The tunnel went silent, and all eyes panned to the largest, most forbidding man in the tournament.
The Giant.
Antaeus grabbed a thorn and ripped it straight from the vine, sending the competitors wincing as if it were a limb torn from their own bodies. With a grunt, he tossed the thorn at the feet of the three Lords.
“Cunt is everywhere. Cunt is cheap. This tournament is about glory, nothing more.” He eyed the Lords over and glowered. “Fuck the lot of you. And fuck The Savior.”
The Regal wavered. “Did you just say—?”
“Fuck. The Savior.”
The tunnel silenced, save for a soft muttering. The Farmer wove his way through the thorns, grumbling to himself as he passed the group.
Antaeus’s cold stare landed on the Farmer. “Did you say something?”
The Farmer’s eyes darted toward him, then quickly looked away. “No.”
“You lie.” Antaeus took a step forward, cornering him amid a cluster of thorns. “Did words not just come out of your mouth?”
“It was nothing.”
“You said something.” Antaeus leaned in close. “And you’ll tell me what you said right now.”
The Farmer hesitated, his voice wavering. “It’s blasphemous. The way you speak of Her… It’s disgraceful.”
Antaeus glared down at the Farmer. “Blasphemous. That’s what you said?”
Sweat beaded along the Farmer’s forehead. “That’s it.”
A long, painstaking silence passed, the Farmer’s terrified gaze a direct contrast to the Giant’s snarl. Finally, Antaeus pulled back, leaving the Farmer and the surrounding men to exhale in relief.
With one swift movement, Antaeus grabbed the Farmer’s head and shoved him face-first into a sharpened thorn, sending it ripping out the back of his throat. He brought his lips to the Farmer’s ear. “Say something now, you little bitch.”
The Farmer’s body shook before going limp, hanging from the bloody thorn wedged in his mouth.
Tobias convulsed. “Fucking shit.”
A hand grasped his arm, and he spun around to find the Intellect standing beside him. “Say nothing,” the man whispered. “Do nothing.”
Seconds of strain lingered before the men continued through the thorns. Some passed the Farmer with ease, while others averted their gazes, their heads dipped meekly. Tobias stared long and hard at the Farmer, at his gaping eyes and dripping blood, and a mess of emotion churned within him. Two dead in a matter of hours.
Milo tugged at his arm. “Tobias. Come on.”
Venturing on, Tobias left the body behind.
The remainder of the journey was quiet, and though Tobias trailed the pack, the eerie silence stretched far ahead. There was no talk of glory, or tits, and certainly no talk of blasphemy, just eighteen men weaving through the forest of thorns not daring to utter a word.
Eventually the forest thinned, leaving the labyrinth bare and black once again. Tobias stumbled out of the thick of thorns, his skin lined with slashes, and grumbled at the sight. The other competitors clumped together, blankly staring at whatever loomed before them, and he craned his neck, trying to see over the horde before shouldering to the front.
SLOW AND STEADY
The words were splattered in red at his feet. He read it over once, then eyed the tunnel ahead—filled with dense, white cobwebs.
The webs rustled, and a fat, black spider dropped from the silk and scurried along the floor.
“Spiders!” The Physician recoiled. “Oh God, spiders!”
A tall man with a full beard grabbed the Physician’s shoulders, steadying him. The Hunter. He stomped on the spider, smearing its innards across the floor. “Be still. They’re poisonous.”
“Poisonous?” the Physician spat.
“You must stay calm—”
“Are you mad? They’re poisonous spiders!” The Physician frantically eyed the tunnel ahead. “I’m running.”
“Then you’ll die.” The Hunter gestured toward the webbing. “They’re drawn to sudden movements. Make haste, and find yourself devoured.”
“Devoured?”
“A nip or two is tolerable. Panic, and they’ll cover you. And you’ll die.”
Without another word, the Hunter abandoned the Physician and headed into the webs. The others watched him, hesitantly following suit.
With gritted teeth, Tobias forced himself forward, the webs stretching across his face, his chest. His muscles flexed, desperate to tear the mess from his flesh, but he kept his arms at his sides, willing them to obey him. A rustling stirred overhead; hundreds of spiders scurried across the ceiling, and it wasn’t long before they zigzagged through the silk, peppering the mass of white with spots of black.
A squeak sounded beside Tobias. Milo stood frozen, and eight long, skinny legs appeared from his mess of curls. He raised his hands.
“Don’t,” Tobias said. “I know it’s tempting, but don’t.”
Milo’s eyes became larger, pleading for permission, yet somehow he managed to keep still. Painfully