by Martin Gibbs
"Destroy… How…? What are you talking about?" In a mirrored situation of his waking experiences, he had a hundred more questions to ask, but only a few came out, muttered into the roll of clothes he was using as a pillow. His companions snored nearby in their own oblivion. He could hear them snoring… Was he awake? No, he assuredly was not, he convinced himself. This was a deep and disturbing dream and he was simply adding the sounds of the waking world to it.
You died, Zhy. You died. The abruptness of this statement shook him and his legs jerked. She seemed to sigh and continued. I snatched you away at the last possible second, but I had to let you die. I'm sorry. Things will now be very different. No one could reach you until that happened."
"Then this is a dream," he muttered and tried to float away from the strange voice. But it pulled him back.
No, Zhy, it is not. You are not dead now, and you are not dreaming… I was the only one who could rescue you.
"What do you mean?" Why was he talking to her? Who was she? He did not remember many women—he remembered very little of his life before. Her statements were the prototypical fuzzy phrasing of dreams, and thus were his responses. But in the far reaches of his mind, these were questions he needed answers to—the bright memories of snow and rock were too sharp and too overpowering to allow any other thoughts to seep out.
What other meaning could there be? She sounded almost irritated by the question.
"I don't understand how dying and being brought back to life is a good thing," he snapped. His joints, muscles, and bones had gone through an incredible jarring on the horse, and it seemed every last fiber in his body screamed in an agony of dull and throbbing pain.
You will, perhaps, appreciate it later. I can understand your confusion and your pain—your body was almost completely crushed.
"So why even bring me back? What possible purpose could that have?"
You were the only one not yet gone by the time I got there… the others had already passed into the final resting place.
"Others?" Her mention of others brought forth a flicker of a memory.
Yes, your friends. They are gone, sadly. You are the one, the only one, who knows the area, who can help these men kill him.
"I am no use to anyone, dead or alive."
He could see her shake her head. Enough of that kind of talk, Zhy. I saved you for a reason, and it was not out of any whim.
"But you just said I was the only one left! I guess I wasn't smart enough to go that this 'final place' or whatever you call it. There was a long fall and my head was probably smashed—so now you've rescued an idiot." If he could convince her that he was worthless, perhaps she would leave him alone.
That ploy may have worked with others, but not with me. You will see the point to all of this, I hope sooner rather than later. The three of you have a long journey and you must deal with a very dangerous person—not the man who killed you, but he might as well have.
Zhy grimaced and sighed. If this were a dream, he could take comfort in her absence in the morning. If not, what horrors of the mind did he have to look forward to for another thousand miles? It was a thousand miles, right? He thought he remembered. "Fine, I will play your game. For now. Who are we going to kill?"
My son.
"Your son?" he barked. It only got stranger. This is just a dream, a very bizarre one. As long as he remembered that, the strange conversation would not seem so out of place. If only he could fall back out of it and get some sleep!
Yes. My son… he once had a name, a nice name. He counted turnips in our field, played the sutan... I mussed his—Zhy could hear her forcing a coldness into her voice. Now he calls himself Ar'Zoth and he wants to rule the world.
The name didn't register at first. In the purple void of the dream, his mind suddenly raced past the image of rocks and snow and focused on a long and familiar face. A smile floated past and then vanished. Father. If this were truly a dream, then what would it hurt to think of his father? And in the way of a true dream, his focus shifted rapidly. "If you're dead, is my father there?" The question leapt from his lips. Memories of his father were as cloudy as any other, but for a brief moment, he knew the face; he knew who the man had been, and that was enough.
She sounded like she was crying again. Your father was here. He tried to reach you. But he is gone now. He was helping my son, in fact. He wanted to tell you something—
"NO!" Zhy screamed. The dream had turned to nightmare. In some small station of his mind, a stern voice warned him not to believe those who purported to talk to the dead. Never call their names, never call on them, and never talk to them. For they are liars and they will amaze you when they can reveal a loved one's past—but they are cheating you. They read you. You give them clues and you don't know it. Avoid them. Run. The voice faded as abruptly as it came.
