The Lost Labyrinth

III

Knox's legs were jellied with fatigue, his ankles turning with painful regularity on the loose rocks that he used as stepping stones to cross the thick tangle of thorny shrubs. It felt like he'd been circling the escarpment for hours, though it could only in truth have been twenty minutes. The terrain near the cliff edge was so difficult that it forced him out wide, denying him the chance to monitor what was going on below. But eventually he reached the marker he'd given himself-an outcrop of rock like a pine-cone lying on its side-and he cut back to the escarpment rim to find himself high above the yellow sea of gorse, the clearing visible a little to his below, though without any sign of life.

What now?

His breath was whistling in his throat; a stitch jabbed in his side and at his bruised ribs. He got down onto his knees then lay on his front and leaned out over the edge to examine the cliff-face beneath him for a manageable way down. What he saw could have been better, but it could have been worse too. The top third was almost sheer, but it was craggy enough to offer plentiful holds, even for an inexperienced climber like himself. Beneath that, it grew incrementally less steep to a slope of loose earth and shale that fed straight into the gorse.

He gave his legs a few moments more to recover, then he lay on his belly and grabbed some roots with either hand and swung his legs out over the edge, searching with his toes until they found crags and ledges strong enough to take his weight. He let go of one of the roots and took a grip of the cliff edge, then lowered himself further. He kept at it, not looking down, his progress frustratingly slow. But finally he reached the end of the first section, where the gradient relented a little. The face was still steep, but seemed to consist of bands of limestone that had weathered at different speeds, creating a series of giant steps cut by time and nature. It was an opportunity to make up some time. He turned around until he was facing outwards, then jumped down onto the ledge several feet beneath him, legs bent to cushion his landing. He stumbled a little but made sure to fall against the face and away from danger. He picked himself up, wiped the grit from his palms, then looked down for another ledge to jump down to. This time, however, his ankle turned beneath him, and he stumbled the wrong way, forcing him straight into a third leap, then a fourth, his arms now flailing wildly for balance. He hit the lower slopes at such speed that it would have been suicide to try to stop, so he went with it instead, trusting to gravity and the skill of his quick feet, his legs pumping crazily, soil and loose grey stones cascading all around him, until finally he stumbled and tumbled and crashed like a bowling ball into the gorse, the thorns ripping his shirt to shreds, but acting like a safety net too, slowing and then stopping him.

He lay there for a moment, face down in the tangles, gathering his breath, assessing himself for injury. Every inch of him throbbed and stung and ached, but nothing felt broken or ruptured. He got gingerly to his feet, fought his way through the gorse and the creepers to the clearing. There was a gash in the rock-face. Light was coming from inside, along with the low chunter of a generator. He breathed in deep to steel himself, then got down onto his hands and knees and crawled inside.