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Ren insisted on carrying the enchanter himself.
Martyn had offered to help carry it - it was still a large object, laced with obsidian. It had to be rather heavy. Ren, however, insisted that he be the one to carry it to safety. When he’d glanced at Martyn, those piercing red eyes instantly silenced any dissent.
It silenced all knights of the red army. Even Skizz, who would usually be yapping away at this point, said nothing. Thus, the route back home remained quiet and tense. To run from the desert - to take back what was rightfully theirs and retrieve the enchanter from those who had stolen it.
The journey back was not without danger, either. From all sides, mobs would assault them. No torches, Ren had said when night fell - it would be easy for Grian, Scar, or anyone else who wished them harm to spot them. Unfortunately, it meant these mobs attacked frequently. Ren did not even spare these threats a glance. He was focused on the road ahead, and Martyn was focused on the protection of his king.
It bothered Ren more than he let on. Perhaps none of the other knights noticed, but Martyn had. The enchanter - the item that kickstarted their alliance and dominance of this region - was their prized possession. For someone to waltz in and take it from right under their noses was an insult to all Dogwarts stood for.
Most of all, it was an insult to the King.
“We’ll get back at them for their transgression,” Martyn said, breaking the silence. “They’ll feel our wrath a thousandfold.”
“Perhaps,” Ren responded. “Other matters must be discussed first.”
He clutched the enchanter a little more tightly. Martyn almost offered his help again but swallowed his words.
At long last, Dogwarts loomed on the hill. Its walls stood strong, its dominance unparalleled. After a quick climb, the knights and the King they served entered into the safety of the outer walls.
Any time Martyn had previously entered, it had felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders - he was safe, he was home, and he could be himself in his best capacity. Lately, that tension did not disappear. Lately, he could neither feel nor find the comfort that he longed for within the walls of Dogwarts or even within the walls of the enchanting shack.
His hands itched. His gaze was drawn to the altar. The rains hadn’t been able to wash off the King’s blood.
The knights excused themselves. It was late, they ought to return home as well. Mumbled ‘good nights’ and ‘see you tomorrows’ were exchanged. Etho, BigB, and Skizzleman - the proud knights of the red army - left Dogwarts behind for the comfort of their own beds. Martyn couldn’t blame them; he’d be happy with a bit of sleep, too.
Not before he checked on Ren, though.
The King had wordlessly walked into the enchanting shack. He’d returned the enchanter to its rightful place and hadn’t left it yet. The torchlight still flickered inside.
Martyn knocked on the door. He didn’t need to - he was the King’s Hand, and he was certain Ren recognized his footsteps by now. Still, he wished to announce himself like this. It felt right in the moment.
“M’lord?” Somehow, his voice echoed within the small space. “How is the enchanter looking?”
Ren was sitting on his knees, kneeling in front of the enchanter. Its sturdy base stood exactly where it had stood before. The book atop the obsidian base gently floated a couple of inches above the surface, waiting to be held and read and used to enchant the weapons and armor its user would be holding onto. It almost quivered in anticipation, turning so that its opened pages faced both the King and his Hand.
“It has survived the theft, my Hand,” Ren responded, not averting his gaze from the item they had just risked their lives for. “It couldn’t be shattered, nor was it damaged.”
“That’s good to hear,” Martyn nodded. “So… how are you?”
“It’s going to happen again.” The King pushed himself to his feet, almost loomed over the enchanter. “Everyone knows it’s here. Those scoundrels from the desert surely will show up again. They’ll try to take it back. They’ll try to ruin us.”
“So we keep the enchanter safe,” Martyn said. Seemed like a logical solution. “We could build another layer of walls, install some more defenses atop the existing-”
“That won’t do,” Ren interrupted him.
Finally, the King turned around. Martyn still hadn’t gotten used to their color - red, like the blood he’d spilled. Like the blood that still seemed to seep from the crown on his head. Those eyes had been kind, once. Perhaps that kindness was still present, somewhere deep down. Now, it was overshadowed by concern and fury that would have scared anyone else.
