The Labyris Knight

by Adam Derbyshire

  The LABYRIS KNIGHT

  -: Tales of the El Defensor :-

  Book Two.

  A Novel.

  Copyright © 2019 by Adam Derbyshire

  First Published in April 2019

  The right of Adam Derbyshire to be identified as the

  Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance

  with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form

  or by any means without the prior written permission

  of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form

  of binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  and without a similar condition being imposed on the

  subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is

  purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781095268537

  Cover Design Copyright © 2017 Nicola Derbyshire

  Author Photograph Copyright © 2015 Owain Derbyshire

  Labyris Knight Logo Copyright © 2017 Ryan Derbyshire

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  Margaret Reid

  1948-2018

  She always loved tales of high adventure and sorcery.

  I think you would have enjoyed this one mum…

  And as always

  To my three Musketeers,

  Nicola, Ryan and Owain.

  When we are together

  our lives are always one rich adventure.

  Prologue

  In that moment when a storm ends, time almost stands still; the air feels scrubbed, clean and fresh, hinting at new beginnings, endless possibilities and whispered promises of what the future has yet to bring.

  In that moment, when nature pauses to catch its breath, many a sailor has looked to the heavens and thanked their gods that they are still alive to face the challenges of another day. Counted their blessings for surviving the terrors that have placed them on the very cusp of death and destruction, elated they could now return to their families and huddle together for warmth and comfort, promising never to take those feelings for granted again.

  However, for Kerian Denaris, the passing of the storm signalled one thing.

  It meant that he had failed. Colette, the woman he loved, was sailing further away on the galleon El Defensor; unaware that Kerian remained alive and was searching so desperately for her.

  Each of his previous attempts had begun with such renewed vigour, buoyed by false hope, only to be crushed into silence, as each expedition failed to locate a window of calm on the horizon, tinged by a sickly mustard yellow light and a skyline dotted with the skeletal remains of many ships.

  The sea’s surface was as flat as a millpond, barely a ripple marking the movement of the twenty-one-foot fishing boat The Tulip as she rocked gently from side to side. The paintwork on the vessel, once gleaming, was now worn and shabby and the hull leaked slowly in several places; testament to the punishment the valiant vessel had endured chasing storms up and down the coast over the last few months.

  A splash shattered the silence, followed by another, this time accompanied with a string of expletives as the owner of The Tulip set to bailing out his vessel as it sat low in the water. There was a crash as something fell inside the boat, a further oath and then the pail used to bail out the vessel, flew out over the side, then skipped across the mirrored surface of the sea before sliding slowly under the surface.

  Despairing sobs filled the air, heartfelt cries of agony in protest of failure and love lost. It signalled a momentary loss of control, a rare glimpse into the vulnerable side of the normally stoic man from which they came.

  Kerian looked despondently about him with weary hazel eyes, cursing his own stupidity and lack of control in throwing away the only item left intact on his small boat with which he could try to remove the water slopping around his ankles. He stood up to his six-foot height, hands on hips, scanning the horizon for a sight of land or a passing ship from which he could hail assistance. However, he knew he was all alone out here. In fact he could be on the very edge of the world for all he knew.

  No one would have been that stupid to dare set sail into the tropical storm that had just lashed this region. Its ferocity would feed the imaginations and tales of elders in taverns up and down the coast. Fishermen would only consider navigating these waters now the storm had passed. Help could be hours away.

  He brushed back his salt and pepper hair from his weathered face, pulling the length tight and fastening it with a thin strip of leather. His mind wandered back, thinking of the path that had led him to this place; the curse cast on him by an evil sorceress now burnt at the stake, its enchantment aging him a year for every month he had lived. His time spent looking for a remedy, the desperate acts he had undertaken, before finding a slim clue in the dusty archives of a monastery in Catterick, where a faded manuscript detailed the location of a magical gemstone that could grant your heart’s desire.

  Kerian chuckled at the absurdity of it all. The jewel had granted his heart’s desire but the results had been far from what he had expected. He sloshed across the waterlogged deck of his boat searching for a container to continue bailing. Although his trousers were folded up to his knees to try and keep them from dragging in the water they were still soaked through, as was his grubby grey linen shirt which hung on a frame verging on the gaunt.

  He had to admit, that had been some storm. Practically everything not nailed down on The Tulip had been thrown about, with several items swept overboard. A fleeting sense of panic suddenly struck him and his hand quickly moved to his chest to touch his shirt and the shape of two pendants hanging from his neck, their presence reassuring the warrior and calming his tortured mind. He did not know what he would do if he were to ever lose these personal treasures.

