The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (12 page)

Qainur cleared his throat. “I—well, let’s see what this says. Got some smoke in my eye there.” He wiped his eye then focused on the paper.

He stared at the paper blankly. Zhy thought for a moment the mercenary couldn’t read, but then Torplug took the paper gently from his hand. “Aye ... it’s probably in a Welcferian dialect or some other strange language.”

“Or a code?” Zhy offered.

“Possibly…that would make sense. Hmm…” The note was partially covered with blood, but it was still readable. At least to Torplug, it seemed, as his head nodded.

“What does it say?” asked Zhy.

“Hmmm,” the mage said, scanning the text. “I don’t believe this.” He laughed.

“What is it?” Qainur growled.

He chuckled again. “How…? Why would they?” He paused, shaking his head. Qainur was becoming agitated. “It says, basically, ‘Find the three…blood…warriors. Blood. Something…Demon…blood…Gray Gorge—’, and then it’s just blood.”

Zhy paled. “They
were
after us!”

Qainur’s sword was out and pointed at Torplug’s throat. He growled. “What do you know? When did you know it?”

The mage made no attempt at casting a spell. Instead, his cold gray eyes were their own swords as they bore into Qainur’s. “I do not believe they are after us.”

“How?” the mercenary growled and advanced a few inches, the sword a breath away from the mage’s throat.

Zhy answered, quietly. “Because it says ‘three warriors.’ We are not all warriors, Qainur. I think our Knight made a mistake.” He breathed a sigh of relief. So. They weren’t after them—as cliché as that would be, it was still something to fret over. For such a well-trained, deadly Order, they had obviously made a mistake.

Neither Qainur nor Torplug moved. Their gazes locked. At last, Torplug gave a very slight nod. Qainur growled quietly, but with little emotion left, it was more out of habit. He seemed deflated, yet he never moved to sheathe the sword; instead it held steady in front of Torplug.

Suddenly there was a flash, and Torplug was six feet away. Qainur’s sword flew across the room. Zhy watched it whirl past his nose and hit the hearth with such force it sounded like a hammer against an anvil. It clattered to the floor, and Zhy swore he heard it humming. He turned, and Qainur was wrapped in a blanket of white light. Torplug was standing on a bed, his arms extended.

“Zhy is correct, Qainur. There is no reason for the Dawn to attack us. They are obviously after warriors from Belden. While you were eying up the horsewoman of that spice caravan, you missed a trio of heavily-armed men pass by us. We then passed them while they ate lunch. They were probably part of the Counsel Guard, or maybe even other mercenaries. But you were watching a hawk, or something. They passed us again…you were looking off into the woods. There is a good chance that those are the men this Knight was after. And you so blindly attacked him. Please try to think before you strike.”

The magical binding released slightly. Qainur nodded slowly. But then he growled. “You little—”

Again, the blanket tightened and he gasped.

“Qainur, please…” Zhy pleaded.

At last the bull-headed mercenary sighed as best he could and nodded. “I—I guess you are right.”

“I am,” the mage nodded. Then he released the bonds. Trusting that he had convinced the mercenary, he retrieved the sword and handed to Qainur. “I fear that if they were after us, we would be long dead. But I also fear for the warriors we met on the road, if indeed they are the targets here. They are not long for this earth.”

“What if…” Zhy cleared his throat softly. “What if the so-called ‘warriors’ are really demons?” he asked with a catch to his voice.

“We need to leave here. Now,” was the only answer Torplug gave, and Qainur stood silent. “The innkeeper still has not come up. Must be drunk out of his mind.” He shot a look at Zhy, but Zhy pretended not to notice. A man had once entered his home in the middle of the night and had stolen a full bookcase. He had dragged it across three rooms, slammed into a doorframe, and knocked the front door off its hinges. Zhy never heard a squeak. “And the other people staying here looked so timid they would never say anything. Still, we better leave. I have a bad feeling about all of this.” And, as if in an afterthought, he addressed Zhy’s thought, “Demons? Yes, possibly. Let’s leave.”

Both Qainur and Zhy nodded eagerly. As they hurriedly packed and snuck out of the inn, Qainur whispered to Torplug, “You have to stop throwing me around with your spells!”

