The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (8 page)

The old man who sat at the table was in a similar condition as the house. He had passed perhaps eighty summers, an age that was far beyond what most Beldeners were given. The fingers on his antediluvian hands were twisted by disease and over-use.

He deliberately slid the runes around the table, until they formed a discernible pattern. Nodding slowly, he drew a small rod from his pocket and pointed it as close to the direct center of the pattern as he could muster. The wand, for that is what it truly was, looked to be made of some sort of amber glass. It was wide and smooth, only a few inches tall. The wand shook ever so slightly in his worn-out grasp, but the magic within still awoke to the spell.

A golden, shimmering image arose from the center of the table and spread out a few inches and upward a foot. Eventually, it coalesced and glowed, forming the image of a demon.

The image was wobbly and faded in and out, but still the old man thought the visage of the demon was droll and ridiculous. It looked nothing like the masks worn at festivals with the over-exaggerated lips and broad eyelids. This image of the demon was almost perfectly round. The “face” was nothing more than a single row of teeth and a single glowing eye. Wisps of a smoke-like substance dripped of its form.

The man laughed softly. No wonder demons took on human form when they finally gained entry. Anyone who looked like this would be immediately struck down or burned. He knew demons could infest human beings with a certain ease, providing that the host was susceptible—and as old and tired as he was, he was nearing that dangerous stage. Although, he noted with a slight smirk of satisfaction, the demon would be hard-pressed to find another host to jump to should he become possessed.
But what if the demon transformed...?
No
, he buried the thought.
It would still need a human host for that.

Addressing the old man, the creature hissed and rasped, the voice sounding both inside his ears and his brain. It was a disconcerting double-echo that felt like fetor and rot. Were his senses not dulled by old age, he would have noticed the voice even had a smell to it: cloying and sickly sweet wafts of an odor most foul.

“Why have you called on me, Yuigar?”

He almost glanced around the house, before he realized that the demon had addressed him. It was a surreal experience to hear one’s own name spoken after so many years of living alone. “I need more strength.”

“Release me, and you shall have your strength,” it hissed. “Let me in and I will fill you with power unsurpassed!”

“Your feeble attempts to gain control of me have never have worked, and they will continue to fail,” he replied stoically, but he knew this demon was persistent in its attempts to take over his body—and most disturbing—his mind. Adding strain to the existing spell, he spent more of his fading energy and set up several wards in his mind.

“Then you get no strength.”

“Back to the pit you go.” He made to move the wand and release the small summoning circle.

“No! No! One more time, one more,” the demon replied. Had he known otherwise, the old man would have called the tone pleading.

The old man shivered as the demon poured energy into him. His body was wracked with use and nearly falling apart, and each call on this demon only added minutes to his life, not years. There was exhilaration, yes, and a brief feeling of youth, but they quickly passed as the energy was spent only on keeping his old heart from stopping. He was careful to mind the wards, but sadly even that took energy. Energy he was gaining was being used up. This could not last forever. And the demon knew it.

“When will you release us?”

“Your horde must wait a little longer. I have word of the Dawn, and they are moving.”

“They must be dealt with, then, mustn’t they?” The
s
on the last word slithered across the man’s brain and felt like barbed wire dragging across his scalp.

“I’m not so sure they are the problem—”

“Vile human! Of course they are the problem! We must rid ourselves of them before we can get out. There is time, but very little. We need to be released before we all burn in here.” Was that desperation? For years, he’d sensed a deep desire that the demon could control him. It wanted so bad to be able to leap from the evil underworld and take control of his body. Now it sounded desperate. Why?

“You have been pent up for centuries. You may wait a little longer. There is much left to do here in preparation. And the Dawn is not the problem!”

Silence. The demon seemed to be weighing something in its—its mind? Did they have a mind? Or were they controlled by something—or someone—else? The man tried to pry into the demon’s mind, or whatever it was, but there was nothing—a blank and solid wall. “The Dawn
is
the problem,” the demon replied quietly. Too quiet.

“I have told you—”

There was a sudden movement in his mind, like the skittering of a calcified spider across a marble slate. The demon made a sudden attack on the old man’s consciousness. The golden image blurred as energy was being drawn from both the demon and its victim. The old man stumbled, frantically fighting off the intrusion. He felt as if he were sprinting up a steep mountain slope and carrying a large boulder in each arm. The mental torment of the attack was wearing at him physically, and every atrophied and aged muscle was straining in a desperate attempt to stay connected to the bone.

“You are weakening, old man Yuigar, you are losing. I am winning,” it hissed. “I need out. You are my way out. For years you have blocked me, but now I will have you! You belong to me!”

“No,” was all he could whisper in a voice that was as scratchy as the desiccated hay outside. His full mental strength was being spent on defending his mind from the demon. At last, his old body could not support the intense mental energy that it would take to repel the demon. He was losing. He was dying. The wand fell to the ground and the image faded.

The demon struck again, and the old man felt his grip on the imaginary boulders falter and envisioned himself falling backwards down an infinite slope. The sound of the ward shattering was like a plaster board being struck with a giant rock. The old man tried frantically to repel the demon as it slithered into the opening. But his strength was fading, and the demon continued to hammer away at the fragile wards.

Suddenly, there was a pop, and the bulge in the skull collapsed, the facial features were violently wrenched back forward, but now in a twisted, grotesque manner. There was a whoosh by the man’s mouth and something flew towards Yuigar at a terrific speed. He tried to jump up and away, but the force slammed into his face. He felt a mass cover his mouth and nose, and a thousand tiny fingers began groping his lips, nostrils, and chin. A scream began, but there was no longer any air to breathe. Suddenly the great slithering mass shrunk and then slammed its way down his throat, and the world went black and then purple. In a heartbeat, he found himself standing in a blazing red fire with no heat.

