The Labyris Knight

by Adam Derbyshire

  Marcus’s heart sank, both blooms were shredded. There was no way they could make an antidote now. The thought hit hard. Because of their failure, their captain was dead! Something huge slammed into the tree trunk just above the monk’s head, showering Marcus in an explosion of debris and wooden splinters, completely obscuring his vision. He coughed and spluttered, staggering about blinking his eyes, trying to clear his vision as he felt behind him for the cover of the tree, only to discover it was no longer there. What could have hit with such devastating power?

  The dust cloud settled revealing two Nirschl heads waiting patiently just outside of the area of devastation, hissing gently and nuzzling each other, tongues flicking as they waited for their prey to stagger into their killing range.

  “This doesn’t look good.” Marcus muttered, feeling his legs turn weak and rubbery beneath him. One of the Nirschl heads coughed then slowly blinked a soulless eye before it slithered silently off to the left. The other head tilted to one side, then slunk off in the other direction, the intention of the two creatures clear as they slowly circled their prey cutting off his escape.

  “This doesn’t look good at all.”

  * * * * * *

  Ives pushed his way through the undergrowth, still on the trail of his elusive sword. It had to be here somewhere. He needed to find it and get back to help Aradol, although secretly Ives knew any assistance given would be limited at best. He knew he was no good with a sword. His father had always found him a disappointment. It was only after the other male heirs of the family had died that he was bequeathed the family sword and his record in wielding it had been poor at best.

  The merchant shook his head remembering his failure against the wind elemental when he had dropped his blade and had almost lost it in a storm several months before. He had ended up shuffling along a beam with his robes all hitched up around him, trying to get his sword back, it was hardly the stuff of heroes.

  The undergrowth was so dense and resistant to Ives attempts of penetrating it that he found himself uttering curses normally reserved for only the most insulting barterers. He pushed at a large palm shaped leaf, then fell through, his foot sliding forwards, only to come down on nothing as he stepped into a depression. Ives crashed through the undergrowth, slipping and sliding down a slope, barrelling through low bushes, snapping twigs and ending up flat on his face in an undignified heap.

  It took a few painful moments, with the air whistling in and out of his lungs before Ives managed to pull himself unsteadily to his feet, only to find his hands sinking into the mud and his boots filling with stagnant water. The merchant staggered to his feet, his boots sinking deeper into the mire. He flapped his arms, windmilling comically, mud and debris dripping from his garb, before he finally managed to get his balance and wipe his eyes clear.

  His errant blade lay a few feet ahead, the hilt sticking proudly up from the swampy ground, offering itself to him. Ives stretched out his hand then realised he was unable to reach the blade without moving closer. He cursed loudly, dragging one foot free of the clinging mud before plunging it back into the bog a foot further ahead, then turned to his other leg to repeat the ridiculous motion. The swamp slurped, sucked and belched as Ives moved inch by inch towards regaining his family treasure. The titanic battle back in the clearing was soon a distant memory, as the merchant threw everything that he had into dragging himself towards his sword.

  With a final satisfying squelch, Ives finally managed to extend his arm enough to curl his fingers around the hilt and begin to ease the weapon from the silt. As he did so, the merchant allowed his gaze to relax and finally focus on the boggy landscape beyond and the blazing crimson banner of bobbing blooms that dominated.

  “Well I never.” The merchant froze with his arm still extended, not believing what he was seeing. He scrunched up his eyes then took a moment to examine what he had literally stumbled upon. He was standing in a swampy depression slightly lower than the main battlefield. The area measured roughly twenty feet by thirty feet and Ives stood at the bottom end of the clearing. A small, sluggish waterfall fed the swampy morass in which he stood and entered from his right. Shattered pieces of leathery debris dotted the base of the waterfall and even as Ives watched another wet sloppy lump of something unrecognisable plopped from the rim of the fall and dribbled into the mass of scarlet flowers.

  The whole area had a serenity to it, as if Ives had found himself in a place of tranquillity, a world removed from the terrors literally feet away. The carpet of death’s head orchids stretched from the fall and smothered two thirds of the clearing. The blooms nodded and bounced as if caressed by a gentle breeze, the flower stalks jostling for space with what appeared to be a mass of black, spindly, immature ferns. The bristling stalks terminating as tightly curled fiddleheads or curled over clumps that clung to the end of the swaying stalks, masking the potential to explode into blades of growth as they matured.

  Ives could not believe his luck. Here was the bounty they required. The answer to all their prayers, the motherlode of treasures and this time it was not an expert swordsman or stalwart hulking adventurer that was going to save the day. No, it was going to be a humble shopkeeper who had fled his arranged marriage to the ugliest woman he had ever known. A gentle merchant of the exotic who had left his debts behind and signed up for a life of adventure on the mysterious galleon, El Defensor.

  With a grunt of effort, the merchant started to slog painfully towards the orchids, grimacing with the effort of each step, one man fighting against the suction of the bog as he moved closer to the gently swaying blooms. Ives found himself breaking into a broad smile as he edged closer to his prize. Sweat was dripping from his face, muck and slime coated his robes from his armpits down to the bubbling swamp but the merchant was beyond caring. He was going to be the hero for a change. He would finally prove his position and worth to the crew he called his friends.

