Longing Ring

1

Your father, as a boy, had horrible memories; they lay buried in his mind, too terrible to confront by daylight, yet too powerful to be ignored. So the memories emerged while he slept, winding their way through his dreams. The dreams tried desperately to remind him of things past, things he had to know if he was to live his life, but the mortal mind's defenses against horrible truths are strong, and J'role did not heed the memories.

So he slept, and in his sleep he cried out for help and sweated and rocked back and forth like a small babe. And when he awoke, he remembered nothing.

This was the way of things in your father's youth.

J'role, seventeen years old, long-limbed and silent stood in the shade of a tree. The ritual scars along his cheek bones formed thin lines, like stitching in leather. His face revealed nothing, his body still as the tree beside him. Around him his fellow villagers busied themselves with their daily tasks: farming, pounding bronze into plows and shields, milking goats and cows. J'role owned nothing, and had nothing to do. He had long since given up trying to work for anyone else in the village. His fellow villagers would have nothing to do with him. Cursed and mute, the son of a mother who went mad during the Scourge, he might taint them. No one took chances back then, so soon after the invasion.

The creature in his head said, "Let's go talk to someone."

"No," J'role thought, his face betraying nothing. No one suspected that a Horror lived within his thoughts, and no one could know if J'role wanted to stay alive.

"Come, just a few words. You've been silent for so long. How many years now?"

"Nine," J'role thought. "Nine years! No one should remain so silent."

"I must." His face was grim with miserable purpose.

"Still upset about your mother?" "Quiet!" "Oh, you are."

J'role turned his thoughts from the creature, gazing out toward the craggy mountains that ringed the valley of his village. Whenever he looked at them, he thought about the dragons his father had spoke of over the years. Could any living thing be as big as a mountain? He did not think so, but then, J'role thought very little that his father told him to be true

Down the dirt lane was Ishan, the bronzesmith, casting a spell on the plow he was crafting. A sprinkle of blue glittered down from his fingers, and into the metal, then he raised his hammer and continued pounding the plow. "Magic," J'role thought. "What about it?" asked the creature. "If I could learn it, I'd get rid of you." "Unlikely."

"I'd try."

"Well, one way or the other, someone must first teach you magic, and there's little chance of that, is there?"

J'role glanced up and down the dirt lane that led in and out of the village. At either end the long brown road tapered off and out of sight, vanishing into the twisted hills. The sky above shone brilliant blue — a blue so bright it hurt.

On the road to the south J'role spotted something — someone — approaching.

He moved, turning to get a better view, so slightly and so carefully that few would have noticed the movement even if looking directly at him.

It was not a villager approaching. No one had left the village fort weeks. A traveler? An adventurer? Someone to beg coins from? J'role hoped so. Having used up the good will of Brandson the tavern keeper, the only way he would get food for his father and himself would be to buy it.

With the startling grace of a cat, J'role-shed his stillness and started toward the edge of the village. It was not a run, exactly, being both lighter and fiercer. A dragon's flaming breath rushing through the air. A slight expression appeared on his face, nothing anyone could name precisely as-happiness, but something nonetheless. And inside, safe from the world, J'role was happy. He loved nothing so much as motion, to feel his muscles working throughout his body. As he strained to overcome the earth's pull he felt joy.

Somehow, despite everything, he could move.

Few eyes fell upon J'role as he darted through the huts and trees of the village proper, in part because J'role's motion called so little attention to itself. But even those who did catch his body flashing past paid little heed. It was only J'role. The mute, cursed boy.

Running again.

As long as it's away from me. J'role imagined them thinking.

He reached a tree at the edge of the village, ducked behind it, then peered out from behind. He drew in a breath. What was it that approached?

Not a man certainly. Too large and stocky for a man, with long arms and shoulders too wide. A troll? His father had told him about trolls. But J'role imagined them to be even bigger than the stranger walking down the road.

— What was it?

Ever since his people had left the stone corridors of the kaer seven years ago, he'd seen the tall, thin elves with their olive or pale skin and tight-lipped smiles. He'd also seen some lizard-folk, the thick-skinned humanoids with powerful tails and bountiful good nature.

But whatever approached now, J'role had never seen before.

An ork, he realized finally. The-teeth, the grayish hue of the flesh. An ork. His father had told him stories about orks. Stories his father had heard from his father, who had heard them from J'role's great-grandfather before that. Stories passed down for four hundred years as the world hid from the onslaught of Horrors roaming the world.

As the ork got closer, J'role saw that the hair on- his head was thick and stiff, and that he wore a patch of black cloth over his right eye, tied in place with a strip of leather. The ork's other eye was large and yellow, his ears pointed. Jutting up from his mouth and over his upper lip were two large teeth. He wore thick boots, Andre his clothing was made of rough leather. From the ork's shoulders hung a tattered blue cloak — the blue of the sky just after sunset when the stars first appear. Hanging from a thick belt around his waist was a sword without a scabbard; sunlight gleamed on the metal, running up and down the naked blade. The metal looked smoother than any J'role had ever seen, better even than Ishan's work. And Ishan was good.

Seeing the blade, seeing the sight of an ork, J'role began to wonder if maybe there were dragons the size of mountains.

