Nate made quick progress down the dark, silent hallway. The knowledge of the weighty stone hanging over his head and the dry, dusty smell of the passage gave off an oppressive air. But his swift, confident steps and newfound ability to see clearly even in the dimly lit corridor let him move with speed. His new, odd sense of direction let him somehow feel the growing distance between him and the entrance. Yet he moved on. He had already decided to see where this all led. Or, perhaps more accurately, where he was being led. For he had little doubt he was intended to be here. The strange twists of circumstance that had put him in this underground structure were more than just a coincidence. Jean’s cryptic words about fate from his character creation hung heavy on his mind.

On and on the hallways led, the view never changing. One long, dark tunnel lit by fading glow crystals. It looked straight. But it wasn’t. There was a subtle curve to the corridor. So subtle, in fact, that were it not for his new skill he wouldn’t have detected the veer. Nate didn’t know where he was going. But, after what he estimated to be almost an hour of walking, he was confident he was no longer under the ravine. Nate was starting to feel hunger and thirst setting in. He had some provisions in his pack. But he didn’t stop. A wild, manic energy kept him moving forward.

Finally, the view ahead changed. The corridor game to a sudden end in a massive set of stone double-doors that filled the entire width of the passage. Nate approached cautiously. There was no movement. No sound. Grasping his courage, he reached out a hand and placed it on one of the doors. Both doors responded instantly, swinging inward on silent hinges.

The room beyond was massive. It reminded Nate of the interior of the Pantheon in Rome, with a marble-tiled floor and a vaulted dome rising high overhead. Like the Pantheon and the Cathedral where Nate had first emerged in this world, the place had a weighty grandeur that whispered of centuries long past. Hundreds of flickering glow crystals lit the space, filling it with dancing shadows.

In the center of the room was a small, round fountain. At least, it looked like a fountain. There was no trace of water. Instead, there was a black chasm that disappeared into the earth below. Apart from that, the room was empty.

Nate continued to advance, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the empty fountain. The glow crystals flickered more intensely, as if reacting to his movement. Nate’s knuckles tightened around the dagger, still held firmly in his hand. Every muscle vibrated with unreleased tension. He was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

He had made it less than halfway to the center of the room when he felt the ground shudder underfoot. The smooth stone of the floor visibly rippled, a wave of motion that started at the edges of the room and shot, with increasing speed, towards the empty fountain at its center. Nate staggered slightly as the wave passed under him.

The ripple struck the fountain. Nate tensed, watching. For a moment, nothing happened. Nate did not relax. Still, he was caught off guard by what happened next.

A pillar of fire erupted fountain, firing like a rocket thruster straight towards the domed ceiling towering overhead. The light was so bright that Nate cried out with pain, lifting and arm to shelter his eyes, and he could feel the heat prickling his skin.

In the same instant, hundreds, then thousands, of tiny black beads started pouring over the fountains rim and scattered across the room. They were packed together so tightly that the floor vanished beneath them. As the wave of black drew nearer, Nate got a better look at them. His cry was more of a scream this time. They weren’t beads. They were spiders. Tiny, black, glistening spiders, like nothing he had ever seen before. Their hair like legs scampered across the floor, eating the distance to Nate at surprising speed. He froze, every nerve in his body going dead at the thought of those legs crawling all over him. When the wave reached him, though, the spiders parted, flowing around him, only to close back behind him, leaving him in a small circle of untouched ground. In moments, the spiders had filled the entirety of the rest of the room. The floor seemed to pulse and undulate with their movement. Nate’s mouth was dry, his eyes wide, as he took in the horrific scene around him.

Nate didn’t consider himself a brave man. But he was no coward. He had been in his fair share of scrapes. Dangerous people had tried to kill him, and he had kept his cool. He had run, at full speed, across rooftops, where the slightest slip would have meant a fall that would break every bone in his body. He had nerve.

He had also once thrown a brand new cellphone at a wall, smashing it to pieces only hours after he had bought it. The reason was that he thought he had seen a spider crawling towards him on that wall. It turned out to just be a dark spot in the paint. Of all the things this world could have in common with his home, it made a perverse sense that one of them would have to be spiders. Nate hated spiders. A lot.

Nate was so focused on the ocean of arachnids that he didn’t notice that the pillar of fire had descended, leaving only a few feet of flame licking up from the fountain. He also didn’t immediately notice when a figure formed in that fire.

“So. Here we are again. It has been long this time.”

Nate noticed when the voice spoke. It was cool and dry, like a fine grit sandpaper. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the floor and look to the fountain. There was a man there, standing in the flames. Or, at least it was the image of a man. It was strangely insubstantial, shifting and writhing with the cadence of the flames.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The man was old. Incredibly old. The skin on his face sagged like the limp sails of a mighty ship caught on a windless sea. He was thin, with pale grey hair and a beard so thin it barely hid his jaw. He was clothed in brown robes. But they weren’t the robes of the priests or the mages that Nate had seen. These conformed to the man’s body in in a sinewy way, making him think more of a warrior monk.

The man’s eyes were wide and bright, a pale blue that stood out starkly from the flames. And they were fixed on Nate.

“Ahhhh….hey. What’s up,” Nate managed, careful not to shift his weight. He was looking at the man. But his attention was still focused on the floor. The spiders continued to churn all around him. But they did not enter the small empty space around him.

