The Labyris Knight

by Adam Derbyshire

  Aelius, captain of the Minotaur guard, looked down at the bedraggled Halfling and appeared torn between his current duty and the need to aid such a pathetic creature. Maybe he could put it out of its misery with a swift blow to the back of the head? The captain of the guard went to draw his sword but as he moved his hand, Ashe grabbed it and dragged the huge creature over to the companionway.

  “If you could just boost me up?” Ashe asked gesturing enthusiastically. “That’s great, now bend down a bit so I can get my boot in your hand and, oops, I’m sure that yellow paint comes right out if you rub it hard enough. Umm you seem to have some feathers stuck in your hair. I know just the thing that can help with that but no time right now.” Ashe tore off around the aft deck, leaving the aged Minotaur looking in disbelief at the yellow paint dripping from his hands. The Halfling slid to a stop in front of Austen panting hard.

  “Well, where is he?” Ashe gasped, his head turning this way and that, scanning the sky above for some sign of his feathered friend. Austen lightly tapped Ashe on the shoulder and gestured down to the ball of feathers on the floor.

  “Why isn’t Sinders following me?” Ashe asked, picking up his pet and cooing to it softly. “Why isn’t he flying?” Austen tried to show compassion but had no idea how to respond to the Halfling’s disappointed comments. Ashe scowled, pushing up his floppy leather beak and poking his head out from underneath it, streaking his nose with yellow paint.

  “Well I’m not giving up!” Ashe snapped angrily. He took a deep breath and set off again, his hands cupping the jiggling form of Sinders as he headed for the companionway to restart his circuit again. The four-foot-high bedraggled chicken hit the top of the ladder and hopped down a few rungs, the trailing end of his feathered cape snagging on the top step to snap the Halfling around. Sinders shot into the air as Ashe’s arms jerked upwards. The Halfling bounced off the rail, his feet slipping and sliding on the ladder. One boot flew off and then Sinders came crashing down onto his head knocking his beak completely over his eyes.

  Ashe staggered backwards, blinded, wrapped up in his feathered cloak he had no idea where he was or where he was going. He felt a rail behind him, reached out to grab it and found himself falling over the side.

  “Halfling overboard!” Plano shouted, reaching for a safety line even as he jumped to Ashe’s rescue.

  Austen walked back to his bucket and mop shaking his head at the sorry sight of the Halfling bobbing up and down in the harbour water, one yellow boot sticking up in the air. Plano soon swam up alongside and looped the safety line around the struggling thief before signalling to be pulled back aboard even as another strongly swimming crewman joined him and helped tow Ashe back towards the side of the ship. Despite Austen’s concerns about Ashe’s other more annoying habits the crewman could only shake his head at the spectacle he had just witnessed. He turned back to the gilded cage, just in time to see a bundle of feathers hop up onto the barrel, waddle back inside and pull the cage door tightly shut behind him.

  The spluttering and cursing continued below as the safety line was drawn in and several wet figures ended up back on the deck, one of them a lot more bedraggled and upset than the others. Aradol and Colette rushed over to Ashe, Plano and the third bedraggled crewman.

  “Ashe are you okay?” Colette asked with concern.

  “Did he fly?” Ashe asked, spitting out a sodden feather. “Did Sinders fly far?” Colette’s sad smile answered the question without words and Ashe slumped to the deck, all of his energy now ebbing from him.

  “Don’t worry.” Colette tried to reassure the little Halfling. “Maybe he wasn’t ready yet. I know If I wanted to fly, I would have been flapping after you in no time at all.”

  “Really?” Ashe smiled. “You really would have?”

  “If I had feathers, I’d be circling the ship right now.” Colette smiled back.

  Aradol turned to look at Plano and noticed to his relief the man showed no cuts or bruises, then he turned to the third crewman who looked like he had been crawling across razor clams and scraping barnacles from the hull.

  “Dear lord.” Aradol whispered. “What in the world happened to you?” Mathius looked up from the deck, water dripping from his torn clothes and stared Aradol straight in the eye.

