The Labyris Knight

by Adam Derbyshire

  This made no sense! It was clear there were more items on the floor than could have possibly fitted within the bag. Kerian dropped to his knees and lifted the satchel up, staring into its depths but if he was expecting to see a massive interior, he was disappointed. The satchel looked just the same as it had before.

  “Where did all of this come from?” he asked. “Did you do this?” A slight shake of the head denied any involvement.

  “But that’s impossible!”

  “Nothing is impossible if you let yourself believe.” His mysterious visitor whispered, licking her ruby red lips. “You need to find Octavian. Time is running out. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.”

  “Octavian is gone.” Kerian confessed. “I left him back in the catacombs.”

  Grey eyes turned flint cold.

  “You did what?”

  “I left him. He stole from me.”

  “The cards are never wrong.” She whispered. “How can this be?” Kerian looked down at the armour scattered about his feet and started lifting the items up, examining them one at a time.

  “The pendant is not here.” He stated. “Where is it. You told me it was in the satchel.”

  “Kerian, you need to shut up.”

  “I will do no such thing.” He replied, moving to get back to his feet.

  “You have made a big mistake.” His guest stated coldly. “You need to find Octavian, you must travel to Blackthorn and the next time you argue with me…” she leaned forward and lightly caressed Kerian’s forehead, paralysing him with her deathly cold touch. “Keep on the right side of the fire.”

  Kerian’s arms felt like lead. He could still breathe, still hear, still blink but all other motion was alien to him, as if he were a marionette in a show awaiting the puppet master to pull his strings. Coldness flooded through him, a coldness that burned, setting his nerves ablaze. He fell back across the blanket, his body landing in a heap across his saddlebags.

  His guest paced about the room in agitation, her white dress flicking up at every turn as she walked the floor, her hoop earrings golden halos in the reflected firelight.

  “Oh Octavian what have you done now, you stupid man?” She wailed. “You managed to alienate the only man who could help you. Trust an obstinate man to make such a damned foolish mistake. This could cost Iolander her life. Don’t you realise what you have done?”

  Kerian watched her movement with mixed emotion, terrified that he was dying in some way and would never recover from whatever paralysis this woman had inflicted on him whilst another part of his mind tried to understand how such a beautiful woman could know Octavian. As if she knew he was thinking about her, his visitor stopped pacing and came back over to sit alongside his still form, tracing a freezing cold finger up the bare skin of his arm and setting his nerves afire. She leaned in close and whispered huskily into his ear.

  “You will sleep now. Then tomorrow you will find Octavian and you will bring him to Glowme Castle. My daughter’s time is too short to be ended by a stupid argument between two men who are too proud to see that the only way for them to get what they want is to both work together.” She paused, moving around in front of Kerian, her lips inches from his, her hair brushing seductively against his cheek.

  “Somehow, you look younger Kerian.” She whispered, moving forwards to brush his forehead with her ruby red lips causing agony to surge through his body and arch his back from the floor. “As to how I know Octavian…” she smiled, her eyes losing focus as she reminisced.

  “He’s my husband.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The walled fortress city of Al Mashmaah was a sprawling metropolis, constructed, as legend would have it, surrounding a magical oasis that saved the life of a nomadic prince who had staggered, half-insane with dehydration from out of the whispering sands of the Vaarseeti desert and almost expired on the spot. The tale described how a glowing vision had led the prince to a life-saving, magical well in the middle of the desert and its healing waters had saved his life and made him the leader of the settlement that had grown from this miraculous occurrence.

  No one knew exactly where this once magical well was situated, its location lost in history and buried somewhere under the sprawling mass of humanity that now called Al Mashmaah their home. Several shrewd entrepreneurs swore that they were the custodians of the original site, where, upon visiting their genuine ‘holy well’ people could taste the waters and witness the life-saving properties of the elixir for themselves (all for a mere silver coin or two). People being what they are, they flocked to the city and as all traders know, where there are people, there is profit.

