A Knight's Tale

Written by Matthew Shute

In the meadows stood a gray, dismal building. When the armour-clad adventurer saw this he immediately decided to investigate. At a glance, he guessed that it contained extensive amounts of treasure. Dungeons in the middle of nowhere like this one commonly did. Extracting treasure from old, forsaken lairs was his business. He pulled back the reins of his steed and altered his course. The ominous shape waited balefully ahead, some distance away. The horse snorted and made towards the dungeon at a trot.

As he got nearer, the knight saw a large oaken door in the center of the stone wall of the structure. Seeing this, the knight quickened pace. Within a few meters of the building, he tethered his horse to a nearby tree and approached on foot. When he reached the door, he violently kicked it open and stepped cautiously forward into the gloom of the unknown.

Before him, a singular corridor stretched straight ahead, as far as he could see. The place looked like it had not been occupied in a very long time. Not a single footprint disturbed the thick layer of dust on the ground. All was deathly still. The only sounds the adventurer could hear were the sounds of birds from the valley behind him, the distant trickle of running water from a nearby stream, and the steady beat of his own untroubled heart.

Boldly, without fear, he marched onward, confident he would have the better of any denizen he came across while on his treasure hunt. As he walked, he whistled a happy melody through the grille of his helmet. Minutes went by and his mood did not falter, unshakable in the conviction that he was a born survivor.

The coal-black sword he held was rumored to have been forged in the fires of a mighty volcano by a grotesque, four-winged demon with the eyes of a snake and the face of a great wolf. This myth had been passed on to him by the previous owner of the magnificent weapon, his late father Aaron Vorngare. True or not, the blade was indeed the sharpest and most deadly he had ever come across, and he certainly knew how to wield such a lethal instrument. He was a champion fighter, having slain many worthy swordsmen in his long lifetime. Along with his sword, he carried the confidence of a man who knew he could not be beaten easily.

Balithus Vorngare had grown up in medieval Europe. It was a dark time, a savage period of history which oversaw many of the worst atrocities ever conceived in the human imagination. It was a time of meticulous tortures and executions, brutal wars, pestilence and suspicion; a time of pain, fear and decay. In a world where only the most hardy or the most powerful survived for very long, Balithus wore the scars of countless battles and expeditions into strange and hostile lands. His famed strength and skill had protected him from any real harm while all around him companions and enemies alike perished. During his career he had never once sustained an injury any more serious than mild lacerations or bruises. He was, by the highest standards, an extraordinary warrior - one of rare talent.

Thus, he was not afraid.

The corridor stretched on and on. The knight's way was lit by small triangular slats in the ceiling, these occurring at regular intervals. Warm summer sunlight shone down through these cracks, picking up drifting particles as it did so. On its own, the effect was fairly pleasant, but repeated so many times it raised in the adventurer a strong feeling of monotony. Frustrated by the lack of variation, he sighed deeply and walked on.

The corridor was vastly long. Many times he considered retracing his steps and leaving this unexpected challenge for another time. Whenever this idea occurred to him however, he would tell himself to persevere, certain that the passageway lead to great things indeed, sure that his trek was almost at an end.

He went on some kilometers before he trod down on the unseen pressure pad on the floor. When he did so, an enormously heavy portcullis slammed down about five meters behind him with a deafening CLANG that echoed along the entire corridor. He whirled around at the noise, expecting to see a band of men rushing at him in ambush, axes raised above their shaggy heads. There were no such warriors in sight, however. Just the portcullis. Immovable. Indifferent. The way back was now completely blocked off by the barrier.

There was no other way onward now. Lacking any other option, the knight continued into the darkness.

After some time, the corridor opened out onto a vast chamber, ending with three iron doors in the far wall. Looking to his right, the crusader saw a gigantic drop-off which had been divided into six deep pits. Each pit had a sturdy redwood plank suspended above it, leading from the edge of the chamber. A wooden signpost pointed to each. Looking left, away from these deathtraps, he saw a wide alcove with a stone bench at the back of it. A skeleton sat on the bench, propped up against the wall. Its left arm lay on the floor by its scrawny feet. The arm had presumably fallen off a long time ago. The skeleton looked ancient, cobwebs covering each contour of its bare skull, ribs and pelvis. Painted above the alcove in dark red letters were these strange words: "The Bench of Hesitation".

There was another sign, this one bigger than the others. This sign stood defiantly in the center of the chamber, opposite the Bench of Hesitation. It said, simply, "CHOOSE YOUR OWN DEATH".

A horrendous smell rose from one or all (he could not tell which) of the pits, making it unpleasant - if not difficult - to breathe.

Unfazed by all of this, the knight walked over to the three iron doors. Each had an elaborate symbol engraved upon it. The leftmost door had the symbol of a river etched into the surface. The middle door displayed a symbolic chalice. The symbol on the third door was that of an oak tree. The craftsmanship of these small icons was impressive. They looked realistic and three-dimensional beyond the standards of any other engraving he had previously ever seen. They had obviously been produced by an artist of exceptional skill.

