Labyrinth: Boots

Othello was bound to this place, a prisoner for a crime whose perpetrators were long dead. He was a Patryn. The runes enmeshing his body glowed faintly as he stood over the body of his foe, a chaodyn, its carapace black and slick with its own blood. Othello stumbled out of the cave, several long gashes in his tanned arms bearing witness to the terrible fight. The fight had been so ferocious that a weird, black and red misture of his blood and the chaodyn's dripped from his short red hair. He quickly tore free several rags from the bundle in his light pack, binding them over the wounds, for blood attracted the chaodyn- and others- faster than anything else. A rune-marked saber dangled from his pack, it's blade blackened in order to prevent the sun's rays reflecting off the blade. His boots had long since worn through, and not wanting to stop long enough to make a new pair, Othello had just continued walking, trekking through the hell of the Labyrinth- and thusly he continued now.

…………………

Othello drew his saber from his pack. He could smell the smoke from a nearby group campfires. Assuming they were Squatters, he approached. It had been two days since the battle with the chaodyn in the cave, and he knew he would need shoes, as he would soon enter the desert portion of the world. He was loath to approach the Squatters, they weren't known for their overt friendliness (who was, in this hell of a place), but it was either that or make his own, and the Labyrinth did not deal kindly with those who wasted their time. He twirled the saber determinedly, and marched down from the trees to approach the Squatter's camp.

In the world of the Labyrinth, there were two classes of the Patryn- the Squatters, those who chose to remain in one place, and the Runners, those who chose to spend their lives racing ever onward for the the Gate, the sole exit from that malevolent place. Othello was a Runner, and he'd long since learned to trust the runes. You didn't get to be twenty-seven gates old by ignoring warning signs. The warning sigla in his arms burned, and he knew something was amiss here. But he needed the boots, so he lit up the sigla and prepared for a fight.

The camp was a fairly large one, capable of holding at least a score of Squatters. Its huts were tough and tall, rounded to let precipitation fall free. It was also empty, and that wasn't good. Intending to get the boots and leave as quickly as possible, Othello strode into the largest of the huts, rune-saber held ahead of him. Instead what he got was pulled inside the hut, disarmed, and thrown to the ground in a whirl of crimson runes. A mace fell heavily toward his face but was stopped suddenly. Othello looked about him cautiously. In the hut was packed a score and a half of Squatters. The leader, a tall man with grey hair (a crown of achievement in a place where life-expectancy was age thirty), was conversing rapidly with the man with the mace. They looked down at Othello, whose runes were glowing like octagonal stars. "Who are you?"

"Othello." The Patryn stood slowly, reaching a hand out for his saber. "And I'll just be going now." He turned toward the door, his calloused feet bleeding slightly into the dirt.

"Wait!" A woman rushed forward, her hair cut short for convenience. She caught his hand. "Father, look at his feet!"

The grey-haired man groaned. "I apologize for our rudeness, Othello, we've been plagued by increasingly frequent attacks by changelings who take the form of Patryns, and many have been lost. When we saw you coming, we set a trap."

"Whatever." Othello attempted to jerk free of the woman's grasp, but her hands were very strong.

"What was it you needed?"

"A pair of boots." Othello glanced down at his arms. The sigla no longer burned, so he was in no danger as of now. "What do these changelings look like when they come?"

"Patryns, lost, hungry, but never wounded. When they attack, though, they become like insects of terrible size, extremely fast, extremely hard to kill."

"I'll keep an eye out for any when I leave. Now about those boots."

…………………

The chief of the Squatter village came out with a brown rucksack. "Here's some rations for your journey. The Gate is supposedly just across that desert, but none of ours have ever come back or, for that matter, given any signal that they didn't die. Good luck."

Glad to be free of that village, Othello took the pack and left, his feet far more comfortable in the boots. He'd just crested the ledge overlooking the village when he took a look back. The chief's daughter, Zephyr, was racing across the brown grass. She'd become quite enamored of him when he'd told the story of the battle with the chaodyn in the cave. She wasn't racing towards him though. He looked after her, curious, and saw- himself.

"Sh-" The Patryn lit up the sigla and tore off toward the girl, preparing a devastating spell between his hands. "Get away from him! It's a changeling! Get away! Zephyr!"

