The Lightless Labyrinth - Excerpt 1

Another new year, another resolution to post on this blog more often.  Yes, it's been a while, and yes, I've been writing during that time.  No, I didn't complete the Charles Atlas Method, and I didn't transform into a muscular Adonis.  I'm still just plain old me, devoid of muscles and sex appeal.

So here's the deal.  I'm not going to be posting here regularly.  I'm only going to post here when I have something to post about, like a new book or something.  What I am going to do in the meantime, however, is post the first part of my current novel in sections.  The Lightless Labyrinth is going to be my first fantasy novel, and it follows a band of disparate adventurers who enter a dangerous, ancient labyrinth with various agendas in mind.

Okay, here goes.  The first excerpt.

PART ONE

I

Jonn rode at the head of the column, clutching his cloak around him to protect from the bitter chill of mid-winter. The sun was dipping past the horizon, and the feeble rays that passed through the bare tree branches did little to warm his bones.

He turned to the knight riding beside him, craning his neck upwards. His own horse was several hands smaller than the knight's charger, making conversation difficult.  Not that they had spoken much; Sir Garath was not a man to waste words.

"Are we nearly there?" Jonn asked. "If it gets any darker one of the horses is going to break a leg."

"Aye," said Garath, not bothering to turn his head. "It's not far now."

Jonn turned his eyes back to the trail ahead. It was difficult to make out as it twisted its way through the barren trees, and the thin covering of grey snow did little to help. Here and there an old flagstone could be seen through the snow, a reminder of days when this trail had been more frequently travelled. Jonn had examined a few of these on the journey, but all were cracked and broken, or worn so smooth that they bore no sign of their origin. Nobody knew who had laid them, or why. Only the dead knew, now.

"What of the others, lad?" the knight growled. "Are they far behind?"

Jonn turned and glanced at the motley column that followed them. Garath’s squire rode a few paces behind them, his sour-faced expression deepening with every step. The thief and his barbarian companion rode side-by-side after him, bantering idly with each other as they had done non-stop for the last few days. The sorceress rode alone, unsteady in the saddle, wrapped silently in her cloak. Near her the swordswoman walked on foot; she had refused a mount, but even so she had kept pace with the horses easily, singing snatches of old songs and stories as she went. The priest rode near her, but he appeared to be spurring his horse forward to the front of the column. The archer came next on his coal-black horse, eyes darting to every tree and crest. Behind them all came the sellswords and their scarred captain, eight in all.  Most of them were voicing crude jokes and bawdy tavern songs, but there were three woman with them wrapped from head to foot in dark clothes, who Jonn had never heard speak at all.  There were also a dozen folk from the last village, loaded with supplies, and all twitching nervously as they neared their destination.

Jonn barely knew any of their names. He had met them all just a few weeks before, but had spent most of his time with Sir Garath. Even so, these were the men and women he had entrusted with his life, not to mention the task he had set himself. 

"No," he said. "Can't you hear the singing?"

"I can," said the knight, scowling.  "If they try that inside the labyrinth, I'll cut out their tongues."

Before Jonn could reply, the priest rode up between them with a smile and jolly wave. "What kind of talk is that for a band of boon companions?  Soon we will be facing certain death together!  Surely a more positive outlook would be more useful."

Jonn shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and tried his best to look away. The priest had been a jovial companion, and had he been anything else Jonn thought that he might have liked the man.  But he had heard the rumours, all the stories that told of what had befallen the old king.  The king, and his retainers.  My father.  He held his tongue, and listened.

"Priest," said the knight in greeting. The knight had rarely been more than coldly polite to any of the band, but his manner towards the priest was even harder.

"Good day," said the priest. "And how are you, young Jonn?"

Jonn started, and replied reluctantly. "I don't know. Just being here feels strange."

"We are all strange here, every one of us," said the priest.  "As are our surroundings.  That's what I came to tell you about.  Have you two noticed anything odd about this forest?"

The knight grunted and shook his head.

"It's the trees," said the priest. "Look closely."

Jonn looked around. The aspen trees were twisted and leafless, and many were bent near to the ground.  Yes, they looked sickly, and some were contorted into odd shapes, but to his eyes they did not look unusual.

"I see nothing out of the ordinary," Garath answered.

"Look how they grow. They have a common direction, it seems."

Jonn looked again, and he saw the priest's meaning. Each and every tree was bent in the same direction: to the south.  Away from their destination.

"Something to think on, is it not?" said the priest. "Trees possess no souls, yet even they seek escape from this place.  Where we are going, we must guard our own souls very well."

