The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (21 page)

Cleric Broundoun, Order of the Knot

They made camp in a small indentation at the side of the road. The comforts of inns and the warmth of their fires, the smiles of patrons, and the hopeful promises of flesh were now frozen in memories. Only cold, hard ground remained—their meager fire was pitiable.

Qainur rummaged through his gear and unloaded his bedroll. He extracted his pillow, and with it a familiar shape. He set it down in front of Zhy.

“What…?” Zhy’s face lit up slightly. He picked up the bottle and inspected it. It was a very expensive brand of spirits, highly potent. Only two family farms produced the stuff, and only a select few could afford it. “Where did you get this?”

Qainur grinned. “When you were saddling up your horse, I was poking around your stable. It was hidden in a suspicious-looking bale of hay. Why have hay when you don’t have a horse? Anyway, I knew we had a long journey, and you would be needing it at some point. After what we have been through, well. There you go. I expect you would share?”

Zhy would normally be upset that someone had pilfered his father’s best spirits, but he wasn’t even aware the bottle had been hidden there. It was old. Aged. Perfect. He looked at Qainur and smiled but said nothing.

Instead, he opened the bottle and inhaled deeply of its aroma. The bite of alcohol was tempered by a smoothness only developed over time. And money. For only those with enough of it could afford such a luxury. It was almost like Zor’Tarak, a mind-altering liqueur that cost just as much, but this did not include any nasty effects. He inhaled again, and he could smell the fields of grain, the hint of cherry and bitter currants. Spring and new life were in the bottle, even if the contents also had meant the near-death of Zhy. He debated taking a drink, but then realized it may very well be his last. Further, there would be very little access to more should he crave it…that would most likely be the difficult part. He shrugged and listened for his father’s voice. Silence. Closing his eyes, he tipped the bottle and opened his mouth.

As soon as the strong spirit touched his lips, a rush of visions bloomed to vivid life in his mind. And in the vision, he was transported back to another time and place in Belden. It was spring, and the air was filled with the smell of dirt and new life growing in the fields. The sun was high and bright, even late in the day. His father’s laughter carried over the fields as he laughed at something someone was saying. Zhy tried to focus on the other face, but it was cloudy and kept shifting—it was a woman’s figure—a woman’s voice: quiet and tentative. But every so often, the voice would pause, and his father would burst out laughing again, spilling red wine upon the floorboards of the porch. Zhy watched them soak into the dark wood—rivulets following the uneven grain and eventually soaking into the planks. He tried to focus on the face again, but it blurred and finally blinked out, although the voice remained. Mother. Then the wine glass shattered, as his father laid his head in his hands and wept. He felt wet tears on his own face and then a familiar embrace, although his father still sat crying.
My son
, the quiet voice spoke,
my son, my knot is untied, but yours and Fa’s are strong. Weep not for me.
He shivered suddenly and broke free of the memory with a sudden jolt.

Qainur and Torplug stared at him.

He had taken but one sip and froze in place, the bottle poised inches from his lips. Tears streamed down his face. He slowly let his focus return to Torplug and Qainur. He looked awkwardly at the bottle then handed it to Qainur, who simply stared at it, then at Zhy. He said nothing, but Zhy knew the question.

“Such an old spirit. And many more inside,” Zhy said quietly. His dreams were lurid, violent swirling monstrosities.

* * *

“I have been wondering about something, Torplug,” Zhy remarked as they continued their journey.

The mage said nothing, but turned slightly in his saddle. “Yes?”

“How is it that one spell can completely rob you of strength, while another you hopped off your horse, cast the spell and were then back riding again with no ill effects? Both were very powerful and killed two people in seconds.”

The mage looked confused for a second, as he was trying to understand what Zhy was asking. “Oh, you mean with the Knight of the Black Dawn and the
gherwza
? Ah yes...it’s quite simple,” he said, trying to sound informative. “The spell which I used against the demon, the
Light of M’Hzrut
, is one which starts with the mage and finishes at its target.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Zhy had wondered about magic, but his past notions were confirmed. It was unbelievably complex and dangerous.

“Well…” he furrowed his brow, trying to frame his explanation in words which were not restricted to the advanced magical studies. “One starts the spell—that ball of blue fire—with one’s own energy. If done right, it is sent off towards an enemy and then draws more power from both the air, and the enemy itself, as it draws nearer.
Light of M’Hzrut
is specifically cast against demons and will always hit its mark. Its effectiveness, however, is based on any wards the demon may have constructed. It can still draw power for itself from the demon, then shatter harmlessly. Or, if the demon has strong enough wards, it can reflect the spell backward and kill the caster.”

“And the other spell?” Qainur asked. Zhy didn’t want to think what would have happened if the
Light of M’Hzrut
had been reflected.

“
Bolt of Sacuan
? That draws all its energy from the caster. As I have said, even the most powerful mages struggle.” He sighed, and his shoulders drooped slightly, as he recalled the first encounter with the Knight of the Black Dawn.

“So it’s a spell of last resort?” asked Qainur. “Like a dagger? If suddenly I find myself without sword and cornered, I at least have a dagger.”

Zhy gave him a hard look.
Then why didn’t you stab the bandit?

Qainur grunted.

“No, I wish it were so. It takes too long to generate the energy.”

“Then how were you so fast with it?” Zhy asked, thumbing his earlobe. “It seemed as if you were able to fire it off very quickly.”

The small-man shook his head, grinning. “My height provided an advantage. Nobody ever saw me. I know the sound of a sword being drawn. I saw the entire fight.”

