The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (41 page)

He had died. A tiny voice in his head whispered,
Death, is not always death
, and was then silent. Had he died? He shut his eyes tightly and tried to remember.
Falling. A cliff. I remember a man, standing…wind rushing through my hair—and a sudden darkness.
His eyes snapped open.
I died!

“And I am dead!” he screamed, his eyes all whites, hair flowing in wild, unkempt curls. This time he yelled loud enough for a seagull far back on the shore to hear. A passing horseman glanced briefly at him, then quickly turned his gaze southward. “I am DEAD!” he screamed even louder.

“You are not dead!” the leader shouted back, without turning in his saddle. He too was hunched over his pommel, his eyes wide and his jaw set. Only the gruff leader sat erect; his round face was stern, his lips set in a flat line. He paid no heed to the small bugs that were colliding with his face, though he would spit now and again.

He’s going to run these horses to death.

A stray bug flew into Zhy’s mouth and he spat it out. Wanting to offer up a question, he instead grimaced at the metallic taste in his mouth and kept his head down as they raced along. A maple tree marked a curve in the road. Only the topmost branches sported any leaves, but by now they were a dull brown. When they careened around the corner, the leader suddenly barked and pulled the reins hard. The horses stopped willingly.

“No need to kill these ladies yet.”

“I was wondering when you would stop—we’ve ridden too far, too fast already,” the other man said, putting words to Zhy’s concern.

As a response, the man swore as he dismounted and took the reins of the horse. He directed the others to do so.

“We will walk for a mile or so before riding again, Zhy,” the other man said quietly.

Zhy followed and looked at the forest. Everything seemed duller somehow and not only with the aura of an oncoming winter. His memories were cloudy whirls and bubbles that refused to coalesce into anything solid. Faces and events were grainy and distorted—there was a cliff. A long, seemingly endless fall. And a shattering end. Death. Blackness.
Was that a voice? Right at the very end? A woman’s voice?
No, wouldn’t have been possible. A dusty inn swirled and slowly gained focus, but then spun off into the void. Two figures, one bulky, the other small, danced on the edges of his mind, but then vanished. Snow filled his mind. Snow and rocks. And a cliff. More memories tried to inch forward, but all were replaced with the rocks and the cliff. And a nauseating fall with a sudden, crushing stop. Again he shook his head against the protestation of his violent headache.

W
hat is going on?

In an effort to increase their speed, but still save the horses, the leader of the strange trio developed a pattern. They would gallop the horses for seven or so miles and then stop to walk the horses for a mile or two. Next, they would push at a full run for two miles and then walk again. The cycle repeated once, but the leader finally spat something about “losing time” and kicked the horses into a gallop and kept them at that pace. They were killing the animals by doing that, even with the frequent walking. Perhaps they would get new ones in Forshen.

Forshen? Forshen… that was a name he remembered. Had he stopped there before? Why would he think that they would stop there?

No, I didn’t miss a year
, Zhy remarked as the pace slowed. The temperature was much cooler this far from Belden City, and the wind had definitely shifted—there was no longer a warm sea breeze to provide the feel of summer. Instead, the icy breeze, although still warm for the time of year, blew dead leaves across the cobblestones and off of roof tiles.

The men had sweat nearly as much as the horses as they hung on to their horses with a grim determination, every so often whipping their reins. And when they finally stopped, the icy north wind nearly froze the sweat to their faces.

* * *

They arrived in Forshen, men and beast alike covered in a thick sheen of quickly-freezing sweat. The temperature had dropped almost twenty degrees along their northward trek. Given the distance they had traveled, it was obvious the men had ridden the animals to near-death in a frantic attempt to reach wherever it was they were going.

The leader dismounted in front of a seemingly reputable inn. But what constituted a reputable inn? “Take a bath. We will rest here, but not sleep. Fresh horses will be ordered, and we will continue as far as we can with the little amount of daylight left. Right now we all need food.” He turned and went into the inn.

