by Martin Gibbs
“Enjoy.”
Zhy inhaled the aroma and took a tentative sip. It was every bit as bitter and sweet as it smelled. Yet the tea was soothing, somehow, as it warmed his gullet. A peaceful feeling melted over him and he closed his eyes. Taking another sip, he smiled, even though it was starting to curl his lips.
“My father used to make this when we were on wilderness trips,” Torplug said quietly. “Everyone who went with us hated it. ‘Bird-dog tea’, they called it, which I never understood. Maybe they thought it wasn’t even good enough for dogs. Father loved it. I enjoy it. It is very soothing.”
“That it is,” Zhy said softly. At last, the soothing effects of the tea started to work, and his eyes fluttered closed; his muscles relaxed, and the empty cup slipped from his fingers to the earth. Hot tea hissed quietly as it sank into the cold ground. The pine tree whistled slightly in the wind, and for once Zhy’s mind was not full of horrible images of death.
The bitter taste filled his mouth and its cloying aroma permeated his nostrils, but still he dozed as if he were a small child. The exertion of the journey, the exhaustion of facing such horrors at almost every step, and the constant wonder over who his companions truly were, faded as the Labrador tea carried him to sleep.
He dreamed of peaceful snow-covered mountains.
* * *
He shot awake as a primitive arrow struck the tree with a sharp thwack. The large pine shook slightly from the velocity of the arrow. Even as the shaft vibrated from the violent collision, his reflexes flashed, and he dove behind the meager safety of the maple. Torplug’s crock shattered against a small rock. Another arrow struck the tree. He heard the pounding of running feet on the road and a struggle. There was a grunt, and he recognized it as belonging to Qainur. Where is Torplug?
Taking a chance, he sprinted from his spot towards the sound of the fight.
He arrived in time to see the archer fall in a heap. Qainur stood over him, his sword still dripping blood. His breathing was labored and he stared dumbly at the ground. He didn’t seem to see Zhy as he turned to wipe his sword in the grass. Zhy looked quickly around for Torplug and didn’t see him anywhere. He raced back over to the small fire, but the mage’s spot was vacant.
“Torplug!” he barked, “Where in—”
“I’m right here,” the voice barked as the small-man sidled up to him.
“Where in Sacuan’s great scrotum were you?” Zhy demanded.
“Behind the tree! You went blindly out into what should have been your death, and I dove for cover.”
“So did I!” Zhy cried. “I hid until I heard Qainur charge.”
“Fool!”
Zhy simply stared at Torplug. The mage was right. He was a fool. His gaze turned down to the body, then back to Qainur, who was walking slowly back toward them. “You’ve been luckier than an alley cat,” the mercenary said softly. “One of these times the arrow is going to strike.”
They looked at each other for a while. For a moment Zhy wondered if he was still sleeping, then he looked back at the maple. It wasn’t a large tree, and two arrows jutted from it, only slightly above where his head had been. They were inches apart. He was damned lucky. A third shot would have been dead-on. Torplug was apparently faster, there was only one arrow in his tree, but again only inches from where the small-man’s head had rested. Zhy sighed.
“What were you doing over there anyway?” Qainur asked.
“We were dozing by that tree,” he pointed. “Torplug made tea from the –”
“And what were you doing?” Torplug interrupted.
Qainur cracked the knuckle on his thumb. “I was out behind that tree over there...you know...”
“And how did you get to the archer as quickly as you did?”
“I ran. Fast.”
Torplug regarded him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. Zhy looked at the broken body. “Another Knight of the Black Dawn?” Zhy asked, his voice suddenly trembling.
Qainur walked over and. with a grimace, kicked the body onto its back. A massive wound had torn open the archer’s mid-section, and his insides spilled out onto the cobblestones. Steam poured out into the chilled air. His grizzled face was frozen in a grimace. It was pale and drawn and very young. He was dressed in animal hides and wore a necklace of tiny skulls around his neck.
Zhy nearly vomited at the sight, but for some reason he was becoming immune to all the gore and destruction of human life. Much like he had with ale—start with one, then two, and soon you can drink twenty in a night.
