The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  “I’ve heard them speak of the tree line,” Zhy replied. “I didn’t realize it really was a line!” When he had first heard his father mention the tree line, he thought of a colored row in the forest where trees stopped and were replaced by rocks or snow. As he grew older, however, he thought it unusual that trees would just stop growing altogether. But as he looked out beyond the trees, he realized that was the reality—past the clear line between forest and near-arctic countryside, a rocky, rolling hillside dominated. The only vegetation consisted of moss on rocks and small, sere-looking bushes, which were slowly being buried in a blanket of soft, thick snowflakes. The great peaks of Belden’s northernmost mountain range loomed in the near distance. Zhy was taken aback at how suddenly the range appeared before them. The winding road and towering trees had obscured any northern view, but now the total lack of anything taller than a man provided a clear view. Zhy’s jaw edged downward as he looked east and west and saw nothing but mountain.

  “They come back, though, once you get into Welcfer,” Torplug was saying. “In some of the valleys in the mountains there are huge trees. I never understood it…” he trailed off, realizing nobody was listening, their gazes locked on the quick change in the terrain.

  The road wound through the scrub and brush, and there was a small gray area in the mountains that indicated a passage to the other side. Into Welcfer.

  Gray Gorge was in sight.

  The road itself had changed as well. The polished cobblestones of the southern portions had given way to large slabs of rock then simply dissolved into a wide trail of packed dirt. The travelers were somewhat lucky to arrive in late autumn—they were on a long section of road that turned into a muddy slag in the middle of summer. The frost would melt nearly all the way here, leaving behind a dangerous mire. Wagon tracks were visible on the sides of the road, a sign of pervious travelers avoiding the muck.

  Zhy shivered. “Does anyone else live up here?” His breath was a cloud of steam that looked like the smoke from a storyteller’s pipe, which dissipated into the brittle air.

  As they conversed, each traveler’s plume of steam billowed out, and soon as it began to fade, another’s cloud would burst forth, filling the air with the aura of a smoke-filled tavern. Strangely, Zhy felt a warm comfort from the phenomenon, even though he shivered violently in the cold air.

  “I doubt it,” Torplug replied.

  “Sanctified scrotums,” Zhy softly cursed. He looked back along the road, but all he saw was the gray sky and the white of the huge snowflakes falling lazily into their tracks. “I think the weather is getting to me.”

  Qainur stared at the bleak sky. “And me too,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize it would be so...”

  “Blank?” Torplug put in.

  “Aye.”

  “Well...it gets a little better,” the small-man said with a smirk.

  “It does?”

  “No.”

  Zhy caught a glimpse of Torplug, who had a hand over his mouth. Suddenly, he burst out laughing and Zhy joined him. The cloud of steam that billowed out would rival any summer thundercloud. Qainur stared at them oddly, patted his horse, and finally joined in.

  “Let’s go,” Torplug said, heeling his horse.

  “Come on, Akeeten, lead us,” Zhy said to Qainur, turning his horse.

  Torplug smiled as Qainur straightened out, set his jaw, and flicked the reins of his horse.

  After an hour of riding through the arctic landscape, Torplug broke the silence. “Qainur, we never really thought you were simple, or simple-minded. I hope you don’t think that.”

  “N-No.”

  “So your knots are not exactly loose, as your Beldener prophets would point out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, the whole philosophy of knots,” Zhy said. “I remember some of it, although the Elder who was in the inn was drunk out of his mind. Or was that me? In any case, it says that we are knots,” Zhy explained as best he could. “All creatures are made up of connected threads tied in a knot. You can’t see all the threads, but they are there. You can see one thread start, but not find where it finishes. You see the end of the thread, but who knows where it started? One who adventures his whole life may also like to knit blankets. A drunk on a bar stool may end up on a grand adventure...for instance.”

  The travelers shared another laugh.