Zhy dismounted and stood, staring at the inn. Something was familiar, but yet very foreign about the place. The common room seemed like a room he had entered countless times, with its blinking fire and smattering of guests. The smell of ale was present, but not overpowering, and a burly innkeeper moved with a purposeful slowness. Zhy moved through the haze and toward the man, asking about the bath with a voice that was detached and hollow.

* * *

The scalding bath water eased his aching muscles, and slowly, the pain ebbed. He groaned at even the thought of mounting a horse again, but for now the soothing, warm water was welcome. The fire that someone had thoughtfully set roared in a corner of the room. Coupled with the hot water of the bath, fatigue and cold seemed to melt away. Physical pain all but vanished, while his mind still was coated in a murky and deep fog.

What really happened?

He tried to piece together events, but there were still only pieces of memories and snatches of images. The only solid and distinctive memory was that of bright white snow and a cliff. And that fall. He jerked in the tub as his body remembered the jolt of hitting the bottom of the canyon.

I was dead! Am I still dead?
he asked himself for the millionth time. By now, he should have awoken if was only a dream. Furthermore, the current events were too sharp and real to be a delusion. But he still felt as if he were moving through a fog—the morning fog seen in those hours before first light. Tea would help wake him, he thought.

The leader burst in suddenly, fully dressed. He set a mug of something on the stool next to the door. He then flung a bundle of clothes onto a small rack next to the stool. “Almost time to go,” he snapped. Then he worked his mouth into what could almost pass as a smile. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” he said, rubbing his head. “I still don’t know what is going on. I must still be dreaming—or dead.”

“Stop saying that. You are neither dead nor dreaming. Well, not anymore. You were dead. I’m sure. She must have been right.” He scratched his head. Zhy started to speak, but the older man held up an impatient hand. “I am sorry it has to be like this… she made it sound very bad. We do not have much time, so relax there a little longer and I will explain what I can. We ride too fast to talk and will ride into the night if we have to, to reach Vronga. This time, we are not going to rest with the horses… I hate to see horses die, but… that is how it is.” He glanced at his boots, his gaze downcast and sad.

“We are, as you can probably guess, or if you remember, Knights of the Black Dawn. Does that sound familiar?”

Zhy closed his eyes and black shapes danced in the fog. But nothing solidified. “No, not yet.”

“Well, I am sure it will come back to you. In any case, you and your companions were traveling north. One was a mercenary, or warrior type, and the other a small-man. A mage.” Through the fog, Zhy could see their faces, but they had no edges or features, and shimmered out of sight. “You—not you personally, but your friends—engaged two of our members in battle. One was erased by magic, and the other stabbed—but not before a sword fight. You killed him. But you did not mean to, I believe. My companion seems to think you did. But that is no matter.

“My name is Yulchar and the gruff one is Huyen. Normally, we do not ever release our names in public, for doing so betrays the Order. But times are different. The world has changed, and everyone is in grave danger. The Order may pursue us, but we take the chance—they do not know what darkness lies in wait for the world.

“One of our members left us to hunt you down. Her note said that he was killed, too. I guess he was right about the warlock…” He trailed off, and the sad look returned. “I—I almost killed him before he left, perhaps I should have, before Ar’Zoth got him.”

 “Ar’Zoth…” Zhy whispered. “That name… yes, that name I remember.” A man standing in a door, arms high in the air, yellow teeth and then falling. Falling.
Falling
.

“He killed you. According to this lady, Cerease, her son killed Ar’Zoth after he killed you. He waited.” Yulchar shook his head sadly. “And now he has assumed that role.”

“I don’t…”

“He sits atop a demonic horde—something far greater than what is under the Temple of M’Hzrut. At least, that is what we think. Huyen wasn’t allowed much time in the Archives. In any case, some say the Temple of M’Hzrut protects us all, but we are convinced that is not the case. Not anymore. Somehow, something was lost or went horribly wrong. No warlock should have been exiled up there. No mad, raving, lunatic warlock. But all that is behind us now—”

“Wait,” Zhy replied, putting up a hand. His mind caught on the word “Archives,” and he paid little heed to the rest of what Yulchar was saying. “I thought—” but then the memory faded as quickly as it came. He had a brief image of blood and sparks of light.
Archives? Had he heard of them before? Who had mentioned them?
The image of a man with a scraggly beard came to the fore, but then was replaced by Yulchar’s handsome face—that was his name, right?

