The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  He had failed.

  “There are many stories, you know,” the warlock said. “Many stories like what we see here. A traveling band of mercenaries against the force that will destroy the world. And although one or more of them may die, there is always some heroic rescue. Think! Who would rescue you? Think! I said think!” he barked, glowering. “No one! No one! I have killed everyone. And I will kill everyone.”

  Ar’Zoth sucked in a cloud of mountain air and blew it out in a huge cloud.

  “Wrong!” Zhy suddenly bellowed to no one in particular. The barest thread that remained in him was one of hope. Somehow, some way, he would get out of this.

  The warlock shrugged slightly in response to an unknown voice, then looked past Zhy in the vast wilderness beyond. “And I suppose you hope that I will delay the inevitable by spinning a vast and entertaining tale of my past.” He laughed again, a laugh of a bully in a tavern. “But, alas, no,” the seith spoke with a heavy sigh that sent a cloud of steam into the cold air. “Your friend knew the most about me, but his reaction, was, well, quite inappropriate, if you ask me.” His face glazed over for a moment, then he quickly regained his faculties. “It is here where I am most at home, although it is cold. At least no one bothers me. No one used to bother me, that is.” He gave Zhy a reproachful look, then shrugged his shoulders.

  He gave no warning as the familiar green lightning bolt shot from the seith’s hand. It immediately slammed into Zhy’s chest. The beam slowly started pushing Zhy backwards, even though he tried to repel and push forward. His legs wheeled under him, sliding on the snow-covered stone, as he tried to stand and fight. But the energy was too much, and it pushed him off his feet and back, back, back, ever closer to the edge of the sheer cliff. Soon, the beam had him suspended over the vast chasm. At last, he did wet himself, for whatever thread of hope that hung onto his brain finally let go. The warm liquid oozed down his leg, warming him for the barest of moments before freezing solid to his body. Only two amber droplets fell carelessly to the shattered corpses in the valley below.

  “I am Ar’Zoth. Ar’Zoth! I am the first and the last! You are offered the choice to help me. There is little time. Some, but very little. And I need a little more before I can set the demons free. Demons! Like ants!” he bellowed. “I’m going to give you the choice, Zhy. No, I take that back. Zhyfrael,” he spat the name out of his mouth like a summer fly. “You can die now, quickly. Or you can join me. I am cold and tired.”

  Zhy looked down, but the rocks and snow far below seemed more dizzying than the sheer drop. He looked back up, his head spinning. Ar’Zoth had stepped out from the castle and descended a couple of stairs to come within feet of Zhy. Yet he seemed miles away.

  Ar’Zoth grinned, his yellow teeth almost glowing against the shock backdrop of white. There was a flicker of the eyes, looking almost like confusion or uncertainty, but the green web held Zhy suspended over the great void.

  He hung there, limp, his mind nearly flat and lifeless as he. Even given the choice, his deeper consciousness struggled to find a spark. Finally, self-preservation won out, and his eyes fluttered open. Looking around he saw only the great stone castle stretching its talons into the mountainside. He remarked with a bit of pride at the dangerous climb they had made up to the castle—it seemed as if the trail rose vertically into the mountain. The massive balsams were surreal in their green against the white. The placating blanket of snow tried valiantly to cover the brutal and razor-sharp rocks, which fell away into oblivion beneath him. On the far eastern ridge of the canyon, he gaped at the endless wasteland of white snow, studded with brown rock that quite possibly led out to the frozen seas. Beyond the castle were mountain peaks that appeared to have no end in their height as they reached to the very tops of the clouds. He tried to offer a small prayer to any prophet that had ever lived, but the only word that came to mind was “please.”

  “There is no help for you now young man. You have had years to right your path and change your ways. Had you any magical powers, you would not be in a place like this, with me. Instead you are allowed to drink away your shortcomings and drown your feeble existence in mead and ale.” Zhy felt the beam push again, and the warlock had to yell out to him as he dangled above the cavern.

  Zhy tried to scream, but it was only a hoarse whimper. He found his throat closed shut, while hot tears streamed down his frozen cheeks. Bitter cold soon froze them to his face, and his lids were locked open from the ice. He was forced to stare at the grinning warlock with his eyes literally frozen open.