“You know what the enemy has at their disposal,” Ren continued. “They breached the walls once with TNT. They snuck in and stole it from under our noses. Though a noble idea, walls won’t do.”
“So how do we keep it safe, then?” Martyn wondered out loud. “What would you suggest?”
“They wish to remain in the scorching sun. So we go where they do not wish to ever follow. When they go high, we go low.” The King’s gaze was drawn to the floorboards of the shack. “The dirt underneath our feet hasn’t quite served us to its fullest extent.”
Martyn followed the gaze, and then looked at Ren again. He instantly understood what his lord was insinuating.
“Going underground. That surely will confuse them.”
“We hide the enchanter in the deepest depths. We’ll put it there first, and extend a labyrinthine network from there,” Ren said, spoken as though he had rehearsed his words. As though the idea had come to him before, but without the opportunity to develop it further. “The enchanter will never see the sun again and it will always be at our disposal.”
“What a glorious plan, my liege!” Nobody would know how to find their way. Nobody would find the enchanter. It seemed Ren only considered their prized possession, but Martyn saw a whole list of benefits. In case of an attack, the red army would be safe to retreat and recover, while the potentially separated pursuers would have no idea where to go.
Most importantly, though, the tunnels - however many there would be - would bring some peace of mind to the King. Ever since he became red, he had grown a little more anxious than he used to be. Hopefully, the existence of these tunnels would soothe his mind.
“Grab a shovel and a pickaxe, my Hand,” the King said enthusiastically. “Let’s get digging.”
Ren insisted that he be the one to hide the enchanter.
Martyn didn’t have any problems with it. If it brought his King some peace of mind, he’d gladly let Ren dig ahead, dig even deeper than Martyn had gone yet. Currently, all Martyn had to do was to follow the one passageway down to find and see the enchanter again. Yet, he refused to go anywhere near where Ren would be digging. It was only respectful not to look.
It didn’t take long before the first rudimentary system of wider tunnels was established. Four days of hard labor, digging away at the dirt and stone, to create a hopefully confusing set of tunnels beneath the enchanting shack. Martyn wasn’t alone. From time to time, when he stopped to take a breather, echoes of pickaxes against stone reached his ears. BigB, Skizz, and Etho, somewhere around, doing their part in keeping the enchanter safe by digging tunnels themselves.
The tunnels almost became a second home. Every time Martyn reached the surface again, the sun burned his eyes and guilt slowly wrapped itself around his heart. It’s been a while since he’d seen his King on the surface, and every time he was back in the sun, his conscience tried to pull him back down to continue the work. Ren wasn’t back; the tunnels weren’t enough yet. There needed to be more; there needed to be more confusion for any who would wish to foolishly enter. So Martyn grabbed a quick bite, a quick drink, and vanished below again.
It wasn’t enough to dig for a few hours during the day. Each time the King caught his knights taking a break, having a quiet breather, his red glare landed on them. Martyn knew that Ren would never hurt his knights, but the glare mortified all. It was enough to make the knights pick up their equipment again and continue their dig.
Whenever Martyn came upon them in the tunnels, they looked exhausted; Martyn figured he was as well, but he could clearly tell from the way Skizz had gone silent, how Etho moved ever so slightly slower, how the intervals between BigB’s swings had grown longer.
“You’re doing great work here!” Martyn would encourage them with as chipper a voice he could muster. “You’re making sure the enchanter remains safe. Keep it up!”
He never really got a response.
At night, the knights returned home. At dusk Martyn watched them leave the safety of Dogwarts’ walls behind them, to return to their homes amid war-torn lands. Was this what it was like nowadays? Peace, a far-off ideal that had been long-abandoned by all those who lived in the valley. Martyn had dared to climb the walls once and look. The landscape didn’t used to be so littered with large holes and trenches and half-burned trees. Was that what the world had come to?