  “Thomas has asked me to give you a message…”

  * * * * * *

  The King’s Head was not glamorous or regal in any sense of the title, having been named after the legendary demise of a wayward king, who met his end dangling from the rotting gibbet just outside its ill-fitting door. Most traders on the road to Al Mashmaah would have avoided the place for better inns such as The Globe or The Crimson Lion and its latest customer was starting to understand why. Even now, Scrave found his gaze repeatedly drawn from the plate of congealing food upon his table, to a large glass jar displayed behind the bar, in which something vaguely skull-like floated in a curdled green solution with a cheap attempt at a crown wedged firmly upon its decaying brow.

  Scrave knew he had eaten in worse places but this time his appetite seemed to be failing him completely. No matter how he tried, he could not force himself to eat even one mouthful of the greasy fare before him. He turned his attention to the goblet of wine accompanying his meal and raised it to his lips, only to feel his stomach curl and roll in disgust.

  There was something wrong with him. He could not remember the last time he had eaten; the last time he had quenched his thirst. The dagger squirmed at his right hip and he placed his hand gently down upon it, ensuring his cloak was covering the exotic weapon. Could it be the dagger at work? He had felt infused with energy when it had killed. Could the weapon somehow be feeding him, making additional sustenance unnecessary?

  Or alternatively, there was there something else going on? Something he had yet to comprehend? He raised his hand to his face, trying to ignore the slight tremor he felt and gently touched the eye patch now covering his right eye. The eyeball seemed to have disappeared completely, either shrivelled away in the heat from the volcanic temple or consumed by some unknown horror. Maybe Kerian Denaris had blinded him after their battle in the subterranean temple when Scrave had lost consciousness. That was a sick thing for the old man to do!

  A shudder ran through him at the thought. How had Kerian won that sword fight? Somehow his mind refused to replay those last fateful moments, instead he felt an ache deep in his chest that held no logical meaning. Kerian Denaris… The Elf scowled, shaking his head, whatever had happened to Kerian Denaris? Something squirmed in agitation deep in Scrave’s eye socket, making him pause in his dark thoughts to pursue even darker ones. Something sentient and menacing was moving about in his eye, something that probed his thoughts with a lascivious glee, promising impossible, unreachable things in fitful dreams and guiding his actions with ethereal suggestions he found hard to ignore. Whatever this entity was, Scrave felt better knowing the flickering green glow it gave off was safely secured and out of sight behind the patch. The less attention he drew to himself the better it would be, giving him valuable breathing time to try and figure out how he could remove and kill whatever it was.

  Scrave closed his eye and leant back against the wall, allowing the sounds of the tavern to wash over him. A raised voice by the bar complaining at the lack of credit offered, the gruff, less than polite response. A group of men over to the right swapped tall tales, one telling the others he was taking his rod and moving to fish at the Mereya River where it was being reported an angler had landed several fish with precious gemstones in their gullets. The Elf smiled, despite his dark thoughts, now that was a fisherman’s tale to be proud of. Obviously, the drink around here was very strong and there was clearly nothing else important to gossip about.

  The bar door slammed and a new breathless voice arose from over by the bar. Scrave froze as he heard the unmistakeable words ‘Elf’ and ‘green eye’ mentioned. He opened his eye and took in the exhausted dispatch rider who wore the unmistakable livery of St Fra
iser. It appeared Justina was searching for him and the dagger at his side, she clearly did not want him to get away.

  “I’ve only seen one Elf.” The barman replied. “He don’t have no green eye though. He wears an eyepatch and he’s right over… eh?” The dispatch rider turned to look in the direction the barman was gesturing, only to find an empty chair.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kerian nervously licked his lips, struggling to calm the turmoil he felt within. He never liked to lose control, show weakness or give anyone around him cause to view him as anything less than the true warrior he aspired to be. However, recently his life had been nothing but one crisis after another. He slid slowly down the cool stone of the door and sat on the floor with a sigh, taking a mouthful of tepid water from his limited supply in a vain attempt to lubricate a parched mouth and cracked lips now coated in a thick layer of grit and sand.

