It was half past five when Joe Diamond heard the package come through the mail slot on his office door. Way too late for normal delivery. It hit the ground with a light smack, not much weight to it. For a moment, a shadow lingered against the frosted glass of the inset window, then it was gone.
The private eye came to his feet slowly. He already had one of the Colts in his hand. The metal of the grip was warm from where the shoulder holster kept it close to his body. Some people might have called that level of readiness paranoia. Those people hadn’t seen the things that Joe had seen.
Joe made his way to the door. He unlocked it with a click and pushed it open. The hallway was empty. Whoever had dropped the package off had left in a hurry. The other offices were dark. Sensible people had gone home for the day.
He shut the door and locked it again. Only then did he return the 1911 to its holster. The package was in a manila folder. It rustled as he picked it up, a collection of paper inside. He carried it over to the desk and spilled the contents across the stained wooden surface.
The sun was sinking below the horizon. The last few rays were divided by the blinds on the window, scattering them across the items. Pictures and documents. Joe nudged through them with a frown. The photos were sharply divided. Most of them were of a young woman. She was olive skinned and dark haired. It was the expression that caught him, a mix of fear and exhaustion. She’d been scared for a long time.
The papers were police reports. Most of them were about the woman. She was an exchange student at Miskatonic University, named Nadia Leandros. She’d come to the city police multiple times begging for help. Something was harassing her, she said.
Something. Not someone.
Joe poured himself a finger of bourbon into a glass that hadn’t been washed in too long. He sat down at the desk and set to absorbing all of this with his full attention. The police hadn’t listened. How could they? The reports read like madness. Shadowy figures at night that dissolved when confronted. The sound of wings beating at her windows. Whispers from the drain of her sink. They dismissed her as a kook.
Someone had obviously thought otherwise. They’d brought it to the right place. Joe had seen a lot in his time. Too much to dismiss such things out of hand. There were things that went bump at night, and they were getting bolder by the day.
He turned his attention to the rest of the file. The difference was like night and day. The picture this time was of a stiff on a slab at the morgue. A man in his mid-fifties, if Joe was any judge. The body’s skin was mottled strangely, but there was nothing conclusive to indicate how he’d died. The coroner’s report called it natural causes.
Joe snorted as he read the rest of the notes. He didn’t know of many natural things that made a man rot from the heart outward. There were pictures backing that up too. As if the insides had been dead and exposed for a month longer than the body itself. Joe knocked back the bourbon and sighed.
Something was circled on the picture: a birthmark on the back of the man’s neck. A circle surrounded by dark tendrils, like a black sun. Joe flipped back to the pictures of the woman. Sure enough, she had the same mark. It was on her collarbone, only visible in one shot.
Joe drummed his fingers on the desk. There was only one sheet of paper left, a cursory police report on the man’s death. The victim hadn’t lived in Arkham for very long. He’d moved here only a few months before his death. The document included notes from conversations with his coworkers and neighbors. They spoke of paranoid behavior, of isolation, and of the impression of inescapable fear.
It wasn’t as obvious as a one for one, but whoever had sent him this information was trying to paint a picture. That much was clear. A haunted person with a mark who ended up in the graveyard down by French Hill. Another person with the same mark, plagued by dark visitations. Do nothing, and she might end up in another cheap coffin.
Joe had never been good at doing nothing. He had a nose for trouble and a collection of scars to prove he never learned. That said, he was no one’s fool. If one of the horrors that plagued the Arkham countryside was rearing its ugly head, he was better off knowing what he was up against.
There was no more information to be had from the file. If he wanted to find out more, he was going to have to hit the streets, and he thought he knew just where to look. The files at City Hall wouldn’t be of any help. He needed sources more esoteric. Sources like the books in the library up at Miskatonic U.
Joe stood and pulled his trench coat on. It was getting on towards the end of fall and there was a chill to the night air. He propped his fedora on his head and swept out the door with purpose. If Nadia was in danger, time was of the essence.
He hurried through the streets of Arkham. The colorful splendor of sunset had given way to the gray of evening. A few especially enterprising bats swooped through the twilight for an early meal. Lights were coming on throughout the city. Many in the city had adopted electric lighting, but a few still made use of candles or gas lamps. All of them shone warmly through their windows, comforting reminders that he was not alone in the world.
Soon Joe reached Orne Library on the university campus. It was three stories of weathered granite. The silhouette of gargoyles stood out against the windows overhead. It was an architectural oddity, reminding Joe of nothing so much as the bastard child of a bunker and a cathedral. A lamp shone above the doorway, as if to guide late readers on their way in. Joe had only recently started coming here for research. It was usually restricted to students and faculty, but he had a friend on the inside.
He stopped in the foyer to hang his hat but kept his coat. The interior of the library was a drafty maze of bookshelves. It struggled to stay heated at the best of times. Besides, it was better to not go flashing his guns at people for no reason. It had a way of spooking folks.
“Detective,” a familiar voice said behind him. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Joe turned with a genuine smile. “Miss Walker. How are you feeling?”
Daisy Walker returned the smile. The blonde librarian tugged her sleeve down to better conceal the bandages that swathed one arm. “I’d feel a lot worse if you hadn’t been there that night.”
The memory surged up. Ghoulish claws tearing at the barricaded door. Unearthly shrieks echoing on the night air. His smile died as quickly as it had risen. “We got lucky. That’s all.”
“People like us have to make our own luck, detective.” Her green eyes searched his face. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”
Joe shook his head. “No. I need information.”
Daisy glanced around. “That kind of information?”
“Yeah.”
She motioned for him to follow with a tilt of her head. They headed over past dusty shelves to where a table sat. An electric lamp was nearby but it was dark. In its place a single candle in the center cast a dim glow.
“Atmospheric,” Joe remarked dryly.
Daisy gave him a look. “We have a hard time keeping the lights on after dark. Candles are more reliable for some reason.” The librarian looked around one more time. Satisfied no one was nearby, she motioned to him. “What is it?”
Joe produced the pictures from his coat pocket. The girl and the body. Anyone else, he might worry about their reaction. He knew Daisy had seen worse.
