water off his fur, launching droplets all around and drawing angry caws from Biggs and Wedge, then stared at the darkness deeper in the tomb. Hunter gave him a few hesitant pats on the head to calm him–they weren’t still on petting and cuddling terms, the two of them, but they were making progress. Fyodor paid zero attention to him. Still staring at the pitch-black nothingness that was the lower end of the corridor, he flattened his ears and let out a low growl.

“Quiet, boy.”

Direwolves, even friendly and semi-domesticated ones, weren’t big on either following directions or staying quiet. In the face of a fear and a possible threat, Fyodor did what he knew how to do best: he let out a feral, thunderous bark that resounded in the underground halls, challenging whatever made its lair down in the tomb and warning it to stay the hell away.

“Shit,” Fawkes swore under her breath and tried to muzzle the direwolf with her gloved hand, paying no heed to its huge fangs, but it was too late already. Something stirred in the darkness below–something big. Hunter felt it rather than heard it, the clicks and clacks of many clawed feet dragging a humongous body through tunnels too tight for comfort. Fawkes felt it, too, and wasted no time. She jumped to her feet, drew her pistol, and aimed it at what was coming.

Hunter saw it too, his Low-Light Vision ability kicking in: a massive, fast-moving jumble of shapes and outlines rushing straight at them. His mind couldn’t quite piece together what the creature was. Then Fawkes fired her pistol, and in that brief flash of light, Hunter saw enough.

Hell, he saw much more than enough.

It was a huge spider, with a body bigger than his own and hairy, spindly legs several times the length of that. Its wicked-looking mandibles were big enough to tear a man apart, and two of its eight eyes–the front-facing ones–were oversized beady orbs of pitch black. If Fawkes’s shot had hit the thing, it hadn’t slowed it down one bit.

“Get out!” she screamed at him. “Run!”

Hunter didn’t need to be told a second time. He got up and rushed out of the antechamber as fast as he could. Biggs and Wedge flied out, too, flooding his mind with a cacophony of worried chittering. Fyodor followed, his eyes wide with primal fear. Last out of the entrance was Fawkes; she barely made it in time to dodge to the side and avoid the huge arachnid legs that burst out of it behind her.

“Spiders!” Hunter groaned, though the roar of the downpour around him was too strong for him to even hear himself. “Why does it always have to be spiders?”

Not wasting any time, the spider barreled after the biggest moving shape it could see–Hunter. With no time to do anything else, he just dodged to the side. Under normal circumstances, that would do jack shit. The entrance to the tomb, however, was on the side of a mound. Hunter’s dodge took him downhill, and that was the only thing that saved him from being speared by the sharp claws at the end of the spider’s front legs.

Your Evasion has increased to 3.

A few feet away, Fyodor growled and barked and showed its teeth, but he didn’t seem all too eager to get any closer. Hunter didn’t blame him. All he wanted was to get away from the thing, too. Out in broad daylight, the arachnid looked even more alien and horrifying. It was almost as big as a horse, and looked hungry enough to eat one, too. The pouring rain bounced off the chitin plates that covered its back, not slowing it down in the slightest.

No, Hunter thought, looking at its hair-covered, alien-looking spindly silhouette with abject horror. Such a thing shouldn’t have the right to be this big. Hell, it shouldn’t have the right to even exist.

Somehow unimpressed by Hunter’s disapproval of its existence, the spider reared for another attack. Hunter took another step back–which, this time, cost him his balance. He slipped, lost his footing, stumbled backwards, and almost lost his grip on his glaive. The spider, perfect predator that it was, launched another leg at him, piercing his shoulder with a burst of blinding pain and pinning him down on the ground.

Barrow Recluse attacks you for 19 piercing damage.

You are now pinned down by Barrow Recluse.

Hunter screamed in pain and horror, trying in vain to free himself. Even the tiniest motion sent wave upon wave of pain through his shoulder. And to make things worse, the spider rose a second leg, ready to harpoon him again.

Somehow managing to fly despite the strong wind and rain, two dark shapes dove straight at the spider’s eyes.

Biggs dive-bombs the Barrow Recluse for 2 bludgeoning damage.

Wedge dive-bombs the Barrow Recluse for 3 bludgeoning damage.

Your Conjure Familiar has increased to 7.

The ravens’ attacks didn’t do much damage to the monstrous thing, but they did surprise it enough to slow it down for just a moment–and just a moment was exactly how long Fawkes needed. Leaping out of nowhere with silver-gleaming blade in hand, she slashed straight through the spider leg that was keeping Hunter down, cutting it off at one of its joints and spraying Hunter with what must have been almost half a gallon of foul-smelling spider goop.

