Longing Ring

3

J'role is seven and something has happened. A day ago. A week ago. Months ago. The dream is a buried mystery, and within the dream the memory of another mystery.

His mother is close to him, her face a breath away from his. "Speak to no one. Speak to no one. No one but me, do you understand?"

She touched his face, her hand so warm and wonderful, but he flinches at the touch.

Something is wrong.

His mother turns away, upset. She bites her lip. Walks a few steps away, then turns suddenly and comes back. Kneeling next to where he sits, she hugs him tight. She begins to cry and then say she is sorry.

He does not know why.

He cannot remember why.

But he has made his mother unhappy, and he decides to keep the promise she asks of him.

He will speak to no one but her.

J'role got up quickly, disengaging himself from his father's arms. Drifting down the dark corridors of the kaer came the sound of shouted orders. He turned and placed a hand on his father's shoulder, tried to wake him up, but his father pushed him away.

And what if I wake him up? J’role thought. What if he shouts at me for waking him? If we stay here, we might be safe.

He stood and walked with his wary grace back up the tunnel, toward the sound of the voices, hoping to get close enough to hear what was happening. He left his torch behind, not wanting to call attention to himself. Turning a bend he suddenly entered total darkness. He walked carefully now, one hand brushing the rough stone wall. The barking orders continued, but now the words sounded harsher, as if the people shouting had moved farther away from one another.

Suddenly a voice rushed down upon him from out of the darkness. It was a man's voice, the syllables crashing off the corridor walls, coming closer and closer. "Verin, stay by the entrance! Don't let him get back out!"

Now a light spilled down the corridor, faint at first, turning the corridor walls the color of dried blood. Gripped by fear J'role turned and rushed back the way he had come. The darkness seemed to swallow him, and because he ran with fear, it dug its way into his eyes, removing all sense of direction and balance.

Without warning J'role slammed into a wall. With a cry he fell to the ground.

"Wait! I heard something! It must be him!"

J'role scrambled up, pressing his hand to the wall, firmly now, to steady himself. He touched his other hand to his forehead and felt warm, sticky blood. A desire to be a child crawled over him. The man would be on him in a moment, and all J'role could think was how he wanted his father to come and save him. Couldn't he do that? Just this one time, just once, come and do that for him?

Seeing the dim red light appear around a corner snapped J'role back into action. He continued through the darkness, moving quickly, but this time with one hand pressed firmly against the stone. Virtually blinded by the dark, he kept thinking he would trip over something-a stone, a body- something. The rough wall scraped at his palm, but it gave him comfort rather than pain. Compared to the impenetrable, insubstantial darkness through which he ran, it was solid and real.

Then his groping hand found only thin air and he fell into a side tunnel. The fall terrified him, but this time he stifled any sound. He rolled quickly against the base of the tunnel wall, tucking himself tightly into the shadows. The firelight became brighter and brighter out in the main corridor, the sound of footsteps coming closer. Then the light of a flame washed over him, and J'role was sure the man running down the corridor would see him.

But the footsteps only hesitated at the junction. For the merest instant J'role glimpsed a man dressed in black leather, illuminate by torch light. Then the darkness descended again, comforting J'role as he lay breathing quietly. He started tucking his body deeper into the shallow hole he'd found when he remembered his-father.

The man in the leather armor was heading straight toward his father.

J'role got up, dizzy from the wound on his forehead, and once more began to move down the corridor, putting first one hand then the other against the left wall for balance. After walking no more than twenty yards he heard his father cry out. That made J'role move faster, but not so fast as to run the same risks as before. He used the wall for balance and guidance until the light from flames ahead lit the corridor for him.

Three torches lit the scene: his father's torch jammed into the wall, J'role's own torch on the ground, and the torch carried by the man in leather. The man stood between J'role and the brilliant collection of flames, his features hidden from J'role, his body a red-tinged shadow.

The stranger leaned over Bevarden, his free hand around the man's neck, pressing his head against the wall. "You must have seen him! Why else are you here? You're working with the ork, aren't you?"

His father, wide-eyed, gasping as if staring straight into a nightmare come true, sputtered,

"No. No. No ork." Then he shut his eyes, as if trying to deny his assailant any reality.

“Listen!" shouted the stranger, jabbing his torch into Bevarden's rough shirt. Smoke rose from the coarse-cloth, and Bevarden screamed. The man laughed, and Bevarden tried to shrink himself into a small ball.