  The sounds of the screaming skeletons, sealed outside at the mercy of the storm, were slowly reducing in volume, although muffled thumps still echoed around the room as the monsters repeatedly tried to gain access to the two traveller’s hiding place. Kerian tried to rationalise his fears, attempted to explain away the reduction in noise as the monsters simply losing interest in a quarry they could not catch, rather than the all too real rationale that they were slowly being buried alive beneath the whispering sands. The horses, clearly agitated at the sounds, paced nervously, tails flicking and eyes rolling as they picked up on the terrors without and the permeating sense of menace hanging thickly in the air within.

  There had been no further ghostly wails, no obvious clues as to what creature stalked these darkened hallways but a sense of unease continued to hound Kerian. The knight looked at the ancient torch flickering above him, its yellow light a protective sphere that would keep him safe as long as he remained within its nurturing circle but he knew with certainty the torch would eventually burn out and he would then be plunged into complete darkness and an encounter with the monsters that awaited him there.

  He looked over at Octavian searching for some signs his guide had a plan for getting them out of their predicament but the gypsy appeared as agitated as the horses, sniffing at the air and pacing out the entrance chamber they were in, leaving footprints in dust that had remained undisturbed for many years. Kerian had no idea what the man was smelling, his own nostrils were all clogged up with mucus and sand.

  “So what do we do now?” Kerian asked quietly. Octavian started at the sound, his mind clearly miles away from their dusty tomb. The gypsy walked over and sank down alongside Kerian, holding the remains of the pennant tipped spear thrown by the skeletal warrior in his hand.

  “I’m not sure.” The gypsy confessed. “Do you mind if I look at your ‘lance’?” Kerian shrugged indifference and walked over to Toledo, retrieving the standard he had used to keep the undead monsters at bay. Octavian was already unrolling the pennant from where it had tangled around the spear shaft and laughed aloud. He placed the spear to one side then took the standard from Kerian, unfurling it and angling the material so Kerian could see the faded symbol of a grey spider with a blue cross embroidered on its abdomen.

  “Well what do you know.” He smiled. “We appear to have solved an ancient mystery. We are the only two people who know what happened to the Provan Legion. Do you mind if I keep this?” He pushed the pennant aside and reached for the standard, his eyes sparkling in the flickering torchlight, bright with the excitement of the chase and the recognition of the treasure he had discovered.

  “I don’t know what it is about you Kerian…” The gypsy shook his head smiling and pushed his curly hair back from his face as he removed the standard from its shaft and started rolling it up. “… But It appears you are so irksome, that you even manage to annoy the dead!” Kerian offered a tired laugh in response but there was not much enthusiasm behind it. He kept thinking of the two light sources they had and what would happen when the torches died.

  “Why would you ever want such a tired old thing? He gestured towards the banner as Octavian pushed it down into one of his saddlebags. The gypsy paused in his work and looked over, his mischievous smile beaming.

  “I can hardly go into a tavern and spin a tale about the Provan legion without proof now, can I?” He smiled. “This insignia is going to get me many a free drink and who knows, maybe it’s worth something?”

  “So what happens now?” Kerian asked, returning his attention to their more immediate problem. “How do we get out of this place?”

  “Well it won’t be out of this door.” Octavian stated. “So I guess we need to head further in.”

  Kerian looked around the area, the torchlight barely illuminating the hieroglyphics exquisitely painted and engraved on the walls around them. They appeared to be in a large chamber about twenty feet wide by twenty feet deep. Statues stood in niches along the walls, the humanoid figures wearing elaborate animal heads, jackals, eagles, cats and the like. His eyes searched for any kind of weapon but there was nothing suitable that he could employ to keep his feelings of unease at bay.

  He slid the shield around onto his left arm, catching a blurred reflection of Octavian in the gleaming surface. The gypsy appeared dark in the shield, his outline indistinct and hazy, his eyes a piercing blue. Before Kerian could study him closer, his guide got to his feet and walked over to a dark opening in the far wall, holding the burning torch aloft and peering through into the passageways beyond.

