The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  THE

  S P A C E S

  BETWEEN

  A DRUNKARD’S JOURNEY

  PART I

  MARTIN GIBBS

  ISBN: 9781465915672

  The Spaces Between

  By Martin D. Gibbs

  Copyright 2012 Martin D. Gibbs

  Dedicated to my Father. Your dedication to humanity, your courage, your passion, your love, and your teaching will keep a part of you alive forever. Your knots were undone too soon. I love you and I miss you.

  Map

  From a land where warlocks and mages seem to conjure energy from thin air, this is the best map that could be found. It was stuffed under a child’s mattress.

  Part I

  A Fairly Typical Beginning

  In which we meet our first three traveling companions, who come together in a most non-unusual manner and embark on a seemingly pointless and misguided quest for knowledge.

  Chapter 1 — Points of No Return

  When a journey begins, it is the start of both a knot developing and a knot unfolding. For you unwind your past as you travel, and yet your experiences and challenges become new knots in the fabric of your soul.

  Prophet Vron’Za, IV Age

  Zhy looked back at the mountain of equipment and sighed. It was hot. Too hot for this time of year, too hot to endure this crippling hangover, and too hot for a no-good mercenary who had duped him into this stupid journey. Magic. Ha, magic! The burly lout had claimed some rusty old warlock in the far north was capable of teaching him magic, and now Zhy found himself padding along Crown Road with horse loads of stinking gear, leather, and sweat; and they had barely reached Forshen.

  Only to Vronga, Zhy had reminded himself. But a quick retreat at Forshen—a town a little over halfway to the large city—was looking attractive.

  Qainur. That was his companion’s name. Qainur. With a Q, not a K. A large, muscular, dim-witted brute who cracked his Sacuan-blasted knuckles every three seconds. Qainur... who names their kid Qainur?

  “What’s wrong, Zhy?”

  “Just thinking, that’s all.”

  “You’re not regretting this, are you?” he asked, face beaming as he scanned the canopy of vibrant maple trees.

  “A little.”

  “I see.” Qainur cracked his knuckles again.

  The horse’s hooves crunched on dry leaves. Zhy thought back on their encounter in Belden City, now several miles behind, the stranger in his usual seat, and the endless cups of ale that flowed forth from the innkeeper’s tap. Kahl, the bushy and cantankerous owner of the inn, had made several suggestions that Zhy should go, that Qainur was clean, that it would do him good to get out and travel. Why would such a greedy, avaricious old fool want to part with Zhy and his money? Zhy scratched his throbbing head in wonder and gripped the reins until his knuckles were white.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the mercenary muttered absently.

  Zhy patted the inside of his shirt, making sure the coins where there; in a deeper, more concealed pocket, he had tucked away a lycanum, his last piece. It would be enough to buy a small village in the north, he remarked with a crooked grin. Only to Vronga, a tired voice reminded him.

  “It is a long way, even to Vronga, or Reldan,” he said after they rounded a bend. The road stretched onward and vanished in the thin blue line of the horizon. “Or even Forshen,” he whispered.

  “Aye, but I have traveled the distance before—in the south, mind you—and it really isn’t that bad. Kahl’s a good man, that innkeeper. Full of greed and fat, but he knows folks. You may be a complete drunk, but Kahl must’ve seen something in you, to recommend you.” He cracked his knuckles. “I wish I knew what it was!”

  A scowl worked its way across his face, but the man was right. What had Kahl seen in him? Why, and to what end would the innkeeper suggest that Qainur take him along to the far north... to learn magic—magic!—from an exiled warlock? And as the big man had laid out his travel plans, Kahl had stood there and offered tips and pointers about the different villages, had asked questions about equipment, and had almost fawned over the stranger. Against his burning desire to sit on the bar stool and drown himself in booze, Zhy had agreed to follow—if they stopped enough, or as much as Kahl had suggested, there would be plenty of ale, and little to worry about.

