Phew! Summer, at last! Thanks very much for your patience, folks. This story (and the other) will soon be completed. =)

38: Labyrinth

Tracy Island, the clinic-

TinTin raced into the brightly-lit, beeping and blinking recovery room as fast as two shapely legs and an anxious heart could carry her. She had enough experience with the area as Brains' assistant, to read the med-scanner above Gordon's bed; detecting stabilized vital signs and fading anesthesia. More than that, spotting the clear evidence of his rapid, active recovery.

Forcing herself to be calm, the girl slowed to a walk and drew near. He seemed so unlike himself, lying there hooked to machines. So pitifully vulnerable.

"Gordon?" TinTin whispered, "Are you awake? Alan is here, and I am, as well. Can you hear me?"

The young man wore an opaque plastic oxygen mask. His bandaged torso was hidden beneath a curving tunnel of treatment and scanning devices; machinery which constantly monitored, dosed and re-hydrated him. Gordon couldn't do much more than open his eyes and turn his head when she spoke to him, but even that much lifted TinTin's spirits. His response was puzzling, though.

"Wanted to say I'm sorry," he told her, in a voice that she had to bend quite low to hear.

"Sorry…? For what?" TinTin asked, risking a chorus of angry, mechanized beeps by touching his face. He had no need to apologize for what had passed, once, between them. Nothing dreadful had happened, and no one else knew.

"For not getting the job done. Should've been better prepared… tried harder."

"Dude, shut up," Alan snapped, from the bed's other side. "You're not making any sense, here. The fire's out, okay? You and Brains beat it down well enough for the locals to take over. And you rescued a frickin' pilot who shouldn't have been there in the first place. What more do you want, a cookie?"

Gordon shifted his gaze; wincing as though the effort made him dizzy.

"Keep the cookie," he told Alan, unable to quite smile with that oxygen masked strapped into place. "Settle for beating your a** at basketball, again."

Alan grinned; at once mischievous and calculating. 'Cause, dude... you shouldn't make dares you couldn't back up: Brotherhood 101.

"Yeah. I'll take that threat seriously when you can manage to frickin' stand, Gordon… or when the internal bleeding stops, whichever comes first. Right now, you couldn't win a "Really Mean Look" contest."

Laughter was out of the question; too painful. A crooked motion of the air mask showed that Gordon was trying to smile again, though. Then,

"Th- That's enough," Brains scolded them all. "You'll, ah… You'll wear him out, and s- slow his recovery. John's doctor friend can't, ah… can't stay here f- forever, you know. T- Too risky."

"Saved by the nursemaid," Alan remarked, shaking his tousled blond head in mock frustration. "But as soon as the tubes and band-aids're off, Bro, you and me'll settle this man to man. We'll square off at the backyard hoops for bragging rights and… and a date with TinTin."

Whoa. Alan had never seen a wider pair of dark, lovely eyes, or a sick guy with quite such a dangerous scowl.

Streaking over the sunlit Pacific, in a company Lear Jet-

The notebook had made it through among Virgil's personal effects; carefully hidden and transferred each time he'd been moved, treated or questioned. The rescued young man had done his level best to maintain the illusion of a spoiled, petulant playboy; distracting his hosts with demands for privacy, internet access, fine food and designer clothing. (Almost blew his cover on the last one, too, as he couldn't recall any high-end fashion houses and had to bluff.)

If he'd been thinking straight, he'd have left the Moleskine notebook in Thunderbird 1, but Taylor and her cameraman had been present the whole time, looking around like two people determined to memorize every bolt, strap and hinge. A black notebook "accidentally" left behind would hardly have escaped their sharp-eyed attention. At best, they'd have given it back to him. At worst, WNN would have gotten its hands on critical Hood-gathered data. International Rescue data.

Anyhow, Virgil had managed to keep and protect the thing, handing it to his father once the plane took off and their corporate bodyguards left the executive cabin. It was sort of an even exchange, actually, for Jeff gave him a package at the same moment, saying,

"Your mother put a few things together for you, Son. At the time, it seemed wiser to have her stay home and hold the fort while I flew to Brazil. Otherwise, she'd be here, too."

