The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  “I don’t expect you to,” the mage said, carefully eyeing the facial expressions of the man, as if he could read his thoughts. “But I don’t want to you try and rescue him…you are safe, and he is safe. But the Bimb you raised is dead. Someone else has taken his place.”

  “I don’t understand.” It was the only phrase that came to mind, the only one that he would dare utter in this holy place. The words that flashed to the tip of his tongue would make a Welcferian savage blush.

  The old mage sighed. “I am sorry, but it is something we probably are not meant to understand. I cannot say for certain what has happened, but Bimb is gone.”

  Fanlas hung his head. Tears started streaming down his cheeks, but he wiped them away. “Is he—is he better—or worse?”

  “He is no longer simple-minded. I sensed an immense intelligence. I sensed it from the moment I met him.”

  “Bimb was incredibly smart. He is incredibly smart. It was all locked in his head, in the music and the numbers. He was just…simple, that’s all. He is just simple!” he spat. “Sacuan help us, he is just a simple boy. His Ma drank too much before she knew she was with child; that is why he was like that. He was smart, and…” He knew he was rambling and trailed off. Then he lifted his head and groaned. “He is just a simple-minded boy.”

  The mage shook his head. “No, that was a façade. For how long I don’t know.”

  “What?” His eyes blazed in the firelight.

  “I saw through it. His mind was racing through a thousand thoughts, not all numbers. Whoever was talking to him was leading him, and he was talking back like Bimb. But underneath there was a layer of cunning that was well-hidden. But above all, he loved you. He still loves you. He wanted you safe and secure. That is why I did not do anything or say anything. When he looked at you, it was obvious he did not want to cause you harm.”

  “I don’t know what to say. It is all so overwhelming.”

  “I understand. But remember this.” He paused. There was a nagging suspicion of evil and fear that he had sensed in Bimb. But it was always fleeting and vague and well concealed. Best not to share any of that. “Bimb wanted you to be here. You went against a lot of things in your mind that told you not to. But the voice that pushed you…the deeper voice. That was Bimb. It had to have been. He wanted you safe, and you are safe.”

  He nodded sadly. A log rolled over from the fire. With a groan, he reached out for the poker that leaned against the stone hearth. Pushing the log back up onto the pyre, he asked, “Can we save Bimb?”

  “I wish there were a way,” the old mage replied, his voice forlorn. “Let us mediate upon that. I must think. You must rest.” He stood with a heavy sigh. “Your son has saved you. Even if he is dead. You must know that is what he did. He saved us, as much as he hated me.”

  Bimb’s father tried to find solace in that. He poked at the logs with the poker. But looking in the fire, all he saw were dancing shapes of a multitude of demons, each bent on destroying the world. A mirage of Bimb floated up out of the flames, his crooked, boyish smile on his face.

  He closed his eyes.

  That Bimb was dead. The mage had said so. No, not dead, but…different. Gone from him forever. Like his wife. Though she was not dead, she had been helpless for years. He vowed to shed a tear for each of them each night. He needed to be strong, stronger than he had ever been.

  * * *

  After several hours, Fanlas awoke with a sudden chill, surprised to find himself still seated in the rickety chair. He shivered violently in the cold. The fire was but a pile of white ash with the barest of red glowing embers beneath it. No light shone through the dusty stained-glass windows. His muscles screamed in exhaustion as he rose and fumbled in the dark for the tinderbox. He grabbed a fistful of small twigs and set them atop the remaining bed of barely glowing embers, then bent down with another groan and blew air onto the coals. Slowly a yellow flame flickered to life, and he added more branches; then, eventually, he was able to add a bigger log. And then another.

  Soon the room was warm and bathed in the soft glow of firelight. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he kept thinking of Bimb. Poor Bimb. If what the mage had said were true, he was safe and warm. But no longer the Bimb he had raised. No longer simple-minded? And how long had the charade gone on?

  There had to be more answers than those he was given.

