The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (20 page)

“Smells like a leaf.”

“Wait until we cook it!” Torplug sounded excited, but when he looked at the leaves, Zhy swore his mouth curled into a slight grimace, as if he’d eaten something bitter.

A light breeze blew overhead and whistled softly in the scrubby trees, and the musty smell of the bog enveloped them. Torplug led the way back to the road, and Zhy followed carefully, again thankful his boots didn’t sink into the muck.

Torplug found some dry wood and started a small fire. Once he had some medium-sized logs fully engulfed, he dug out a small crock from his pack. “Do you have your mug?” he asked Zhy.

“Sure.” Zhy was just preparing to sit and gave a groan as he stood to retrieve the mug from his pack.

Torplug had positioned the fire perfectly between two medium-sized maple trees. He and Zhy could sit against a tree and relax. Qainur, not far away, snored with abandon.

The small-man directed Zhy to sit, then re-crossed the road. There he found a low point in the bog and began digging until water seeped through. It was surprisingly clear, with only a few flecks of brown sediment. He filled the crock and carefully took it back to the fire and waited patiently for it to boil.

“Once this boils a bit, we can add the tea,” he said to Zhy, who was watching the whole exchange with wonder. He’d never seen a man make tea from plants found in a swamp.  “Plus, the tea is rather strong, so it’ll cover up any strange tastes in the water,” he chuckled.

Zhy nodded absently and stared into the fire. His focus blurred, and the images from the previous days flashed through his mind. He started to doze, but the stress of the past events forced his eyes to flutter open and he groaned, looking out at the road again. He had been afraid of this—that he was entering a new reality in which sleep was just a memory. Long gone were the days in which he could sleep until the thirst for ale woke him. He suddenly felt much older.

He sighed.

“Everything all right?” Torplug asked, his eyes on the fire.

“Just thinking about what’s happened so far,” he said quietly.

The mage didn’t nod—he was most likely thinking the same thoughts. Instead, he checked his bog water. It had just started to boil.

Once more Zhy attempted to close his eyes and doze, but as soon as his lids dropped shut, gouts of blood spurted before his eyes, flashes of light skittered across his mind’s eye, and he could almost smell the rank stench of the temple. And in a flash of torn flesh and dark demonic spells, he saw the twisted and rotting remains of his companions. He gave a start.

After the water had boiled furiously for several minutes, Torplug tore up the green leaves and tossed them in the water. It wasn’t long before the bitter-sweet smell drifted over to him—a mix of sweet, sour, and spicy cinnamon wafted up from the crock. Torplug let the tea boil a minute, then used a stick to edge the crock off the fire. He carefully filled both mugs with the hot tea and handed Zhy’s over to him. The small-man leaned against the pine with a sigh.

“Enjoy.”

Zhy inhaled the aroma and took a tentative sip. It was every bit as bitter and sweet as it smelled. Yet the tea was soothing, somehow, as it warmed his gullet. A peaceful feeling melted over him and he closed his eyes. Taking another sip, he smiled, even though it was starting to curl his lips.

“My father used to make this when we were on wilderness trips,” Torplug said quietly. “Everyone who went with us hated it. ‘Bird-dog tea’, they called it, which I never understood. Maybe they thought it wasn’t even good enough for dogs. Father loved it. I enjoy it. It is very soothing.”

“That it is,” Zhy said softly. At last, the soothing effects of the tea started to work, and his eyes fluttered closed; his muscles relaxed, and the empty cup slipped from his fingers to the earth. Hot tea hissed quietly as it sank into the cold ground. The pine tree whistled slightly in the wind, and for once Zhy’s mind was not full of horrible images of death.

The bitter taste filled his mouth and its cloying aroma permeated his nostrils, but still he dozed as if he were a small child. The exertion of the journey, the exhaustion of facing such horrors at almost every step, and the constant wonder over who his companions truly were, faded as the Labrador tea carried him to sleep.