In his rage, he tried to kick the sleeping bag off of his body, but he was wrapped in it, and the fabric made a stretching sound. Frustrated, he pushed the bag down to his waist and sat upright on the hard ground. He bellowed into the dark, "No more! Out! Away!" Gone. Gone! Always gone… gone forever.
Yulchar stirred, but Huyen kept snoring. "What is the matter, Zhy?"
"Voices!" he spat. "There is a woman. But how? It is not Mother. Who is it? Is it me? Am I mad? " He was frantic. His mind had not registered the fact that he had mentioned hearing his father's voice before.
"You heard your father's voice?"
"I—" He broke off. "What? What did I just say?" Am I still dreaming?
"You said you used to hear your father's voice, but now there is someone else?"
"I said that?" he asked. Had he said that? Yes! He had asked the woman about him, hadn't he? So, he had had a father, and he was most likely dead. Try as he might, the memories simply stopped. Why could he not remember his own father? "No, I was talking about a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes, a woman. Talking in my head. She was telling me… about my—" He stopped. "About my father, but she was lying."
"Why was she lying?"
"She's dead! That's why!" Zhy veritably screamed. I am either dreaming, mad, or… or drunk… Drunk? How could… wait, had she said that she wanted us to kill her son? Her own son? His head fell heavily into his hands and he squealed in frustration. There was too much, too much! Dead, alive, rocks, falling, blinding snow and sun, dead women, dead fathers, dead… dead sons.
"Zhy?" Yulchar was asking. "Zhy, do not worry. You are not mad." His voice was suddenly soothing. "Now, tell me. Are you sure that there was a woman—a dead woman—talking to you?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"A woman!" Yulchar blurted, his voice tinged with excitement. "That is she! It must be!"
"Her? Oh…" His thoughts raced back through the day, what the man had said as he stood on the stoop. Some woman. She is dead. "How?"
Yulchar shook his head. "I said, I do not—"
"Know how these things work!" Zhy snapped the sentenced closed. He sucked in the cold night air. "I wish I knew!" His fists were balled and he pounded his knees; he forced away the tears of frustration behind his burning lids.
"You must find out everything you can. Who is she? Why you? Who are you? What did she say?"
Zhy thought a moment. What had she said? Only seconds ago, it had been vivid in his mind, but now there were only blanks.
"She said… she said she was trying to find something."
"Find something?"
"No, wait, she was worried about her son. He was someone else." His face was a slate of confusion. Yulchar leaned on his elbow, his face patient. Given Huyen's disposition, Zhy expected him to be breathing fire.
"Yes, that he had killed someone. Maybe her."
"Did you get a name out of any of this?"
"No. Yes!" He paused. "Ar'Zoth," he finally whispered. As soon as the name crossed his lips, something familiar tickled his brain. Something horrible. No. NO! It cannot be…
"What?" Yulchar pushed himself off of his elbow and
bounded to his feet. He paced in the dull moonlight.
"Ar'Zoth. She said the name Ar'Zoth!" Zhy repeated, louder. As if saying the name would somehow coalesce those horrible memories, or at least make them go away. The only change was a sudden shift in the clouds which revealed a full moon just below the tops of the trees. He hadn't slept very long.
Suddenly, Huyen leapt from his bedroll, sword in hand. "Demon-spawn!" he snarled. The glow of the full moon caught the blade of his sword and sent muted flashes into the forest. In the bright light, Zhy could make out his companions as clearly as in the day. Where had he seen a man draw steel so fast?
"Listen, listen!" Yulchar barked. "This is far bigger than us." Huyen's face was a distorted, angry mass, with glaring eyes and a raging crease across his forehead. Yulchar matched his stare with one of his own. "Do you wish to turn out like Gryn and seek revenge? Isn't it obvious?"
"It's obvious that he was one of these three that Gryn was chasing—one of those in league with the warlock. Who can say that he is not in bed with the demons?" Huyen growled.