She leaned forward and took the pictures in with a keen eye. “The birthmark.”
“Got it in one,” Joe said. “Seen anything like it?”
Daisy frowned. “I saw something similar all too recently.” She clenched the hand on her wounded arm, as though the ache had redoubled.
“Damn,” Joe whispered. “The same cult? The same… thing?” He stopped short of saying the name, but it itched in his brain just the same.
“Same entity? Maybe. Same cult? No… I don’t think so. The symbols aren’t quite the same. Besides, those aren’t brands or tattoos. These people aren’t cultists. They’ve been marked since before they were even born, somehow.” She locked eyes with him, expression dark. “Claimed.”
Joe tapped his finger on Nadia’s picture. “The girl is still alive, so far as I know. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Daisy plucked at her lip thoughtfully. “You know, that birthmark is familiar for another reason now that I think about it. It’d be a heck of a connection, but…”
“My credulity strains a lot further than it used to,” Joe noted wryly.
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Wait here.”
Daisy turned and disappeared into the stacks. When she returned it was with a sizable leather-bound tome. She heaved it onto the table. Joe leaned forward and blew the dust off the cover. He flipped it open to the first page. The title was printed in an older style, elaborate and decorative.
“The Labyrinth: The True Tale of the Darkness Below Crete,” he read aloud.
Joe looked up at her with a frown. There was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes now.
“Tell me, detective. Did you pay attention when they covered mythology in school?”
•••
Sebastianos vomited over the side of the ship for the umpteenth time. There was no relief in the act. It did nothing to ease his nausea or make the world stand still. All it did was wring out every muscle in his body and leave him a sweating, gasping mess. It was pointless misery.
In that way it was a microcosm of this entire voyage. The Athenian sank against the side of the railing with a helpless wheeze. It brought Sebastianos around to face the source of all his troubles: the man standing at the very bow of the ship. He could have been a figurehead on the ship, so stoic and so beautiful. As though a statue had come to life, as though a god had stepped down from Mount Olympus.
Theseus, son of King Aegeus and heir to the throne of Athens.
That prime specimen deigned to drop his eyes from the horizon to look at Sebastianos instead. “You would think you would run out of things to throw up at some point.”
Sebastianos managed a sour smile. “It is truly a miracle of the ages, your highness.”
Theseus stepped over and offered his servant a hand up. “Come, on your feet, man. We will pull into the port at Crete before you know it, and this trial will be over.”
Sebastianos accepted the grip and let himself be pulled back up. “That is less comforting than it might be.”
Theseus clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. You are not part of the tribute. You should have nothing to fear.”
“Nothing save bringing a father word that his son is dead,” Sebastianos said. “Nothing save losing a friend. And for what?”
Theseus turned back to the horizon with a frown. “I do only what must be done.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. You don’t have to be here. They would have chosen someone else.”
The prince glanced at him. “Someone like you?”
Sebastianos paused. “Perhaps.”
“And how is that fair?” Theseus asked.
“Lots are drawn. Every young person in the city shares the risk–”
“Everyone except for me. What is so different? Anyone they choose is someone’s friend. Someone’s son. For twenty-seven years our people have mourned their lost loved ones.” Theseus took a deep breath. “It has to stop. I know I can stop it.”
“How?” Sebastianos demanded. It was a frustrated blurt as much as anything. None of this conversation was new. They’d had it a dozen times or more. Theseus had shown irregular patience for Sebastianos’ directness, born of long years of service long since turned to true friendship. It helped that Sebastianos was of noble birth himself, honored to be placed at the prince’s right hand.
“I will talk to them.” Theseus gave him a sad smile. “King Minos was furious, and perhaps he had a right to be. But he has had decades for his anger to cool. Surely he can see this for the madness it is now.”
Sebastianos sighed. There was nothing more to say.
They watched together as the hills and beaches of the island of Crete grew ahead of them. It had been a sunny day out on the open sea. That light gave way to overcast skies as they came closer. Cold rain misted down, joining the sea spray in a cheerless drizzle.
Sebastianos pulled his cloak closer about himself. “This island is a cursed place.”
Theseus laughed at that, a burst of genuine mirth. “Zeus be merciful. A little rain does not a curse make, old friend.”
There was something more to it, though. Sebastianos could not shake the feeling. Twenty-eight Athenian youths had already been surrendered to Minos’ demands, never to return. The enigma of their fate had haunted his dreams ever since he had learned of Theseus’ plan to volunteer. Nightmares of darkness and terrible hungers beneath the earth.
If anyone else had such premonitions, they did not share them with him. He was not the only one unsettled, though. A glance back at the rest of the ship showed him plenty of fear. The trembling and paleness of the rest of the youths sent in tribute was one thing, understandable enough. The wariness in the eyes of the rowers and other crew was another.
They had arrived in the city of Knossos. Grand buildings loomed all around them, stone towers decorated with elaborate frescoes. Sebastianos could not help a disloyal thought: this place was grander by far than his home of Athens. Then the silence seeped in.
Sebastianos would have expected a city of this size to be host to several trading vessels at any one time. Goods should be coming and going from their holds. Crowds could be expected; crews and merchants and city officials to tax the lot of them. Instead, everything was still. The only sound was the wash of the waves against their ship. Nothing moved.
“Perhaps they cleared the harbor in anticipation of our arrival,” Sebastianos said uneasily.
“Perhaps,” Theseus said. “One would think they would have sent someone to greet us in that case.”
The Athenian ship pulled up to the dock to be moored. The crew hurried about their tasks, eager to be done and gone. Theseus glanced over the gathered people. None of the crew would look at him, Sebastianos noted. The other tributes, however, couldn’t take their eyes off him. He was their one slender hope.
Sebastianos could see that settle onto his friend like an invisible weight.
Theseus stepped forward. “All of you remain here. Sebastianos and I will see if we can locate our kindly hosts.”
“Delighted to volunteer,” muttered Sebastianos as they climbed over the side of the ship. “Need I remind you that we’re unarmed? No weapons on the tribute voyages?”
