The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  Torplug gestured up the stone staircase. “After you.”

  Zhy took another glance back at the trees, the mountains, and the endless snow and rock. He ignored the ravine below, wanting instead to focus on the fairly pleasant scenery. He sighed and then turned back and began the arduous climb up the stone stairs.

  The massive, out-of-place castle loomed larger with each rugged step.

  If looked at from afar, the mammoth castle would appear to have been set into the mountain with a careful hand. Or more accurately, it seemed like it had been placed gently into a clay mold, which in turn was left to harden. Even though it was enormous in size, it still resembled the castles Zhy had built on the beach, although he never imagined a castle covered in snow. And we are in the middle of nowhere.

  Snow-speckled rock hugged the smooth stone walls of the castle. While the walls rose up to level, even ramparts, the mountain on which they sat rose and dove in uneven waves. From some vantage points, one could make out tops of high mountain peaks in the far distance. In the high mountain air, the nearly precipitous rise upward was taxing—they felt as if they had walked miles but had only covered the first quarter of the massive staircase. And as the travelers inched closer to the structure, their view was slowly absorbed as the building loomed.

  From Zhy’s perspective, it was like any other castle he had seen in Belden or in books. A tall square entryway led from the top of the stone staircase and led perhaps a hundred paces to a huge oak door supported by man-sized beams. Otherwise, the structure was all stone and rock. Walls stretched around to the right and left, following the terrain and back into unseen land. While it fit all descriptions of a castle, it was still…wrong.

  No flags flew on the ramparts, and no sounds issued from within. Normally a castle would be crawling with people and activity. Where he expected to see smoke rising from cooking fires, Zhy saw nothing but charred hulls of chimneys. Something else struck him, too. There were no arrow slits or any other protective measures, apart from its location and the terrain surrounding the massive structure. Even in a peaceful nation, one never knew if such measures would ever be needed, so they were installed against possible future threats. This castle had no obvious protections, but then again, a fire built from all the trees in the valley would most likely only char the great wooden door. “This place is disturbing,” Zhy whispered. It was a castle, true, and it was strong against any attack, but it was out of place and…wrong.

  How many times can a word be used before it is meaningless? Wrong? Everything is wrong! he thought bitterly—or was he even thinking those thoughts? The cold was numbing. Wrong. Wrong? No, this is not wrong, it’s perfectly right. If only because it’s out-of-place, confusing, pointless, backwards, and utterly disturbing.

  Why and how did one build such a structure in the middle of nowhere? The path through Gray Gorge was nowhere near large enough to bring in materials to build it Or was there another way through? That could be it. Still, something was very wrong. He had expectation of a hut, a small house, or even a tiny village of snow-houses. Not this.

  They must have been placed here with magic, Zhy thought.

  Qainur shook his head. “How?”

  “What?” Torplug asked, breathing heavily.

  “Magic,” Qainur uttered under his breath. “How can one build a castle using it?”

  “Oh, I don’t think it can be done,” the small-man muttered. “No, what you see before you was built by hand. Many, many hands. Many hands that were whipped and beaten. Many who also fell to their deaths below. I’m sure the dirt at the bottom of that canyon is just ground bones. Once they were done, they probably sealed up any large road that left Gray Gorge, leaving only that little entryway…that well-guarded entryway that is. Or,” he added, still out of breath, “maybe there is another way through, perhaps across the Spires of Solitude. But I don’t know...”

  “You mean we could have gone another way?” Zhy asked, exasperated, his breath pluming out in the cold air. He sucked in air and shook his head. Of all the…

  “We never would have survived, if such a path even existed,” Torplug replied, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. The cold, thin air made it hard not to pant in great heaving breaths. “We were not outfitted for such a trek. Nothing. Just snow. Ice. And snow. Maybe a caribou or moose. No wood. No trees. Nothing.” He looked around. “I still can’t believe all these trees! Beyond here there is nothing. Nothing.” Except for the Temple of M’Hzrut, he did not dare add. No sense in giving Qainur any ideas. The mercenary would likely change his mind and decide on their next adventure.