  “Ha! My friend, I am cold. I have said this time and time again. I mean it. You can join me, or you can die. No. More. Words!”

  It looked like the beam was weakening and had started to lose buoyancy. The grin was fading from Ar’Zoth’s face, but he still held his arms outstretched. He bellowed across the chasm. His voice echoed eerily off the sheer walls of the canyon and the mountainous peaks that surrounded them but then quickly swallowed, and any reverberation was a duller, deeper timbre, as if it were being consumed by the Dark.

  “Choose!”

  Chapter 27 — From the Dark ... Back into the Dark

  Diving like so many seagulls. Twisted threads swoop and swirl. Up, down, around, in, out and around. Oh, it is with me thus! I dart and dash. I live and love. I breed. I kill. You at once know me and at once you cannot. Beware! For I am everyone and I am no one.

  Seer Zher’wen, IV Age

  You must hurry! He is in danger! You have already let the others die. Why do you wait? Why do you stand there?

  The warlock had killed Zhy’s friends. And now Zhy was in the air. How did he get him so high in the air? How could someone have so much power? The snow came in and it was wet and cold. Ar’Zoth could not see me. He was yelling at Zhy. I was behind him. My sword was in my hand and I watched him. He would not turn back. He was busy yelling again. “How is he doing that?” I whispered.

  It is magic, Bimb. It is demonic magic. The man is a demon and he must die!

  Lyn was crying.

  Ar’Zoth held his arm out. It shook, and Zhy shook, too. Fa once took a cat and shook it because it ate his porridge. Now Zhy looked like the cat.

  HURRY, my son is going to DIE. Why are you just standing there?

  I wanted to see. “Is he going to let go of Zhy?”

  YES! There is a canyon below…they are all dead. All of them. All dead! And you must hurry!

  Lyn was angry. Angry and sad—all at once. I wanted him to stop. He reminded me of Ma. Ma cried all the time and I hated it. I wanted him to stop. Stop! Stop crying! The tingling in my body got stronger. I could not focus on the tingling.

  Kill him!

  I was surprised; Ar’Zoth did not look like a demon. I thought he would look different. “Why do I have to kill him?” He had told me why; I knew why, but...I just asked anyway. I knew why he had to die.

  You MUST do it, Bimb, you must! Strike NOW.

  He—Ar’Zoth—was talking to Zhy. His voice was mean, then gentle; nice, then harsh. When he talked nicely, his voice was soothing, like Fa’s, a voice I wish I had.

  “I’m scared—I don’t want to kill anyone.” I stood quietly waiting for Lyn’s to say something.

  Bimb, listen, you have come this far, now strike.

  He was crying, I tried to pay attention as the cold snow blew in.

  Bimb! My son is hanging out over a cliff. There are only seconds left. If you do not kill Ar’Zoth now, he will die!

  I was scared of Ar’Zoth, but not scared like in a bad dream. He had so much magic; I had not seen magic before and the colors and the flashing were very exciting. “I want that,” I said very softly. I think Lyn was crying too much because he didn’t respond. I wanted to be able to do that! He hung men in the air and fought with a sword. I looked at my sword. If I could use the sword like, Ar’Zoth, I could—

  It’s too late...it’s much too late, Bimb. He was still crying.

  Zhy was hanging. If Ar’Zoth died, would Zhy walk ba
ck? Could Zhy walk on air? I was very curious—people had died. Zhy could be next. Lyn yelled. He was louder than Ar’Zoth. I wanted to cover my ears, but both of my hands held the sword. I would slide it in Ar’Zoth and he would die. I held the sword like Lyn told me. “Ar’Zoth will die—It’s not too late,” I whispered.

  Yes...yes it is...

  “No.” I moved to thrust the sword. I pointed it at Ar’Zoth—where Lyn told me—in the back. Near the middle. Twenty-three sweets high. I had to guess because his coat was over his belt. I moved. The sword was sharp, and I watched as the poison dripped to the floor.

