LXVIII

FINALLY, I STOP SHAKING.

The utter darkness left by the sealing of the Labyrinth’s exit has been broken: this new, unsettling illumination is a virulent red, the colour of a dying flame, coating the walls and yet with no discernible source. A tunnel stretches out ahead. Five-foot-wide symbols are cut at regular intervals into the floor. Some of them are familiar—it’s the same language as from the ruins near the Academy, I think. Bloodshot light casts deep blacks where the symbols are furrowed, providing an unnerving path forward.

I don’t move for a few long minutes. Still trying to ease my breathing. I keep picturing Belli. The Remnants didn’t consume her like they did Artemius and the others. How she was still pinned there, after the Labyrinth walls had presumably retracted after her run and then emerged again for mine, I have no idea. And she surely can’t have been the first casualty of this place, yet I saw no other remains.

No telling if Iro knew her plan or not, but this was probably why they were heading west. Veridius must have sent her.

And now she’s dead. All in pursuit of whatever is back here.

Carefully, stiffly, I haul myself to my feet. Start down the passageway.

I must be underneath the massive Hierarchy symbol at this point, though there’s no indication of it down here. The red light fuzzes around me. Quivers. Walls start to warp from the corner of my eye, and echoes touch my ears, the dying breath of shouts that sound as if they have travelled miles to reach me.

I walk for… a minute, perhaps? Hard to tell. The symbols underfoot continue the entire way; some of them repeat, but not in any pattern. I keep my focus on them, mostly to avoid nausea from the visual twisting around me. Are they a story of some kind? A warning? Instructions for whoever passes through here? I hope not the latter. The air grows heavier.

The passage ends in stairs that disappear downward. I press on.

Before long I’m stumbling to a reluctant, nervous halt as the stairs end in a red-drenched chamber: not much more than a large room, albeit one with a ceiling too high for me to see. In its centre, several razor-thin protrusions of what appear to be bronze emerge from the floor, arranged in a circle. They’re tapered, pointed at the tips. Like enormous blades. The crimson light in the room is emanating from somewhere behind the arrangement, casting it in a near-silhouette.

I hesitate, but there’s nothing else to focus on. No exit that I can see.

The warping in the corners of my vision eases as I approach. The bronze blades are about my height; they all curve inward as they rise, metallic claws grasping from the earth. There’s nothing inside their ring, nothing to indicate why it’s there. The air within seems to quiver.

Surrounding the circle is writing. A long inscription etched on the floor around the blades, spiralling outward. I crouch. More of that ancient Vetusian dialect.

I start pacing the edge.

“Herein lies the way to Luceum and Obiteum, offered to all those who would contest our… extinction?” I mutter to myself, translating. “Know that none who accept this task may… remain? The burden of…” My brow furrows and I pause at a word. “Togetherness? Harmony?” I choose the latter. “Is reserved for the one who seals the… authors? The authors of the war from this world. Only he may… exceed? Exceed the hobbled capabilities of this… duplication? He and he alone may risk… harmony… to make the great… sacrifice? Vek.”

I shake my head, trailing off. For simple phrases, context can usually make up for the strange dialect and gaps in my knowledge. But this is beyond me. Far too specific. Maybe with time, though—with other Vetusian texts to help—I might be able to figure it out. I complete several more circuits, mouthing the foreign words to myself as I try to memorise the phrases. The more I have to give Ulciscor, the better my chances that he doesn’t consign me to a Sapper.

Once I’m satisfied, I make a quick tour of the rest of the room. There’s more writing on the far wall, several sentences, though this time it’s in the same language I found in the other ruins. Not something I can even begin to translate.

There’s nothing else. No other points of interest and, more worryingly, no way out except back.

I return to the ring of bronze blades, studying it uneasily. The way to Obiteum and Luceum.

The inscription around it is a warning, but its unknown danger still feels far preferable to the alternative. Even if navigating the Labyrinth from this direction should be simplicity itself—given I’d be running away from the Remnants, rather than toward them—I can’t escape the image of Belli’s eviscerated body. Can’t countenance going back that way, right now.

And Ulciscor… part of me knows that what I’ve found thus far won’t be enough for him.