When the ork was some twenty feet away, J'role stepped out from his shelter, right out onto the road. He walked up to the stranger as if he'd been expecting him, stopping to bow low at a distance of some six feet. Was this the way to greet an ork? He could only try and find out.

The ork laughed out loud, a sound rough and rich as rocks crashing down a mountainside.

“I’ve had many abrupt greetings upon entering a new place, but none so welcoming! It seems my tired feet have brought me to the right place after all." Add he laughed again.

Looking up, J'role saw the ork smiling down at him. The stranger's open, happy face caught him off guard, and for a moment he wanted to embrace him. In fact, he almost spoke. He caught himself just as the muscles of this throat tightened.

The creature in J'role's head sighed. "Say hello to the ork," it said, coiling about J'role's thoughts like a dragon's tail around its treasure. "You want to, don't you? You like him.

Something about this freak. ."

"Be quiet" J'role thought harshly, a look of anger — or perhaps desperation — passing over his face. But he'd learned not to show anger around people. It raised too many suspicions.

If the ork saw the look, he did not let on. Regaining control J'role quickly put on a smile -

a smile just so — with an even mix of supplication and eagerness to please. He'd used the same smile on previous travelers who'd passed through the village, and over the years he'd polished and rubbed it well, like a magic ring: shiny, bright, potent.

Ah," said the Garlthik, his good natured smile melting into something sly. "You want something.” He spoke the dwarven tongue as did everyone in J'role's village. It had become the language of trade in the time before the Scourge, and then the standard language throughout the land. But the ork's vowels were short and sharp, and sounded strange to J'role's ears.

A crowd had gathered by now, and J'role knew he had to act quickly if he wanted to milk the ork. He touched his fingers to his throat, then held his hands wide.

"Mute? That's a shame. A lad your age should be shouting at the stars. You 'want money, I suppose."

J 'role nodded, hopefu1 and pathetic, but stiff smiling. Always smiling at anyone he approached.

The ork reached his thick fingers into a' leather sack attached to his belt. "I'm tired, I need a place to stay." He leaned close to J'role, drawing him into a cozy conspiracy "A safe place." He drew a coin that glinted of silver out of the, bag "Do you k now of such a place?"

J'role nodded

“Will they let me stay there?”

He nodded again. The ork handed him the silver, and when the ork’s 1arge, rough fingertips touched J'role's palm, the boy became lightheaded. It was as if he'd finally found magic. He could not name it exactly, but there was something so alien about the touch. Different. He found it amazing to be meeting such a strange man straight out of one of his father stories!

“It’s a shame you can't tell me your name," said the ork, “But I am Gar1thik One-Eye.

Come," he said, clasping J’role’s shoulder with one heavy hand, "take me to my place of rest."

"His name is J'role," Charneale said from the gathered crowd.

"Oh, no,” thought J'role, while the creature in his head said, “Don't you want to harm this man? Couldn’t we talk to him?"

Charneale, the village magician, stepped forward, flanked by his three apprentices, two girls and a boy, all J'role's age. "His parents named him J’role," Charneale added. His face was thin and gray and wrinkled. 'I am Charneale magician of Thyson. These are my pupils." All four wore colorful robes sewn with elaborate patterns to keep the Horrors away when they cast their magic.

J’role hated Charneale, though the beautiful robes drew his eyes and made him long to wear something so wonderful. Charneale’s robe had a lightning blue background. Against the blue were red swans, yellow stars gray and white mountains. On special nights, when the great magics were cast, the swans flapped their wings and flew along the surface of the robe.

"I am Garlthik One-Eye," said the ork, and — he thrust out his hand to Charneale, but the magician ignored the gesture. J'role, observant and still, saw anger flash across Garlthik's face, but it passed quickly — so quickly that no one else noticed it.

Speaking as if J'role were not there, Charneale said, "The boy has been an idiot since his seventh birthday."

Garlthik peered down at J'role with his one good eye. “He seems sharp enough to me. He just can't talk. Or won't."

J'role swallowed. Did Garlthik see? Could orks see a Horror in a person's head?

Charneale said, "His family is cursed. His mother was possessed by a Horror, his father is a drunkard, and the boy is an idiot."

"What happened to the mother?" Garlthik asked softly, strangely intent. " Did you get the creature out?"

Charneale raised his chin, piqued. "We had little- time. We were still living in our kaer, and we believed our defenses had been breached…."

You stoned her," Garlthik said in a quiet, accusing voice.

"We performed what rituals were required”

Garlthik snorted.

"The taint was deep in her," said one of the girls, obviously reciting a well-known phrase.

"I'm sure," answered Garlthik. "Nonetheless, the boy seems fine to me. Thank you for your time. The sun is setting, and I’d like some sleep."

With his hand on J'role's shoulder, the ork turned toward the village proper. But Charneale had not done. "What, may I ask, is your purpose here?"

"Well, sir, the world is a dangerous place, filled with creatures and evil thoughts. I sought a quiet village like yours for some comfort."

"You may have it, but I suggest you stay away from the boy and his father."

"Garlthik One-Eye has wandered one too many mountains to be afraid of a mute boy and his diseased father, magician."