  Zhy’s Fa cried.

  Chapter 28 — That Which is Unknown

  Too often the world presents with many strings and many knots. One cord will end yet become the beginning for another. Start at the beginning and follow it through—yet you still find yourself on another path. It was ever thus.

  –Unknown, IV age

  Far away in extreme northeastern Welcfer, on the barren and inhospitable Icedown Plain, a massive army assembled. A hundred-thousand strong fighters, clad in tribal clothing, clutched spears. Almost the whole of the Icedown Plain was covered with the crawling mass of humanity as it assembled for the charge.

  Wriwz Hjor, son of Qwzirty Hjor, clan of the great clan Hjor-Hjor, led the army. He was bent on revenging his line of Hjor, which stretched back centuries to the Crimson Dawn, when the Great Bird dropped the first of his clan upon the Plain. Hjor amassed his army and gave curt orders. Amidst a collective roar, each soldier raised his spear once, twice, thrice. They would shout their leader’s name, but they had no ability to pronounce such gibberish. Then they charged, racing across the plain.

  They would march into Welcfer. They would pillage and rape and plunder anything they could get their dirty hands on.

  Scouts from the Welcferian army and even members of the Black Dawn would quickly scurry back to their capital and marshal troops to fend off yet another invasion from the primitive tribes of the region. It was ever thus that Welcfer faced incursions from so many tattered savages. The mountains to the south protected Belden, but the open tundra to the east was vast and seemingly endless. There was not much to sustain life, but yet clan after misaligned clan would breed wantonly.

  Often the driving force behind attempted invasions was a simple lack of resources—the Icedown Plains offered little in the way of sustainable crops or even water. They were called “Plains,” but that was only because the smooth, snow- and ice-covered basalt stretched on in a seemingly endless prairie of gray. Only small sections of sustainable ground were available, and only during very short periods of the year. Yet the inhabitants seemed to reproduce at an alarming rate and then wonder why they faced disease and starvation. Callous and ignorant leaders of the tribes would simply blame the ruling forces of Welcfer and declare war. This was an all too frequent occurrence.

  And while it would make sense for Welcferian leaders to try and work out a solution in which the tribes could be provided access to resources, the decision-makers of the nation brushed off any such suggestions as too expensive. So the cycle of repeated slaughter continued for no apparent reason.

  As the primitively armed and crudely dressed fighters marched behind the banner of Wriwz Hjor, the Welcferian army would soon be preparing for an outright slaughter of those bent on a revolution. Unfortunately, some men would remain behind in the tribal areas. These savages would provide their seed for another clan to rise and fight Welcfer again. The cycle would repeat endlessly.

  Torplug was correct in his assertion that Welcfer battled countless savages on an almost daily basis and the upcoming battle would be no exception. However, at this stage of the tale, this story has no relation whatsoever to the plot. Or does it?—think hard on that. Its telling would be a multiple-chapter diversion into a subplot, which really has no impact upon the world or the demons or any possible dragons, which might arise later. It will, therefore, no longer be discussed.

  This knot, at least, can be easily undone.

  Chapter 29 — Ascendance

  Forget all that you think you know. Embrace your Darkness so that Light may shine. Accept that you know little to nothing, and the world will continue on without you trying to force it to your will. Demand not omniscience, but enlightenment.

  Cleric Archean, Order of the Knot

  Fear, Zhy realized, was a phenomenon of relativity. When one watches as one’s companions are slaughtered mercilessly by a mad warlock, fear strangles every muscle, vein, tendon, and nerve. It freezes the brain and it dries the throat to sandpaper. Fear of death, especially a death very much at work before you, is paralyzing. But once death turns its unrelenting tentacles on you, somehow the fear fades. Or so Zhy noticed.

  Perhaps it was the rush of cold wind through his hair that unlocked his mind from its frozen state, but shortly after Ar’Zoth had released the spell, Zhy’s fear immediately vanished. He found this slightly odd—at least for the split second of life that he had left to live. Perhaps his father had entered his mind at the last moment, calming him. Possibly, he had realized that his death would be painless. As long as he ignored the fact that he was free-falling thousands of feet onto craggy rocks, he could find calm in the roaring rush of frigid air.

