Longing Ring

12

One day, his mother began screaming during one of Bevarden's performances. She did not scream anything in particular. Just words. Just screams.

She tore at her hair and scratched her face with her fingernails until she drew blood.

Several people grabbed her and tried to stop her. But she was enraged and very strong.

J'role, who was now mute, ordered by his mother to remain silent nil the presence of anyone but her, rushed to his mother's side. He wanted to hold her as she had held him.

When she saw him come near; she pushed him away and screamed and screamed and screamed.

They walked through the night, the air humid and warm, the starlight turning the rock-strewn terrain pale blue. The ring was around J'role's neck, hanging from its leather cord and resting against his chest. The cold longing tapped against his chest, making it very difficult for him to walk away from the city. Beside him, Bevarden coughed softly.

The chirping of insects surrounded them, echoing the buzz that raced through J'role's thoughts. The creature gave him no peace, but J'role tried to sort out the mystery of the city, his father and Garlthik followed behind.

"Where are you going?" the creature demanded.

"To Throal." J'role was weary of the thing's badgering. It had railed at him for hours.

"But you saw the city!"

"I couldn't get in!"

"You didn't try! You're useless!"

J'role focused his attention on the city. "It was there. And it still seems to be there. But I can't get in…."

"So you should go back and try again!"

J'role ignored the creature, puzzling instead over the mystery of the city. "Why can't I get in?"

"Because you are a miserable thing not worthy to be alive! Oh, just put a blade through your veins and let us end all of this …"

"Unless they don't want anyone to get in. They have so much magic. ." He thought of his own kaer, buried deep in a hillside, protected with runes and heavy enchanted stones.

"What if they built their city so it would be gone during the Scourge? What if it's partially here, on earth, but partially somewhere else, so it would be harder for the Horrors to find it?" The idea drifted, a leaf in the wind, unsettled.

A pause, and then he heard the creature hum, and then it said, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I think you are right."

J'role continued to walk, but slowly, his body matching the wariness he now used in thinking his thoughts with the creature. "You do?"

"I am what your people call a 'Horror,' you know. I have a bit of insight into the methods of the people of the city. It was well protected." He paused, and then added dismally, "I myself could not get in. I don't know if any of those from my home ever did."

“Why should I believe what you're-"

The creature screamed, sending such a sharp pain through J'role's temples that the boy had to clutch at his head. "I'm helping because I choose to!"

"Please stop," J'role thought quietly as the terrible rending of his thoughts continued.

"Please stop."

Garlthik put his hands on J'role's shoulders. "Are you all right?" J'role nodded. He noticed that this father had wandered far ahead. His coughing was louder now. Garlthik released J'role, and walked on.

The creature's tirade subsided. "I hope I won't have to do that anymore. Now, will you listen to me?"

"Yes."

"Fine. So. The city is there but not there. How did they do that?"

"How do I know? I thought you were going to tell me!"

The creature remained silent for a moment, then said tersely, "I don't know enough. It's your foolish world; you know more about it than I."

"I could get as far as the walls," J'role t ought, dismissing the creature. "Maybe the walls are the key. Like our kaer's doorway, they are the source of the magical defense." Even as the idea came, J'role began to doubt himself. How could he even make guesses at how magic worked?

But the creature said, "Yes. That might be it. Who made the walls? The dwarfs Garlthik spoke of?"

Bevarden began to cough so wrackingly that J'role thought it might tear the man's throat apart. He raced over and helped his father sit down. The night was warm, yet Bevarden shivered as if trapped in a spell of ice. "Please, I'm sorry," he repeated over and again.

"We've got to leave him, J'role," Garlthik said. J'role looked up at the ork in surprise.

"Truly, we do. He's becoming ill. He'll slow us down. Give us away to Mordom.”

Bevarden suddenly pulled J'role close and embraced him. Despite his weakness, the embrace held J'role tight. As their cheeks met, J'role felt a tear falling between their flesh, and he did not know whether it was him or his father crying. They stood for a long while like that, holding each other, feeling their chests move against each other as they drew in and exhaled breath.

Finally Bevarden pulled away and stared at his son. He took J'role's face in his hands and tried to speak. "I. .," he managed to squeak out, the sound twisted and distorted. His mouth contorted and he closed his eyes against the struggle. "Sorry. .," he said finally.

Then he lowered his head, and began to weep, coughing all the while.

The eastern sky was turning golden red. They had walked all night. Weariness massaged its way into J'role's body. He needed rest. Bevarden needed rest.; Probably even Garl^mik needed rest.

He spotted a small copse of trees in the distance, the large, leafy branches just barely illuminated by the lightening sky. That would do for now. Mordom might or might not have followed, but it was too tiring to juggle every possible doom in his thoughts. He stood, holding his father's hand, and began walking toward the trees with Bevarden in tow.

"J'role, if you don't want to kill him, I will."

The words so startled J'role-he stumbled slightly. When he turned back to look at Garlthik, the ork stood without a bit of hesitancy in his posture. J'role simply shook his head, revealing neither his fear nor his anger. Then he turned back toward the trees and walked on.

Garlthik followed.

