The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (37 page)

To revel in his blank stare was pure ecstasy. “I—well, um,” he stammered. “Did you just say—?” He shook his head. He whispered “wax” softly to himself, his eyes wide.

“Well? Are you going to leave peacefully or should I just leave you out here to freeze to death? The barrier is indefinite. Really no trouble at all. It’s all in the spaces between, really.”

“The spaces…”

“Pick your jaw from the stairs. Answer me!”

His mouth worked, but nothing came out beyond some sort of hoarse gurgle. I looked out beyond him at the majestic trees against the pure white backdrop. The craggy and rugged canyon below looked like a scar. A festering scar into which the most useless of creation were sent. I wanted to send this foolish Knight in there as well, but his talisman—

Again, as if in a dream, awareness sparked. True,
Bolt of Sacuan
could easily strike through the talisman, but that was a petty spell compared to the thoughts that suddenly burst to life. Chills that were not from the cold air danced up my spine and along the back of my neck. They burrowed into my mind, and words flooded back. Words that could not be put to paper. Words inside of other words. A blackness that was more than black—it was the opposite of everything. An un-tree, an un-sword, would be perhaps the best words to describe the phenomenon. Some advanced warlocks called it Dark Energy, Ar’Zoth had said, but that was a misnomer. There was nothing Dark about it. It was—well, a reversal, but again, that had evil connotations. As I said, words cannot describe it. Someday there may be words for it. It just
is
. To reach it, one must find the spaces between, then rotate (it isn’t really rotating or turning, but harnessing the un-space between), then cast the spell as normal, using this un-space. It was effective against any talisman. 

I could kill him. Talisman be damned.

But not yet.

Turning, I returned inside. Above the hearth there were two swords hanging, crossed, and attached with wire. I’m sure they were dull, but that was not the point. We would be evenly matched. For a few seconds, at least. I gently removed them from the masonry and took my time walking back to the entryway. Building up all of the energy I would need would take time. One could not simply harness the un-spells without effort. But their effect is devastating.

Finally, I returned outside. Tossing one of the ancient swords to the Knight, I simultaneously let go of the barrier. If I had prepared my mind correctly, this would be over soon.

“If you still want to face me, face me. But now it is fair. We are both armed.”

He growled, hefting the sword. “Dull.”

“And so is mine.” I sneered, running a finger along the blade. It came away clean. “You want a fair fight. We will fight fair.”

“So be it.”

I held up my left hand, the sword extending in my right. “I see nothing I have said will change your mind.”

He laughed. “No. And this will be quick, demon-friend.”

For a man of his size, he covered the ground extremely fast, leaping the last stairs in one bound. I had but a brief moment to drop my sword and leap backwards in one motion. In that same action, I needed to be quicker in order to release the un-spell, a reversed version of
Bolt of Sacuan
.

As the light leapt from my fingers, it generated twice the usual force of a normal
Bolt of Sacuan
spell. I was lifted off my feet, up into the air nearly a full pace, and thrown backward into the doorframe. My hand burned as if stuck in a master’s forge. The entire event took less than a second, but as I hurled the bolt from my hand, whirling expressions of confusion, wonder, and abject terror crossed the Knight’s face. As the devastating spell rocketed across the small space between us, he had time to part his lips no wider than a hair before he exploded from existence.

My back cracked as it was jolted against the doorframe. The six-by-six frame held, but every last ounce of breath was punched from my chest. I slid down and landed awkwardly on the stone of the entryway. My hand sizzled as I thrust it into a pile of snow, before it had a chance to blister. It hurt.

Where the Knight had stood was now only a jagged crater wrenched from the stairway. The reversal of the Bolt had ripped out a major portion of the stone stairs, leaving with it a gaping, black chasm that may have stretched to the other side of the world. I didn’t dare chance a look, lest other stonework would give way and send me plummeting into infinity.

The warlock had been right. Harnessing such dark energy rendered any talisman or protective ward completely useless. Granted, a normal
Bolt of Sacuan
could have been just as effective, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance. I had a choice between snuffing out the man or stating to the world the true power I possessed. A reversal of a spell—again, the word does not do any justice to the power, but it is all I could think of. Instead of stringing together, say, a hundred particles of energy, a reversal adds to those hundred their exact counterpart—their opposite twin so to speak, and in so doing, the effect is more than double. Because the two particles or waves are mirrors of each other, the collision of their energy can be unpredictable, but surely quite wondrous. The massive chasm that once was the stone stairs was a smoking testament to such power.

Besides, the exhilaration at finding such a devastating spell out of a seemingly chaotic whirlwind of particles was rapturous. Unfortunately, it took more out of me than I had imagined. For what seemed like hours that would be mere minutes to an observer, I sat there, my bottom sore against the stones and my back screaming against the beam. Still, I far out-classed the snotty little mage, who could only produce the standard
Bolt
once a week or less. Fool. I was a hundred of him! I was thousands!

By Sacuan, I was tired.
Why am I using a holy man’s name?
Damn his scrotum and his sanctity!

When I at last could stand, I did so with a groan. I straightened and shook out my hands. The cold was starting to eat into me, and I had a sudden thirst for some hot tea. Before closing the door behind me, I turned and took a few paces out the door. The last rays of the sun cast an odd glow to the huge, white pines and the valley of snow.

I gazed at the still-smoking void with a scowl. My jaw was tense and my mouth moved rigidly as I spoke to the gaping hole.

“No, we will not fight fair.” I lifted my head and looked out at the ravine in which four broken bodies lay. For a moment, I thought I heard animals chewing on the corpses. Those animals would be meals for the next month—it may feel odd eating a caribou that had been fattened on a so-called warrior and degenerate mage, but it would be meat nonetheless. But I digress. Half turning to the open door, I stopped again and re-addressed the smoking hole.