The air shivers and trembles as I stand at the circle’s edge. Cautiously extend an arm inside. It feels a little warmer, pressure on my skin. It doesn’t hurt.

I take a breath. I’ve come this far.

I step between the massive, curved talons of metal.

Nothing happens, to begin with, giving me just enough confidence to take another step, into the centre of the ring. I glance around. Nothing in the room has changed.

I try to exhale, and fail.

I can’t breathe.

My eyes widen and I try to shuffle back but I can’t do that, either. It’s as if the air around me has congealed, clotted into something that’s completely encasing me. Writhing panic begins crawling through my veins.

The blades forming the surrounding circle start to move. Grow. Curl inward. They stop before they touch at an apex, but only just, no gaps at the base of the ring now. The bronze claws glow with white light, until suddenly there’s a blink of darkness and then everything’s coated in that dying-ember red again.

Except this time, it emanates not from a single source, but from hundreds of fine designs inscribed on the insides of the blades. Lines upon lines upon lines lit up in crimson, rippling, as if blood were pulsing through the metal itself.

The pressure on my body increases. Becomes unbearable. A relentless, crushing compression. Then, abruptly, it releases, but rather than bringing relief it becomes the opposite, a force tearing me in every conceivable direction. Pulling as if trying to rip flesh from bones. I’m lifted upward, hovering in mid-air, completely helpless. I try to scream but there’s no sound, no air for me to inhale or exhale. My vision’s blurring. I’m fading.

And then it’s over.

I’m sprawled on the ground, sobbing, choking in great lungfuls of air. Everything burns, as if I’ve been stung across every inch of my body, as if something has crawled inside my lungs and stomach and head and stung there, too. The encircling metal, I vaguely recognise, is retracting again. There’s a gap I can escape through. I drag myself desperately toward it.

I don’t make it before everything fades.

---

THE BURNING SENSATION WANES, TOO slowly, so much so that I’m not sure when it actually ends and becomes simply a memory that makes me twitch in place.

I don’t know how long passes after that. Shadowed bronze blades glower around me. I just lie there on the cold stone, shivering, staring up at the darkness, my mind doing all it can to cover over the pain and fear.

Finally I sit. Take note of my surroundings. The eerie red light has returned to the room, though it’s muted this time by what appears to be a cloud of wicked obsidian shards that cloaks the ring I’m in. Hovering. Quivering.

Within that black fog, I discern with a jolt, are figures.

“Who’s out there?” My voice is hoarse, words escaping in a whisper. None of the dark silhouettes move. There must be a dozen of them. They all have weapons, too, I realise grimly. Long blades, held at the ready.

There is a path through the cloud, though. An open corridor that leads to the stairs.

Uneasy though it makes me, there’s nowhere else to go, and right now I want nothing more than to be out of whatever this place is. I’m about to stand when I notice my tunic is dark over my left arm. Sodden and sticky. I gingerly roll up the sleeve, using it to clear away the worst of the blood so that I can see the source of the wound.

There are lines, etched into my skin. I feel a chill as I wipe away more blood.

The red, puffy cuts form a single word.

WAIT

“Complete the journey, Warrior.” The lifeless command in Vetusian comes from the darkness. I can’t tell from which direction.

“Doesn’t seem like much of a journey.” I groan as I pry myself off the floor. “I thought this was meant to take me to Luceum or Obiteum.”

“Complete the journey, Warrior.” Another voice.

“That’s the way I came in. This is the same gods-damned place.”

“Complete the journey, Warrior.” A woman, this time.

I shiver. I don’t think I’m going to get a different response from whomever, or whatever, is out there.

I stand there apprehensively for a minute. Two. Nothing outside the circle moves.

I’m just beginning to second-guess myself when there’s a twitch in the obsidian shards. A ripple in them that glimmers in the red light.

Then they start to move.

I watch in horror as they swirl, circling the claw of bronze blades, flying faster and faster until I can hear the air being cut as they buzz like hundreds of black wasps. The figures standing in their midst don’t move at first, but it’s not long before they start to stagger. Twist. Weapons dropped, arms raised to protect themselves.

They soon vanish, the blurring black slivers a concealing hurricane.

Then there’s a sudden, stinging burn on my left arm again. I rip back my sleeve as new lines of blood begin to well, slithering cuts opening unnervingly in the skin.

