The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  Qainur became increasingly morose as they rode on. The sun sidled across the sky, but was muted by high clouds. The smells of autumn grew stronger.

  After a quarter of an hour, Qainur cleared his throat. “Torplug?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you a member of the Knights of the Black Dawn?”

  The small-man coughed. “What kind of question—”

  “I was just wondering. You seem to know a lot about them. Did you set me up? And if so, why would you kill one of your own—or did your aim miss? Were you trying to kill me?”

  Qainur may have had success with such pathetic logic in the past, but Torplug reacted violently; the small-man angrily reared his horse to stop. The others were forced to clumsily follow. The three angrily stared at each other, and a caravan of spices had to maneuver quickly to avoid slamming into them. He raised his hands and light started dancing between his fingers. Zhy heard a crackle and cringed. Qainur simultaneously drew steel.

  “I don’t miss!” the mage barked. “Tenth branch up from the bottom, only the first third, leaving the shape of Y!” he yelled.

  “Wh—” Qainur began, his sword out. He had frozen, wondering what sort of trickery the mage was trying now.

  There was a loud whoosh as a bright tendril of white light flew past Qainur’s left ear. He ducked instinctively then turned around abruptly, trying to follow the flying bolt with his eyes. But by the time he turned, the magic had done its damage, and there was a violent crack as the bolt slammed into the large branch of an enormous white pine. The branch gave way immediately and crashed into the bramble below the tree.

  Zhy’s jaw was halfway down his chest. He stared at the tree then moved his gaze to Torplug and Qainur. The mage had dropped his hands and was fixing a vicious glare at the mercenary, who had let his sword fall to his side.

  One, two—great Sacuan’s scrotum! He hit it exactly. All that remained of the branch was a section shaped like a Y. And it was the tenth branch up.

  “If you ever,” he barked, taking a deep breath. “If you ever cross me again, or doubt my intentions, or try to hurt me,” he snapped a quick glance at Zhy. “I will not aim for a tree branch. Do you understand?”

  “I-I’m sorry, I—” Qainur stammered.

  “Do you understand?” he barked.

  His scruffy jaw worked and he ground his teeth. “Y-yes, I-I apologize.” The words came out like rough sand.

  “Then turn your ugly horse around and ride.” Torplug turned abruptly and stalked toward his horse.

  Qainur started, seemingly placated, but his jaw worked with even more fury, and any previous embarrassment slipped quickly into anger. He raised his head and addressed Torplug’s back with a curt, “No.”

  “Excuse me?” The mage half turned.

  “No. That isn’t an answer. You tell me right now what you are doing and who you work for? Answer me!”

  Torplug said nothing. Then he slowly turned around to face the mercenary. His expression was blank, and Zhy thought for a brief second that he would shrug and say something noncommittal.

  Instead, a bolt of green lightning blasted into Qainur’s chest, lifting him off his horse. The force from the green strand of light sent him flying across the road, and he landed in an overgrown juniper bush with a crash and a grunt. The air smelled of burnt hair, and specks of green light still danced on Torplug’s fingers. He scanned the road, his eyes dark and murky. There were no caravans in sight and no sign of the Counsel Guard. The small-man then approached the mercenary, who lay spread unevenly across the evergreen bush.

  Qainur rubbed his head again, then glared at Torplug. Zhy thought he looked rather comical, lying in the carpet of evergreen bushes, his back extended backward along the plant’s center core of small, knobby branches. The mercenary rolled off the side of the juniper and slowly stood. He had not been victim of so much physical violence for many years. And never by anyone with such a small stature—Zhy would laugh at the irony of it, but he didn’t dare anger the mage any more.

  Torplug considered Qainur for a few moments, his eyes still dark. Then the oddly gray and blue color returned, and the small-man laughed. “Oh dear, oh dear.” He laughed again. “That is a first! You really are a block-headed lout, aren’t you? I told you I lost my horse. I am not with the Black Dawn. You can either believe me, and we can continue together, or I will leave you. Sacuan help you should you run into any more Dawn members.”

