The Iron Labyrinth

ONE

B rian, only semi-conscious, became aware of a painful irritation in his nostrils. It was similar to the smell that overpowered him in his flat. The odor held a saccharine sweetness, as if taken from some enormous quantity of flowers, like arum lilies heavy with pollen. Instinctively, he flailed his arms to keep the jarring scent at bay. In addition to the sharp sensation in his nose he felt light-headed, as if he were breathing a richer oxygen than he was used to. Opening his eyes, he discovered himself propped up on a straight-backed chair in what appeared to be a natural cave. He noticed the cave boasted a corbeled roof supported by rough, hand-hewn rocks, while the floor consisted of carefully placed flagstones. Though not natural the chamber felt very old. He guessed it was built before medieval times, perhaps Neolithic even.

An expansive blue light dimly illuminated the chamber, but Brian could not locate its source. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a large figure sitting a few feet away on an iron chair. How long have I been here? Only a moment ago I was standing in my kitchen, opening the window.

Welcome, said the man, from the shadows of the chair. He had muscular arms, big hands, a barrel chest, and a thick neck, and wore nondescript, loose grey clothes.

Brian squinted, straining to make out the features of the darkened face. Who are you? he asked, coming out of his drugged state. Where am I?

You’re in my kingdom, Mr. Renwick. I’ve kidnapped you.

What? The words ‘kingdom’ and ‘kidnapped’ held no meaning, and Brian felt anger rise inside over the fact that the man seemed to be playing with him.

You may call me Uncle. I’m impressed you are able to detect the sweet odor in this room. Its source is far enough away that no other visitor has caught it before.

Well, obviously you smell it, too. He took a deep breath. If you have kidnapped me, you should know I work for a publishing company and am not a wealthy man.

You’re not here to be ransomed, Mr. Renwick. You are here to be my slave, replied Uncle.

The word ‘Uncle’ seemed oddly familiar, yet its meaning hovered just out of reach. Why? He had no actual uncles. Then Brian remembered a recent dream in which two crones were discussing whether or not he was worth Uncle’s attention. Was he dreaming now? A hot wave of dizziness passed through him. He glared at the man. People will start looking for me.

True, but not for long, sighed Uncle. Sadly, no one is missed for long.

Brian frowned slightly at the possibility he might not be found. He quickly scanned the room. There was one door and no windows. He stood up and turned at once toward the door with an intent to bolt. The figure in the chair leaned forward. You can’t go until I dismiss you, Mr. Renwick.

With the man’s words, Brian felt some invisible pressure push him down. His face turned bright red in his struggle to resist the bodily compression and stay on his feet, but the pressure only intensified, squeezing his lungs and rib cage, and threatening to cut off his breath. Brian’s knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor and lay inert on the flagstones. The paralysis was petrifying.

You’re in my kingdom now, and you are my slave, announced his kidnapper, so sit down and let us proceed.

With those words Brian found he could move again. He swayed as he rose to his feet and sat back in the chair, his heart beating against his chest. This is 1947, he said, after collecting himself, and there are no slaves in England, so what the bloody hell are you talking about?

This is not England, Mr. Renwick. This is my realm.

Why have you kidnapped me?

It’s simple, I want you as my slave.

Another impulse to flee and save himself shot through Brian, but this time he controlled his fear. Who are you ... exactly?

I am Uncle, the man who has kidnapped you. You can’t escape, Mr. Renwick, and from now on address me as ‘sir’ when you speak.

Brian stared at the figure in front of him with intense caution. "Where is this kingdom of yours if not in England, sir?"

Under the ground.

Where under the ground?

Far enough for the sun to no longer rise or set for you, Mr. Renwick. Far enough for burrowing field animals to no longer reach you. Deeper than the foundations of buildings, and certainly deep enough that none of your friends will ever find you.

The threat of the man felt ominous. There was no arrogance in him that Brian could detect, no irritation or impatience. "Why me? What’s this really about?" he asked.

Remember to call me sir.

Brian flushed. Sir.