“What’s up,” the man repeated flatly. He tipped his head to the side in a way that was oddly familiar. “I see. A colloquialism. What is up, Nathan Farlance, is that you have been chosen for a task. A task of terrible importance, both for yourself and for everyone else. And I have a task of my own. It is to evaluate and judge you worthy. Or not.”

Nate felt a pit open in his stomach and a cold sweat break out on his forehead. It wasn’t just for the man’s ominous words. It was for how he had been addressed.

“You called me Farlance. That’s not my name,” Nate said.

“It is your name. Sutton is the fiction. But that is no matter. Ulvar has chosen you. It is a great honor, though not so rare as you might believe. Many have been chosen. Few had been found worthy. And, of the worthy, none have succeeded in the task. Perhaps you will be different. I must confess, though, that I have doubts.”

“”Ulvar,” Nate said, the name tickling at his memory. “Like the wraiths in the ravine?”

“Ah, so you have met some of the other chosen. The unworthy. Those too weak to shoulder the task. I cast them out. Or what was left of them, in any case. Now they roam, drawn to memory, seeking to restore some vestige of the lives they once had. It is likely you will join them soon.”

For the first time since the man appeared, Nate ignored the spiders and focused entirely on the strange entity.

“And who the hell are you?” Nate asked with a bravado he didn’t really feel.

“I have had many names. I was the first of Ulvar’s chosen. The name I have most commonly been known by is Clayrell. The Spider.”

The man watched Nate, though if he was disappointed that there was no flash of recognition, he didn’t show it. Nate narrowed his eyes. The Spider. Of course. Nate knew there was something about this guy he didn’t like.

“And what is this task I’m supposed to do?” he asked.

“First, I must test you. Behold.”

Clayrell lifted a hand towards Nate. Nate braced himself, expecting an attack. But nothing happened. Then he noticed a shifting on the floor in front of the figure. The spiders packing the floor bulged out as something moved through them towards where Nate stood, like a vole moving through loose soil. Nate watched it approach, his heart racing.

As the bulge neared the edge of his untouched circle of ground, the spiders scattered, revealing what was underneath. It was…another spider. But not like the others. Each of the thousands of black insects that surrounded Nate was tiny, the size of a bean. This one was the size of Nate’s clenched fist, with thick, hairy legs and wet, quivering pincers. Its multifaceted eyes fixed on Nate with something like intelligence.

“To face the task, you must show resolve. Even in the face of that which you fear. Kneel, Nathan Farlance. Kneel, and extend your hand.”

Nate’s breath caught. A primal, instinctive part of him screamed at him to run, or to lash out and crush the giant spider. But he controlled himself.

Never let them see you sweat.

Slowly, Nate lowered himself to the ground. The writhing mass of tiny black bodies all around began to churn faster, as if excited.

Jaw clenched in determination, Nate extended his left hand. It didn’t even shake. Well, not very much.

The giant spider raised its two front legs in the air and waved them in his direction, as though testing the air. Then, with deliberate steps, it climbed onto the back of his hand. Nate grunted in surprise. The little thing was heavy.

Nate stared at the spider. It stared right back, its eyes reflecting the light of the glow crystals and the dancing flames of the fountain.

You fear.

Nate almost jerked back. But he held steady. The voice had come inside his head. He stared at the spider, questioning. It lifted its front legs again, as though waving at him.

You fear.

The words came in his mind again. There was no sound. But there was a feel. And it felt…feminine? The voice gave an almost dainty aura.

Yes, Nate thought, feeling stupid. Was he trying to think at a spider? Yet he wasn’t surprised when he heard the voice answering.

You fear, yet you pretend you do not fear. Why?

Because fear is not my master, Nate thought, the words coming from deep in his memory. Because fear brings the predators. And I am no one’s prey. He paused. Then, with a recklessness fueled by a sudden anger that was an old friend, he glanced to the figure still hovering in the flames and added, and because fuck that guy.

There was a tinkling, musical sensation in his mind. It felt like…laughter?

Nothing happened for a long moment. Then Clayrell spoke again.

“It looks like you have been judged worthy. Congratulations, Nathan. Trini seems to like you.”

Nate looked down at the spider still standing on the back of his hand in surprise. Trini?

He didn’t have time for more thoughts that that. The flames exploded out again, tearing through the room is a blazing inferno. Nate tried to scream, but the fire was there before he could even draw breath. It passed over him. It tore through him. He felt his skin singing away, could smell his hair as it burned, feel the heat in his very soul.

Then it was gone. Not just gone. Vanished, as though it had never been. Nate looked at his arms. They were perfect, untouched by heat or flame. He looked around him. The floor was bare marble again, all signs of the sea of spiders now gone. The fountain at the room’s center was again cold and black. But the room was not empty.

Standing by fountain stood Clayrell. But he was no image wreathed in fire. He was a solid, flesh and blood man, stooped and watching Nate. He nodded a greeting.

“Come, Nathan. We have must to discuss. After all, you have a task to complete. You are now one of the marked.”

Nate stared at the man, dazed and confused. Clayrell lifted his left hand and tapped the back of it with his right. Nate gave him a quizzical look. Then he got he. He looked down at the back of his own left hand.

There, in deep, dark lines, was the tattoo of a giant spider. Right where Trini had stood.

“What does it mean?” Nate asked, still trying to process.

“It means you are the newest blade of Ulvar. There have been six before you. All have failed. You are the seventh.”