Shame burned at J'role's cheeks, and then it was anger driving him-anger at his father-

as he charged the stranger. He screamed, and as he opened his lips he felt himself lose control of his mouth. His tongue writhed of its own volition and seemed thick and strange in his mouth. A prickly sensation ran over the flesh around J'role's mouth and he heard the words stream out.

Words … things like words.

A conflagration of syllables and sounds, some recognizably human, others not. They tore at his mind even as he raced down the tunnel, screaming them at the top of his lungs. He felt his muscles, his tongue, forming the noises, but he had no idea what he was saying.

As the tall thin man whirled toward J'roIe, he dropped the torch and clutched his hands to his face. J'role's father screamed in agony-a moaning so deep and mournful that it matched the wail he had uttered while watching the villagers stone his wife to death nine years before.

Without thinking J'role shoved his thin arms into the chest of the stranger. The man fell back, J’role’s momentum carrying them both just over the edge of the pit. The man cried out, and; J'role, realizing what was happening, twisted and desperately caught hold of the edge with one arm. He quickly swung one leg up onto the edge, then felt a hand grab his back. It was the stranger, who also had one hand on the edge of the pit, and another one on J'role's shoulder as he tried to climb up.

Their faces were inches apart, J'role still babbling uncontrollably. The sensation of his mouth moving without his will terrified him, and he tried to scream, "Help me!" but the sounds and screams and cries and noises only continued louder and faster, broken now by harsh laughs.

Frozen in terror, the man stared wildly for a moment at J'role. Then he began to claw his way frantically over him, the movement nearly sending the boy down into the pool.

As the man climbed over him, J'role tried to roll further away from the pit, all the while still babbling and crying and shrieking.

J'role and the tall thin man cleared the edge of the pit. J'role struggled to get away, but the man flipped him over and pinned J’role’s chest down with his knees. Behind them, J'role heard his father sobbing. Grabbing J'role's head between his hands, the man began to slam it against the stone floor.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

"Stop it! Stop it! Please! Stop it!" the man screamed at J'role.

J'role felt himself losing his sense of place; the up and down motion, the rhythmic pain, suddenly felt normal. A blackness seeped into his vision. But still the noise from his mouth continued. He tasted the salty tears of the man as they fell into his open, ranting mouth.

Through all the screaming and pain And motion, a single thought burned straight to the center of J'role's thoughts. “I'm going to die." He welcomed the idea. The creature in his head purred.

Everything outside this white-hot thought suddenly faded to the background, though he was still aware of the crying and the screaming and the sharp crack of his skull against the floor. Terror filled him.

What would happen if he died with the thing in his thoughts? Would he just keep ranting never truly dead, alive just enough to support the Horror?

With a sudden, desperate burst of strength he grabbed the man's wrists and tore his hands away from his head. Without pause he rolled the man to the right. The man scrambled wildly to keep his balance, arms waving in the air, but J'role sent him tumbling into the pit, giving him a final nudge with his last bit of strength. The man shouted-a short, abruptly cut-off cry for help.

J'role's mouth continued to babble as he stared up at the torch-lit ceiling, but the sounds came softer and softer.

Then a blessed silence fell. His mouth was sore, but still. He crawled to the edge of the pit and looked down. He saw nothing but the blue, bubble-pocked liquid.

Behind him his father sobbed.

"I'm sorry," Bevarden said amid his tears. "I'm sorry."

J'role crawled toward his father. His words-the noises from his mouth-had caused his father the pain that now wracked him. He wanted to hold his father, to somehow make everything all better.

But before he could reach his father, more light entered the corridor. J'role looked up.

Fifteen feet away stood a tall man wearing magician's robes-red like the blazing heart of a dragon; against the red were intricate silhouettes of trees, their branches beautiful. The magician's eyes were blind white orbs. His right hand was raised, and in the palm was an eye with a deep green pupil. It stared down at J'role.

Behind the magician was a woman. She was as tall as the magician, but with wider shoulders. At her side was a long sword, but the weapon in her hands was a short sword.

"Well, this is a strange night," said the magician. "Do you know where I can find my friend Garlthik One-Eye? And if so, would you please tell me where?" The words were calm and friendly; the sound of them heavy with menace. The- eye in the-palm blinked.

A strange sensation passed through J'role, a combination of dread — for he had never seen anyone like the magician before him-and a sense of thrill. He'd just vanquished the stranger who had assaulted his father. His voice, which had always seemed a curse, had helped him. Could he use it again?

Keeping his face still, ignoring the sobs of his father, J'role opened his mouth to speak to the magician. If the voice confused the magician and the warrior, he might be able to grab his father and run. Perhaps not. Perhaps only he would run. Who knew? But the sensation of fight was strong in him now, and he knew the desire to try rather than surrender.