“Fortunately, we are not looking for a fight. Besides, nothing dangerous has happened,” Theseus pointed out. He flashed a grin. “Yet.”
“You are exceptionally bad at comforting people,” Sebastianos said.
“Not people. Just you.”
They headed up the pier towards the city. The first few steps were difficult; it felt like the world was unsteady beneath Sebastianos’ feet. It took several seconds for solid ground to feel right again. Wood creaked beneath their feet. It was common for even a well-maintained port to show weathering. The sea was not kind to structures. This was worse. Entire planks had rotted through, forcing them to choose their steps with care.
“Something bad happened to this city,” Sebastianos said.
“I’m starting to believe you’re right,” Theseus said. “But what? We’ve received no word of disaster. There’s no sign of war.”
Sebastianos shook his head. He had no easy answers.
They walked among desolate buildings. The doors they passed were shut. Some were boarded over. A window hung open. Sebastianos stepped up to glance inside. All was dark within the house. Dust layered the sill. He thought he glimpsed broken furniture. There was something truly desolate about the sight. His already abused stomach twisted with unease.
“Perhaps I could climb inside, see–”
“No need,” Theseus said
A tension in his friend’s voice made Sebastianos turn his head. The prince was staring down the street, expression grim. Sebastianos followed his gaze to a collection of dark figures gathered ahead of them. Had they been there before? It was hard to know. They were so still that he could easily imagine his eye skipping over them.
They were garbed completely in black, no hint of other color to be found among them. Each stood like a blot of shadow against the gray light of the day. Their leader drew the eye. They were taller than both men anyway, and their headgear added to that. Black horns swept forward from an ebon mask that hid their face completely. The front of the mask bulged outward into a false snout. It reminded Sebastianos of nothing so much as a great bull, of the kind often sacrificed to the gods.
“What in Olympus’ name…” Sebastianos whispered.
Theseus stepped forward and raised a hand.
“Hail,” he called.
Silence was the only response.
The prince cleared his throat. “We come from Athens with the tribute, as promised! I wish to speak to King Minos, however. I am Prince Theseus, and I hoped–”
“Minos has gone below.”
It was a sepulchral voice, deep and gravelly. It must have been the leader speaking, but if it was then the mask scarcely seemed to muffle them. Their words echoed down the empty street like rocks falling at the end of a mine shaft.
Sebastianos’ mouth was dry as the desert. His hand reflexively dropped to where a sword would normally have been belted at his waist. He cursed again the rule that barred anyone from traveling this voyage armed.
Theseus seemed much calmer. “I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps I could speak with his successor instead?”
The leader paced forward a few steps. There was something unsettling about its gait. It struck Sebastianos as somehow inhuman. He wondered, then, what lay under those layers of dark fabric, even as another part of him dreaded to know.
“You are tribute. You will come with us.”
“In due time,” Theseus replied. “If I must. But first I will speak with the ruler of this island. Surely that is not too much to ask? A final meal and a word with my captor?”
“Such needs are passing. The dead require nothing. All is still below.”
Sebastianos took a step back uneasily. The only thing that belied Theseus’ continued steadiness was his hands tightening into fists.
“I am not dead yet,” the prince said.
“You are,” the leader rasped. “You simply do not know it yet.” It motioned with a black-wrapped hand, fingers unsettlingly long. “Take them.”
The dark shapes rushed forward. They came on with dreadful celerity and silence. There were no shouts or war cries, just a terrible sense of purpose. There were more than a dozen of them, easily enough to overwhelm the two unarmed men.
“Run!” shouted Theseus.
The pair set off, sprinting up the street back towards the docks.
“Still feeling good about this plan?” gasped Sebastianos.
“Save your breath for running,” Theseus replied.
It was good advice. The seasickness that had plagued Sebastianos the entire way here was catching up to him now. His endurance was badly drained, and he was soon wheezing. He clamped a hand to his side, where each desperate intake felt like a spike. His legs felt increasingly like rubber, a struggle to put one foot in front of the other.
Theseus dared a glance back. Whatever he saw did nothing to cheer his expression.
“They are gaining on us,” he said.
“You must leave me, my prince,” coughed Sebastianos.
“The gods scorn me if I let you pay the price for my choices,” snapped Theseus. “Go. I will slow them.”
“I cannot leave–”
“You will do as you are told!” barked Theseus. His tone softened instantly. “Go, Sebastianos. Get to the ship. Get everyone else out of here. Tell my father what has happened, that some madness has taken Crete.”
Theseus pulled up and turned to face their pursuers. Sebastianos skidded to a halt a short way on.
“Theseus–!”
The prince had never looked more beautiful. Rage knitted his sweat-sheened brow. His fists were clenched, ready for a battle he could not win.
“Go!” roared the prince.
Sebastianos’ last glance back revealed the cloaked figures swarming about his friend, pulling him down like wolves upon a bear. Tears clouded his vision as he fled. He raced on through the streets, panting desperately against the pain. Whatever the weakness of his body, he could no longer allow it to interfere. To do otherwise was to let Theseus’ sacrifice go to waste.
The sound of screams up ahead robbed him of that sense of purpose. Sebastianos darted into a side alley as he approached the docks and peered around the corner. Their dark-swathed foes had already come for the ship in their absence. Dozens of them rushed the Athenian vessel. Those who had tried to fight were being carried off, unconscious or dead. The rest were being led on chains.
Sebastianos eased back, mind racing. The situation had gone from bad to worse. There was no way he could sail out of here alone to get help. Even if he could have, it was hard to imagine retrieving aid in time to do any good.
Alone, unarmed, in a hostile place. There were a considerable number of things that he could not do, and very little he could think of that he could. He scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration.
Something grabbed hold of him and snatched him backwards into the shadows of the alley.
A hand was clamped over his mouth, stifling his instinctive yelp. Sebastianos bit down on that hand, drawing a very human curse from his assailant. He struggled fiercely and was shoved up against the wall for his efforts. The impact drew a pained grunt from him.
“Shhh!” rasped his attacker.