Sleep did not come easily to J'role. First his father's coughing kept him awake, and when Bevarden finally fell asleep, J'role couldn't sleep for wondering if Garlthik was waiting for the chance to slit his father's throat. Exhaustion finally took its toll, and with the coming of dawn, J'role at last dropped off to sleep.

When he woke later that day, the sun was high above, brilliant as a dream. Garlthik sat against a tree, cleaning his sword. His father, still alive, slept.

"Good day,' Garlthik said without looking at J'role.

J'role glanced about, taking in his surroundings. Earlier he'd been too tired to really look around. Now he saw that they were in the midst Of about twenty trees, all three times his height and with thick branches spreading out overhead. From the rough branches grew long, large leaves that offered shade against the noon sun. J'role had never seen so many trees growing in one place. He wondered if magic was at work, for his village had needed magic to grow crops in the fields. To grow trees like these seemed just as difficult a task.

He also wondered who could afford to use magic for something as frivolous as making trees when growing crops was so much more valuable.

On the ground under the trees grew grass, green and several inches high. J' role had never seen the stuff before, but he had heard it said that grass was one of the things the Horrors had ruined.

He touched the grass, so smooth and giving so easily under his fingers. He plucked a blade and examined it. So small, thin. What did it do?

As he looked around for any other strange sights, J'role suddenly let out a gasp.

Immediately beyond the copse of trees, the ground was as barren and brown as most of the other places they had traveled. But ahead, across a space of perhaps a mile, he saw a brilliant island of green: a forest. Catching the leaves, the sunlight shimmered emerald as the leaves fluttered slightly back and forth.

"J'role? What is it?" asked Garlthik as he stepped up alongside him.

Then the ork too began to stare at the forest, drawing in a long, deep breath. "Last night I thought that was a hill."

J'role nodded slowly. When he looked around he saw that the copse to which they had retired was only one of several groups of trees circling the massive forest. It seemed to J'role that the copses were distant parts of the forest, and that some day they would all be linked together, forming a monstrous wilderness of trees.

The thought terrified him.

"Look.” said Garlthik, pointing to the north. Perhaps some three miles back was a trio of travelers descending a hill. Though none seemed to wear scarlet robes, J'role knew magicians sometimes covered their bright and colorful garments to disguise themselves.

"If they've followed us this far, they might be able to walk right up to us." For a moment Garlthik pursed his lips together, then finally said under his breath, "He must have something. Something."

Garlthik was already gathering his things and stuffing them into the sack he carried.

"We'll have to move quickly."

J 'role walked over to his father. The man's flesh was gray and his breathing very shallow.

He shook his father awake, and as soon as Bevarden opened his eyes? The coughing started again. He reached up and grabbed J'role's arm. He looked J'role straight in the eye, but the boy thought his father did not recognize him.

"Drink?" he begged. "I need something to drink."

J 'role shook his head and dragged his father up to his feet. He realized suddenly that he was as tall as his father, probably had been for some time. Exactly when, J'role wondered, had he gotten bigger? Or his father smaller?

Garlthik had already left the shelter of the trees and J'role ran quickly, dragging his father along, to keep up. The ork maneuvered their path so that the trees they had just left behind would hide them from the magician's sight for as long as possible. Bevarden smiled an idiot grin at the forests and actually increased his pace.

J'role looked back and saw that Phlaren — he could see her long hair clearly now-had traveled away from Mordom, and was now signaling to Mordom and Slinsk, who remained hidden from view behind the copse. She was starting to get closer, slowly at first, but then at a run.

"Come!" said Garlthik, running quickly toward the forest.

J'role, still holding his father's hand, stood in place watching Garlthik dash away. He could not move forward, even with his father struggling against his grip to get to the forest. The forest was too big. It seemed to J'role that the overabundance of life would wrap itself around him and choke him. The thought of approaching the forest made him tremble.

His father turned to him, leaning forward like a child held back from a treat by a parent.

"A forest," he said plainly, a bit of a smile in his eyes. "Elves."

"Come ON!" shouted Garlthik, with a wave of his arm. Phlaren would reach J'role any second now if he did not move.

The wash of green filled his vision and rooted him to the spot.

Garlthik took a few steps toward J'role, then t threw his arms out wide in frustration and started rushing toward the wood. In an instant he vanished, swallowed up-by the thick green.

I don't stand a chance now, J'role thought weakly. His father stared at the trees and licked his lips. We don't have to go deep into the forest, J'role decided. We don't have to go deep at all. With a sudden lurch he started to run toward the forest. For the first time in the whole journey, his father kept pace.

They raced toward the tree line, and as they got closer it seemed to sweep around J'role, arms coming to smother him. The brilliant green beauty of the leaves became dark and menacing, and the thick maze of branches and trunks became a single, powerful creature that would eat him as soon as he got near. It was too much life. J’role thought of the clean, straight corridors of his kaer, or the open plains of the rest of the world. But this forest. . a jumble of angles and lines and life.

