Curse of the Spider King (11 page)

“The battle at the garden is desperate,” said Brynn. “The enemy pours unopposed through the east gate. Soon they will overwhelm the garden. Our defenses may hold another hour, perhaps two.”

Grimwarden shook his head. “Brynn, I want you to get our people below.”

“But if our defenses and diversions fail?”

Grimwarden did not reply. In truth, he wasn't sure of the answer. The two walked in silence back to the tunnel entrance. A small Elf child looked up at Brynn. “Flet Marshall?” The child's eyes were enormous with fear. “Will there be any spiders in our new home?”

Brynn glanced at Grimwarden and then knelt to be at eye level with the little one. “No, there will be no spiders,” she said. “Guardmaster Grimwarden will see to that, won't you?”

Grimwarden realized Brynn was not asking only on behalf of the child. He hefted his spear and patted the war hammer at his side. “Yes, Elfling, you may sleep in peace tonight. You are going to a wondrous place where no spider has ever trod.”

Brynn smiled. “You see? No spiders.” She put an arm around the child. “But come, I will show you the prettiest flower in all of Allyra.”

Brynn looked to the dust-filled opening and then regarded her commander one last time. “Endurance and Victory.”

“Endurance and Victory,” he said.

Flet Marshall Brynn ducked under the arch and he watched her pass by one green torch, then another, and then she was gone. Behind her followed a seemingly endless train of Elves: a woman carrying a pair of small infants, two gray-haired warriors whose fighting days had long been over, a small clan of children and a grandmother. On and on they went, Grimwarden's men counting and keeping track of each and every person who disappeared into the underground. Surely the standoff at the garden had collapsed by now. And if the diversion also failed, the Spider King's forces would come upon them in the Great Hall. Then Grimwarden, now the senior military officer of Berinfell, would have a terrible decision to make.

“Endurance and Victory,” he muttered to himself. He thought the Elves might endure, but there would be no victory today.

11

Lifeflight

EVERYONE WHO followed the Greenville Raiders football team in the Pop Warner twelve- and thirteen-year-old division knew about number twenty-eight, Jett Green. His father, Austin Green, had played tailback for Clemson University and for the National Football League's Carolina Panthers. The way Jett played the game, it seemed inevitable he would follow in his father's footsteps.

But on the morning of November 4, Jett for once wasn't thinking about football. He stared into the small section of the mirror in his room that hadn't been covered up with newspaper clippings and photos. He flashed his large, almond-brown eyes and grinned like a Cheshire cat. Because today . . . today was riding day. Two weeks prior, Jett's thirteenth birthday, his parents had finally given him the new dirt bike he'd been dreaming of for two years: the Tanaka Thrasher. Single cylinder, four-stroke, liquid cooled, 400cc's of ridiculous power! In a straightaway, it could do more than 80 miles an hour. Who knew how much air it could get on a dirt track with hills? And it was all Jett's now.

As Jett walked to the bathroom, he visualized himself riding his new motocross bike, tearing around corners, sending loose dirt spraying into the crowd. As Jett stepped into the shower, he imagined gunning the throttle and launching himself off the biggest hill he could find. And as the hot water poured over Jett's scalp, he saw the cameras flashing as he pulled off the midair tricks his freestyle motocross hero Dak Metzger always did: the Tsunami, the Helicopter, the No-Footer Can-Can, and the mighty SideWinder with a scissor kick.

“Ah,” Jett sighed. Football and school had kept him so busy he hadn't even been able to ride his new bike.
That will change today,
he thought. It was a Saturday, and his football team had the weekend off. His father had promised to take Jett to the track in nearby Simpson.

Jett stepped out of the shower, dried off, and wrapped the towel securely around his narrow waist. He stood in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror and began gelling his close-cropped hair to its usual flattop perfection. As the mirror cleared a little, he put down his pick and comb and began a little personal ritual.