“A Wight!” Qainur gasped.
Torplug shook his head sadly. “No, it’s not a Wight. This is a human. Some type of hunter, or. Or…who knows what.”
The necklace of skulls smacked of something ritual or tribal. Demonic? “Maybe he is a descendant.” Zhy ventured. He thumbed his earlobe nervously then folded his whole earlobe upon itself and into his ear.
“What are you doing?” Torplug asked.
“N-nothing, just a nervous habit.”
“I realize that, but…never mind.”
Zhy looked at Qainur, whose gaze was locked on the body. “You were very fast. Once again.”
“Aye. I had just opened my eyes, having to…you know…in the woods. He was walking up the road. It looked like he was dancing. Dancing! I rolled off and found cover, not sure. He held that bow with an arrow nocked. The second he saw you, he lowered it and fired. His eyes were blank.” The bulky mercenary shivered. “I’d never seen anyone so…cold.”
“No need to say more, Qainur,” Zhy almost whispered. “Thank you.”
“Aye.”
Zhy’s mind kept going back to the Wights and what his father had said of them. He was sure there were some still individuals left. But necklaces made of skulls? That didn’t seem right. It didn’t describe Wights. It described something else, something more disturbing. Cold, Qainur had said. Cold.
He was lost in thought and did not hear the click-clack of horses as a Counsel Guard approached them. His horse was hardly breathing—and the guard himself looked relaxed and content.
Torplug groaned, which brought him out of his daze.
Where in all of Sacuan’s great harems did this lout come from? Zhy wondered. They hadn’t seen the Counsel Guard in two solid days. This cannot end well, he thought bitterly.
The Guard was obviously a northerner, with a wind-burned and cold-battered face. He seemed to carry himself with a strange mix of arrogance and humility. Perhaps he felt it better to get information from people if he played slightly aloof and unintelligent. Zhy had seen his like in the inns and taverns…they could play dumb and get the common thief to empty his pockets.
“What have we here, then?” he asked in a pathetic attempt at innocent gullibility.
The Guard looked at the body and whistled.
Zhy replied the only way he knew—timidly and honestly. He pointed to the tree with the two arrows, then at the body, as he explained himself. “We are traveling north and took a rest. We made a small fire here. I dozed and awoke at the sound of an arrow hitting the tree. Once I took cover, another arrow hit, but I heard my companion here fighting the bandit.”
“Aye,” the guard replied flatly. He then dismounted and knelt down next to the body. “I see.” He stood.
“I—” Qainur started quietly, trying to put his best diplomatic foot forward. But the Guard cut him off and waved his hand.
“Never mind, never mind. I know this person. Well, I knew him. He’s a crazy hunter who lives off the land in these parts. Those skulls are made of clay, but he sure scares the townsfolk when he is around. I hauled him off to the restraining house once or twice for shooting arrows at outhouses.” He raised an eyebrow at the elder warrior. The Guard’s mood seemed to have shifted from pomposity to boredom in a very short span of time—he’d dealt with the dead man many times, and it seemed now as if he felt a great relief in having him lying in a road.
“An outhouse is one thing,” Torplug remarked. “He nearly drove
one through my neck!”
Qainur nodded. “I charged as fast I could, and he almost had another one nocked.”
Zhy shivered.
“I cannot fault you for your actions. I had always worried that this man would try to hurt someone. It’s too bad.”
“Too bad for whom?” Zhy asked quietly.
“All of us,” the Guard said sadly. Zhy wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. “He—well, he was hit on the head at a young age. Ever since then he has acted very strangely. Very strangely. I always feared an arrow would go through the outhouse, or he’d fire at someone like you.” He shook his head sadly. “Well, can’t be helped…can’t be helped. You can ride on if you desire. I will take care of this.”
Qainur nodded curtly. “Thank you.”
The Guard grunted and knelt by the body, shaking his head. He whispered quietly, but Zhy caught what he said. “Your knots are at last undone, Herzan. May Sacuan bless you on your final dance.” The Guard reached up a meaty hand and closed the dead man’s eyes. He then quietly mounted his horse. “I’ll need to go back and get help…we can bury him over there—” he pointed to the southeast at a small clearing in a stand of pines. “Back to the ground. Farewell.” He rode off without looking back.