  Ives could not wait to show Aradol his spoils.

  * * * * * *

  Aradol spun around, his weapon glinting in the diffused shafts of light filtering through the jungle canopy. The smaller hydra heads were fast, attacking in rapid lunges and strikes. One head snatched forward, teeth latching onto his shoulder guard, the snake wriggling from side to side as it attempted to pump venom into this metal-coated prey. The young warrior bashed down hard with his sword, prizing the serpent’s grip away and smacking the head down, only for its twin to arrow in from the other side, forcing Aradol to retreat several hasty steps.

  An acrid smell rose from his shoulder plate, causing the young man to pause as he realised that his ancient plate mail was smoking. What kind of venom did these creatures have? It was like acid!

  Aradol slashed his blade in from up high, only to have one of the supple Nirschl heads coil along the blade, wrapping itself around his outstretched arm, the snapping head slithering rapidly up towards his face. The warrior could not bring his ancient weapon to bear as the second head darted in, as it tried to grip onto the ornate filigree engraved across the borders of his ancient breast plate. Venom started to ooze from the hydra’s mouth scoring deeply into the forged metal.

  The first butterflies of panic started to tickle the back of Aradol’s mind as he wrestled with the creature. He could not concentrate on the foe before him. Ives was out there somewhere and he was alone. Aradol had needed to save the merchant’s neck several times already. The man was a solid friend, someone you always wanted at your back in a bar fight but he simply could not use a sword with any degree of skill. He was probably bumbling into some other disaster even as Aradol wrestled with this monster.

  The Nirschl attacking his breastplate pulled back and then shot forward angling straight towards Aradol’s exposed face. The warrior threw up his left arm in reflex, only to watch the snake coil around this arm as well and then the whole body drag him physically towards the stump that he had earlier decapitated.

  A face of delicate porcelain flashed across the young man’s
vision. A flash of blonde curls tied with violet ribbons, a flirtatious smile. Aradol gritted his teeth and bashed one arm repeatedly against the other, his gauntlet squeezing the neck of the Nirschl as hard as he could, in the hope the creature would loosen its constricting grip. The creature was having none of it, coils tightening in response and turning into what felt like bands of iron, crushing his limbs.

  No this could not happen! Aradol screamed his defiance to the world. He was not going to die this way! One Nirschl head lunged forward; fangs extended striking for Aradol’s face. He closed his eyes and saw Colette’s face.

  A wet thwack sounded, splattering Aradol’s face with slime, making him open his eyes in time to witness his own grisly fate. The Nirschl on his sword arm, failed about headless, blood and gore spurting from the stump. The coils about his right arm slackened off and the monster fell writhing to the floor. A huge long sword swung in, cutting the Nirschl down and sending a chunk of serpent sailing into the bushes.

  “Can we join in?” Rauph asked, reaching over to grab the second juvenile head and throttling it, making the monster release Aradol and constrict itself around the navigator’s massive muscular arm. “You looked like you were having fun and I did not really want to intrude but Commagin said he did not think you would mind.”

  “Please knock yourself out.” Aradol replied before dropping to the floor his legs feeling like rubber.

  “Why would I knock myself out and miss all of this.” Rauph grinned, pulling the snake neck straight before artfully tying it into a knot. The Nirschl head struggled to breathe, tried to pull itself apart but the Minotaur yanked the monster harder, causing a bulge behind the knot where the creature desperately tried to disentangle itself.

  “Watch out for the other neck!” Aradol warned, rolling his shoulders and opening and shutting his hands as the blood supply started to return with a flood of accompanying pins and needles. “They regrow if you chop the ends off. Oh hell, what about Ives?”

  “Really?” Rauph grinned swinging his sword left and right before artfully cutting the knotted length of Nirschl off and laughing as it bounced on the floor. “No one told me that. We have missed out on so much fun! How long do they take to grow again?”

  “Don’t be a donkey.” Commagin remarked, putting a quarrel through the eye of another much larger Nirschl head crashing in their direction. “Just kill the damned thing so we can go home.”

  “Ives!” Aradol shouted, turning about then repeating the call. “Ives, where are you?”

  “I haven’t seen him.” Commagin confessed, clomping nearer and bringing up his crossbow. “Where did you last see him?”

  “Over in the bushes.” Aradol pointed, getting to his feet and scouring the floor trying to identify the merchant’s trail. “He went in there looking for his sword.”

  “Ives!” the warrior shouted again. Oh where was the man?

  * * * * * *

  Ives heard someone calling his name and paused in his slog through the mud.

  “Aradol is that you?” he shouted back, turning from the crimson orchids to direct his enquiry back towards his friend, unaware that the black fronds of the ferns had all turned in his direction. “Don’t worry I’m fine.”

  Aradol paused in his crashing through the undergrowth, hearing his friend’s voice coming back through the jungle somewhere to his left. He turned to Commagin gesturing that they head towards the noise.

  “What are you doing? Have you found your stupid sword yet? All the fighting is going to be over before you get back here.”