  * * *

  They continued toward the gray spot in the rock. As they drew closer, Zhy was taken aback by the size of the mountains and the narrowness of the pass. By now, snow had started to cover almost every surface, and it looked like he was staring out at a vast white ocean with tiny islands scattered farther out. The river of rock that was Gray Gorge knifed through it. But the islands were the peaks. The small pass drew inexorably nearer, but strangely, it did not appear to grow any larger, while the mountains seemed to double and triple in size.

  “So—where do we branch off for the seith?” asked Torplug.

  “According to what I found, there is an outcropping in Gray Gorge. It is the only one. Fifty paces to the north, fifty paces to the west, ten to the north, and three to the west.”

  “For what?” Zhy asked.

  “That’s all it said.”

  Torplug suppressed a groan and looked at Zhy who only shrugged.

  Zhy stared at the whiteness and bleakness of Gray Gorge as they rode through. High on either side were sheer cliffs of granite, reaching impossibly high, so that any daylight was muted. Mid-day would only be as bright as a southern Belden late evening. Very little starlight or moonlight could filter down during the night. Zhy was sure there was snow at the tops of the ridges above him, but they reached too high to see. Instead, the snow was falling gently, covering the packed trail and the scattered boulders and pebbles along the sides. Snow began to fall harder. He tried to look up again, but his eyes filled with the icy granules and his glance was forced downward to the bleak landscape.

  Qainur had been looking up from time to time, constantly wiping the snow from his eyes. “There!” he finally exclaimed and pointed up to a massive outcropping of rock on the right side of the Pass. It was like a giant finger, pointing straight out across the path. Snow was building atop the outcrop, and small tufts of wind would send plumes of snow sailing down into the valley below.

  The others looked up briefly and nodded. “So…” began Torplug. “Fifty paces north from here?”

  Qainur nodded excitedly, hopping off his horse. He walked to a point directly below the outcrop—at least he was trying to judge the exact spot where it aligned with the ground. Shrugging, he began walking off paces. The others dismounted and followed some distance behind, unsure that there was any path out of here. The walls of the Pass were too sheer and too solid. Torplug and Zhy both peered hard into the snow, searching for any break in the rock. They could see none.

  Oblivious, Qainur kept pacing, muttering under his breath as he made the changes in direction. “North. Done. Now…west.” He turned sharply to his left and counted off. “North again. Ten. Now…three more to the—ugh!” He had walked directly into the granite face of the west wall. He shook himself off and then stepped back, whipping his head to the left and right as he searched for an opening. Qainur looked up and then back at his companions. His face was awash with exasperation and fear. He shrugged.

  “Nothing?” asked Zhy, coming closer to help inspect the wall.

  “No. But…let me count again.” He sprinted back to the outcrop and retraced his steps, arriving in nearly the same spot. “I don’t—”

  Zhy reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Think. Was that the right order?”

  “Gaah!” Torplug spat, turning away. He muttered a string of curse words under his breath, then spun around, his mouth open and ready to unleash a another barrage. A pause. His mouth hung open and he could feel snowflakes settling in and melting. Finally, he closed his mouth and pointed, his arm straight out.

  “What?” Qainur asked.
r />   Zhy answered with a massive clap of his hand to Qainur’s shoulder.

  Qainur followed Torplug’s gesture and stared.

  There was a very slight discoloration in the rock that could have been mistaken for moss or some other growth—if moss grew in a nearly perfect rectangular pattern. It was at such a height that it would be easily missed by taller men. It was not a hole or a door, but it was obvious that it was not natural. It was only as tall as Torplug and as wide as Qainur’s sword.

  They stared, both excited at the turn of events and puzzled as to how they would proceed.

  “Amazing…” muttered Torplug. “Amazing. You were correct. There is a way through.”

  Qainur nodded dumbly. “Not bad, eh?”

  Torplug shook his head in wonder then chuckled. “Very convenient. Too convenient.” He stared again at Qainur, who betrayed nothing but boyish enthusiasm as he veritably glowed at the apparent entrance. Zhy noticed his excitement and couldn’t help but think back at how he reacted over the miniature Temple. He took a glance at Torplug, who was also looking at him. They both shrugged.

