Part 1: The Descent

It had been ages since they'd fed the labyrinth. Not just anyone was given over to the dark. The labyrinth was reserved for only the very worst criminals: murderers, cannibals, mad men. And sorcerers. You didn't get many sorcerers these days.

It had been so long that the villagers had nearly forgotten the labyrinth existed. The entrance was still there, cracked and mossy with age. The path was untended and treacherous. Any grass that grew around it came up yellow and dry. The whole world saw it as a place of death.

Dawn came. The villagers roused themselves with a shudder. After years of peace, someone had broken the quiet. Someone would finally be turned over to the labyrinth. Not just have a hand cut off, not just be hanged or beaten, but consumed.

The criminal in question was a painter once. He had no family, no name, no past. Once, the villagers had seen him as a harmless novelty. He was friendly with the children. He had a pet hound that followed him everywhere. But even the most beautiful roses have their thorns.

When they took him from the cart, there was a ripple of remorse for his youth. The villagers remembered when he had done nothing but smile. The painter was pulled from the cart like a rag doll and thrown on the ground, where he didn't move. He just lay with his face in the dirt, arms splayed.

"This man has been found guilty of sorcery," the bailiff announced. His voice echoed in the dawn silence. The villagers blew on their fingers. It was cold. "He shall be given over to the darkness for his sins." The bailiff toed the painter with his boot. "Any last words?"

Slowly, the painter raised his head. His mismatched eyes scanned the crowd. He got to his knees and rocked back on his heels. He stared at the ground for a while, then he lifted his chin and said, in a voice that trembled noticeably, "I have no regrets."

There were murmurs. No one would have ever suspected the true measure of the man's wickedness. The bailiff grabbed his arm and dragged him to the entrance of the labyrinth. If the air outside was cold, the breath of the maze was even colder. The painter shivered. For a moment, he was framed within the mouth of the cave, so very small in comparison. And then the bailiff let go. The painter tumbled into the black without a cry. Everyone waited, breath held. Nothing happened.

Slowly, the crowd broke and the villagers returned to their daily lives, relieved to be rid of such a terrible man. There were some who muttered about how kind he had been, that perhaps there had been a mistake. But there was nothing doing now. He was at the mercy of the labyrinth.

Putata lay at the bottom of a steep, slick slope, his mouth filled with sand. He sat up, spitting and wiping his face. His knees were already black with whatever foul slime coated the way down. The air in the maze was icy and smelled, predictably, of death. Not rotting, but stale and unmoving. Putata coughed.

Last night, he'd sobbed his heart out. He'd even prayed to the gods. Now that he was in the labyrinth, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He knew that people were devoured by whatever lived in the maze, or they went mad, or died of thirst or any number of things. Perhaps some of them wandered into ravines. Putata didn't like to wait for anything, especially not death. If he was going to die, he was going to walk right into it, head held high.

Even though he considered himself brave, Putata found it hard to go into the dark. He couldn't see anything. His hand was a vague shadow in front of him. He pawed for a wall, for anything. His foot struck something. What felt like a bone crunched beneath his boot.

Is this what it's like to be blind? Putata's hand found the wall. It was smooth, worn down by many hands before his. Countless convicts. Endless victims. He had heard that the ancients constructed the maze to be unsolvable. There was no exit, save for the one that lay about thirty feet above his head. His throat constricted.

The floor seemed to be lightly covered with sand, judging by the sound his footsteps made. It was so cold. Putata was wearing what he had worn last week, when they'd come for him in the middle of the night. He counted himself lucky that they hadn't been pulled from his bed. He wished he'd had the foresight to wear a cloak. His teeth were chattering. Was it possible that some of the victims had frozen to death?

He heard a scuttling noise. Putata stopped. There were so many stories about the labyrinth that included monsters. Putata swallowed. Because no one had ever seen them, no one could ever describe them, but the general assumption was that they were eldritch abominations. Putata had visions of tentacles and jaws and claws and red eyes. His knees felt weak. It was one thing to embrace death in the labyrinth. It was another to let yourself be eaten.

Putata knelt, running his hand along the ground in search of a weapon. He was hoping to find a heavy rock. I'm not dying without putting up a fight. His hand closed around something thin. Putata tested the end with his finger. It was sharp. Couldn't be a weapon. They confiscated all of your weapons before you went to prison.

The scuttling stopped. Putata froze. Then he heard footsteps. His grip tightened on the make shift weapon. He rose to his feet, straining to hear how close the steps were. It was hard to tell. The tunnels twisted the sound every which way. Putata turned his head this way and that in an attempt to pinpoint the source.

