Chapter 69: The Arrow's Gambit

This is it.

This is the moment. The one in a million. The pattern I was looking for.

The Spinner King is wounded, its massive leg smoking from Hachiro's sacrificial blast. It is distracted, its arrogance shattered, recoiling in pain from a force it cannot understand. Kizawa is immobilized, crucified by silk. Hachiro is an unconscious, smoking heap. Yogawa is a non-entity, a wreck of a man.

I am the only one left.

I have the bow. I have one arrow.

I snatch the heavy obsidian bow from the silken floor. I nock the arrow, a Grak-ta javelin the size of my forearm. I pull the string.

My muscles scream in protest. The Grak-ta bow is a monster, built for a nine-foot warrior. I do not care. Adrenaline is a fire in my veins, and my singular focus is a point of cold, clear ice in my mind.

I aim.

I do not aim at the milky eyes. I do not aim at the humanoid torso. I do not aim at the wounded leg. They are all targets, and they are all distractions.

I am the Arrow. I am the Strategist.

What is the objective?

It is not to kill the King. That is impossible.

The objective is Mizuki.

I shift my aim, my arms shaking from the strain. I look past the King, past his dark throne.

I aim for the cocoon.

The glistening, white, silken cocoon that holds Mizuki. The one pulsating with a faint, stifled, golden light.

It is a one-in-a-million shot. A hundred yards. Across a dark cavern. At a target the size of a woman, suspended by a single thread.

I am Erima. I do not miss.

The King is still recoiling. It has forgotten me.

You... POISON! it screeches, its mind-voice focused entirely on Hachiro's limp form.

I breathe out.

My mind is a perfect, cold calm. I am the Arrow. I am the Gambit.

I let the arrow fly.

The obsidian bow THWANGS, a brutal, deep note that shakes my very bones.

The arrow is a black streak in the moonlit cavern.

It flies past the King's wounded leg.

It flies past his humanoid face.

The King turns. Its eight eyes widen. It sees my plan.

NO!

The mind-voice is a shriek of pure, possessive RAGE.

It is too late.

The arrow is not aimed at Mizuki.

It is aimed at the strand of silk that is HOLDING the cocoon to the web.

THWACK.

The heavy, obsidian head cleaves through the silk strand.

The cocoon is severed.

It is free.

It falls.

"KIZAWA!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

The King ROARS. It has lost its prize. It forgets me. It lunges for the falling cocoon.

Kizawa, crucified on the wall, hears me.

He sees the cocoon falling.

He sees his purpose.

He ROARS, a sound that is not human.

His Will, his chi, his cold, blue light- it EXPLODES.

He breaks the silk strand that impaled him. He rips it apart with his bare hands.

He falls from the wall.

He hits the silken floor and does not stop. He is a blur.

He is the Blade.

He is the Anchor.

He runs, ignoring the King, ignoring the pain, ignoring his seared, cauterized back.

He is faster than the King. Rage makes him fast. Love makes him fast.

He dives.

He catches the cocoon. He skids across the silk, tucking it to his chest.

He has her.

The King STOPS.

It turns its full, furious, eight-eyed gaze on the Blade and the Flame.

You... have... NOTHING.

It raises all eight legs. It is going to end this. It is going to destroy us all.

"YOGAWA!" I scream, my voice raw. "NOW! WAKE UP AND DO SOMETHING OR WE DIE!"

I look at him.

He is... not a ball anymore.

He... is on his knees.

He... is staring at the King.

And... he is laughing.

A faint, mad, giggling sound.

"It... it is not in the book," he whispers. "It is not in the book at all. It... it is so much wrong..."