  Merchants, far and wide, knew that if you wanted to buy or sell exotic wares, dabble in the slave trade, strike shady deals in a dark back alleyway, barter for goods in the bazaar, or wager away your life savings in the gladiatorial pits, Al Mashmaah was the place to be.

  Scrave had to confess that he had seen larger cities, indeed, several more futuristic than this one, during his time serving aboard the El Defensor. However, the exotic skyline to Al Mashmaah, adorned with minarets and vast golden domes, around which falcons circled shrieking their haunting calls, appealed to the adventurer deep inside him.

  The travel weary Elf moved to the side of the caravan trail, taking in the sights and smells of the city, including the guards riding giant armoured salamanders up and down the side of the road. These intimidating escorts ensured the long snaking queue of traders working their way towards the main gates did nothing to impede the flow of produce and the subsequent taxes that swelled the city coffers.

  Scrave asked himself, for what felt like the thousandth time, exactly what he was doing in this place. There seemed no logical reason for his strange compulsion to head away from the coast and the life he had known as a sailor. No sense in accompanying a caravan of traders several weeks across the most inhospitable terrain the Elf had ever experienced, where half of the caravan viewed him suspiciously as if he were about to rob the merchant train, whilst the remaining members looked at him assessing if he had anything valuable for them in turn to steal.

  Maybe it was the damned eye patch. However, Scrave knew it was foolhardy to take the patch off. His eye socket glowed like a fire worm in the darkness and there was that accursed itching sensation in the open socket that just begged him to scratch and scratch and…

  The Elf took a long draft of stagnant water from his flaccid water skin and spat into the sand, moistening his lips and relieving the parched sensation in his throat. He shrugged his shoulders, repositioning his pack, before pulling a wide brimmed hat further down on his forehead to mask his appearance from watching eyes.

  A mounted guard charged up the route, rushing to assist with a problem that Scrave could not identify from his position down the trail, the salamander sticking its legs out in a comical dance as its giant padded feet swiftly and powerfully propelled it across the sand in time to an undulating muscular tail.

  There had been a lot of prying eyes of late.

  Wherever Scrave had travelled, the temple guards had not been far behind. He knew that staying in Catterick was pointless with the exotic priestess so intent on catching him. The serpent dagger secured within his robes had always been a troublesome weapon, generating more interest than it should have but this woman would give mercenaries a bad name with her resolute pursuit and Scrave was equally as stubborn to not give up possessions that belonged to him.

  Okay, he could have taken to the mountains, become a hermit and hid in a cave hoping she would lose interest and give up her search. On the other hand, maybe he could have entered the jungles and joined a long-lost tribe or become a farmer on some desolate patch of land that nobody could ever grow anything on. Somehow, he could not see it. He could have run off to sea, but the voice in his head told him that with the possibility of becoming the captain of the El Defensor now firmly lost, to join any other ship would have simply been unbearable.

  There
had to be something else, something that would lift his spirits and take his mind away from the infernal itching of his eye. His gut instinct was telling him that that very something lay within the walled city of Al Mashmaah. The question was exactly where within the walls his quest would end? From his viewpoint, walking down the trail he noted at least five defensive walls signifying how the city had continued to expand past the ramparts and defences. Even now, with a fifth wall towering fifty feet high, murder holes, watch towers and battlements manned with alert guards and signal fires, people had elected to set up a shanty town to the right of the city, and one or two had set up buildings that looked a lot more permanent in nature, clearly expecting the city to grow yet again and take them under its protective wing in years to come.

  The serpent dagger in his robes coiled in warning, making Scrave step back just as a merchant charged past with an irate camel train, the huge pad like feet of the creatures touching down in the sand just where he was going to tread.

  “Watch it idiot!” shouted the driver. “Are you blind? Maybe you are with just one eye?” He spat a wad of something disgusting in the Elf’s direction and whipped his camels harder wanting to get a prime place in the bazaar from where to sell his wares.