  “We appear to be lucky,” Octavian reported. “The corridors appear wide enough to get the horses down. I think we will need to extinguish one of the torches to conserve it. Kerian knew the request made sense and retrieved the second torch, reluctantly pushing its flame into a pile of drifted sand that had blown under the door. As the flames spluttered and died, something in Kerian’s mind shivered and he suddenly felt very cold.

  Octavian returned to the mounts, taking a moment to ensure his keepsake insignia was tightly secured, before he seized the reins of the horses and led them towards the gloomy corridor ahead. The animals appeared restless; Octavian’s steed throwing its head about and the donkey kept baring its teeth and rolling its eyes. Kerian grabbed Toledo’s reins and for once, the horse followed without question, realising that it had to place trust in its rider if it was to escape from this strange and unsettling place.

  As they stepped into the corridor, Kerian became aware of the odour. It was a damp smell, slightly fusty, not the sort of aroma you would expect from a desert tomb. If disease had a stench, it was this. The acrid odour infiltrated the nostrils and coated the back of the mouth, making his saliva taste bitter and leaving a lingering after taste. Whatever it was, Kerian decided he did not want to find out the origin. Octavian slowed the horses and whispered back over his shoulder.

  “The corridor branches ahead. Do you want to go left or right?” he asked.

  “Right.” Kerian whispered back. “Always follow the right wall then you won’t get lost.”

  Octavian nodded and set off again, leading the horses down a slight incline and deeper into the darkness, their hooves striking loudly off the stone floor and echoing eerily about the corridor. Kerian observed his guide striving fearlessly ahead, the flickering torch illuminating the way for the guide and his steeds but leaving Kerian and Toledo partially obscured by menacing shadows. Something about this place was really starting to unsettle the knight and he had no idea why. There was also something different about Octavian but Kerian could not quite put his finger on it.

  The gypsy halted again, allowing Kerian to catch up, holding the torch high to reveal a crossroads in the passageway, straight ahead had collapsed leaving just a left or right branch for them to choose. Octavian smiled and pointed to the right before pulling his horses along with him. Kerian led Toledo around the corner and noticed the ceiling now opening up above them, rising to approximately fifty feet. Sombre statues regarded the intruders with emotionless eyes from where they sat in alcoves set into the walls. Vert
ical lines of hieroglyphs soared upwards, telling tales in an alien language of pictographs and mysterious symbols that Kerian could not translate.

  Octavian stopped again, considering a flight of stairs that led up along the left wall to a platform high above, or the dark passage straight ahead. He turned back to Kerian and handed the reins of his horses to him.

  “Wait here. I’ll just be a second.” Octavian winked, offering his roguish smile before bounding up the stairs and taking the only light source they had with him. Kerian’s eyes followed the light like a drowning man watching his only chance of safety floating away. The light caressed the wall motifs as it accompanied his guide up the stairs and then disappeared as Octavian explored the passage there. Kerian gasped as he was plunged into darkness once more. He froze in place, eyes straining to seek out a source of light, the breathing of the horses now incredibly loud to his ears, the click of a hoof tapping impatiently on the stone made his heart jump, whilst another sound, further away and less distinct snatched his attention. Somewhere in the darkness, something was being dragged across the floor.

  Kerian looked back the way they had come, staring blindly into the darkness, his ears alert for more sounds, regarding whatever was out there and if it was coming closer. His hands started to sweat and he gripped the edge of his shield more tightly. Was that something moving up from behind? Were his senses playing tricks on him, or was an outstretched hand moving towards him in the darkness? Brittle, stick thin fingers probing the air inches from his face desperate to claw at his skin?

  A trickle of light slowly started to illuminate the walls as Octavian returned from the passageway above, Kerian squinted, blinking hard to clear his nightmarish visions as the gypsy ran down the steps to rejoin him. He leapt the last few steps and smiled, holding out a dusty bundle in his arms.