  Ale. Mead. Brandy. As long as Zhy had access to these, he would survive... but even thoughts of such items turned his stomach. It was too hot.

  Qainur sought a warlock in exile. He was harmless, probably warded by some strange magic, or maybe even another warlock or mage. Nothing to fear.

  Zhy could only laugh.

  “We’ll do fine, don’t worry.”

  “Sure.” He thumbed his earlobe, then ran his hand through his long, stringy hair. Zhy made a mental note to get a haircut, though it was doubtful is brash companion would want to pause at all on his mad rush to the north..

  “Gray Gorge,” Qainur said suddenly. “Can you believe it? Through Gray Gorge... and... and into Welcfer itself!”

  “... And in the middle of winter!”

  Qainur waved his hand. “Oh, it won’t be that bad.”

  Even as Zhy wiped the sweat from his brow, he grimaced. Oh, yes it will.

  Chapter 2 — Sparks and Shards

  Magic is an unfortunate consequence of our world. Those who wield magic and practice the arcane arts possess the most complex of knots and must learn how to tie and untie not only their own knots, but also the knots of the plane that exists between this world and the next. True magic draws as much from the Light as possible. Demonic magic, while drawn from the twisted and hardened knots of the underworld, can be used to protect the world. But it all comes at great cost. For the mind can only know and work with so many knots. As the knots of the magical arts grow in number and complexity, so too does madness lurk closely behind.

  Cleric Bertrand, founder, Holy Order of the Knot

  “What else do you know about magic, mages and warlocks?” Zhy asked as they rode. For now they were taking their time with the heavily-laden horses, not daring anything faster than a trot. They were passing through a field of tall prairie grass, and tall green blades stretched high among round purple flowers. A light breeze whistled through the field, creating a small wave that carried with it the smell of mint.

  “Well, not much more than I told you last night. I have worked with a mage or two, but they keep to themselves. Buggers aren’t interested in teaching me anything. I wish I knew more… a lot more,” he muttered.

  “I see.”

  “What about you?”

  “Nothing,” Zhy replied. “Although I remember father saying that they were nothing more than skilled carnival magicians who knew how to hide their real actions.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  They rode in silence, enjoying the warm sun as it slowly edged across their faces. Zhy’s head pounded, but he was thankful for the quiet.

  “Well, sometimes...” Qainur began after a moment, then stopped, scratching his head.

  “What is that?”

  “Oh nothing,” the mercenary replied, his gaze on a brilliantly-yellowed maple tree.

  But there was something, Qainur thought, something odd about mages, warlocks, and magic. They’d all told him he had no ability and that magic was a special gift. But he’d seen and heard things others didn’t, whether it was a light hum around a tree or a crackle from water—these were things he thought the mages and warlocks could see and use. But he only heard the whisper and the echo. If this Ar’Zoth could teach him how to use the powers... he started thinking about how he would explain himself to the warlock, when Zhy n
early leapt from his saddle.

  “Great Sacuan’s scrotum!” Zhy blurted, grimacing at his own outburst. Father had talked like that, and irked him each time—now he was spouting off such nonsense. Never mind, never mind. “What is that?”

  “What’s what?” Qainur asked, jolted from his thoughts.

  “That!” Zhy pointed ahead of them.

  Through the birch leaves, he could see flashes of blue light exploding up into the autumn sky. To Zhy it looked like a miniature lightning storm in the small field, except that the light was a deeper blue than the Opal Sea, and tiny tendrils of light were flickering up into the sky like a horde of tiny worms trying to fly.

  Qainur looked up and laughed mirthlessly. “Great grinding goats! That’s magic!” If only I could—

  A man screamed. Qainur and Zhy kicked their overloaded horses and hurried to the commotion.