The mage allowed himself a small chuckle, as the tension seemed to evaporate from both of them. So focused were they on making a hasty exit, they seemed to quickly forget the prior events. Perhaps a little too quickly, Zhy thought. “I will try. I’m sorry that I get little irritable when I cast spells. Probably some effect I’m suffering from. I’ve heard of mages who get splitting headaches, but I just develop a bad mood.”

Qainur scowled at Torplug’s nonchalant shrug, but said nothing. Zhy thought perhaps he was considering the effects he would suffer should he ever learn any magical ability from Ar’Zoth.

* * *

As quietly as they could, they fed their horses. Zhy dropped a small coin on a hay bale, hoping the innkeeper or stable boy would see it and assume it was for the feed and water. The horses ate and drank with abandon, as their masters tried their hardest to shush them. Still, no lights burned in the inn, and all was silent.

His muscles screamed in protest as he mounted his horse. The gray light of dawn was just starting to glow over the horizon, and given the lateness of the year, it meant that it the morning had just begun. Still this fact did not give Zhy any comfort—this adventure had provided him with little opportunity for a decent rest.

They traveled several miles in silence before his muscles grew numb again. He hoped desperately that his body would get used to such riding. He grimaced as a band of hunters passed by them going south. Their image, and that of the various animals strung from their horses, ignited in his mind the images of the previous encounter. So much death. What had started out as an innocuous journey to the north was turning into a slaughterhouse filled with creatures and entities that seemed plucked from the imaginations of the deepest essences of the Dark. Or invented by some crazed storyteller or fate-weaver, who far off, in a separate plane, was pulling on their ropes, tying them into knots, and generally creating a living nightmare for the trio.

Zhy shook his head to clear his thoughts. The early morning chill was doing a fairly good job of numbing emotions—much better than ale, he thought. Still, he had seen enough death and fighting already. He turned his aching body to address Qainur. “How can you kill with such ease?”

“Are you serious? I do this for a living. Not killing professional soldiers, mind you. But killing. That’s what they pay me for.”

“And here I thought Belden was a peaceful nation,” Zhy remarked.

Torplug nodded.

“Indeed it is,” the mercenary replied. “But people steal things. People sleep with other people’s wives. I killed those kids in your father’s field—they could have left, but they wanted to fight.”

Zhy silently agreed.

The small-man cleared his throat. “It is the same in Welcfer, although we do have frequent battles with the natives. Back at the University, I heard a wise mage tell another student, ‘a presence of peace does not mean an absence of war.’ He didn’t mean war like in story books, but war like Qainur fights.”

“Fancy words,” was all Qainur said.

“Fancy words, indeed.”

They rode in silence the rest of the day. Zhy kept his focus on the pommel of his saddle and checked every few minutes to see that the others were with him. The golden forests, deep green evergreens, and wildlife passed by him. It was reminiscent of this his daily journey to Kahl’s inn in Belden City—everything was a foggy haze on his peripheral vision.

* * *

Darkness was just starting to descend when the riders were blinded by a huge flash of bright white light. It lit up the stoic white pines with such brilliance that, for a brief second, Zhy saw the pinecones dangling from the branches. The flash reminded him of the summer storms in Belden City, except that no sound followed this searing charge of white light. But the forest was dark again.

Quickly after the initial flash, however, they could see an orange and yellow flicker of a massive fire, which cast odd shadows over the forest. Instead of the wash of daylight, the strange firelight transformed the large pines into gently swaying figures that were utterly grotesque.

Muted voices could be heard through the forest. Panic and chaos filled the air.

“What was that?” Qainur bellowed.

Torplug kicked his horse into a faster pace. “That was magic! There are no clouds to create lightning. Something is wrong.”

“Wait! We must stay on the main road! Going off into the wilderness will only delay us and cause unnecessary confusion,” Zhy pleaded and kept his horse at a slow pace.

“That is in the next village,” the small-man yelled over his shoulder as he rode faster around the bend.

Qainur nodded. “See how the road bends up ahead? That
would
put that fire in town.”