Virgil looked up from Lucinda's loving note and well-packed snack foods. He was seated across a polished wooden pedestal table from his father, in a reclining tan-leather seat. (Good thing, too, as the plane's engine noise and subtle vibrations were making him sleepy.)

"I understand," he said, smiling a tired but genuine smile. "According to the news, there's been a lot going on. So... all things considered, I appreciate you coming to get me in person, Dad."

Jeff frowned a little, accepting a whiskey sour from the Lear's pertly-uniformed flight attendant. Virgil got a cold, frothy Coors; his favorite.

"Thanks," Jeff remarked, scarcely glancing at the woman. Then, "There was never a question of my sending a substitute or letting Interpol handle the matter… though I do have a number of contacts in that organization."

The tall older man stopped talking a moment to bolt his drink. Down it went, in a stiff-wristed, head-thrown-back flood. Then, once the high-octane burn had died down somewhat, Jeff resumed speaking.

"We're family," he said. "We take care of each other; something that might get lost in all the chaos and trouble, if we let it. Which… (Miss Lindon? Landon, sorry. I'll take another whiskey sour, please, light on the rocks.) …Which I'm determined not to allow. After all, it's not much use saving the world if you let your nearest down in the process."

Virgil nodded seriously; starting on a sandwich while his father settled down with the newly-made drink. Casually, he made sure to look at the attendant's eyes, which turned out to be quite reassuringly brown. After his experiences with the last flight crew and driver, Virgil couldn't help feeling a few thorn-like stabs of worry.

"Yeah," he agreed, chasing a giant mouthful of roast beef and mustard with ice-cold beer, "that makes sense."

Then he got quiet, to give his father time to examine that notebook. Minutes passed. Jeff's craggy face grew pale and haggard in the merciless high altitude sunlight; his frown lines deepening as the pages turned.

"This is bad," he said at last, risking nothing more specific in mixed (and possibly altered) company. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Son… and for having the strength to help rescue yourself."

Perhaps affected by alcohol and stress, Jeff reached over to pat Virgil's broad shoulder.

"A lot went into finding and freeing you, Son, but a big part of that was your own determination and quick thinking. I'm proud of you, Virgil, and d-mn glad to have you back. D-mn glad."

…On the other hand, there were agents of the Hood still about and preparing to strike, unknown "witnesses" claiming that Jeff Tracy ran International Rescue, and the threat of a rapidly faltering core. Nothing and no one was truly safe, yet. Nor could anyone rest.

Midworld, at the frigid base of a tall granite cliff-

Sir Gawain kept watch the entire night through; standing a vigil he'd begun in earnest when the witch first spoke her advice. Sleep he would not… nor eat… until the House, Bridge and Altar were finished. Afterward, well… Everything depended on whether or not he succeeded.

The watches of night dragged past like a trickling runnel of mud. Darkness brought moon-tides of foulness; creatures with glowing pale eyes and a sharp, fungus smell. Silent, mostly, though once in awhile he heard a faint, rasping hiss or the rattle of loosened scree. Wretched they might be, but wise enough to avoid his swiftly-rigged ward stones and shield lines; peering within but not daring to cross.

Meanwhile, Blanchard shuddered and snorted. The destrier's eyes were white-rimmed and wide in the moonlight. Held by a peace spell, the horse did not bolt and neither did Chester. They'd have been swarmed and devoured, otherwise.

Britte crouched on the Centaur's shivering back, her pouch of stones close at hand. Once in awhile, she came near to panic, but a touch from the knight each time steadied her. Other things came, as well; some of which fluttered on leathery wings and had breath like the gas from a corpse. Others scuttled and sprang, burning whenever they leapt past a ward line. These shriveled and stank, the sputtering light of their end revealing a cliff-face teeming in thousands of shiny dark bodies.

Britte had never met with such horrors. She swallowed hard and plucked a smooth stone from her bag, the other hand convulsively tightening on Gawain's red cloak. He looked at her, then, saying,

"You've nothin' t' fear so long as you stay within bounds, lass. They'll not cross th' ward lines and live."

"But the others?" she whispered, genuinely worried. "Kel and Laney and their mum? Sir... why should the witch keep them safe, even if she looks to her own?"

Gawain paused a bit before answering. Once, he'd have thought the same way, but friendship had taught him better. Over a sour wind and creaking bare branches, he said,

"Because there is more than one path t' th' same destination, Britte… and because our fellow travelers look not always th' way we'd expect."