  * * *

  The little mage was surrounded by wild boars; lightning streaked from his fingertips, crackling as they smoked through the air. His tiny legs were a blur as he darted among the stinking hogs, loosing beams of light, cursing loudly. Fur singed and scorched in a stinking cloud of burning hair, and the tufts of dry grass ignited where the magical beams missed their target. The man was deft and light-footed, but he was outnumbered, and losing control.

  So that is what magic looks like, Zhy thought to himself, thumbing his earlobe nervously.

  Qainur swiftly unsheathed his sword and sprinted at the animals. For a large and burly man, the mercenary moved extremely fast, his sword a flash of steel as he launched himself into battle with the beasts, seemingly oblivious to the streaks of lightning that sizzled and exploded around him. With a set jaw, Qainur sliced a boar from ear to ear, then spun his sword impossibly and blocked an attack from behind. His blow was fierce enough to nearly sever the poor creature’s head. The wounded animal fell to the ground with a sickening thud, ambled in circles aimlessly as blood gushed from its throat, then finally collapsed to the soiled ground. He grunted, glanced around for others, then quietly wiped his blood-soaked weapon in the grass and sheathed it. He didn’t appear to be winded as he stood nearly stock-still and stared at the ground.

  The little mage had stopped hopping and had sunk to the ground, panting heavily.

  “You are welcome,” Qainur said gruffly.

  “T-thank you, thank you so much.” The man’s voice had a deeper timbre, unlike most of the people of his stature. Perhaps he thought himself more powerful than we was, Zhy pondered. He could have sworn that the little man gave him a vicious sidelong glance.

  “Just what do you think you were trying to accomplish?” Qainur spat, staring down at the small-man with contempt.

  “I-I only saw the one boar as I passed by. I was going to make dinner. I never saw the others.” His voice sounded quite refined, albeit a bit tired.

  “I see,” Qainur replied. He scowled at the small-man, then cracked his knuckles.

  “What is your name?” Zhy asked.

  “Torplug,” the little man responded. He sniffed noisily. Zhy wasn’t sure if it was a nervous habit or arrogance.

  Torplug’s head was as big as Zhy’s, with thin, scraggly brown hair, which was receding slowly from his forehead. His eyes were a dull gray, but they had a strange blue sparkle now and again—Zhy assumed this was part of his ability to wield magic. His nose was a great round knob on his face, and his lips were thin. Taken by itself, his head was unassuming and he looked like any other Beldener—except for his pale skin. His body, however, was a miniature version of Qainur’s…only a few feet high, but full of small, strong muscles. Zhy often remarked how the hands of small-men were somehow different—well, not different, but the same as any other man’s. He supposed that was what made them seem so out of place. Hands that possessed all the strength of larger men, but on a body that was not much bigger than that of a child. However, Zhy did not let the small stature fool him; this man possessed a great deal of power.

  “So where are going, then?” Zhy asked, looking at the road. “Home?”

  “I’m traveling north, hoping to get to Welcfer before the snows begin.” He looked up at the road.

  “That is a long way from here and you don’t seem to be carrying many provisions,” Zhy remarked.

  “I at least have dinner,” the man replied curtly, ignoring the question. “There are also many small streams along the way. My pack is just over here where I dropped it.”

  “Why are you going north?” Qainur asked.

  An expression passed over his small, pale face, which to Zhy looked like shame. It quickly faded. “Family.”

  “Hrmph,” responded Qainur.

  The small-man regarded the two with a cocked eyebrow, then shrugged his shoulders. “Would you join me for dinner?”

  Qainur glanced up at the sun. “A bit early, but I’ll eat. Thank you.”

  “Better get it now,” Torplug said softly, turning to the dead animals. “It has probably started snowing near the border.” The last was an absent thought, added with a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Say, Torplug?” Zhy asked, trying to sound casual.

  The mage coughed. “Yes?”

  “You’re going north on foot? No horse?”

  Torplug looked at him and smiled. “I was. For a time. They sell smaller horses in some of the towns along the way. I was either going to get a ride with a caravan to a small town or walk until I found a horse.”