He flexed his chest muscles. Then he pressed his thumbs into his waist and flexed his wide back muscles. “Lats, baby,” he muttered under his breath. “Now for the guns,” he said. In turn, he held up each arm and contracted his biceps. “One hundred percent, all-natural muscle—”

His arms dropped to his sides. He leaned forward.
What in the
world?
he thought.
Maybe the mirror is still fogged from the hot shower.
He yanked up a washcloth and wiped it down.
It can't be.
The washcloth wiped away nothing and only served to make the reality all the more clear.

“Ma, Dad, come quick!” Jett was frozen with disbelief. “My eyes!”

Jett's father, still fast after all the years, arrived first. He wore socks, a dress shirt, and boxers, and somehow managed to button his shirt as he slid to a stop on the hardwood floor outside the bathroom. “What's wrong, J? You get gel in your eyes?”

“Nah, Dad, look!”

Mr. Green took Jett by the shoulders and stared. Then he lifted Jett's chin to get a little more of the bathroom light. “Well, I'll be. Never seen such a—”

“Austin?” Jett's mom asked as she walked up the stairs. “My baby okay?”

“Ah, Ma!” complained Jett. “I'm not your baby.”

“Don't you sass me. You'll be my baby even when you're forty and have babies of your own.
Humph,
not my baby. Now, what's all this yellin' about?”

“Look at his eyes, Hazel,” said Mr. Green.

“What's wrong with 'em,” she said, looking over her son. “Still look as pretty as ev—” She put a hand to her chest. “I . . . I can't believe it.”

Her son's big brown eyes, which had always been striking with his dark skin, were now deep violet.

“Can you see okay?” asked Jett's father.

“Does it hurt, baby?”

“I can see fine, and no, Ma, it doesn't hurt at all. In fact, I feel really good.”

The next twenty minutes were a flurry of activity. Mr. Green searched furiously on the Internet. Mrs. Green called several doctors' offices and even jumped on an online ophthalmology chat room. But no one thought it would be anything worrisome. It was rare to have eye color change during adolescence, but not unheard-of. Even so, Mrs. Green made an appointment with their general practitioner for Monday.

“Looks like the Lord gave you a special birthday present,” said Mr. Green as they sat down to a large breakfast.

“
Mmm, mmph
,” said Mrs. Green. “Now those girls in school will really be driving you crazy!”

“I don't think so, Ma,” Jett said. He put his plate on the counter and struck a Heisman Trophy pose. “They won't be able to catch me.”

“Boy likes his speed,” said Mr. Green. Jett grinned.

When Jett went up to his room to get his motocross gear on, his parents sat at the table and hovered nervously over steaming cups of coffee. “Do you suppose one of his birth parents had eyes like that?” asked Jett's mom.

“Don' know, Hazel. The agency didn't say anything 'bout that. Didn't say much about anything. Every time I asked something, they said it was ‘a violation of confidentiality.'” He mimicked the social worker in mock form.

“Austin.” Hazel put her hands on her hips. “Be serious. You know we've got to tell him one day.”

“I know,” he replied, taking a sip of coffee. “Just not yet.”

Jett's father released the straps and cinch cords, and Jett rolled the Thrasher off the trailer. They both waved to Carl at the front desk of the Simpson Motocross Park. He waved and said hi, but no one heard him over the roar of the bikes already tearing up the track. Once inside the perimeter barricades—bales of straw stacked six deep and eight high—Jett mounted the Thrasher.

“Remember, Jett!” Mr. Green's powerful voice penetrated the staccato blasts of the bikes. “Take it easy at first, 'til you get used to it!”

“No problem, Dad!” Jett yelled back. He hit the electric ignition. The Thrasher growled to life and purred like a tiger on steroids. Jett grinned at the sweet sound and dropped the visor on his helmet. Mr. Green watched the track until a few bikes went by, and then gave Jett the all-clear signal. Jett flexed his wrist to turn the accelerator. The bike responded like a rodeo horse out of the chute and surged forward into the center of the dirt track.