Yulchar thought he understood what Zhy was thinking. “You thought we were villains or thugs? Well, your friends probably did. We do not know how you ever reached Ar’Zoth, but it was good you did, even though things ended the way they did.”

“But—”

“I don’t understand it either!” Yulchar cried with a wave of his hand. He looked confused and as lost as Zhy felt. No wonder he seemed to ramble. “I should not say ‘good’, but I cannot think of any other word… no, it was not good that you died, only that she… well, that she… rescued you, so to speak. We are unsure how Cerease’s son got there to replace Ar’Zoth. How did she get you? Too many questions!” He sounded almost frantic, a stark contrast to the determined, level-headed man he had been earlier. But Zhy could fully understand his predicament. “We have to know. We have to find out. But we don’t have time. Hurry!” He stood suddenly.

“Drink this tea—it should be cooler by now. There are new clothes,” Yulchar said, pointing to the pile as he abruptly left the bathing room. Steam from the heated room billowed out into the bright and cold air.

Zhy grumbled, but eventually exited the warm bath, dried himself hurriedly, combed his hair with his fingers, and drained the lukewarm tea in a gulp. He thought briefly on what Yulchar had said—some of the gaps were starting to fill in, but he was utterly lost on the true reason for his involvement.
If I was dead, and if this woman brought me back, why? Why me? Why not the others who were with me?

When he arrived outside, Huyen and Yulchar were atop their horses, scowling at the main road. As soon as he stepped into the cold air, he regretted not drying his hair fully, for the warmth of the bath was immediately frozen by the late-autumn chill. He hadn’t got himself fully upon his horse before they sped off. Cursing, he kicked his own animal and followed.

What can the hurry possibly be?

* * *

As day turned to dusk, the power of the new horses became readily apparent, for he was almost fully bent over the pommel of his saddle in an attempt to reduce the roar of the wind. The bath had helped his muscles, but riding at such a pace for so many miles was quickly erasing any benefits of the hot water. For the most part, he kept his head down as they rode hard through forests of leafless, lifeless trees.

The land had transformed from a lush and colorful display of colors into a dull and depressing gray. Where the forest floor had once been a multi-colored carpet of birch, maple, and aspen leaves, it was now a dead brown. Leaves no longer blew away in the wake of the horses, but crunched underfoot like dead skin. Long branches clicked together in the rough breeze, and clouds of dead leaves would swirl into the air. A smell of decay and fester was borne on the breeze, and one could detect snow in the air. Leaden clouds rolled across the sky, burdened with moisture. Zhy swatted at a fly, before he realized that no fly was white. Snow! Tiny flakes eddied in the air, but not yet enough to cause his companions any concern.

Finally, dusk turned to full dark, with only a sliver of a moon in the sky. Zhy watched in amazement as a white orb flickered into existence between Huyen’s fingers. The man waved his hands slightly and the orb followed ahead of the horses, providing a bright lantern.

Zhy wanted to ask how he had done it, but the man seemed to sense his thought and looked back with a scowl. He then kicked his horse and shot forward. Zhy’s horse followed of its own accord.

After what seemed hours of speeding along in the dark, Yulchar suddenly called for a stop. Zhy’s legs were slick with horse sweat and stained with a thick, brown slime. The horses panted, their great chests heaving in the darkness.

Huyen found a flat area a few paces off the main road and threw his pack down violently. To Zhy’s surprise, the knight unrolled his bedding and dozed off to sleep without so much as a word. His light blinked out and Yulchar and Zhy faced each other. High, thin clouds blocked out most of the moonlight, but they could see enough to locate shapes that were trees or rocks.

“No fire?” Zhy asked.

Yulchar shook his head. “No time. Find a level spot and get to sleep.”

As Zhy fumbled with his sleeping bag, the had a brief vision of a man fighting with a traveling pack and sleeping bag, and another man stood over him, laughing. He discounted the memory as useless, and as he unrolled his own bag, he heard the faint call of a whippoorwill before dropping into a deep sleep.