The Lightless Labyrinth - Excerpt 9

IX

The barbarian followed Sir Garath into the darkness with little hesitation, battleaxe in one hand and shield in the other.  Myrio was close behind him, her sinuous gait betraying no fear or nervousness.  Beside her walked Father Beren, his stout frame clumsy in comparison.  His staff dispersed the darkness, revealing a rough-hewn passage that continued as far as Jonn could see.  The priest took another step inside, and the darkness closed behind him like a curtain.

Jonn stepped up to the threshold.  A sudden panic gripped his stomach, a wave of nausea that threatened to buckle his knees.  The Lightless Labyrinth.  The source of all evil, or so he had been told as a young boy.  Five years ago his father had ventured into this place, and had never returned.  He was but one of thousands.

Jonn glanced beside him, and saw the archer grinning deliriously, his face flushed and shining as though with a fever.  The light in his eyes could have been eagerness, or it could have been madness.  Jonn didn’t know, and he hoped never to find out.  The archer turned and strode forward into the shadows.  Jonn breathed one last lungful of clean, crisp air, and followed.

It took some time for his eyes to adjust, and he stumbled blindly forward.  Outside there had been a cold wind, but Jonn's cloak had been enough to ward off the chill.  In here the air was still, but the cold was deeper.  It seemed to radiate from within him, like cold stone in his veins.

Footsteps echoed around him, mingled with creaking leather and clanking armour.  Jonn reached out a hand and his fingers found the stone wall of the passage. He used the wall as a guide as he stepped forward.  Something crunched under his foot, and a smell like rotten fish assailed his nostrils.

A hand rested on his shoulder.  "Never fear," said a rich voice.  It was Father Beren.  "In this place, the darkness is stronger than the light.  Remain still for a time, and the light will win out.  Ah, it seems to be coming already."

The priest was right; the tip of his staff was beginning to glow dimly, growing brighter with every second.  The light danced and flickered along the walls, and Jonn had to cover his eyes until they adjusted to the brightness.

The passage walls were of rough-hewn limestone, but the floor was fitted with smooth cobblestones.  Everywhere Jonn looked he could see bulbous white insects hunched on the walls and floor. They did not scurry when the light touched them, nor did they move at the muffled sound of the party's footsteps.  Near his boot was a smear of white carapace and black ooze where he had stepped on one of them.

"Do you think they're even alive?" Jonn whispered.

"Best we assume they are," said Beren.

The rest of the party had entered the passage, with the mercenaries bringing up the rear.  The sorceress was glaring at the priest with a smug expression.  The ball of flame that hovered over her shoulder had barely dimmed when she crossed the threshold.

Beren chuckled.  "A proud one, that girl," he said. "She thinks her sorcery more powerful than my prayers. In this case, it is merely that her powers are closely aligned with the darkness, while mine come from a more pure source."

Jonn scowled at him and pushed past. "I doubt there's anything pure about it," he said.

"Have it your way," said Beren with a smile.  He turned and moved back towards the front of the column.  "Come on fellows!  Time is wasting! Let us move on!"

"Quiet, priest," hissed the knight. "And all of you. We move with as much silence as we are able. Speak only if necessary."

"Wait," said the thief uncertainly.  "Why can’t I see the entrance? It should still be daylight outside."

"He’s always been afraid of the dark," said the barbarian.

"It is as I explained before," said Beren. "Here, the darkness rules, and daylight may not enter."

"Wonderful," the thief laughed bitterly. "And how will we find our way out?"

"Perhaps we will navigate by the light of the piles of gold we’ll find?" said the barbarian.

"Enough," said the knight.  "If you wish to leave, now is your last chance. The rest of us move on."

The thief grumbled, but moved back into formation as the party filed along the passage.  Jonn could hear the mercenaries sniggering at the thief’s expense, but when he craned his head backwards to look he could not see which of them it was.  Instead he saw the one-eyed giant, his face glowing a ghastly red by the sorceress’s mystic light. He averted his eyes, not wanting to know whether the man was staring at him.

As he averted his gaze from the giant, he saw the dark-skinned southerner bend down to place a copper coin on the floor.

"What are you doing?" laughed Artis.  'That is good coin you waste."

"Just a superstition of my people," said the southerner.  "It's said that if we leave a coin behind us when entering the Dark Place, the crimson howler will take it instead of sneaking up behind us."

"I suppose you can always pick it up on the way back..." said Artis doubtfully.

Jonn shuddered.  He did not want to know what the crimson howler might be, so he turned his attention elsewhere.

He saw Gam looking stricken and pale, his eyes darting from side to side.  Beside the lad the squire looked even paler, his sour lips drawn tight.  Jonn paid the squire no heed, but he flashed Gam a reassuring grin.  The boy barely seemed to notice, and Jonn gave him no further comfort.  He had too many of his own fears.