  In the glow of the firelight, he could see the door to the storeroom and started thinking. He took a candle from the altar—Sacuan forgive me—and lit it from the fire. Then he opened the door to the storeroom quietly. Not sure what he was looking for at first, he spread the candle in front of him, the small flame giving off brief highlights of yellow light to boxes of turnips, carrots, jars, and other miscellany. Sighing, he started to turn away, when an odd flash of light highlighted an upper shelf with boxes. Unlabeled. He quickly glanced around for a place to set the candle, when its light fell upon a holder and candle already set into the wall by the door. He quickly lit the candle from the one in his hand and then silently returned to the main room and replaced the altar candle.

  The box was heavy and full of papers. Maps! He nearly burst out with a laugh. With a growing curiosity, he unrolled a few. Many were regional maps of Belden and Welcfer, some detailed city maps, and even nautical charts of the coastal towns. Yet one map caught his eye—it was an unrolled square of paper, drawn crudely by hand, but it clearly showed the Temple and the mountainous region that surrounded it. His throat caught when he saw what else was drawn on the map.

  Far to the west of the Temple was a marker in the mountains, a small house-like figure, with a red circle drawn around it and the words “DANGER” written in hasty script. What did that mean? Was that were Bimb was? It had to be—the mage had mentioned such a place—far across the Spires. How had Bimb survived such a trek?

  Carefully, he put the paper in his pocket and hefted the box back up onto the shelf. He turned to go back to his sleeping quarters, when he jumped back in shock.

  “Don’t think of going there,” the old mage said, his face hollow. He stood in the open doorway, the flicker of firelight giving a strange glow to his frazzled white hair and scraggly beard.

  “I—” Fanlas started to protest.

  The mage held up a hand. “You cannot survive that journey alone.”

  “Is that—is that where Bimb went?”

  “I believe so. But he is safe there—I warn you, however,” he lowered his face, “he is no longer your Bimb. If you choose to go there, you go on your own. And you will assuredly die on the way.”

  “But, how…how did Bimb survive?”

  “He had help of some kind, I believe. That voice in his head…” the man trailed off.

  Bimb’s father nodded sadly. “I understand I cannot save him. But now I know where he is—” He patted his pocket where the map was. “When the six months have passed, I will journey there. And then I will see for myself what Bimb is. I have sworn to carry out this duty and will not back down. But I will find my son. Excuse me, I am tired.”

  The mage stepped aside, and Fanlas passed by into the sleeping quarters. As he drifted off, he thought again of the journey he would have to take. He wanted to leave now, to trek out across the Spires—mission be damned. But he had already completed a long and strenuous journey—and done so with a haste he was unaccustomed to—and what had that brought him? Tired feet and a dead son. No, this would have to be better planned, and he would use all the time he had promised to both pray and to prepare for his long journey. Perhaps the younger Protector would go with him. Perhaps.

  Six months would pass quickly, but not near quickly enough. He would see his son.

  If he is still alive in six months.

  Chapter 34 — Conqueror?

  ... For an end is a beginning is an end is a middle is a beginning again.

  Prophet Altyu-M’Zhkara, IV Age

  After a solid sleep in a massive bed, I arose and took my tea by the great hearth. The sutan was
calling to me, but I ignored it and instead stoked a small fire to life. It would not be wise to waste firewood, given the unpredictable weather this far north. The tea tasted bitter and I set the cup down.

  I shrugged on my coat, which had thankfully dried overnight. In a remote wing, there was a door that opened out onto a rampart. I had discovered this late yesterday before settling in for bed.

  A blast of icy wind lashed my face, and I flipped up the hood. Tiny ice pellets were borne on the wind and they stung my cheeks. With a force of will, I raised my head above the howling winds and looked out along the rampart.

  I was impressed at how far the walls of the castle stretched out along the rugged countryside. The castle proper—the livable portion in any case—was smaller and only took up a few thousand square feet, still a sizable palace by any means, but barley touching the breadth of the walls and ramparts. The walls stretched out, hugging the mountains along a near perfect rectangle, except for the odd curves and bends that were necessary when building in solid rock. The space between the walls was bare save for the nearly ever-present blanket of deep snow that covered the courtyard, and the…evil that lay beneath.