A purple cloud began to form around Yuigar’s body as the demon began a transformation spell. Soon, where Yuigar had been, a giant bat-like creature stood, resting on its hind quarters, ready for flight. Sniffing the air from the open door, it slowly rose and then tentatively ascended into the leaden autumn sky. North. North. It was unsure. Then a memory and a smell. It soon shot off, only feet above the tree line, racing towards the north.

* * *

The vile demonic bat screamed out into the forest, and each of its senses was focused on finding and destroying the Knights of the Black Dawn.

Watch out, some may have talismans
, a voice called to him. His master. The master who would bring annihilation of this pathetic world!

Wards won’t bother me
, it rasped back.
That only works for magic. Not sharp fangs!
It drooled at the thought of devouring human flesh. And even more drool trickled as it thought of their souls, their hopes and dreams that he would rend in his razor fangs. The drool was a thick, oily, viscous coagulation of reddish slime that hissed as it dropped on tree tops. Leaves immediately blackened and branches dropped dead in the forest from the toxic liquid.

Even though his host body was senseless and drooling, the demon talked to him. He had been pent up so long in the festering pits, stacked upon other demons struggling to be released. So long.

The demon flew higher and started following the Crown Road. Its large and slimy, sinuous wings were a child’s most vivid nightmare that charged through the dull autumn sky. Each flap of the wings filled the air with a dull whoosh like that of a whale’s bladder that had been stretched and used as a flag in a hurricane. The smell that billowed into the woods in the bat’s path was a stench of a thousand decaying corpses atop a city-sized mount of sheep’s manure.

Sailing through the air gave the demon a sense of exhilaration. Too often it had carried out its existence in the depths of minds of men, or trapped within a strange sequence of magical wards that he had worked tirelessly at chipping away. Mortal men’s lives had come and gone in the time he had spent imprisoned. Stretching away the aches of captivity, he flew, soaring through the crisp air, his sharp teeth bared.

As thoughts of his journey raced across his mind, the host body stiffened in arousal. The more it thought of what it would unleash on the world, the harder and deeper it throbbed with ecstasy. A gout of demonic semen flowed down onto a small bog, setting the murky water boiling. Plants withered and blackened. It was the vanguard. The leader and instigator of an almost infinite demonic horde that would soon run over the entire world.

A voice echoed in its tiny brain, a voice a thousand miles away. “You are free!”

Yes, it thought back
, its razor teeth drooling.
Yes, I am free. And I come. I am free!

Chapter 9 — Dumb Luck

Have you ever struck a target while blindfolded? Some say the Light deserves honor for such luck. Others say it is Dark and demonic forces which guide the arrow though the shooter is blind. I say it is both—for why does a shooter with good eyesight miss? Does the Light protect its prey? And a poor shooter hits? Is the Dark forcing its will? For luck to shine upon you, you must be battling both Dark and Light. Beware the lucky man!

Cleric Gorand

T
he three travelers rounded a bend in the road. On the eastern side, spindly birch trees grew amongst a carpet of smaller scrub, and on the western side, where the road curved, was a small muskeg. A spruce tree was growing in the middle—struggling to grow in the damp and sodden muck of the small swamp. The tree would be at least a hundred years old, but it looked freshly planted. Beyond the muskeg a solid stand of white pines flourished and whispered quietly in a light breeze. The air smelled of a mixture of mustiness and pine needles. Zhy inhaled the scent.
I have missed so much living in the city—

His thought was cut off as Torplug violently reined his horse to a stop. The poor creature almost bucked him and shook its head violently, but thankfully it didn’t bolt. Qainur and Zhy stared slack-jawed as the small-man leapt from his horse and ran to the western edge of the road. He stared out across the small swamp and into the pine trees. “Torplug, what—” Qainur began.

Light materialized between the mage’s fingers, and he was cursing in Welcferian. The light danced then slowly expanded. Torplug lifted his hands above his head and the whitish tendrils coalesced into a ball of fire. The fireball wobbled briefly between the mage’s hands—Zhy wondered how he did not get burned—he swore he could feel the heat from where he stood.

Zhy started to open his mouth to speak, but Torplug’s action was so quick and devastating, it stilled any words that he had thought to utter. Torplug threw his arms forward and the fireball raced into the air and toward the pine trees. The forest seemed to shimmer in the resultant wave of hot air, and only recent rains prevented other trees from igniting of their own accord.

Is he igniting the entire forest?
Zhy wondered as his jaw dropped in horror.

Then he saw what Torplug was aiming at.

It was some sort of giant bird, skin the shape of crumpled leather and sheer black. A  huge mouth filled with dripping fangs was visible as it bent to the wind. Its eyes were tiny black pin pricks of a black to match its coat. It made an ear-splitting screech as it tore out from within the pine forest. Its large, slimy, sinuous wings were a child’s most vivid nightmare that charged through the dull autumn sky. The smell that filled the woods in the bat’s path was filled with an odor not unlike that of a bladder, but mixed with a stench of a thousand decaying corpses atop a mound of rotting pumpkins. It started to ascend into the sky but never reached its destination.

Torplug’s fireball struck the bat perfectly. As if knowing where the animal would fly, the mage sent the fireball a few hundred feet ahead of the creature, and it had no time to react or change direction, as the trajectory of both the bat and the fireball were exactly aligned.