There are no explosions below. No pain, no shouting. No war. Just the calming and near-hypnotic sound of pickaxes against stone. No time, just dirt and rock and endlessly twisting tunnels that were sure to confuse anyone.
Martyn barely minded how dirty his hands had become. It was useless to try to wash it off, anyway - soon enough, he’d be going back down and they would be dirty all over again. Clean hands were a sign that he wasn’t doing his job right.
One could argue his hands haven’t been clean since he swung the axe at Ren’s command.
They weren’t stained with blood now, but dust and grime that had settled onto his hands and refused to be easily washed off. Though, sometimes, smaller wounds on his hands bled a little. It couldn’t be healthy to continue his work and allow dust and grime to settle into these tiny wounds, as well. Nothing bad had happened yet, so Martyn happily continued his work.
He settled into a rhythm. Wake up, dig, eat, dig, sleep. A simple cycle, certainly, but a fulfilling one. He dug until he was tired, without minding time or whatever the sun indicated. Martyn had lost track of how many days ago they had started to dig. He barely saw Ren; he barely saw anyone else. He didn’t mind; it meant he was doing his job well. Every time he emerged, he yearned to go back to the peace and quiet that those tunnels provided.
Every time he entered again, a small voice in the back wondered if today was the day he would get lost.
Every day, more and more tunnels grew from what came before. Every day, Martyn had more and more trouble finding the exit again. That merely meant it was doing what it had been designed for: to confuse people. Though, how much use would it be if Martyn and the rest of the knights were unable to navigate it themselves?
Martyn tried to ask once. He approached Ren after he’d emerged from the caves, looking just as tired as his knights from all the digging. He caught his King before he was about to take a break, and asked if they should make a map of the tunnels they’ve already got.
“We don’t need a physical map, my Hand,” Ren said. “It could fall into the wrong hands too easily. No, we’ll know our way. We’ll know the tunnels intimately.”
“You’re right, m’Lord,” Martyn conceded. Ren made a good point; one Martyn hadn’t thought about. At least one of them still appeared to be sharp after what must’ve been a week of straight digging.
It wasn’t the end of it, though. More tunnels still needed to be dug. The enchanter must be kept safe.
Ren hadn’t come to the surface today.
Martyn, in a rare moment of rest, could not find it. He’d gotten used to the grime on his hands, reminding him that each moment spent above ground was a moment lost. The sky was caught in that moment between day and night, where the darker blues and reds of the sunset created a beautiful painting that Martyn could not enjoy. Not while his conscience remained clean. To watch it, after all, was to feel the air and fall in love with the colors and be outside of the tunnels that have yet to be dug.
Construction had halted a little. The initial push was nothing more than that. With every passing day, fewer tunnels were created. The enthusiasm of those who dug - with the exception of Ren and Martyn - was waning. He still smiled at Skizz and BigB and Etho, though they barely responded to him and barely dug with the same vigor as before. He hadn’t seen Etho in a while, but Skizz and BigB still volunteered their time and efforts. They were not as often around as Martyn and Ren would have hoped, but they helped. Martyn hadn’t told Ren yet that Etho hadn’t come in two days.
He hadn’t seen Ren all day.
The King was likely below the ground. He barely spent any time on the surface anyway, these days. The labyrinth of tunnels had become his home, and the enchanter was kept safe within them.
Ren is fine, Martyn tried to tell himself. He can take care of himself. Still, the nagging in the back of his mind was ceaseless. His concerns for his king, which had only increased tenfold after Ren turned red, could not be ignored or swept aside. He had to have come up at some point, right? At the very least to eat? Even if he brought some snacks down with him - Martyn would do the same - those snacks would run out eventually. Ren would show his face.
Martyn would feel better if he could just see his King’s face. To make sure he was alright.
With a deep sigh, he pushed himself onto his feet and walked over to the entrance of the tunnels. He’d entered so many times that the sight barely surprised him anymore. Not that anything needed to surprise, but the associated feelings lingered. They were difficult to shake off when you left the tunnels and eager to attach themselves to anyone who entered.