I need slaves. We’ll discuss why I chose you another time. The figure who called himself Uncle shifted his strong hands from his lap to the arms of his iron chair. "There are two essential truths for you to grasp here: You are my slave ... and there is no way out."

Brian remained staunchly silent.

I have few rules. One is that, for now, you call me sir, not such a humiliating expression. I advise you not to try to escape, and you are free to form what friendships you will.

Friendships? With whom ... sir?

With the other men I’ve kidnapped. I also generally allow you the privacy of your thoughts.

Brian could see the man was serious. The privacy of my thoughts!

I’ve been watching you for a long time, Mr. Renwick. You never let anyone lead you in personal matters, and you’re very clever in how you often take a suggestion of your employer’s and turn it into something that works for you.

Anger burned in him. You’ve had a spy watching me at Mr. Claverton’s? Who?

I myself am the spy, replied Uncle with a shrug. No one has ever been able to tell you how to live your life, not even in little things like the repeated suggestion of your young co-worker, Roche, to replace your kitchen clock. After all, it hasn’t run in months.

Brian looked directly at his captor, trying to puzzle out what he was saying. Had the man sent his lackeys with a key to his flat?

There were no spies and no lackeys, Mr. Renwick, and no one has been in your apartment.

Brian startled. The man couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking.

You belong to my kingdom now, Mr. Renwick, and I intend to forge an enduring bond between us, one that nothing and no one will ever break.

You’re not forging anything between us ... sir.

Believe what you will for now, but I do own you, body and soul.

No one owns me! No one will ever own me! Despite his defiance, Brian felt afraid, as if he’d gotten on a train that had just become a runaway.

You exist at the edge of existence in my kingdom, and, although it is hard to accept right now, this is where you are meant to be. Therefore, I urge you, forget your former life. It’s over … gone. Uncle leaned back in his iron chair and seemed to consider the man in front of him all over again. Once you grasp the reality that there is no way out, you’ll begin to ask new questions, he continued. There is one other thing before you go, however. I rename all my property. Your name is now Colum, like a column supporting a building.

"My name is Brian Renwick, sir"

Not anymore. Uncle sighed. Ah, Colum, we must all leave the world of light one day and begin to negotiate a darker one. The king met his captive’s stare, and, to Brian’s disgust, his own eyes dropped first. I tend to be lenient with newcomers. I realize this is a difficult adjustment for you. Hugo will escort you to your cell now.

An imposing, muscular figure, well over seven feet tall, entered the door of the stone chamber. He had thick brown hair, brown eyes, and a monumental ruggedness to his face. The man walked as far as Brian’s chair and bowed to Uncle.

Master, he said.

Colum, this is Hugo, one of my guards, introduced Uncle. Hugo, escort our newest slave to his cell.

The door was open, but Brian had given up any impulse to dash through it and run. With a resigned breath, he followed the giant through the door of the stone chamber.

A solemn-looking, black-haired man stood guard on the other side. Hugo gave him a perfunctory nod and the guard let them pass. They stepped into a room whose walls, ceiling, and floor were made of iron. A few iron benches lined the walls.

This room is where the men wait for their audiences with Uncle, so we call it the ‘waiting room’, explained Hugo.

Brian looked up at the massive man to see if there were a trace of humor on his face. There was none. They walked across the room to a door at the end. Hugo pushed it open, revealing a dense fog.

What’s in there? asked Brian tensely.

Mist. There’s no bottom to it, so be careful, the guard warned. And you’re better off gliding. Go as smoothly and slowly as possible.

Brian’s unease increased. What do you mean there’s no bottom?

Exactly that. There’s nothing to stand on. No solid ground. So move lightly and slowly until you get used to it.

Or what?

Or you may start to sink.

Hugo entered first. Brian paused a moment, then forced himself to follow, stepping into the mist shakily. He felt himself suspended in midair by something buoyant, yet insubstantial, that made him giddy. Was he navigating some bottomless chasm in the earth? Vertigo seized him at the thought. His body swayed as the mist swirled around him. To compensate he leaned too far forward and started to topple. His heart jumped at the sensation, and the color vanished from his face. Out of nowhere Hugo’s large hand clasped his shoulder to steady him. Instinctively, Brian reached out and clutched at the guard’s arm. He used it to pull himself, inch by inch, into an upright position.

