The Battle of the Labyrinth

cover.
    It was daytime. The sky above was blue, but the walls of the maze cast deep shadows across the workshop. After being in tunnels so long, I found it weird that part of the Labyrinth could be open to the sky. Somehow that made the maze seem like an even crueler place.
    The old man looked sickly. He was terribly thin, his hands raw and red from working. White hair covered his eyes, and his tunic was smudged with grease. He was bent over a table, working on some kind of long metal patch-work—like a swath of chain mail. He picked up a delicate curl of bronze and fitted it into place.
    “Done,” he announced. “It’s done.”
    He picked up his project. It was so beautiful, my heart leaped—metal wings constructed from thousands of interlocking bronze feathers. There were two sets. One still lay on the table. Daedalus stretched the frame, and the wings expanded to twenty feet. Part of me knew it could never fly. It was too heavy, and there’d be no way to get off the ground. But the craftsmanship was amazing. Metal feathers caught the light and flashed thirty different shades of gold.
    The boy left the bellows and ran over to see. He grinned, despite the fact that he was grimy and sweaty. “Father, you’re a genius!”
    The old man smiled. “Tell me something I don’t know, Icarus. Now hurry. It will take at least an hour to attach them. Come.”
    “You first,” Icarus said.
    The old man protested, but Icarus insisted. “You made them, Father. You should get the honor of wearing them first.”
    The boy attached a leather harness to his father’s chest, like climbing gear, with straps that ran from his shoulders to his wrists. Then he began fastening on the wings, using a metal canister that looked like an enormous hot-glue gun.
    “The wax compound should hold for several hours,” Daedalus said nervously as his son worked. “But we must let it set first. And we would do well to avoid flying too high or too low. The sea would wet the wax seals—”
    “And the sun’s heat would loosen them,” the boy finished. “Yes, Father. We’ve been through this a million times!”
    “One cannot be too careful.”
    “I have complete faith in your inventions, Father! No one has ever been as smart as you.”
    The old man’s eyes shone. It was obvious he loved his son more than anything in the world. “Now I will do your wings, and give mine a chance to set properly. Come!”
    It was slow going. The old man’s hands fumbled with the straps. He had a hard time keeping the wings in position while he sealed them. His own metal wings seemed to weigh him down, getting in his way while he tried to work.
    “Too slow,” the old man muttered. “I am too slow.”
    “Take your time, Father,” the boy said. “The guards aren’t due until—”
    BOOM!
    The workshop doors shuddered. Daedalus had barred them from the inside with a wooden brace, but still they shook on their hinges.
    “Hurry!” Icarus said.
    BOOM! BOOM!
    Something heavy was slamming into the doors. The brace held, but a crack appeared in the left door.
    Daedalus worked furiously. A drop of hot wax spilled onto Icarus’s shoulder. The boy winced but did not cry out. When his left wing was sealed to the straps, Daedalus began working on the right.
    “We must have more time,” Daedalus murmured. “They are too early! We need more time for the seal to hold.”
    “It’ll be fine,” Icarus said, as his father finished the right wing. “Help me with the manhole—”
    CRASH! The doors splintered and the head of a bronze battering ram emerged through the breach. Axes cleared the debris, and two armed guards entered the room, followed by the king with the golden crown and the spear-shaped beard.
    “Well, well,” the king said with a cruel smile. “Going somewhere?”
    Daedalus and his son froze, their metal wings glimmering on their backs.
    “We’re leaving, Minos,” the old man said.
    King Minos chuckled. “I was curious to see how far you’d get on this little project before I dashed your hopes. I must say I’m impressed.”
    The king admired their wings. “You look like metal chickens,” he decided. “Perhaps we should pluck you and make a soup.”
    The guards laughed stupidly.
    “Metal chickens,” one repeated. “Soup.”
    “Shut up,” the king said. Then he turned again to Daedalus. “You let my daughter escape, old man. You drove my wife to madness. You killed my monster and made me the laughingstock of the Mediterranean.