His mouth dropped open and he felt the rush of the creature's control rush up like a thick snake in his throat. The snake squeezed its way into his tongue and J'role felt it begin to move without his willing it.

The first sounds-low cries, unintelligible syllables, some panting, a giggle-came out; The warrior dropped her sword. The magician took a step back, placing his eyeless hand against his chest. His father screamed. "Please," he shouted, high-pitched, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The thrill grew greater in J'role. A pride began to grow in him. He could harm so many people. He had denied it for so many years, but no more …

The magician, his eye-hand still raised high, spoke a word that J'role could not make out over the cacophony of his own speech. A blue flame jumped out from the hand, and in terror J'role watched as a webbing of blue light warped itself in the air around the hand.

The webbing, like a cloud of soft blue cotton, flew through the- air, slamming into J'role's mouth and wrapping tightly around his head. He tried to continue speaking, but the gauze grew tighter and tighter, choking his tongue back into his mouth, cutting deep into the corners of his mouth, until he could do no more than moan.

The warrior quickly seized her sword from off the floor. The magician took a few curious steps forwards His father now had his hands held high in front of his face, with the rest of his body curled tightly into a ball.

J 'role-raised his hands to try to pry away the webbing, but his hands became stuck to the material and he could not tear them free. Feeling helpless, J'role decided to stay on his knees rather than risk the magician's further wrath. His head throbbed, and in his ridiculous position the desire for conflict quickly dissipated.

"What is it?" asked the warrior of the magician. J'role could see now that her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying. "Is he a magician? A nethermancer adept?"

"I'm not sure," the magician said, a strong note of curiosity in his voice. He seemed the least affected. With his eye-hand held high, he approached J'role. The eye looked down and peered at him. It blinked. "Hmmm" said the magician. "A Horror?" asked the warrior. She took a step back at the word she spoke.

"I don't …," the magician began uncertainly. "Perhaps. But the boy himself is not." He spoke a few more words J'role had never heard before. A pale green light radiated from the eye, washing over J'role's flesh and forcing him to close his eyes. "No, there's …

something inside him."

"Inside him?" She hefted her blade, as if ready to split J'role open and kill the creature.

"Not the body, Phlaren," the magician said wearily. "The creature's spirit. It's in his …

thoughts, if you will. I don't know where the thing's body is."

J'role felt nervous. He'd thought he'd found a way to use the Horror to his own advantage, but by revealing his voices he had revealed all. A sweat began to trickle down his forehead as he remembered his mother's fate.

"He's good," said the creature. "Please. .," thought J'role.

"No. He really is. Most humans wouldn't be able to see as much as he's seen. Do you think they'll drop you into the pit? Pelt you with stones? Slice off your head?"

"Kill him?" asked the warrior, taking a step forward.

"Not just yet. Garlthik ran in here. He may have been coming to meet them. They may be of use."

The magician walked up to Bevarden and kicked him in the side. "You!" he shouted.

Bevarden came out of his tears, surprised, and looked up. He saw J'role on his knees with a glowing blue gauze wrapped around his face, then glanced at the magician, then the warrior His mouth opened and closed slightly, over and over again like a fish desperate for water.

"Where is Garlthik?" the magician asked.

"I. . I don't know. . I'm just. . I'm nobody."

"Have you seen a tall man? In leather armor?” asked the woman.

J'role remained completely still. Bevarden looked to J'role, then mimicked his lack of response.

"This is a waste of time," the warrior said, hefting her sword.

"So impatient, Phlaren. Obviously they've seen him, or they would have answered. By not answering they show they're hiding something, which means they know something about Yarith that they'd rather not say. Most likely that they've killed him."

The warrior's face changed, softened a bit, then became hard and cold. "Oh."

"Am I right?" the magician asked J'role. He slammed his foot into J'role's stomach so quickly it caught J'role completely by surprise. J'role fell onto his back, aware he was now dangerously close to the edge of the pit. He stared up as the magician spoke to him.

“listen, boy, if I didn't kill you before, I won't now. Phlaren might, but she'll listen to me.

Now just tell me so we can move along, did you kill a man in leather armor."

J'role glanced at the woman, whose face: muscles were held tightly. A thought occurred to him: As long as the other man's death remained a mystery, she would keep her hatred of him alive, ready to snap at any moment. But if he were to admit the deed, she might still hate him, but the event would no longer have a place at the front of her thoughts. It would slowly slip away.

He nodded.

"Where is the body?”

