by Martin Gibbs
Let their foolishness be a lesson.
Untie the knots you know. These are most likely your own.
Prophet Altyu-M’Zhkara, IV Age
Deep in the Spires of Solitude, buried beneath miles of rock, a demon horde pulsated, yearning to be free. To be unenslaved and unbound. Without a sane, human mind to control them, they scratched and clawed at each other, killing, maiming, and fornicating all in one mass of squirming, boiling, dripping, evil flesh. They battled upward, clawing and scratching away at the solid rock and tearing at softer stone. Slowly, slowly they were making their way upward. Yet each inch forward dropped them another half inch back down as they lost all connection to a purpose or direction.
But they would be free. It would take time, but they would break free from the stone and the snow and each other. Bloodlust, greed, desire, and a twisted hunger drove them ever upward. Should they ever arrive. Should they embrace the snow.
If a Protector or Knight of the Black Dawn stood atop the snow-covered courtyard, they would hear it. Feel it. A constant tremor like an earthquake beneath the earth. Beneath stone. Miles of stone.
Miles that were being chipped away inch by bloody inch.
* * *
A late summer sun rose quickly in Belden City, baking the clay roof tiles and driving the citizens to shade or cool buildings. A burly innkeeper arranged his tables and stools, pausing longingly at one well-polished stool. He shook his head sadly, wiped his brow, and continued with his work.
The sun’s rays beat hotter on the western edge of town. In a crumbling house, a thin curtain rod gave way and a ragged cloth fell to the ground, sending a sheet of sunlight into the room. Dust hung in a thick cloud, and the grimy window was thick with soil, but the intensity of the light pouring through the window was too much even for the thick grime.
He awoke with a jolt and was unable to move. The sun beat down upon his eyes and he tried to roll away but found he could not. His entire body felt as if it was crushed against a steel plate, and his head pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. He lay there, immobile for several minutes, trying his best to determine his surroundings.
Images flashed before him: snow, trees, rocks. But the brutal sun seared through all images, ripping mercilessly into his eyes. Fumbling to find purchase on anything so he could rise and move away from the light, he became aware that he lay flat on his back on the floor. His bed was several paces away. He put a hand down to push himself up and froze as he felt something cold on his palm. Rolling over, he stared at the lycanum gleaming in the sun. How…with a jolt, he threw the coin at the far wall, and it clanged to a stop under a rotted nightstand.
His body screamed with a litany of creaks, pops, and groans as he worked himself to a standing position, one arm firmly against the dirty wall for support. The plaster bent with a groan of its own, but it held fast. He took a tentative step forward and gasped at the tiny wooden model that lay broken at the foot of his bed. The Temple…
All thoughts were shattered at the pounding on the door. How long? He wondered. How long indeed? And where? Where was he? And if he was where he thought he was, how?
Bang, bang, bang.
No. It can’t be. He hadn’t really…had he? Had he dreamed this? Was it real? What was real anymore? He shielded his eyes against the sun and walked slowly to the head of the staircase. Below, in a haze of dust and grime, was the front door. The same front door, the door he had left—
Bang, bang, bang. BANG.
But, how? Was that who he thought it was? As fast as his wobbly legs could carry him, he descended the stairs. The middle stair bowed and nearly broke through completely—
BANG, BANG, BANG.
Cursing silently, he descended the last steps with as much speed as he could safely muster. And opened the door.
“Listen, Q—” But the word died as more sun flooded into the room. The shape was wrong. Again, he forced a hand up to his eyes to view the shape outlined by the bright sun. It was not the mercenary, but he knew the figure. Not the name, never, but he knew him. A shadow lurked farther beyond, by…a horse? Horses? His eyes were blinded from the snow—or sun? Everything was spinning and whirling.
“Good morning. Ah, I see you recognize me. There is little time. Come.”
“I…” his hoarse protest trailed off, his mind whirling with a mix of emotions. Fear flickered for a moment before the sudden sensation of falling consumed him. Why do I remember falling?