  Zhy grimaced, thinking of the decades it took to build such a place. What it must have took to bring supplies through such a wasteland. For one person? He was overwhelmed by the thought of the sheer amount of rock needed for just one wall. These walls were probably many feet think and descended deep into the mountain. To construct something for one person seemed egregious and pointless. “I believe we have found our seith,” he said quietly.

  Qainur continued climbing the stairs.

  “Wait!” blurted Torplug and stopped abruptly, his hands in the air.

  “What?” Qainur looked back, his hand gripping his sword.

  Torplug was obviously casting something, then stopped. “N-Nothing. I thought I felt something, something that wasn’t there before. We...we can proceed.” His voice was quiet and shaking but not from the cold.

  This trek up the stairs is taking more exertion than the whole journey here, Zhy thought. They were still only a little over halfway up. Having to navigate the narrow stairs in slippery snow was treacherous and taxing. It took every muscle to stay upright, avoiding a fall to certain death into the gaping chasm below. How a horse could get up here was beyond him. Maybe in the summer…but the staircase seemed too precarious and narrow.

  “I—think they—built this—after they—completed the work,” Torplug puffed. “Brought everything in here, built it—then—” He took another breath. “Built the stairs. I—think.”

  “What?” Qainur asked, then nodded. “Oh, you mean building these...ah.” He bent down and with a gloved hand, scooped a small pile of mountain snow. He smiled and popped it into his mouth. Water dripped down his chin. He looked like a child, enjoying the first snow of the year. Even with the imposing structure before him, and the exhausting climb, he still held onto his boyish enthusiasm. Zhy swore he even saw Qainur reach back into his pocket and finger the miniature Temple…why would he do that?

  Zhy was still trying to catch his breath and only nodded.

  “Well, here we go,” Qainur said with a heavy sigh and continued climbing.

  Slowly the large structure edged even closer until it dwarfed their northern view entirely. The sheer drop to the west became even more dizzying and vertigo inducing. One could no longer see over the edge—just stone stairs that ended abruptly. The climb became harder and harder, and Torplug and Zhy were bent over, taking each step with increasing effort in the thin air. Qainur seemed the least winded, but even he had a hand on his left side, breathing deeply.

  As they started the last quarter of the staircase, the great oak door flew open with such violence that it was nearly ripped off its enormous hinges.

  Chapter 25 — Stunned Silence

  I have been frozen by fear. Fear that the world would go Dark. Fear that I would fail my Order. Fear that all I had ever worked for would be for naught. Fear that, upon my death, no one would remember me, and I would truly die.

  Cleric Hrozon, Order of the Knot

  Ar’Zoth was huge. He looked as big as Fa. He had a long robe on, like Ugly Nose wore, but it was black and thick. Ar’Zoth’s hairy arms stuck out from under his coat. He put them out in the air like Fa did when I ran in from the fields. Ar’Zoth did not look like he smiled much. He had black, short hair and it curled by his ears. I ducked behind the table as he turned and could see he had a beard like Fa did after a long day in the fields. Ar’Zoth had an ugly nose, too.

>   I needed to hide until I knew what was going on. Ar’Zoth did not see me—I hid behind the runner on the table. Ma always called it a runner; we never had them. I always thought this was a stupid name for it—it never ran anywhere, it just got covered in grease. The runner could hide me and I could still peek out and see what was happening.

  Ar’Zoth was walking to the door. Someone was here. Who could be here? Why would they come here in the cold? I didn’t pass anyone on my way. Who were they? Had there been an easier way to get here? Why the front door?

  NOW! NOW! I heard Lyn yell. I stared at Ar’Zoth.

  He opened the door. I moved to see better. I bumped the table and it thumped against the floor. It moved enough that Lyn could see it.

  You were very lucky, Bimb. Very lucky. He was quiet and sounded very sad. Hurry...please, why are you just crouching there?