Once Brian had regained a precarious balance, he reluctantly let go of Hugo’s arm. After that, he was hypersensitive not to veer too far in any direction or lose his stride by slowing down or pausing. Hugo continued on, his form occasionally disappearing in places where the fog thickened. As the mist swirled around Brian, his mind shrieked that this was all a dream, that none of it was real.

Now and then, Hugo turned to check on Brian. It helps to envision a floor beneath us.

Brian tried hard not only to picture something stable under his feet, but to feel it. The vertigo lessened, and he started to move through the stretch of vapor at a more measured pace, without wobbling or lurching quite so much. Still, his face flooded with relief the moment he emerged from the mist onto the solid floor of a tunnel. The tunnel was made of iron and illuminated with a blue phosphorescence. Brian leaned against the wall fighting an urge to retch.

It’s like finding your sea legs on a ship, said Hugo.

Thanks for the reassurance.

You’re a quick learner. The guard pointed in the only other direction open to them.

Are there more patches of mist in this place?

Yes, said Hugo, with a sympathetic look. You’re in a labyrinth, and the blue light in these tunnels keeps the mist at bay, but at the labyrinth’s outer edges there is only mist.

Brian noticed the walls seemed to be made by fitting together squares, rectangles, and oblongs of iron, but how? When was this built?

This is the oldest part of the labyrinth. It is continuously being built. No one knows when it started, shrugged the guard.

To Brian, the large, irregular iron blocks felt ancient. A few of them loomed higher than Hugo. Where are we? he asked, in awe.

All I can say is, we are deep in the earth.

They moved unhurried through the corridors. Floors slanted up and down, though occasionally one would stretch out perfectly level. In some places the walls bowed inward, in others outward, revealing a certain concave nature to the iron blocks. The corridors seemed to align themselves without any visible signposts. Brian started to wonder how many connecting tunnels there were. At last the two men came to a corridor with doors on either side.

Hugo stopped abruptly in front of one. It had no number to distinguish it from the other doors, no identification of any kind. This is your cell, he announced, and pushed the door open. The air inside was cool and shimmered with the same faint blue glow that illuminated the hallways.

There’s no lock, remarked Brian.

Where can you go?

Brian was used to solving problems. After all, that was his job as an editor and there was no reason this situation couldn’t be analyzed and solved like the plots and predicaments of a novel. If there’s a way in, there’s a way out. Once he figured out the flaws in Uncle’s narrative, he could begin to edit them out, and uncover the exit to this labyrinth.

His eyes scanned the iron room. One wall held an iron spigot for water. Two heavy iron cups rested on the floor beneath the spigot. One cup held a straight razor. Why would he allow us to use a razor? There wasn’t much space to move around. Two wool pallets lay spread out on the floor, stuffed with a lumpy material. A hand’s span separated each pallet with enough room left for another pallet.

Hugo filled an iron cup with water and handed it to Brian, who drank thirstily. The water tasted of iron.

It comes through iron pipes from underground springs. You carry water with you on your workshifts.

Workshifts?

All of Uncle’s slaves work.

What kind of work?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Brian noted Hugo’s well-chosen words. He was no Neanderthal, in spite of his impressive size. Why two pallets?

Everyone has at least one cellmate, usually two, except the guards. You’ll prefer company at first.

How do you know what I prefer? snapped Brian.

Hugo moved to the door. Get some rest now if you can. I’ll be back later with some food and clothes. He left the room, and the door slammed behind him with a shuddering loudness.

Alone, Brian felt as if he were enclosed in an iron-paneled tomb. He tried to locate the source of the blue light in the cell but couldn’t find any. There were no cracks in the walls, no pipes other than the water tap, and certainly no light bulbs. He wondered if the light had something to do with the strange freshness of the air.

