The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  As a few more miles trickled by the feeling ebbed, and he looked out at the seemingly endless road of cobblestone. The sun was warm, only a few flies buzzed around, and he felt a brief moment of peace.

  Chapter 3 — Three on a Match

  To simple men, it is easy to solve the world’s problems sitting in an inn or before a great roaring fire. So simple are the flames, which dance and inspire thought. Too simple. For even these flames are made up of knots that are hidden. In the Light of the fire there is Dark.

  Cleric Hrozon, Order of the Knot

  Qainur returned to the horses from an excursion in to the brush. As he laced up his breeches, he casually informed Zhy and Torplug that he had found something in the woods. “There’s a camp back in there, not far off the road. Looks like someone abandoned it. May be worth checking out.” He yawned loudly.

  Torplug said nothing, but descended from his horse and headed off into the brush, going the opposite direction. “Need to take care of something myself. Do what you like.”

  Zhy descended from his horse and began to work out the kinks. He hated to dismount, then re-mount again… he’d rather just keep going and be done for the day. After only a few minutes of stretching, he heard a yelp, a cry, and a grunt.

  “For Sacuan’s sake!” he blurted. Qainur, you idiot, he thought, as he made his way through the brush towards the sound of a struggle. He tried to run, but his muscles were still cramped. Branches still full of green buds slapped at his face and he cursed as he flung them away. Ferns and brambles at his feet nearly sent him flying headlong into birch trees, but somehow he kept his aching body upright and moved clumsily towards the melee.

  When at last he arrived, he found Qainur engaged in a violent sword fight against a bandit dressed in black, reinforced leather, and his face covered with black silk. He wielded a razor-thin rapier with agility and skill that Zhy figured most common bandits did not possess. And he was silent. Not a grunt or a curse.

  Qainur moved blindingly fast. He moves too quickly for his size, Zhy thought. Either that, or he is proving what he said earlier—his lack of scars proved his skill.

  The huge broadsword moved with the agility of a small dagger as he parried and countered every move of the bandit. For what seemed like hours, the two danced their deadly dance, swords flashing. The sound of metal-on-metal rang in the small clearing. Great red and orange maple leaves fell around them, with a lazy and floating peaceful counter to the deadly battle. The bandit would thrust, and Qainur would parry. Qainur would respond with a slashing blow, only to have it repelled. Soon both men panted, though neither seemed willing to concede; and with a quick flash, the bandit’s sword struck at an impossible angle. Qainur struggled to parry, but the bandit’s sword sliced the leather on his sword arm and wrenched the huge broadsword from his grip—sending it flying into the brush. In an instant the bandit was upon him, the point of the sword touching the mercenary’s neck.

  Zhy started to turn away. He did not want to see his companion sliced like a pig, but before the swordsman’s blade could slice Qainur, a bolt of purple flame arched out from behind a bush and struck the bandit in the chest. There was a brief flash, but no time for a scream, for as suddenly as the flame began, it ended. Where the man had stood only footprints remained.

  Qainur’s great shoulders slumped. Zhy turned dumbly and watched as Torplug emerged from behind a bayberry bush, took two wobbling steps and then collapsed to the ground. Small tendrils of purple flame still danced along his miniature fingertips then flickered out as his lids did likewise. Though alive, the small-man’s chest heaved with deep, slow, labored breaths.

  “How....?” Zhy began, then stopped. He took another cow-eyed glance at the footprints, then swiftly walked over to the mage. He knelt down next to him, his knee settling on a small rock. He winced, but willed away the sharp pain. The small-man’s lips were quivering and there was a crackle in his lungs.

  The little mage took a deep breath, then cleared his lungs with a massive cough and raised his head with effort. “That—spell—I.” He stopped, taking more labored breaths; his head fell back to the forest floor like a rope left to fall from a ladder.

  By this time Qainur had somewhat recovered his faculties. Zhy heard him crashing into the brush to retrieve his sword. He too breathed heavily and let forth a hacking cough. Eventually he came over to Zhy and the mage. They helped him lie down flat. They propped Torplug’s head against a grass-covered knoll.

