The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  “Then…” was all Zhy managed to whisper.

  Qainur stood in his barrier, but his barking and shouting had ceased. He, too, was wrestling with the same thoughts. Was Torplug truly a Knight, or was Ar’Zoth…a demon? A demon! He is a demon!

  The same thought struck Zhy and he almost collapsed. The gherwza! He had said it was his gherwza. For Sacuan’s sake…

  “Sacuan cannot help you now, little ones. I have tired of this game. You came here under false pretenses, I’m afraid. Dragging this—this little worm along on your journey has only brought you an early demise, I’m afraid. I will not suffer those who kill my minions or challenge my intentions.”

  Torplug still struggled violently against his bonds. Zhy’s jaw fell a little as his eye caught a glimmer of light between the mage’s hands, but a wave of nausea passed over him as he realized Ar’Zoth saw the motion as well.

  “I said I am tired…” the warlock groaned.

  Then the green tentacles released themselves from Torplug’s body noiselessly, and Torplug fell, screaming. The small-man’s legs kicked and spun in a whirl, but he quickly vanished over the rim of the chasm. Whatever spell Torplug had started to cast fizzled and fell to the canyon below in so many tiny droplights of light. A wail began its pitiful echo across the vast canyon.

  Qainur spared them the sound of the body hitting the bottom of the canyon, as he roared.

  “You still want to learn from me, little boy?” Ar’Zoth sneered at Qainur.

  “No, I want to kill you!” Qainur snapped.

  “So be it!” he barked, drawing a great sword of his own. “The barrier has been removed! To the death!”

  Zhy stood, transfixed. Fear had rooted him in place, and he watched in detached horror as the bull-headed mercenary charged the powerful warlock.

  “So, you want to play that game, do you?” the seith said and darted back, parrying a strike by Qainur. His large frame consumed the doorway, but Zhy swore he saw movement inside, but when he looked again, there was nothing. Is someone else here?

  “You killed my friend,” Qainur barked, thrusting this sword, only to have his arm jarred mercilessly by a block.

  “Of course. He tried to kill me.” A vicious blow knocked Qainur back into the door frame. The warrior spun away. Zhy still stood frozen, one foot on one stair and one on another, watching as his friend leapt to his feet just in time to fend off another strike.

  “Had you come in peace, it might have been different,” the seith purred.

  Zhy wanted to speak, and he opened his mouth, but he was too stunned by the turn of events to move a muscle. “Q ...” was all he could whisper. Over the commotion of the fight, his bare plea was smothered. He started to turn back to look down the canyon, but a sudden vertigo stopped him, and he shifted his glance back to the trees. But something seemed to grab his head and turn it back to the battle. The voice again spoke. Again, it was not his father. No. You watch this. You get to see the result of stupid decisions. I told you to kill them. I told you. I told you.

  And then he thought he heard his father speak. Sadness as deep as the Opal Sea roiled into his brain. Is this better than a bar stool…? Oh son, I am so sorry.

  Zhy’s focus blurred and then sharpened. He turned to watch Qainur fight the warlock. Against all reason, he hoped that Qainur would succeed—that somehow the pig-headed brute would get lucky.

  “We came in peace, you bastard!” the mercenary yelped as the sword gashed his leg, leaving a ribbon of torn clothing and bright red blood. Qainur danced backward along the small stone courtyard, but Ar’Zoth moved with almost a blur of motion.

  “Really?” the seith chirped. He swung at Qainur again, his swing a bit low, but enough to draw more blood from a shoulder. The mercenary danced furiously, trying to get in a jab or a thrust, even a chance to trip the warlock—anything. “Last time I checked—” Ar’Zoth paused to deliver a wicked backhand thrust, which was skillfully avoided by Qainur.”—Bolt of Sacuan—” Ar’Zoth thrust and Qainur desperately parried the blow.”—is not used to greet a stranger.” Qainur spun away from another backhand jab, ducked, spun, and jumped, swinging wildly. It was swiftly blocked.

