Longing Ring

10

The next day, his mother looked at him strangely. Not at him, really. At everything. She seemed very frightened, but also as though she wanted to keep the fear tight to herself His father noticed it too, but when she asked, she said only that she was tired.

J'role's body tensed as his father stepped into the room, assisted by a push from Mordom.

He felt embarrassed, acutely aware of the corpses on the cots as if they somehow incriminated him instead of Slinsk. He didn't want his father to know what he had become.

He need not have worried. Bevarden kept his eyes on the ground, as if ashamed. When he finally raised his head to meet J'role's eyes, a giggle escaped his lips before he quickly dropped his gaze once more. Then he covered his face with his hands, and J'role thought he heard his father weeping softly, but he could not be sure.

The eyes Bevarden had just shown J'role were unlike the ones he had seen all his life, even these last years. Empty, lacking any vitality, they seemed to be the eyes of an infant.

No, something else. All the babies J'role had ever seen searched the details of life with intense fascination. His father's eyes were the eyes of a dead infant, the muscles relaxed, the sight useless.

J’role moved toward his father.

"Ah, ah," said Mordom and raised his other hand. "You can't have him just yet. First, you have something I want. Boy, listen to me. T have a certain ability with. . the Horrors.

Specifically those that assault the mind. I can help your father. I can help you. But I will need your cooperation."

From the next room Garlthik's whimpering continued.

J’role shook his head.

"You're making things difficult," said Mordom, sounding sincerely disappointed. "We can end this all quickly. Please."

What to do? J'role felt his thoughts tugged in too many directions. He wanted to rush to Garlthik's side-at once wanting to help him and to flail at him with his fists. How dare the ork betray the secret of his speaking? Now that Mordom knew, he would undoubtedly kill him. J'role also wanted to rush to his father's side, to get his father away from the vile magician, even though it was obvious he'd never make it past Slinsk and Mordom. And finally, he wanted simply to run, to make a mad leap out the window and leave everyone behind.

He felt the thief magic tugging at him, whispering to his bones and muscles to flee and forget about the wounded ork in the other room and the broken man on the floor. This last choice, he realized, was a thief's choice. The magic coiled around him, encouraging him to flee.

But, he thought, my father.

"You can't save to m," the creature said, unfolding its words like a dark flower in his mind.

"What?"

"You can't save him. And you don't want to save him. He is broken and useless. Flee.

Find the city. Get your glory. Do something for yourself."

The creature's voice carried a new quality, something akin to duplicity. Perhaps it was because the thing had so seldom lied to J'role that he immediately discerned the lie. Why the creature in his thoughts kept encouraging him to find the city, J'role did not know, but why should it be at the expense of abandoning his father? He had already left the man to die once. The instant he began the first step toward Slinsk and Mordom, J'role realized he expected to die, and he found comfort in the thought, cold and moist, like the ground after rain. If he were dead, no more creature. No more father to worry about. But until that moment…

By the time his left foot and then his right had touched the ground in his graceful walk across the room he felt the magic gone, like the sun's light slipping out of a room with the closing of the shutters. The thief magic had deserted him when he decided to fight for his father rather than retreat for his own safety. Alone now, with no one. Mordom smiled at him as a crackle of blue light formed around his hands. J'role returned the smile.

A cry of pain cut through the wall; to the other room. Phlaren, J'role realized, as everyone in the room turned to look at the wall. A heavy thud slammed against it, and then another.

Suddenly the wall cracked open and Garlthik One Eye crashed through it, sending shards of wood scattering about.

Bevarden gasped and cowered, scrambling across the floor in search of safety, finally resting in a pool of the fat trader's blood. Slinsk raced toward J'role from the right, his blade rushing at J'role's chest, while Garlthik charged from the left, leaving Mordom to finish his spell.

J'role kept his attention focused on Mordom. Slinsk brought his blade down swift and hard, but Garlthik swung up and parried with his sword. Out the corner of his eye J'role saw a grimace on Garlthik's face and a stream of syrupy black liquid dripping from a fissure in the side of his head. The image grasped at J'role attention, but he tore his gaze away and focused on Mordom.