  “I—”

  “Silence! All I want to hear from you is an apology and for you to get on your horse. Get the Zor’Tarak out of your head and stop letting your simple-minded brain run away with itself. Do you understand?” The mage sniffed loudly.

  Qainur stared. His face turned crimson, but at last he bowed his head. When he raised it, he apologized, his head high.

  The mage nodded, flexed his fingers, and Zhy swore he saw blue light dancing, but it quickly faded. “Thank you.” The mage mounted his horse then and quite abruptly trotted away from Zhy and Qainur.

  Torplug turned ever-so-slightly in his saddle and gave Qainur the slimmest of a scathing sidelong glance. Zhy swore he saw red light dancing on the edges of the mage’s eyes.

  “And one more thing, Qainur...” Torplug said quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “Sacuan was not a god; he can’t help you. He was just a prophet...a prophet with a big head and a lot of ideas. Too bad none of them were written down.”

  The mercenary opened his mouth, but closed it and instead scowled at the mage.

  As the horses trotted northward, wispy gray clouds took on a dull heaviness and multiplied their numbers across the sky, eventually merging into one solid mass of gray. Rain would not be far behind. The air in the upper reaches must have been much cooler, for instead of raindrops, small snowflakes drifted down from the gloomy sky. They quickly melted on the warm ground, but their presence confirmed that they were traveling very late in the year.

  “Zhy and Qainur?” Torplug asked after an hour of riding in silence. His voice was thin and reedy and mixed with nervousness and a little mirth. He wondered honestly what these two men were up to...back home...well, he let that thought go. It would be nice to hear it from them.

  Qainur cleared his throat. “As soon as you tell us—”

  “Qainur, let it go, he’s going back home,” Zhy replied. His gaze was on an oddly-shaped birch tree that had all but fallen over in a storm and leaned precariously over a young white pine. Half of the tree was dead, while the other was bright with yellow leaves.

  “And if you want me to stick with you, I’d like to know...”

  Qainur bristled and cracked his knuckles. “All right…” He sighed. “We’re trying to find a seith,” he said flatly.

  “Seith?” the mage asked, his face a mask of incredulity.

  “Aye,” Qainur replied. “We’re seeking a...a great warlock in the far north.”

  “Why?” Coming from the burly warrior, the statement was no different than stating that you will have apples in your porridge.

  “I want to learn magic.”

  “I see,” Torplug replied, his lips set in a thin line. “I see,” he repeated through nearly clenched teeth. “And...where is this warlock?”

  “Just north of Gray Gorge. You are more than welcome—”

  “T-thank you,” he replied with a nod. His lips were still set in a line. For a brief second, he opened his mouth, but closed it quickly. They rode again in silence for the better part of an hour.

  Of a sudden the mage started to chuckle.

  What ...?

  The chuckle took on life of its own, and soon his small body shook violently with his great heaving laughter. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he lurched frontwards, backwards and side to side. Zhy though the man would go tumbling from his horse, but in his mirthful revelry, the mage was still able to clutch the reins. Several minutes passed as the man laughed, and his horse seemed to amble as well, only barely able to miss stepping on the shoulder of
the road.

  Once he had finally ceased laughing, the forest became eerily silent. A crow cawed in the distance, and then the three were alone on an empty and silent road. Qainur and Zhy exchanged nervous glances at each other. What could possibly be so funny?

  Chapter 5 — Vronga

  Sometimes two ropes are used to tie one knot. You can untie them, and you are left with two ropes. But do you have more than you started with? Or have you created a more confusing situation? Which knot is the beginning? Which is the end? Which leads to salvation? And which to damnation?