  “My sword is not important.” Ives shouted back. “I’ve found a whole garden of the orchids we need to cure Thomas.”

  Aradol paused once again in his noisy passage. “What did you say? I thought you said you have found a whole garden of orchids.” What did Ives mean, a whole garden of orchids? They had only seen one or two. Why would there be a whole garden of them? Something dark and sinister in Aradol’s gut squirmed. Why did the statement a whole garden of orchids fill him with sudden unnerving dread?

  Ives turned back towards the blazing display of crimson and waded forward another step, his hand reaching out to grab the nearest bloom.

  “Hang on a second.” Ives shouted back. “I’m just going to get one of the flowers.”

  Aradol continued to push through the foliage, suddenly feeling an urgency to get to his friend. What was it the doctor had said about the orchids? Something about if the natives saw the blood red blooms they knew to stay away.

  “Wait Ives. Just stop what you are doing. I’ll be there in just a second to help you. Don’t move!”

  “Don’t move.” Ives laughed looking back over his shoulder as he stretched out his hand. “You are only saying that because you want to say you found the orchids first. How stupid do you think I am. Aargh!”

  Ives snatched his head back around and looked at the tip of his outstretched hand. Blood was welling from the fingertip. What had just happened? How had he managed to cut himself? Did these orchids have thorns?

  He leant forward, hand outstretched again, then shook his head as the tiny fern heads stretched out towards his hand. The swamp suddenly lurched. Ives steadied himself shaking his head but this seemed to make the whole area move again. The merchant blinked hard, licking his lips with a tongue that felt numb. What was going on? He looked back at his finger and noticed it had swollen.

  “Ives stop what you are doing!” The shout of warning seemed echoing as if far away. There was a new sound now, a mewling like loads of baby kittens waiting for food. Where was the sound coming from? The swamp appeared to tilt again and Ives found himself crashing down into the orchids. Mud splattered everywhere but the merchant was strangely beyond caring. He tried to regain his feet, pushing up from the mud only to feel several more of the stinging strikes on his hands and arms.

  He fell onto his side, the blood pounding in his ears, his eyes open wide as a spasm surged through his body. Ives blinked again bringing into focus one of the black ferns that bobbed up and down inches from his face. It was strange but up this close the fern looked like a miniature… the thought remained unsaid, Ives eyes looked out unfocused, his heart fluttering one last beat before it stopped forever.

  The baby Nirschl lashed out with its tiny heads, venom striking Ives face in several places, the fangs of the monster digging in deep and ripping bloodied pieces from the paralysed merchant’s cheek. Other baby Nirschl surged forwards eager to join the feast, whilst all around the orchids bobbed and nodded in silent reverence.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The cabin door creaked gently open, to reveal a neat, tidy berth that instantly put Richard’s bunk to shame. The priest eased inside, lightly clicking the door closed behind him before nervously scanning the room. The bookshelf was too obvious; Marcus would never leave his prize on open display. Under the bunk appeared to be an equally risible idea, so where exactly would the novice hide his magical blue tome?

  The room was so small that Richard could barely turn around without brushing against the walls. Scanning the room was taking mere moments, yet nothing seemed out of place, nothing seemed unusual. Brother Richard dropped to his knees and shuffled around on the floor, cursing his stained blue robes for getting in the way and obscuring his inspection. There was not even a speck of dust in the far corners; not a single clue to identify a hiding place where Marcus had secured the book that was his devout responsibility.

  Richard placed his hand on the bunk and started to get up, only to freeze as he heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Could it be? Had Marcus returned from the jungle already? How would he possibly explain his presence in the monk’s room? Beads of sweat dotted the priest’s brow as the footsteps moved closer. His breathing sounded loud to his ears and his heart felt like it would just jump out of his chest with its constant pounding. His discovery was inevitable; Richard knew he would have to face the genuine accusations and go from there…

  The foots
teps passed the cabin door and continued on, leaving Richard dizzy with relief. The cabin suddenly felt uncomfortably hot to the priest and he placed a finger down the neckline of his robe and pulled it forward, waving his free hand to pass some cooler air onto his skin. He needed to regain control of himself and calm down, needed to focus on the task, no matter how uncomfortable it made him feel.

  He threw his head back, closing his eyes, trying not to let the feelings of guilt wash heavily over him. Did he really have a right to do this? Was it his duty to take the book and use his past experiences to command the volume to do his bidding instead of Marcus who he thought inept? Richard licked his lips nervously, could he ever hope to be a Bearer again and wield all of the mysterious powers that came with it?

  Staccato Images flickered through Richard’s mind of another magical ledger from times before, granted to a Bearer who spent three thankless years exploring icy godforsaken tundra, three years evading frostbite and obsessively counting his toes in the morning to check they had not turned white, or worse, black and necrotic. It had been a time of terrors, avoiding giant wolves and bears that prowled the wilderness looking for their next meal; or running for your life from grey and white striped sabre-toothed tigers that relentlessly stalked their prey. A period where a Bearer and his magical ledger were revered and respected; where heavy browed natives shared magical secrets using little figurines woven from sticks and grasses. Richard sighed longingly. Why should he be the one without such magic, when acolytes like Marcus misused and neglected it?