Brian slumped on the stuffed pallet and took another look at the bare room. He noticed there was no patina on the black iron of the doorway’s jamb, lintel, and threshold. The two iron cups sitting on the floor weren’t factory made. One bowed out with a wider diameter than the other and had a slightly fatter handle. The iron of that cup was an opaque black, while the one next to it was a faded-out grey. Brian became aware of a tilt in the floor and shifted his pallet into a more comfortable position. He squinted into the dim light of the room, its otherworldly blue leaving him a little off-kilter. Was he dreaming? Could dreams be this vivid and real? If he were, it would account for his kidnapper’s ability to force him on his knees without touching him. If not, what kind of surreal place was this, with its strange blue atmosphere, bottomless mists, and iron corridors? He felt the cold water slide down his throat while he drank. His nostrils quivered at the enhanced scent of iron, and he felt the hyper-rich oxygen fill his lungs.

Brian fidgeted on the pallet. Too impatient to sit passively, he stood up and tried to open the door. Hugo said it wasn’t locked, but the door didn’t budge. With all his strength he pulled on the handle. No movement. The physical isolation of the small cell dampened the tufts under his armpits with a nervous sweat.

His mind raced with questions. How far down am I? Is this some sort of underground bunker? Or is it a mine? Aren’t some mines as deep as mountains are high? A claustrophobic chill ran through him at the thought. Apparently, this crazy person has been spying on me where I work and live. But how? And why? Roche must be looking for me by now. After all, I’ve never missed a single day of work. In fact, Roche is such a good friend, he’d put the whole of Scotland Yard on my trail if he had his way. Yesterday I was with him in London … was it only yesterday? Brian’s body tensed at the reminder. During the war no obstacle was too great to get through. I’ll survive this insanity, too!

The blue light brightened, and suddenly Brian had a strange feeling he was being watched. He shook off the sensation, stretched out on the pallet, and stared up at the iron ceiling to continue his brooding. All I have to do is bide my time until I learn more about the layout of this place, as well as this maniac who calls himself Uncle. The important thing is to discover where exactly I entered the labyrinth. If mists surround it, perhaps the entrance is hidden somewhere within them.

The blue light began to pulse gently, producing a drowsiness in Brian. As he began to drift off, he remembered something else. It happened yesterday, the day he was kidnapped. A pale yellow car moved quietly along the street, slowing as it came closer. A face stared at him through the open window and made his heart beat faster. He walked on, trying to feel the wind instead of a rising paranoia, but it was too late. His lungs began to constrict in their old familiar way. It was asthma that kept him out of military service during the war.

Two old women inside the car were talking to one another. The voice of one was fluid, musical even, and if he heard it again he’d recognize it in an instant.

"Look, his asthma knows!" she exclaimed.

Knows what? asked the other.

Knows what his problem is, of course.

Brian awoke, more rested than he had felt in a long time, and eased himself into a sitting position. With a shock, he realized his bed consisted of no more than a thin layer of straw that rested on an iron floor. His eyes darted to his watch, but his wrist was bare. The door to his cell swung open, and Hugo’s massive bulk filled its frame. The guard carried some shapeless grey clothes bunched in one arm, while a steaming iron pot swung from his other hand. He set the heavy pot on the floor.

This is gruel, Hugo announced. It’s what we all eat to stay alive in here. An iron spoon with a hooked handle hung over the pot’s rim. I wouldn’t take too much time eating it if I were you. The longer you chew, the harder it is to swallow.

Tentatively, Brian tried a spoonful. He grimaced at the acrid taste. It’s foul.

All I can say is, it will keep you healthy.

It looks like …

Better not to make those kinds of comparisons. The guard waited until Brian finished eating, then held out a grey wool shirt and pair of pants. Put these on.

Where are the shoes?

Only guards wear shoes.

Is that some kind of special privilege? jabbed Brian, but Hugo seemed impervious to ridicule.

You’re the last one in Uncle’s newest batch of slaves.

‘Batch?’ repeated Brian. What about you? What ‘batch’ did you come from?

I’ve been here since the beginning. Hugo laid the clothes on Brian’s pallet. You have to change before I go.

And if I don’t?

Hugo half-smiled at him. Clothes won’t diminish you.

Easy for you to say.

