The candle was looking low, its light dimming or at least seeming to dim to Tiren’s eyes. Her feet were sore from traversing the seemingly never-changing expanse of the black labyrinth with not so much as a thread to guide her way.
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After a restless night’s sleep Tiren woke with a burning pain in her leg. Her wraithlike dreams still swirling about her head she pushed herself up on her elbows and tried to make out anything in the darkness. She was sure she had seen windows last night coming up to her hard unyielding bunk.
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Matches snapped beneath Hawks as he fell like a cat with a lead weight on its back. Luckily the floor was also formed of dank earth which cushioned his fall. He got up, briefly wondered if the fall hadn’t rendered him blind, then grabbed the tails of his overcoat which were hanging in front of his face and flipped them back over his head. There was a faint, acrid smell in the air which he couldn’t identify, and an iron-y taste settled on his tongue. He stumbled about in the darkness, bashing his shin on something metal that bounced away. Cursing, he ceased his explorations and allowed his eyes to become acclimated to the darkness. He wished he had been more careful with the matches…
The first thing the book called for was a straight knife. A margin-note by Laroux indicated that “bread knife is right out”. Hawks opened his second desk-drawer on the left side and removed a short, very sharp knife from a plate of dinner that he was keeping in there for later. It looked like it would do, although it was substantially less vicious than the knife illustrated in the book…
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