Martyn shouldn’t be so anxious. He knew these tunnels; he’d dug some of them himself. It was difficult to tell what was his handiwork and what was someone else’s, but it all served the same purpose. All he needed to do was to locate where Ren would be.
He’d gotten used to the way his footsteps didn’t echo, how his eyes almost refused to get used to the darkness that surrounded him. He’d gotten used to how it all looked extremely similar and purposefully misleading. He wanted to believe he knew where his feet were taking him, but that might just put too much trust in his instincts. Instincts did not seem to matter below the surface, for they actively tried to swallow those who would come in with evil intentions.
Martyn had no evil intentions. Yet, he could almost feel the hostility ooze from the walls, fighting against one of its staunchest creators.
The tunnels had never felt this oppressive.
He turned a corner. He could have sworn he walked past this intersection before. He could have sworn he had walked out of this tunnel on the right and then continued down to the left. He could have sworn that this particular passage would lead him right back to the surface - it led him to a dead end instead.
He placed his hand on the left-hand wall and started to follow it. If all else failed, he could always return to that point. If it could even return him.
It was too easy to lose track of time. Too easy to lose track of the surroundings. He’d helped dig these tunnels, damn it, he should know where to go. He should know how to find Ren.
He should know how to find the way out.
You’re never getting out of here.
Martyn stopped in his tracks, leaned against the wall with his back. A solid surface to keep him from falling, to help him catch his breath, to help him center himself. Yet, every time he opened his eyes, he was back in the tunnels and reminded how he was still stuck below the surface. He couldn’t even quell his fears with the notion that if he was lost, his enemies would be even more lost.
Something gripped his heart. As though the walls themselves pierced through his flesh and skin to wrap itself around his heart and squeeze it as tightly as it could. It became more difficult to breathe and to open his eyes would be to lose the battle.
A firm hand grasped his shoulder. Martyn flinched away, but the hand was relentless.
“Breathe, my Hand!” A familiar voice said. “Breathe…”
“Ren?” Martyn opened his eyes. He was sitting and looked up at his King. In the unnatural darkness of this labyrinth, he almost looked like he belonged. The sunglasses obscured his eyes. It must be a trick of the eye, that the crown on his head still seemed to drip some blood.
Instantly, Martyn jumped to his feet. He wrapped his arms around his King for just a second, before he remembered his place. Still trying to catch his breath, he nodded at his lord. “I’m so glad to see you. “
“Is everything alright?” The King asked, giving Martyn’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Are there threats?”
“No threats.” Martyn shook his head. “I was… I was just looking for you. Was a little concerned, ‘s all.”
Now, he didn’t need to be concerned at all. While he allowed panic to enter his heart, Ren had been able to find him. Martyn had long since stopped questioning how Ren was able to see in this darkness with those sunglasses. Ren had spent more time in the tunnels than all of his knights combined - if anyone knew how to navigate it like the back of his hand, it would be the King himself.
“You needn’t worry about me. I’m quite good down here,” The King said with a comforting voice. “Come.”
His hand moved from Ren’s shoulder to his back. A firm hand, yet gentle, that slowly pushed him away from the wall. So, they walked through this tunnel.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going back to the surface,” The King said. “Rest, my Hand. Then return. There’s work to do.”
Martyn could only nod. “Of course.”
He could feel how Ren’s nails dug into his back.
Ren squinted in the sunlight.
Martyn had seen it happen, once. Even with his sunglasses, Martyn could see his brow furrow and Ren’s hand go up instinctively to shield himself from the sun. Ren caught himself and pretended he just had to scratch his head. He said nothing to Martyn. Likely, he assumed his Hand would let it slide.
He assumed correctly. That didn’t mean Martyn instantly forgot about it.