Sebastianos blinked as he got his first good look at them. It was a woman, with dark skin and hair. She had the look of the lands south of the Mediterranean. She was dressed in simple homespun clothing, the kind suited to hard work. Furthermore, she was glaring at him fit to strike him dead.
Not, as he had feared, a monster of any kind.
“Who–”
She pressed an insistent finger to his lips to silence him and shook her head.
“Somewhere else,” she mouthed.
At least, that’s what it looked like. Sebastianos nodded in response and motioned for her to lead the way. Trusting her might have been a fool’s choice, but he did not have many other options open to him.
She hurried off through the alleys with him trailing in her wake. Unlike Sebastianos, she clearly knew her way around the city. The path she chose avoided main thoroughfares. She was cautious the entire journey. Her obvious fear did nothing to soothe his own. Guilt layered onto it, his mind full of bitter self-recrimination for having left Theseus at all. When they did have to cross one of the main roads she pulled up long enough to carefully check in both directions before hastening onwards. At last, they stopped at an abandoned building.
It looked much like any of the others they’d passed along the way, but here she seemed somewhat more relaxed. There was dusty furniture in the room, and she wiped off a chair before settling into it with a sigh. She motioned for him to sit across the table from her.
Once he had, she leaned forward. “You are Athenian, yes?” Her voice was a steady contralto, even now kept quiet.
He nodded and responded as softly, “Yes. My name is Sebastianos. I came accompanying the tribute. You are a Cretan?”
She gave a wry smile, teeth flashing in the gloom. “Not by birth, though I have lived here for many years. I came here to serve the lady Ariadne. My name is Chrysanthe.”
“Well met.” Sebastianos took a deep breath. “Forgive me, but what in the depths of Tartarus has happened to this city?”
She looked down. “You are closer than you think.”
“What does that mean?”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose and collected her thoughts. “It all started with the war with Athens, or so I am told.”
“That was twenty-seven years ago,” Sebastianos said.
Chrysanthe nodded. “The war was not going as King Minos wished. In the depths of his despair, he was contacted by… a group. A cult. Dedicated not to the gods of Olympus, but to some ancient chthonic power that we had never even heard of. They told him that by propitiating this power, he could turn the tides of battle.”
“And what exactly did they want?”
“At first, just the dead. They took them into deep catacombs, paths into the earth that even those who had lived here their whole lives had never heard of. It seemed little enough, especially when the power they promised proved to be a real thing.”
“Proved how?” asked Sebastianos. His mouth was dry as sawdust. “Do you have any water?”
Chrysanthe nodded and pulled a waterskin from her belt and tossed it to him. He took a deep drink. It was warm and tasted of the leather of the skin. It was divine. It also bought him a chance to think. The tale was a wild one, but something had shattered the peace of this island. She did not seem the lying sort, her eyes too full of real sorrow.
“I don’t know all the details. The thing could shake earth and rack the sea. Miracles I would have thought the domain of Poseidon alone. It was enough to turn things around. Then that horrible hunger began to grow.”
Sebastianos thought back to the masked leader telling them they were dead and didn’t know it. “They turned on the living as well.”
Chrysanthe nodded. They sat in silence for a few moments before she mustered the will to continue. “Small numbers, at first. That was the reason the tribute was applied to Athens in the first place.”
Sebastianos had suspected, but the confirmation made him feel nauseous. “My countrymen were taken and fed to some…” He shook his head.
She gestured abortively, as if in some helpless attempt at apology. “Even here the idea was met with disquiet. Still, it seemed little enough. Harsher indemnity had been applied to those defeated in other wars.”
He swept his arm out to encompass the whole of the desolate city. “It seems like at some point they lost all restraint.”
“Yes, and Crete has paid the price for turning from the gods. Knossos is all but emptied. When Minos at last protested, he too was taken. Since, his daughter has ruled in name but not in fact.”
“How can she stand to see this happen to her home?”
Chrysanthe’s head snapped towards him, eyes blazing. “She did not choose this!”
The exclamation was like thunder in the quiet. They both froze in terror and listened. The city remained still, and they breathed simultaneous sighs of relief.
“My apologies,” she whispered. “Ariadne did not approve of all that has happened. Here, at the end, she even set about trying to make things right. She crafted a plan to destroy the Labyrinth once and for all.”
“The Labyrinth?”
“That is the name given to the tunnels where all tribute and sacrifices are taken. They lead down into the dark of the earth, turning in on themselves in intricate ways. It is said that only the cultists can find their way in and out.”
“Ariadne…” Sebastianos realized. “You were speaking of her in the past tense.”
Chrysanthe lowered her head. “I do not know if they caught wind of her plot or have simply abandoned all idea of restraint. A few days ago they came for her as well.”
“What was her plan?”
The maidservant gave a bitter laugh. “She was counting on all of you, actually. When the tribute arrived she planned to solicit your help in destroying the wooden pillars that hold the Labyrinth up.”
“Doubly ironic,” Sebastianos said. There was no real humor to the thought. Their situation was many things, but it was not funny.
Chrysanthe raised an eyebrow.
“Theseus, prince of Athens, came this time. He hoped to treat with the royal family and convince them to bring an end to the tribute.”
“Ah,” she said. “And he is…?”
Sebastianos nodded wearily. “They took him.” The image of his friend being overwhelmed welled up once more. He swallowed hard, fighting the knot in his throat.
“Then we are all that’s left.”
“It seems that way,” he said. He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. To think they could simply have never come to Crete. There was no one left to be angered by it.
Chrysanthe picked the waterskin up and took a swig herself. She put it down with force, as if deciding. “Then we must do it.”
Sebastianos studied her with some consternation. “Do what?”
“We cannot abandon them all to suffering beyond death. If you and I are the only ones who can try to end all of this, then that is what we must do.”
Sebastianos’ mind raced. He sat forward. “Do you think we could still save them?”
Chrysanthe bit her lip thoughtfully. “There is a chance. The way the cultists speak of it, they collect souls for sacrifice over time. Gather them down there in the dark, until the numbers are sufficient to please their master. If they were waiting for the tribute to arrive, we might still be able to get there in time.”
