At the crossroads, where the King's Road went straight toward a bright future (the trading cities of the Center), Gunther ordered us to turn left.

  The road to the left was a dirt track that looked as if someone had dragged a giant slug along it. It disappeared into the fog, towards a swampy hole called Dunkel.

  "There?" The Sergeant looked skeptically at the greasy mud. "That’s a quagmire. Mosquitoes the size of sparrows. And the rumors aren't good."

  "There is a Forest there," Gunther raised a finger. "And where there is a Forest, there are sawmills. In Dunkel, lumber costs pennies. In the South, where there is a war and they need gallows and catapults, lumber is worth gold."

  "Are we going to trade firewood?" Baldur clarified, leaning on his Skull Hammer, which he now affectionately called Mats.

  "We are going to engage in Resource Arbitrage," the Accountant corrected. "This detour will bring us a 200% Return on Invested Capital. Turn the mules."

  Dunkel lived up to its name. It was a gray, damp stain on the map, where people lived only because they lacked the energy to die.

  But Gunther was happy.

  "Look!" he pointed to stacks of excellent timber piled against a rotten fence. "140 crowns per stack! It’s practically free! Buy everything. Liquidity liquidation!"

  We bought everything. We spent all our 2,500+ crowns, leaving mere crumbs for food.

  The cart sagged under the weight of the logs. The wheels sank into the mud up to the hubs. The mules looked at us with class hatred. Jem, who was forced to carry a bundle of brushwood, grumbled about violations of minstrel rights and the Bard's Union.

  We moved back.

  Heavy. Slow. Delicious.

  The forest around Dunkel was quiet. Too quiet.

  "I don't like this," whispered Tobias, fingering his necklace of teeth. "The branches... they’re sticky. And I don't hear any birds."

  "Birds are in the South," Dieter waved him off, adjusting his wolf cloak. "Only toads here."

  The Sergeant raised a torch. The light caught white strands weaving around tree trunks in the darkness.

  "That’s not frost," said Jem, stopping his playing. "That’s procedural trap generation: a Web."

  From the treetops and under roots, they poured out.

  Giant Forest Spiders.

  They weren't huge like Unholds. They were the size of a large shepherd dog, but there were many of them. Ten? Twelve? A swarm. They moved in jerks, scuttling on jointed legs, making a dry, rustling sound.

  "Form up!" roared the Sergeant. "Backs to the cart! Protect the investments!"

  The first spider spat.

  A white sticky mass hit Dieter in the chest. Our Tank tried to raise his shield, but his arms were glued to his body. The fibers hardened instantly.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "I’m stuck!" Dieter yelled, twitching like a doll. "Help! Stunlock!"

  The spiders didn't wait. Three of them pounced on the immobilized barbarian-bum. Mandibles pierced the wolf skin, reaching meat. Venom flowed into his veins.

  "Cut the bonds!" Gunther commanded, trying to shoo a spider away from a mule with a blow of his ledger. "Don't let them climb on the logs! The slime will ruin the presentation!"

  Baldur stepped forward.

  His Skull Hammer, created to crush plate armor, turned out to be... an excessive instrument against insects.

  Baldur swung.

  CRUNCH!

  The hammer came down on a spider's back.

  The creature didn't feel pain. The creature simply popped. Yellow ichor sprayed like a fountain in all directions — on Baldur, on Dieter, on the valuable planks.

  "Disgusting!" Baldur admired. "One hit — one puddle!"

  "You're staining the merchandise!" Gunther howled. "Careful!"

  But there were too many of them.

  A second spider flanked and spat at Otwin. The Serpent Banner fell into the mud. Otwin collapsed after it, wrapped in a cocoon.

  Mandibles were already crawling towards him.

  "Free the Banner!" the Sergeant shrieked.

  Here, Knut stepped onto the stage with his pitchfork.

  The peasant tool turned out to be ideal. The fork kept the beasts at a distance. Knut poked at the chitin, pushing the spiders away from the swaddled Otwin.

  "Shoo! Don't eat the Manager!"

  Tobias the Coward, meanwhile, was doing what he did best: panicking usefully.

  He had no clear line of fire; shooting risked hitting Dieter.

  Tobias dropped his crossbow, drew a knife, and rushed to the Tank. Not to fight the enemy. But to cut the web.

  "Don't twitch!" Tobias squeaked, sawing at the white ropes. "Wait! Almost!"

  This saved Dieter. The Tank, freed, roared and bashed the nearest spider with his shield, smearing it against the cart wheel.

  "Vain!" the Captain shouted. "Where is the Anatomist?!"

  Vain was busy. He was squatting over one of the dead spiders, right in the middle of the fight, quickly carving something out with a scalpel.

  "Magnificent gland..." he muttered, ignoring the clicking of mandibles a meter from his ear. "Paralytic toxin. Purest sample..."

  Nasser, running past, kicked a spider sneaking up on Vain, saving the mad scientist.

  "Do your job, you damn medic!" the Thief snapped.

  The fight turned into chaos. We stomped them with boots, beat them with sticks, cut them with knives. Venom, web, and guts mixed in the mud.

  When the last spider popped under Baldur's hammer, we were standing knee-deep in yellow slime.

  "Inventory check," Gunther breathed heavily.

  He rushed to the cart first. The planks were splattered with spider blood.

  "Rags!" he commanded. "Wipe it off before it soaks in! The timber must be clean!"

  Then he finally looked at the fighters.

  Dieter was bitten all over. The venom turned his face green. He was swaying. Otwin was trying to untangle himself from the remnants of the cocoon.

  "Minus two combat-capable," the Accountant calculated. "They have the Poisoned status for three days. Squad efficiency reduced by 30%. Vain, do we have an antidote?"

  Vain stood up, hiding the slimy gland in his bag.

  "No antidote. But we have raw material for poison. We can coat our weapons."

  "Coat your brains with it," the Sergeant growled. "What are you going to treat the fighters with?"

  "It will pass on its own," the Anatomist shrugged. "The organism must develop resistance. That is science. It will hurt for a while, then stop."

  Gunther sighed and picked up a piece of chitin from the ground.

  "Fine. Log it as income: Spider Silk and Glands. Crafting ingredients. This offsets the moral damage."

  We were getting out of the forest.

  The cart creaked under the weight of the wood.

  We itched. We stank even worse than before — a bouquet of corpses, wolves, and insects.

  Dieter was vomiting in the bushes, expelling toxins.

  But we were carrying goods to the South.

  "That was the 'Wooden Voyage'," the Sergeant spat, wiping slime off his spear. "Hope the margin was worth it."

  "It was," Gunther said confidently, scrubbing a stain off a valuable log. "When the siege begins in the South, they will give us a duchy for these planks. Well, or at least a castle."