  As I settled into the place, memories of Ar’Zoth’s teachings started to trickle back into my consciousness, but he had surely buried everything deep—almost too deep. Killing him was necessary; I did not regret that, but I wished everything would return quicker. I’m sure, like me, he trusted no one and wasn’t going to take any foolish chances, even if I were to turn on him. One item of the utmost importance leapt to the forefront of my focus, and I stared out into the snow and rock.

  Beneath the snow was a slab of solid stone, several feet thick. And beneath the stone was a warren of tunnels and passageways that stretched ever downward towards the bubbling liquid many miles below the rock and soil. The passageways led straight into a bubbling mass from which millions of demons waited. I could almost hear the clawing, scraping, growling, and snarling as they fought over each other.

  In layers far beneath were the moans and squeals as they reproduced in the oppressive heat and utter black of the underworld. They wanted to be released and had been struggling like this for centuries. Only Ar’Zoth had held them back, grudgingly. The Orders had sent him, I’m sure, to protect the world, but eventually, the constant whispering and begging and pleading got the best of him and he wanted to release them. Whatever held him back, I will never know. But he was able to get me to come here, using his devious methods of twisting the knots of several people. How did he do it?

  The icy snow slashed at me and I grimaced. Soon the grimace changed to a smile and I looked down at the snow. It would only take a few hours of concentration to remove the layers of magical wards from the stone. After that, I would have to work through the stone itself to uncap the tunnels and release the demons.

  These demons would race south into Belden and destroy the vile world. All those ugly men in the shops and inns who had called me names. “There goes bumbling Bimb! Knows the number of stars but can’t tie his shoes!” All the mages like Ugly Nose and their pathetic attempts at magic. Each and every last worthless excuse for a life form was going to be utterly destroyed by creatures from the darkest and most vile parts of the underworld. The village hag who called me “dim Bimb,” a vendor at harvest festival who spat at me—spat at me! Fa nearly killed the man. I wish he had. He would die now. There was every sort of disgusting creature that walked around Belden, and everyone deserved to die. Beggars, urchins, Counsel Guards (Hello there little boy, what is your name? DIE!), the Orders, holy men, cheating husbands, and crying mothers. All would die under the great, marauding horde.

  Gherwzas were kittens compared to the howling masses that drooled with razor fangs and permanent, bloody erections!

  Fa was safe at M’Hzrut. Ma slept. Permanently.

  It had all worked out so well.

  There had been so many moving parts to this plan, and at any time, failure was likely. One night when Lyn was off—said he wanted to visit the seashore—Ar’Zoth visited me. He had said Zhy and his companions were waylaid a couple of times by those pesky Knights. But they somehow survived. I was thankful for that, even though I’m sure the warlock would have helped me through the other passage—or would he? Would he have left me to expire in the cold? I’m sure Lyn would have embraced me on the other side, and then all would have been lost. I shuddered at that possibility.

  Indeed, it had worked out well. Almost too well. My major “knots” I had to contend with (Sacuan’s scrotum, but I hated that metaphor!) were the wet firewood, aching feet, and this pig-headed Knight of the so-called Black Dawn. Fools! True, I had only seconds to figure out how to actually cast the demonic spells, but all told, this journey had been smooth. For those that survived, that is. Truthfully, did anyone else matter but Fa and me? Anyone? No, they were all going to die!

  The horde waited. I took a deep breath and raised my arms to begin, when a rumble from my stomach reminded me I would get nowhere without sustenance. The demons had waited this long, what was another hour?

  I made my way back to the larder and extracted some onions and garlic that had been stored in the summer. Given there were only about three weeks of “summer” up here, the entire growing season was spent in a flurry of harvesting, canning, and storing for the long winter. A few cuts of goat meat were curing in a deeper cellar, and there was olive oil by the stove. Now how did he get that up here…? It still smelled fresh. My stomach churned as I prepared my meal.