“They say all is predetermined, that the Fates have already measured the span of our lives. If that is so, we cannot change what is to come. But it also means there is nothing to be gained by not trying.” Sebastianos stood. “There is no time to waste. Is there somewhere I can get a sword? We were allowed no weapons.”
She studied him and frowned. “A sword might be difficult, but a knife?” She patted the blade sheathed at her own hip. “That can be arranged.”
Chrysanthe hurried off into the house. She returned with the promised item and held it out to him. Sebastianos pulled the blade and contemplated the razor edge. It caught the fading light of the gray day with a dull gleam. It would do. It would have to.
“Thank you.” He motioned around. “You know this home well. Was it yours?”
“No. I lived with my lady at the palace and fled the night she was taken. This belonged to my cousin.” Chrysanthe looked around slowly. “I used to visit him and his family on festival days.”
Sebastianos mustered a smile. “We will save those we can, and avenge those we cannot.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. They crept out of the house back into the streets of Knossos. The day was coming to an end, and the already gray sky was edging towards black. It would be night by the time they reached the entrance to the Labyrinth. Sebastianos tried not to dwell on that thought.
A light flamed to life down the road from them. Chrysanthe pulled him into a side alley. Both pressed up against the wall and tried to stay as still as possible. Sebastianos kept a hand on the hilt of the knife. He could hear his heart pounding. If it was half as loud to anyone around, they’d be found out in a moment.
Footsteps announced an approach. To his ears they sounded more like the click of hooves on the cobblestones. Again, he was forced to wonder as to the true nature of their foe. Were they human? Had they been once? He did not know, and he was afraid to ask.
Four black-swathed figures walked past the alley. They did not speak among themselves as normal people would have. One carried a torch, but even that was strange: it burned too bright and pure, with an actinic white light. Still, Sebastianos gave thanks to Olympus for it. They might have come upon the cultists unawares had it not been for the light.
The rearmost one of the four paused. It turned its hooded head this way and that. Sebastianos could hear it snuffling, a wet noise that recalled a hound. He held his breath and counted the seconds, trying not to tremble as the thing searched around. The urge to retreat deeper into the alley was powerful, but he resisted. It made a sound, somewhere between a snort and a cough, and continued on its way.
They waited several more seconds before both sighed with relief. Chrysanthe slipped over to the wall on the other side of the alley and glanced after the cultists. She nodded and motioned him on; they had indeed left the pair behind. The two of them hurried on their way, eager to be out of the city.
The palace grew before them, a daunting construction of stone. The many windows were dark. It created an unsettling effect with the onset of night, as though they were great empty eye sockets watching them approach. Sebastianos shuddered.
“Is there anyone left in Knossos at all?” he whispered.
“Other than us?” she asked. She shrugged expressively. “If they are out there, they know better than to draw attention to themselves.”
“A city emptied,” he mused. “What is a traveler even to make of such a thing, should they find it? Just another mystery, never to be answered.”
“Just another reason to not let it happen,” Chrysanthe said.
Sebastianos nodded. They crept into the echoing hall of the palace. Tapestries showed many aspects of Cretan life, often accompanied by the great bulls the locals held sacred. It made him wonder about the mask. Was it mere camouflage? A mockery of what they had once held holy?
Only lush rugs kept their footsteps from announcing their presence to the whole building. Even so, he was surprised at how few signs there were of the cultists here.
“They did not take the palace for themselves,” Sebastianos said.
Chrysanthe shook her head. “They dislike the great open spaces. They find the wind and the sun on their face abhorrent. They keep to themselves, down there in the dark of the tunnels, when they are not searching for tribute to feed their hungry god.”
He could no longer resist. “Are they human?”
She glanced back at him and paused in her steps. “I… don’t know. Some of them are, I think. Some of them seem like they’re something else. Especially their leader.”
“The bull,” he said.
“Yes,” Chrysanthe said and shuddered. “If that one is human, it gives us all a bad name.”
She led the way down into the palace cellars. It became necessary to light a torch as they moved below ground. She plucked one from a wall sconce and lit it with flint and steel from her belt pouch. Rats scattered at the sudden light, squeaking in alarm. Part of Sebastianos longed to recoil the same way. If their foes saw the light… It did not bear thinking of. They would never find their way in the dark. Some risks had to be taken.
They passed among great amphorae of wine, covered with dust. Barrels of other supplies were stacked elsewhere. Some had sat unused so long the wood had rotted through. Spilled contents were what had drawn all the vermin. They glared at the passing humans with red eyes shining in the dark, returning to their feast once the intruders were gone.
At last the pair came to the entrance of a yet deeper passage. Gusts of chill air poured from it like icy breath. The darkness of the tunnel mouth seemed tactile. It resisted the light of the torch, retreating only reluctantly as Chrysanthe stepped forward. It slid back like oil, waiting just beyond the reach of the flame. All it needed was for them to step inside, and it could swallow them whole.
“It’s not real. It’s all in your head,” whispered Sebastianos to himself. He shivered and tried to tell himself it was the cold and not the fear.
“What?” asked Chrysanthe.
“Nothing,” he replied. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “We have come this far. There’s no turning back now.”
“First things first,” she said.
She handed him the torch to hold, then reached once more into her belt pouches. She came out this time with a skein of thread. She tied one end to a great heavy container of wine that sat nearby. Sebastianos raised an eyebrow when she looked around to him once more.
“An idea of my own. So we can find our way back out.”
“If one of the cultists finds it, won’t it lead them straight to us?”
Chrysanthe shrugged helplessly. “They rarely use this path. It was made to collect tribute from King Minos. Ariadne had me follow some of them when she was forming her plan. They have their own secret ways to come and go. There is at least a chance they won’t find the thread.” She looked back to the darkness. “I do not give us such good odds should we try to brave the dark unaided.”
“As you say,” Sebastianos allowed. “It is in the hands of the gods, as are we.”