  “What happened?” Zhy asked quietly.

  Qainur stared at the spot where the bandit had been. Finally, he shook his head, and after some poking around in the brush, retrieved his sword. “I think it was a trap.”

  “Trap?”

  “I should have known. A nice campsite. A pack and some gear. Even a sword under a blanket. Too perfect. Too neat. I should have left it alone.”

  “That would have been a good idea.” Too late, now. “What kind of bandit was that?”

  Qainur shook his head. “He was assassin-trained. That was not an ordinary bandit. He was also quite pale under that mask.” He looked around, still a bit dazed. A deep breath of the cold air and snow seemed to clear his head for a moment. “We need to get out of here.”

  Zhy nodded and pointed at Torplug.

  The mage was still breathing, albeit with effort. They decided to pile him on a horse, setting him up as comfortable as possible. His small stature aided them, but they still continued slowly. But at least they continued forward. As the Crown Road wound further northward, they noticed that the number of small farms and huts increased. The town of Huilcher could not be far away.

  Qainur looked out over the road, pausing briefly to admire a very tall pine tree among a stand of maples. Then the mercenary regarded the mage. The look of sadness passed again over his face. He took another look around and shook his head. “I’ve never had a fight like that,” he said quietly.

  Shock still hung over Zhy like the oppressive smoke from a thousand cook fires. “If we are going to encounter that again, I’m afraid we won’t last long,” he said, his focus on nothing and everything. His eyes felt glazed over and he was numb. For a minute he thought he was getting the drunken shakes, but he quickly realized it was simple shock at the previous encounter. Never had he seen such a sword fight and never had he heard of a magical spell that could literately erase a person from existence.

  The mercenary nodded. “I should have known better. I’m sorry.” His voice sounded faded and distant, as if for once he was pondering the fragility of his own existence. Most likely in one-syllable words.

  “Ach!” Qainur snarled.

  * * *

  The only room big enough for all of them was found at Star and Porter, a well-kept inn filled with decent, hard-working folk, who were either starting in on the dinner of roast rabbit and leek soup or tucking into the dark, honey-laden ale the region was known for. Zhy’s mouth watered at the sight of the ale, but he shook his head sadly and tried to avert his gaze from the overflowing mugs.

  After they tied up and fed their horses, they went inside the inn. They waited patiently at the bar while the innkeeper remained outside to finish setting up the horses for the night.

  Zhy took a look around the inn and remarked how similar it was in layout to the inn in Belden City. Most of the inn was of oak, although the bar was constructed out of polished cherry, belying a fair amount of wealth. Great oak beams crossed the ceiling, and small trinkets hung from them—either trinkets of the superstitious or items made by local children. The great room was fairly full and a fire blazed in a massive hearth.

  Most inns across Belden were built of either pine or oak or a combination of both. The very wealthy inns used cherry with abandon, but they were often smaller and well-guarded to keep the common folks away. Otherwise, the build was the same: A large, solid oak door (oak was used most of the time for the door, even if the rest of the wood used was pine) led the way inside. Above the door a curved overhang was usually positioned such
that it jutted out far enough to hang a sign. The common room opened directly past the entrance, with a hearth to one side and the bar to the other. On the far end of the room, stairs led up to sleeping chambers, while a door at the base of these stairs opened into the kitchen and staff areas.

  Beldeners took pride in cleanliness and order. Unless there was a festival, a wedding, or other party, or the inn was of ill repute, the floors were kept clean. Serving boys and girls were quick to clean up any spills from over-exuberant customers or a dropped serving tray. As such, the only smells that greeted a newcomer were the smoke from the hearth and any food being served. Only in the dirtiest and poorest of inns was one assaulted with the stench of stale mead and sweaty bodies.