R

Out past the bronze circle, the obsidian trembles. Falters. Shards begin launching off wildly to the side, shattering against the stone walls.

Within seconds, none are left. Where the silhouettes had been, only mangled, bloody piles of flesh remain.

U

I run.

Back the way I came, everything bathed in dark red light that fuzzes and twitches in the corners of my eyes. There’s a minute where there’s nothing but my gasping breath and the vibrating air around me. I feel nauseous, dizzy from whatever happened to me back there. Too terrified to do anything but keep my legs moving.

I ease to a jog only when the dead end of the Labyrinth greets me. Trembling, I check my left arm. Still only RU scored into the skin. Blood drips onto the floor.

The bracer is still where I left it, discarded in the corner. I stoop.

Reluctantly pick it up.

The arched doorway grinds from the ground as soon as I put the bracer on. Once the boom of the rising walls echoes away, there’s no sound out there. Just like before. The Remnants won’t appear until they’re able to reach me.

I make some quick adjustments to the maze, allowing for an almost straight run.

Then I sprint.

It’s mere moments before the chilling clatter of the Remnants scratches to life behind me, but I’m already past, already into the main passageway down the centre of the Labyrinth. It’s easy, from this direction, running away from them. A couple of quick twists to block off the most direct avenues of pursuit and, fast though they are, they never have a chance of reaching me. I’m bursting through the archway on the other side and tearing the bracer from my bloodied arm, lungs burning, within a couple of minutes.

Everything’s quiet out here. No hollow-eyed advisors announce themselves. I head for the platform, step on. Sigh in relief as the red balustrade pulses to life.

The journey upward finally gives me a chance to breathe. My hands tremble, gripping tight to the railing though they are. My left arm burns. I don’t understand what just happened.

The platform reaches its destination and I step off it gladly, allowing the dull red glow from the balustrade to provide me a few steps of safety. “Scintres Exunus,” I yell into the darkness.

Somewhere up ahead, hazy light ripples and filters downward, unveiling the silhouettes standing between me and the stairs.

I skid to a stop. There’s just enough illumination to see the empty recesses lining the corridor.

Behind me, the red light dies.

“Complete the journey, Warrior.”

There are a dozen of them crowding the way in front of me. More. Not advancing, but no doubt as to their intent. I battle a wave of nausea. Back away, until I’m stepping onto the narrow platform again.

Nothing happens.

“Vek.” I frantically grasp the railing a few times. “Vek, vek, vek.” Spin back. Nothing’s changed.

“Complete the journey, Warrior.”

The words resound off stone. I glance in desperation at my arm. Willing that burning pain to start again, to signal that someone, or something, out there still wants me to survive. There’s nothing but seeping wound.

I take one tremulous step forward. Another. I have no weapons, nowhere to run. I’m going to have to try and break past them. Make a hole, somehow, and flee.

They don’t move. I suppose they don’t have to. I can come to them, or wait for death.

I’m twenty paces away, muscles bunching for a final, vain sprint, when the furious ball of black fur and flashing teeth hurtles down the stairs and smashes into the group.

I’m frozen only for a second; then I’m running headlong into the gap Diago has created, leaping over thrashing bodies and rolling before scrambling to my feet and sprinting up the stairs. Snarls echo in the tight hall, choked by what I can only assume is teeth ripping into flesh, but there are no replies of pain or alarm. Feet slap the stairs behind me, a patter of pursuit. Diago yelps. I don’t look back.

“Scintres Exunus!” I scream as the triangular opening nears.

Dawn’s first blush slams into me, along with blessed, chilly air. I don’t stop. Risk a glance over my shoulder. I took too long to command the door to shut; two men are already through the sluggishly closing entrance, eyeless gazes focused on me. More pour from the dwindling hole behind them.

I snatch up my satchel as I pass, fumbling my knife from it. There’s no panting of breath, no howling or yelling for me to stop from behind. Just dogged, fleet-footed determination. I don’t know how many made it out.

I run for the forest. Maybe I can lose them in the trees. Though I have no idea how their sight works.