"Enough," said the knight. "We have no need for such talk."

The priest gave Jonn a secretive smile, before slowing his horse to return to the pack. Jonn rode in silence, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the trail ahead, but he kept glancing at the trees. Their twisted boles and empty, grasping branches reminded him of the starving refugees he had seen in the Northern Marches, desperate yet unable to escape their fates. He could still turn around and leave. There was still time, but as surely as the trees he was trapped.  He had a task to do, and that was that.

As day became twilight the sounds of insects and birdsong ceased, and all that could be heard was the crunch of the horses’ hooves, and the bawdy laughter of the mercenaries as they made mockery of the priest's superstitions. Jonn frowned, but held his silence. He had no love for the priesthood, but superstitions were not something to be laughed at, especially in a strange forest by night.  Especially not this forest.

As they continued the trees altered in colour, from grey to black, though Jonn thought it might just have been the deepening twilight playing tricks with his eyes. He was certain, though, that they bent even closer to the ground, and with every step those trees seemed to stretch and claw with greater desperation. He gripped the reins tightly until they almost cut into his fingers.

Still they pressed on. The horses grew skittish, their ears flat and their eyes rolling. Jonn had handled horses all his life, and he calmed his steed with soothing strokes and words. Others in the party were not so skilled, especially the sorceress, who gripped her reins with white knuckles as her horse stamped and whickered. Only the knight's charger was unaffected, and he rode around a bend in the trail with no backward glance for his companions.

Jonn urged his horse forward to follow the knight, and as he rounded the corner he pulled up short. The knight sat warily in the saddle, sword in hand. The trail ended just a few yards beyond him at a massive white stone on the slope of a jagged hill.

"Is that it?" said Jonn.

"Aye," said the knight. "The Lightless Labyrinth."

Jonn dismounted from his horse and hooked his horse's reins over a nearby branch. Sir Garath slipped deftly to the ground as well, and walked toward the smooth, white stone. Jonn followed him, stomach queasy and hands trembling. The knight glanced back at him, and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Stay strong, lad. The door is yet sealed, see?"

The knight’s firm hand seemed to ease his trembling, and Jonn replied with an uneasy smile. He walked forward with an easier stride, but his hand strayed to the pommel of his sword.

The hill was a mass of jagged black rocks, thrusting into the twilight sky like the claws of some demonic beast.  Jutting forth from those black rocks was a single white one, a round smooth stone marked with irregular holes.  Set into the stone was a granite door wide enough for three men to walk abreast, and to Jonn’s relief the door was shut as Sir Garath had said.

The thief was the first of the companions to round the path, leading his horse by the reins.  With his trimmed beard and fine silk clothes, he looked more like he was on his way to a ball than an underground expedition.  His barbarian friend, a hulking mass of muscle and bristling red beard, was close behind him; the two were never far apart. At the sight of the entrance, the thief started laughing.  The knight glared at him, but the thief only laughed harder.

"What is it?' said Jonn.  He liked the man, with his smiling face and ready quips, but he could never quite shake the feeling that the thief was making fun of him somehow.

"Take a look for yourself," said the thief, still chuckling. "Come back here and see!"

Jonn walked back and turned to look, following the thief’s expansive gesture. The queasy feeling in his stomach returned.

"It looks like a skull," he said quietly.

"Of course it does!" said the thief, nearly in hysterics. "What else would it look like?"

"It has a welcoming grin," said the barbarian. "Nice clean teeth. I like that." Jonn laughed nervously. The barbarian had been friendly enough, but Jonn had seen too many northmen in his days as a soldier, and fought against them as well.

"I never trust a man with all his teeth," the thief replied, regaining his composure.  He walked forward, slowly, and started examining the door, careful not to touch anything.

"Well," said the knight.  "Do you see anything?"

"There's a keyhole," said the thief.  "Nothing to deter a man of my skills, of course.  But there's more."  He started chuckling again, and tapped the white stone with his knuckles.  "This is no stone.  It is bone."

"A skull the size of a mountain," said the northman, whistling.  "I could finally fashion a drinking cup large enough to satisfy me."

"Quiet," snapped the knight. "It's time to make camp. At daybreak, we open the door and enter.  I hope you are as good as you say, thief."

Sir Garath led his horse back down the trail, and the thief and barbarian followed.  Jonn lingered, shivering as he looked upon the giant skull, and the granite doors.  And beyond them, the Lightless Labyrinth.

I'm coming, father.  I'm coming to find you.