The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (2 page)

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 arrival.

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.

As a few more miles trickled by the feeling ebbed, and he looked out at the seemingly endless road of cobblestone. The sun was warm, only a few flies buzzed around, and he felt a brief moment of peace.

Chapter 3 — Three on a Match

To simple men, it is easy to solve the world’s problems sitting in an inn or before a great roaring fire. So simple are the flames, which dance and inspire thought. Too simple. For even these flames are made up of knots that are hidden. In the Light of the fire there is Dark.

Cleric Hrozon, Order of the Knot

Q
ainur returned to the horses from an excursion in to the brush. As he laced up his breeches, he casually informed Zhy and Torplug that he had found something in the woods. “There’s a camp back in there, not far off the road. Looks like someone abandoned it. May be worth checking out.” He yawned loudly.

Torplug said nothing, but descended from his horse and headed off into the brush, going the opposite direction. “Need to take care of something myself. Do what you like.”

Zhy descended from his horse and began to work out the kinks. He hated to dismount, then re-mount again… he’d rather just keep going and be done for the day. After only a few minutes of stretching, he heard a yelp, a cry, and a grunt.

“For Sacuan’s sake!” he blurted.
Qainur, you idiot
, he thought, as he made his way through the brush towards the sound of a struggle. He tried to run, but his muscles were still cramped. Branches still full of green buds slapped at his face and he cursed as he flung them away. Ferns and brambles at his feet nearly sent him flying headlong into birch trees, but somehow he kept his aching body upright and moved clumsily towards the melee.

When at last he arrived, he found Qainur engaged in a violent sword fight against a bandit dressed in black, reinforced leather, and his face covered with black silk. He wielded a razor-thin rapier with agility and skill that Zhy figured most common bandits did not possess. And he was silent. Not a grunt or a curse.

Qainur moved blindingly fast.
He moves too quickly for his size
, Zhy thought.
Either that, or he is proving what he said earlier—his lack of scars proved his skill.

The huge broadsword moved with the agility of a small dagger as he parried and countered every move of the bandit. For what seemed like hours, the two danced their deadly dance, swords flashing. The sound of metal-on-metal rang in the small clearing. Great red and orange maple leaves fell around them, with a lazy and floating peaceful counter to the deadly battle. The bandit would thrust, and Qainur would parry. Qainur would respond with a slashing blow, only to have it repelled. Soon both men panted, though neither seemed willing to concede; and with a quick flash, the bandit’s sword struck at an impossible angle. Qainur struggled to parry, but the bandit’s sword sliced the leather on his sword arm and wrenched the huge broadsword from his grip—sending it flying into the brush. In an instant the bandit was upon him, the point of the sword touching the mercenary’s neck.

Zhy started to turn away. He did not want to see his companion sliced like a pig, but before the swordsman’s blade could slice Qainur, a bolt of purple flame arched out from behind a bush and struck the bandit in the chest. There was a brief flash, but no time for a scream, for as suddenly as the flame began, it ended. Where the man had stood only footprints remained.

Qainur’s great shoulders slumped. Zhy turned dumbly and watched as Torplug emerged from behind a bayberry bush, took two wobbling steps and then collapsed to the ground. Small tendrils of purple flame still danced along his miniature fingertips then flickered out as his lids did likewise. Though alive, the small-man’s chest heaved with deep, slow, labored breaths.

“How....?” Zhy began, then stopped. He took another cow-eyed glance at the footprints, then swiftly walked over to the mage. He knelt down next to him, his knee settling on a small rock. He winced, but willed away the sharp pain. The small-man’s lips were quivering and there was a crackle in his lungs.

The little mage took a deep breath, then cleared his lungs with a massive cough and raised his head with effort. “That—spell—I.” He stopped, taking more labored breaths; his head fell back to the forest floor like a rope left to fall from a ladder.

By this time Qainur had somewhat recovered his faculties. Zhy heard him crashing into the brush to retrieve his sword. He too breathed heavily and let forth a hacking cough. Eventually he came over to Zhy and the mage. They helped him lie down flat. They propped Torplug’s head against a grass-covered knoll.

“What happened?” Zhy asked quietly.

Qainur stared at the spot where the bandit had been. Finally, he shook his head, and after some poking around in the brush, retrieved his sword. “I think it was a trap.”

“Trap?”

“I should have known. A nice campsite. A pack and some gear. Even a sword under a blanket. Too perfect. Too neat. I should have left it alone.”

“That would have been a good idea.”
Too late, now.
“What kind of bandit was that?”

Qainur shook his head. “He was assassin-trained. That was not an ordinary bandit. He was also quite pale under that mask.” He looked around, still a bit dazed. A deep breath of the cold air and snow seemed to clear his head for a moment. “We need to get out of here.”

Zhy nodded and pointed at Torplug.