  * * *

  I pushed the plate aside and drained my tea. It had been a most satisfying meal. Real food, cooked over a stove and eaten with a fork. Such had not been a luxury since before I left for the north. Ma could not cook. Fa could cook very well. He would have been proud of the meal I made—I even was able to concoct a sauce for the meat.

  A full belly, warmed with the goat and hot tea, would be necessary to concentrate on the spells needed to unleash Hell upon Belden. I had stuffed myself so entirely that I just sat there, twirling the teacup in my hands, my eyes glazing over. But I smiled.

  Finally, I stood from the table, put on the large coat, and stepped outside. The wind had abated, and only small snowflakes danced in the calm air. Yet the temperature was numbing. Soon, however, I would be exerting significant mental energy and would care not for how cold my body felt. Greater work was going to be done!

  It was when I raised my hands to the sky that I first heard it. A light scratching. I shook my head, but it continued. Like baby crabs crawling along stone. It scrabbled and groped for purchase…

  Inside my head!

  The noise was more than a noise—it was filled with a cloying, sickly aura, exhausted and pestering. It started soft, then grew and grew, into a voice I had heard so often. A voice that drove me to inner rage. A voice I had told, “Take your powders.” Yet it was there. It was there! It whimpered and whined, clawed and cried. And cried…and cried…and cried. Then timidity broke in a virulent torrent of pain and despair. What had once been a whimpering derelict lying on a couch before a permanent fire came alive as an aspect of Hell itself—a Hell I could not control! What was once a mumbling, self-deprecating, self-destructing worm was a living serpent of hatred. The scrabbling and clawing grew and exploded into a fierce yell. It slammed across my brain, echoing against each ear with such force I swore I felt blood curling down my lobes. Louder, louder, it repeated its horrific chant:

  Why did you kill me? Why did you kill me? WHY DID YOU KILL ME? WHY DID YOU KILL ME?

  I opened my mouth and let forth a scream I hoped would be loud enough to drown the voice—her voice. Her awful, timid, cloying voice! I had never thought she would, or could, return—but Lyn had visited me, so why not her? But…how? How could I get her out? The thought danced, and then I howled. I tried to cast a spell—any spell, maybe just a simple fire spell. But when I reached out to the spaces between, a rod of blinding fire seared the front of my skull and twisted my stomach into a knotted wad of intesti
ne. My body crashed against the stonework and I grabbed my head to staunch the onslaught of pain. Immediately, I let go of any attempt at magical spells, and instead, I opened my mouth to scream.

  I roared, my mouth wide to the icy air. But the scream I emitted could not touch a hundredth of the intensity of her scream, though it pealed across the ramparts to the valleys beyond and echoed loud enough for any creature to cover its ears. The inner voice was still louder!

  How could everything be lost? Lost! I had come so far and come so close to ending everything. I was a breath away from destroying most of the known world. Everything had taken more effort than I could have ever imagined, but I had been so close! And the one thing I had not planned on, the one loose end, was now the only thing that was pulling me back. Pulling me with its whining, gut-wrenching, pitiful cry. MOTHER.

  Why did you kill me? Why did you kill me? WHY DID YOU KILL ME? WHY DID YOU KILL ME?

  Epilogue

  The knots of the people and the knots of the world are mysteries beyond explanation. Light is Dark is Light is Dark again. Those who seek out goodness may find it. Those who seek adventure may find it. But those who have done no harm too often die and life seems meaningless.

  It is.

  While a knot is a pattern, it, too, can be random. As the world twists in its knots, and its people try to learn them, they change and shift. Nothing is as it was. Nothing was as it is. Nothing will be as it was thought to have been. Confusion reigns and chaos is lord.

  People live and die. But the world moves through time, a complex knot with infinite threads that no one can completely understand. It spins around. Seasons change. Adventurers seek knowledge in the power of demons and gods and ignore their own vast depths. A simple journey does not exist. They plumb not the complexities of their own knots, but strive blindly in wanton ambition to find meaning in a meaningless world.