Had it truly been five years? He tried to remember the last time he had seen his father, on the day the king had summoned him back to court.  Just five years, but he could barely remember his father’s face. His memories of the following years were more vivid, memories of his mother retreating into herself, beset by illness and a growing religious fervour. It was the way of things, he thought; that which you want to remember most slips away, and the things you wish to forget remain indelibly in your mind. He shook his head bitterly, and forced his attention on the tunnel ahead.  It would do no good to die while lost in memory.

The moss-walled passage continued on, sloping downwards. Occasionally one of the party trod upon a fat white insect, releasing the smell of rotted fish, but there was little else to break the monotony.  For an hour they travelled in this manner, and Jonn started to wonder if the Labyrinth was little more than one long tunnel.

"At least we won’t have any trouble finding our way out of this place," he heard the thief mutter from behind him.

The knight gave a sharp hiss, and motioned for the party to stop.  They halted in the tunnel, but Jonn could see the archer getting agitated beside him. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, whispering to himself in a foreign tongue as he plucked at his bowstring. Jonn opened his mouth to talk to the man, but thought better of it.  The archer made him nervous.

"There is a chamber ahead," said Sir Garath. "Our front six will enter and spread out. The rest remain in the passage."

The message was passed backwards, and Jonn was sure he heard cursing from the mercenaries.  He paid it no heed, and moved up the passage.  It would be the knight, the barbarian, the priest, the swordswoman, the archer and himself, while the rest waited in case anything happened.

The passage widened into a circular cavern. Jonn drew his sword and moved around the wall to the left, and the archer came with him, holding an arrow to his bowstring. The walls were smoother than those of the passage, and carved with swirling patterns that wrenched his eyes towards them. Four large tunnels led from the chamber, but at least a dozen smaller holes lined the walls in various places, about large enough for a man to squeeze through.

"This place is a deathtrap," Jonn whispered.

"Yes," said the archer with a hint of relish in his voice. "That it is."

Jonn turned his head, and saw that Garath and Beren were approaching a raised platform in the centre of the chamber.  Upon the platform was a large copper bowl, and inside the bowl skulls were piled in a neat mound.  Jonn edged back towards the platform, keeping watch on the exits, and the bore-holes in the walls.

Sir Garath stepped onto the platform and reached towards the bowl.  From the top of the mound he pulled forth a skull.  Those that Jonn could see in the pile were scorched black, but looked like normal human skulls.  The one that Garath held aloft was blackened as well, but strangely elongated, with sharp tusks and a broad, flat forehead.

"What is it?" said Jonn quietly.

"I don’t know," said Garath.  "But there is more than one of them here.  A lot more."

"It is interesting," said Beren.  "I wonder why they are piled in this manner?"

Jonn glanced over to the far side of the room.  Myrio and the barbarian could be seen just at the edge of the staff-light, fading in and out of the shadows.  She held her thin sword loosely as she walked, her gait almost casual, but her eyes gave every sense of alertness.  The barbarian was much more tense, holding his axe as though ready to strike a blow at every flickering shadow.

Jonn was about to turn his attention back to the passages on his side of the room when he saw a pale gleam in one of the bore-holes, just over Myrio’s shoulder.  It was gone an instant later, but Jonn did not turn away.  He placed a hand on Garath’s shoulder, and directed his attention toward the hole.

The gleam returned, two round orbs that hovered in the darkness.  In the bore-holes nearby, two more pairs of gleaming orbs appeared.

"Behind you!" Jonn cried.  Sir Garath glared at him as his voice echoed around the chamber.  Three pale-skinned figures darted from their holes, skittering sub-human things with large eyes and long, tapered heads.  Their mouths opened to display wide rows of fangs as they closed around Myrio.

Jonn stood frozen to the spot, his breath cold in his chest.  Garath, Beren and the archer were like statues, and the barbarian was oblivious.

Myrio moved, like water flowing in a creek bed.  As the first creature opened its jaws to tear at her throat, she calmly stepped around it and plunged her sword through its back.  It sprawled to the ground, but before it had even stopped moving Myrio removed her sword from its carcass and brought it around in a fluid arc, slicing another of the beasts across the neck.  Without stopping she continued her stroke, severing the arm of the creature that was trying to sneak up behind her.  The beast-man opened its mouth to bellow in pain, but no sound came out; Myrio’s final thrust went between its jaws and into its brain.

Jonn let out a sharp breath and raised his sword.  Garath was already looking around the room, while Beren looked perplexed.  The barbarian looked at the bodies lying around him, dumbfounded.

The archer stared at Myrio, his mouth agape.  "Amazing," he said quietly.  "Never before have I beheld such beauty.  Such beautiful murder."

