At the confirmed death of the Storm Lord, complete pandemonium assaulted my ears. The shock abruptly escalated and turned instantly into a riotous wild roar. A tumultuous din of weapons clashing mingled with deathly screams diverted my vision away from the duelling enclosure for a brief moment. Long shadows retreated, yet carved seemingly through the crimson ground. Suddenly moving, the chaos spread from outside propagating inwards like a massive tidal wave. Hurriedly, I manoeuvred myself towards a clear spot, stepping a little taller to gain a better view.

The sight before me was anything but depraved. I gazed upon dozens of terrified orcs, heavily armed with poisoned weapons, preying together in absolute havoc. Many clueless and unarmed orcs were pursued by their own, slaughtering them in cold blood. Their plea for life almost fell on deaf ears. The terrified orcs marched in a single rank and attacked indiscriminately.

“The way they move, it is unnatural,” Lyria was the first one to call out. I darted my glance towards her and huffed softly. Apart from gasps and quickened heartbeats every time I lay my eyes on her, Lyria was just herself and her remark was incredibly insightful.

They marched in a single file, almost unheard of, for an uprising. Even for a planned one. The entrances should have been blocked, the exits sealed and their attacks should have targeted key individuals. But these marchers laid a trap that entirely floored them. Almost as if they gallantly walked straight into committing suicide.

Did a faction of the orcs choose to purge themselves than convene under Urganza’s banner?

The sharp blades they carried protruded menacingly from their hilts. When they unleashed, they swung their swords with boisterous moans. Even the women, slender by orcish standards, toted long slender blades with brutal precision. These warriors are not the type to lose sight. They reeked of savagery and atrocities executed without mercy.

But most important of all, their walk. The way they carried themselves, Lyria was right in her observation. Their steps were not the steps of a marching army; not the clumsy staggering walk of the undead. It was almost mechanical and eerie. There is only one way to describe it. Their hands and legs pulled the rest of their body. Their eyes bloodshot bulged and struggled restlessly within their sockets. They struck with cold precision and noiselessly. Despite the muscles of their face twitching, their lips were sealed tight.

What is the significant ritual of orc warfare? Their battle cries. Unmerciful songs painted in blood. Chants promising preemptive death. That is what was missing.

Lyria’s callous hands grabbed my wrist in a strong unshakeable hold and dragged me.

“Lyria, can you get me one of those rioter’s corpses, intact?” I asked. I needed something more tangible to substantiate my theory. Although the events of the past few days obfuscated my intuition, should the scene before my eyes speak true, this is all but the shadow of a sinister scheme.

Lyria was already prepared. She gave me one of those longings looks before disappearing into the fray.

“Tharkas, Theko, Urganza is vulnerable. Get her to a cart and drive to Forge-Wife Folly,” I ordered, nervously, eyes on the mob from my vantage point. “This is already lost. When you are in Forge-Wife Folly, inform Maapu to be prepared for an onslaught.”

Tharkas accompanied by a bewildered but all-willing Theko who kept in pace with the bigger orc, ran in large strides towards Urganza.

Under normal circumstances, I would have given them a more thorough briefing. Any strategy I come up with will be inadequate in the face of failing information. And if I am correct in my deductions, the fight will not come to Forge-Wife Folly.

Lyria appeared as swiftly as she left. On her shoulders, she carried a dead orc. One of the terrified rioters.

I drew a slender dagger and pried open the tightly shut lips of the corpse. The dagger cut fine silky strands of thin, yet strong thread that stitched close, the lips from inside. I twiddled the fine strand between my fingers. My fears were justified.

“Arachne,” I hissed. A small silvery gray spider slowly scurried away from the corpse, seeking safety in the shadows. With a quick stab, I lifted the writhing mass of eight legs high with all care and passed it on to Lyria to examine.

At the distance, Tharkas and Theko, after much struggle managed to lift Urganza.

“From the number of rioters, I wager between five to ten Arachnes,” I theorised, studying the body further for traces of bites or cuts.

“But how could such a small spider control minds?” Lyria shared her meaningful look with me.

“Not control the mind, but rather control the body. These small critters can crawl inside a living body,” My hands worked quickly exposing the arms and legs of the corpse. Clean cuts, too thin and delicate, made with surgical precision, too fine to be ascertained by normal eyes, ran perpendicular to the length of the arms and legs.

“Those marks are the proof. It is a nasty ritual. The arms and legs are separated, then bound by the spider silk, controlled by the implanted spider,” I explained, not without trepidation.

Lyria’s mouth twisted in disgust and when she finally spoke, her words were filled with vitriol.

“Even my demon blood freezes at some of the debauched rituals you drows practise,” There was evident disdain in her voice.