Zhy said nothing as he and Qainur picked up their own pace and followed the mage. As he had stated, the small village was nestled along the road as it curved slightly eastward. The village was ablaze with light as a large structure was engulfed. Townsfolk were scurrying, trying to create a fire brigade, but their efforts were in vain as the intensity of the fire was too much. The three travelers wisely remained out of the way and watched as someone called for shovels and picks—if they couldn’t put the fire out, they could at least dig a line around the structure to save it. However, the heat was too intense even for this endeavor, and finally everyone watched despondently as the structure burned.

It seemed like hours had passed when at last water had any effect, but then it was only as a means of preventing any spread. Fortunately, the fire remained confined to the large structure and had not consumed any other structures.

Torplug dismounted and quickly made his way to a man who appeared to be in charge as he barked orders to the townsfolk. Zhy and Qainur tried to stop him, but he rushed ahead.

“What happened here?” the small-man asked.

The man in charge looked down on him and said only, “Fire.” Then he began with the orders again, as others scampered about with buckets and shovels.

“I see that. Which building was this?”

“You are not from around here, are you?” the man asked, suddenly interested in the stranger.

“No, we have just arrived.” He motioned to his companions, who still waited afar, dour looks on their faces. “We saw the fire and raced here as quickly as we could. I apologize that we were not able to help in any way.”

The man grunted. “Aye, but there’s naught you could have done, little man. Naught ‘tall.” He suddenly looked sad in the glow of the dying fire.

“Magic started that fire,” Torplug stated matter-of-factly. “As a mage—”

“Aye, it ‘twas. And it ‘twas the Counsel’s own mage for Sacuan’s sake!” he blurted. Then he shook his head slowly.

Torplug started to say something, but stopped. “What? The Counsel!”

The man turned. “You are not one of them, are ye?” he asked, his tone suddenly menacing. He turned briefly to bark some more orders, and then his full glare was on the little mage.

“Indeed no, my good man. I am no match for them. But why would they burn down this building?”

“The inn? Why? Do ye truly want to know?” the menace had diminished, replaced with the tone of a Healer, asking if his patient really wanted to find out what ailed him.

Torplug looked at the smoldering ruin. Flames licked up randomly as odd remnants caught ablaze.

The man gave an order to a large woman, possibly a cook. She shuffled off. Then he looked around, making sure no one could overhear them. “The Guard said that demon-spawn was in the inn.”

“Demon…” Torplug trailed off. Then he looked back at his companions and motioned them over. They dismounted and approached Torplug. “These are my companions.” Nods were exchanged. “This man tells me that—”

He was silenced by a hand. “No. Not here. Come.” He motioned them to follow him out toward the road. “Please, I don’t want the villagers to hear any of this. Since you are traveling folk, I trust you will tell no one. I am the village elder, and the Guard only spoke to me before racing off down the road toward Belden City. Aye…it ‘twas demons he said. Demons loose and staying in the inn.”

Qainur almost drew his sword, but stopped himself, realizing the effort was futile. Zhy only groaned. Torplug shook his head and looked at his friends sadly. “I had hoped there was only the one.”

“Only the one?” the elder asked. “So are ye…”

“We are merely traveling north. And no, we are not professionals. Only I saw a
gherwza
on the road and was able to cast a spell against it. I had thought it was the only one. I had hoped, that is.”

The elder stiffened and stared. The light of the fire was failing, but the rising moon cast a light upon the man. He had paled considerably. “A
gherwza
?” the man asked, replying with his best attempt and pronouncing the name. “Here? In Belden?” He wiped his brow, although the absence of the roaring fire had left a deep chill in the air. “Light help us.”

Zhy cleared his throat. “At least the Counsel Guard is aware. They will be on the lookout, and they have trained mages.”

The elder nodded dumbly. “Aye, but it is a portent of the end. The end! It is written that once the demons are loose, the end is near. The temple! The temple must have fallen!” He wrung his hand as his eyes grew wide and wild. His gaze darted and bounded along the road, to the woods, at the travelers, and back to the village. Suddenly there was a focus on something…perhaps his home. Then he spoke, his back to the three. “Continue to the next village. Reldan will have an inn. Ride! Ride and never look back! The Temple…” He started slowly back into the village, his step unsure.