The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (40 page)

STOP!
I tried to will the voice to stop, but was greeted only by pain and torment.

I will stop you,
the voice whispered after an hour-long fit of rage.

“You will never,” I panted. “I will find a way. Ar’Zoth will find a way!”

No, you will be stopped, Bimb.

Bimb! That name again. No, no, NO! Bimb was dead!

“Bimb is dead—Mother.”

Then Bimb will have to die again.

* * *

“So where is he?”

“He’s in the North, hopefully dispatching a dangerous warlock.”

“Why?”

He spread his large hands. “It had to be done. No one else would believe the truth.”

“Possibly because it was a lie all along?” the stranger sneered, balling a fist. “You sent him to his—”

“He’s a strong man and will survive… he has aid. A little mage, a very powerful mage, is helping them. And again, I didn’t send—”

“How…?”

“I have connections to the Counsel Guard and to the Archives. I know a thing or two.” He paused, glanced around, and nervously continued, “This is far bigger than any of us, and we are better now that he has journeyed. And yes, it was my doing.”

“But why?”

“It had to be done,” he repeated flatly.

A huge fist slammed down on the pine surface, rattling glasses and sending various liquids into the air. “But he—he was a like a son to me, and you sent him…”

“I didn’t send him anywhere,” he replied, bristling. “He went of his own accord. And trust me; it was for the betterment of everyone.
Everyone
.”

“He could be…”

“No, we still stand here. This building and this city are still here. It would be much worse had he failed.”

The rough hand pounded the bar again, this time with less force. “If I find out that he is dead, you will—”

“I will what? Answer to you? Go to the restraining house?” He chuckled deeply and shook his head. “If he dies, he will die a hero. Do you understand? You will wake up in the morning because of the sacrifice. Remember that.”

A once-proud head hung low for a moment, then rose up, eyes glistening in the odd flashes of firelight. “Aye. I will try.”

“I would like to speak no more of this,” the man replied, lowering his voice. “Thank you for sharing your concern, but things must continue.”

The stranger turned and walked to the door. He paused for a moment and looked back at the rough man. And for a mere moment, his lips broke into a smile before curling back into a frown. He carefully shut the door behind him.

Part I

Ravel and Unravel

In which Zhy realizes he’s not quite dead and finds himself in strange company on a return journey northward. Additionally, the demons are loose, and we find out just how unstable Bimb has become.

Chapter 1 – A Swirling in the Inner Depths

Do you stop for a wayward soul? For he who is lost? For the traveler who has wandered afar? If you choose to stop, or if you choose to continue, you create for yourself additional knots. Which is better? It cannot be known. Each may create for you a dangerous future.

Prophet Zhera, IV Age

B
linding sun hammered his skull. Fierce and unforgiving light knifed into the backs of his eyes, sending tears flowing to protect against the onslaught. Even with lids tightly shut and an arm draped across his face, the intensity of the sun was enough to push him to his knees, sobbing. His knees screamed in throbbing pain as they smashed into the crumbling stone porch, but the brutality of the light was enough to quickly wipe away the sudden shock. With an arm outstretched in pleading, he moaned, “Who are you?”

A gruff voice in the sun-splashed street cursed something, and feet shuffled noisily on the stones. With his eyes covered, his sense of hearing seemed to explode into heightened sensitivity—he distinctly heard a sprig of dried clover crushed underfoot. The strange voice cursed again, and Zhy thought he recognized the voice.  With extreme effort, he cracked his lids open ever so slightly and peered out. The figure was terribly familiar, and he recognized it at once—or did he? A flash of a memory passed before his eyes and then vanished. For a scant second, he was sure he had seen these men before, or men like them. But where?

The snow is too bright
, he thought, then caught himself. Snow? There was no snow. Not here.

“We cannot answer that yet. But you must come with us. We must hurry.”

“Why? Where are we going?” He heard his voice croak.
No, I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to lie down and die.

“You know the answer to that question, Zhy. We’re not finished. It is not finished. And no, you did not dream it. You were dead. Perhaps you still are. Come.” He spat and turned away.

Zhy rose slowly to his feet. Or at least he tried to. His knees buckled again and he collapsed, every nerve ending aflame with soreness and searing pain, his head throbbing as if smashed between two stones. He needed his arms free to push himself up, but the brightness of the snow—sun?—snow?—forced him back, face-down on the stone.

“You better get up, Zhyfrael,” came a rough voice.

He swore, but it was nothing but a squeak. Zhy forced his lids shut, pushed his trembling hands against the porch and heaved himself to a standing position. As soon as he was upright, however, he took one step and wobbled, shooting an arm out to support himself against the crumbling doorframe. The strangers muttered to themselves. He was the subject of their conversation, but the pounding of blood in his head drowned everything.

“Zhy…?”

“I’m coming,” he thought he heard himself say, but the words were a jumbled and garbled gurgle. It took a few moments, but he finally took a steady step forward and then another. His legs, as if lined with a thick syrup, did not feel solid, and his arms dangled oddly at his sides. Zhy’s chest felt collapsed and efforts to pull air into his lungs brought only scorching anguish. A few more steps and he gained a little confidence, and ten paces later, he found himself staring at the brown, fuzzy fur of a massive horse.

The gruff stranger’s voice bored into Zhy’s ear, and Zhy grimaced as the stranger barked at him. “Zhyfrael, you can take that horse.” He squinted fiercely against the late autumn sun, a sun which by all accounts should be muted and dusty with winter clouds. Instead, the southern reaches of Belden were sweltering in an extended duration of so-called dog days; the weather would eventually turn cooler, but snow was rarely seen this far south. Seagulls squawked in the distance, and he could hear the faint roar of the surf, only a few miles from where he wobbled. A smell of salt filled the air, but it was dulled and tarnished, as if the sea itself were slowly trying to bed down for a long winter.