“Only an arachnoloth can perform such a ritual,” I ignored Lyria’s comments for the moment. There is a far greater concern, an even more pressing reason for me to be alarmed than the scoffing of my romantic interest.

“This means apart from five or ten Arachnes, there is at least one sister of tenebrous weave here,” I disclosed. Sinvaintra has, at last, played her cards. Delyn is in trouble.

“They are after you.” Lyria lowered her voice to a sudden whisper, “So we can get Urganza and the rest to safety if we drag them away.”

We drag them away!!. Sorry Lyria, but they are after me. There is no we here.

“Tharkas grunted beside me, disturbed by our revelations. It was obvious that they would bring the battered Urganza to us.

“Lyria, could you please take Urganza away from here, somewhere safe? I will hold them here.” I asked.

“Hold them here?” repeated Lyria. Was there a hint of derision in her voice? Or perhaps a feint attempt to refuse my request.

“Tharkas, please proceed. Lyria, help them, please,” I instructed in a sibilant tone, risking a sharp edge to my voice. Tharkas withdrew his eyes respectfully after hearing the tone in my voice but not Lyria. She held her position, defiantly. Irritation coursed through me, yet reluctantly I ceded.

“Hold them here?” Lyria repeated again. Her words were followed by a scoff. “You can hold nothing in your present state, Rils. Did you wipe your memory? It was barely a few days ago that you could hardly function without two people holding you?”

“And there is a chance that I may not get to say all that I wanted to say to you,” she paused, looking up to me apologetically, ever so slightly shaken with her own admission. I reached forward and caressed Lyria’s thick, curling locks, guiding them gently down. She rested her eyes momentarily on my hand and the gentle look warmed me. I then tilted her head slightly downwards towards mine. My lips urged to nudge against hers.

As if jolted back into awakening, Lyria shook herself off my hold. Arms crossed across, she looked deep into my eyes.

“This is about your daughter, isn’t it?” She read my mind.

After all those centuries of separation, am I still transparent to her? That awareness somehow thrilled me more than it unnerved me.

“I.... have made enemies since our unfortunate parting many years ago,” I tried to deflect the awkwardness away. None of my tactics worked.

Lyria’s brow creased in concern.

“And one of them has decided to eradicate my bloodline,” I finally emptied the pregnant secret. Through our locked eyes, I felt a rush of anger and hate course through her.

“Impossible! You can never stop their full force assault.” Lyria admitted and what she admitted was only a part of what she spoke from her thoughts.

“I do not intend to fight. I plan to surrender, prostrate myself at Sinvaintra’s feet. Even offer to work as her agent in return for Delyn’s safety.” I continued stubbornly, feigning hope. “She gets my servitude. Me for Delyn.”

“No!” Lyria protested at once. I figured she would have a dozen valid responses, to deny my plan. But her direct reply surprised me. “Delyn is never at risk from Sinvaintra. Sinvaintra, on the contrary, should be wary of your daughter.”

I found vague comfort in the faith that Lyria harboured in Delyn’s guile despite not knowing her; not having spend time with her and not having watched her grow. Again her expression showed her certainty which was definitely surprising for me.

How could she be certain of Delyn’s capabilities?

“Besides she is not alone,” consoled Lyria. While I glared daggers at Lyria, she ignored the shrewd query of my stare and pressed deeper with revelations.

“She is a capable leader and more importantly a wonderful diplomat. You should give her more credits,”

“A single victory in a rebellion does not make her a master tactician. Just beginner’s luck and it does not stay that way. And the company you speak of, Celerim might be virtuous but he is naive as a newborn before Sinvaintra’s machinations.”

As I uttered out those damning facts, it suddenly hit me. I recalled Lyria’s hesitancy in revealing the nature of her conversation with Celerim. On how Delyn rescued him. On what happened after he was taken. And the key exchange of all -- ever since her private conversation with Celerim, Lyria has been desperately attempting to invite herself back into my heart, if I should phrase it refined, and if I were to state it as unladylike -- she was desperate to get my breeches down.

If I had had still lingering doubts, my mind was now mostly clear and not bewildering to my senses. She simply wanted me back in her life. The way she engaged with me -- brazenly, openly displaying her clear intention, discarding all pretences when she saw me in trouble.

No doubt about it -- we both wanted sex.

“Rils,” my terse thoughts were interrupted by Lyria. I turned back to see Lyria carefully brushing dust off Urganza’s shoulders while examining her wounds. Wasting no time, she slid one hand under her thighs and the other to support her failing body, Lyria lifted Urganza with minimal effort. In a moment, like an irregularity, however absurd and meaningless the notion was, I felt a small pang of jealousy at Urganza.