Chapter 50: The Iron-Weaver’s Toll
The trade route cutting through the eastern gorge was supposed to be a vital artery for the Damaris Consortium, carrying high-grade alchemical salts and raw timber from the outer camps straight into the Lantern Ward. Instead, it had become a graveyard.
Seraphine had been explicit during her parlor interrogation: The gorge route is bleeding coin. Find out what is choking the wagons and kill it, or do not bother coming back to my gate.
Callis marched near the front of the diamond formation, entirely shielded from the freezing, sleet-heavy wind by the massive timber-wolf coat Sybil had constructed for him. The secret, patchwork lining of silk and lace pressed softly against the thin linen over his chest, serving as a constant, surreal reminder of the women waiting for him behind the stone walls of the city.
The squad moved with practiced, quiet efficiency. Kaelen took the point with his scarred tower shield, his boots finding solid ground between the frozen, water-logged wagon ruts. Vance and Corin, riding the high of the premium sugar pastries they’d eaten for breakfast, guarded the far right flank.
Rhett fell into step beside Callis on the left, his spear resting casually over his shoulder. The veteran tracker kept his pale eyes scanning the dense, frost-choked tree line, but his voice dropped into a low, conversational murmur that wouldn't carry across the wind to Maeve’s two sons.
"So," Rhett began, his tone entirely casual as he watched a patch of dead briars. "I have to ask, Vale. For the sake of my own lingering curiosity."
Callis kept his hand on the hilt of his iron boar-sword, not taking his eyes off the perimeter. "Ask what, Hollow?"
"Maeve," Rhett said simply.
Callis stumbled over a frozen root, his boot skidding in the mud before he caught himself. He shot a frantic, panicked glare across the formation toward Vance and Corin, who were thankfully out of earshot, hacking away a patch of overgrown thorns.
"Rhett, her sons are literally thirty feet away," Callis hissed, his face flushing hot against the biting wind.
"Which is why I am whispering," Rhett replied, completely unbothered. The tracker shifted his spear, looking at Callis with genuine, respectful curiosity. "I'm not trying to be crude, Callis. I'm just stating a fact. The woman is stunning. She carries all that weight perfectly—plush, soft, and built like a proper goddess of the hearth. I’ve watched her walk through Redhook Market for years, and I’ve always wondered."
Rhett glanced at Callis, a knowing smirk touching his lips. "Does the reality live up to the imagination?"
Callis let out a long, ragged exhale, the icy air pluming from his lips. He thought of the geothermal spring—of Maeve’s heavy, luxurious curves, her manicured hands gripping his waist, and the demanding, pampered way she had purred at him about expecting strict, regular maintenance.
He looked at Rhett. The tracker was his partner, the man covering his blind spots in the mud, and the only person in the city who knew the truth and hadn't tried to exploit it. Callis found he actually wanted to tell him—to share the sheer, staggering magnitude of his private life. But his aristocratic upbringing and the sacred weight of the vow he had taken at the bathhouse anchored his tongue.
"Hollow," Callis murmured, his voice dropping into a serious, reverent register. "I swore a vow to be their hearth fire. Not a transient drifter boasting in a tavern. I will not disrespect Maeve by detailing the absolute perfection of her private chambers behind her back without her consent."
Rhett sighed, tapping his spear against the mud. "Fair enough. Honorable. Boring, but honorable."
"However," Callis added, a slow, wicked smirk finally breaking through his stoic composure. "You kept my secret. You are my patrol partner. When we get back to the Ward tonight, I will ask her."
Rhett’s pale eyes lit up. "You will?"
"I will," Callis promised. "If Maeve permits me to share the wealth of my experiences with you... I will tell you absolutely everything. But under one strict, non-negotiable condition."
"Name it."
Callis gestured subtly with his chin toward the right flank. "We never speak a single syllable of it within a mile of Vance and Corin. If I am going to describe exactly what their mother demands of me behind locked doors, those two cannot be in the same postal code. I don't need my own squadmates trying to behead me while my back is turned."
Rhett let out a low, breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "Agreed. The boys stay blissfully ignorant. You have my word."
"Good. Then tonight, I—"
Rhett stopped mid-sentence.
The veteran’s casual demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by the lethal, hyper-focused stillness of an apex predator. Rhett raised a closed fist high into the air.
The entire squad halted. Kaelen dropped into a defensive crouch behind his tower shield. Vance and Corin drew their broadswords, their jovial energy evaporating into raw combat readiness.
Callis drew his iron boar-sword, the heavy metal rasping cleanly from the brass-looped scabbard. "What is it?" he whispered.
"Look at the canopy," Rhett pointed with the iron tip of his spear.
Callis followed the direction. Spanning the entire width of the gorge, suspended between the towering, dead pine trees, was a massive, grey lattice. It wasn't standard spider silk; the webbing was thick, metallic, and coated in a dark, corrosive grease that smelled strongly of rotting marrow and oxidized iron. Trapped within the massive web were the splintered remains of a Damaris Consortium merchant cart, alongside the desiccated, drained husks of two draft horses.