The magician watched J'role approach with the green eye in his palm. The eye blinked once as Mordom spoke some strange words. Then the wizard touched his face with his other hand, the flesh suddenly transformed, torn open to reveal muscle and bone, but more disturbingly, becoming the image of Bevarden.

The ruined visage grinned at J'role, confusing him about where his father was. It overwhelmed J'role with a cold fear, and his only thought now was of running away; not running to escape, but to hide.

Fighting off the fear, he focused on his father so he could help him. He charged forward, crashing into Mordom and knocking him out into the hall. With a loud gasp Mordom fell to the floor as J'role slammed the door shut.

Whirling back toward the room he found his father whimpering and beginning to back away. J'role grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him toward the window. Behind him he heard the sound of blades beating against one another.

His father began to cry, softly, his head hanging down. J'role wanted to say, "Please don't," but held his tongue and raised his hand to his father's face. His father pulled back at first, but then leaned in, seeking comfort from J'role's touch, pressing his tears against J'role's palms.

From the hall Mordom called for Phlaren. J'role looked through the hole that Garlthik had created in the wall, and saw the big woman warrior struggling to her feet, blood trickling down her temple. She hefted her sword and staggered toward the hole. Spotting J'role, she smiled and increased her pace.

Slinsk screamed as Garlthik disarmed him and slashed with his sword, cutting a gash all the way from the man's collarbone through the leather armor down his chest. Streaming blood, Slinsk collapsed to the floor, staring up in surprise at Garlthik. The ork laughed and said, “I'm better than you!"

J'role waved his arms and tried to get Garlthik’s attention as Phlaren rushed in from behind, slamming her sword against his back. The ork's thick skin absorbed some of the blow, but he still cried out in pain as he whirled around to fend off the attack.

J 'role looked out the window and saw many villagers milling about outside the tavern, as if they Wanted to get in but could not. Some people spotted him and cried out for others to come and help. When the villagers had gathered below, holding their arms up, J'role seized his father by the shoulders and forced him out the window. Caught off guard, his father could do little more than give a short cry and then he was out the window.

"Go!" shouted Garlthik, now backing slowly toward the window as Phlaren closed in on him and J'role.

Then the door flung open and Mordom entered.

Without pause J'role flung himself out the window, in the moment of free fall wondering once More what it was like to be dead. Then he felt hands slap against his shoulders and legs, breaking his fall. Slamming into the ground he thought he'd broken a leg, for the intense pain rivaled the pain in his arm.

Strange hands seized and jerked him away. Then Garlthik landed beside him, cursing in pain, clawing at himself, his thick arms and legs contorting in odd ways.

Then he heard a roar from the villagers, and saw Mordom looking out the window, his hand pointing down. The villages sent a hail of stones and sticks up at the window, forcing the magician to retreat inside.

As the villagers helped J'role to his feet, he looked to his right and saw two figures at the door of the tavern. Skeletons, he realized, armed with swords, waiting patiently for anyone to try to enter the building. None of the villagers had made the attempt, though several men and women were trying to distract the skeletons so others could get by. But the skeletons did not move away from the door, and a stalemate had been reached.

The siege started at night, with Mordom and the others trapped inside the tavern. The villagers carried J'role, his father, and Garlthik a short distance away from the tavern and set them down on the ground. Water was brought, and a questor of Garlen arrived. The questor was a woman in her twenties, older than J'role, but he still thought her very beautiful. When she smiled down at him, he realized that everything would be all right.

Praying to Garlen, she tended to each one of them, touching the tips of her fingers to their wounded bodies. As J'role awaited his turn, he overheard some of the villagers talking.

"Burn them out, I say," said one man, whose friends identified him as Hobris.

"Aye," said another. "She's as good as dead. Everyone in there is."

J'role remembered the screams they'd heard just before Slinsk entered the room. There was little chance that the villains had left anyone alive as they searched the tavern for the ring. J'role turned his head and saw the villagers-now at least four hundred strong-

ringing the tavern, brandishing torches and rocks and sticks.