Closer and closer. His breathing became heavy and labored. Bevarden began to stumble and then finally lost his balance completely. He and J'role tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs. J'role glanced back. He could see their faces now. Slinsk, dark-skinned, a hungry smile on his lips. Phlaren, closer, determined and impatient. Far beyond them walked Mordom, willing to let his two assistants handle the first melee. J'role scrambled back up and dragged his father with him.

They ran, and now it was upon them, thick, shading leaves rushing over them like the maws of a dragon. Coarse vines crisscrossed between the trees and hung down to the jungle floor. Bushes caught their legs and scratched them. Birds sitting in trees suddenly took flight, the flapping of their wings like water flowing swiftly over rocks.

J'role did not want to go in any deeper, but he heard the crash of footsteps behinds them.

"Danger," Bevarden said, and giggled in glee as if the thought of impending danger was the best thing in the world. J'role ran on, holding his father's hand.

They continued to speed through the trees, the sounds of their pursuers close behind at first, then growing more and more faint. Shafts of shadows cut across their route, and after fifteen minutes J'role realized that he had no idea which way they had traveled.

He tried to listen for: Slinsk and Phlaren, but could hear nothing over the sound of his own heavy breathing. He noticed that the tree trunk against his hand felt exceptionally warm. He attributed it to his own heated state and did not think about it until he pulled his hand away.

It was wet and sticky, the palm covered with blood.

J'role stared at his hand and then at the tree bark, which oozed with blood where he had touched it.

Then the tree moved.

It uprooted itself and backed away from J'role. A face, formed from the knots in the tree, stared down at him in horror. It bellowed something at him in a language J'role could not understand. He only had time to catch the slightest motion out the corner of his eye before he realized that a flurry of activity was rushing toward him from all directions.

He turned his head and found himself staring at a spear tip only inches from his face.

The spear was made of wood, the tip of smooth stone, the point so sharp and perfect it had undoubtedly been created with magic. J'role slowly lowered his gaze down the length of the pole until he saw the hands that held it-gnarled branches lined with thorns. The hands belonged to a long and thin creature. It had legs and arms, a head and chest, but its entire body was made of branches covered with thorns and leaves. Though the creature had the shape of a person, its interior was hollow, like the cages containing beautiful colored birds that J'role had seen travelers carrying through his village. Like cages, the thorn men carried animals inside their bodies, but these animals-small birds, squirrels, rabbits-were all dead, the bodies in various states of decay. Even in the heads of the thorn men, where one expected to find a face, J'role saw only the rotted flesh of a ferret, now hairless and gray-pink, or the small, frail bones of a sparrow.

Dozens of the creatures stood around them. His father smiled at them. "Hello," he said, and then asked, "Am I dreaming' He asked the question intently, obviously expecting an answer.

Something fluttered down before J'role; a leaf, he thought at first. But as it hovered before him, he saw that it was actually a tiny human, floating on wings formed from two coarse brown leaves. The tiny woman's face was framed by straight white hair and thorns grew from her skin.

No, he realized. They grew out through her skin. He saw a drop o f clear liquid ooze out one of the tears in her flesh. It rolled down the short thorn, hung suspended from her body for a moment, and then fell to the ground. She stared at him, cocking her head from one side to the other, then flittered off to look at Bevarden. Although she had tried to hide it, J'role had clearly seen pain on her face.

No one said anything. More of the small winged people flew around the nearby trees; they stared, but none came closer. When J'role looked directly at them, they flew around a tree and out of sight. The tree he had touched spoke again, this time as if asking a question, and J'role heard some of the small people answer, their responses a jumble of chirping noises.

The little white-haired woman came back and floated before J'role's face, her wings beating the air to hold herself in place. She said something to him, but he could not understand the words. A thorn man attempted to encourage an answer with the stone tip of his spear.

"I. .,” said Bevarden, and all the thorn men and winged people moved back.

The woman flew over to him. This time J'role could hear words he understood formed in the small sounds of her tiny voice. With faulty accent and many mistaken words she used the common dwarven language. "Why. .? Tribute. .? Queen." Bevarden gestured toward J'role, tried to form a word, and failed. Then he fell into a coughing fit and collapsed to the ground. Thick droplets of blood came up from his throat and spattered the ground. J'role was astonished to see the ground quickly soak up the blood, like parched earth drinking rain water.

Oblivious to Bevarden's pain, the little woman repeated, "Tribute! Queen!"

"I think we need a-present," said the creature in his thoughts.

J'role knew he had nothing to offer. He spread his arms wide.

"Good, good," the creature said sarcastically. "Confound them with your simple-minded honesty." Then it shouted in J'role's thoughts, "Give them the ring. Maybe they'll know what to do with it!"

He had forgotten about the ring. Its magical touch had become a permanent hum against his perceptions. As soon as he thought about surrendering the ring, he felt like crying. He forced the idea from his head.

The patience of the creatures had run out, and they began to chatter wildly. The thorn man in front of J'role tapped the tip of his spear against J'role, and though it did not pierce his flesh, a hot pain lanced through his chest.

The winged woman circled about them and said, "Come!” The thorn men arranged themselves to escort Bevarden and J'role. J'role helped his father up, and soon they were on their way into the heart of the forest.