Zhy glanced nervously at the twisted face of Huyen and his gleaming sword.
"The only thing obvious to me," Yulchar replied softly, "is that this was one of the three, yes. But he was the only one who never engaged the Dawn, who never started a fight."
"And how will that help us?" Huyen spat. "Surely not in a fight against Ar'Zoth!"
"No, but he might be…" Yulchar almost whispered, his voice faded, and his gaze was on something far away. As quickly as it came, the mood vanished and he looked at Huyen, speaking as if Zhy were not there. "He will help us, surely."
"How?" the other man snarled. He scowled at Zhy, and a small scar under his lip made it look almost like a bat, a sneering, bat, with dripping—
A bat! The thought struck Zhy with such force he nearly fell back on his bedroll. An expression of horror ignited upon his face, and his nostrils filled with an unholy scent. Then it was gone.
"Is something wrong?" Yulchar asked, after seeing Zhy's body jerk.
"No, I remembered something," he stammered. "But it's gone. A bat. Some kind of large bat." He tried to recall the memories, but all that remained was the fleeting smell, and that was replaced by the scent of dead and decaying leaves, wet with snow and rain.
Huyen's scowl deepened, and low growl seemed to emerge from his throat. "A gherwza. I knew it!" His sword thrust forward—
Yulchar's arm was a blur as it lashed out and gripped the sword hilt. Huyen held it firm, but did not fight. His eyes locked on his companion's. "I think his mage companion killed it. Please stop this. This man is not demon spawn. We can be sure of that."
"Oh can we?" Huyen whispered in a voice that was quiet yet fiercer than any battle cry.
"Yes, for now. Something is very wrong. We need his help. Until we find out otherwise, keep that sword in check."
"Why? Can't you see this man bounces like a stuck rabbit? Screaming at voices, and—"
"We've discussed all this already, Huyen. How would you act if died and suddenly woke up?"
"I'd kill myself for a demon."
Yulchar sighed. "I seriously doubt that."
The crotchety knight grumbled.
Zhy scratched his head and then thumbed his earlobe. "This has to do with Ar'Zoth. She said her son is now Ar'Zoth. I don't understand." He looked up at the full moon, wishing he were up there, rather than in a freezing, fireless campsite with two assassins. One who wanted to kill him, and the other to save him. Either up there or dead, he thought bitterly.
"Son," Yulchar said quietly. Huyen had sheathed his sword and set it by his bedroll. He lay back down, but Zhy assumed he lay there, listening, ready for another chance to strike. His brashness reminded him of someone, but the name and face refused to come to the fore. "Ar'Zoth killed you. Gryn, who was one of us, was chasing after you, and then he was going to deal with the warlock. There was never any word again from him, so we assume Ar'Zoth killed him, too."
"That's at least one thing that is cleared up, I guess," Zhy said with a catch in his throat. His gaze had returned to the moon and he had a brief image of his own father—how could he remember something so far back, but not how he died? "But you can't expect me to be able to help you kill him."
"No, no, we do not," he said sadly. But there was a hint of something in his voice. A knowing. "You died helpless, but you are no longer a helpless creature. We cannot expect you to battle a great warlock. But you can still help us."
I am helpless—I can't remember a thing! He took another longing glance at the moon as it sidled lower behind the spindly branches of a large birch tree. As the black tentacles waved in a small breeze, they looked like fingers, beckoning. Beckoning? Or shooing away? Zhy wondered. "Such a relief," Zhy said with a yawn. Yulchar's mouth formed the barest of smiles.
"Sleep. If she comes to you again, let her in. Talk to her. We need to find out more of what happened and why. We are still trying to understand. We know that we do not have much time. Sleep. A couple of hours. Then we ride. We are close to Vronga."
"And what about him?" Zhy whispered, indicating Huyen.
"What about me?" the knight replied gruffly.