He dreamed of peaceful snow-covered mountains.

* * *

He shot awake as a primitive arrow struck the tree with a sharp thwack. The large pine shook slightly from the velocity of the arrow. Even as the shaft vibrated from the violent collision, his reflexes flashed, and he dove behind the meager safety of the maple. Torplug’s crock shattered against a small rock. Another arrow struck the tree. He heard the pounding of running feet on the road and a struggle. There was a grunt, and he recognized it as belonging to Qainur.
Where is Torplug?

Taking a chance, he sprinted from his spot towards the sound of the fight.

He arrived in time to see the archer fall in a heap. Qainur stood over him, his sword still dripping blood. His breathing was labored and he stared dumbly at the ground. He didn’t seem to see Zhy as he turned to wipe his sword in the grass. Zhy looked quickly around for Torplug and didn’t see him anywhere. He raced back over to the small fire, but the mage’s spot was vacant.

“Torplug!” he barked, “Where in—”

“I’m right here,” the voice barked as the small-man sidled up to him.

“Where in Sacuan’s great scrotum were you?” Zhy demanded.

“Behind the tree! You went blindly out into what should have been your death, and I dove for cover.”

“So did I!” Zhy cried. “I hid until I heard Qainur charge.”

“Fool!”

Zhy simply stared at Torplug. The mage was right. He was a fool. His gaze turned down to the body, then back to Qainur, who was walking slowly back toward them. “You’ve been luckier than an alley cat,” the mercenary said softly. “One of these times the arrow is going to strike.”

They looked at each other for a while. For a moment Zhy wondered if he was still sleeping, then he looked back at the maple. It wasn’t a large tree, and two arrows jutted from it, only slightly above where his head had been. They were inches apart. He was damned lucky. A third shot would have been dead-on. Torplug was apparently faster, there was only one arrow in his tree, but again only inches from where the small-man’s head had rested. Zhy sighed.

“What were you doing over there anyway?” Qainur asked.

“We were dozing by that tree,” he pointed. “Torplug made tea from the –”

“And what were
you
doing?” Torplug interrupted.

Qainur cracked the knuckle on his thumb. “I was out behind that tree over there...you know...”

“And how did you get to the archer as quickly as you did?”

“I ran. Fast.”

Torplug regarded him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. Zhy looked at the broken body. “Another Knight of the Black Dawn?” Zhy asked, his voice suddenly trembling.

Qainur walked over and. with a grimace, kicked the body onto its back. A massive wound had torn open the archer’s mid-section, and his insides spilled out onto the cobblestones. Steam poured out into the chilled air. His grizzled face was frozen in a grimace. It was pale and drawn and very young. He was dressed in animal hides and wore a necklace of tiny skulls around his neck.

Zhy nearly vomited at the sight, but for some reason he was becoming immune to all the gore and destruction of human life. Much like he had with ale—start with one, then two, and soon you can drink twenty in a night.

“A Wight!” Qainur gasped.

Torplug shook his head sadly. “No, it’s not a Wight. This is a human. Some type of hunter, or. Or…who knows what.”

 The necklace of skulls smacked of something ritual or tribal. Demonic? “Maybe he is a descendant.” Zhy ventured. He thumbed his earlobe nervously then folded his whole earlobe upon itself and into his ear.

“What
are
you doing?” Torplug asked.

“N-nothing, just a nervous habit.”

“I realize that, but…never mind.”

Zhy looked at Qainur, whose gaze was locked on the body. “You were very fast. Once again.”

“Aye. I had just opened my eyes, having to…you know…in the woods. He was walking up the road. It looked like he was dancing. Dancing! I rolled off and found cover, not sure. He held that bow with an arrow nocked. The second he saw you, he lowered it and fired. His eyes were blank.” The bulky mercenary shivered. “I’d never seen anyone so…cold.”

“No need to say more, Qainur,” Zhy almost whispered. “Thank you.”

“Aye.”