I crash through the brush for about thirty seconds, the snapping of twigs and branches behind me indicating my pursuers are getting closer and closer, before I reach a clearing and realise I have no other choice. I stop. Turn. Hold my knife at the ready.

A half dozen men and women burst from the trees and slow, recognising that I’ve decided to fight them. They quickly spread out, though no communication appears to pass between them. My gaze flits to the trees behind them, but there’s no more movement. There were surely others. My skin crawls at the thought of more circling around through the undergrowth.

The six advance and I take my stance, breath short, muscles tensed. I’m going to have to attack first, and attack hard, if I want any hope of coming out of this alive. Not that I think there’s much chance of that.

There’s a blur of shadow from the corner of my vision, and then one of the men is down as Diago leaps onto his back.

The other attackers don’t waver, continuing toward me. There’s the terrible wet sound of tearing flesh, followed by a red-black spray as Diago jerks his head to the side, the man’s throat opened. The wolf doesn’t bother to check whether its victim is dead, snarling as it leaps onto the back of the next and wrestling him to the ground, massive jaws clamping over his skull and twisting. There’s an audible snap as the man’s face is twisted and ripped away, neck at an unnatural angle.

Four left, and they’ve turned now, clearly deciding Diago is a threat that needs to be dealt with. The three men and a woman leap with horrific, animalistic abandon at the wolf, grappling it, ignoring the shredding inch-long claws and gnashing teeth that bite down on them over and over and over again. A maelstrom of limbs and snarling and blood.

I’m tempted to run again but I know there’s no point; if they could track me before then there’s no reason to believe that getting any farther away will help. I have to take advantage of my ally—assuming Diago is one and isn’t simply crazed—while I can.

I charge.

My knife finds the first of the men in the back, sliding between his ribs with sickening ease, right to where his heart should be. He jerks around with a powerful backhand, catching me off guard and spinning me, pain arcing through my shoulder. It’s not the blow of a normal man—not as powerful as a Septimus, maybe, but stronger than an Octavus.

Certainly a harder hit than I’d expect from someone who’s just been stabbed in the heart, anyway.

Diago’s growls are interspersed with shrieking whines as the empty-eyed human husks bite and claw at him; my stomach turns as I see the woman rip her head to the side, just like Diago did moments earlier, blood spraying and her teeth stained red.

My attack hasn’t gone unnoticed, and two of the men have broken off, including the one I stabbed. They come at me, no subtlety to the assault. It helps. I weave, slipping by one and tripping the other, riding him to the ground and gripping his head. With all my might, I twist.

There’s a sharp crack, and the man lies still.

There’s no time to celebrate; I cry out as the other man’s teeth find my left arm, biting deep at the back near the bicep. I slam him away but not before there’s blood pumping from the wound. I growl and summon the last of my energy to punch him in the head; though it doesn’t down him it does seem to disorient him, and I do it again, and again, and again through a haze of sweat and shadows and tears. Finally, when he stops moving for long enough, I break his neck too. It’s the only thing that seems to truly stop them.

I vainly cover the wound in my arm with my opposite hand, wincing at the sticky, warm fluid leaking between my fingers. Bodies litter the grass, tinted by the gradually brightening dawn. Diago is crawling away from the last of them toward me, whining interspersed with soft yelps. It’s a piteous sound, high-pitched and heartbreaking.

“It’s alright,” I say softly to him as I drag myself over. He gives a half-hearted snarl as I reach out to him, but he’s either too weak to act or in too much pain to keep up the façade. I brush his head gently. He stiffens at the touch and then leans into the stroke, closing his eyes with a rattling breath.

I sit there with him, sprawled, the massive creature’s head in my lap. He occasionally whimpers, struggling to breathe, and I keep petting him, trying to calm myself as much as him.

“Thank you,” I whisper, bowing my head over his. “Thank you.” I know he’s just a wild animal, a predator that’s apparently remembered a chance act of kindness from months ago. If he gets hungry enough, I have no doubt he’ll still eat me. Yet I feel a bond with him.

Diago’s straining pant is getting slower and slower, and I don’t think he’s conscious anymore. He doesn’t have long. I want to wait with him, see it out with him until the end. But though my wound’s not fatal, I’ve lost plenty of blood. I’m spent.

I fade to the rasping sound of the wolf’s laboured breathing.