Each door had a ten digit combination-lock. The knight did not recognize the strange numerals on these dials but he guessed they were some kind alphabet or system of numbers. There were thirty or so different possible numerals for each slot in the combination. The knight tried a few different combinations but quickly realized that he could spend years trying to figure out the correct sequence for each door. By then he would be as dead as the skeleton sitting in the alcove.

He grunted and kicked the door repeatedly in anger. When his foot began to hurt, he stopped and staggered backward, snarling.

Gradually, blind anger gave way to grim resolve.

His attention returned to the pits. He limped over to the nearest one and read the corresponding sign. It read: "The Pit of Rot". Glancing over the edge, he saw that the title was extremely fitting. Just above the fetid substance that filled this reeking shaft, there was a dripping outlet-pipe from which dribbled a foul, brown muck. The pipe was coming from the opposite wall, many meters away. Tons of raw sewage floated at the bottom of the stagnant abyss, squelching and hissing and belching as noxious bubbles rose to the surface. Other things also rose to the surface. These were dead things. Disfigured things. Indescribable things.

Bloated rats. Decaying horseflesh. Excrement.

Eyes. Livers. Fish. Teeth.

The stench was appalling.

The knight reeled away, gagging. He barely prevented himself from vomiting into his own silver helmet.

He quickly recovered his footing and composed himself. Annoyed at his own display of feebleness and his weak stomach, he strolled across to the next signpost. "The Void", it declared.

The Void, as the sign referred to it, was just that. The adventurer peered far, far down into the seemingly infinite blackness and could see no end to it. For all intents and purposes, this "Void" was bottomless.

Bemused, Balithus moved on.

The next hole, the knight saw, had been given the title, "Pit of Bones" for obvious reasons. It was full of human (and possibly other - there were too many to visually examine them all in detail) skeletons.

The fourth pit was called, "The liquidizer". Balithus Vorngare looked down over the edge with wonder.

Some awesome mechanical function caused the rotation of an intricate arrangement of blades, hammer-heads and grinders in many different directions at once. The knight had never seen such an ingenious thing in his life. Some of the components were as big as oversized scythes, some were as small as needles. Somehow, the whole mass seethed and spun around at an incredible speed without any individual part crashing into any other, even though they frequently came close enough to touch or scrape, metal against metal. The whole pit was a blurred, swirling vortex of metallic motion.

Shaking his head, the adventurer looked away.

The fifth hole was entitled "Acid Bath". Balithus was not familiar with the word "Acid" but he knew the word "Bath" well enough. It gave him a warm, cozy feeling - in spite of his situation. This "Bath" was full of a clear, calm, green liquid. It did not look dangerous in the slightest, though he imagined it probably was. It seemed too good to be true, after seeing what lay in the depths of the previous hell-holes. Even so, the liquid was so clear that he could see all the way to the bottom. There seemed nowhere for anything nasty to hide. Maybe it was some kind of magical, soul stealing pool. "Acid" seemed a very mystical word, one full of hidden power. Sorcery? He could not be sure. Because the properties of this trap were unknown, it made him feel more uneasy about it than the previous ones he had seen. He knew how deceptive appearances could be. The flawless pool was mesmerizing to look at. Fearing some kind of hypnotism, he looked away quickly and went on to examine the next.

The sixth and final hole was the most stunning of all. The sign for this one said, "The Beast". The "Beast" dwelling in the musty chamber below was as tall as a shed and as long and wide as a dinning hall. It seemed to have been composed out of every breed of insect and "creepy-crawly" that the knight had ever seen - and many more that he hadn't. It looked (to him) more like a scorpion than anything. It had roughly fifteen squirming legs on each side and three scorpion-like stings curling away from its scaly bulk. It had two heads. Both looked rather wasp-like, with huge leathery mandibles lined with a jagged, razor-edge, and inky tongues sprouting from the mouths. Both faces had unique characteristics. One was more ant-like than the other, long sleek and vicious. The other reminded Balithus more of a beetle, bulbous, horned and heavily armored. Each head supported a single bloodshot eye that took up most of the surface area. The eye on the "beetle" side was fractionally smaller and deeper-set. Both eyes had an almost human quality to them. The creature also had clusters of what appeared to be compound-eyes at random places all over it's knobbly brown thorax. Two long, torn wings that grew from this same area twitched aimlessly, although it appeared the animal was incapable of flight. It's abdomen was covered with twisted, needle-sharp spikes and a collection of seemingly useless limbs which protruded from all angles and varied in type, size and function. Yellow mucus oozed from the joints of some of the more deformed (or wounded?) protuberances.

The creature writhed about in a rictus of perpetual hunger, seeking silently with it's various appendages and orifices. The gloomy shaft -which was as big as two of the other pits joined together- was littered with gutted human carcasses, recent prey of this loathsome abomination.