The maidservant lingered there in the arch. Perhaps she knew her own fears and hesitations. If so, she mastered them swiftly before plunging into the tunnel mouth. Sebastianos followed just behind. The torch guttered as he stepped across the threshold, pulled at by the cold wind from the depths.
The route was simple at first. It led them in great loops down into the earth. The construction here was of the same style as the city above, stone blocks decorated by intricate frescoes. These commemorated victories over the Athenian fleet in the war. The height of their dark alliance, mused Sebastianos.
Soon the passage forked, and the architecture changed. It became simpler and rougher. Old writing, divots and marks, was etched into the walls. Whatever meaning it contained was lost on Sebastianos. He could not help but imagine. Warnings, perhaps? “Go no deeper, you fools”? They could not afford to listen if that was the case.
They encountered their first dead end and were forced to retrace their steps. Soon there was a second, and a third, each one lost time. Both were shivering. It was increasingly cold the deeper they went, unnaturally so. Sebastianos could see the fog of their breath in front of each of them. He was ever more tired. The exertions of the day were catching up to him. He had slept poorly on the journey here, sick and tormented by nightmares. Chrysanthe glanced at him, her face drawn with fear and worry, and he mustered a smile for her.
Down and down they went. Sometimes there were short flights of stairs, but it was usually just a gradual slope. It was easy to lose track of how far they had come, though the ache of Sebastianos’ legs suggested it had been a good distance.
“At this rate we shall stumble into Tartarus first and be forced to apologize to the Titans for our discourtesy,” he said.
“Whatever it is the cultists worship, I fear it is even older than they. Something of the primordial Kaos, perhaps,” she replied. The joke had clearly fallen flat. She was shaking, whether from cold or fear.
“You are brave to come so far for Ariadne,” Sebastianos said. “She is lucky to inspire such loyalty.”
“She is a good person, wise for her age. She will make a better ruler than Minos did.” To continue talking was foolish, but neither of them seemed to be able to help it. The icy silence was unbearable. “What drives you, Sebastianos?”
He thought of Theseus, captured and taken down this way in the hands of monsters. Of the grim fate that awaited the prince. It steeled him, and he squared his shoulders. “Love,” he said simply.
Chrysanthe smiled at that, and the expression was the warmest thing in the Labyrinth. “Then your prince is lucky as well.”
The structure was changing again. Artifice gave way to natural rock. At first, there were still traces of humanity. They were simplistic russet paintings. Some were cattle, goats, and pigs. Others showed things far more strange and terrible, which Sebastianos had no name for. Living floods covered with eyes. Rugose, corpulent things with tentacle faces and bat wings.
Then even those were gone. As unsettling as they had been, Sebastianos soon missed them. All that was left was the stone and the darkness and the cold. Was this some natural cave system now, which the cult had claimed as a home? Or had this place been shaped by hands that predated any human civilization? His mind retreated from the thought. There was no solace in it, and he could not afford to challenge his courage here and now.
There was a sound up ahead. It came to them on one of the gusts of icy wind. At first Sebastianos took it for nothing more than the wind groaning through some outlet. It proved too constant to believe that for long. It rose and fell steadily, a sonorous pulse. As they drew closer to the source it became clear there were words, of a sort, though he did not recognize the language.
“The ritual?” he asked, daring to voice nothing above a whisper now.
Chrysanthe nodded slowly. “I saw such a rite once…”
She motioned for him to douse the torch. Sebastianos hesitated. His thoughts flicked to that oily darkness he had seen – imagined? – at the entrance. The flame was all that stood between them. Was this the chance it was waiting for to devour them?
He dashed the thought with impatience at himself. This madness was getting to him, and his fears would not save Theseus. He ground the torch out against the rock of the wall with a sudden violent movement. It plunged them into a black deep enough to make Nyx herself stumble.
The sounds were still there. The endless, alien chant of the cult ahead of them. Sebastianos could hear his own breath and heart too, fast and frightened. He willed them slower. It was something to focus on if nothing else. Easy, he told himself. There is still the thread. There is still Chrysanthe. You are not alone.
Something caught Sebastianos’ eye. A single speck of light against the darkness, like a lone star in a blank night sky. It was so subtle that at first he judged it an illusion. Only when it did not go away did he look more closely. He held up a hand and waved it about, the light vanishing as he passed over it.
“Chrysanthe,” he whispered.
“What?”
He could hear her rustle around in the darkness, trying to find him. They fumbled and managed to catch hands finally. He took the chance to take her shoulders and point her towards the light.
“Do you see it?”
Chrysanthe took a low breath. “Yes. That’s where we need to go.”
“Are you certain?”
A pause. A low laugh. “I nodded as if you could see me. Yes. Hold on to me.”
Hand in hand they proceeded down the tunnel towards that pinprick glow. It grew as they approached, and the chanting grew louder in proportion. There was a musical accompaniment, he realized. It was a hideous tuneless piping, a high-pitched whine that set his teeth on edge. The ground rumbled beneath their feet. He could feel a cloud of dust settle on him from the cavern roof.
“Their master hears,” Chrysanthe whispered. “The Devourer Below stirs. We’re running out of time.”
Sebastianos could tell now that the light was the actinic brightness of the strange torches the cultists carried. A gust of hot air, startling after the chill, caught them as they approached. It was humid and heavy, laden with promise like the air before a storm.
The scent of death and rot came with it, sickly sweet and repugnant. He fought down a burst of nausea and pressed on. The light had grown bright enough he could make out his companion in the murk. Chrysanthe pressed the back of her hand to her mouth for a moment and convulsively swallowed. Then she followed. The fact that the pair had doused their own torch allowed them to creep right up to the entrance to the chamber where the ritual was taking place.
Sebastianos leaned around for his first glimpse of the ritual. If the space was natural, then it was a cathedral born of natural forces. It was a massive area, and the roof arched far overhead to be lost in darkness. The great wooden pillars Chrysanthe had spoken of were found here, holding up that vaulting height.