These days, precious little distracted him from the very necessary work of expanding the tunnel network. They grew quieter and quieter by the day, as did Dogwarts itself. It’s been two weeks since they last saw Etho. BigB hadn’t shown up in a while. Skizz, bless his soul, had continued to visit, but Martyn had noticed the interval between visits was growing. So far, Skizz hadn’t been declared an enemy yet, as Etho and BigB had been.
Above the ground, the sun haunted Martyn and reminded him he should not be here. Below the surface, the tunnel clung to him and distrusted him. It had gotten to the point where Ren had to accompany him in and out. No matter how much Martyn tried to create his own internal map, he failed. Perhaps the exhaustion pressed on him; it had been doing so since the fourth day. Perhaps the tunnels themselves disallowed him this knowledge. Ren occasionally checked up on him to see if he needed to return to the surface.
Martyn caught Ren squinting and said nothing.
The King had been tired. Martyn wasn’t certain how he convinced his lord to sleep in his bed for once, but he’d managed. Now, the King lay atop the sheets of his bed, sleeping in the shack where the enchanter once stood. He’d even moved the bed to be in the exact position where the enchanter used to be before it was moved below.
Of course Ren squints. He’s been below the surface more often than he had been in direct sunlight since the plan to protect the enchanter has been put in place. He was the only one who knew exactly where it was located, and Martyn would wander hopelessly until thirst, hunger, and exhaustion caught up with him.
Ren had never been paler. Had never complained. So neither should Martyn.
Even one breath of dissent could make Dogwarts fall at this point.
Even so, Martyn ought not have these thoughts. Thoughts that did not befall the Hand of the King. Thoughts that should be dispelled at once.
Thoughts that kept creeping up, no matter how often he reminded himself of his loyalty to the crown and the King. The itch in his hands, the blood stains on the altar, proved his loyalty. It had eternally bound them together. So why was there a voice in the back of his mind that tried to tear them apart.
Ren was asleep. He wouldn’t know.
From one of the chests, Martyn grabbed a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. It felt strange to hold parchment again. His hands were caked with dirt and grime that likely would never be able to be washed off at this point. The quill sat uncomfortably in his hands and the ink pot was almost empty. Yet, Martyn had to do something.
So he wrote.
He barely read what he wrote; he barely looked at the words on the paper, blasphemous as they were. Yet he wrote and wrote until he no longer felt the need to write.
Martyn paused. Read over the words on the parchment.
Nearly everyone I spoke to has completely abandoned the cause – even Skizz is starting to stay away. I think Ren’s gone perhaps a little bit mad, but I can’t share that with anyone. If they smell weakness, then Dogwarts is as good as dead. If Ren thinks my loyalty’s faltering, it’s all lost either way.
He just won’t stop. Nothing any of us do is enough to keep the enchanter safe. I am barely able to find my way out of the tunnels without him anymore. I can’t sleep without concern, knowing what’s below the surface. I keep hearing things around the corner and footsteps behind me when I dig. During those sleepless nights, I think about leaving it all behind, but then I see how desperate and scared he is without me. And I remember why I swore loyalty on that altar in the first place.
It’s just us now. Us and the enchanter hidden in those godforsaken tunnels.
What was he thinking, writing all of this down?
Nothing. He wasn’t thinking at all.
Of course Ren demanded absolute loyalty. It was the one thing that protected the enchanter. Everyone who’d left was not loyal enough and internally declared an enemy. Martyn was supposed to kill Etho and BigB on sight, as with all their enemies. He hadn’t had the chance to obey that command yet.
Of course Martyn was hearing things in the tunnels. Either Ren was shuffling down there nearby, or Martyn allowed his exhaustion to overtake his senses and make him believe the tunnels were aware of his presence and wanted to swallow him.
Of course Martyn could never leave. The thought in itself was blasphemous - Ren did not deserve it. If there was one person Ren trusted unconditionally, it was Martyn. They were bound by blood. Ren needed Martyn - but Martyn needed Ren, too. Why else would he have agreed to separate head from body? A vow made through actions.