"You are an adept, aren't you?"

J'role looked up at the ork. He could work magic! What other surprises did Garlthik One-Eye possess?

"In my own fashion."

"Take nothing while in this village."

"I take only from those who have something worth stealing. And as far as I can tell, this village has little to offer a traveler with taste."

Charneale gasped, J'role smiled, and Garlthik directed J'role forward down the lane.

Again, the odd sensation from the ork's touch. The ork lived adventure. The ork lived hope and expectation. Combat. Impossible deeds. His heavy touch transmitted all these experiences and more. J'role struggled to find the words in his thoughts.

"He has lived as you have not lived," said the creature. "Yes," thought J'role. "Lived. He has lived."

"Lived as you have not, lived as you never will. You will never know hope and expectation. You will never know impossible deeds. You are nothing and you will never have anything you want."

Normally the creature's words would have plunged J'role into depression, a despair as deep and empty and dark as a chasm from one of his father's stories. But not today.

Instead, J'role trembled inwardly with both fear and excitement. He knew his association with Garlthik One-Eye might bring down on him further misery from his — own people, for the ork had been rude, and that was bad. But he was also excited; as long as Garlthik remained in the village J'role had an ally against those who had for so long shut him out of their lives.

He had a friend.

As they walked toward Brandson's Tavern, Garlthik twice looked over his shoulder. J'role saw this, and perceptive though he was, could not be certain if the ork was looking back at Charneale and the villagers who stared after them, or something else, something far away along the southern road. Something distant and following Garlthik Garlthik caught J'role watching him. He smiled a broad, toothy smile. "Your people, are you from a nearby kaer?”

J'role nodded and pointed off to the Red Hills, where the shelter still stood, dark and deserted.

"Well, you're doing well for yourselves," the ork said, looking round at the rice paddies and tall trees. "The effects of the Scourge will not last long in this area of the world, I'm certain."-

J'role smiled back politely, but in his heart he was troubled. The Scourge was ending everywhere but in his own head.

* * *

Even as J'role stepped into the large common room filled with tables and the central fire pit, a dozen of the patrons of Brandson's Tavern gasped and stared openly at the ork behind him. Their collective gasp of surprise and shock was like the sound of wind rustling branches just before a rain. J'role was pleased; for once they could not simply ignore him. His companion was an ork.

J 'role saw them struggling with their own thoughts — Should they let the ork in? Why shouldn't they? Why should they? Their indecision cost them the chance to protest, for before anyone could speak, Garlthik had closed the door behind him.

J'role pointed Brandson out to Garlthik, and the ork walked up to the weary-looking man who wore a smock stained with beer and the juices of roasted meats. As with Charneale, Garlthik extended his hand and introduced himself. Unlike Charneale, Brandson returned the handshake, but without the well-known smile he usually bestowed on neighbors and guests.

The two discussed the price of a room: Garlthik would stay at least three days, though he might leave at a moment's notice. This disturbed Brandson, making him wonder if he was inviting trouble into his establishment. But Garlthik produced silver coins to pay in advance for all three days. Whether he left early or not, Brandson could keep the money.

Brandson accepted the coins, and the two shook hands again. This time Brandson smiled his famous smile.

Garlthik turned to J'role. "I've got to get some sleep, lad. Here's your pay so far." He dug his thick fingers into a leather sack strung onto his belt and produced another silver.

Brandson's eyes widened. "Come back later, and I'll tell you some tales of my adventures.

How's that, eh?”

J'role nodded enthusiastically. He loved stories, but wanted the real stories, not his father's lies.

Garlthik picked up his sack and turned to climb the stairs For the first time J'role realized how weary the ork was, who leaned heavily on the railing as he walked slowly up the steps. The blue cloak, the blue of the sky just after sunset when the stars first appear, had a big gash running down its length. Under the cloak, J'role spotted a rip in the ork's shirt, and beneath that, the flash of a wide purple scar.

Halfway up the stairs Garlthik stopped, drew something from a small sack attached to his belt. The object was too small for J'role to make out, but Garlthik stared at it a long time.

Then he clenched his fist around it and laughed softly. He raised his foot halfway to the next step, then stopped, turning his head unexpectedly, looking directly at J'role, catching the boy staring at him.

The good humor in the ork's face suddenly left. In a gruff tone he said, "You shouldn't look where you're not invited."

J'role desired to run away as quickly as possible. But he stayed rooted to the spot, unable to move, afraid that motion would betray a weakness that Garlthik would use to harm him.

Without a change in his grim expression, Garlthik turned back up the stairs and on to the second floor.

When Garlthik had gone from sight, J'role turned to Brandson. Over the years the two had worked out a rudimentary sign system, which J'role now used to buy some bread and cheese with one of the silver pieces Garlthik had given him. Brandson gave him change and wrapped the food in a large piece of cloth, which J'role put under his arm as he left the tavern to find his father. He decided not to show his father the change he'd received, nor the second silver Garlthik had given him, fearing that his father might take the money to spend on drink. All he would show his father was the food.

"Time to feed Dad?" the creature in his thoughts asked.

J'role ignored it.