Just like that, the noise stopped. Putata held his breath. When it didn't return, he let it out. Whatever it was, it had left him alone. He took a few tentative steps forward.

"Not that way. It's a dead end."

Putata spun around. The voice had been very...human. And masculine. A trickle of cold sweat ran down his back. "Who's there?" he rasped. His voice echoed slightly.

"I'm behind you."

Putata turned again, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't make out a thing. It was possible he was already going mad. They said that you heard strange things in the maze. Screams and that sort of thing. But this sounded like a real voice, close by and echoing. "Who are you? Are you a spirit?"

"No." The voice seemed displeased. "I'm nobody."

"Come where I can see you."

"You can't see me. Your eyes aren't made for darkness."

Putata swallowed. His throat was dry as a desert. He tried to laugh. It only made him feel slightly better. "I'm hearing voices. It's only been five minutes and I'm going insane."

"I'm not from your mind," the voice replied. "I don't think you're insane yet. The others cried and gibbered a lot more. You're still forming sentences."

Putata paused. "Others? Other criminals?"

"I don't know about that. There were people here if that's what you're asking."

He hesitated. If this voice wasn't a product of his imagination, that meant someone had survived the labyrinth, which was impossible. No one, no matter how strong or powerful they had been, ever survived the labyrinth. There was no water, no food. The darkness was said to drive you mad, until the monsters in your mind hunted you down. Or the real ones did.

"How long have you been here?" Putata asked.

"I've lost count." There was a scuffling as the owner of the voice moved. "It's been a long time since someone from outside came here. The last one died..." The voice trailed off.

"The last person to be thrown into the labyrinth was a woman who murdered her sister," Putata said, digging through his magpie-nest mind for the bits and pieces of stories he'd heard during his time in the village. "That would be about ten years ago."

"Oh. She was always calling someone's name and crying. I had no idea. I tried to help her, but she had been here too long." The voice sounded sad. "There's water and food here, if you know how to find it. But no one ever does." He sighed. "I've tried to help, whenever there's someone new. It's lonely down here."

Putata could only imagine what it must be like to spend years in the darkness. He'd been in only a few minutes and he wanted to scream and claw his way back to the surface. No wonder so many went mad. It suffocated you.

"When were you taken here?" he asked.

"I've always been here."

This gave Putata pause. Was it possible for a child to be born into the labyrinth? If a pregnant woman was thrown in, yes...but the chances of survival for a baby were slim. He had heard of children given this sentence. Maybe the voice was one of those. It didn't sound promising. Anyone who'd been in the darkness that long was probably insane.

"Why are you here?" the voice asked. "What did you do?"

Putata wondered if the voice would even understand. He'd probably never seen a drawing before in his life. To keep it simple, he said, "I'm a sorcerer."

"I don't understand. How is that a crime?"

Putata shrugged, remembered that it was pitch black and said, "Magic is wrong. It's evil. I tried to hide it, not to use it. But it wants to be used. That's why I'm here."

"The outside is a strange place. They condemn you for something you can't control, something that you are. You can't change yourself anymore than time can stop passing."

When put like that, Putata felt even more wronged than before. His chest felt hollow. "Some people are born bad. Some people are born monsters."

The voice went quiet. It was silent so long that Putata thought it had moved on. But soon it was back. "I'm sure. There have been a lot of monsters put down here. If it's worth anything, you don't seem like one."

Putata smiled. His face felt sore and disused. "That's kind of you."

"I don't think you deserve to be here."

"Probably not, but there's nothing I can do to change that now." The smile slipped. He would never see the sky again. He would never paint again. The hollowness in his chest spread. "I'd hoped that things would be different for me, that I could live peacefully. I guess it's over now. Up there, I said I didn't have any regrets. And I don't."

The voice whispered, "What was you magic like?"

"I brought things to life."

"Can you do it now?"

Putata shook his head. "It's too dark. I need to draw a picture of what I want to bring to life. If there was a light..."

"There's no light down here," the voice said sadly. It sounded so desolate that Putata's heart ached for it. "There is a spring, though. You need water. I can lead you to it."

The thought of water lifted Putata's spirits. "You would?"

"I told you I was lonely. I would hate for you to die. Follow the sound of my voice." Putata heard the voice's footsteps begin to fade off to his right. He hurried to keep up, still clutching his weapon, praying that they wouldn't run into any monsters on the way to the spring. He also hoped that this wasn't just a dream or a trap. Putata didn't know if will o' the wisps existed underground, but a friendly voice that asked you to follow it to water sounded like it was too good to be true. Putata reasoned that he had no choice. He didn't want to die. If he wanted even a chance at surviving, he had to trust this mysterious voice.