Martyn couldn’t leave if he wanted to. At least these words may allow his mind to focus on what was actually important.
Martyn just made a mistake. He incriminated himself. He had to get rid of the evidence.
His stomach rumbled.
Martyn walked over to a furnace, taking some pieces of pork. He placed the parchment among a few pieces of wood and lit the fire. The pieces of pork slowly cooked, but Martyn barely paid attention to the meat. Instead, he watched the parchment curl up and catch flame, slowly turning to ash.
After a while, he could feel movement behind him. The scent had awoken Ren.
The parchment had already been consumed by the flames.
Martyn silently offered his King one piece of pork, while he ate the other.
The tunnels provided shelter.
The desert folk had initiated an assault. They waited for Martyn and Ren to be out of the tunnels. They attacked on all fronts. Martyn only got grazed by a stray arrow - Ren was the focus of their attacks. When Martyn looked over, an arrow was stuck in his side and he was engaging in melee.
“To the tunnels!” Ren shouted.
Martyn obliged and rushed to the tunnel entrance. Before he descended, he looked back. He ran back to Ren - he limped, his movement speed reduced - pulled one of his King’s arms over his shoulder, and pulled him down with him, into the tunnels.
Their footsteps echoed on the stone. For a moment, Martyn could hear more in the distance, but they died down. It seemed the tunnels’ reputation preceded them. Their enemies did not pursue them any further, and Martyn and Ren could venture deeper without fear of being chased.
Already, Martyn forgot how deep he had gone and which turns he’d taken.
Martyn saw a piece of the tunnels he recognized - a long stretch without any twists and turns. Or perhaps it merely looked familiar to him. In the middle of this tunnel, Ren stumbled and collapsed, nearly dragging Martyn down with him.
“My liege?” Martyn placed Ren leaning against the wall. His breathing was labored, his body limp. The arrow stuck out from his side and blood trickled from the wound onto his clothes and onto the ground.
Martyn ripped off a piece of his shirt, placing it over Ren’s shoulder for the time being. He grasped the shaft of the arrow and took a breath.
“I’m sorry, m’lord,” he muttered before he pulled the arrow out. He immediately applied pressure on the wound and applied the piece of cloth as a bandage in place. In addition, he poured a healing potion into Ren’s mouth. It stopped the bleeding, but it did not wake him.
Pulling out the arrow yielded no reaction, either.
Martyn placed his hand on Ren’s shoulder. “M’lord?”
No response.
“M’lord? Ren? Please wake up. You’re…”
You’re the only one who knows how to get out of these damned tunnels.
He looked at either side of the tunnel. Martyn was certain he came from the right. So why was he questioning even that basic fact?
A shiver ran down his spine.
He couldn’t go anywhere. Not without Ren. Not without losing his way. So Martyn sat down next to him and talked. Complimented Ren’s rule. Denounced their enemies. Spoke of all the things he remembered doing back on the surface. Reminisced about the night that Ren became red - the night that bound them forevermore.
His hands itched. When he looked at Ren, his gaze was drawn to the thin scar on his neck; a leftover from respawn. Now, accompanied by dried blood splatter. That wasn’t there before.
His throat had gone hoarse.
How long had he been down here? It was always difficult to tell. His voice didn’t often go hoarse, so he assumed he must’ve been talking for a long time. Ren hadn’t woken up yet.
They needed food and water.
Would their enemies be waiting at the entrance.? If they were smart, perhaps they would. They were desert folks, however, so Martyn doubted they had the patience. They likely had vacated Dogwarts by this point, allowing Martyn to return to the surface and grab the necessary supplies.
Ren hadn’t woken up yet.
If anyone would be safe in these tunnels, it would be Ren. He knew these tunnels better than anyone. Martyn had relied on his expertise the last few days, barely able to make it back on his own. Right now, he didn’t have any other choice but to do so. If only to find his way back to the surface so he can get those supplies back to Ren.
