The Labyris Knight

by Adam Derbyshire

  “You also need to know that Kerian’s sword is not silver and the hilt is two roaring dragons, not a crude rendition of the sun.” He flipped the sword about, presenting it hilt first to Kerian so he could recover it, much to the knight’s open-mouthed astonishment.

  Octavian approached, unaware of what had just transpired, too occupied with securing the length of rope about his waist before offering his hand to Kerian and hoisting him to his feet. The gypsy set about securing Kerian to the line, wrapping the rope about the knight’s waist in a figure eight after leaving roughly thirty foot of rope between Kerian and his own body. Kerian noted that several knots had been tied along the length of the rope at regular intervals but he did not understand the rationale behind this, his brain was simply too busy trying to comprehend what had just transpired.

  Scrave somehow did not recognise him.

  “So come now.” Scrave continued. “What is your real name?”

  “Kerian. My name really is Kerian.”

  “Of course it is.” Scrave grinned, as if sharing a private joke, leaning forwards to brush some errant sand from Kerian’s tunic, only to transfer more from his own desert scoured clothing in its place. Octavian bustled in beside the Elf and moved to loop the rope around him as well.

  “What are you doing?” Scrave snapped, slapping Octavian’s hand down and pushing the rope away. Octavian stepped back in shock, a snarl escaping his curled lip as Scrave’s hand dropped back to the place on his tunic that he had patted earlier. Just what was the Elf hiding there?

  “I’m sorry.” Octavian held his hands up in a display of apology. “I never meant to offend you, I just wanted to secure you to the line.”

  “I have no desire to be tied to another.” Scrave replied, his tone now civil and smooth once he realised no threat was intended. “Relying on others has never worked out well for me in the past. I prefer to be independent.”

  “Suit yourself,” Octavian replied, “but I have travelled across the Alicieus span before and I must warn you, the trip may be a little disorientating for the uninitiated.”

  “Story of my life.” Scrave replied coolly, moving away from the two men to collect supplies from the floor and pack them on the mounts. “The horses are watered, so when do we leave?”

  “Once Kerian feels strong enough to do so.” Octavian gestured. “Are you?” he turned to note Kerian’s thoughtful expression, just as another loud roar echoed through the cave.

  “I think we had better hurry or our departure may be forced upon us.” Scrave gestured towards the cave entrance where the sunlight continued to beat upon the sand and project a blinding glare.

  “Are you ready to go?” Octavian asked again.

  “…am I what?” Kerian turned to the gypsy, his mind torn by the enigma that Scrave represented and the unanswered conundrums that seemed to be weaved about his emaciated person.

  “Ready to go?” Octavian prompted.

  “Sure, lead on.” Kerian replied, purposefully hanging back and gesturing that Scrave should also move ahead of him. He had no intention of having the Elf at his back where he could not see him. “You first.”

  “No, after you.” Scrave replied, acting the gracious host and stepping back as Octavian moved past him and gathered the reins of his horse.

  “But I insist.” Kerian pushed.

  “Oh for Adden’s sake.” Octavian butted in, “I’ll go first.” He walked by, leading his horse between the two men, making Kerian break eye contact with his acquaintance as he passed, his rope sliding forlornly along the floor in his wake. Kerian used the opportunity to walk over to Toledo and gather up the stallion’s reins, hoping that as he did so Scrave would take the opportunity to trail after Octavian but as he turned to follow the Elf still stood alongside him, obstinate as a shadow and as impossible to shake. Toledo pawed at the ground, eager to set off but both Kerian and Scrave stood in the stallion’s way. It snorted loudly as if ordering the men to make way.

  “You know, the name Kerian suits you.” The Elf offered, looking intently at Kerian again, his head tilted to one side. “I knew a Kerian once and he was a suspicious bastard too!”