  I wanted to see. He was talking to people. I needed to know who was here.

  “Who is that?” I whispered.

  That is my son! I can see Zhy! NOW! Why am I talking to a blank wall?

  Zhy was there. I wanted to see Zhy! His Fa talked about him the whole trip, and he was here. I wanted to see him.

  I moved a little closer.

  No, go back! Do not let him see you! He’s—he’s turning to look—oh, thank Sacuan he did not see you!

  I needed to get closer. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. There were more people than just Zhy. Who were they? I hid behind the runner for a second, then moved it back slowly to look again.

  Look out!

  There was a loud boom. Light came in from outside. It hit the candleholder above me. I had to move fast. The candleholder fell loudly to the floor. I bumped the table with my shoulder.

  What in… hurry! Hurry! They are trying to fight him. They cannot win. Hurry!

  I looked at the sword and goo dripped on the floor—I had to be careful.

  Hurry! Now!

  “The moose…” I whispered.

  Yes, and maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll kill him before he kills my son! Only if you hurry!

  My hands were shaking…the sweets looked good. But Ar’Zoth was yelling. Lyn wanted me to kill him, and he was yelling. I was waiting for just the right moment. Thinking of what I was going to do caused my hands to shake. The sword almost fell from my hands. “I will hit him with the sword.”

  Yes. Strike through his back and up into his heart. Wait until he is yelling or waving his arms…STRIKE—STRIKE NOW!

  I moved forward carefully. Ar’Zoth looked like the sun. He had so much power. So much power.

  Chapter 26 — Worn Threads of Sanity

  What of madness? Is the madman possessed in great swelling oceans of the Dark? Or has Dark merely won the battle within? Is madness loud? Or is it a quiet muttering in the night? A quiet voice in the night, a voice that appears as if it were sent by the Light—a quiet reassurance, “No, you are not mad.”

  Prophet Vron’za, IV Age

  “I have been expecting you!” the seith spoke like an excited child. He was tall and bulky; his broad shoulders filled the long flowing robe he wore. His frame consumed the entryway and the travelers could see nothing beyond him; his eyes were a piercing blue and gray, yet twinkled with what could be described as giddiness. Zhy wondered if he was a Zor’Tarak addict, but the eyes suddenly focused, changing into a darker blue.

  Fear itself seemed to flow from the warlock’s eye, wrapping itself around Zhy. His stomach lurched, and the tendons in his knees felt as if they would come unhinged and send him sprawling. His throat dried in an instant. A glance at Qainur showed the same. The warrior was frozen, staring at the great warlock. This is the biggest mistake of our lives.

  “Indeed it is!” piped the seith. He looked at Zhy, his eyes vacant. He smiled, baring a row of yellow teeth, dull in the gray air.

  “I see you made it past my little traps,” he grated.

  Qainur snapped out of his shock, his hand dangerously close to his sword. “I came—we came here to learn from you!”

  “Really?” His head cocked to one side like a new puppy. “Then why did you bring him?” he spat, his finger pointed stiffly at Torplug.

  Zhy’s gaze never moved from the warlock, but he could sense the small-man tense. “Me?”

  “Yes, you, little whore! You have no business here, since—”

  Torplug growled and flung a dizzying whirl of energy toward Ar’Zoth. As soon as one tendril erupted from his hands, he sent another towards the seith—

  —Who batted each tendril away like an annoying fly.

  Zhy stood stunned.

  “And I thought we were going to play nice, boys,” he said, his voice still jovial. “Why would you try something like that, little man?” he asked

  Torplug did not answer but furiously began casting again.

  Qainur drew his sword and started to charge but slammed headfirst into an invisible barrier. “You stay right there, kind sir,” the warlock said amicably. The mercenary swore and pounded his fist against a solid wall he couldn’t see.

  Purple flame arced toward the warlock.

  The seith batted his spell away. Behind him, there was an explosion and something big and heavy shattered on stone. “I really wish you would stop that,” he said quietly.