The girl stopped and turned. Behind her, the changeling Othello fell away as a gigantic insect, like a huge preying mantis rose from the dirt. The real Othello leapt clear over Zephyr, kicking her back and out of the line of fire as he unleashed his spell.

The air rippled as the moisture in it was drawn out and frozen. The newly formed shards ripped through the changeling's front, swirling and dipping, tearing huge rents in the mantis' carapace. The insect roared and charged, green ichor dripping from it's torn face. Othello scooped up Zephyr in one arm and dodged beneath the swinging claws of the changeling, releasing the ice and letting it scatter into the air again as moisture. The changeling blew past the two Patryns, slow to realize it's prey had evaded it.

Othello clenched his fists and put his knuckles together. The ice once more formed, this time a storm of flying needles that slipped under the changeling's wing covers and tore into its delicate back. The huge mantis stumbled, but managed to turn around, lining itself up for a charge. Othello released the ice needles, but this time caused the moisture to spread through the veins of the mantis, flowing through its whole body. Zephyr, still panting from being kicked, threw a handful of sand in the air, causing it to become bits of very sharp glass. A sudden wind caught them up and whipped them into the changeling's eyes, but it simply roared and charged once more. Othello smiled. His trap was ready. He brandished his saber, leaping forward to catch the swinging mantis claw on his blade. Inside the demon, the water Othello had placed separated into hydrogen and oxygen. The changeling caught him in the chest with a claw. The Patryn was thrown twenty feet into the air, his chest ringing from the impact. He clenched and crossed his hands. A spark leapt up in the hydrogen present in the mantis's veins.

The mantis bore down on Zephyr, who staggered back, tripping over a rock. The claws rose- and the changeling exploded, a blaze of white fire erupting from its chest. Othello, still flying through the air, managed to cause the fire to consume the demon utterly just before he hit the ground and had the breath knocked out of him. The other Patryns from the village came rushing over the ledge, spears and swords drawn, all ready to slay the changeling that had tried to eat the chief's daughter. All they found was Zephyr, dripping with green ichor, kissing the stranger who had just come into their village to get a pair of boots. The smouldering black exoskeleton of the changeling crumbled to dust as they watched. Zephyr and Othello finally broke apart, Othello with a slightly sour expression on his usually blank face.

Zephyr saw this and grinned, "Am I really that bad at kissing?"

"No. You just have bug guts all over your face." Othello got up, a little winded from the blow to his chest.

The chief approached, giving Zephyr a reproachful look. "Thank you , Othello, for saving my daughter's life."

"Where were you and the rest of your tribe while we were fighting that thing?"

"Across the village, fighting another that looked, believe it or not, like you, before we attacked it." Othello then noticed that the chief's long sword was dripping with ichor.

"Surprising it would pick you, isn't it Othello?"

Othello and Zephyr looked at each other and laughed. "Can we get something to eat?"

He wiped his sword in the grass and hung it from his pack again.

The chief nodded, and they all went back to the village.

…………………

Othello finally left the village, this time, he hoped, for good. Zephyr was a nice, very attractive young woman, but he had no time for love. He had a chaodyn, changeling, and dragon infested desert to cross. His boots crunched in the dirt, his saber swung idly from his pack. His short red hair was brushed back, and on his face he wore a black skull-mask. His sigla were cool and dark, so he knew there weren't any changeling within twenty miles of the village.

There was a shout from behind him. Dressed in similar clothes to Othello, bearing a pack and a bow, and wearing a white skull-mask, Zephyr came dashing up to his side. "I-"

"Oh no you don't. I came to your village for a pair of boots, not a mate." Othello lengthened his stride, forcing Zephyr to run to catch up.

"I'm staying with you. I don't need to be your mate. Strength in numbers, remember?"

"Yes, and your telling me you don't intend to try and make me your mate after we get through the Gate?" Othello, grumbling, hiked his pack higher on his shoulder.

"No…" Zephyr shrugged.

"Whatever. But you'd better be able to take care of yourself. No one gets out of the Labyrinth on the back of another. Not on mine, anyway."

"Sure." Zephyr shrugged again.

"Then let's go." The two Patryns drew their blades and began marching into the desert, beyond which was the Final Gate.