  Kerian tried to disarm the tension with an exhausted smile, only to be yanked forward, colliding with Scrave as the rope pulled taut. The two men jumped apart, Scrave angrily brushing himself down as if contaminated, even as Kerian was tugged out of the door.

  “What’s at Blackthorn anyway?” Scrave asked, trying to avoid the embarrassment of the collision.

  “A haunted castle and a petrified forest.” Kerian shouted back, trying to put out of his mind that when he had touched Scrave’s side something at the Elf’s waist had moved under his hand. Was it his imagination, or had he heard an unmistakeable warning hiss? “Apparently it’s the region where Octavian comes from.” There was another yank on the rope and Kerian slipped out through the cave entrance back under the brutal glare of the sun.

  “Sounds like the ideal vacation.” Scrave mumbled to himself, checking his dagger was still comfortably beside him before he turned and followed.

  * * * * * *

  Kerian left the cave and entered a world of noise and heat that initially left him stunned. The sun’s heat instantly hammered down upon his shoulders, offering no mercy, delivering what felt like a sustained hammer blow to his head after the relative cool of the sanctuary in which they had rested. His head pounded repeatedly, threatening to make him sick and lose what little moisture he had taken into his stomach. The glare subsided as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of his surroundings. He realised that the pounding was not just regulated to his head. It was happening around him as well.

  They stood in a courtyard of sorts, the floor of marbled stone, created with the same coloured reds and creams of the sands that rose on all sides about him. Behind them a pathway led out back into the sandstorm that had been shadowing their every move. As he watched huge creatures moved in and out of view, roaring their defiance to the creatures marching within.

  Huge claws, easily eight feet long, swept through the cloud, sending tens of little figures tumbling away, only for them to get back up on their feet and charge back towards the huge creatures again, weapons waving, advancing once more into the fight. A tail, easily thirty feet long swept up into the air, its surface covered in little fighters hacking and slashing at the sand coloured stone that made up its bones. The tail crashed down onto the ground making the dunes tremble so violently that other little fighters simply fell to the ground, their legs unable to hold them up.

  Kerian blinked his eyes trying to understand the scale of the scene before him, but with the swirling cloud and the fact he was only getting glimpses of the creature and not its whole body it was hard to make out particulars. Then he realised with amazement that the little stick figures attacking in droves were indeed the Provan legion, fighting this gargantuan creature, trying to overwhelm and smother it with their apparently limitless numbers.

  A loud trumpet call signalled another attack, only for the ground to tremble behind Kerian, causing him to turn only to witness a monster bearing down towards him. The beast was gigantic, a huge triangular sand stone coloured head, twin horns spiralling up from above armoured brows that shadowed deep set eyes the colour of nightmares. The beast moved towards the party like a land lizard, its huge pointed snout swinging from side to side, teeth clicking as it hissed warning to those who dared oppose it and its brethren. Massive claws slammed into the ground as the creature pulled its immense bulk over them, ignoring the party as if the travellers were totally inconsequential.

  Kerian watched in part amazement, part fear, as the beast rumbled past him, each section of the creature the same sand coloured stone, each segment moving and creaking as the dragon slithered past. In his mind he found it impossible to fathom the spectacle of the beast, his eyes drawn from each gleaming armoured plate to each cruel wicked claw. He marvelled at the way the dragon breathed so deeply, its sides moving in and out wit
h a crackling sound as each stone scale coating its torso clinked against its counterpart as it moved. Yards upon yards of the monster swept past and still it had not stopped blotting the sun from the sky. Kerian eased over to Octavian his mouth opened wide as the creature moved by.

  “I know.” Octavian shouted. “I felt the same way when I first saw the guardians! Come on we need to move fast if we are going to get to where we need to be.” The gypsy gestured that the others follow him and led them to where the dragon had come from, its massive stone segmented tail rippling past them, swaying backwards and forwards as the monster finally moved by. The three men and two horses moved to the opening and paused there, their eyes beholding yet another wonder that struggled to be defined by words alone.