Filling this arena were biers that sprang directly from the rocky ground. Bodies were laid out on each, swathed in cloth and bound in cords. Each was surrounded by the accouterments of a burial: oils and sacred incense and more. Many were pallid and still, but a few were visibly struggling against their restraints. Standing among them were the funereal creatures of the cult, wrapped in their all-encompassing black garb. Some held the blazing white torches, raised high as if to illuminate as much as possible. Their attention was focused on a single point at the center of the chamber. Sebastianos followed their gazes and…
His mind reeled. He wrenched his gaze away.
It was like a pit, a hole into some greater abyss beyond. The bull-priest stood at the very edge, too-long arms raised high in macabre exultation. Within, the darkness reached a zenith. It transcended mere shadow and night and became something more. A gap in the fabric of the world itself, and beyond…
Sebastianos could only piece together fragments of what he’d seen there in the heart of the room. Charnel expressed unto infinity; that was the impression that remained. Bleached bones and rotting meat. Death on a scale beyond human comprehension, beyond possibility. A universe of elemental putrefaction.
There was something more in that other-place. Something approaching across desert plains of bone mulch and mountains of offal. A shape of pure shadow, a writhing mass of inchoate nothingness. There was a core and a corona… like a star turned inside out. The Devourer. It was coming, and soon.
Blood ran from Sebastianos’ nose and the corner of his left eye. He wiped it away furiously. His hand was shaking like a leaf in the wind. It was hard to even think in the wake of such a thing. The reaction went beyond fear. It spoke to something primal in him, that begged him to quit this place.
“Sebastianos,” rasped Chrysanthe.
He turned his head to look at her. Her own eyes were completely bloodshot, the irises ovals of brown in a sea of red. She must have looked too. Now, however, she was pointing to somewhere else in the chamber.
He followed the direction of her finger. She was pointing to one of the biers, and on it… His heart leapt into his throat. Theseus was laid out there. The prince stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Dead? Sebastianos refused to believe it. He ground his teeth in sudden rage. It was welcome, a hot spring within him that drove away the fear of this place.
“Do you see Ariadne?” he asked.
Chrysanthe nodded.
“Alright.” He took a deep breath and wiped away a fresh trickle of blood. “We’ll split up. Work around the edges in opposite directions and free as many people as we can.”
She nodded again, but caught his arm as he turned away. Her eyes were intense. “If they spot you – if they spot either of us – then we start burning pillars. This has to stop here and now, one way or another.”
“Agreed.” Sebastianos placed his hand over hers for a moment and squeezed. “May the gods of Olympus smile on you.”
Chrysanthe managed a smile at that. “May Isis watch over us both, my friend.”
They separated. Sebastianos resisted the urge to make straight for Theseus. Instead, he worked his way along the edge as planned. He focused on the people who were still moving. Some were Cretan, some were Athenian. It did not matter. Each one he came to he held a silencing finger to his lips before cutting them free. By pantomime, he guided them towards the tunnel and the thread that would lead them back to the surface.
In this way he reached Theseus at last. A small blessing, the cultists were so focused on their rite they still had not noticed what was happening. Sebastianos could only hold his breath as he crept over towards the prince, staying low. His friend stared upwards sightlessly, unmoving. This close, he could see the blood in his eyes; there was no telling what terrible sights Theseus had gazed upon. Sebastianos cut the cords that bound him nonetheless.
He caught the prince’s hand up in both of his own and chafed the flesh. Breathe, he willed Theseus. Smile. Live.
“Theseus, please,” he whispered. “Do not let this all have been for nothing.”
The prince blinked. He inhaled shakily. Slowly his head turned to the side, and his eyes focused again. His mind came back from whatever terrible void had held it.
“Sebastianos?” he rasped.
“Yes,” Sebastianos said. It was difficult to speak around the weight of emotion in his chest. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Yes, my prince. I am here.”
“What–”
An awful howl cut the reunion short. It sliced through the sonorous chant of the cultists and left a void of silence in its wake. Sebastianos turned his head with terrible certainty. The bull-priest had turned from the pit-void and was pointing. It wasn’t towards them, however. The accusing finger was aimed directly across the chamber towards where Chrysanthe stood.
Everything hung in a tableau for a split second. Then dark-clad cultists began to rush towards her.
“Blood of Zeus,” cursed Sebastianos. He gripped Theseus’ hand tight for one more precious moment. “You must go, my prince. Run for the corridor. There is a line that will take you back to the world above.”
“But–”
“There is no time, Theseus! Go!”
Sebastianos could afford him no more attention. He turned away and charged the nearest cultist carrying a torch. The creature’s attention was across the room with the battle erupting there. He caught it unawares with a low tackle, lifting it up off the ground and smashing it into one of the biers. There was a crunch as hidden flesh met naked stone, and the thing went limp.
He snatched up the torch that had fallen from its hand. The strange white flame at the end had a garlicky stench to it, unlike anything he had encountered. It burned with a terrible heat. Sebastianos held it away from himself and grabbed an amphora of burial oils that lay nearby. He hurled it against the nearest wooden pillar with all his might, and the pottery shattered. He thrust the torch into the spatter it left.
The oil ignited with a sputtering hiss. Such oils burned reluctantly, but once lit the fire was hard to kill. Sebastianos felt a deep satisfaction in watching that blaze spread, but he could only savor it for a moment. His actions had drawn attention, and his advantage of surprise was gone.
Another of the cultists rushed him. Sebastianos greeted it with a thrust of the torch. Black cloth ignited instantly. Within a matter of seconds the creature had been turned into a humanoid bonfire. It staggered away with a keening howl that made his already aching head even worse.
That seemed to teach the rest of them some fear. A few other close ones shied away as he waved the torch at them threateningly. They were not driven off, merely circling for a better avenue to attack him from. Sebastianos did not care. He seized the opening to sprint further towards where Chrysanthe was fighting for her life. If they had to make a last stand, they would do it tog–
There was a sound like thunder. Something hurled Sebastianos from his feet. The whole world went white, then red. He smashed into a bier topped with a dead body. The whole thing collapsed under the impact, sending him and the corpse skidding to the ground. The torch tumbled from his nerveless hand and skittered away across the floor.