  A dour-faced girl of about twenty was playing the sutan. But she stuck to the same four chords, and she did not sing. Zhy glanced over and felt sorry for her, for the locals paid no heed. He scowled slightly in her direction, tiring already of the same notes over and over and over and over again. She may or may not have noticed, but she quickly stopped and set the instrument back in its case. Standing abruptly, she took the sutan and disappeared into the kitchens, nearly knocking over the innkeeper as he emerged, wiping his hands with a filthy towel. He scowled quickly, but then beamed at the three travelers. He gladly took Zhy’s coin and agreed to have supper sent to their room.

  A few customers looked oddly at the group when they hauled in Torplug, but returned to stare vacantly at the musician.

  Zhy and Qainur laid Torplug on one of the smaller beds in the room. Dinner arrived shortly after, and the two ate, making sure to leave some for the mage.

  Once finished with supper, Zhy stared into the fire. Again the urge came to drown himself in brandy, but he held himself back. Instead, he thumbed his earlobe hard enough to crush it between this thumb and forefinger. Dark wisps of—something—crept slowly along the periphery of his vision, then ebbed slowly away. Is that because I’m not drinking? he wondered. Within the flames, he swore he saw himself, covered in his cloak, a knife in hand. Gasses popped in the fire, flames flickered violently, and the visage drove the knife deep into its own heart. Zhy swept his gaze away and onto the charred edge of the fireplace.

  Qainur sighed. “I need to lie down.”

  Zhy was exhausted himself, but with the men taking up the beds, he didn’t want the floor—not yet. He fell into a ratty cloth-covered chair and stared out the window. After a few minutes, Torplug groaned and came awake.

  “Feeling better?” Zhy asked, gaze still on the stable outside.

  The small-man yawned and pushed himself to his elbows with a chorus of creaks and pops. “I am. Hungry, though.” The mage gave Zhy a brief hard glance.

  “Good. There is leftover rabbit,” Zhy turned and gestured to the tray placed in front of the fireplace.

  “Thank you.” He tore into the cold rabbit. It was odd to see such a small man eat with such fervor

  I could kill him now and save us all misery later, Zhy thought, and lurched at the sudden violent imagery that flashed in his mind.

  Torplug stopped abruptly, a greasy wad of meat poised before his open mouth. “What?” he snapped.

  Zhy colored but quickly tried to cover his thoughts. “I didn’t say anything.” He felt his face get hot and hoped the mage didn’t notice.

  The mage stared at him then shook his head and continued eating. The silence went unbroken for several minutes.

  Finally, Torplug wiped his face with a rag from the tray, set it gently back on the tray, and drained his mug of flat, warm ale. A grimace briefly flashed across his face, and then he turned to Zhy. His expression was blank, but his eyes were piercing slivers. He spoke quietly and calmly, “I am quite well-warded. Even though that spell drained me, I made sure I would stay protected even after it nearly killed me. Your knife would have hit a solid barrier and shattered your arm. Do not underestimate me again, or you will pay the price.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” Zhy stammered, returning his gaze outside. He hoped to cover his crimson face, but the mage had noticed.

  Torplug sniffed.

  Zhy shifted his weight, tried to change the subject. “So you are going home. To Welcfer.” It was not a question.

  The little mage looked at him, and he was prepared for another non-answer. “Yes. And I’d like to make sure we stick to the road from now on and not go blasting off into the wilderness.”

  “Like you did?”

  “I was five feet away from the horses, not half a league,” he spat. What Torplug didn’t have to say, and what Zhy was thinking, much to his shame, was, you just couldn’t see me.

  “You boys should sleep,” Qainur said from the bed.

  Torplug yawned. That look of shame passed over him, but quickly faded. “Fine.”

  Chapter 4 — Lessons of the Dawn

  Secrets! Ah secrets! How would we ever function if we didn’t have secrets, hold secrets, or want to look for secrets? Secrets make us what we are and keep our true selves from others. But it is perhaps the insidious part of the Dark working against us. For what good does it ever serve to be able to say, “I know something you don’t know?”

  High Cleric Bertrand

  “They were not bandits,” Torplug said softly as they continued northward. The outburst sounded loud in the calm morning.

  “They?” Qainur wondered.