Zhy’s mind kept going back to the Wights and what his father had said of them. He was sure there were some still individuals left.
But necklaces made of skulls?
That didn’t seem right. It didn’t describe Wights. It described something else, something more disturbing.
Cold
, Qainur had said.
Cold
.

He was lost in thought and did not hear the click-clack of horses as a Counsel Guard approached them. His horse was hardly breathing—and the guard himself looked relaxed and content.

Torplug groaned, which brought him out of his daze.

Where in all of Sacuan’s great harems did this lout come from?
Zhy wondered. They hadn’t seen the Counsel Guard in two solid days.
This cannot end well, he thought bitterly.

The Guard was obviously a northerner, with a wind-burned and cold-battered face. He seemed to carry himself with a strange mix of arrogance and humility. Perhaps he felt it better to get information from people if he played slightly aloof and unintelligent. Zhy had seen his like in the inns and taverns…they could play dumb and get the common thief to empty his pockets.

“What have we here, then?” he asked in a pathetic attempt at innocent gullibility.

The Guard looked at the body and whistled.

Zhy replied the only way he knew—timidly and honestly. He pointed to the tree with the two arrows, then at the body, as he explained himself. “We are traveling north and took a rest. We made a small fire here. I dozed and awoke at the sound of an arrow hitting the tree. Once I took cover, another arrow hit, but I heard my companion here fighting the bandit.”

“Aye,” the guard replied flatly. He then dismounted and knelt down next to the body. “I see.” He stood.

“I—” Qainur started quietly, trying to put his best diplomatic foot forward. But the Guard cut him off and waved his hand.

“Never mind, never mind. I know this person. Well, I knew him. He’s a crazy hunter who lives off the land in these parts. Those skulls are made of clay, but he sure scares the townsfolk when he is around. I hauled him off to the restraining house once or twice for shooting arrows at outhouses.” He raised an eyebrow at the elder warrior. The Guard’s mood seemed to have shifted from pomposity to boredom in a very short span of time—he’d dealt with the dead man many times, and it seemed now as if he felt a great relief in having him lying in a road.

“An outhouse is one thing,” Torplug remarked. “He nearly drove one through my neck!”

Qainur nodded. “I charged as fast I could, and he almost had another one nocked.”

Zhy shivered.

“I cannot fault you for your actions. I had always worried that this man would try to hurt someone. It’s too bad.”

“Too bad for whom?” Zhy asked quietly.

“All of us,” the Guard said sadly. Zhy wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. “He—well, he was hit on the head at a young age. Ever since then he has acted very strangely. Very strangely. I always feared an arrow would go through the outhouse, or he’d fire at someone like you.” He shook his head sadly. “Well, can’t be helped…can’t be helped. You can ride on if you desire. I will take care of this.”

Qainur nodded curtly. “Thank you.”

The Guard grunted and knelt by the body, shaking his head. He whispered quietly, but Zhy caught what he said. “Your knots are at last undone, Herzan. May Sacuan bless you on your final dance.” The Guard reached up a meaty hand and closed the dead man’s eyes. He then quietly mounted his horse. “I’ll need to go back and get help…we can bury him over there—” he pointed to the southeast at a small clearing in a stand of pines. “Back to the ground. Farewell.” He rode off without looking back.

Wordlessly, the three gathered their gear—and one unbroken mug—and mounted their horses.

“That makes it four,” Qainur said after they rounded a slight bend. Four times now. Four times they had escaped with their lives and their freedom. The Guard could have just as easily thrown them in the restraining house for the rest of their lives. Or sent them to hang.

Would there be five chances? Or was that his last? It was not often one got more than three chances at anything before they were tossed out on their backside.

Chapter 17 — Longing and Lamentations

Do not regret your choices. Regret is a knot. Shame is a knot. Wondering what you may have been able to do or avoid only creates more knots. Bother not with these wasted efforts. Change what you can now. For the knots you undo or rectify in the present may create enough Light to overcome the Dark of your past.