  Kerian took another deep breath to calm himself and considered his position carefully. Thomas Adams, the captain of the El Defensor, had once told him that sailing on the ocean was like being on the surface of a mirror and that whilst you sailed upon its surface there was plenty of time to reflect. It was true, he had endured another storm but this time his vessel was in urgent need of repair. The damage was quite severe and he knew with a despairing heart that it would take valuable time to make The Tulip seaworthy again.

  On a brighter note, he was still alive, with no broken bones or serious injury. His aging was slowly reversing, making him feel stronger every day but it was a slow process and definitely not for someone with a low patience threshold.

  He sank down on the edge of the boat and sat there thinking hard, chewing his lip nervously in thought. He needed to make for land, in whatever direction it lay. Get the Tulip repaired, take stock and ask himself several serious and searching questions. Why was he still doing this? Why was he out here, in the middle of nowhere, chasing storms and facing death like a lunatic?

  Colette was slipping through his fingers and there appeared to be nothing he could do to change this, no matter how much he wished otherwise. He had even lost his birthright at some point in his adventures. The pale band of skin where his golden ring used to rest was yet another blow to his fragile psyche. He had lost so much, in such a short time.

  Kerian sighed heavily, then looked over to where he had stored his saddlebags and suddenly had an idea. He reached up and carefully pulled out an object wrapped in the charred remains of a long black cloak. The mirrored shield gleamed brightly as he exposed it to the sunlight.

/>   He looked down at his reflection in its surface, noticing the slow re-emergence of facial features he felt he had lost long ago. His hair was slowly changing back, even some of the lines were starting to smooth from his face. He stared at the image of the haunted man before him for a long time, realising that he had lost a lot of weight since he had last gazed upon his own features. Possibly too much! Had he been so focused in his pursuit that he had started to neglect himself?

  His obsession was leading him into situations no sane individual would contemplate.

  A forlorn flapping from above roused him from his thoughts and made him angle the shield to take in the image of the shredded sails on the main mast. The storm had ripped the canvas apart. Even if the wind returned, he would gain little speed with them in this sorry state! He flipped the mirrored shield over, banishing the image of the man within and then started to bail the water from the deck. With luck, he would find support when the fishermen arrived in the area to trawl in the hope the storm had disturbed the waters enough to make the fishing worthwhile, or if not, he would have to use the shield to paddle in a random direction and hope he found the shore.

  He bent his back to the task and tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him to give up, find the mainland, settle down and rebuild a life for himself.

  The problem with that thought was that giving up was something Kerian Denaris was not prepared to do.

  He bailed some water over the side, sending ripples out from the boat and letting his mind wander, trying to imagine how his friends were on the El Defensor. If he knew Thomas, he was probably sitting in his cabin, boots up on the table, savouring the orange tang of his favourite alcohol, and soaking in the ambience of life at sea.

  What he would give to be in Thomas’s boots right now.

  * * * * * *

  Paranoia is a feeling you experience when you imagine people are out to get you; unfortunately, for Thomas Adams, captain of the Spanish Galleon El Defensor, this feeling was growing rapidly and he knew without doubt that they were.

  The crimson flashing light blinking at his side confirmed his worst fears. The battered NV-07 handgun was nearly out of charge. There were maybe one or two blaster shots left, at best. The blue metal was cold against his sweating palm and his twitching finger nervously stroked the trigger looking for the reassurance the side arm could never give.

  Thomas paused for breath beneath a spluttering lime green neon sign, advertising some type of futuristic drink and then checked behind him for the pursuit he knew was closing in.

  At just under six-foot-tall and shy of his forty-eighth birthday, Thomas cut an imposing figure. His salt worn leather boots, trousers, loose cream shirt and braid waistcoat completed an outfit partially covered by a long dark trench coat that was soaked through by the persistent drizzle falling from the grey lifeless sky. His short dark hair swept back from a rugged face sculpted and tanned by his time spent at sea. An assortment of fading bruises completed his profile and his breathing came in gasps as he considered the limited options open to him.

  He could always return the gemstone to the giant lizards tracking him and hope they would not kill him too slowly! Thomas shook his head, he did not consider that a viable option, they required the gemstone to power open another gate, the small stones Colette had remaining in her collection were not large enough to channel sufficient power to safely get the El Defensor through the archways between worlds, making any attempt dangerous for both ship and crew.

  Without the stone, they could not continue their search for home and were at risk of being stranded either here in this futuristic nightmare world, or worse, marooned in the ship’s graveyard.

  Shouts and snarls sounded behind him, signalling his pursuers were closing. Thomas set off along the edge of the street, moving from one shadowy alleyway to the next, slipping from cover to cover as he had been taught all those years before in the academy. He kept his back to the wall, checked all corners, and when he was sure, ran across the street dodging the sweeping searchlights from a hover car running a frantic search pattern and zipping close by overhead.

  How did he keep finding himself in these situations?