  “May I present...” Octavian gestured. “The Alicieus span.”

  The span was an ancient stone bridge, its colours a continuation of the patterned stone floor of the courtyard. It stretched out into nothing, its length becoming slimmer and slimmer until you had to blink to check you were still looking at it. The width of its path was barely enough for a single caravan to pass, with small bricks set proud of the brickwork on either side of the path to help guide cart wheels along its length. The sight was dizzying to behold, the colours running into each other making it seem even longer than it already was. A pillar set about waist height, stood to the right of the span, a softly glowing orb set upon its top emitting a pale rose coloured light.

  Scrave moved forwards to the edge, feeling his robes start to whip about him as he advanced to take in the view. The world dropped away at his feet, the landmarks he would have expected to see mere dots, impossibly far, far below. Despite having climbed the rigging of the El Defensor many times, he found himself suddenly experiencing a nauseating sense of vertigo. The Elf could not help but step away from the edge to prevent himself from vomiting. How could they be so high? It made no sense. He took a deep breath, trying to stop the world from spinning, trying to blot out the angry roars of the dragons attacking the legion and concentrated on focusing with his one good eye along the edge of the span.

  He noted the first impossibility within seconds. The span was incredibly thin from the side view, like a sword blade presented with the flat of the blade upwards and its keen edge set towards and away from him. It looked so fragile, so delicate. There was no way such a structure could sustain any substantial weight upon its surface. It looked as if it would snap and crack apart like thin ice on a barely frozen pond.

  Then he realised the second thing that was wrong with the span. Despite the bridge stretching out over nothing, there appeared to be no way the bridge could support itself. There were no struts, arches or cables, no signs of suspension, support columns, trusses or cantilevers. The whole structure was clearly magical in nature but who would have the power to create such a feat of sorcery?

  “My kin have used these magical bridges to travel for centuries.” Octavian shouted across to Kerian. “They are a way of crossing the world faster than conventional means but the journey is not without its dangers. Over years the traffic has reduced as the travelling community has dwindled but the guardians remain ever vigilant and protect those with the right blood line, offering access to those that require it.”

  “And this span takes you to Blackthorn?” Kerian asked, observing Scrave out of the corner of his eye as the Elf walked towards the edge of the bridge and carefully placed his boot upon its smooth surface as if expecting the whole structure to disintegrate and drop into the abyss below.

  “It will take you wherever you wish to go.” Octavian replied. “As long as civilization has not encroached too heavily in the area and disrupted the natural flow of magic. Come on we must make haste. I am only granted passage for so long.”

  Octavian moved forward and gently ushered Scrave to one side. He approached the pillar and held out his hand, laying it gently upon the orb. The gypsy started to speak in a strange language not known by either the Knight or the Elf. It sounded like Octavian was asking for permission to cross and the name of Blackthorn was mentioned several times.

  The span began to shimmer, its surface colours appearing to run over the edge as if the entire surface had become liquid. The reds and creams of the desert started to change to deeper more sinister blues and greys that appeared to well up from the centre of the stone. Octavian bowed his head and lowered his hand from the orb, his face drawn as if requesting the use of the span had taken something from him that he would never recover.

  “Let us hurry.” He gasped. “We must leave now.” Octavian stepped forward, leading his horse out onto the bridge, their footsteps echoing loudly on the stone pathway. Kerian watched the lifeline between the two of them snake after the gypsy, the knots bouncing and tumbling along the floor making the rope dance and jiggle with every step. For a second, he had the most terrifying thought that when the rope pulled taut, he would be dragged over the edge and fall to his doom.

  He turned around, taking one last look at the waystation where they had found refuge, soaking up its beautiful, yet ancient appearance, then beyond to the opening where the two monstrous dragons held the Provan Legion at bay, their gigantic forms thrashing about within the sandstorm swirling angrily around them.

