The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (28 page)

He tried to sound hard and in command. “Go. Go and do not return. If I see you again, I will kill you.”

He needs to go. That is best
. He was not going to take any more risks with these travelers, on that he was determined. But if Gryn wanted to risk his life for a phantom, then what was the difference if he killed him now or let him be killed later? The man was going to die—for his actions tonight or at the hands of a warrior and a mage. Or a warlock.

Huyen only scowled, but Gryn laughed softly. The young man had won.

“Leave us, Gryn.” The name snapped off his tongue, like a dead branch breaking underfoot. In a brief thought of red, he reached for his sword, but stayed his hand, albeit reluctantly. He had lost. He had lost all control…and he might as well have been the one leaving the Order.

Hearing his name aloud, Gryn nearly gasped. Naming members of the Order was akin to a death sentence, a curse against the person named. It meant removal from the Order. It meant that he could no longer be a truly anonymous hero of the world who fought the base and utter Dark on a daily basis. True heroes should never be named, he had heard countless times. Though he believed himself correct in hunting down these boys, being named had surely assured his doom. All of that was pointless, now—removal from the Order meant death.

At the same time, however, he nearly collapsed—he had survived. For now. There would be a knife in the back or a sword in his gullet, but not yet. He was convinced these boys were acting under an ulterior motive. Huyen’s proclamation of the warlock only added to that conviction, but there was no convincing his leader who was bent on retreating—there was no convincing a coward who had more loyalty to the Order’s true mission of protecting Belden: a leader who cared nothing for murdered members of the Dawn. Gryn alone held full loyalty to both the citizens of Belden and his brothers in the Order—they would never have survived the Ages had they not remained as one unit. And Huyen, the crony who followed him around like a lost ox. It would take most of the winter to return to their building and then ski back to the warlock. And who knows what Sacuan-cursed evil the warlock and the travelers would be engaged in by then?

He turned and walked away, though he wanted to run.

Looking back at the glowing fire, his pack on his back, he called out. “Farewell, Yulchar.”

Yulchar stiffened and turned his face slightly to the side. In the firelight, Gryn saw the man smile a mirthless smile, a curling of the lips that betrayed no humor, but a frighteningly calm hatred.

It was going to be a cold night.

***

“Did you at least take his spell-shatterer?” Huyen growled later that night “His blanket…” he whispered with a scowl.

Yulchar cursed. “I should have, Sacuan bless us. I should have…in my fury—H—have you ever seen such an impetuous boy? I should kill him now! Stalk him to the road and bury my sword in him!”

“Such is beneath you. Let him hunt them…they are probably harmless. But he may need that medallion.”

“It didn’t do the others any good.”

“I know,” Huyen said softly. “He just might need it. You did the right thing.”

“I did?” He didn’t feel like he had done any good. Now he had a renegade Knight of the Black Dawn out hunting civilians. The fat man was not going to be pleased. “What do we tell—”

“That Gr—that he abandoned us. Turned tail and went his own way.” Gryn’s name was halfway out of his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“And we’ll be asked why we didn’t follow him and hunt him down!” Yulchar exclaimed.

Huyen scowled. “We can say that he was killed.”

“That would be a lie. A lie!” Yulchar buried his head in his hands. “I’m a failure…an utter failure.”

“Bah, he was worthless…always seeing demons where they were not. Let him go. You’ll make up for it, I’m sure you will. You have much more good to do, and by returning, we are assuring that. Listen,” he said, leaning forward. His permanent scowl was in sharp contrast to the softness of his words. “It will not be lying to say that Gryn was killed. I’m afraid he will not survive.”

“And I am afraid that he will.”

* * *

The sky was still black when Gryn rose, and even the false dawn was but a hope on the horizon.
Black Dawn, indeed
, he thought with an edge of bitterness. He knew of the Guiding Star and its northward position—at least one could get close following it. But there was no hint of a star tonight. He hoped he would not get lost. All that remained of his roaring fire was a tiny red glow the size of a mug of ale.

Gryn rolled up his belongings and slowly edged away from the campsite. He started walking slowly in the direction he assumed was north. Earlier in the day, they had followed a small trail along a river. A slight parting in the black trees was the only indication that there was a trail at all; once he got to the river, he could follow it north and west.

That would lead him straight onto Crown Road.

Part III

A Knot Upon a Knot

In which threads begin to merge into one giant mess of a knot. How will it be untied? And who will do the untying? Or does this drag on forever? Why so many questions?

Chapter 23 — Revenge?

Revenge is of the Dark. If someone slights you, it is not worth slighting them in return. For their actions they will be punished. For yours, you will be punished twice: Once for the deed and once for the intention.

Prophet Gorand

G
ryn made it easily to Crown Road. His experience and training in the northern climate allowed him to cover a large amount of ground in the dark and in a very short amount of time. Once a glimmer of daylight had emerged, he started jogging—the action helped warm his body. However, once the sweat started to trickle down his back, he stopped. The sweat would easily freeze and set him into cold-shock. He did not intend to succumb to the elements before he could kill these dangerous men.

Crown Road was completely deserted this far north. When he passed the tree line, he instinctively put up the hood of his coat and quickened his pace. Gray Gorge was not far.

As the snow began to fall and the stones of the road fell away to packed earth, he noticed three horses trot past him, half-open saddlebags swaying. He was on the right path…the travelers had abandoned their horses and gone on foot. Or were they dead? He hoped not; he wanted to be the one to slide his sword into their soft bellies.

