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assuring that consciousness still lingered. When I was
certain the thing focused upon me, I spoke. “Unlike you,
I won’t pretend that I might spare you, should only your
pleas for mercy properly entertain me. That would be rude.
Instead, I will simply allow you to live. I have no quarrel
with you, and you are already so much art. In time, when
you have adequately regenerated from the lesson I have
imparted, you will be a marvelous nightmare again. And
nothing would please me more. Perhaps, should your ego
allow, and if I’m still alive after my quest concludes, I would
very much like to call upon you again. But I can see that
you’re in no condition to give your answer now. However,
do please think it over, won’t you?”
With that, I collected my family and departed the
underground lair of the wretched Flesh Weaver. I was off to
the town of Willard to finish a conversation.
The road out of Unduur’s darkness and back to the
surface was longer than I’d assumed. The gloom from the
subterranean city still seemed to cling to me, lending my
actions an additional heft that culminated in the early search
for shelter, well before the formal conclusion of nighttime.
I theorized that the killing dream that made my escape from
the Weaver’s web a tenable enterprise had also left my body
nearly empty of any viable earthly energies. Or perhaps it
was the residuum of the Weaver’s venom, still skulking about
my body in some dwindling measure, seeking my undoing.
So, when I came upon the remains of a house stinking
from the natural powers that worked against its manmade
composition—the express purpose of bringing man’s works
back in line with the duller needs of the woods—I realized I
had found my sanctuary from the sun.
Once inside, I made immediately for the attic. I had very
much hoped to gain both a sufficient view of my surroundings
and the luxury of reposing in a room with only one way in
or out. I generally don’t bother to take such pains, but I was
exceptionally low on energy and alertness. The house and
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