Talking helped keep back the night terrors, so the squire ventured to say,

"Sometimes they look like a dark elf?"

"And other times much like a witch or an orc-wife, aye. Take whatever assistance may come t' you, Lass, with thanks t' th' giver. Mind you, 'tis no teaching of the Order, that, but a thing I've learnt on my own. Have my tongue out with a hot iron f'r sayin' so, they would… but 'tis true, nevertheless."

Britte nodded, determined to remember all that he told her. She who knew no gods and recalled no real family was beginning to carve out a place for herself. And frightening though their present situation might be, she'd not have left Gawain for kingdoms and worlds. Not without the nudge of his peace spell, at any rate.

Britte awoke with a start when dawn began striking glints from frost and stone and ice-glazed branches. Feeling terribly guilty, the girl tried to apologize, but Gawain wasn't angry. He clouted her lightly on the head, saying,

"My doin', not yours. Someone must rest, t' keep better watch should the other lose strength. Now... down you get, and pick up those ward stones. But make certain t' say "dispel" before doin' so. I came near t' losin' a hand, once, through neglectin' that bit of wisdom." (And Lord Morcar had got a good laugh at his scorched, red-haired squire's expense.)

The girl slid off of Chester's back, freeing the colt to caper about and loosen stiff muscles. Then, once the stones were collected and brought back to Gawain, Britte broke fast on salted beef and hard biscuit. The knight ate nothing.

Chester had some of the biscuit and a quantity of conjured dried fruit. This, in turn, interested Blanchard, with whom Chester was becoming fast friends. Half a watch later, camp broken and business seen to, they found a switch-backed trail up the cliff side.

Of those fearsome night-things, all that remained were dark, slimy puddles, some of them smeared with leathery tatters or bits of cracked shell. Gawain led them around these marks whenever possible, for they hissed in the light and stank of decay. On the cliff trail, however, all they could do was mutter protection and step swiftly over.

Here, Gawain did not ride, choosing instead to lead his horse up the steep, frozen path. Britte came after on Chester, who clung fast to Blanchard's long tail. In this manner, as the hours ground past and away, they scaled to a very great height. Stones rattled and slid underfoot. An ice-clawed wind hammered and plucked at the knight and his squire, slowing progress to almost a crawl.

About halfway up, Britte risked a glance downward, and then hastily snapped her gaze back to safe, solid Chester. The trees, grey and reaching, seemed very far, very tiny. Her end, should she fall, as shattering-swift as a dropped egg's.

Britte was drenched in sweat by the time they gained the debatable safety of that barren cliff top. She was very glad when Gawain led them away from its dizzying edge, taking Chester's hand as he would have seized the bridle or reins of a packhorse. He brought them to the shelter of a great, wind-carved boulder and then dismounted, saying,

"Here, we part company. Do you care f'r th' horse and keep watch, Lass. I shall return as quick as I may."

Britte leaned down from the centaur's back to place a hand on his sleeve.

"But, Sir… you've no weapons or armour! What if…" She shuddered, tightening her grip. "What if one of those things should attack you? How will you defend yourself, alone?"

Gawain drew gently away from her, shaking his coppery head. Then, rather wryly, he said,

"When pinned t' th' ground by a lion, one does not fear th' rat, Britte. I shall be well enough, unless killed outright by th' one as summoned me."

Still, the knight hesitated, torn between haste, and the need to explain.

"Britte," he said urgently. "Though you are not yet a knight, or one of the Order, there is somethin' I would show you. Now… mark this well, f'r I may tell it but once."

The girl's eyes widened at the the rush and tension of his voice.

"Yes, Sir," she replied, dismounting so hurriedly that the blanket and pad were dragged clear off of Chester's shaggy bay back.

When she'd come to stand at his side, Gawain conjured a stick and began drawing upon the hard ground, speaking to be heard over cackling wind sprites. Very carefully… line by line, word by memorized word… he handed on what his father had shown him, many years earlier. For Britte, watching and harking intently, time seemed almost to halt.

A diagram it was, though one which made no sense at all in a world of but four directions and one path for time: the House, Bridge and Altar. In truth, the drawing just about burnt its way into her mind, there to stay until needed. A chaotic sprawl it appeared to her.