  This urgent need for a gemstone had led Thomas to consider the one world where he knew he could find one. A world where for a price, or more importantly a risk, a stone could be found to secure passage to their goal. Inside the ship’s graveyard there was only one archway out of the hundreds that ringed the derelict ships stranded there that had lost its keystone, setting it apart from the others. The broken arch was one of the few that Thomas had journeyed through several times in the past. It was just that he had failed to consider the bad feelings he had left in his wake the last time he had come this way.

  It was at times like these that the captain wished he had listened to the advice of his crew. When they had arrived in Maraket, this place of gleaming skyscrapers, loud neon signs and futuristic technology, his friends had warned him to leave the scavenging to other crewmen with attributes more appropriate to the task but Thomas would not listen. He had things to sort out in his mind; he needed the distraction the landing would give to find his own self-worth. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and felt the reassuring shape of a small toy Matchbox car police cruiser, his hand closing protectively around it.

  Just by holding the toy, the image of a withered creature that preyed on lost souls and ate the bodies of the marooned sprang to mind; Images of a flaky skeletal face, hovering lights that danced around his body hypnotising the unwary and luring them to their doom. Thomas shook his head and turned a corner, finding himself arriving at the end of the street and a choice that made him wince at its absurdity.

  Somehow, he had taken a wrong turn. He knew the docks were roughly in this direction but this was definitely not the waterfront. Instead, a graveyard lay ahead, complete with spectral mist which held an ominous foreboding. He could turn in there and hope to hide from the pursuit or turn back and meet the lizards head on. The weight of the nearly empty gun in his hand confirmed a full-frontal assault was suicide. A blaster shot ricocheted off the stone façade of the building beside him dropped an awning into the street with a crash of sparks deciding the matter for him.

  The graveyard it was.

  Thomas ran for the gateway, shouldering the railing and for once having something go his way. The gate swung open on squealing hinges and he found himself running up the gravel pathway. Rows of gravestones and neglected obelisks stretched away to either side, inscriptions worn away by the elements or slowly smothered by lichen. Plinths leaned over towards tilting grave markers as if engaged in secret conversations and mausoleums stood cold and aloof with warped doors opened in sinister invitation for the unwary to step inside.

  The captain ducked behind a tall monument and dropped to his knees, facing back the way he came. The crying face of an angel loomed protectively over him, her wings sheltering the captain from the worst of the rain. The stonework was exquisite but Thomas had no time to critique the work, as his mind continued to think about the monster that stalked him in his nightmares and how it had taunted him with the miniature police cruiser.

  The toy car was a trophy from a serial killer. Thomas had a fractured memory of his own past and knew the car had connections to himself but the images haunting him, whether hypnotically suggested by his nemesis, or real memories from his past, had shaken the captain to his core. He was no serial killer. Was he?

  The gates to the graveyard squealed open as his hunters followed into the cemetery and slid between the monuments. Hisses and clicks signalled communication between the hunting party as they split and started to hunt him through the field of remembrance. Thomas clenched his gun tighter. He felt the damp start to seep through the material of his trousers and trickle down the inside of his leather boot.

  Thomas raised his head and peered into the darkness beyond his cold marble shelter, his free hand touching the cool surface for a sense of reality as well as s
upport. This marker was something real, something he could relate to, whilst somewhere out there, his enemies were seeking him.

  A searchlight flickered across the graveyard, sending shadows slipping and sliding between the markers and putting Thomas further on edge. The lizards could be anywhere. The annoying hover car zoomed by on the right, its lights picking out the blackened ruins of a cathedral standing tall at the far end of the graves, a mere skeleton compared to the majestic building it once was. The drizzling rain, coupled with the briefness of the illumination made it difficult to make out the fine details of its crumbling structure, so Thomas turned back to the tombs around him and cursed how the grave markers gave cover to both himself and his pursuers.

  Maybe he could hide in one of the crypts?

  A flash of movement to the left caught his eye and he turned, focusing intently in the direction of the perceived threat. His gun hand swept up with a speed born from fear rather than professionalism as he balanced the muzzle of the weapon against the edge of the statue for stability and sighted through the luminescent twin v’s along the top of the barrel.

  Time stood still as the captain stared into the darkness, not daring to blink in case whatever he had seen moved again. His eyes strained hard to catch the smallest clue, the slightest hint of where his adversaries may be. They seemed to know his every move, huge reptilian creatures that walked on sturdy muscular hind legs that would kill him without mercy.

  Sensing no further movement, Thomas began to slowly slide back down into the shadows, feeling the cool stone at his back despite the three layers of clothing he wore. He started to shiver, unsure if it was from the adrenaline coursing through his blood stream or the fact he was so cold. He had a momentary wish to know whom the erected angel immortalised, fleeting thoughts suggesting he could be sharing the same resting place before morning.