When Brian still refused to move, the guard added, matter-of-factly, I’ll strip you if I have to.

Brian took off his tie, his white shirt, his suit pants, and finally his socks and polished black shoes. Every movement held reluctance.

Underwear, too, ordered the guard.

You’re kidding. Soon Brian stood in front of Hugo dressed in the rough, itchy, loose-fitting wool clothes. The whole surreal situation unsettled him. Where’s my watch, by the way?

You don’t need one. There is no time in the labyrinth.

Of course there’s time!

Let me put it this way, there is no night or day or clocks or calendars. Hugo shrugged. That part is hard to get used to.

Brian seethed inside. I don’t care whether there’s time in here or not, I want my watch back.

It wouldn’t work even if I could return it, replied Hugo, softly but firmly.

And another thing, you said there aren’t any locks on the doors, but I couldn’t open mine.

That’s because you just arrived and Uncle didn’t want you wandering away and getting lost.

You mean it was for my own good? Brian took a deep breath. He knew it was futile to argue any further. Now what happens?

Uncle wants to see you again.

Good, I want to see him too! Brian was resolved to find out all he could about his captor and was more than ready to get out of the cramped cell.

The new slave padded barefoot after Hugo through the network of underground corridors. He felt as if he were navigating the viscera of some enormous iron beast, one whose eerie, luminescent blueness spread like a life blood through its iron arteries.

Where does this light come from? Brian asked.

No one knows. The light keeps the air fresh and allows us to see. It heals injuries, too. We couldn’t live down here without it.

Heals injuries?

That’s right.

Have you ever tried to escape, Hugo? Uncle would have a fight trying to stop you.

There is no escape.

Have you tried?

Many try at first.

Brian had to work hard to keep stride with the man. It wasn’t long until they reached the patch of mist.

Does this mist surround the king’s chamber?

Yes, replied Hugo, and stepped into it.

Brian followed and immediately imagined something solid meeting the soles of his feet. He felt less dizzy and a little less fearful as a result, although he remained hyper-vigilant.

At last they entered the waiting room with its iron benches lining the walls.

You adjust fast, said Hugo, and pointed to the king’s stone chamber. Uncle waits for you in his throne room.

Meath, the man guarding the chamber, pushed the door open, and Brian entered the cold stone room alone. This time there was no chair. Uncle instructed him to kneel and he complied, remembering how the king had forced him to his knees.

How do you find your new quarters?

Brian met the king with an intractable stare. Cold and cramped … sir.

Good, that’s an honest answer. Uncle sat straight-backed on his iron throne. I want you to say what you really feel in here. You’ll never be punished for that. Never lie to me. Lies go a long way to make a man of no value in my eyes. They destroy your integrity, which is a thing I prize in my men. I want you incorruptible, sound, undivided in your loyalty to me. Uncle’s fingers drummed on the arms of his throne a moment. You’re right about one thing.

What is that, sir?

The labyrinth is like a living beast, one that has swallowed you whole.

Brian’s mouth dropped open for a split second. The image was too specific to be a lucky guess on Uncle’s part. Had his kidnapper read his mind while he was walking with Hugo in the corridors? Was that possible?

Yes, it’s possible, replied the man, and I also expect such fine metaphors from you as a writer. Uncle rolled his broad shoulders back, as if to relieve the tension of sitting too long on hard metal. Now that you’ve rested it’s time for a few basic instructions.

And those are?

Remember to say ‘sir.’

Sir.

You are here, Colum, to be my slave. When you aren’t working, your life will be divided into three periods: sleep, exercise, and free time. I expect you to carry out a rigorous training program. You’re really in very mediocre shape. Everything you need to transform your body and mind is here for your use: weights, swords, sparring partners, and men trained to instruct you.

Brian gave him a puzzled stare. Is this a training camp for gladiators, sir?

Gladiators make fine weapons.

Are we to become weapons, sir? asked Brian, angrily.

Uncle leaned forward until his face was inches away from his captive’s, invading Brian’s space in a powerful, unnerving way. A blast of fear shattered his anger. Do you feel the adrenalin coursing through your body right now? I want you to put those surges to good use on your workshifts and in the training rooms. The king sat back.