“Then why in the name of a ground goat didn’t you help sooner?” Qainur snapped.

“When the fight began, I started casting one spell. Then I realized we were dealing with a superior fighter—a Knight of the Black Dawn. If he were warded, any spell would reflect and kill me. All but
Bolt of Sacuan
. I started casting that quite soon after the fight started. You are lucky it was completed in time. You are lucky it even worked. It was the first time I had ever tried it.” The mage stared hard at Qainur as they rode.

The mercenary looked down glumly at the pommel of his saddle. He then nodded slowly. “I see. Th-thank you again.”

Torplug nodded. “Does that answer your question?”

“No it does not,” Zhy said tersely.

“What is that?” the mage asked.

“You said you could cast it against someone who was warded?”

“Yes, why?”

“Our friend at the inn was warded and you were hog-tied. You could hardly move.”

The mage said nothing, although his face reddened. “I ...” he began, then was silent. Zhy looked at him, waiting for an answer.

“I had not thought of that,” the mage said quietly, barely perceptible over the click of the hooves on the road. “I wonder if it has to do with close quarters. I…I could not do anything. Honestly, I did not try to cast the
Bolt of Sacuan
because I felt like a ball of lead was sitting on top of me. I’m sorry. I would have done anything I could.” His face was placid and his voice smooth and unwavering.

The mercenary was quiet, but he was obviously upset over something. His meaty hands curled into tense balls, and crimson blotches percolated along his neck, contrasting boldly with the dark scruff of unshaven fur matted on his face. He sighed heavily and cracked his knuckles. He started to open his mouth to speak but instead grunted. Something inside him seemed to resign himself to the situation and he looked at Torplug, his eyes softer. “Yes, thank you. I admit I know little of mages and the magical arts, not having any myself.” He cracked his knuckles again.

“I don’t know much, either,” Zhy agreed. “Even with the University so close to home, I never bothered to learn anything about them.” He looked at the mercenary, and his previous anger had abated. What had him so riled up? It seemed best not to ask, at least not now.

“You know the distilling and brewing arts quite well,” Qainur shot sarcastically.

Not wanting an argument, Zhy simply replied with a broad smile across his face, “I know their outputs well, yes.”

The three shared a laugh, and the tension eased slightly

During the course of their conversation, a thick layer of clouds had meandered over the tops of the stoic balsams. Small snowflakes started falling lazily from the sky, mixed with the odd rain drop. The temperature was cold, but not cold enough for the snow to stick. That would surely change as they continued northward.

“Snow again, snow again,” Torplug said after a time.

Qainur motioned for them to stop. “I hate to do it, but it’s time we exchanged our outfits for the full-winter set. I brought thick furs with hoods and warm mitts for our hands.”

Grumbling about the final change in the season, the others agreed.

“I thought you said a couple of days,” Zhy said as the already gloomy day slowly changed into dusk. “I don’t think we traveled that far.”

Qainur nodded. “It isn’t far. Days this far north, and this late in the season, are much shorter than in your warm fields, my friend.”

Zhy grumbled and Torplug chuckled. It seemed only a few hours ago that they had broken camp and started riding north. And already they were looking for another camp site.

“I didn’t realize how short the days would get up here,” Zhy said as casually as he could.

“Yes, it is even worse the farther north you go into Welcfer,” Torplug added. “There are a few days in the winter where the sun never shines. Nothing. Then in the summer, the sun won’t set for days. It is very odd. People who have Zor’Tarak handy drink a lot of it in the winter. Plus, that’s why the savages breed so many people!” He laughed.

Zhy only shook his head. “Why would anyone live in such a climate?”

“They don’t know any other situation. Those who have children with magical ability may get lucky and be able to move to the eastern coast, where the weather is fairly stable. Others are stuck where they are.”

“Like you?” Zhy asked. Here was another chance to try to get more of an understanding of Torplug’s background.

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice a bitter icicle. He had a way of speaking that sent chills down the others’ backs.
That’s probably magic, too
, Zhy thought. Whenever the subject of Torplug’s past arose, the conversation was closed quickly.

It seemed so strange to him. But again, his way of life would surely seem strange to those who lived in this part of the world.

“Aye,” Qainur interjected. “This world changes. Its people, too.”

Zhy rubbed his hand over his overgrown and scruffy face.
Yes, they do
, he thought to himself.

It was too bad he didn’t have a mirror. For he was still the unkempt lout who had left Belden City. All that had changed was a somewhat different outlook on the world and the lack of a permanent alcohol-induced stupor. He thought he was growing and changing, but unfortunately for Zhy, he remained a third wheel. If his father could see him, he would be repulsed. This young heir to a vast fortune had not only frittered it away, but now he was deluding himself into thinking he was gaining ground against the Dark, untying his own vast knots, and approaching the Light. But he had grown little and changed even less.

He took another long look at his companions. They had put up with him, helped him, and even saved his life on this trip. Without them, he would be dead. Without his money, they would be nowhere.
Emergency friend, that is what you are,
he could hear his father say. Indeed, they were keeping each other upright out of a sheer need for survival. Were they more than just emergency friends? Zhy had a sinking feeling that they were going to need to save each other again. Would an emergency friend stay and fight or turn tail and run?

He hoped for all their sakes, they would stay and fight.

Whatever it was.

Chapter 18 — Strange Dreams

If you have untied a knot in your past, it may still be tightly bound in your mind. Beware, for in your dreams these knots may appear.

Prophet Vron’za, IV Age

“H
ow much farther to Gray Gorge?” Zhy asked.