by kubasik
Garlthik still breathed; the bundle of hemp pulsed slightly. This gave J'role great comfort, for he didn't know what to do next and certainly could not count on his father for help.
Bevarden was still praying, mumbling soft supplications to Garlen.
Minutes passed, and then, through a slight slit in the rope, J'role saw Garlthik's eye open.
"Do you have it?" Garlthik said softly. He spoke with such pain J'role wanted to reach out and comfort him.
J 'role nodded slightly, casually, as if dropping off to sleep.
Garlthik nodded back. "Distract them. Somehow. With only two of them here, we might get out."
"J'role?" said his father as if coming out of a dream. "Who is this?"
The green eye shifted slightly. "Your father?" Garlthik asked. J'role nodded.
"Listen, old man," whispered Garlthik, and J'role found himself embarrassed, for he realized his father looked much older than he really was. "We might be able to leave here alive. But I need those two over there distracted. I can get free if …” He gasped for air and winced.
"Do you know him?" Bevarden asked J'role.
J'role nodded, this time with his eyes wide, hoping his father would cooperate. He desperately wanted to be able to talk—not make the abominable sounds he had made earlier—but to speak with words, so he could explain everything to his father so he'd be quiet.
But, of course, that was not possible. "I want a drink, J'role. I want a drink so bad."
J'role turned to his father. The man's head rested against the fountain; his tongue flicked over his lips, desperate for beer.
How J'role hated him! He was so weak!
J'role would never be So weak. He would die first.
He rocked his body forward—once, twice—then rolled up onto his knees.
Mordom turned his body, raised his hand. "What are you doing?"
With a deft maneuver J'role dropped his hands low and grabbed the ring off the floor.
Even as he stood up he saw an odd green glow, like blades of grass on a warm morning, emanate from within the knots binding Garlthik's hands. J'role rushed a few feet to the left, neither toward Mordom and Phlaren; but simply away from Garlthik. Phlaren drew her sword.
"J'role!" Bevarden cried. "What are you ..." He rolled forward and tried to get up. But with his hands bound behind his back he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor. His chin slammed into the stone, but he continued the struggle to get up. A red smear dripped from a cut just under his lip.
A panic seized J'role. He had meant to put his own life in danger, not his father's.
Looking after his father was too much work.
"Both of you, sit down!" shouted Mordom.
J'role turned and saw Phlaren, her long sword drawn, walking toward him and Bevarden.
Then Mordom gave a cry of warning to Phlaren. Garlthik suddenly loomed behind Phlaren, leaped onto her back and grabbed her neck with his good arm. The two of them collapsed toward J'role, who jumped quickly out of the way. Phlaren and Garlthik crashed down to the floor, Phlaren with Pa cry of pain.
Garlthik jumped up, a bloodied dagger in his hand— where had he gotten that? J'role wondered—and slipped the blade through the knots that held J'role tight. His hands free, J'role scrambled up, realizing that he still held the ring in his hand.
He knew that nothing would make him let it go.
Mordom turned toward him, his ruined white eyes ghastly in the firelight. He raised the eye-hand and a red bolt arced through the air.
J'role stood paralyzed with fear, thinking now he would die, when suddenly his father crashed into him, knocking J'role out of the way. The wizard's bolt caught Bevarden full, drawing a horrible scream from him.
"Run, boy! Run!" shouted Garlthik.
But J'role found it impossible to move. He stared down at his father, who rocked back and forth on the floor, the flesh burned off his right shoulder, exposing red muscle and yellow fat. He whimpered, then said, "Just something to drink, son. A little drink. T
promise, then I'll get everything together. Preparations. We'll make. Preparations. With preparation we can make anything happen."
Garlthik's rough hand grabbed J'role by the back of his shirt and knocked him toward the entrance tunnel. He heard Mordom speak the strange language again, and this time intense fear made him rush for the kaer's entrance. He heard the clatter of metal, a shout, and then plunged into the darkness of the tunnel. He ran and ran, finally arriving on the ledge outside the kaer's entrance.
The night air, cold and damp, crashed into his flesh, and for a moment he felt safe, as if by being under the stars he had somehow left all the troubles behind. He grabbed the rope in his mouth, and pulled it down around his neck. Then he heard Garlthik shouting for him to keep running, the voice getting closer and closer.
J'role rushed for the edge of the ledge and jumped off, balancing himself on two legs for the first few yards of the steep incline. Then he hit a series of rough patches and began to tumble wildly down the hill, totally losing his balance. He rolled into the base of the hill and collapsed among another group of stones. He heard the sound of more stones coming down from above him, and he moved quickly out of the way as Garlthik joined him at the base of the hill.
Without a backward glance the orks grabbed J'role by the shirt and half-carried him to some boulders fifty yards away. J'role bounced along, and the ork breathed heavily with the effort. When they'd slipped into the shadows of the rocks Garlthik slammed J'role against a tall boulder with his good arm. J'role realized that he should have felt pain, but his body was now too beaten and torn to register new shocks.
