The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (39 page)

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 intestine. 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.

Let their foolishness be a lesson.

Untie the knots you know. These are most likely your own.

Prophet Altyu-M’Zhkara, IV Age

D
eep in the Spires of Solitude, buried beneath miles of rock, a demon horde pulsated, yearning to be free. To be unenslaved and unbound. Without a sane, human mind to control them, they scratched and clawed at each other, killing, maiming, and fornicating all in one mass of squirming, boiling, dripping, evil flesh. They battled upward, clawing and scratching away at the solid rock and tearing at softer stone. Slowly, slowly they were making their way upward. Yet each inch forward dropped them another half inch back down as they lost all connection to a purpose or direction.

But they would be free. It would take time, but they would break free from the stone and the snow and each other. Bloodlust, greed, desire, and a twisted hunger drove them ever upward. Should they ever arrive. Should they embrace the snow.

If a Protector or Knight of the Black Dawn stood atop the snow-covered courtyard, they would hear it. Feel it. A constant tremor like an earthquake beneath the earth. Beneath stone. Miles of stone.

Miles that were being chipped away inch by bloody inch.

* * *

A late summer sun rose quickly in Belden City, baking the clay roof tiles and driving the citizens to shade or cool buildings. A burly innkeeper arranged his tables and stools, pausing longingly at one well-polished stool. He shook his head sadly, wiped his brow, and continued with his work.

The sun’s rays beat hotter on the western edge of town. In a crumbling house, a thin curtain rod gave way and a ragged cloth fell to the ground, sending a sheet of sunlight into the room. Dust hung in a thick cloud, and the grimy window was thick with soil, but the intensity of the light pouring through the window was too much even for the thick grime.

He awoke with a jolt and was unable to move. The sun beat down upon his eyes and he tried to roll away but found he could not. His entire body felt as if it was crushed against a steel plate, and his head pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. He lay there, immobile for several minutes, trying his best to determine his surroundings.

Images flashed before him: snow, trees, rocks. But the brutal sun seared through all images, ripping mercilessly into his eyes. Fumbling to find purchase on anything so he could rise and move away from the light, he became aware that he lay flat on his back on the floor. His bed was several paces away. He put a hand down to push himself up and froze as he felt something cold on his palm. Rolling over, he stared at the lycanum gleaming in the sun.
How
…with a jolt, he threw the coin at the far wall, and it clanged to a stop under a rotted nightstand.

His body screamed with a litany of creaks, pops, and groans as he worked himself to a standing position, one arm firmly against the dirty wall for support. The plaster bent with a groan of its own, but it held fast. He took a tentative step forward and gasped at the tiny wooden model that lay broken at the foot of his bed.
The Temple…

All thoughts were shattered at the pounding on the door. How long? He wondered. How long indeed? And where? Where was he? And if he was where he thought he was, how?

Bang, bang, bang.

No. It can’t be. He hadn’t really…had he? Had he dreamed this? Was it real? What was real anymore? He shielded his eyes against the sun and walked slowly to the head of the staircase. Below, in a haze of dust and grime, was the front door. The same front door, the door he had left—

Bang, bang, bang. BANG.

But, how? Was that who he thought it was? As fast as his wobbly legs could carry him, he descended the stairs. The middle stair bowed and nearly broke through completely—

BANG, BANG, BANG.

Cursing silently, he descended the last steps with as much speed as he could safely muster. And opened the door.

“Listen, Q—” But the word died as more sun flooded into the room. The shape was wrong. Again, he forced a hand up to his eyes to view the shape outlined by the bright sun. It was not the mercenary, but he knew the figure. Not the name, never, but he knew him. A shadow lurked farther beyond, by…a horse? Horses? His eyes were blinded from the snow—or sun? Everything was spinning and whirling.

“Good morning. Ah, I see you recognize me. There is little time. Come.”

“I…” his hoarse protest trailed off, his mind whirling with a mix of emotions. Fear flickered for a moment before the sudden sensation of falling consumed him.
Why do I remember falling?

“You look like you’ve fallen off a cliff.” The stranger paused as the pale man turned even paler. “Aye, I see. Yes, you don’t know me. But you knew me once and will know me again. There is little time. Come, we must hurry.”

“Hurry? Where?” The words sounded like dead leaves crunching underfoot.

“You know the answer to that question, Zhyfrael. We are not finished. It is not finished. And no, you did not dream it. You were dead. Perhaps you still are. Come. It is not finished.”

It is not finished.

It is never finished.

Author’s Note

The story of Akeeten told by Zhy is based on a Menominee tale. It was told to my father in both English and Menominee and then told to me over many a campfire when I was growing up. I now must carry the torch and tell the story. I’ve altered the names a little bit to fit the fantasy nature of this tale, but its essence is preserved. Zhy’s telling of the tale allows me continue an oral tradition through the written word.

Bonus Material – Prologue and First Chapters of Dead Spaces – Part II of A Drunkard’s Journey

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Prologue

M
adness consumed all. Where once there were flickers of madness between the spaces of sanity, now the slivers of sanity were only speckles in the black void of madness.

Her voice.

HER voice! Her
VOICE!

It grated. It charred. Like a fire, it burned me, then froze me as if I were being dangled out over the ramparts, left to flounder as a greater, unseen hand clutched my tail.

The horde called, the horde beckoned. It willed out. Without any direction it clawed closer and closer to the surface. What would happen if they reached the surface without my direction—without my control? What would happen to
me?
Would they kill me? Tear me limb from limb in their ecstasy of murderous rage? I was a prisoner, trapped inside of myself, trapped by the woman I had killed. Why? Why?

I was Ar’Zoth! I had mercilessly slaughtered anything that remained of Bimb. Bimb? Who was Bimb? Why was that name familiar? Had I killed someone already? No, wait! I do remember that name… it was a name that was forced upon me, a name that forever doomed me to a life of idiocy and despair. That is, until Ar’Zoth saved me from myself. Memories, perspectives, understandings, even music, was put to the flame. Bimb was dead. Ar’Zoth remained. Ar’Zoth and madness. Madness and demons.

Let us out
.

“I will,” I promised with a strained whisper. Magical spells, once forgotten, came back to the fore, but each time I began to take action, her voice would grate and grovel and beg and plead and cry and cry and cry and cry and CRY and CRY!