t was something of a relief to see Mog up and about the next day. Maeve emerged from her bedroom after a quick sponge bath to find him fully attired with the clothes Glomir had fetched from his house. The cheeky dwarf had grabbed one of the finer items from the tall man’s wardrobe. Even though he had lost some weight, he looked svelte and handsome in his green silks and leathers.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

Mog had ceased his attempts to converse with her. Reticent, he stood near the door and stared out of the small round window. He had folded up his bedding and placed it on the seat across from her favorite rocking chair.

“Good enough to go back to my cottage,” he said in clipped court dialect, “Which I expect will bring you some relief.”

She flushed guiltily.

“I was rude last night. I apologize.”

“Why are you ashamed?” he asked coldly and she lowered her eyes, staring at her wool stockings. They were worn thin like her psyche, “To my knowledge, I have never done anything to harm you.”

“You are blameless, I apologize.”

“I thank you for your assistance in my recovery. I will not burden you further with my presence.”

Tears burned behind her eyes but she blinked them away. What was the use in even trying to explain? Their lives had been complicated in the past and continued to be so now. If he knew the truth he would be embarrassed at best and miserable at worst.

“I’ll ask Glomir to look in on you each day until your friend is back,” she said keeping her voice level and shoving away her grief. If he detected her discomfort he made no sign. She dared to gaze upon him a final time, vowing never to do so again. Still beautiful to her eyes, his mane glowed amber in the pale sunlight that streamed through the little window. She had once run her fingers along the arc of that jaw, laid kisses upon that brow before it had become furrowed with care. Maeve pushed the memory away. Some things were better left in the past.

He opened to door on a still winter morning. Hesitating in the entrance for only a moment, he made up his mind and stepped out onto the icy doorstop and politely closed the door behind him. A sigh of relief burst from her lungs and with it a tumult of grief that she could no longer hold inside. Seven years alone in the world and for all that time she had thought herself the sole survivor of the temple’s destruction. For years she had struggled to get on with her life, dealing with the guilt of having survived while others had not. To believe that playing dress-up would keep them safe seemed childish now. The gods had forsaken them. They were powerless to protect even their dearest champions or holiest places. The gods could not even grant her the simple wish that she simply be left in peace.

“Just leave me alone,” she sobbed, “I never wanted this.”

She wept as she had not for months, perhaps years. When the storm ran its course, she returned to her bedroom and cleansed her face, determined to take care of the animals. Maeve could hear the gurgling roars of the dolyaks demanding their fodder. Life went on. She put on another pair of stockings and an extra jacket after winding a thick scarf around her neck.

When she stepped outside, it was immediately obvious something was amiss. The animals were not demanding breakfast, they were terrified and a tide of dread curled over her sensitive mind. She scanned the eastern wall nearest the paddock. From this vantage she could see the flicker of flames and the faint glimmer of magic. Gods, why had no one called to her? She rushed down the steps, slipping once on ice and cursing as she regained her feet and followed the rut Mog and Glomir had earlier pushed through the snow. For speed, she took her chances and climbed onto the hard crusted surface of the snow, relieved when it bore her weight with the firmness of stone. Her breath billowed behind her as she raced toward the scene of the fight.

Disgust knotted her throat as the putrid odor of bile and venom tainted the frigid air. The rough hewn logs that formed the outer wall were designed to keep humanoid creatures at bay but the beasts that swarmed easily over them now were anything but human. The damp hissing and cursing of the dryders befouled the air. Their ungainly arachnid bodies moved with unexpected grace as they scudded down over the wall to spray hexes and poison upon the small cluster of humans and dwarves who had rushed out to face them.

The monsters had no doubt come for the livestock now that their normal prey had gone to ground for the winter. The snow beneath the wall was blacked with the ichor of the creatures as the two rangers from Mog’s former home pounded them with red-fletched arrows. Fire flared from Matilde’s arrows, bursting in explosive rings around the huddled beasts. Out numbered and inexperienced, Enfys was having less success, hesitating too long before attempting to stop the creatures from layering them with hexes. Enfys was pale and shaking as her life energy poured away. Matilde begged her to put down her bow and use troll unguent but Enfys was glassy-eyed and unresponsive.

Glomir’s people had also answered the call, bringing axe and hammer to bear. Maeve took in the dreadful scene and reached for Enfys’ bow, knowing the ranger would not be using it for much longer. The draw was too great and she would not be able to use it for long, but it was better than no weapon at all and she had to draw the creatures away from the young women.

“Get your sister into the barn,” Maeve shouted at Matilde, “She’ll recover. We can’t let the dryders take her.”