He started walking north, but a thought struck him, and he returned to the horses. It took a fair bit of soft whispering and patting, but he calmed them down to a point—used to having riders for countless miles, the poor creatures’ eyes were all whites. Gryn was lucky he didn’t take a hoof to the stomach.

Gryn rummaged through the saddlebags of the first horse, but found nothing apart from a few lighter shirts and a half-empty jar of dried meat. On the second he found little more and turned to walk away when he noticed something sticking out from a smaller bag. He snatched up the item—a piece of well-worn paper. One side looked to be a notice from a University. “Ha!” He laughed. One horse tittered, and he quickly shushed the beast. “That proves that,” Gryn muttered. As he started to crumple the paper, he turned it over…it looked like some sort of code. He read it, and as he did, his eyes widened. “Sacuan bless us, they
were
trying to cavort with this warlock, weren’t they?” he asked the paper. Two Knights were gone, their knots permanently undone, and all at the hands of these children. But they were children no more, this note seemed to prove they were something far more dangerous. Huyen and Yulchar could sit by their warm fire and return to the fat man…by then it could be too late.

He soothed the horse and mounted, letting the other wander, and rode toward the rocky walls of Gray Gorge. Once he saw the distinctive outcrop, he dismounted and patted the horse; it took a few steps in a circle, then started wandering south again. He didn’t care.  He wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

Gryn read the paper again and started toward the huge outcrop, feet shuffling slowly in the snow, his eyes darting to the rocks every so often.

What is this anyway?
He thought. “Beneath the finger—that must that giant rock there...fifty paces... can’t read this very well...fifty paces north.” He paused. “Entrance. Entrance. Of course... some sort of cave or tunnel through the Gorge. How clever. How
demonic
,” he hissed.

He walked the paces indicated and stopped, regarding the paper. “West five. Stop. North again, ten…now three paces.” He stopped before his nose smashed into the rock. “Sacuan bless me, this is wrong!”

Gryn retraced the paces and came face-to-face with the rock again. With no hope that anything would happen, he pressed his hands against the rocks. Nothing but cold rock…he cursed softly and stepped back. He glanced hurriedly along the rock face and cursed again. Nothing.
Slow down…
he could hear the voice of Yulchar admonish him. Painfully, he forced his eyes to move across every square inch of the rock face, starting at a height that would make sense for an entry. His eyes burned from the cold, and as he moved down to nearly waist-level, he nearly gave up but forced himself to inspect every inch.

He almost missed the discoloration from the other minutiae he was inspecting. But the change in color was so abrupt, and so well-defined along a line that he nearly yelled aloud. “Sacuan bless us all, and curse these demons,” he spat. With a gloved hand, he pushed on the rock, praying to Sacuan that it would at least move a little.

It slid noiselessly open.

Gryn sighed. “I’m coming for you. And Ar’Zoth, too.”

The name felt like tar in his mouth.

He took another tentative step forward and hesitated. He swore he heard something far off…coming out of the tunnel. Another step…and the blackness was complete. It was unnatural and it set his nerves on end.
I’m a demon hunter,
he reminded himself.
I fight the Dark. This is of the Dark…this is demonic and can be beaten
. Gryn grimaced as a wave of nausea assaulted him and felt as if he were falling into a bottomless well.
Black magic
, he thought and forced his feet to move forward. There was no other action to take. When he emerged in the blinding light, he stumbled and nearly fell. Shielding his eyes, he followed the path Zhy, Qainur and Torplug had traversed.

What in the
…he wondered, as the dark clouds furiously filled the once-bright sky. It hit him. He knew what was coming: snow—an Orca’s belly full. Gryn had been caught in the same blizzard as the travelers—without the storm he would have surely reached them.

His eyes darted along the countryside. The sheer climb to the right was no good, and the abrupt drop into the ravine was no better. He turned around to look behind him. Like the others, he had blindly followed the path out of Gray Gorge to the right, not bothering to look to the left. In that space was a larger clearing that provided a few hundred feet of buffer between the sheer rise and the precipitous drop-off. Two large balsams stood in a clump, but another two had fallen in the clearing. One many years ago, and one still had green in its boughs. Perfect. The one should be easy to use for firewood and the other would provide him shelter.

Beyond the carpeted slope, gigantic spruce trees stood stoically, their boughs laden with snow. A fleeting thought came to him—one of a young man climbing half-way up the massive trees and then sliding down the boughs, leaving behind an avalanche of cascading snow. He discarded the thought as the snow began to gain intensity.

He made his way over to the clearing, cursing as the deep snow soaked his leggings. A warm fire would fix that…if he could create a shelter in time. The wind howled, and he swore he heard it call out to him,
The Light has deemed you unworthy
. He spat and continued forward.

Snow began to fall harder. Soon it was as if a hundred thousand feather pillows had been opened above him. The sky was white and the snow was adding to its already staggering depth at an incredible rate. The Knight looked out into the wilderness, but now there was no distinction between the snow falling and the snow on the ground. Everything was white.

He reached the fallen tree and collapsed upon it like a weary traveler to a warm bath. The wind howled and the snow dug deeper into his clothing, but he ignored it and began to tear massive balsam branches off the fallen tree. He then shoved them into the rapidly deepening snow, so that the fan of smaller branches and still-green leaves rose to the sky. He made a semi-circle, facing the wind. There were grunts of frustration as a bundle or two would be blown down, but he re-anchored them as fast as they fell.
No time for that hand-ax now. Get it later.

“Keep filling it in until there are no more! Fill in the holes!” he yelled to himself, but the voice was drowned in the raging howl.