"Iron-Weaver," Kaelen grunted from the front, his knuckles turning white around the grip of his shield. "Deep-brush arachnid. The leyline flares must have pushed it out of the Elderforest. It spins wire instead of silk. It’s been choking the pass and feeding on the caravans."
"Where is it?" Vance asked, his voice tight as he scanned the massive web.
A heavy, clicking sound echoed from the high rock wall of the gorge.
The creature descended from the shadows of the overhang. It possessed the horrific, segmented body of a monstrous spider, but it was the size of a small carriage. Its carapace was the color of rusted steel, bristling with thick, barbed hairs. Eight multi-jointed legs, ending in wicked, scythe-like hooks, gripped the stone effortlessly as it lowered itself toward the squad, its multiple black eyes locking onto the fresh meat.
"Shield wall!" Kaelen roared, planting his massive tower shield into the frozen mud.
"Don't let it spray you!" Rhett shouted, spinning his spear into a combat grip. "The webbing hardens like steel wire the second it hits the air! If it pins your arms, you're dead!"
The Iron-Weaver didn't hesitate. It launched itself off the cliff face, hurtling toward the center of the formation with terrifying speed.
"Brace!" Callis yelled. He stepped forward, putting himself directly beside Kaelen to anchor the center line.
The monster slammed into Kaelen’s shield with the kinetic force of a falling boulder. The deafening crash of chitin meeting iron echoed through the gorge. Kaelen grunted, his boots sliding backward in the slush, but the veteran held the line, keeping the beast's snapping, venom-dripping mandibles at bay.
"Flank it!" Callis ordered Corin and Vance.
Maeve’s sons didn't hesitate. They broke to the right, swinging their broadswords in unison. Corin’s blade sparked violently against the Weaver’s armored thorax, failing to penetrate the thick carapace, but the heavy impact distracted the creature.
The Weaver shrieked—a high, metallic grinding noise—and spun toward the brothers, rearing up to expose its spinnerets.
"Move!" Rhett barked, vaulting over a frozen log.
A thick spray of dark, metallic webbing erupted from the beast, blanketing the space where Corin and Vance had just been standing. The web hit the frozen mud and immediately hardened with a sharp crack, turning into a lethal, unyielding net of razor-wire.
Callis saw the opening.
While the beast was turned toward the right flank, its softer, unprotected underbelly was exposed. Callis didn't swing his boar-sword; he used the brutal, two-handed grip Yselle had taught him. He surged forward, throwing his entire body weight behind the iron blade, and drove it upward into the joint where the Weaver's front leg met its thorax.
The heavy iron punched through the joint with a sickening crunch. Dark, foul-smelling ichor erupted from the wound, splashing across Callis's heavy wolf-hide coat.
The beast thrashed wildly in agony, one of its massive, scythe-like legs sweeping out blindly.
The barbed limb clipped Callis’s shoulder, carrying enough force to throw a normal man through the air. But the heavy, boiled leather cuirass absorbed the brunt of the kinetic impact, and the thick timber-wolf fur prevented the barbs from finding purchase. Callis staggered backward, his boots digging into the mud to keep himself upright, but he held onto his sword, wrenching it violently to widen the wound.
Rhett capitalized on the opening. The tracker sprinted forward, driving his steel-tipped spear directly into a cluster of the Weaver’s black eyes.
The creature convulsed, a final, metallic shriek vibrating against the stone walls of the gorge, before its massive legs curled inward. It collapsed into the slush with a heavy, ground-shaking thud, twitching erratically as the life left its monstrous body.
Silence fell over the pass, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of the five mercenaries.
Callis stood over the carcass, his chest heaving as the adrenaline burned through his veins. He looked down at the dark, acidic ichor smoking against the dark fur of his coat, completely unfazed by the gore.
Kaelen lowered his dented tower shield, letting out a long, exhausted breath. "Good iron, Vale," the veteran grunted, nodding at the fatal wound Callis had opened.
Vance and Corin stepped out from the brush, looking at the dead monster and then at the young Vanguard who had anchored their line. "You didn't even flinch when it swung at you," Corin noted, a newfound, genuine respect in his tone.
Callis wiped the foul blood from his boar-sword using a patch of dead moss. "The armor held," he said simply. "And the coat took the rest."
Rhett walked over, pulling his spear free from the beast's skull with a wet squelch. He looked at Callis, taking in the gore-splattered exterior of the terrifying, charcoal-grey wolf hide, and then offered a slow, deeply amused smirk.
"Like I said," Rhett murmured, keeping his voice low enough that only Callis could hear. "A man needs multiple layers of protection. Thank the Gods for delicate lining, right, Vale?"
Callis shot the tracker a dark, withering glare, but the faint, private scent of rosewater and vanilla rising from the collar of his coat completely ruined his intimidation tactic.
"Just help me cut the venom glands out, Hollow," Callis grumbled, sheathing his sword. "Seraphine Damaris wants this route cleared, and I am not spending another minute freezing in this gorge."
Rhett chuckled, pulling his hunting knife from his belt. "Yes, Vanguard. Let's get these glands harvested so you can get back to town and... ask for permission."