The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (38 page)

“I see your struggle,” the mage said gently. “I don’t know how to state it any more than that. I can—”

“He’s dead? But not hurt? What kind of Sacuan-blasted idiocy is this?”

“It is true. Listen.” He rubbed his beard again. “After he left, I ventured another viewing. He was in a large building and was warm. There was snow everywhere. But he was warm.”

“You are speaking nonsense.” He wiped his eyes.

“That is what I saw. But the Bimb you know is no longer there.”

“I don’t—”

The man raised a hand gently. “We have been talking about demons. Bimb is not possessed by a demon. Please understand. But the Bimb that you raised and the person he was, that boy is no longer. I fear the person talking to him led him to this place in the snow for some purpose. When I look, I do not see the innocent child, the simple-minded boy. Sadly, I never saw that in your son. This person, whoever it was, was controlling him. He has done something bad, I can see blood and bodies, but he is unharmed.”

“Are you trying to say, my son was not who I thought he was?”

“That is what I am saying. I’m sorry.” Again, his voice took on the tone of a Healer.

“I still don’t understand.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, and his face twisted into a grimace. His great muscles flexed, but he was helpless to do anything. Regret suddenly filled him to capacity—regret that he had ever chosen to go along. But he had to. He had to. It was the only way to finally get some attention and help for Bimb. But now…now the boy had gone his own way and here he sat, powerless to help him. He wanted to run the length of the Spires in his underclothes, tear the doors off this “warm place,” and throttle whoever it was who had convinced Bimb to follow him. Instead, he sat in front of a warm fire while a strange old mage told him his son was dead. Dead—but not hurt.

“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

A
fter 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.