The Lightless Labyrinth - Excerpt 7

VII

Jonn spent the rest of the morning preparing his gear, giving extra attention to his arms and armour.  The mail surcoat that he had worn during his years campaigning in the north settled heavily over his shoulders, and already he felt more secure while wearing it. His sword was new; the blade that had served him in the army had become notched and useless, so he had had another forged in Tyrest. It was shorter and broader than he was accustomed to fighting with, but the subterranean tunnels of the Labyrinth were sure to be cramped and unsuitable for a longsword. He strapped it to his belt, where it hung near a pair of daggers.

His backpack lay on the ground near his bedroll. He tied the bedroll up and stuffed it inside the pack. Also inside were a number of torches, and a supply of dried meat and hard biscuits. Jonn smiled ruefully at the thought of the sausage breakfast that he had shared with Gam that morning. It would probably be the last good meal he would eat for some time. It might be the last good meal he ever ate. He dismissed the thought with a shake of the head and slung his backpack over his shoulder, where it joined its weight to that of his mail coat.

Finally, he opened the pouch on his belt and brought forth his lone copper coin, dull and clipped at the edges. It was old; one side was stamped with the sun-and-sword emblem of Tyrest, and the other with the faded image of King Prias, now barely recognisable. He could still remember the day that his father had returned after a year fighting against the Sturnish, and laid that very coin in his palm, telling him that it was at least a century old. Then it had glinted under the light of the sun. Now he held it up, but there was no light for it to catch. Grey clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain, but Jonn supposed that the weather would be of no concern to him where he was going. He held the coin to his lips, then replaced it in his pouch. It was all he had left of his father now.

A loud bellow sounded along the trail. It was Sir Garath, calling the party to gather and enter the labyrinth. Looking around, he saw that he was the first one ready; his few years of military life had instilled in him the qualities of a disciplined soldier.

As he made his way up the trail the swordswoman fell in with him. Despite the streaks of grey in her close-cropped hair she was lithe and hard-muscled, and she moved with a sinuous grace. Two thin scars lined her cheeks, and Jonn could see that there were more on her bare arms. She walked beside him with little more than a nod of greeting.  Once more Jonn felt his nerves tingle around her.

"Good afternoon," he said, and the warm smile she offered eased his nerves.  "Are you sure you have everything you need?"

The swordswoman wore no armour, and was dressed in a leather jerkin and breeches, and soft sandals. Her pack was small and light, and she carried nothing else besides the long thin-bladed sword at her hip, and the lute on her back.

"I have all I need," she said matter-of-factly.

"You don't wear armour?  And what about torches?  Not even you can be that good."

She glanced at him curiously. "Armour, you say?  I don’t plan on being hit."

Jonn laughed. "And what about fighting in the dark?"

"There are more senses than sight, boy." She jogged a few paces ahead of him, and turned her head. "Now keep up, if you can."

She sprinted ahead down the trail. Jonn did not even bother to pursue; he knew that he had no hope of catching her. He simply waved when she turned to look behind her, and conceded defeat with a nod of the head. She flashed him a brief smile and a flourishing bow of victory, before she disappeared around the bend.

When Jonn reached the entrance there were four members of the party waiting. Sir Garath stood near the entrance, casting glances inside, and his squire was nearby going over his master’s equipment for a final time. Father Beren sat on an old fallen log, reading from a small bible. The swordswoman sat cross-legged beside him, strumming idly on her lute. Jonn walked over to stand near Sir Garath, but the knight said nothing. His face was dark with apprehension, and Jonn thought better of disturbing him.  He leaned against a boulder to shelter from the breeze, wrapped himself in his cloak, and waited.

Gam was the next to arrive. He staggered under the weight of his pack, which was laden down with torches, blankets and provisions. Despite the weight the boy had a beaming smile on his face, though it wavered when he caught sight of the open portal to the Labyrinth. Jonn smiled and waved at him, but found himself wishing that Gam had left with his fellows. He liked the boy, but this was no place for him.

Next came the archer, wrapped in his hood and strapped with a score of knives and several quivers. He held a short bow of yew, and his other hand constantly stroked the fletching of his arrows. His eyes roved this way and that, and his mouth was always twitching, as though he was conversing with himself. When the archer’s dead grey eyes met his, Jonn looked quickly away.

The sorceress was next, looking much steadier on her own feet than she had on horseback. She held her chin high, and walked with a stiff-backed grace. Jonn frowned at her rich purple robes. They were little suited for a forest stroll, let alone for a delve into the Labyrinth. She turned to regard him, her pale face framed by shimmering black hair, her eyes like flickering coals. Jonn shivered, and pulled his cloak around him.  Perhaps for her those eyes were armour enough.