“You look like you’ve fallen off a cliff.” The stranger paused as the pale man turned even paler. “Aye, I see. Yes, you don’t know me. But you knew me once and will know me again. There is little time. Come, we must hurry.”
“Hurry? Where?” The words sounded like dead leaves crunching underfoot.
“You know the answer to that question, Zhyfrael. We are not finished. It is not finished. And no, you did not dream it. You were dead. Perhaps you still are. Come. It is not finished.”
It is not finished.
It is never finished.
Author’s Note
The story of Akeeten told by Zhy is based on a Menominee tale. It was told to my father in both English and Menominee and then told to me over many a campfire when I was growing up. I now must carry the torch and tell the story. I’ve altered the names a little bit to fit the fantasy nature of this tale, but its essence is preserved. Zhy’s telling of the tale allows me continue an oral tradition through the written word.
Bonus Material – Prologue and First Chapters of Dead Spaces – Part II of A Drunkard’s Journey
This book is now available at Amazon
Prologue
Madness consumed all. Where once there were flickers of madness between the spaces of sanity, now the slivers of sanity were only speckles in the black void of madness.
Her voice.
HER voice! Her VOICE!
It grated. It charred. Like a fire, it burned me, then froze me as if I were being dangled out over the ramparts, left to flounder as a greater, unseen hand clutched my tail.
The horde called, the horde beckoned. It willed out. Without any direction it clawed closer and closer to the surface. What would happen if they reached the surface without my direction—without my control? What would happen to me? Would they kill me? Tear me limb from limb in their ecstasy of murderous rage? I was a prisoner, trapped inside of myself, trapped by the woman I had killed. Why? Why?
I was Ar’Zoth! I had mercilessly slaughtered anything that remained of Bimb. Bimb? Who was Bimb? Why was that name familiar? Had I killed someone already? No, wait! I do remember that name… it was a name that was forced upon me, a name that forever doomed me to a life of idiocy and despair. That is, until Ar’Zoth saved me from myself. Memories, perspectives, understandings, even music, was put to the flame. Bimb was dead. Ar’Zoth remained. Ar’Zoth and madness. Madness and demons.
Let us out.
“I will,” I promised with a strained whisper. Magical spells, once forgotten, came back to the fore, but each time I began to take action, her voice would grate and grovel and beg and plead and cry and cry and cry and cry and CRY and CRY!
STOP! I tried to will the voice to stop, but was greeted only by pain and torment.
I will stop you, the voice whispered after an hour-long fit of rage.
“You will never,” I panted. “I will find a way. Ar’Zoth will find a way!”
No, you will be stopped, Bimb.
Bimb! That name again. No, no, NO! Bimb was dead!
“Bimb is dead—Mother.”
Then Bimb will have to die again.
* * *
“So where is he?”
“He’s in the North, hopefully dispatching a dangerous warlock.”
“Why?”
He spread his large hands. “It had to be done. No one else would believe the truth.”
“Possibly because it was a lie all along?” the stranger sneered, balling a fist. “You sent him to his—”
“He’s a strong man and will surviv
e… he has aid. A little mage, a very powerful mage, is helping them. And again, I didn’t send—”
“How…?”
“I have connections to the Counsel Guard and to the Archives. I know a thing or two.” He paused, glanced around, and nervously continued, “This is far bigger than any of us, and we are better now that he has journeyed. And yes, it was my doing.”
“But why?”
“It had to be done,” he repeated flatly.
A huge fist slammed down on the pine surface, rattling glasses and sending various liquids into the air. “But he—he was a like a son to me, and you sent him…”
“I didn’t send him anywhere,” he replied, bristling. “He went of his own accord. And trust me; it was for the betterment of everyone. Everyone.”
“He could be…”
“No, we still stand here. This building and this city are still here. It would be much worse had he failed.”