  Scrave moved past him, reaching down to grab the rope as it bounced along and swiftly winding it about his left wrist before he took a deep breath and stepped out after the gypsy. Kerian watched him take the first few tentative steps, which soon became faster as the Elf realised the span would not fail beneath his feet.

  Kerian took a last look at the glowing orb on the pillar, noticing a flickering image within the rose colour. It offered a glimpse of forests of skeletal trees blanketing a bleak landscape in which a foreboding castle sat perched upon a rocky outcrop. He moved closer to get a better look just as the rope snapped taut and tugged him away. Scrave was clearly as impatient as ever!

  Toledo snorted nervously as the knight took his first step out onto the cool smooth surface of the span. The floor felt slick, as if it were coated by a thin layer of frost. Kerian took his next step, feeling his boots give just a fraction as he set his weight upon them. He was going to have to be careful walking here! The rope snapped taut, tugging him onwards out onto the main body of the bridge and making him slip further. A cold wind suddenly swirled around the span, making his cloak snap and billow at his shoulders, threatening to steal the breath from his lips. He found himself shivering as the warmth from the desert sun was inexplicably blasted away the further he stepped out into the haze.

  He watched the back of Scrave slowly becoming indistinct, despite the fact the Elf was barely fifteen feet away from him, it was as if Scrave were stepping into a light morning mist that had no place on a bridge with a gale blowing about it. This was insane. What was he doing out here?

  Kerian had no choice but to follow, feeling drops of strange moisture start to collect on his clothes and face, the liquid shimmered eerily in the hazy light. He rubbed one bead between his finger and thumb and noted the oily residue it contained spreading out under pressure only to reform once his thumb had passed over it. A tug at his waist set him forward again, the haze moving to envelope him completely.

  The knight felt a sense of anxiety building. This was all so very strange and alien to him, so far removed from anything he could have possibly believed. He needed to focus on his footsteps, watch carefully where every step landed but his mind kept racing. There were so many questions he needed answered. So many things he needed to understand but it was so hard to concentrate when his spirit felt depleted and his reserves of strength were so low. How long had it been since he had eaten anything substantial?

  His initial quest to find Colette was slipping further and further from him. She could be anywhere, she could be hurt, she could even be searching for him. He had no way of checking. If only he could find the damned pendant and gaze into its depths to have one more glimpse of her. What he would give to hold her in his arms, to tell her t
hat he loved her and that he would never leave her side again if she would have him. It was impossible, a pipe dream. He suddenly believed they were destined never see each other again, despite what Octavian’s wife had foretold. The thought came as a crushing blow. His right hand dropped to the bag at his side and fumbled with the flap as he continued to take each precarious step. He knew the damned pendant was in there somewhere, he had watched it fall inside, so why could he not now find it?

  Speaking of pendants, what about the one he had spotted dangling around Scrave’s neck? He had noticed it immediately, recognised it in seconds. It had to be his. The glimpse of the emerald light and the casing that contained it was too much of a coincidence. There were no others that he knew of. It had to be his. He had stolen that gem to keep the effects of aging from crippling his body as he had searched for a cure to his curse. The very same necklace that had saved him from the effects of the heat in the subterranean temple back on Stratholme when the magical bracelet Colette had enchanted had expired. He had thought it lost along with Colette’s pendant in Wellruff and that the market traders had taken it. So how had Scrave come to find it?

  Kerian’s hand continued to fiddle with the flap of the bag, his thumb and finger rubbing the smooth material as he tried to gather his turbulent thoughts. Then there was the whole unanswered conundrum of the Elf himself to consider. Kerian had slammed three feet of forged steel through Scrave’s heart! He had to be dead! There was no getting up from such a mortal wound. He had left him bleeding out on the floor of the temple, his life blood seeping into the golden coins scattered beneath him. So how could he be here, walking as plain as day in front of him with no obvious disabilities other than the strange eye patch? Was the pendant to blame? Was it healing the Elf as it had Kerian?