Jett did take it slow—at first. He cruised on the straightaways, caught little hops of air off the small hills, and skidded around corners. He avoided the freestyle hills for a while, which were much higher . . . and more dangerous. The main track was pretty easy to navigate, and soon Jett thought he had a feel for his new toy.

He waved to his dad and gave the Thrasher a little more throttle. It responded like a dream, and once again the images of Dak Metzger poured into Jett's mind. He got a little more adventurous on the next couple of hills, getting more air and performing a simple version of the Heel Clicker he'd been doing for years. While in the air, Jett let his legs rise up behind him, kicked his heels together, and quickly seated himself just before the bike landed.

“Whoooo, yeah!” Jett yelled. He had ridden dirt bikes since he was seven, but this was just a whole new level.

Jett's confidence surged. As he passed the grandstand where his father sat, he motioned toward the freestyle hills. Taking his cue, Jett's father left his seat and hurried around the perimeter of the track to a better vantage point. Jett hit the first freestyle hill and launched the Thrasher sixteen feet in the air. This time Jett was able to clench his knees to the bike, release the handlebars, and lean back. Not exactly a real Lazy Boy like Dak did, but it was good enough to draw cheers from the spectators scattered in the stands. Jett landed perfectly and roared around the base of the biggest hill, affectionately nicknamed “the Monster.” “See you soon,” Jett mumbled to himself as he passed through the Monster's massive shadow.

Jett gathered speed and courage on the next two laps, each time perfectly executing jumps and stunts off the lower freestyle hills. He heard more cheers, saw his dad pumping his fist, and decided it was time. Jett zoomed calmly around the track until he hit the eighty-yard straightaway before the Monster. There he stopped. A couple of the other bikers stopped there as well. They flipped their visors or took off their goggles and looked at Jett as if to ask, “You gonna' do it?”

Jett nodded and hit the throttle.

He'd done the Monster once before on his old bike, but the Thrasher had far more horsepower. Jett felt all 400cc's roaring beneath him as he streaked up the hill.

It was too fast.

At the crest of the Monster, the bike took Jett airborne and started to get out from under him. All Jett saw or heard from that point was . . .

flashes and sounds . . .

the sky . . .

a shadow . . .

the whine of the motor. . . .

Just before the crunching sounds of metal and bone.

His heartbeat throbbed in his ears and at his temples, he coughed, tasting something coppery, and he felt something warm on his chin.

Suddenly, lots of faces were looking down at Jett, and his ears rang so fiercely that he couldn't hear anything else. Jett tried to speak, tried to move, and failed. A strange, icy coldness crawled across his brow and around his eyes.

His vision grayed in and out. Then his dad was there. Jett had never seen his father scared . . . until that moment.

The loud ringing faded, then came back with a vengeance, and short clips of voices came through.

. . . “still alive” . . . “flipped” . . . “Son, you hold on!” . . .“They're here.” . . .

Then there were two guys and one woman dressed in yellow jump-suits with belts and cords wrapped and draped every which way.
Paramedics
. The two men knelt and looked down at Jett. One of the men shone a penlight into Jett's eyes. Another spoke something into a walkie-talkie. The woman came over very close to him.

. . . “ck” . . .“could be broken” . . . “internal injuries” . . . “fatal” . . .

Jett coughed and again felt heat on his chin but cold over his eyes.
Fatal?

The woman tore open a plastic bag and took a strange foam cylinder out. She knelt next to him. For a moment, Jett was afraid she was going to cover his face with it. At the last moment, her direction altered and she slipped the foam brace around Jett's neck. He didn't feel it exactly, but his frame of sight through the helmet shifted as if he'd been turned on his side. Out of the corner of his eye, Jett saw his father pacing to his left. He had his cell phone snug to his ear, his face grimaced and twisted, and his free hand gestured dramatically.