  “How dare you! How dare you call me a whore!” Torplug shouted.

  “Now, now, little man, where are your manners? You had said that you came to learn from me? That was a lie. An utter lie. I have no time for lying fools!”

  “It’s the truth!” Qainur yelled.

  “I’d believe it if it were just you.”

  Qainur glared through the barrier at Torplug. Zhy finally took his eyes off the warlock and looked the small-man’s way. “Who are you?”

  “He’s a dangerous man.” Ar’Zoth spat.

  Defying all reason, Torplug began casting again. Zhy’s focus shifted, and suddenly, he felt as if he were watching from above as the tiny man furiously tried to cast a spell against the massive warlock who grinned at him maniacally. The image quickly faded and he found himself turning his attention to the seith.

  “ENOUGH!” Ar’Zoth bellowed, his voice echoing across the valley. “You killed my gherwza, you little fool, but you cannot kill me!” Green light danced on his fingers, and Zhy almost wet himself. We are dead. We are dead. We are dead. We are dead. Dead!

  And the voice from the wilderness—the voice that was not his father’s—spoke again, I told you to kill them both, did I not? Now look at what has happened.

  Torplug was unable to finish his spell. Purple light had only begun to dance on his fingertips when a swirling green finger of lightning leaped off the seith’s hand and skittered across the short distance between him and the mage. For Zhy, the event unfolded in slow motion—the green light arced forward, dripping tiny tendrils of a paler green light. Torplug tried to unleash Bolt of Sacuan.

  The bolt was half-formed when the green tendrils sliced through—darting between the mage’s fingers. Bolt of Sacuan splintered, and the green bolt suddenly split into a hundred different tentacles of light. Zhy and Qainur watched in horror as the tentacles crawled over the small-man, covering him in a net of bright light. Then there was a crack, and a small white ball of light flew out from the seith’s other hand, suddenly plowing into the small-man’s chest. He had no chance on the slippery stairs. His body stumbled. He tried to move his legs, but the magical spell kept him upright and in place. The combination of spells lifted him up and out, then sideways, and he dangled over the cavern.

  Qainur screamed inside his invisible cage and bashed the sword hilt against the barrier. He screamed unintelligible curses at Zhy, at Ar’Zoth, and most of all, at Torplug. “Who are you?” he finally managed to spit out.

  The small-man’s legs flailed in the open air. His arms were bound by the web of green tentacles, and he tried to speak, but another tentacle edged up from his chest and slapped his mouth shut.

  “I will tell you who he is, young man.
And if you open your mouth, I shall silence you in the same manner.” Qainur’s eyes were all whites as he hazarded a look out at the flailing Torplug. “Your little friend here is a demon hunter. A Knight of the Black Dawn.”

  The mercenary started to roar but quickly stopped when he noticed the black in Ar’Zoth’s eyes. Zhy still stood, his feet nearly frozen into the stone stairs. “Impossible,” he whispered.

  “Impossible? Impossible! No, never! Why do you say that? Drunk!”

  “I—he—killed Knights. Saved our lives from them. They were hunting us.” He hoped the lie would offer some sort of way out of this. Some way to save Torplug.

  At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder if Torplug was actually part of the Dawn or some other secret society. He had been so secretive during the entire trip. But no, why would he kill his own members? No, it was impossible. Ar’Zoth was mad—insane beyond anything he could have imagined. He had to be. Right? “The Dawn hunts demons and those who work with demons,” Ar’Zoth barked. “He killed the gherwza. And he was going to try to kill me.”

  Torplug’s eyes widened as he tried to speak. Ar’Zoth released the tendril that held the mage’s mouth shut. “Lies. Lies. Lies! I killed Dawn members! I—”

  The tentacle slapped shut again, like the sound of a beaver’s tale hitting the water. “Enough! Enough I said! I don’t rightly care what you have to say. You have destroyed one of my minions and you will pay the price!” He glowered at the mage. Zhy swore he could see the tendrils of light loosen and become translucent.