choose your own adventure, episode 13a.

The spiderling lunges for you, her clawed hands crackling with green flames. And as she does, she hisses, her pincers flexing, and spits a glob of sticky green venom at your face.

But you’ve anticipated the attack, and Heartwarden blurs up and deflects the venom. You realize the spiderling assumed the venom would disable you, because she’s left herself open as she lunges for you, and you sidestep and whip Heartwarden around in a two-handed blow.

The spiderling’s head jumps off her shoulders and rolls across the floor, the pincers clicking against her smooth white marble. The emaciated body slumps to the floor, the neck leaking a thick greenish-black slime. The green fire around her talons wink out, and as it does, the urvaalg corpses collapse back to the floor, like puppets with cut strings.

For a moment you, Sir Thomas, and Ulacht stand in silence.

“God and his saints,” says Thomas. “A spiderling. Here.”

“I think,” you say, “we know what happened to those missing children.”

Thomas rubs his face. “And I suppose Gwenaelle is one as well. Explains why my father fell for her. And that means old Gotha is a spiderling, too.” He looks at you. “Do you think an urdmordar is hiding among us?”

“It must be,” you say. “Spiderlings are the offspring of a human man and a female urdmordar. They tend to be quite loyal to their mothers.”

“Aye,” says Ulacht, and the old orc looks shaken. “One of the old goddesses has come among us, and demands a tribute in blood for our apostasy.”

You know that Ulacht is right to be afraid.

Male urdmordar are dangerous enough. They are spiders the size of horses, and can easily kill a score of armed men without difficulty. But male urdmordar are little more than mindless animals, and are incapable of much thought beyond sating their immediate hungers.

Female urdmordar, though…female urdmordar are much, much more dangerous.

They are effectively immortal, and wield tremendous dark magic with the natural ease of a bird taking to the air. Additionally, they are immune to steel – only magic, an enchanted Soulblade, or fire can harm them.

You know that the urdmordar warred against the high elves for tens of thousands of years. Once high elven kingdoms ruled the entirety what is now Andomhaim, but the urdmordar gradually ground them down to near-extinction. The dark elves became the vassals of the urdmordar, and the pagan orc tribes worshipped them as goddesses. Indeed, from what you understand, the female urdmordar regard themselves as goddesses, and all other races as their rightful servants and prey.

And when humans first came from Old Earth and founded Andomhaim, the urdmordar almost destroyed them. The urdmordar’s hordes of dark elven vassals and orcish slaves conquered most of Andomhaim and laid siege to the High King’s stronghold of Tarlion. Only when the last archmage of the high elves came to Tarlion and taught the Keeper to forge Soulblades and trained the Magistri in magic did the tide turn. The High King, the Swordbearers, and the Magistri led the nations in a great war and shattered the dark elven and orcish armies, defeated the urdmordar, and smashed their empire to pieces.

But the surviving urdmordar sank into the shadows, preying on humans and orcs and halfings from the darkness.

Now it seems that one has come to the villages of Victrix and Rzoldur.

Which means that you are in way over your head.

“We need to send word to the commander of my order at Castra Marcaine,” you say. “He can send us additional Swordbearers and Magistri. Even a lone urdmordar could kill me, you, and every orc and human in Victrix and Rzoldur without much effort.” You look at Thomas. “And we had best do it without letting your father or Gwenaelle or Gotha know. Otherwise they’ll warn the urdmordar.”

“Aye,” says Thomas. “I have a man-at-arms I can trust at the task. We had best go quickly.”

You leave the dark elven ruin, walk to the edge of hill, and freeze.

“God preserve us,” says Thomas.

The village of Victrix is burning.

You see men and women bursting from burning houses, fleeing in terror. For a moment you wonder if the orcs have lost patience and attacked, but you see flames shooting from the stone houses of Rzoldur as well, see orcs running from their homes.

“We are attacked!” roars Ulacht, lifting his club. “But who?”

You cannot see from this distance, but it looks as if mottled gray-and-white figures are attacking the villages.

“There’s fighting,” says Thomas, “outside the keep, and by the doors of the church. They need our aid. We must hurry!”
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