"Well—"
"Huyen here would have gone with Gryn, I suppose, and been killed by Ar'Zoth. But he followed orders—better then than he does now—and remained with me. Now he seems to think you were in league with the warlock and perhaps the Dark. Is that not right?"
Huyen coughed. "I wanted more information like you did," he said flatly.
"Funny, that. You still seem to think Zhy here has something to do with demons?" He shook his head. And to himself he muttered, "Why do I always get the insubordinate ones?"
"I was never in league—"
"How do you know that, Zhyfrael? How? You remember names and parts of things, but not everything. How do you know you weren't traveling with demon spawn?"
Yulchar threw up his hands. "Listen, why are we having this conversation?" He was exasperated. "We need Zhy; that is what she said. Ar'Zoth was a demon. That much we know from the letter. That does not prove Zhy and his companions were, you know that, and you knew that when we started. This ends now."
"Is that an order?" Huyen replied, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"That is an order," Yulchar said.
"Good night then." He sounded far from satisfied, and his reply was too quick. But Yulchar had settled him down for now, and for once, at least from Yulchar's point of view, he had given an order and had it accepted. He looked at Zhy, his expression blank.
"I don't think he likes me," Zhy said softly.
"I don't," Huyen replied from his bedroll.
Yulchar sighed. "You had best get some rest. Perhaps if she visits you again, you can find out more information." With that, the knight lay his head down and snored.
I wish I could sleep, Zhy thought bitterly. These men were used to traveling and sleeping in the wild. He lay down, a small root in his back. No amount of shifting seemed to help, so he moved his blanket a few feet away. The moon sidled across the sky and he watched as it slowly dipped beneath a large hemlock and was gone.
He thought on the dead woman's words, on the journey thus far, his pieces of memories, and of Huyen. The man would kill him if given the chance, he knew. Zhy feared that no amount of convincing could do any good—at least as long as his own memories were so clouded. He was no demon, was he? He had not been in league with them either, had he? Why had they traveled to see Ar'Zoth? And why had Ar'Zoth killed them all? Zhy at least understood Huyen's anger and suspicion, but it was going to be distressing to watch out for his own neck during the journey.
By the time sleep reached him, Yulchar was loading the horses and barking at them to take their leave.
Only a bare hope of a sunrise was visible beyond the trees. Frost hung everywhere, even on his blanket. It clung to his chin and he wiped away the icy covering with a groan. Muscles ached, and his head throbbed from lack of sleep.
> "Hurry… Zhyfrael," Huyen barked. "There is not much time."
Not much time. I'm getting sick of hearing that already.
Chapter 3 – An Abandoned Farm
It is said that Death is the End. There is no more. But I have spoken to the Dead. Some walk among us. Some are truly long buried, but they remain as loafers in this world. They hang onto the plane between this world and the Void, in an attempt to finish what was undone in Life. Many will wander forever in such a vain attempt.
Prophet Zher'wen
The farmhouse was empty. Someone had removed the body and buried it near a Temple inside Vronga. All that remained was a field of dead turnips, some pumpkins, a hill with a massive stone set into it, and an empty farmhouse. The horses were gone, and the only item left in the stables was a single sutan, sitting on a bale of hay.
When Zhy's companions stopped suddenly before the front door, he was confused, but slowly realized that his must have been that woman's home... the dead woman. They had said something about a farm, hadn't they? Or had she? A dead woman who was talking to me. They dismounted quietly.
There was strangeness about the place, and not in the fact that it was now abandoned. As they approached the farm, Zhy never saw the farm or the fields, even though both were directly off of the Crown Road. A low mound of dead grass sat perfectly aligned between the road and the farm—the eye would catch on the low rise, and then skip past the farm to the copse of pine and poplar that bordered the edge of the farm. By then, the average traveler would have been long past and never seen the residence. Wagon ruts led around the south side of the small knoll and to the farm. Were it summer, grass would be growing in the ruts, but now only a stray blade of clover grew in the matted depression.
"Let's have a look around," Yulchar said, patting his horse. Huyen grumbled and stomped off, muttering.