“Zhy,” he muttered his own name with a cracked voice. The sun seemed to gain in intensity, and he flung his arm over his eyes once more.
I have done this before
, he thought for an instant, but the gruff man was already grumbling about a need to start moving.

“Eh?”

“Call me—” He let out a hacking cough. “Call me Zhy.” Finally, he let his arm fall away from his face and forced his eyes to adjust to the brightness. His face was pinched as he examined the—
strangers?
No, they were not strangers. There was something too familiar about these men, a presence that at once made them known companions, but also feared enemies. A vision of flashing steel and spraying blood passed briefly through his mind’s eye.
I
should not have opened my door.
Even if he hadn’t, would they have simply burst in and hauled him away bodily?

The two men were of medium build and dressed in black. Their faces were almost shock-white, as if something had covered their faces.
Yes, where are their cloth masks?
Zhy wondered, then caught himself. How could he possibly know that? Where had the thought come from? The ill-tempered man was easily identifiable by his constant scowl, and his companion had a smoother, “easier” face, as Zhy would describe it. His glimpses at the strangers were brief, as he kept squinting his burning eyes.
The snow makes it worse.
Snow? No, there was no snow here. Why did he continue to think about snow?

“Zhyfrael, get on the horse.”

The other started to speak, but shook his head briefly and gave his companion a quick, stern look.

“You can call me Zhy,” he heard himself repeat. He had hoped to sound forceful, but his voice was a whimper. He approached the horse and stopped. As bright as the sun was, a murky fog seemed to cover everything like a tattered blanket. He put a knuckle in his back and the joints cracked loudly. An image of rock and snow—and falling. There had been endless falling before…
before what?
he wondered. He shook his head, every fiber throbbing in a dull ache. “Am I dead?”

The one looked at the other, as if to question whether his query deserved an answer. “No, you are not dead,” the leader replied. “She said you had been dead for years before you truly died, but you are no longer dead. That is what she said. That is what she said,” he repeated, scratching his head. “She said it would be like you had woken from a dream.”

“She didn’t say anything, and you know it,” his companion admonished him. “It was written down.”

“What is the Sacuan-blessed difference?”

“Plus, you added to that—she never said anything about him being dead. Where’s that coming from?”

“Who are you talking about?” Zhy asked and thumbed his earlobe. He finally let his arm drop. The older man was already on his horse. He looked like a gargoyle sitting there—clad in black, hunched in his saddle, his rounded face a dour mask.

The nicer man—as nice as a caged and ravenous dog could be—flashed a brief smile and then glanced at the horses with a wisp of irritation. He had a longer face and had recently shaved off a mustache, Zhy noticed. His eyes were round pools of slate. Long eyelashes that would make a tavern maid blush blinked against the sun. “Some woman. She is dead. Really dead. I will explain on the way. We ride hard for Vronga.” His voice was a little more soothing and patient. Though he sounded hurried and under stress, he still took the effort to provide Zhy with information. Useless information at this point.

“But how could she know me?” It was the first question of a dozen that leapt from his lips. A dead woman?
I never knew any women, at least that I can remember. Certainly not a dead—

“That is unknown,” the calm stranger replied, breaking up his thought. His companion scowled in silence. “Like I said, I have no idea how this works. The writing was so faint and so hard to read, I was convinced she had written it after death, though that is not possible.” He gestured to the horse with irritation. “Mount up,” he clipped. “Now. We can talk on the way.” And he was already fifty paces ahead before Zhy coaxed his body into mounting the horse. His legs popped and creaked as he forced them up and over the body of the horse. The animal seemed to know what to do, for as soon as it felt Zhy’s weight on its back, it launched forward to catch up with the others.

He had a fleeting memory of a long horse ride. Weeks, no… months, had gone by. Then the fog rolled through his mind and smothered the thought.
Why
did I get on the horse?
he wondered. He should have remained in his home; he should have told the men to leave. He should have—
what?
What does a dead man do when he wakes up?

Zhy shook his head sadly. Everything around him was brown and gray. The leaves had fallen, and every tree was full of spindly, cragged, and bare fingers. As they swayed in a light breeze, Zhy swore they called out to him,
Come back, come back, little one. We are not done.
“Not done,” he whispered.

He tried stretching his back again, but the bouncing and jarring along the cobblestones only worsened the pain. As soon as they had set a pace for the horses, the leader kicked his into a dead run. Likewise, the other two mounts shot forward, and Zhy lurched in the saddle, his body screaming in protest. At this pace, there would be no opportunity to talk. Every muscle cried out in agony.
Like I fell off a cliff. Like I fell off a—

“Cliff!” he barked out loud. “I fell off a cliff!”

They were moving too fast for his companions to hear.
At least, this time, we’re leaving the city at a much faster pace,
he remarked with an edge of cynicism. Then again, last time, he had left with a mountain of equipment—hadn’t he? This group was traveling quite light. The horses were very large and bred for speed… where could they be going with such little gear? Certainly not very far. Not like last time, with gear loaded high, and a long trek before them, what with—

Wait! Where…?
The vision was clear, but only for an instant. He had seen horses piled with equipment, and a burly man clad in leather, standing in a bright sun. It had been warm, then, as well.
Have I missed an entire year?
he wondered. No, no it could just be a very long autumn this year… a vision of snow flashed before his eyes once again, and his back screamed in agony, nearly sending him flying from the saddle. Panicked, he grabbed the pommel with an aching hand and kept his head lowered.