He nodded toward the pit. The magician craned his neck and said, "Oh Well, so much for him."

"We kill them now," said the woman.

"Not yet. Get the boy. I'll get this misshapen lump moving along."

The magician and the warrior escorted them to the Atrium, where they sat J'role and his father against the fountain. Torches ringed the area, casting huge shadows along the walls. The magician had removed the spell, and the warrior had bound J'role and his father with ropes. A strip of cloth gagged J'role.

The magician had half a dozen allies who entered and left the Atrium in the search for Garlthik. It seemed from the shouts that echoed through the corridors and the constant regrouping that took place-in the Atrium that the magician's companions were constantly finding Garlthik's trail, only to lose it again. The magician, the woman warrior, and two other men armed with swords remained in the Atrium, determined to prevent Garlthik from leaving the kaer.

While the other men and women hunted the tunnels, the woman warrior roughly searched J'role and his father. She found the coins from Garlthik-J'role thought she would certainly take them-but only tossed them aside, and they clattered against the stone floor. J'role glanced at the money. Had it been only a few hours ago that he'd met the ork, received the money from him?

Whatever she was looking for, the warrior did not find it, and when she was done, she stood and turned away.

The magician remained seated on the edge of the fountain. "Who is this?" he asked Bevarden, gesturing to the statue.

The reply came dry and tired. "Garlen. Our protector.”

"Ah. Interesting. I'd heard that people had made statues of the spirits during the Scourge."

He looked at the statue for a few moments. "And how did your people fare? The village nearby-I assume the people came from here."

"Yes."

"And did Garlen keep your people safe?"

Bevarden's voice cracked. "Some."

"You lost someone?"

"Yes."

"Spirits are for the weak. Why depend on the force of another? I'd rather depend on my own wiles. If I fail, I cannot sit and blame another and be bitter."

"Some of us," said Bevarden, his voice suddenly sober, "are very weak."

"Yes," answered the magician. "I depend on that."

The sound of shouting echoed through the corridor, then a scream, and cries for help.

"Ushel! Chie! GO, go!" said the magician harshly. The two armed men rushed down the tunnel from where the cries sounded. J'role could just make out the sound of metal striking metal. Another scream. And then another. The woman warrior started for the corridor. "No," said the magician. "Not yet."

Silence fell. The warrior's body tensed. The magician turned and faced the corridor his hand raised a blue crackle around it. The tension swept J'role up: What would emerge?

Footsteps approached, slow and staggering. Then Garlthik stumbled out of a tunnel and collapsed to the floor. A short man with a stocky- build and curly black hair followed.

Blood dripped down his temple.

"Where are the others?" asked the magician

"Dead."

"All?"

"All."

"Garlthik," the magician said softly, his voice icy with anger, "you have cost me much time."

Garlthik raised his head from the ground. "You should have let me be. Easier for all of us."

"And leave the lovely ring with the likes of you? I think not."

The ork tried to rise up to his hands and knees, but the small man rushed up and threw himself onto Garlthik's back. The ork collapsed to the stone floor with a great sigh. I'm not going anywhere, Slinsk," he gasped.

"That's what you said outside of Harash."

Garlthik smiled, his huge teeth arching up from his lower jaw. "Yes. I did. Very well."

He paused, then said, "I don't have it, you know."

The magician said, "Did you search him?"

"Not yet," answered Slinsk.

"I lost it during the chase. Don't really know where it went. Somewhere in the tunnels."

He coughed and blood came up over his lips.

The magician turned to Phlaren. "Help Slinsk search him." She wakled over to Garlthik and hoisted him by the neck. As soon as his body was erect she slammed her fist into his stomach, doubling him over. Then she jerked him back up.

Garlthik remained still while Phlaren held his neck and Slinsk approached to begin his search. Suddenly Garlthik moved quickly, his right arm seeming to vanish as it moved behind him, grabbing something from his cloak. A dagger appeared in his hand. Just as Garlthik was swinging the dagger toward Phlaren, the woman brought her hand down on his arm. His arm's bone snapped sharply as she broke it.

J'role saw a glint of silver-small as a firefly-rush toward him. Distracted by the appearance of the weapon and the pursuant struggle, no one else saw the silver ring fly across the room from Garlthik's free hand toward the fountain.

It fell to the ground with a light tink and rolled to a stop a few inches from J'role's outstretched legs. J'role glanced toward the ork. Though Garlthik grimaced in terrible pain as Phlaren and Slinsk drove him back down to the ground, his one eye met J'role's gaze and he nodded slightly.