All Sebastianos could do was wheeze, the air knocked from his lungs. He tried to get his hands underneath himself to rise, but they were struggling to respond. A shadow loomed above him. He blinked against blurry vision. The shape was capped by the sweep of great horns.
It caught hold of his ankle with its elongated fingers and began to drag him towards the center of the room. The thought of the pit welled up in Sebastianos’ dazed mind, and the terror of it set him to fighting as much as he could. He grasped at passing objects to try to stop his progress, to no avail. The priest was possessed of a strength beyond that of a man.
It spoke. “You have disrupted something you have no understanding of. You will learn. Sooner or later all will learn. If you had run for your life, you might have been last. Instead, you will go first.”
The edge of the pit was mere feet away. Someone bounded in from the side. Chrysanthe. She was bleeding from several scrapes, and one arm appeared dislocated, but she was still fighting. She lunged at the priest, knife outstretched. It raised its free arm to ward her off. It wasn’t enough. The blade sank home multiple times, and the priest screamed, an inhuman wail.
It released Sebastianos to better confront its assailant. It caught hold of her, and she was hurled bodily away. For one blessed moment, however, he was free. He staggered up to his feet and threw his entire bodyweight at the priest. He hit it in the side, and both toppled towards the horrid depths.
A hand caught hold of the back of Sebastianos’ tunic. The priest seized him by the front. He dared a glance back. Theseus had him, muscles straining. They hung precariously at the edge, caught between the Labyrinth and something even worse. Something reached forth from the void-gate, snatching at the priest. Shadows, come to life. The limbs of a ravening god.
The priest’s mask fell away, tumbling into the abyss. If it had ever been human, it wasn’t anymore. The head was canine in shape, but hairless and pale, parchment skin pulled tight over monstrous bone structures. The sight burned into Sebastianos, a nightmare made real. He was sure it would haunt him if he lived.
Sebastianos pulled the knife from his belt and slashed it across both of its grasping hands. It screeched and let go. He met its eyes in a brief instant, and saw a terror there. Not of the unknown, but of a fate it suspected all too well. Then it tumbled back and it was gone.
Theseus and Sebastianos fell back the other way. Both scrambled to their feet as fast as they could. More of the columns were burning now, some of the freed peoples having turned to joining the fight rather than merely escaping. The ground shook beneath their feet and dust rained down. The ritual had been disrupted but not prevented. The Devourer Below was still coming.
“We have to go!” shouted Sebastianos.
Theseus nodded, and leaning on each other they staggered towards the exit. Sebastianos searched around desperately for Chrysanthe and found her nearby. She was being helped to her feet by a well-dressed young woman of Cretan descent. The four of them fled to the doorway that led from the chamber to the tunnel upwards.
The mysterious woman pressed Chrysanthe to them. “Take her, please!”
The maidservant was in bad shape, but she stirred. “My queen,” she slurred.
Ariadne smiled and touched her cheek. “Thank you, Chrysanthe. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you seeing this through. But I cannot go.”
“Why?” Sebastianos asked. He did not bother to hide his incredulity. This was poor timing for a jest, but surely no sane person would speak of staying in this vile catacomb.
The woman shifted her gaze to him. “The pact with Umôrdhoth is bound to my bloodline.” She pulled her dark hair aside and showed them a mark. A black orb, circled with dark rays. Sebastianos thought at once of the thing beyond the pit. “As long as Minos’ line continues, it will seek its due. If this is to end here, truly end, it must end with me.”
The ground shook again, and something howled from the direction of the pit. Even the cultists were fleeing now, scattering towards all the exits.
“Take her and go!” said Ariadne.
“No,” whispered Chrysanthe.
She lunged towards Ariadne, arms outstretched. Her wounds made the movement unsteady. Tears were streaming down her face. Ariadne stepped back and shook her head. She looked to Sebastianos with a plea in her eyes.
Sebastianos caught hold of Chrysanthe. “I’m sorry,” he said. To Ariadne and Chrysanthe both.
Chrysanthe pounded at him in anguish. Theseus took her by the other arm, his face solemn with grief. They pulled her away, but Sebastianos could not bear to look at her. His heart broke for her already. The three of them fled that dark place deep beneath the earth. His last glimpse of Ariadne was her turning, face resolute, to confront the vile darkness her father had made a pact with.
•••
Daisy closed the old book carefully. Joe sat back and whistled low.
“That is a hell of a story,” he said.
It seemed a powerful understatement. On the face of it, it was unbelievable. Just another myth. But if monsters were real – and he knew they were – then why not heroes? If he and his friends could fight back now, why couldn’t the people of the past?
There was something warming to the thought, as sad as the story was. A human kinship stretching down through the ages. They might fall, they might fail, but they were never alone as long as someone else took up the fight.
“Handed down, retold and reshaped. Even this version may not be the full tale,” Daisy said. “But the mark…”
“Yeah,” Joe said. He set aside grand thoughts of the past to focus on the demands of the present. He rubbed a chin that was bristling with five o’clock shadow. “Sounds an awful lot like the one on our girl here. A descendant of Minos, huh?”
“Perhaps,” Daisy said. “Or connected to something else similar. There is no way to be sure.”
“The Devourer Below,” Joe said distastefully. “We’ve heard that name before.”
Daisy nodded. “Too much to hope that night saw it done away with for good. What will you do now?”
Joe blew out a heavy breath. “What I can. Ancient curses are beyond me, but I still have to try.” He drummed his fingers thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll stop by the diner.”
“Ah,” Daisy nodded. “Agnes. That’s a good thought. I’ll come with–”
“Nope,” Joe said and shook his head. “Any other time I’d be glad to have you along for the ride, but you still have a bum arm. You’ve done enough. You gave me a place to start.”
The librarian glared at her arm briefly as though it was doing this on purpose. Joe stood from the table, and she walked him to the exit from the library. Full night had fallen beyond, the sky dark and full of stars.
“Be careful, detective.”
Joe grinned as he perched his fedora back onto his head. “I’ve never been anything less, ma’am.”
There was a lot of work still to do if Nadia was to be saved. He set off into the night.
To Be Continued…