Matilde nodded, her fear palpable. Maeve dutifully nocked an arrow to the thick sinew bowstring and struggled to draw it back, her arm quivering with the strain. The dryders were fixated upon the rangers, knowing one of them was close to unconscious and the other would soon follow. Holding her breath, Maeve let the arrow go in the rough direction of the dryder’s fleshy belly. It was difficult to miss and she could smell the musty carrion odor that clung to its dank white fur. A hiss of rage curled from its mandibles and it scrabbled around to face her.

“Alright, you miserable beast,” Maeve snarled, “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

She dropped the bow on the ice now that she had the creature’s full attention. The acrid taint of necromantic magic seethed around the creature’s putrid hulk only to be silenced with a single word and gesture as Maeve gazed into its multitude of hateful eyes.

“Ssssurrender,” the beast hissed wetly, “give ussss meat and we go.”

Maeve saw two more shaggy forms barrel over the wall in a tangle of chitinous legs and a bilious flurry of hexes. She stopped another from hexing the dwarves, causing three of them to erupt in shrieks of rage.

“Take thisss one,” the enormous beast before her chattered. The hatred of four of them seared her mind. Focusing, she thrust into the creature’s alien mind, her voice harsh with anger and determination as chaos energy burned over their gathered forms in a deadly magenta mist. The elder dryder snarled and raised up its claws to strike her only to be brought up short. The beast staggered and those around it cried out in pain. Surprised, Maeve glanced over her shoulder to see Mog beside her.

“You should be in bed!” she shouted, but that was all the conversation she had time for. The dryders rushed them as Mog spun swiftly to deliver another hex. Dodging aside, she narrowly avoided getting trapped against the paddock fence. Once more the creatures cried out in pain when one of them stumbled clumsily in a failed attempt to strike her. Regaining her balance, Maeve stopped another suffering hex mid-incantation.

“No!” Mog roared. His frantic gesture came too late and a hex curled over her, seething through her body and crawling over her skin. All at once her innards became chilled and she gasped as her energy poured away. Rage burned within her and she spun on the dryder, burning it again with the blunt unfailing might of chaos only to scream as the hex tore into her and the beast’s wounds closed up with her stolen life force. Staggering away, she felt stupid, realizing Mog had recognized the hex while she had not. He rushed forward to put himself between her and the elder dryder, his face grim. Helpless to do anything but watch, she counted their foes, realizing they were outnumbered now and some of the dryders had smashed into the barn and were carrying away screaming pigs and goats. Two of the dwarves lay unconscious on the snow while the others were flagging under the constant pressure of hexes.

“Run!” Mog shouted at her, “Damn it, don’t just sit there. Run!”

“Where?” she howled, angry and horrified as he picked up a discarded sword and slashed desperately at the creatures, his own magic dampened by the same terrible hex.

“Away!” he snapped.

The hex faded but others had flown from their venomous jaws and she was flagging now, overwhelmed and exhausted.

“Sssssleep,” said the elder dryder as it loomed over both of them, “go to sssssleep.”

Maeve cried out in pain as a mass of putrid white fur shoved her down. She beat against its belly plates with her fists, cursing, her mind too fogged with hexes to focus. The world was growing dark but still she drew breath as she lay helpless upon the hard crust of snow. Mog staggered to his knees beside her, his flesh pale and waxen, his voice raw with illness as he uttered a final hex before collapsing at her side.

Unable to make a sound, she lay there watching as the dryders raised up their shorter forelegs in victory, hissing and chittering with glee. To her horror, the largest of the dryders picked up Mog’s limp form and held him against its fetid belly in a strange mockery of an embrace. He moaned softly as its sharp mandibles closed over his throat and it savored his hot blood.

Gods, no. Her pleas were as futile as they had ever been. So it had come to this, a final cruelty as she was forced to watch the only man she had ever loved die a senseless death. The creature withdrew its bloodied jaws and Mog thrashed once before growing still. His head fall back and his chin pointed skyward. The beast then wrapped him in the tough fibrous silk that oozed from its nethers, leaving only his head free of the bindings. He was still alive, but only until the dryder decided to finish what it had started.

“Come, my little morssssel,” the dryder gloated and she, too was lifted from the ground and pressed against its filthy belly. Unable to move, she could only lie there with her face ground into its musky breast. Its bristling white fur scratched her face and she tasted the acrid saltiness of its plated flesh as her limbs were bound up. The hexes fell away and she felt its hatred and disdain. It wanted her to stay awake, to witness its cruelty, to savor her despair. Fear knifed through her and she struggled as it drew her up toward its gleaming jaws. Its enormous fangs sliced her skin with the quiet efficiency of a razor and she screamed as its cold drool burned into the wound. It lingered there for a moment to savor the taste of her blood, then laid her beside Mog as paralysis set in. Its blank dark eyes drank them in jealously.

Her vision wavered and darkness swathed her vision as the creature’s venom seethed in her blood. Her last awareness was of being lifted up and carried away.