The thief followed, with the red-bearded northman close behind. The thief whispered something into his friend’s ear, and the northman guffawed with laughter. Jonn did not hear what had been said, but the sorceress’s pale face tinged with pink. She did not turn her head, and she said nothing, but Jonn thought he saw her back grow a little stiffer, her mouth draw a little tighter.

Finally came the sellswords, eight in all including their captain with his scarred face and shining bald head. Behind him was the same sallow-faced man that Jonn had seen pissing earlier, still wearing his battered breastplate. A pale warrior with sad purple eyes walked beside him, dragging his frame as though each step was an effort of will. After him was a dark-skinned southerner, clad in immaculate mail armour and a magnificent scarlet cloak. The three spear-wielding women came next, as silent as ever.  Last of all came the one-eyed giant. Jonn started when the man fixed him with his good eye. He felt rooted to the spot, and if the giant had drawn his sword in that moment and struck him down he doubted that he could have moved to defend himself. The giant simply opened his mouth in a cruel smile and moved on. Jonn put his hand to his temple, and started breathing again.

"So this is your famous Lightless Labyrinth?" said the southerner.  "All locked up to protect you folks from the Dark Place.  In our land, we leave it open, and anyone can go inside."

Jonn wondered if the sellsword had ever been in himself, but it didn't seem likely.  He could barely credit the idea that the Labyrinth stretched so far beneath the ground.  Surely it must have been a different place, a different subterranean hell.

As the last of the sellswords came around the bend, Garath walked up the slope and mounted a stone near the entrance to the Labyrinth.

"Quiet," he said in a clear, ringing voice. The members of the band gradually came to a stop, and turned their attentions to him. "Everyone is here, and the time has come. Take up your place in the formation, as I showed you earlier."

Jonn moved away from the boulder where he was sheltering and took his place in the line. The archer was standing next to him, fingering the string of his bow nervously.

Jonn glanced behind him, and noticed that Gam had taken his place next to the squire. He was unsurprised to see that the boy looked apprehensive, and he reached out to clap him on the shoulder reassuringly. The squire looked even worse. His whole body trembled, and he seemed to have been drained of all colour. He turned his face away when Jonn looked at him.

Garath stepped down from his perch and went to the front of the line, next to the barbarian. "Priest, make your light," he said. "We enter now."

Father Beren, who was standing in the line right in front of Jonn, nodded serenely. He closed his eyes and bent his head forward in prayer, his forehead resting upon his staff of ash. His lips moved, but Jonn could not make out his murmured words. For a minute and more he continued in this manner, with no discernible result.

"Come on old man," the thief called from towards the rear. "Your God won't hear you unless you speak up."

"He is notoriously hard of hearing," the northman said over his shoulder.

"Quiet," said Garath. "Be quiet and wait."

There was a hum in the air, and a swarming black shadow passed across the sun. Small insects darted through the tree branches and hovered around the priest's head, before alighting on the knobbed end of his staff. He cupped his hands and whispered at them once more. Their buzzing ceased, and one by one they grew still, and lit up with a pure white glow.

"Some words of wisdom for you, my good thief," said Beren. "A quiet prayer is often answered, a shouted one ignored. Now come on, fellows. Hell awaits."

"I hate to say it, but he does get results," said the thief. "Maybe I ought to convert?"

Beside him, the sorceress grunted with scorn. She clicked her fingers, and a blue ball of flame leapt into being over her shoulder, brighter by far than the fireflies on the priest's staff.

"Of course," said the thief with a bow, "you are possessed of talents that my good friend priest could never match."

"Talents far beyond your reach," she replied icily.

"Alright then, I suppose it’s time we entered," said the priest jauntily. He made to push to the head of the line, but Sir Garath stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"No," he said. "I must be the first across the threshold."

The priest nodded graciously and took a step back. Sir Garath walked towards the grinning skull mouth set into the side of the hill, between the great stone doors that now stood ajar. The passage beyond was shrouded in darkness; neither the light of the sun nor that from Beren’s staff seemed to penetrate it. Silvery mist issued forth from the opening, hanging in the crisp winter air, enveloping the knight as he approached. He stopped at the threshold, at the border of light and darkness, standing motionless.

He stood unmoving for nearly a minute before anyone spoke. "Why doth he not enter?" said the archer.

Behind Jonn, the squire laughed. "Because he is a coward," he said, his voice heavy with contempt. "Haven't you heard of the Coward Knight?"

The words carried in the silence, and Jonn saw the knight stiffen. Sir Garath unslung his shield from behind his back, revealing the rampant mouse emblazoned upon it for all to see. He settled the shield on his arm and held it between himself and the entrance. His posture softened, and Jonn thought he could see the ghost of a smile play across the knight’s lips. Without a word, he stepped forward into the darkness.