Balithus turned away from the hideous thing and considered his situation. What should he do? Just sit on the Bench of Hesitation and wait with his skeletal friend for death to claim him? Leap into one of the pits? Try to figure out the combination for one of the three doors, knowing that he might never find the right one, knowing that even if he did find it, the door might just lead to another dead-end or another horrible fate, knowing in fact that there might not even be a correct combination to the door - that it could merely be device intended to drive its victim insane, trying to turn a key in a lock that does not even exist...?

Balithus chose none of the above.

Instead, he searched everywhere he could think of for secret doors, more hidden pressure pads, some secret means of escape. Surely there was at least one little trap-door or lever that would allow him to progress onward. He examined every wall and every bit of the floor and ceiling, all in vain. He pushed and pulled every area of stone he could find. Nothing happened. He even tried to dislodge the portcullis that blocked off long corridor leading back toward the lush meadows and fresh green hills. It was impossible. He tried to climb up through the triangular slats in the ceiling, but they were all much too small for any human being to squeeze between. Not even the skeleton could have managed. His search was thorough, careful and detailed. He searched with a fanaticism born out of the basic will to survive.

Six or seven hours later, he was no closer to freedom. His situation had only changed in one respect; he was beginning to feel hungry.

Still he searched. Frantically.

After another two hours or so, the truth began to dawn upon him: there was simply no way out of this place.

Balithus cursed his stupidity and his foolish greed. His recent fevered thoughts of gold and jewels now seemed to taunt him. He had possessed all he had ever really wanted. Food, water, adventure, freedom. He had owned enough gold to live nicely if he ever desired to settle down. Life had been good. Yet his foolish lust for ever- more wealth had brought him here: to this dark, doom-filled place. There were only four types of currency here; fear, pain, death and madness.

Suddenly, he knew beyond a doubt that he was going to die. There was no way out of this abysmal dungeon. He had brought along no food or water; his provisions were tied to the saddle of his trusty steed who was now also likely to die, unable to free itself from it's bonds. Balithus was now very hungry, he was thirsty and he was beginning to feel exhausted.

He looked again at the sign in the center of the chamber: CHOOSE YOUR OWN DEATH.

Yes, he was going to die.

No question about it.

Dread gripped him.

The knight returned to the Bench of Hesitation, sat down and screamed himself horse. He did not want to die. He loved his life, cherished it. His faith in an afterlife had been lost long ago. He was not a religious man. His life was finite and precious, he knew it. Tremors of fear racked his broad body. His own mortality was staring him in the face and it seemed to grin.

In a fit of rage, he attacked the skeleton, swiping at it and knocking it from its perch. He smashed some of its brittle bones under his shoe and kicked the skull so it detached from the rest of the body and flew out of sight, into the Acid Bath. A hiss issued from the pit and it made the knight shudder. Surely that serpent sound proved the mystical green substance, so lovely to look at, was really demonic in nature, designed to transport it's victims into the netherworld.

Again Balithus cried out in anguish as he fully realized the hopelessness of his situation.

This was not a place for him; he could not die like this. How could he face an adversary that did not even live or breathe, that he could not see? All his life he had solved every problem he had encountered with his might and his sword, simply killing all those that posed a threat or stood in his way. He lived by the sword and was meant to die by the sword. That was how his father had lived and how his father had brought up his son. That was his way. He was not designed for this. Suicide was no way to go out - and yet suicide was the very intention of this place, the only option available. No, this was wrong. Suicide was the cowards way out, surely? He was not a coward. He was a slayer. The only thing to slay here was himself.

No, not the only thing, he realized.

He stopped screaming and looked slowly to his right, towards the sixth pit.

The Beast.

Balithus Vorngare lived by the sword and would die by the sword, as his father, grandfather and great grandfather had all done before him. Suddenly, the only logical way out of this occurred to him.

He was not going to die of starvation. He was not going do die drowning in other people's waste, being hacked to shreds by a whirring contraption, or have his mind and soul sucked out by sorcery. If death was the only option then he would die fighting. By the sword.

He stood up. He walked onto a wooden plank and looked down. The giant insect(s) or whatever the nightmare really was, raised both heads and surveyed him hungrily. Mischievous intelligence shone in both of the human-like eyes. It twitched all over in pleasurable anticipation. The mind (or minds) of the thing had one desire: food. Toxic-looking saliva dribbled from its twin set of jaws. It reared up with its stingers pointed towards him. With body language, the creature seemed to be saying, Come along then, fool. You fancy your chances against me, little one? I have been waiting a long time for a decent meal. You will provide nothing more than a quick snack, but even that is better than nothing. So... Come on. Quickly. I am waiting...

The knight gripped his mighty sword -which now seemed no more deadly than a fluffy pillow against the monster below- in both hands. He said a quick prayer for his soul if not his body, and took one final step forward towards his chosen fate.

The creature waited silently.

After one deep breath, Balithus Vorngare jumped.

Elsewhere, a portcullis creaked slowly open.

...