  “Indeed. You were lucky to encounter only one. I’m certain there were more. Perhaps the others were out hunting—too far away to help.” He seemed to be having a debate with himself, muttering: “They must be. Must be. Right?” Suddenly he threw up his hands. “Who else could it possibly be?” he shouted to no one in particular.

  “Who?” Qainur shouted. His face was red and he veritably bounced in his saddle. “Who are they? How do you know? And why have you said nothing?” he spat.

  The mage colored but answered quite calmly. “I recognized the warrior immediately. And yes they are warriors. They are a secret order of skilled assassins, and they are called—” He stopped abruptly and looked up and down the road. “What I’m going to tell you is supposed to be closely guarded secret. But we’ve seen them. Now we know. You can tell someone you saw them, but they may or may not believe you. You can tell the Guard, they will call you insane. Tell anyone from a Holy Order, and, well, who knows? Penance? Denial? Anything is possible.”

  “So, who are they?” Qainur hadn’t noticed the ridiculousness of the situation. His face was wide and bright—that of an old kid who hears a ghost story for the first time.

  “They—” again he glanced up and down the road. Seriously, what is the matter with talking about this? Zhy wondered. Torplug continued, “They are called the Knights of the Black Dawn.”

  Zhy could not stifle a guffaw. “What meaning does Black Dawn possibly have?”

  “They—”

  Zhy cut him off. “And why name them at all? If they are such a secret society, why even give them a name?” He sounded exasperated. It was too much. A skilled bandit he could understand. But a secret society that was full of them? Well why not? he thought, shrugging and thumbing his earlobe.

  Torplug growled in his throat, loud enough that Zhy thought for a moment it was Qainur. “Zhy, you can laugh all you want at whatever name the group has chosen. It does not make them any less dangerous.”

  “Aye,” Qainur muttered. “He is right at that, Zhy.”

  Zhy grimaced and then scowled. “I suppose you are right.”

  “And so,” Torplug said quietly, resuming his explanation, “while technically belonging under the control of the Holy Orders, they may be controlled indirectly, but that was just a rumor I heard at University. In fact their very existence is pretty much a rumor…sure, we’ve seen paintings of those who claim to have run into them, but if you ask a common man, a mayor, or even a high-ranking member of the Counsel Guard, they will deny them entirely. In any case, they are elite. They are not just blade masters. Some are mages as well. We were lucky back there.” He stopped, perhaps
thinking of the various horrid possibilities of facing a mage.

  “And are they only in Belden or in Welcfer, too?” Qainur asked.

  “Both. I heard of them at University in Welcfer, but I have Beldener contacts who have said they saw one once while fishing a remote stream. Who knows? Welcferians don’t ask many questions, though…they just want to harvest their turnips and play their card games. It’s a land where men are prostitutes…perhaps that explains it all.”

  He let Zhy and Qainur ponder that for a while. They were passing through a stand of birches and maples, and fall colors washed the trio in a vibrant kaleidoscope of yellows, reds, greens, and golden browns. The men were quiet, admiring the pure autumn scene that seemed in such stark contrast to an Order that was filled with vicious assassins. The ground was filling up with the colors as well, as tufts of wind would gently knock the leaves from their branches. When they at last passed into a stand of green balsams, Torplug continued his explanation.

  “In any case, it is rumored that the Knights do several things. Some are good, and some are not-so-good.”

  “Such as?” Zhy asked.

  “They’ve been called demon hunters, baby-stealers, thieves, you name it.... but the truth, is, they do hunt demons.”

  Qainur whistled.

  “Demons, huh,” Zhy wondered aloud. “They live in the shadows and hunt shadows?”

  Torplug shrugged. “Could be, if that is what they were doing. What bothers me is that I don’t know why he attacked you, Qainur. Did you say anything to him?”

  “No, of course not!” Zhy glanced up at Qainur quickly, and Zhy swore Qainur’s face drained of color, if only for a fraction of a second.

  The mage shook his head slowly. “Then I have no idea. But they can surely be a dangerous group. I just am not sure why they attacked you.” He absently brushed a bright red maple leaf off the pommel of his saddle.