External walls encompassed the whole like a spiked and angular clam's shell, while a long, curving path slid in and out among worlds, leading from a partly real gateway, through many strange levels to a high central pillar. She grasped these things because Gawain described them; providing the correct number of steps, required orientation, keywords and stone placement. Then, when the matter was done, he made a sign in the air and scuffed out his diagram, leaving no trace of the Order's great secret.

"That," he told her, straightening once more, "is why I've come t' this place, and why you must keep well away, both of you. Watch and remember, but make no move t' intervene, no matter what you may see."

Britte's round face settled into stubborn, rebellious lines. Before she could speak, though, Chester stretched forth both hands to take Gawain's shoulders.

"Da…" the colt blurted anxiously, "bad fight… again? Bad hurt? Need us… need us for help you?"

Something inside him shrank and curled tight like charred, burning paper. Obviously, Chester had seen what happened in Faerie; no doubt standing with Anelle all through her champion's last battle. Finding it hard to think or to breathe (needing escape from concerned faces and painful questions) Gawain twisted aside.

He avoided another lunge easily enough, for the colt was frantic, while he... he just wanted to go. Speaking a word of power, he inscribed fiery lines on the stony cliff top, raising waist-high blue flames to fence off his squire and adopted young colt.

"Keep back," he repeated gruffly, "and take care of each other. If I can… if allowed to… I shall find a way t' return."

With that, the knight turned and left them. Possibly, Britte and Chester called out to him, but Gawain drove away all thought of companions and loved ones. He had but one purpose, now; building the thing he'd just sketched in the soil, using muscle, magick and lore.

The proper location drew him at once, being the highest west-facing spot on that wind scoured cliff. Had he yet been a full paladin and knight of the Order, Gawain would have stood awhile quietly, listening for the will of his deity. But as this was no longer possible, he simply gathered up rocks and scouted the territory, visualizing what he must build. That took some doing, for the structure was not of this world, time or substance and would exist as much in idea as matter.

It went this way: first, he set an array of corner stones, placing mighty walls of bright force between them, and never pausing to rest. In his head and the diagram, this jumble of lines had cut across itself many times, but here they unfolded in more than the usual number of… of… angles?

He had not the words for what was emerging, but with it came unwanted memory. Vivid recollections of Faerie… love and warfare, shame and loss… and his earlier refusal to harm Drehn… rose up to confront him. And this time, he could not turn away. This time, he was forced to relive every instant.

The work provided some distraction, at least. Moving along set, rigid paths, speaking here and there an ancient keyword, Gawain caught glimpses of himself at different sites on the building. Sometimes from behind or above, split in half or seemingly turned inside out. All of them laboring at separate tasks.

The shimmering walls rose ever higher, solid in all the places that Midworld could encompass; elsewhere mere phantoms of light. He soon lost track of time and physical limitation. Stopped really thinking, because such a work had got to be finished once started.

Sometimes walking a straight, level line was as draining as climbing a tree in full armour. Other times "up" drew him as effortlessly as falling straight down would have done. But always, the work continued. All along, there were voices, with odd crystal notes like the chirping music of Faerie. The image and imprint of Anelle were everywhere present as well, as though what he built with was raw emotion rather than power and rock.

Snow clouds vanished and so did the cliff. Without external cues, he had no way to gauge the passage of time. But if many long weeks could be wound up in skeins as tightly as wool, then that was what happened. His effort was folded and refolded, compressed and coiled so that all at braided once, the job was accomplished.

Right, then. Gawain stood numbly in front of a great, searing pillar; floor curving off to one side, Midworld vanished away. He ought to have felt triumph (or at least concern) but the suddenness of the thing and his own ragged exhaustion made the knight terribly slow to react. Nor did looking about himself help, for the view was altered in very strange ways whenever he moved his head.

Turning leftward brought far higher sites into view, while glancing at his boots provided a look through some sort of window, into a chamber of metal and lights. In living memory no one had opened this channel, so Gawain had no clear idea what to do next. Address his summoner, possibly?

The voice came while he was yet deciding which keyword to speak. Not a roar or thunderbolt, but composed of his own rapid heartbeat and breathing, it was.

-Why are you come? - Someone asked.