“I won't be long,” he told his King. “If anything, you’ll find me before I find the exit.”
His attempt at a joke fell flat. The walls seemed to silently mock him for it.
“Right.” He straightened his back. “I’ll be back.”
Martyn turned around and, with a heavy heart, walked away from Ren.
He could do this. He was certain of it. He’d been able to find his way back before. Yes, fewer tunnels existed back then, but he was certain that if he found his way to one of those, he’d be able to return to the surface. He just needed to find one of those tunnels and he was out of here.
Only to return for Ren.
He wouldn’t have to return for Ren. His king was a tough man; one arrow wouldn’t fell him. If Martyn did make it out of there of his own accord, Ren would likely be waiting on the surface for him. Martyn wouldn’t be going back into those tunnels without Ren, conscious and alive, at his side. He made that vow to himself.
He frowned when he came upon Ren again. He must’ve taken a wrong turn, then. That was quite likely to happen.
“I’m not back. I’ve just made a loop. Could you point me the right way from here?”
Ren remained unconscious. Martyn nodded.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ll be right back.”
The first time he had to make a decision between tunnels, he took the option he hadn’t taken before. The pattern of the tunnels seemed be different, so he was going… well, a different direction than before. That had to be a positive development.
He walked past the way down.
It was a narrow hallway, even narrower than the tunnels were. If these tunnels were dark, then those awaiting below were pitch black. They seemed to swallow any light, perceived or otherwise, and sent shivers down Martyn’s spine. below, in a labyrinth that Martyn was not familiar with at all, stood the enchanter.
The enchanter was the reason these damned tunnels existed. The enchanter was the reason why Ren spiraled and why Martyn enabled him to. The enchanter was the reason why everyone else abandoned the cause.
“Not today, thank you,” Martyn said as he passed by the way down.
Around the next corner, Ren sat slumped against the wall in the middle of a long hallway.
Martyn turned around to look back to where he came from - that hadn’t always been there, had it? It must’ve been. He must’ve been too deep in thought to notice the first time he passed by.
“Don’t judge me,” he told the body as he passed by and took another turn than the two previous ones.
He passed by Ren for the fifteenth time.
Was it the fifteenth time? Martyn had lost count. He’d wandered these tunnels enough. He’d gone through every possible passage, likely passed through the whole labyrinth on this level, and still he had missed the one tunnel that would lead him outside.
He took a break a few times. He’d sit down and lean his head against the rough-hewn stones. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear steel against stone ringing in his ear. When he wrung his hands, he could feel the dirt caked to his skin. Each breath seemed to suffocate him more and more and the tunnels seemed to press against him violently.
Whenever he opened his eyes again, he could have sworn the tunnels looked differently.
He passed by Ren for the eighteenth time.
A small rock on the ground became his companion. He carved into the walls on his right as he walked through them. It would help him, he convinced himself. This would allow him to see where he had gone before and to know that the routes he’d marked led him nowhere.
He diligently marked every corner, every intersection. Every place that he could potentially find his way back to. One that, his mind told him, he would pass by again. He’d long since given up arguing with that tired voice in the back of his head that had already surrendered to the tunnels. So long as his feet had soles and his legs could support him, Martyn would push forward.
Mindlessly, he marched on. All his motions became automatic.
He glanced behind him once. The sight of a mark on one of the load-bearing wooden beams - out of sight unless he specifically looked behind him - nearly broke his mind.
He passed by Ren for the twenty-sixth time.
His King hadn’t moved at all. He still remained in that same position. The blood where the arrow had pierced him refused to heal. The blood in the wound refused to coagulate.
Martyn squatted next to him.
“It’s not funny anymore.”
His throat was coarse, his voice raspy. He hadn’t spoken in so long.
He placed a hand on Ren’s shoulder and shook it. Nothing happened.