  “So how do we open this?” asked Zhy, looking around.

  “Maybe there is some magical word,” Qainur said.

  Torplug laughed. “Unlikely. That is only in children’s stories. What about a secret lever?”

  It was Zhy’s turn to laugh. “Also a children’s story feature.”

  “True.”

  “Then how do we get in?” asked Qainur, somewhat irritated.

  “Push on it?” asked Zhy. And he did just that. He strode up to the section and pushed.

  It slid open noiselessly. The section of rock slid back into a dark void. That was far too simple and effortless, Zhy thought. It would have to be a trap. How many had come here and walked right by?

  Qainur crouched and began to inch toward the dark opening.

  “Stop!” warned Torplug. “That was too easy. We must watch for traps. I will cast a spell. If I can remember…hold on.” The small-man pondered for a moment, trying to think of a spell he had not used since the University. Finally, he muttered something and a gold streak of light flung out into the tunnel.

  A second passed, and then a great ball of light exploded at the entrance. This time there was heat and force behind it. It sent the travelers sprawling along the hard ground. The sound of vaporizing snow and the smell of singed hair filled the air. For a few seconds the heat remained around the opening, and the only sound apart from labored breathing was a tss, tssss, as snowflakes hit the heated earth, resuming their slow cooling and blanketing of the ground.

  The shock of the event left them numb. As the air returned to its cooler state, they slowly rose and shook themselves off. Qainur was struggling to soothe the horses, who neighed and stomped at the frozen ground.

  “I assume there was trap, then?” asked Zhy.

  Torplug nodded dumbly. “I would assume so. More than one. My spell hit at least seven.”

  “Seven?”

  “Aye. For it to reflect so hard…I’m not so sure there aren’t more in there.”

  Qainur stared into the black entryway. “More? Just keep casting that. I’m going to retrieve our gear.”

  Zhy was wary. “What if there are ones Torplug can’t handle?”

  “Then that is our fate, isn’t it? You can turn around now, Zhy. Take a horse, even. I plan on continuing this journey.”

  Zhy shrugged. Well, why not?

  They retrieved as much gear as they thought they could carry through whatever was next.

  “What about these horses?” asked Torplug.

  Qainur stopped.

  “The nearest village was a good day’s journey,” added Zhy. “Will they make it?”

  “If they run. Wait—let’s feed them now, then send them running south. I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, I didn’t quite think that one through.”

  After some continued arguing, they agreed to leave the horses. They put thick blankets over each and left the animals with food and water, hoping that the water would not freeze completely. With a sigh, Torplug took a step toward the opening. “Well.” He sighed. “Follow me. And remember,” he added, turning back, “no matter what you see, you must follow.” Zhy and Qainur nodded, but then stared slack-jaw as Torplug stepped into the small entryway and vanished.

  Zhy watched as his tenuous grip on anything resembling normalcy frayed like a worn cord.

  Chapter 20 — The Snows Continue

  Indeed, the world has its own knots. I say to you: As you worry to untie the knots you know, do you think you can untie those of the world? No! For even if you have undone all your Darkest knots, the Darkness may find a way to create more knots in the world.

  Prophet G’Zrahn, IV Age

  Zhy closed his eyes and followed into the infinite darkness. He walked through a black void for several steps, and when he ventured a glance behind him, he saw nothing. As hard as he peered forward into the black, he only saw black. At any moment he might ram his head against solid stone, or something might scream from the black and attack them. Torplug started to offer reassuring words, but as soon as he opened his mouth, they emerged into blinding sunlight.

  “What on…” Zhy began.

  “Magic,” the small-man replied. “Another trap. Well, not a trap, but…who in their right mind would walk into such blackness?” He sniffed. “If the explosions didn’t kill you, you’d surely not take two steps into that darkness, would you?”

  Zhy shivered despite the sudden warmth the sun brought. It was cold here. Colder than anything he had ever imagined. “No—no, I would never.”

  Qainur grunted and started forward; finally, he let his arm drop.