  Cleric Hyun, Order of the Knot

  In the early afternoon of the following day, the three travelers arrived in Vronga, the second-largest city in Belden. It was here that the major roads converged, carrying travelers either north and south or east and west. The city was about of a third of the way between the capital city and the edges of Gray Gorge. It was built upon a sprawling and relatively flat plain that was increasingly being expanded to accommodate the sprawl of the large town. Pine forests stretched thickly out to the western shores but were being put quite quickly to the axe in the name of prosperity and growth. Beldeners were quite superstitious when it came to tall buildings, and so the concept of building up instead of out was unheard of. Unfortunately, there was only so much to be gained by stripping the forests of their resources—game and water were vanishing as the expansion continued. But perhaps some mage or warlock would figure a way around this shortfall, for while magic was a thread within the greater knot of the world, resource management and city planning were as yet dreams suspended on dust motes.

  Vronga was usually a bustling city, but in the autumn, the number of people swarming the city exploded as traveling caravans choked the streets. Even the recent widening of both roads had provided little relief from the congestion. Travelers would often stay for multiple days to unload supplies, wait for transfer caravans, or simply enjoy some other pleasures of a large city while they were far from home.

  The hum of the city could be heard from miles away, and a great cloud of smoke and soot was also visible. Even in daylight, the city was colored in a faded light, and many residents were afflicted by a constant hacking cough. Some blamed it rightly on the smoke and ash, some pointed to the sins of the inhabitants that brought illness upon them, and still others thought demons were to blame.

  Chimneys and small smoke stacks stretched as far as one could see, for the haze of the city covered the forest beyond its edges. Inns, houses, blacksmiths, smoke-houses, and other establishments all belched out wood smoke into the air. Depending on which way a stray gust of wind was blowing, the smell ranged from that of a late-summer campfire to that of burning dung. Zhy swore the entire city smelled like vomit.

  “We could stay here tonight,” Torplug offered.

  Qainur nodded. “Aye.” The mage looked at him as if he were an imbecile, but politely nodded to Zhy.

  “So you have been here before Qainur?” Zhy asked.

  “Aye, many times.” The mercenary nodded. “But I always have stayed at the inn on the edge of town—that one we passed coming in. So far my missions have carried me straight through town and off to somewhere else.” He scratched his head. “And I was headed either east or west, but never north. I think there are special city mercenaries or something. No one ever hired me for anything in town.”

  Zhy looked around at the teeming humanity and all the commerce. The sayings of the prophets came to mind, and he realized that, like a person, a city must also present a complex web of knots. It was too bad he had spent most of his adult life locked away in an inn in the largest city of Belden—for while Vronga was large, Belden City was larger. Yet, here he felt overwhelmed by the size of the city and the number of people. There was always a fog in Belden City, he reminded himself. Only a fog that I could see. He looked out at the copious multitude of humanity, thinking.

  How many people here are simply moving goods from one area to another? Who was under a secret mission from the Counselor the University or the Holy Orders? Which little street boy or girl would gladly slip a knife in your back for a few bracken? Who out there—dressed like the common man—was really a high-ranking official or wealthy landowner? Seeing another large city opened his eyes to the immeasurable complexity that Belden presented, as simple and as flat as it had always seemed to him.

  For all the doubts he had harbored, at least this adventure was showing him a deeper and richer side of his own country. He would never have this sitting on a bar stool. But I may never get to sit on that bar stool again, he thought.

  Qainur cleared his throat rather loudly, interrupting Zhy’s thoughts. The mercenary’s eyes had locked on a seductive-looking inn into which several young maidens had entered. Their blond hair and swaying hips were like flashing lights amidst the chaos of the busy city. “Well, we can pick up our supplies we sent for on the north end of town. Will be easier than having to haul everything through this—” the mercenary gestured out at the seething mass of humanity.

  Ants, Zhy thought, just a colony of ants.