“Wake up!” His voice did not echo, as though the tunnels suppressed the noises he made. “Ren, please. You’ve got to wake up. I have to get out of here and I can’t find my way and–” He took a labored breath. “I need you.”
The potion in his pocket never weighed heavier.
Screw it. This might help him.
Martyn took the potion - a potion of health - and fed it to Ren. He didn’t swallow. Hopefully it didn’t end up in Ren’s lungs. Although, even that could help elicit a reaction.
Martyn would do anything for any reaction.
He waited. His gaze drifted to the neck, to the wrists. He refused to touch them. The possibility of no heartbeat terrified him more than the ravenous darkness that kept him trapped. Ren did not move. Did not stir. Did he breathe? He must be. How was his stomach not growling like Martyn’s?
How was Martyn’s stomach not growling?
He passed by Ren for the thirty-seventh time.
Numbers. Those would keep him sane. A sequence that ever ascends. Unlike the previous marks, they could provide a timeline. His time in the dungeons - what meaning did time even hold at this point?
One, two, three, four, and so on. With the same rock, he carved into stone and wood. Sometimes where he had previously marked it, sometimes whenever he needed to count up.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. The pattern was familiar. It steadied his breathing and calmed his heart.
Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five. He hadn’t found Ren yet. That was something.
Four hundred and sixty-three.
Martyn stared at the number. He hadn’t gone that high yet.
Still, it stared at him. Four, six, three. Not clean, but messy and carved into the stone. It had the same consistency as the others. It was his handwriting.
Four hundred and sixty-three.
Martyn carved through the number until it was no longer visible.
Around the next corner, one hundred and thirty-five awaited him.
He passed by Ren for the fifty-first time.
The sound of rain taunted him.
He could hear it - the pitter-patter of raindrops on the grounds, potentially mere feet above him. He chased the noise. Tried to find where it came from. A dead end blocked his path.
He tore at the stone. His nails broke. Droplets of blood dripped to the ground. He screamed, begged to be let out. From furious shouts to a pitiful wail to sobs. He had shed all tears days ago.
Nothing but dirt, stone, and ruined hands.
The rain continued to taunt him.
Ren’s body was gone.
The blood against the wall had refused to dry for as long as Ren was present. It was dry now - as though it had been there for years. Nothing else indicated a corpse had sat there.
Not a corpse. Ren was not a corpse.
He walked. What else could he do? He’d already run and rushed and raced and trudged and stumbled. So he walked and walked and walked and walked and walked.
The entrance to the lower levels appeared on his left.
He’d always ignored it. He’d always walked past. This time, he stopped. He stared into a darkness his eyes had not yet adjusted to.
A faint voice called him. It vaguely sounded like his King. No discernable words, just a quiet plea.
Martyn descended.
The tunnels were narrower. He couldn’t spread out his arms. He had to squeeze through certain sections.
The darkness weighed heavier. It poured into his heart, gripped his lungs. Yet, he pushed forward. There was only forward. No way back.
Suffocating. Even more so than above. He was feeling woozy. His legs carried him because he could not stop. He could not rest. He should not rest. It only did more harm than good. He walked sections of it with closed eyes.
He walked around with closed eyes. That was easier.
Blood. The smell in his nose, its taste on his tongue. His foot in a small puddle.
A trail of blood. Easy to follow. Such a luxury to have a goal again.
His footsteps sounded different. They echoed weirdly. He opened his eyes - wood. Stairs, spiraling down. A hum coming from below, a tug he could not ignore.
He wasn’t thinking. He just walked. Step after step, descending.
He walked around with closed eyes. That was easier.
One hand against the wall, down the stairs. Careful steps. Might’ve missed a few. Didn’t fall, though.
That hum, that draw, louder and louder. A tremor in his hand. Irregular breaths. Getting dizzy. A voice, ever-distant, a quiet plea.
Wood to stone. A wall stretches away from hands. Open space. That hum, here. That draw, present. That voice, comforting.
A fluttering of light.
The enchanter.
Eyes open.