  Scrave fought the impulse to run up to the man and slash his throat with his golden dagger, despite the fact the weapon clearly wanted him to do so and instead whispered a few words under his breath, wriggling his fingers and asking his magic to undo the saddle where it passed under the camel’s belly. The last gemstone in his left earring crumbled to dust and the saddle and all of its wares slipped off the plodding creature and crashed to the floor, spilling pots, pans and rolls of silks into the sand and sending the camel galloping free in fright.

  The merchant cursed aloud, infuriated at the delay, pulling his other camels to a halt as he struggled to round up his errant beast and collect his goods from the floor, much to the loud complaints of those directly behind him, who slowed to a halt with oaths and raised fists.

  Salamander mounted guards raced to assist as the domino effect of the train stopping abruptly caused minor collisions further back up the trail, with traders behind finding themselves coming to a rapid stop also. Horses bolted and wagons swerved from the trail to avoid running into the people in front, only to find themselves mired in the drifting sands.

  Scrave chuckled to himself as he walked past, doffing his hat as he did so and whistling a little tune under his breath to drown out the man’s cries of outrage. He knew it was petty and that he now would have to pay for an extra gemstone to his magical arsenal but the Elf was not the one to let somebody get the better of him and this ‘idiot’ deserved all he got. Besides, if this place had as good a market as he had been led to believe, he would have no problems finding a decent gem merchant.

  The Elf pulled his hat down further and continued along the trail, his whistle gaining in tempo the more his spirits lifted.

  * * * * * *

  Twelve knights stood in a circle chanting, their swords interlocked in a circular pattern on the floor. Sharpened steel tips pointing inwards towards the centre whilst the hilts circled around. The air above the blades appeared to pulse, once, twice then impossibly flared open wide, creating a portal through which the sultry form of Justina stepped, dressed in her tight black robes, her demonic pet perched on her shoulder. Her tall gangly acolyte Vill, with his bobbing head and goatee beard followed after her and finally eight temple knights stepped through before the portal snapped shut with a resounding crack.

  Justina lifted her head high and took in her bleak surroundings. The first thing she noticed was the state of the alleyway she stood in. Refuse piled high on both sides, unimaginable decomposing fluids seeping from the piles and running sluggishly down gutters past large rats that squeaked in noisy protest at the intrusion of so many feet in such a small space.

  “What in the world is the Elf doing here?” she muttered aloud, gathering up her robes to prevent them dragging through the slime and flashing a tantalising length of toned ankle. “And what is that god awful smell?”

  “I think I just stepped in something.” Vill confessed, wiping his sandal across the cobbles and smearing something brown and sticky in his wake.

  “High Priestess is it wise to bring temple guards to Al Mashmaah?” said a voice from the shadows. “We are not a dominant religion here. This may cause undue scrutiny.” A portly acolyte shuffled forwards a large blue book under his arm.

  “Kaplain please don’t hide in the darkness.” Justina gestured. “A Bearer should have more presence, especially with the power at your disposal.” She turned to watch the twelve magical holy knights gathering their blades from the floor before they stood back at attention awaiting their next command. “Besides, there was no need to create a gate such as this. I am more than capable of teleporting under my own power. I am not as weak as my predecessor.”

  “I meant no slight High Priestess. I was merely offering you the respect that your position deserves.” The Bearer dabbed a cloth to his perspiring forehead and offered a nervous smile. Justina walked over and let her eyes roam down the man’s chest and lingered there.

  “You need to rethink your understanding of respect.” She whispered, reaching down and lifting up a pendant of a black phoenix that hung at the man’s breast. “Really, Kaplain, an obsidian phoenix? Why it’s almost blasphemy. I hope for your sake you have not converted?”

  “I still worship the order.” The acolyte stammered, reaching into his robes and pulling out a pendant with the flaming cross upon it. “The church has regular meetings but they are not actively encouraged by the local sects.”