Myrio wiped her sword on the back of one of the fallen beast-men.  "It seems that this place will be good for a tale indeed," she said.

The Lightless Labyrinth - Excerpt 8

VIII

The mercenary captain laughed after the knight accepted Jonn into his party.

"What sort of a group are you puttin' together, Andarrion?  He's barely more than a lad." The captain turned his scarred face to regard the tanned woman who sat opposite him. "An’ speakin’ o’ which, there’s a few more here who don’t seem man enough to be comin' along."

The swordswoman regarded him with cool eyes, but a slightly raised eyebrow was her only reaction.

"Well, milady?" said the knight. "Who are you?"

The woman stood, tall and graceful. "My name is Myrio Immyrio Velaasa," she said, with a bow.

There were several gasps, and the sardonic grin on the mercenary captain’s face fell into slack-jawed disbelief.

"You can’t be..."

"Why not?" she said. "I am here, and I am who I say I am."

Jonn felt his own jaw hanging open, and with an effort he closed it.  Myrio Immyrio Velaasa.  The greatest living master of the sword, or so the stories said.  Jonn had grown up with Reena telling him those stories, and there were dozens of them.

"I’ll believe it when I see it" said the captain with a dismissive wave.

"Yes," said Myrio. "You will."

"So you are the greatest living swordsman?" said the barbarian with a chuckle. "Or swordswoman, I suppose.  Luckily for me, I wield an axe."

"Enough," said Sir Garath. "I for one am honoured to have such a one as you along as company. What do you seek within the Lightless Labyrinth?"

"You have heard of my former mentor?" she said.

"Farrigo Delaaso?" said the knight.  "His legend rivals your own.  He disappeared in the Labyrinth, what was it?  Twenty years ago?"

"Another one seeking a dead person?" said the thief in exasperation.  "This is getting ridiculous."

"That is not my goal," Immyrio said, her lip curving in amusement.  "The knight almost had the right of it, when he said that Farrigo's legend rivals my own.  His legend far exceeds mine, and that is the problem.  He went into the Hellwarren, and did not come out.  I plan on going in, and returning to tell the tale.  I would have my own story eclipse his, and live on for a thousand years after he is forgotten."

"I want no glory-seekers," said the knight.

"You want me, though," she said, touching her hand to the long, thin blade at her hip.  "With this in my hand, I am an artist.  There are none deadlier, and none better that you could take with you."

"Aye," Sir Garath nodded.  "I believe you."

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.

The Lightless Labyrinth - Excerpt 6

VI

"And what is your name, lad?" said Sir Garath. "You are young to be amongst such company."

Jonn shifted uneasily in his chair, almost wishing that he had not drawn the knight's attention.  "I am Jonn Greywood," he said.

"And what reasons have you for wanting to join this expedition?"

Jonn stood from his chair.  He was suddenly tense, awash with nerves and a tightness in his chest.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke.

 "I seek my father. Alive or dead."

The knight’s eyebrows raised slightly. "You must be Jaim Greywood’s boy.  He was a good man."

"You knew my father?" said Jonn, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

"Aye, we fought together a time or two.  He was valourous, and handy with a blade.  I mourned along with many others on the day he disappeared in the Labyrinth.  Did he teach you to fight?"

Jonn’s hand strayed to the sword at his belt. "Yes.  I also served in the Tyrest infantry for the last two years, fighting in the north."

"The infantry?" said Sir Garath, puzzled.  "Aren't you of noble birth?"

Across the table, the red-bearded barbarian laughed heartily. "Never mind that!  If that lad fought in Skartas, then mayhap we crossed blades a time or two," he said with a wicked grin.

"I wouldn’t know," Jonn said uncertainly.

"Enough of that," said Sir Garath. "Pardon my bluntness, but I would ask why you seek your father.  He is almost certainly dead, and I doubt there is anything for you to find.  I would not see you throw your life away on a fool's errand."

Jonn closed his eyes again, and in his mind flashed a fleeting image of his mother, gaunt and silent in her chair, staring with dead eyes through the drawing-room window.  With a grimace he banished the image almost as soon as it appeared.

"I know the chances are slim," he said.  "But I will try anyway.  I could not let my father's body rot in that pit without trying to bring him out.  And if, by some miracle, he lives?  I will take that chance, even if I die in the attempt.  I owe my mother that much.  Take me, and I will fight for you as best I am able.  Leave me behind, and I will follow you into the depths regardless."

"Well said," said the knight.  "Jonn Greywood, I would be glad to have you accompany me into the Labyrinth."

Jonn eased himself back into his chair, his whole body shaking.  The tightness in his chest loosened, and his nerves ebbed away, to be replaced by an iron resolve.  It was done.  His path was set.  He was going into the Lightless Labyrinth.