The rough hand pounded the bar again, this time with less force. “If I find out that he is dead, you will—”
“I will what? Answer to you? Go to the restraining house?” He chuckled deeply and shook his head. “If he dies, he will die a hero. Do you understand? You will wake up in the morning because of the sacrifice. Remember that.”
A once-proud head hung low for a moment, then rose up, eyes glistening in the odd flashes of firelight. “Aye. I will try.”
“I would like to speak no more of this,” the man replied, lowering his voice. “Thank you for sharing your concern, but things must continue.”
The stranger turned and walked to the door. He paused for a moment and looked back at the rough man. And for a mere moment, his lips broke into a smile before curling back into a frown. He carefully shut the door behind him.
Part I
Ravel and Unravel
In which Zhy realizes he’s not quite dead and finds himself in strange company on a return journey northward. Additionally, the demons are loose, and we find out just how unstable Bimb has become.
Chapter 1 – A Swirling in the Inner Depths
Do you stop for a wayward soul? For he who is lost? For the traveler who has wandered afar? If you choose to stop, or if you choose to continue, you create for yourself additional knots. Which is better? It cannot be known. Each may create for you a dangerous future.
Prophet Zhera, IV Age
Blinding sun hammered his skull. Fierce and unforgiving light knifed into the backs of his eyes, sending tears flowing to protect against the onslaught. Even with lids tightly shut and an arm draped across his face, the intensity of the sun was enough to push him to his knees, sobbing. His knees screamed in throbbing pain as they smashed into the crumbling stone porch, but the brutality of the light was enough to quickly wipe away the sudden shock. With an arm outstretched in pleading, he moaned, “Who are you?”
A gruff voice in the sun-splashed street cursed something, and feet shuffled noisily on the stones. With his eyes covered, his sense of hearing seemed to explode into heightened sensitivity—he distinctly heard a sprig of dried clover crushed underfoot. The strange voice cursed again, and Zhy thought he recognized the voice. With extreme effort, he cracked his lids open ever so slightly and peered out. The figure was terribly familiar, and he recognized it at once—or did he? A flash of a memory passed before his eyes and then vanished. For a scant second, he was sure he had seen these men before, or men like them. But where?
The snow is too bright, he thought, then caught himself. Snow? There was no snow. Not here.
“We cannot answer that yet. But you must come with us. We must hurry.”
“Why? Where are we going?” He heard his voice croak. No, I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to lie down and die.
“You know the answer to that question, Zhy. We’re not finished. It is not finished. And no, you did not dream it. You were dead. Perhaps you still are. Come.” He spat and turned away.
Zhy rose slowly to his feet. Or at least he tried to. His knees buckled again and he collapsed, every nerve ending aflame with soreness and searing pain, his head throbbing as if smashed between two stones. He needed his arms free to push himself up, but the brightness of the snow—sun?—snow?—forced him back, face-down on the stone.
“You better get up, Zhyfrael,” came a rough voice.
He swore, but it was nothing but a squeak. Zhy forced his lids shut, pushed his trembling hands against the porch and heaved himself to a standing position. As soon as he was upright, however, he took one step and wobbled, shooting an arm out to support himself against the crumbling doorframe. The strangers muttered to themselves. He was the subject of their conversation, but the pounding of blood in his head drowned everything.
“Zhy…?”
“I’m coming,” he thought he heard himself say, but the words were a jumbled and garbled gurgle. It took a few moments, but he finally took a steady step forward and then another. His legs, as if lined with a thick syrup, did not feel solid, and his arms dangled oddly at his sides. Zhy’s chest felt collapsed and efforts to pull air into his lungs brought only scorching anguish. A few more steps and he gained a little confidence, and ten paces later, he found himself staring at the brown, fuzzy fur of a massive horse.
