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lowered a cleated boot upon the loathsome weaver of skins,
crushing a mere bug beneath its gargantuan stone foot. All
became a deafening cloud of dust as cavern ceiling met
floor—still the creature lived.
The small mountain of fallen stone fell away as a badly
mangled pincer broke through. Soon, the creature had
entirely risen from its would-be crypt, shaking off the
broken earth like a dog shedding rainwater. The ruined
horror addressed me anew. “A fine swan song, if nothing
else. But you will find my death harder to acquire than you
might have originally calculated.”
It pleased me no end when my timing was impeccable—
or in this particular case, my sisters’ timing. Just as the
Weaver poured itself away from the sundered rock, my
sisters made their move—but not before I countered my
opponent’s previous assertion. “Ah, but you have still to see
the product of my calculations, monster.”
From a pile of the creature’s smoldering and disembodied
parts—the result of my father’s previous efforts— rose a
severed, claw-tipped limb, which took little time plunging
into the weaver’s most conspicuous head. Before my
opponent could employ its incredible speed to avoid further
ravaging, a thick mass of squirming flesh from the Weaver’s
web engulfed its struggling form.
My sisters had found their mark. I took a moment to
describe the scene to the clearly confounded Weaver.
“Only now do you see, creature, that my sisters were never
meant for you—at least, not those parts of you that were
still attached.” With that, I allowed my sisters to continue
their good work. They took their time, laughing that sweet
laughter of theirs, smiles like sugar.
The surviving mass of the creature, now little more than
a towering heap of quivering flesh and crushed carapace,
collapsed before me. I walked to the pile of my enemy,
trying to find a functioning set of eyes to look into. After
some considerable searching, a large eye blinked at me,
216 | Mark Anzalone