II.
The spiders descend from the ceiling like dancers suspended from rope. For a second you forget what they are, and standing still, mouth agape, you watch them twirl and twitch in the air before landing silently around Vilkas and you.
They watch you with eyes like droplets of ink arranged on a carapace-like skull.
Their mouths, complimented by two jutting incisors covered in barbs, snap open and closed. They scuttle forwards on legs crowned with needle thin hairs. Bigger than a child, you suspect they'd have no problem bringing down a horse.
Revulsion hits you like a wave upon the rocks.
'Harbinger...'
The Frostbite spiders sway on their spindly legs. A synchronised dance before dinner. They flex their fangs together and emit a clicking sound.
'Harbinger.'
The noise creeps up your spine, enters your head and freezes your brain. Your mind pulsates. There's a pain coming from the front of your skull, just above your eyes. Like someone has just punched an icicle through the middle of your forehead.
The world slows.
In a mass of skittering bodies, the spiders fold back onto their four back legs and spring forwards.
'Harbinger!'
The word enters your head. You see the letters arrange themselves in your mind. They give off a warm fuzzy glow that dulls the headache to a soft twang.
You raise a hand.
You speak the word.
Time rights itself.
A whoosh of flame emits from the centre of your palm. You cup it in your hand, comforted by the warm glow that infiltrates your gloved fingers.
Three spiders advance on Vilkas.
You unleash the fire upon them. It unfurls from the palm of your hand, uncurling like a fiery whip.
Like dragon's breath, the continuous blast sends the three spiders spinning simultaneously through the air. They land on their backs, a hissing sound of steam emitting from their burnt crusts.
Vilkas' sword connects with the backend of a spider. He pushes the sword into its body with a crunch, twists the handle and the spider squelches. Then he unsheathes the blade, swings it, and splatters the walls and the white cocoons in the gooey grey and brown and purple entrails of the spider's innards.
A force hits you in the back. It feels like a horse has careered into you. Air is walloped out of your lungs.
The fire slips from your fingers. The word becomes lost in your head, and the flames die. You trip forwards, arms flailing, grasping at the air.
Your kneecaps crack as you hit the floor. Clanging to the ground, your sword falls out of reach.
You try to scrabble forward, reach out for the ground in front of you, but something yanks you back, wrestles with you , tries to shake you up and down.
If you could...
Reaching out with your right hand, the tip of your finger just brushes against the end of the sword handle.
Resigned to the fact that you can't get your sword, you reach downward. Your fingers touch the shell-like structure of a spider leg. Its hair pricks your skin, and you tremble in disgust.
The beast paws at your back. You can hear the tips of its legs scraping at your armour. Goosebumps swell on your arms. You grit your teeth. The spider is fear incarnate, pricking at your spine.
You try to twist in its grip, grunt at the effort. And as you manage to move your legs from beneath you, you notice there's a reassuring weight, just up from your right boot.
The leather sheaf of the dagger strapped to your leg, digs into you, like it wishes to remind you of its presence.
You yank it free, and fingers tight around the hilt of the weapon, you tear one of the spider's legs away.
'Off her!'
It sounds as if the air is being sliced in half, as Vilkas, blade arcing, leaps past you.
For a second, you see what lurks behind the human facade. He's like a rabid wolf, Hircine's own, lunging at your assailant with his teeth bared.
A growl comes from the back of Vilkas' throat. He rips the spider from you. Gives it a heavy kick and brings down his sword upon its body, cleaving it in two like a giant's club shattering a human skull.
Lying in two parts, it spasms, twitching legs curled inwards.
The Nord gives a contented grunt, holds out his hand. Beneath the grime, war paint and stubble you can see that one side of his lip curls upwards.
'Dragons, spiders,' Vilkas says. 'By Ysgramor, what next? Story fodder for the campfire back at Jorrvaskr, at least.'
He pulls you up and his lips finally part into a smile.
'You can talk about the dragon. I'll talk about the spiders,' he says. His grip on your hand tightens. 'If I can make Farkas tremble, that'll be a sight. Big bear that he is.'
You see it move, but it's too late.
One last spider.
One last spider that tears itself away from parts of its insides spilled upon the floor. It leaves a leg behind as it lurches forwards.
You try to shout a warning, but it comes too late. And just as you latch onto Vilkas, the spider's fangs penetrate the top half of his arm.
It tears through the grubby binding that cover Vilkas' arm.
Your fingers clamp around the hilt of the dagger. You don't think, you don't aim. You rely on instincts alone, and throw.
The spider's teeth splits Vilkas' flesh.
Blood springs, bubbling out like a freshly sprung fountain.
The dagger hits the spider. Right between the eyes.
It falls to the ground.
As does Vilkas.