  Zhy nodded. Then he scowled. “But… how did you get to Belden? On foot?”

  The mage shuffled uneasily. “I lost my horse,” he snapped. Something in the way he said it had closed the conversation. Zhy let it go. Maybe that was the truth. Maybe this was all some dream he was still in… Kahl would come and wake him up and he’d stumble back home.

  “Are we going to eat?” Qainur asked.

  Torplug grunted and then nodded. “We’ll need a fire.” He dug in a pack and pulled out a small rod, which was somehow folded upon itself. He unfolded it with a click and set it out. “Qainur, come help me dress these animals. Zhy, can you make a fire?” He was all business now.

  Zhy nodded. He gathered some small twigs then rooted around for larger pieces of wood scattered among the trees.

  * * *

  After the small fire had burned for a while, they roasted the hogs one at a time, each man getting a small piece of meat as soon as the pink turned gray. The boar tasted like very bitter and gamey pork, Zhy remarked, but it was delicious. Its fatty flesh benefited by the smoke and the more he ate the better it tasted. After most of the meat was cooked, they sat and regarded the fire as it slowly faded to embers.

  “Let’s leave the rest for wolves, I guess,” Torplug said, absently shooing a fly away. “I’m not sure I want to carry raw meat with all the other gear we have.”

  “We?” Qainur wondered.

  “Yes, we,” the mage replied. “Or are you not going to give me a ride now that I’ve fed you? Typical Beldener, conniving—“

  “Ach!” the mercenary spat. “Come on then, we still have daylight. Zhy, douse the fire, will you?”

  Zhy nodded. What am I, your errand-boy? While he corralled the fire and did his best to douse the flames, Qainur and Torplug rearranged the horses, making room for Torplug.

  * * *

  They set off in the gray of the following morning. The night previous had been uneventful—spent in the hayloft of a one-horse village. Dew still clung sleepily to the grass and the scattered green ferns that were bowed in the cold. Only the tops of the tallest trees were able to get a peek at the slowly rising sun.

  And so they became three, Zhy thought with an inner chuckle. He wanted to laugh, but his head still hurt. Three men. Three strangers traveling. It was the start of every clichéd story he had ever read...

  Luckily, they had arrived at a small town just before dark and were able to acquire rooms at the inn. The place nondescript, and the travelers were so exhausted from the day’s events that they slept immediately upon a
rrival.

  Early the next morning, they had inquired about a horse and spent only an hour inspecting horses before they found one suitable for Torplug. Just in case the man decided to stick with them all the way to Welcfer, they made sure the shoes were set for a long journey and the horse had some modicum of endurance. Zhy was glad they had saved coin by sleeping outdoors the first few nights—it set them back very little when they pooled resources to pay for the horse. Still, I had to contribute the most, he thought bitterly.

  The extra horse allowed them to re-shuffle the gear and take a load off of Qainur’s sweaty mare. Zhy also put a few pieces on Torplug’s horse. A wagon would have been worth the expense, Zhy thought and said so to Qainur as they inspected horses.

  “A wagon will do us no good when we are far to the north.”

  The small-man agreed, “There is permanent frost up there, meaning the ground never thaws. But just before the frost is a region that does thaw—at least enough to create a mud bath in the warm seasons and an ice field in winter. It is very strange. “

  “We’ll need more supplies,” Qainur was saying. “Probably north of Vronga.”

  Torplug nodded. “There are nice towns—I’d guess a festival or two.”

  The mercenary nodded.

  A memory from childhood flickered and Zhy smiled a bitter smile. He remembered traveling with his parents and, strangely, the feelings connected with leaving and arriving were strong and powerful emotions. Each time they would leave a vacation spot, a vast pit of sadness would percolate deep within him, as if he were leaving behind a cherished pet or a loved one. He never quite understood why he had these feelings or knew when in his childhood they had begun, but suddenly, in that autumn day, they flooded back as the village slowly vanished behind them.