Wordlessly, the three gathered their gear—and one unbroken mug—and mounted their horses.
“That makes it four,” Qainur said after they rounded a slight bend. Four times now. Four times they had escaped with their lives and their freedom. The Guard could have just as easily thrown them in the restraining house for the rest of their lives. Or sent them to hang.
Would there be five chances? Or was that his last? It was not often one got more than three chances at anything before they were tossed out on their backside.
Chapter 17 — Longing and Lamentations
Do not regret your choices. Regret is a knot. Shame is a knot. Wondering what you may have been able to do or avoid only creates more knots. Bother not with these wasted efforts. Change what you can now. For the knots you undo or rectify in the present may create enough Light to overcome the Dark of your past.
Cleric Broundoun, Order of the Knot
They made camp in a small indentation at the side of the road. The comforts of inns and the warmth of their fires, the smiles of patrons, and the hopeful promises of flesh were now frozen in memories. Only cold, hard ground remained—their meager fire was pitiable.
Qainur rummaged through his gear and unloaded his bedroll. He extracted his pillow, and with it a familiar shape. He set it down in front of Zhy.
“What…?” Zhy’s face lit up slightly. He picked up the bottle and inspected it. It was a very expensive brand of spirits, highly potent. Only two family farms produced the stuff, and only a select few could afford it. “Where did you get this?”
Qainur grinned. “When you were saddling up your horse, I was poking around your stable. It was hidden in a suspicious-looking bale of hay. Why have hay when you don’t have a horse? Anyway, I knew we had a long journey, and you would be needing it at some point. After what we have been through, well. There you go. I expect you would share?”
Zhy would normally be upset that someone had pilfered his father’s best spirits, but he wasn’t even aware the bottle had been hidden there. It was old. Aged. Perfect. He looked at Qainur and smiled but said nothing.
Instead, he opened the bottle and inhaled deeply of its aroma. The bite of alcohol was tempered by a smoothness only developed over time. And money. For only those with enough of it could afford such a luxury. It was almost like Zor’Tarak, a mind-altering liqueur that cost just as much, but this did not include any nasty effects. He inhaled again, and he could smell the fields of grain, the hint of cherry and bitter currants. Spring and new life were in the bottle, even if the contents also had meant the near-death of Zhy. He debated taking a drink, but then realized it may very well be his last. Further, there would be very little access to more should he crave it…that would most likely be the difficult part. He shrugged and listened for his father’s voice. Silence. Closing his eyes, he tipped the bottle and opened his mouth.
As soon as the strong spirit touched his lips, a rush of visions bloomed to vivid life in his mind. And in the vision, he was transported back to another time and place in Belden. It was spring, and the air was filled with the smell of dirt and new life growing in the fields. The sun was high and bright, even late in the day. His father’s laughter carried over the fields as he laughed at something someone was saying. Zhy tried to focus on the other face, but it was cloudy and kept shifting—it was a woman’s figure—a woman’s voice: quiet and tentative. But every so often, the voice would pause, and his father would burst out laughing again, spilling red wine upon the floorboards of the porch. Zhy watched them soak into the dark wood—rivulets following the uneven grain and eventually soaking into the planks. He tried to focus on the face again, but it blurred and finally blinked out, although the voice remained. Mother. Then the wine glass shattered, as his father laid his head in his hands and wept. He felt wet tears on his own face and then a familiar embrace, although his father still sat crying. My son, the quiet voice spoke, my son, my knot is untied, but yours and Fa’s are strong. Weep not for me. He shivered suddenly and broke free of the memory with a sudden jolt.
Qainur and Torplug stared at him.
He had taken but one sip and froze in place, the bottle poised inches from his lips. Tears streamed down his face. He slowly let his focus return to Torplug and Qainur. He looked awkwardly at the bottle then handed it to Qainur, who simply stared at it, then at Zhy. He said nothing, but Zhy knew the question.