  Qainur only roared. His voice was full of rage and despair. He was outmatched and he knew it. The two battled in the small space before the entryway, each racing from one end to the other. Ar’Zoth kept chipping away at the mercenary—a cut here, a slice there. It would only be minutes before the man would be sliced open. Again, Zhy swore he saw motion in the castle beyond, but the figures of the warlock and Qainur kept flying across his vision.

  It took all his reserves to remain upright. Yet he fought. But he was only delaying his own demise—and Zhy’s.

  Zhy was still rooted in place. He never thought to draw his small knife. As the battle raged before him, he heard his father’s voice—or was it his own?—but it was barely above a whisper. Beg, lie, and weep, anything to survive.

  “I tire of this game,” Zhy heard the seith say. There was a slight pause, and Qainur leapt—his only chance so far at an offensive attack. He was in mid-air, the sword angled correctly for a slashing blow, his feet square, and his body straight. If only his sword would strike…

  But in a flash, a green net of light enveloped him, his sword thrust sideways against his body. “You wanted to learn from me? You wanted to see a warrior who can also cast magic. Well, you have learned. You have learned that the greatest warlock can be the best swordsman. Now you know. You may take that to your grave.”

  The warlock violently thrust his arms outward, and Qainur went swinging out above the cavern, green tendrils glowing as they enveloped his body. He looked like a net of fish from the southern seas, thrashing and fighting against the web. Growls rose up from the mercenary’s throat, but they never made it past the green tentacle over his lips.

  “You could have learned these things!” the warlock shouted. “You could have, you could have! If it weren’t for your little Welcferian whore! Die, worthless maggot!”

  There was no growl, no scream. The tendrils of green energy released and Qainur went sailing down silently, his eyes closed.

  Zhy covered his ears. He did not want to hear the agonizing crunch as the body smashed against the snow-covered rocks in the canyon below. As he stood with his arms up, he had a sudden wave of vertigo.

  After a few moments of silence, he dared a look up at the seith. The sword was gone. The warlock straightened his robe, ran a finger through his short hair, and smiled at Zhy. His yellow teeth seemed to take on a deeper urine-like hue, and his eyes again shifted color, from gray to blue to black to blue.

  “So…do you wish to challenge me? Perhaps with that fruit knife?”

  Zhy stared. “You—” he started to say, but then thought better of it. “No. No, I do not.”

  The seith made a sound in the back of his throat. “Good. Good. Your friends were a bit too headstrong and stupid. I don’t like having spells cast at me. Why did you come?”

  Answer honestly. “I—we came here to learn from you. Qainur—the mercenary—was the one who convinced me to come along.”

  “To learn from me, that was it? Was that what you were told? Hrmph. I guess the mage had other ideas? In any case, now they are gone, and you do not wish a challenge.”

  Zhy shook his head sheepishly.

  “I thought not. Well, then I guess you have only two options left.”

  He looked at the seith.

  “You see, I do not like visitors here. The wards at the entrance…well, your mage was not half-bad. Of course, now he’s left the place wide open for others to come…which sets my poor nerves on edge. My trap on the path must not be working, or you would all be at the bottom of the canyon now. Unless you are adept at surviving blizzards!” He looked at Zhy and laughed. “Or maybe you can! Nice work.” He paused, wiping something from his lip. “Now. Where…? Ah! Yes. You see, I cannot stand the demon-hunting filth that calls itself the Black Dawn, because, well, I really depend on demonic magi
c. If you had read about warlocks you would know that!”

  “I know that you harness demonic magic,” Zhy said quietly.

  “Ah, good! But, I, among many, harness it better than most. Much better! I am exiled here, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have any powers. Fools! Fools!” He turned his head sideways and talked to—someone?—something?—on his periphery. “Right! Exactly how I thought it would go.”

  He’s mad.

  “Mad? Mad! What is mad, Zhy? What is mad? Ah! You wonder how I know your name. Fool! Don’t bother trying to figure it out. You will only use up whatever brain you have left, you slobbering drunk. Drunk!”

  Zhy moved his left foot ever so slightly, as if trying to back down the stairs. But vertigo overtook him and he planted his leg back onto the solid stone.

  “Ah…don’t you just love the cold? So inviting, so bracing!” He crossed his arms over his chest and shook like a child. “Now, see there is this myth that somehow the Temple of M’Hzrut keeps all the demons at bay. Have you heard of it?”

