On and on they came. The giant crow watched imperiously from its perch, occasionally taking to the sky and circling around Lyle, while he battled the dead on a steady retreat.
“It would be nice if this hall were a little thinner,” he said through gritted teeth as he sliced a ghoul into pieces. His current sickle broke in the process, and he swore as he dodged backwards to avoid another ghoul’s rusty sword. If the hallway had been a little thinner, only one would be able to come at him at a time. As it was, they squeezed themselves together and forced themselves towards him with a desperate ferocity. Two or three at a time were able to claw at him.
Lyle was taking slow steps backward to avoid being overwhelmed. He needed a new weapon. As another sword came swinging towards him, he grabbed a torch off the wall and slammed it into the ghoul’s face. It jerked, and its strike slowed just enough for him to catch its arm and pry the sword from it. He got a slice from a sickle from a mummy across his own arm for his trouble, but he came away from the exchange with a weapon.
He slashed and hacked away, all the while continuing his slow retreat and accumulating minor cuts. It was impossible to block or dodge all of the plethora of attacks. He made a pattern of striking forward to cut down one or two of them, then leaping back to avoid their blades. It worked well, and he was reducing their numbers steadily, until he heard a whoosh overhead, a shadow winging its way from his left to his right. His next step backwards had him bumping into a newly risen wall, and there was nowhere else to go.
Lyle swore again and went on the defensive. It was impossible to tell how many were left with the way they crowded the hall, and individually they were weak, but in such numbers… it was all he could do to protect himself from the most dire of wounds. He forced his back into a corner, giving the undead fewer angles to attack from, and lashed out. An enemy fell, but another took its place.
Using his blade, fist, and feet to strike out and defend himself, Lyle was able to prevent them from simply piling onto him, but every minute cost him another cut, and they were relentless. They crawled over the bodies of their compatriots and died at his hands, but never gave him a moment of rest. He lost track of time as he gave in completely to his instincts.
It became easier when the bodies began to pile up. The undead had to clamber over them, putting them off-balance and giving Lyle easy openings. He pressed forward when he saw this happening, not giving them a moment to catch themselves, and cut down three more ghouls and a mummy. A ghoul’s fist caught him in the ribs, its claws cutting shallow grooves in his skin, but he shrugged off the pain and pushed on, whirling and striking until, finally, he was the only thing moving.
Lyle slumped to the floor, balancing on one knee and using a broken sickle like a cane to prop himself up. The sword he’d taken from the ghoul an eternity ago had long since shattered, and following that he’d broken a sickle and another sword and chipped this sickle all to hell. All the ghouls and mummies were dead, but he’d taken numerous cuts to every extremity and even a couple across his face. His ribs ached from bludgeoning blows and his heavy exertion, each deep breath sending shooting pains through his torso. To compensate, he tried to keep his breathing shallow, hoping he would be able to breathe normally again soon. Now, he was exhausted, and he still had to face the enormous crow.
After a minute to catch his breath, he picked his way over the remnants of the undead creatures and back out into the open space. Immediately, he was forced to duck back into the hallway to avoid the crow’s sideways dive. It missed, but the wind pulled at him with the force of the crow’s passing, and he dove forwards to get into the middle of the space so he would have room to maneuver. He couldn’t take any longer to rest. He had to keep up his momentum, or all the adrenaline that was keeping him going would leave his system and he would be helpless.
Lyle pushed himself off the floor and into a halfway balanced fighting stance. He wondered how long it had been since he’d slept. What time was it in the outside world? It was impossible to tell in the constant dark of the maze, but he knew he was tired when death almost sounded like rest.
The crow strafed him, and Lyle sliced at it and missed, forced to dodge to one side. He attempted to cudgel his brain into forming some kind of plan to take it down. Again, it came at him with its wings wide, and he ducked. His sickle brushed against its feathers, but it came away no worse for wear. He had to ground it somehow.
On the ground and in the passage behind him were scattered rusted swords, sickles, and even a couple of scythes. He grabbed the nearest sword and threw it directly at the crow, forcing it to swerve and give him some small respite to grab another and prepare himself for the next pass. He was forced to move back towards the hall to have more weapons at hand. That gave him less room, but at least he wouldn’t run out of blades.
With a cracked sword in one hand and a sickle in another, Lyle focused on the crow and screamed out his defiance, daring it to attack again. It obliged instantly, wheeling around and rushing directly at him, parallel with the wall. He shuffled towards the center of the room so he would be able to dodge in either direction, and it adjusted its trajectory to keep its sharp beak aimed directly at his face..
Then it was upon him. Lyle sidestepped it again, and he was accustomed to its speed now. He held both his blades up and struck downwards, directly into the edge of its wing. A piercing cry sounded as the crow crashed to the ground. Lyle hadn’t been able to cut off its wing, but he seemed to have at least broken it.
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He advanced on it cautiously as it wriggled and squirmed, flapping its good wing and pushing against the ground with its head to struggle back to its feet. The broken wing hung impotently at its side. It turned on him, murder in its fiery green eyes.
And grew.