“My name? You asked my name.”

I took a deep breath of the cold, winter air and gave the briefest of smiles. Bimb! Ha! What kind of a name was it? Contrived and juvenile and borderline criminal. Bimb was dead. May the name rot forever. I spat on the cold ground and glared at the gaping hole. My bellow echoed across the valley and reverberated what seemed a hundred times. A hundred times my power asserted itself over the land.

“My name…my name is…AR’ZOTH!”

Chapter 33 — A Knife in the Heart

When is dead not dead? Can we die and not really die? Truly a man can become someone else, someone new, someone good, or someone evil in the blink of an eye. He is dead to you. And to himself. The man you once knew has passed on and you must decide if you will accept what he has become.

Prophet Vron’za

H
aving refreshed themselves with a solid night’s sleep, Fanlas, the old mage, and both Protectors breakfasted on fried turnips and dried venison. After having walked through the entire length of the Tunnels, it felt good to be in one place and to sit and stay seated.

Fanlas wanted to return home to his wife and to Bimb. Thinking of her alone with his son brought a mix of emotions. True, she was his wife and he loved her dearly, but her crying of late had unnerved him, as surely as it unnerved Bimb. He was not sure what Bimb would do. She blamed herself utterly for Bimb’s condition and would not release the guilt. Powders and herbs did not touch her deepest darkness, and he felt devastated by it. He tried hard to picture her face, but there was nothing. Bimb’s blank expressions, his happiness at finding new chords, and his incessant repetition of numbers—these things flashed vividly in his mind.

Remaining at the Temple would be a duty he could be proud of. He had traveled far—the entire length of world for all he knew—and he had survived. In a blue darkness that threatened to rip sanity away from even the bravest. The mage must have done something to calm them. Or it was the stories the young Protector told…frightening as they were; the miles still seemed to flash by. But to go home?

Thinking of home, he only pictured rotting turnips and pumpkins slowly being buried in the winter snows. And of his wife, crying silently, while Bimb played the Sutan in the stables. They were safe there, even alone, given the constant patrols of the Guards. Bimb would stay close, wouldn’t he?

Wouldn’t he?

He sighed, then rose with a groan and picked up a large log from the stack near the fireplace. The log landed on the fire with a thud, and sparks shot up into the black flue of the chimney. He brought a chair closer to the fire. Wondering if the young Protector’s story was true, he looked up at the ceiling. Sure enough, the line drawings were there. He was still very tired.

He stared into the fire. The flames danced along the logs in a comforting, yet unpredictable pattern. Orange coals glowed between the burning logs, and odd-colored flames licked up from time to time. Much like the complexities of the world, so too were those even in a small, simple fire. He sighed.

Suddenly he bolted upright and clutched his heart.
Bimb! Something has happened to Bimb!

“What is it, Fanlas?” the old mage said, scurrying over to him. The other Protectors had gone out back to bring in more supplies.

“Bimb!” he shouted. “It’s Bimb…something is wrong.”

“Wrong? How do you know?”

“I don’t know. I just felt a—a stab in my heart. Like someone took a knife and jammed it there. Something is definitely wrong. The last time I felt anything like that, Bimb had climbed up on a cart, not knowing the caravan was going to leave. The driver didn’t see Bimb and he raced off down the road—throwing poor Bimb. He was only four. My poor boy! I must help him!” He was starting to panic and his breathing was ragged.

“There, there, calm down, I’m sure—”

“No! He is hurt! Or worse! Something is very wrong!”

The old mage pulled a chair over, then turned Bimb’s father to face him. He was very strong for his age, easily sliding the burly farmer like a betting die. “You must calm down. Bimb is…not hurt.” His voice sounded like the Healer who had told him his wife was not sick. Not sick! She was beyond sick!

“How, how can you know this?” His eyes were wide.

“Because he was following us in the Tunnels.”

“WHAT?”
Fanlas blurted, his eyes wide. He tried to bolt from his chair, but the old mage pressed him down with a finger. So much strength.

“It is true. I felt something—different—in the Tunnels. At first, I thought it was simply the magic within them, but it was dark and twisted; pieces of something I could not quite understand. Just to be sure nothing was behind us, I cast a simple far-seeing spell. Nothing that would arouse attention, mind you, just a look back a few hundred feet. And he was there. Something else was there, too, like a blanket covering him—like something across his mind that was hiding a deeper darkness.” The mage shook his head slightly. “He was talking to someone…someone in his head most likely.”

“Yes, yes, he does that,” he replied absently. Darkness? What was dark about Bimb? “Always talking to someone. Calls him ‘Lyn’ or something. Just part…” he trailed off, then suddenly realized what the conversation was about. “But why? And how did he get in the Tunnels?”

“Numbers, remember? It was all numbers the young man used?”

“Yes, but they were—” he broke off, realizing that a complex set of numbers was probably a very menial task for Bimb to remember. The boy could not count, but he sure could remember numbers! “Of course! Numbers! But why was he following? And where did he go? If he’s not hurt.”

“He broke off near Gray Gorge. He left the Tunnels and went cross-country somewhere. And the strange blanket seemed to vanish; at least I couldn’t sense it anymore.”

“Then he is hurt. More than hurt. He’s probably dead!”

The mage frowned. He opened his mouth then closed it. His eyes were murky as he ran a hand through his white beard. “Fanlas, your son is dead, but he is not hurt,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It is hard to explain, but—”

“What?” he tried to shout, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. Tears welled in his eyes. He balled his fists and slammed them on his knees.
No! No! Not Bimb! Why? Why? What harm had he ever done?
“Why would he follow us? What would possibly possess him to exit the Tunnels into the harsh climate?”