The gruff stranger’s voice bored into Zhy’s ear, and Zhy grimaced as the stranger barked at him. “Zhyfrael, you can take that horse.” He squinted fiercely against the late autumn sun, a sun which by all accounts should be muted and dusty with winter clouds. Instead, the southern reaches of Belden were sweltering in an extended duration of so-called dog days; the weather would eventually turn cooler, but snow was rarely seen this far south. Seagulls squawked in the distance, and he could hear the faint roar of the surf, only a few miles from where he wobbled. A smell of salt filled the air, but it was dulled and tarnished, as if the sea itself were slowly trying to bed down for a long winter.
“Zhy,” he muttered his own name with a cracked voice. The sun seemed to gain in intensity, and he flung his arm over his eyes once more. I have done this before, he thought for an instant, but the gruff man was already grumbling about a need to start moving.
“Eh?”
“Call me—” He let out a hacking cough. “Call me Zhy.” Finally, he let his arm fall away from his face and forced his eyes to adjust to the brightness. His face was pinched as he examined the—strangers? No, they were not strangers. There was something too familiar about these men, a presence that at once made them known companions, but also feared enemies. A vision of flashing steel and spraying blood passed briefly through his mind’s eye. I should not have opened my door. Even if he hadn’t, would they have simply burst in and hauled him away bodily?
The two men were of medium build and dressed in black. Their faces were almost shock-white, as if something had covered their faces. Yes, where are their cloth masks? Zhy wondered, then caught himself. How could he possibly know that? Where had the thought come from? The ill-tempered man was easily identifiable by his constant scowl, and his companion had a smoother, “easier” face, as Zhy would describe it. His glimpses at the strangers were brief, as he kept squinting his burning eyes. The snow makes it worse. Snow? No, there was no snow here. Why did he continue to think about snow?
“Zhyfrael, get on the horse.”
The other started to speak, but shook his head briefly and gave his companion a quick, stern look.
“You can call me Zhy,” he heard himself repeat. He had hoped to sound forceful, but his voice was a whimper. He approached the horse and stopped. As bright as the sun was, a murky fog seemed to cover everything like a tattered blanket. He put a knuckle in his back and the joints cracked loudly. An image of rock and snow—and falling. There had been endless falling before… before what? he wondered. He shook his head, every fiber throbbing in a dull ache. “Am I dead?”
The one looked at the other, as if to question whether his query deserved an answer. “No, you are not dead,” the leader replied. “She said you had been dead for years before you truly die
d, but you are no longer dead. That is what she said. That is what she said,” he repeated, scratching his head. “She said it would be like you had woken from a dream.”
“She didn’t say anything, and you know it,” his companion admonished him. “It was written down.”
“What is the Sacuan-blessed difference?”
“Plus, you added to that—she never said anything about him being dead. Where’s that coming from?”
“Who are you talking about?” Zhy asked and thumbed his earlobe. He finally let his arm drop. The older man was already on his horse. He looked like a gargoyle sitting there—clad in black, hunched in his saddle, his rounded face a dour mask.
The nicer man—as nice as a caged and ravenous dog could be—flashed a brief smile and then glanced at the horses with a wisp of irritation. He had a longer face and had recently shaved off a mustache, Zhy noticed. His eyes were round pools of slate. Long eyelashes that would make a tavern maid blush blinked against the sun. “Some woman. She is dead. Really dead. I will explain on the way. We ride hard for Vronga.” His voice was a little more soothing and patient. Though he sounded hurried and under stress, he still took the effort to provide Zhy with information. Useless information at this point.
“But how could she know me?” It was the first question of a dozen that leapt from his lips. A dead woman? I never knew any women, at least that I can remember. Certainly not a dead—
“That is unknown,” the calm stranger replied, breaking up his thought. His companion scowled in silence. “Like I said, I have no idea how this works. The writing was so faint and so hard to read, I was convinced she had written it after death, though that is not possible.” He gestured to the horse with irritation. “Mount up,” he clipped. “Now. We can talk on the way.” And he was already fifty paces ahead before Zhy coaxed his body into mounting the horse. His legs popped and creaked as he forced them up and over the body of the horse. The animal seemed to know what to do, for as soon as it felt Zhy’s weight on its back, it launched forward to catch up with the others.