What is all this for, sir? Brian asked. Are we being trained for something specific?

You’ve read history. Since when is it a slave’s business to know his master’s intentions? A slave’s only concern is to obey, to give himself to his lord and master without reservation.

A terrifying thought came to Brian. What if his captor could not only read his thoughts but manipulate them?

Uncle’s eyes held a glittering intensity. I would never do that. Your submission is only worth something if it’s freely given. He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. That’s all for now. Hugo will take you to your first workshift.

TWO

H ugo and Brian moved through the iron corridors once more, headed this time for the training rooms.

Since you’re new, you’ll be scrubbing floors. It’s one of the easier shifts, explained Hugo. When they arrived he showed Brian where the buckets and brushes were kept.

Brian soon found himself on his hands and knees, using an iron-bristled brush to scrub one of the floors. Others must have washed these floors many times, but there was no sign of rust from the water. Every so often he switched arms or stood up to walk around a little and ease the pain in his back and knees. He felt like a monk doing penance. Well, my real life still exists somewhere and I have to find a way back to it.

At last, Hugo returned to escort him to the sleeping quarters.

Your cellmate is waiting for you, announced the guard when they arrived.

The man inside had brown eyes and hair and seemed close in age to Brian. He stood up when the door opened and held out his hand. Hello, I’m Belck. They shook hands briefly. And you are?

Brian Renwick.

That doesn’t sound like one of Uncle’s names.

It’s not.

Well, there’s no way I can call you Brian in here without getting into trouble.

Colum, then.

Thanks. I’m suppose to give you a tour of this place.

Good, I’d like a better idea of where I am.

Where we are is wound up in a labyrinth that goes in every direction, but that’s another subject. Belck held the door open for Brian to go through. First stop: the showers.

They walked at a fast pace to an adjoining passageway with a large room divided into two areas. One area held iron shower stalls and sinks. The other, separated by half a wall, contained a long, enclosed iron bench with holes on top for toilets. A soft blue radiance illuminated the place. Belck explained how iron pipes ran through the walls underneath them to transport the water to them and the waste away.

Why doesn’t the iron rust? asked Brian.

Something about the blue light prevents it. Belck turned on a shower nozzle. Whenever we finish a shift we can take a shower. Ready? Belck stripped off his grey shirt without waiting for a reply, then undid his drawstring and let his trousers fall to his ankles. He entered the shower naked and turned on the faucet.

Brian did the same. There was no way to adjust the water temperature, and the shock of the cold water contracted his skin and sent a hot flush running up his spine. He rubbed soapsuds over his body, rinsed as quickly as possible, and jumped out before he even turned off the tap. Clean towels lay in neat stacks on the floor. Each man grabbed one and began to dry himself.

Sorry, there’s no hot water, said Belck. I’d like to say you get used to it, but you obviously don’t. Pick a clean shirt and pair of pants from those piles over there. Something you think will fit. Belck was already pulling a shirt over his head. You only get one chance to choose your clothes, so if what you take doesn’t fit you’re stuck wearing it until the next shower. Uncle’s rules.

Brian’s shirt proved a little too small and clung with an uncomfortable tightness to his chest. Instinctively, he reached out to take another one.

Sorry. As I said, you only get one chance.

Who’s going to tell?

He can see you in here.

Brian didn’t bother to comment. He saw a pair of thread-worn grey pants that looked roomy enough and pulled them on, tightening the cord at his waist. He already missed the civilized feeling of buttons and zippers and a tailored fit, but at least none of the clothes in the pile had outright rips or holes.

Where are the other men? he asked.

You and I were on solitary shifts, but there are a lot of group workshifts. When they finish everyone showers together.

Where next? asked Brian, his hair wetted to the back of his neck.

The ‘kitchen.’ We call it that because that’s the room where we pick up our gruel.

The two men returned to the corridor. Brian had the strangest sensation he wasn’t in temporal space anymore and wondered if it had to do with the blue light. "Do you ever get used to having everything filtered through the prism