Hobris leaned down to J'role. "Who are they, boy? Do you know?"

J’role shook his head and touched his throat.

"Did they do that to you?"

J'role nodded. He didn't want them wondering about it.

The questor, Valris, said, "This man is.." She stopped, searching for the words, staring down at Bevarden. "I've taken care of most of his injuries. He will need time to rest. But his thoughts. ." She turned to J’role. "Did the wizard do this to him?"

Again, J'role nodded. This time he told the truth.

"We've got to kill them. Worse than Horrors," said a woman.

Hobris said to the questor, “The wizard ruined his voice. See to that as well as the arm."

He then walked off, presumably to deal with Mordom and the others.

The questor touched J'role's throat. She spoke a prayer to Garlen, and a wave of memories washed over J'role. Memories of his mother and Xiassis came to him, and for the first time in many years he felt himself relax into peace.

"Can you talk now?" she asked.

Could she actually have healed him? He paused, but felt the creature in his thoughts, though it tried in its crafty way to be still, and shook his head.

She frowned, somewhat troubled, and turned her attention to his arm.

A cheer had begun to rise up from the crowd now, and J’role saw them waving torches and beginning to pile wood around the base of the building. He was stunned by their festive atmosphere. Did they know something he didn't? Would it all be over so easily?

A window at one corner of the upper floor opened and Mordom appeared, waving his hands in a simple pattern. A group of people screamed, falling to the ground, dropping their torches.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, drawing back. In that silence Mordom said, "I want only …" His voice was rich with power and rage. But the mob swelled forward once more, throwing more rocks as well as their torches up at the window. Under different circumstances, J’role thought, with fewer people, Mordom's commanding voice and the use of the horrible spell might have been enough to send everyone fleeing. But not now.

Mordom retreated from the window. A young girl threw off her long dark cloak, revealing a bright orange robe with patterns of leaves and flames upon it. She waved her arms and a stream of fire rushed from her fingers to ignite the base of the building and the wood piled around it. The villagers threw their torches into the kindling, and a thick, billowing smoke began to rise up around the building.

Beside him, J'role heard the questor gasp. Turning, he realized that she had finished her work on him while he'd been watching the fire, and his arm and leg were both now whole and well. An unfamiliar sensation of well-being coursed through him-a gift from the passion of Garlen.

T he sensation quickly evaporated, however, when he looked at what had stunned me questor. She was staring at Garlthik, where a black shadow writhed in the crack in his head. The ork was whimpering, and without a moment's hesitation the questor reached in and tried to pull the shadow out. Garlthik screamed with pain and clawed at the questor’s hands.

She called for help, and a few villagers came and forced Garlthik's hands to me ground.

She drew a deep breath, pressing her hands against her face for a few moments, smearing her cheeks with Garlthik's blood. Then, from a bag tied to her belt, she withdrew a pair of small metal tongs.

The shadow writhed beneath the tip of the tongs as she brought them up. With a deft motion she snared a tentacle, and began to drag the thing out. Again Garlthik screamed, and again he struggled to stop me questor. But the villagers rested on him and kept his arms pinned down.

After a long time the questor finally succeeded in pulling the shadow thing out of the wound in Garlthik's head. It clung tenaciously, but was finally plucked out of the ork's skull with a final, sickly sound. The questor grabbed a bottle from her pouch and stuffed the thing inside it. The shadow squirmed about for a moment, then the glass shattered, sending shards deep into the questor's flesh. After a moment of surprise, the shadow was nowhere to be seen.

For a moment J'role thought about asking the questor if she could help him with the creature in his head. But then he remembered what Mordom had said, that the thing's body was somewhere else, only its spirit resided in his thoughts. As Mordom seemed to know a great deal about the Horrors, J'role decided he was right.

Garlthik relaxed now, and the questor began soothing him, beginning the process of healing.

"I need a drink," Bevarden pleaded softly just to J'role, so no one else could hear. "Please, I need a drink."