You are no longer pinned down by Barrow Recluse.

Maimed and furious about it, the spider turned its attention on this new threat. It rubbed its mandibles together, producing an angry rattling sound, and attacked Fawkes with a lightning-fast lunge–which she somehow still managed to dodge, dancing out of harm’s way with the grace of the world’s deadliest ballerina.

Hunter pulled the severed spider leg out of his wound, gritted his teeth through the pain, and tried to use his glaive as a crutch to find his footing. With his shoulder ruined and bleeding as it was, he could barely move his left arm without screaming, let alone fight. It was getting tiring, getting his ass kicked. He didn’t feel afraid anymore. More than anything, he felt jaded.

“Biggs, Wedge,” he signaled at his familiars through their mental link, “let’s see what those Ill Omen abilities can do.”

The ravens, still trying to stay aloft despite the pouring rain and strong wind, gave him the mental equivalent of an a determined “Aye aye, sir!” and made another pass at the spider, their eyes suddenly shining an eerie lime-colored light.

Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses the Barrow Recluse for 8 eldritch damage.

Barrow Recluse resists Curse of Ill Omen.

Wedge uses Ill Omen. Critical hit! Wedge curses the Barrow Recluse for 21 eldritch damage.

Barrow Recluse is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen.

Your Conjure Familiar has increased to 8.

Your Augmented Familiar has increased to 3.

Whatever Ill Omen actually did, it hurt the spider plenty–enough to stop it in its tracks and make it writhe. Hunter felt a grim satisfaction rise in him.

How did you like them apples?

With the monster on the back foot–or rather, on the back four legs–Fyodor finally found the guts to join the fray. And join the fray he did; he jumped right on its hairy, carapace-covered back and did his damnedest to stay there, growling and scratching and biting at everything that looked like a half-decent target. As the spider thrashed around to throw the direwolf off it, Fawkes found the chance to slash though another one of the thing’s legs, severing it and drawing another burst of furious, pained rattling.

“Biggs, Wedge,” Hunter signaled again, “use Ill Omen again!”

Stirred by their previous success and eager to deliver more of the same, the ravens swooped in and unleashed more of that lime-hued energy.

Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses the Barrow Recluse for 9 eldritch damage.

Barrow Recluse is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen (x2).

Wedge uses Ill Omen. Wedge curses the Barrow Recluse for 6 eldritch damage.

Barrow Recluse is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen (x3).

Whether it was due to its injuries, or to the stacks of Curse of Ill Omen–which, as it turned out, could afflict the same target multiple times–the spider’s movement was now considerably more sluggish. With Fyodor tearing at its back and Fawkes steadily reducing its number of usable legs, the fight seemed all but over.

Or so Hunter thought.

The monster, however, had a last trump card to play. Faced with the very real possibility of death, it flew off in a blind, erratic fury, thrashing around, throwing Fyodor off its back, and knocking Fawkes over with a wide sweep that caught her by surprise. Having gotten rid of those two threats, it turned its attention to the remaining one–or rather, to its prey.

Hunter.

There was no method to its moves now, no harpooning legs, no predatory games, no carefully timed lunges. The spider simply flexed its legs and jumped through the air with its mandibles clicking like crazy, eager to snap around Hunter’s neck and put an end to his squirming once and for all.

With one arm almost useless and neither the time or the strength to dodge or evade, Hunter did the only thing he could do: he planted the butt of his glaive in the wet earth, raised its blade to the sky, and braced himself for the attack.

If it had been a lesser weapon, or if he had held it at a different angle, the shaft of the glaive would probably have snapped like a twig under the weight of the monstrous spider. In fact, it almost did. Almost. Hunter felt it warp and bend in his hands, so much so he’d swear he heard it crack. Then the blade pierced through the softer carapace of the spider’s underside, impaling it and drowning Hunter in a stream of bluish ichor.

Massive Critical! You attack the Barrow Recluse for 65 piercing damage.

You stagger the Barrow Recluse.

Your Close Combat has increased to 12.

Your Close Combat has increased to 13.

Your Polearm Mastery has increased to 12.

Your Polearm Mastery has increased to 13.

The spider thrashed around for a few seconds, drenching Hunter in spider goop and almost crushing him under its weight, then it curled up and stopped moving at all.

“Is it dead?” groaned Hunter, desperately trying to keep the ichor away from his face and mouth. “Get it off me, dammit!”