  Zhy nodded. Why is he still talking to me? Why can’t he just kill me?

  “I only give what you don’t want, drunken fool!”

  He shook his head violently, as if thousands of bees were trapped inside of his skull. “So. Your choices—you can die.” He pointed out to the canyon. “Or join me here. I need someone to help me regain my full powers.”

  “Why is that?” Zhy heard himself ask. What in Sacuan’s name…how? Not only was Zhy woozy from the height, but the warlock’s insane rambling was dizzying.

  “I want to rule the world, of course,” the seith responded. “I see you think that’s funny. Maybe I should kill you now.” And green light danced on his fingers.

  “No!” Zhy pleaded. “Please…please continue.”

  “I don’t have much more to add, really, how hard is that to grasp?”

  Zhy started to think back along the journey. Suddenly he began to fit the puzzle pieces together. “So the Temple…you need to get to the Temple.”

  A confused look passed over the seith’s face. “What temple?” Then the unshaven face lit up. “Ah yes, that Temple. The Temple. Ha! No, that was a diversion—I’m sure Gozath had a little fun in slaughtering a few Protectors, but whoever goes there now is wasting their time. The real work is here. Oh how I put up a fight! A fight to end all fights. When they exiled me, I protested, I pleaded, I begged. ‘No, no, not in the cold wilderness, never would I survive there!’ I begged. And that is exactly where they sent me. Here.” He gestured to the valley and the stoic evergreens reaching up along the pathway. “When they dropped me off, they removed the bones of the previous tenant. I cried. They never saw through me. Never. And magicians they called themselves! Great mages of the day. They knew NOTHING.”

  “About what?” Zhy asked, trying to make his voice sound conversational and relaxed. Instead, he came off like the shivering and terrified creature he was. And cold. So brutally cold.

  Snow from the stairs had crept through the small spaces of his outerwear. The coarse granules both scratched and froze his skin. He dared not try to remove any, for fear of the warlock, but instead he forced himself to let it melt slowly. It dripped in agonizing slowness down his back, down the backs of his legs, and down into the bottom of his boots. Ever downward. He was slowly freezing to death only feet from a warm castle.

  “The demons! DEMONS! All around us. Beneath us!” Ar’Zoth chirped. “Here! Well, not here, but out back. Beneath the courtyard!”

  Zhy’s voice froze in his throat. Demons?

  “Yes, demons, you filthy drunk! Drunk! Demons everywhere. Underneath. In my head. My head! They must be let loose, but not yet. Not yet. More time, I need more time! I need help controlling them.”

  “I thought—” Zhy began, then choked.

  “Yes? Spit it out, drunk.”

  I’m not a drunk anymore! The warlock glowered. “I thought that demons—the demonic horde, I mean—” After all, he had seen the gherwza. “—were just a story. Passed down to scare people. To get them to bend to the will of the Orders.” The words flowed from his mouth, but he felt disconnected. It was too surreal. Too unbelievable. Too…cliché.

  “You saw a gherwza, did you not? Your whore killed it. Why would you not think there would be more? Ha!” The seith erupted in laughter. There were a few snorts and giggles before he calmed enough to respond. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve as a child would. “You are very misguided. Have you ever seen an ant and thought it the only one?”

  An ant…

  “An ant! I said an ant! Yes! So it is with this horde I have to control. Before it destroys me. Before I can control it to my bidding. Fool! Fool! The world will drown. Drown!”

  Zhy shook his head and tried to return only a blank stare. There was a flicker of firelight behind the seith—Zhy was being blocked by an insane warlock, his companions splattered thousands of feet below, and he, powerless in the cold, while a warm fire blazed just beyond. But powerlessness was something he had grown used to, even on the adventures they had shared thus far. Qainur and Torplug did most of the dirty work, leaving Zhy to sit there and ponder his past and his future.

  Suddenly, Ar’Zoth was placid, his face calm and his voice serene. Such it was with a mad man, Zhy had realized, for he could change between moods in rapid succession. “Forget the Knights, the Temple, all of it. No. The demons must be released. I need help!”