  “Supplies—?” Zhy paused, scratched his nose, and then his eyes lit up. “Oh yes, that’s right.” Far back in the tiny village of Forshen, Qainur had given a list of needed supplies to a messenger. Zhy provided half the coin, and the messenger sped off on his fast horse to a general goods store in Vronga. Zhy had assumed he was bidding that coin a final farewell, but now they were here in Vronga. Would the supplies be here?

  “Aye,” Qainur replied. Then, looking out over the city, he remarked, “I think we should stay here tonight. I’m sure we would meet some interesting people.” His gaze sought the University, but it was buried over the horizon in the jumble of buildings and the smoke. He would love nothing more than to have gone in with Torplug and his sword drawn and demand recompense for turning him away. The thought was brief, and he buried it with a flash of consciousness—it would do no good to end the lives of his companions this early.

  “I think I had already suggested that,” Torplug said absently.

  Zhy shook his head, staring at his companions. If ever there was an opportunity to either stop this dead-end adventure, it was here. But it was also a dangerous place, for they could easily find themselves waylaid by any number of meaningless or dangerous diversions.

  He gave Qainur a hard stare, but he couldn’t fault the man for noticing the young women. He too found himself captivated. I can make a trap using knots, his father spoke in his mind. The tone from the grave was enough to give him pause, but after a moment of thinking, he realized this made no sense…he let it go, attributing it to the long journey and the abstention from ale.

  Vronga was a bustling but dangerous place. The intersection of the great roads allowed for the unscrupulous to arrive quickly and leave unnoticed. There were countless side streets and alleys in such a large city, and neither Zhy, Torplug, nor Qainur knew the safe streets from those dead-end alleys that could end in robbery, rape, or death.

  Zhy’s thoughts flashed through a hundred different scenarios, some of which ended quite favorably—many times with nice, soft flesh next to him. But then his cynical mind would race and he would imagine the girl’s father barging in with a scythe. Looking down a particularly dark and foreboding alley, all he could picture were the splayed remains of his companions.

  Not able to envisage a happy ending, he finally shook his head. “No, it’s a waste of time.”

  “Let’s go then,” the mercenary stated flatly.

  Torplug had been sneering at the clogged congestion of humanity, and completely missed the conversation. “Yes,” was all he said, returning his focus to the road.

  Temporarily satisfied, Zhy took his eyes off the seething mass of humanity and looked at the sun, or rather the filtered, dull, and lifeless version of it. There were many hours of smoky daylight left and enough to guide them to the next village with an inn. This adventure, after all, was supposed to get them away from the bustle of a large city and into the wilds of the
north.

  They made their way slowly through town. Each man slowly became frustrated and flustered as they were forced to make sudden stops: carts, children, and women darted across the wide street. Caravans would often brake all of a sudden, with no warning and no apparent reason. When at last the northern gate was in view, each breathed a sigh of relief, and the pace seemed to quicken until another caravan reared to a sudden stop. They had become so focused on leaving the city, that all thought to their needed supplies had vanished. After spending time in the wilderness, the crush of people had fouled the collective mood.

  “Ach!” grumbled Qainur as he reined in his horse to avoid another caravan.

  The companions grumbled their way through town and found their supplies waiting—thankfully. Zhy had expected the worst, but he was happy to leave; even happier when they passed through the northern gate and the pine forest stretched ahead of them.

  Only to Vronga? A voice wondered. No... he’d keep going. Though Qainur and Torplug were not the most congenial travelers, they were companions, real human beings. Not bottles or snifters. And he didn’t have to pay them.

  But as the day waned, and darkening skies began to cast long shadows over everything, and the scene quickly changed from brightness to gloom. Zhy looked out at the far-reaching forest and shivered from the cold. Squirrels could be seen darting from branch to branch. And as he looked out—farther afield and farther up the trees—the spindly tops of the great birches looked like just so many beckoning fingers. They swayed in a slight breeze, and a few more leaves fluttered to the ground. Zhy saw only the fingers. Beckoning him. Calling him along. Into the great north, and into the very last days of his life.

  Part II

  Knots