The crow quickly doubled in size, then tripled. It was soon staring down at him, having grown to nearly three times his height. Lyle’s mouth hung open as he watched it explode in mass, but he was forced to refocus as it hopped forward. All the crow had to do now was step on him and he would be crushed into paste.
Lyle threw himself backwards and narrowly avoided cracking his head on the stone floors. He got to his feet and sprinted for the altar. A deafening screech shook the world, and he frantically ran his fingers over the glowing stone’s surface in the hope that it would activate an exit or finish the labyrinth or something, but his efforts were in vain. Despite the stone’s glow, it remained completely inert.
The bird advanced on him again. Thankfully, it had become slower as its body grew more unwieldy, so he could easily keep up with it. It was small comfort, though, since he was still exhausted and one good hit from the claws or beak would certainly reduce his bones to dust.
He stood again and hopped onto the pedestal, not giving the monster time to consider him before he did the unexpected.
With a great leap and a shout, he flew through the air, stabbing his weapons forward as he neared the fifteen foot crow. Both blades lodged in its breast and he let go, dropping to the floor and stumbling until he found his balance.
The bird screeched and reared back, trying to pull the blades out with its beak and claws, but it couldn’t reach them. Its good wing flapped around angrily and a wind rose, buffeting Lyle.
He sprinted again to the open passage and grabbed two more weapons from the ground. They were both sickles, and despite the crow’s thrashing, he ran forward to slam them into its side. They lodged underneath the broken wing and Lyle narrowly evaded a well-aimed stomp that would have certainly ended him. Then he repeated the process.
Within moments, the monstrous crow was looking like a pincushion and its movements were slowing.
One unbroken weapon remained on the ground—a scythe. Lyle dashed over to it and grasped the haft. With a wide, sweeping stroke, he laid open the throat of his final enemy.
It struggled to breathe as it stumbled around before finally crashing down in a heap.
Everything fell still. Lyle breathed heavily, still looking around warily for other enemies, but only bodies on the ground and the walls of this prison stared back at him. A larger cloud of the dust he had noticed from the ghouls rose from the dead crow and flashed white before burning away like mist in the morning sun.
The round, glowing stone on the pedestal began to slowly spin. It created the grating sounds of stone on stone and interrupted the post-fight stillness, startling Lyle. He walked over to it and noticed a handprint now set into the top as it came to a stop. He looked at it askance, hoping it wouldn’t cut his hand off or something like that, but he had a feeling this was the way out.
So he put his hand on the print.
Pain seared his palm, and Lyle yelled with surprise, but couldn’t pull his hand away as some unseen force held him there. It was like holding his hand in burning coals. He desperately yanked at the stuck hand with the other, but the stone wouldn’t release him.
He swore and tried to pull again, but he suddenly couldn’t move at all. The pain faded, and a faint distortion in the air surrounded him. A Tear, like the one from Tiamat’s gift, enveloped him, and the world spun.
A moment later, Lyle found himself back in his bedroom. He immediately inspected his hand, but it was unmarred. He sighed with relief and picked up the cube on the ground, carefully stowing it in his dresser. Better not to deal with that thing again for a while. Then he looked at the clock. It was six thirty in the morning.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he said to himself. He was filthy, wounded, and ready to drop. And his sister would be up any minute.
So he took the fastest shower of his life. Unfortunately, just as he was dashing back to his room with only the towel, Helen’s door opened.
“Lyle? What are you doing up?”
“Uh… just, uh—late night wi—”
“Oh my God, Lyle!” she whispered, her eyes flying wide open as the last vestiges of sleep fled. “What happened to your arms? And face! Holy shit, are you okay?”
“Helen, shh, shh, I’m fine,” he said, stepping surreptitiously towards his room and holding a finger to his lips. “Please don’t mention this to mom. I’ll explain everything later, but nothing’s the matter and no one’s in danger. And no, I didn’t do this to myself. But I really need to sleep now.”
Helen didn’t look convinced and she was slowly walking towards him, hands out as if to catch him should he fall.
“Everything’s fine,” Lyle repeated. She nodded but still looked very concerned. “Helen, go to school. I promise I’m okay and nothing’s wrong.”
She stopped and studied him for a minute.
“Alright,” Helen finally said. “But you owe me an explanation.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he replied.
“Do you need any… I don’t know, bandaids?” she asked.
“I’ve got some medical tape and bandages in my room, and most of them are really small anyway. Go on, I’ll talk to you later. I’m probably gonna sleep for a while then I have the party tonight, so if I’m not awake when you get home, just give me a shake and I’ll explain. Please, please don’t say anything to mom. Not yet.”
“Alright, Lyle,” she said. “I’m gonna worry all day, though.”
“Seriously, there’s nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. “Bit of a mishap, I guess. I’m gonna go to sleep now. See you this afternoon.”
She nodded, finally releasing him back into the safety and security of his room. At least, relative safety and security. Lyle hoped another Tear wouldn’t appear from the little wooden cube without his input. He put it in the opposite corner from his bed, just to be safe.
He hadn’t lied about the medical tape and bandages, but as soon as he touched his bed, he was out like a light.