  “What kind of help?” Zhy asked too quickly for his own comfort. But he realized that survival was paramount now. Even if the man was mad.

  The seith slowly shook his head. “My poor man. My poor, poor man. Explaining would take too long, and it is getting colder. I wish to sit by the fire. Now, I can warm myself over your corpse, or over my nice stack of dried pine. Which would you prefer?”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Zhy wondered aloud. Indeed, why?

  “Because you want to die, you foolish drunk.”

  How common was insanity among mages and warlocks? Zhy wondered.

  “I’m not insane, you worthless excuse!”

  Zhy thought back on Torplug’s behavior and the small-man’s cantankerous demeanor each time he used magic. Grumpy was one thing, but Ar’Zoth was flat-out psychotic. This was not the man at the corner of the street, humming and talking to ghosts with a crooked and toothless smile. No, this was a growling, snarling, drooling dog that needed its throat slit. For all the scrotums in the world… he was alone atop a mountain, facing a great warlock who thought he could overrun the world with demons. Should he join him? Of course! If he wanted to live! But how long would he live? A day? A month? Should he just jump off the cliff now and save himself further torture?

  These thoughts flitted randomly through his mind, but the audacity and impossibility of the situation overwhelmed them, and he wasn’t able to think properly through the reasons. Demons were real and in a number that was unfathomable. Like ants. He pictured the world crawling with gherwza and other unmentionable creatures of the dark. And he saw himself riding on a horse with Ar’Zoth as they commanded the horde to kill anyone in their path. His mind stopped, and the world seemed to spin.

  The seith was staring at him. “Now it’s up to you, Zhy. What do you choose?” he barked.

  Zhy looked at the warlock. His expression was blank. He had shut down and reverted into a shell he only entered when extremely drunk. Heretofore he had never entered such an inner emptiness sober. All was lost. All was gone. Why? How?

  Qainur had only wanted an adventure. I went along, thinking there would be nothing that could go wrong. That only happened in stories. The fate of the world never, NEVER, rested upon the hands of one man. Did it? Could it? The Temple—wherever it lay, supposedly held the pillars against demons. But if what Ar’Zoth was saying were true…

  “It is true,” the seith said softly. “It is true. They are here. Would you like to come inside my head and listen to them? All of them? Countless numbers, all taking up the spaces in my
head? Then you would believe. Then you would know.” The man snarled, spittle bubbling on his lip. He wiped it away roughly.

  Zhy only stared.

  “Hrmph. Can I take that as a no?”

  Nothing. Emptiness.

  “You have no interest in my powers like your friends did? You have no desire to learn from me? Yours was a wealthy and honorable house and you’ve pissed it away on drink. You drunk! You fool! You human slime. Answer me! Answer me!”

  He watched the warlock slowly ignite himself back into a rage, but his body was frozen. Fear was gone. It was no longer fear. It was a sober intoxication. He was literally drunk on helplessness as his mind battled to figure out if the demonic horde was real. Or if the warlock was truly out of his mind. There was no answer. The wheels in his mind had long since spun themselves off their tracks, and the gears were grinding slowly to a stop. Nothing. Black. Snow.

  With a sudden burst of fury, the seith stormed towards Zhy and slapped him with a savage backhanded blow. Zhy stumbled and fell. Luckily, he crumpled like a sack of grain, instead of falling back down the stairs.

  “You fool! You will answer me!”

  Nothing.

  “Answer me!” the seith snapped.

  Nothing.

  Anger quickly melted. Again. His voice was soothing and calm. “So, you must join me or die. You have very little time, as I am cold. You have gambled poorly.” Just as quickly as he placated Zhy, he snapped into his violent rage. “Drunk! Drunk! The hero does not always win. I always win.” And he laughed, his focus on Zhy fading, as if his mind were far away.

  The cold air was silent.

  He had no training in swords or magic or even basic self-defense. The journey was long, but it was not long enough for him to develop these skills. Well, it may have been long enough to gain a basic understanding, but he’d spent most of the trip wallowing in self-pity and trying to break free from the clutches of ale and brandy. You are a sad man, he thought. For once the thought was his. And so he finally faced the end, and he faced it alone.