“Such an old spirit. And many more inside,” Zhy said quietly. His dreams were lurid, violent swirling monstrosities.
* * *
“I have been wondering about something, Torplug,” Zhy remarked as they continued their journey.
The mage said nothing, but turned slightly in his saddle. “Yes?”
“How is it that one spell can completely rob you of strength, while another you hopped off your horse, cast the spell and were then back riding again with no ill effects? Both were very powerful and killed two people in seconds.”
The mage looked confused for a second, as he was trying to understand what Zhy was asking. “Oh, you mean with the Knight of the Black Dawn and the gherwza? Ah yes...it’s quite simple,” he said, trying to sound informative. “The spell which I used against the demon, the Light of M’Hzrut, is one which starts with the mage and finishes at its target.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” Zhy had wondered about magic, but his past notions were confirmed. It was unbelievably complex and dangerous.
“Well…” he furrowed his brow, trying to frame his explanation in words which were not restricted to the advanced magical studies. “One starts the spell—that ball of blue fire—with one’s own energy. If done right, it is sent off towards an enemy and then draws more power from both the air, and the enemy itself, as it draws nearer. Light of M’Hzrut is specifically cast against demons and will always hit its mark. Its effectiveness, however, is based on any wards the demon may have constructed. It can still draw power for itself from the demon, then shatter harmlessly. Or, if the demon has strong enough wards, it can reflect the spell backward and kill the caster.”
“And the other spell?” Qainur asked. Zhy didn’t want to think what would have happened if the Light of M’Hzrut had been reflected.
“Bolt of Sacuan? That draws all its energy from the caster. As I have said, even the most powerful mages struggle.” He sighed, and his shoulders drooped slightly, as he recalled the first encounter with the Knight of the Black Dawn.
“So it’s a spell of last resort?” asked Qainur. “Like a dagger? If suddenly I find myself without sword and cornered, I at least have a dagger.”
Zhy gave him a hard look. Then why didn’t you stab the bandit?
Qainur grunted.
“No, I wish it were so. It takes too long to generate the ene
rgy.”
“Then how were you so fast with it?” Zhy asked, thumbing his earlobe. “It seemed as if you were able to fire it off very quickly.”
The small-man shook his head, grinning. “My height provided an advantage. Nobody ever saw me. I know the sound of a sword being drawn. I saw the entire fight.”
“Then why in the name of a ground goat didn’t you help sooner?” Qainur snapped.
“When the fight began, I started casting one spell. Then I realized we were dealing with a superior fighter—a Knight of the Black Dawn. If he were warded, any spell would reflect and kill me. All but Bolt of Sacuan. I started casting that quite soon after the fight started. You are lucky it was completed in time. You are lucky it even worked. It was the first time I had ever tried it.” The mage stared hard at Qainur as they rode.
The mercenary looked down glumly at the pommel of his saddle. He then nodded slowly. “I see. Th-thank you again.”
Torplug nodded. “Does that answer your question?”
“No it does not,” Zhy said tersely.
“What is that?” the mage asked.
“You said you could cast it against someone who was warded?”
“Yes, why?”
“Our friend at the inn was warded and you were hog-tied. You could hardly move.”
The mage said nothing, although his face reddened. “I ...” he began, then was silent. Zhy looked at him, waiting for an answer.
“I had not thought of that,” the mage said quietly, barely perceptible over the click of the hooves on the road. “I wonder if it has to do with close quarters. I…I could not do anything. Honestly, I did not try to cast the Bolt of Sacuan because I felt like a ball of lead was sitting on top of me. I’m sorry. I would have done anything I could.” His face was placid and his voice smooth and unwavering.
The mercenary was quiet, but he was obviously upset over something. His meaty hands curled into tense balls, and crimson blotches percolated along his neck, contrasting boldly with the dark scruff of unshaven fur matted on his face. He sighed heavily and cracked his knuckles. He started to open his mouth to speak but instead grunted. Something inside him seemed to resign himself to the situation and he looked at Torplug, his eyes softer. “Yes, thank you. I admit I know little of mages and the magical arts, not having any myself.” He cracked his knuckles again.