  “I would have hoped that as a Bearer you would have remedied the lack of knowledge these heathens and their charlatan preachers displayed.” Justina replied sternly. “How many loyal followers do we have?”

  “Not enough to take on the Obsidian Phoenix.” The Kaplain confessed.

  “Well we can discuss the politics of religion later.” Justina smiled, in a way that seemed to drop the temperature of the alleyway by several degrees. “Where is our most magnificent church?”

  Kaplain turned away, clearly uncomfortable and gently laid his blue book open on the floor before ordering his twelve knights to go back inside the pages. Once the last knight had stepped inside and reverted into a vivid illustration, the bearer closed the book and stared up into the high priestess’s eyes.

  “You are standing behind it.” He confessed.

  The high priestess took in the squat one-story building. Noting where the mud packed walls had crumbled, the paint had pealed and the shutters had rotted away. A pigeon flew in and waddled into a hole in the roof where loud coos informed her it had taken up residence. A mangy tomcat sauntered along the alleyway and ran its body along her leg making Justina jump. Hamnet responded instantly, her spindly demonic form dropping down from the high priestess’s shoulder to pounce onto the feline, before tearing it limb from limb in a frenzy of squeals sending chunks of blood stained, quivering flesh skittering about the alley.

  Justina studied her familiar as it tore the cat apart, her mind struggling to come to terms with the situation she now found herself in. She noted the rats running down the alley towards the carnage, noses twitching, tails flicking, eager for an opportunistic meal. It was then that Justina realised the skyline.

  “We are not even within the city walls, are we?” she stated coldly.

  “Well, not exactly.” The acolyte quivered. “But we are first in line for when they start building the sixth battlements.”

  “I would hope the inside of this church looks better than the outside.” She threatened, stepping gingerly around the remains of the cat. “What of the Elf? I trust we have better news on that front?”

  “He is in the city. I have my spies watching him. He appears harmless enough. Why are we so interested in him? I can have him killed if you like. Accidents happen around here all the time.”

 
“I believe I’m looking at one waiting to happen right now.” Justina stated calmly. She paused as her thoughts moved back to the burnt man that she had found in the subterranean temple beneath Stratholme, the way he held himself, so sure despite his predicament and his cocky debonair smile.

  “No.” she ordered, a smile touching her lips. “I want to see him captured alive.”

  * * * * * *

  “That will do fine.” Scrave confirmed, as he pushed back his long black hair and inserted the newly mounted earrings where they belonged. He tossed a golden coin onto the table where it wobbled on an uneven edge before keeling over, the regal face of the coin all distorted as if exposed to unbearable heat. The jeweller initially pleased at receiving praise for their workmanship looked down at the coin, before pushing back his headscarf and frowning.

  “I do not recognise this currency.” He confessed, picking up the melted coin and examining it on both sides before biting it with his teeth. “Is this real gold? It looks very old? Maybe you would like to tell me how you came by it?” The smile was as fake as the sincerity in the question.

  “I’m sure it is very old. You could even say it is an antique.” Scrave smiled, thinking of the horde of the remaining coins that were no doubt melted by now, back in the heat of the subterranean temple. He finished fastening his earrings in place and mentally calculated the fact he had the power for six spells readily available about his person. Two stones in each ear and another two strategically disguised as the eyes for an owl brooch on his lapel that he had also managed to save from a fiery oblivion.

  “Are you sure you would not like to have some tea to discuss this further?” The jeweller asked. Scrave drew his dagger in a smooth motion, the twin golden blades pointing at the jeweller’s throat as the serpent coiled tightly about his arm hissing threateningly.

  “Quite sure.” He replied in a quiet, yet intensely threatening tone. “You have been adequately rewarded for your services. Do not force me to reconsider the deal.” The jeweller looked on in wide-eyed horror, taking in the hypnotic movements of the glittering snake, the ruby eyes, the needle-sharp curved fangs.