A crackle of flames cut through the night air, and J'role turned and saw huge flames claw their way up the sides of the tavern; the smoke rose up so thick that it blurred the stars above the fire.

Garlthik was just getting up, the questor done with him and he turned with amazement toward the fire. He was wobbly but the crack in his skull was gone. "What are they doing?" he asked with rapidly growing enthusiasm. "Are they burning them out?"

At that instant a terrible crash erupted from the tavern. J'role thought a wall had fallen, but instead saw a golden light emanating from the roof. A chariot, with three sides and two wheels, erupted from the roof. It was made of something that reminded J'role of smoke, for he could see the stars through it. Standing on the chariot were Mordom and Phlaren. Resting against one side of the vehicle was Slinsk.

Nothing pulled the chariot, though Mordom held two reins that extended several feet before vanishing into thin air. A gasp rose up from the mob as the chariot rose and swung around in a wide arc, flying back toward them. "Where is the boy!" Mordom cried.

Garlthik hustled J'role into the shadow of a tree, then quickly ran back to drag Bevarden into the shadows as well.

The shadows wrapped around J'role, comforting him. Dark and protecting, they touched his flesh and worked their way into him, and he felt the thief magic grow strong within him. The magic touched his muscles and told him to run, passing from the shadows of one tree to another, leaving his father behind. He was better off on his own.

The chariot rushed low to the ground, tearing through the startled crowd, knocking the slow and surprised out of the way. J'role's father, apparently amused by the sight, began walking out of the shelter of the shadows, a smile of wonder on his face. J'role swallowed. His father’s actions would betray him…

…and more than that. .

…what?

… his father would be in danger.

A cloud passed from J'role's thoughts. Yes. His father.

He stepped quickly forward and wrapped his young hand around his father's wrist, pulling Bevarden back as one would a child who has stepped too close to a fire. In doing so he felt his chest tremble in a kind of fever. When the sensation passed, J'role realized that the thief magic had left him. It wanted only that he rush away from anyone he might care about.

Mordom was still screaming at the villagers below, demanding that they surrender the boy. He cut around the area in a wide arc, peering into the shadows as his magical chariot sped by. The villagers had re-grouped now, picking up sticks and rocks and throwing them at the chariot as it passed. As the chariot rushed toward the tree sheltering J'role, several rocks slammed into the chariot's passengers. Mordom raised his hands to cover his face, and in that moment, J'role dragged his father down, with Garlthik following. The chariot whooshed by, then shot up into the air. Growing smaller and smaller, it crossed the night stars swiftly, then vanished from sight over the top of the distant mountains.

J'role stood quickly, dragging his father to his feet. He felt immensely relieved.

Garlthik saw J'role's face and said in a tone of warning, "He'll be back for us. He's just gone until he thinks it's safe to come back. Come, we'd best be going. He knows we know about the city now. His determination will increase."

J'role nodded and gestured in the direction of the magical toad.

"Let's go then," said Garlthik, starting to walk. J'role, holding his father's hand, followed.

"What are you doing with him?” Garlthik asked.

The question surprised J'role. He hadn't really considered it. He was just bringing his father with him. It seemed to be the thing to do.

"Do you realize what a burden he'll be?" Garlthik said in reply to J'role's silence.

Pointing first to himself and then to his father, J'role tried to remind Garlthik that this man was his father.

"Yes, yes, your father,” said Garlthik. "I don't care."

Angry that Garlthik was dismissing him so-even though he thought Garlthik might be right-J'role began to walk toward the magical road with his father in tow. The only other possibility was to leave his father in the care of strangers. And that he did not want to do.

Garlthik angrily walked up beside him. "All right, lad. All right. But know this, the thief magic will leave you, and leave you at the worst time, if you keep betraying it like this.

You didn't do what you went in there to do, did you?”

J'role thought for a moment. The ring! He'd forgotten all about it during the carnage. He shook his head. No, he didn't get the ring. How could he have?

Garlthik brought up his hand. In the center of it rested the fat man's ring. Though stained with blood, the large diamond was bright against the night's darkness. “A thief," he said,

"never forgets his work."