"Do you have it?" Garlthik demanded with a sharp whisper, his one eye glaring down fiercely. A stench of beer roiled out of his mouth. "Come on. I didn't have time to finish them. They'll be after us in a moment.”
J'role realized that the only reason the ork had helped him escape was to secure the ring—there wasn't a bit of real concern in his face.
J'role had left his father behind to die.
He nodded softly. He let all the rigidity of his body seep away into the night air. As J'role hoped, Garlthik loosened his grip in response. J'role hesitated an instant, then broke free of the ork rushing under his right arm and back toward the kaer.
He'd only gone a short way when Garlthik tackled him, knocking him to the ground. The ring flew out of J'role's hand and skittered a few feet away.
A horrible emptiness crashed into J'role's chest. The tunnel to his heart created by the ring had sealed shut, and he missed the chill wind terribly. All thoughts of his father forgotten, he fought Garlthik desperately to regain the ring. They crawled over each other, kicking and crawling, arms outstretched to reach the moonlit glint of silver. J'role remembered Garlthik's broken arm and slammed his hands into it. Garlthik cried out in agony, and J'role almost got by him. But the thick fingers of the ork's good hand wrapped themselves around J'role's ankle and pulled him back away from the ring. A horrible, deep fury roared out of Garlthik's mouth, and J'role thought the ork might bite him with his massive teeth.
"Speak!" the creature in his thoughts demanded. "Speak! Let me help!"
In his fury to reach the ring, J'role did not hesitate. As he began to breathe the strange sounds into Garlthik's ear, the ork clutched his head and rolled away.
Now freed from the ork's grasp, J'role rushed for the ring, grabbed it, and began running toward the kaer. His mouth kept moving his voice still screeching and uttering sounds.
He ran on another thirty feet. Then, afraid he might drop the ring, he slipped it onto his finger.
And collapsed to his knees.
The moment the ring was on his finger a terrible longing washed over hum. The sensation ripped through his chest; it tore at every dream he ever had, knocking them from his heart, replacing them with nothing but a desire for something he could not identify. It felt like the longing for his mother. Or his desire for a sober and strong father. He thought of his desire to be
held. He remembered his friends from when he was much, much younger, none of whom spoke to him any longer. He thought of his desire to live a life of adventure. He thought of so many things, but knew that not one of them was exactly the thing he longed for. The ring suggested something else, something better than anything he had ever dreamed of. In his heart he knew that if he could just find what it was he longed for, he would never, never need or want anything again.
The sensation was so strong in him that he did not immediately realize he was speaking words.
Words!
When he noticed it, he touched his hands to his lips, for he could not at first believe it.
His lips moved without his volition, as when he made the creature's noises. But he was speaking words now. Whole words. He listened to himself.
". . . white pillars, as pure as clouds, rising up, supporting arches carved with reliefs showing the splendors of the world . . ."
He listened to himself, stunned. At first he did not know what he was saying But then realized he was describing the details of a city—a city of such wonder that it matched the tales his father used to tell J'role as a boy. He remained on his knees, listening to himself speak of gold-plated streets and chariots that flew through the sky, of great temples each supported by a single pillar of emerald-inlaid marble. His words enthralled him, for he could almost see images of the city in the corner of his mind. He sought out the images, desperate for a glimpse of its beauty.
Only because the night air was cool did he realize he was crying.
A shadow fell over him, the light of the moon suddenly gone. He looked up and saw Garlthik staring down at him. The ork looked totally baffled as he stared at J'role with his one eye, head cocked to the side. He-looked at the ring on J'role's finger and then asked quietly, "What are you talking about, boy?"
J'role spread his arms wide as his mouth continued to move without his will.
"Come," he said, leaning down and gently helping J'role up. He glanced back toward the kaer, and J'role did too. They could see no one. "If they haven't come after us yet, it means they'll be after us any minute. Come."
J'role pointed toward the kaer several times.
"He's dead, boy," Garlthik said quietly. "He died from the wizard's spell."
With the ork's big arm draped carefully around J'role's back, the two walked off into the night, J'role's voice a whisper, telling of fountains that poured water filled with small stars and of statues that danced and flew through the air.
5
After Bevarden had done his pratfalls and juggled and made jokes and made everybody laugh, he settled down and told stories.
Each day the people in the kaer survived another twenty-four hours in the stone corridors, prisoners in their shelter of safety. But they knew that generations ago their ancestors had walked the world—a world alive with magic and adventure and a brilliant sun and a blue sky and things called jungles so thick with trees and plants you could not see through it from one side to another. Bevarden reminded everyone of these things.