  After their eyesight had returned, they noticed that a trail, barely wider than a man’s foot, meandered out of the tunnel and hooked sharply to the right. The narrow trail followed a ridge atop a colossal canyon, its bottom barely visible. Snow covered the trail, but a deep rut indicated a pathway. The canyon shot down to their left; to their right, a solid line of balsam reached to the sky, roots hugging a sheer rise.

  “Trees?” Zhy wondered in awe.

  “Indeed,” Torplug replied. “This must be fertile soil here…or something else.”

  “Ambush,” was all Qainur said, his eyes warily looking upward, while simultaneously trying not to slip on the trail.

  “What?” asked Zhy.

  “It is a perfect place for an ambush,” the mercenary replied before Torplug could. “A drop-off here. Over there the trees so thick you can’t see anything. A few arrows, or even a quick shove, and we all die. Those trees are thick enough to hide a small army! And look how high they go!”

  Torplug eyed the woods nervously and rubbed his hands together.

  Qainur seemed to read his thoughts. “Please don’t try to burn these trees. It would not do any good. They must go back a hundred leagues!”

  “No, I have no intention of setting a fire. Not now. I’m just nervous.”

  “As am I,” replied Zhy.

  The three travelers wound their away along the ridge and admired the tall trees as they whistled in a light breeze, although admiration was tempered with tentative steps along the narrow trail. Each man cast nervous glances in all directions, though it was imperative to focus on careful steps. The narrow trail forced them to snake along single file. As they rounded a slight bend in the trail. Qainur whistled.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Torplug said, his mouth open. “Look at all the mountains! They stretch on forever...the Spires of Solitude, boys, the Spires!” Indeed the mountains did stretch beyond the horizon.

  “Except for that,” Zhy said, pointing down to his left. The drop was direct and deadly. “One bad step and we’re—”

  “Don’t remind me,” Qainur said, his jaw set.

  Zhy was not certain what was north or west or south anymore, but guessed they were moving in a northerly direction.

  For a few brief moments, the sun warmed them on their careful journey
. Then high clouds floated in, and the green trees took on a duller hue; the snow looked almost purple in the darkening light. Suddenly, the whisper in the massive trees built into a growling intensity, and they started swaying violently in an intense wind. The wind was strong enough to push the travelers around. Its howl was that of the dying gherwza, and the massive branches of the trees cracked and snapped as they were violently whipped into each other. To Zhy, the air smelled of electricity—like an oncoming spring thunderstorm, and he swore he heard rumbles of thunder far up in the sky, but the wind drowned almost all sound.

  “What in ...” Qainur wondered, his eyes darting up to the sky. Black clouds raced across the horizon, only inches above the tips of the pines it seemed. Wispy clouds raced ahead under the thick blanket. Soon large snowflakes started falling lazily.

  “Snowstorm!” Torplug shouted. He did not look at the suddenly leaden atmosphere, nor the falling snow, but furiously scanned the trail ahead of them, desperately seeking some cover.

  Zhy followed Qainur’s gaze. For all the ubiquitous stretches of their journey, this suddenly sucked the breath from his chest. Snow. Snow. Living in southern Belden had sheltered him from the snow and the cold. He watched in awe as the large snowflakes gave way to smaller crystals, which fell lazily for a few minutes and then gradually gained intensity. It was like a rainstorm, he thought.

  But his wonder started to fade to fear as the snow increased its intensity from a gentle shower to an all-out hurricane of snow. It seemed as if someone had up-ended a continent-sized bucket of cold powder. “What in Sacuan’s scro—” The oath was severed when Torplug screamed.

  “Blizzard!” Torplug swore over him. “We need to find shelter or we will be buried. And for me—” he gestured to himself, already covered in a quarter inch of snow, “That won’t take long!”

  “Gaah!” the mercenary spat, trudging through the thick falling blanket.

  Zhy fought through the rapidly-falling snow, trying to reach Torplug, who was already knee-deep. “Man, you are going to be buried, come on!”