  It was amazing how much time he really had during his free-fall; those sayings of life flashing in front of you were proving to have some truth. He thought back upon his life and upon the long journey. His longest and his last journey. The images flashed through his brain in darting and jerking rapidity: The inn where he met Qainur, his impressions of the so-called noble warrior who had no scars, Kahl, the warm autumn day of departure, a rotting and forgotten home that would be put to the torch, Vronga, the demon-bat, the demonic old man. And finally, his thoughts whirled through images of Knights of the Black Dawn, Torplug, ale, mead, and finally the trek through the mountains to Ar’Zoth’s door. For some reason, his mind played these over and over, and each time he tried to force a different outcome. But each outcome was the same—in each iteration he could see himself walking the doomed path.

  He reached out for his father, but there was nothing to find. Alas, Father would already be at his place in the spirit world, waiting. Hopefully, Mother would be there. Maybe they would have—

  There was a sudden jolt and a sound like old clay mead pots being crushed by a giant flatiron. He was only allowed the tiniest sliver of a second to realize that his bones had shattered against the rocks below.

  Darkness.

  * * *

  After a few moments, the seith ventured out a back service door to a path that led its way down into the valley below. Best to make sure they are dead, he thought, though such a fall was clearly one that no magic could undo. He swore he heard the snap of the mage’s bones below, but that could have been the beams of the castle’s doorway creaking in the cold.

  After a jarring walk down to the bottom, he stretched his legs. His knees were sore from bouncing along the uneven pathway, and even his strong legs protested the effort.

  He checked what remained of the mage. Eight mangled pieces of bone, organ, and other various gore-soaked body parts were splayed along the snow-covered rock. The small-man was no more. Qainur had shared a similar fate—splattered along the rugged ground. The mercenary had died without scars; having landed face first, his entire skull had exploded in a mass of thick rust-colored liquid and grayish splatters of brain. Zhy was a mess of gelatinous coagulating blood and splintered bone. His last coins spilled out onto the rocks, and the high-value lycanum he had concealed during the trip had trickled from his corpse, finally resting on Qainur’s liver. Next to the liver lay the miniature temple—having somehow fallen in a tuft of snow it was still intact. He scowled at it, raised a boot to smash it and then lowered his foot. It would do no good. The real Temple was a meaningless diversion to the world, and a replica was even less important.

  He gave a final grunt and began the arduous task of ascending the narrow pathway to the castle. Images
of honey-covered chestnuts danced before his eyes and he nearly drooled upon the snow-covered trail. He slipped slightly and swore. Best be careful. A large cup of steaming tea would serve him well after his time spent in the cold. Maybe he could find some wintergreen leaves for tea, although it had snowed recently and the patches would be re-buried…still, a nice way to warm oneself. Perhaps later. There was still work to be done.

  Returning to the castle, he flung the heavy coat onto a side table. Looking down, he grimaced. Oh yes, one last detail. Later. Right now, it was time for tea and sweets. He spied the bowl of chestnuts in the library.

  He grinned at that.

  Then he stepped gingerly over the body of Ar’Zoth…

  …And Bimb smiled.

  Chapter 30 — The Temple of M’Hzrut

  We think the end of a journey is the end. But it is often only the start of something else. Running away abandons one set of problems while creating others. Traversing a smooth rope only to find a solid knot at the end—this is the rule, not the exception.

  Prophet Zher’wen, IV Age

  Fanlas, the mage, and the young Protector emerged from the Tunnels of Woe and were immediately blinded by the sun. Instantly, they turned back into the tunnel and stood still, trying to let their eyes adjust to the brightness.

  It took nearly an hour before the searing pain of the bright light abated enough so they were able to step out from the shadows. Once acclimated, they began the rest of the cross-country journey to the Temple. The path from the tunnels opened from a large rock wedged in the hillside. Except for the covering of snow, it was identical to the stone slab they had used to enter the tunnels near Vronga. And, like the entrance, the slab whooshed closed as soon as they had gone fifty paces.