He acted out stories of adventurers seeking magical elements in craggy mountain peaks, encountering primitive troll tribes. Of ancient warriors defeating the first Horrors that came to the world hundreds of years ago when the invasion was just beginning. Of sailors who traveled huge, rolling, uncovered roads of water called rivers. He spoke of the elves of the Wyrm Wood, with their delicate and perfect faces, their love of the jungles, and their powerful magic with all things living. He reminded people of the dwarven kingdom of Throal, whose language they all spoke. And the powerful Theran Empire that had provided the means to fend off the Horrors.
J'role watched his father and ached to leave the confines of the kaer. And he loved his father, for the man was full of life and energy and spoke of passions and valor and the challenge of being alive. He looked around at the audience assembled in the Atrium and watched everyone enjoying his father playing the part of heroes and trolls and dwarfs and elves. And even though they knew all the stories, they listened, far Bevarden kept fresh in their minds the memories of the life waiting for them at the end of the Scourge.
Garlthik and J'role walked for a long time that night. The stars and moon cast a pale light down to the earth, creating soft shadows of a few scraggly trees along the barren ground.
Garlthik picked the path, and J'role, who continued to speak of the beautiful city, knew only that he was getting farther away from his village and the kaer.
As they walked Garlthik took a small vial out of the pouch tied to his belt. He removed the stopper, and drank down the contents of the vial. Hours later, long into their walk, J'role made a connection between the vial's contents and the fact that Garlthik's groans of pain had ceased and he no longer held his left arm in agony. A magical potion.
Normally J'role would have been astounded to see such powerful magic, but not this night. The small tunnel to his heart created when he had first touched the ring had become so achingly beautiful and overpowering he cared for nothing but the words that came without thought from his lips. The small tunnel had into a vast cavern of cold desire. All he wanted was the promise of happiness that the ring and the images of the city carried. To know that there actually existed a place where he could finally feel whole... J'role had always believed that such a place or a person or an object—
something—could exist. But he had never been able to guess what it might actually be.
Now he knew. The magic city he now spoke of.
Spoke of!
It astounded him further that he was still speaking. It was true he did not have control of his tongue, his jaw, his lips. As ever he found himself disconnected from his own body in the matter of making sounds with his mouth. The words came to him out of the world's magic. He looked around at the barren hills and the scraggly trees and the piles of boulders and stones that dotted the pale blue night. From somewhere in this emptiness came the words. He had no idea why he said what he said. He had no actual picture of the city in his thoughts. He responded to the images formed by the words, moved to tears on occasion, from weakness, yes, but also from a longing for what he spoke of. The more the city's details grew in his mind, the more he longed for the city.
***
Garlthik eyed him curiously as they walked. J'role, who listened to himself with the same interest as Garlthik, sometimes met Garlthik's eye. The ork raised the brow over his good eyes stared down at J'role as they walked on the quiet, cool night. These shared looks made them companions sharing a mystery: the mystery of why their third companion—
the strange words—carried on so.
Finally, after many hours, J'role's throat began to hurt from the talking. The distanced sensations of his lips moving by their own had been replaced by a numbing pain. His mouth was dry. It occurred to him that it might never stop. He stumbled and fell to his knees.
"What is it?" Garlthik asked.
J'role put his hands to his face, touched his lips. They writhed under his fingertips like snakes. A panic came over him. He put his hands together to remove the cold ring. But even as he did so, a horrible feeling overwhelmed him: give up the longing? Despite the agony of his muscles, he wanted to continue to hear about the lovely city. For the first time in nearly a decade he knew hope, and giving that up seemed too terrible.
"You want to stop talking?" Garlthik asked.
J'role nodded.
"Take off the ring."
J'role drew his hands close to his chest, hid the ring under his free hand.
"You can put it on again later," the ork said, and touched his heavy fingers lightly against J'role's shoulder. “I’m not going to take it from you."
The boy eyed the ork curiously.
"No, really, I'm not. I don't think so. You've got something about you—you were mute—
correct? And now you start describing a city when you put on the ring. Something about you ... You're connected to where this ring leads." Garlthik turned his face away and put a weary hand to his f
orehead. "Please, take it off. I've seen some stranger things, but this image of your mouth flapping away, with you not paying any attention. It's too disturbing."
A strange happiness filled J'role. He realized that Garlthik and Mordom and the others wanted the ring because it led to something valuable, not because it was valuable in itself.
Garlthik was surprised by J'role's words, which meant that he hadn't known what the goal was, only that it was something wonderful. And now J'role knew the goal was the city he spoke of. And if Garlthik was going to the city, and wanted to bring J'role along, then he would reach the city as well. Everything would be all right.
J'role decided to remove the ring, if only to rest, and as soon as the ring left his finger a horrible pain crashed into his jaw, as if metal hooks had dug into his teeth. He dropped to the ground, groaning. But more than the physical pain was the terror of losing the sweet longing. He still held the ring in his hand, and from the ring there came the thin tunnel of desire to his heart. But nothing could compare with the full longing for the city. It had been so clear, so specific. If he could just find the city everything would be complete.
