Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Longing Ring

by kubasik

  J'role stood. Every bit of motion ripped pain through his arm.

  "This is your first talent. My teacher taught it to me as my first talent, and you'll need it to steal the trader's ring." He gestured to the area immediately in front of J'role. "Now walk, but don't make a sound."

  Yes, thought J'role, as he clumsily staggered forward, the pain darkening his vision, making even the bright flame vanish in and out of his sight. He just wanted to do what Garlthik said to do, to please him, so he'd cure the burned arm.

  Garlthik's rough hand grabbed him from the back. "That wasn't silent, you little fool."

  The ork pulled J'role back to where he'd been. "Do it again. Haven't you listened to a word I've said? What did I say on the road?"

  J'role tried to think back to what Garlthik had said on the road, but the pain lanced his thoughts, turning any idea he had into a hot red flash. He raised his arm toward the ork, tears streaming down his face, his mouth firmly shut.

  "What? Is that an excuse? I had my arm broken, boy, and I made my way out of a series of good knots. Do you think pain is an excuse? Pain is what feeds you. Without pain, there is no thief magic." He relaxed his grip on J'role's neck. "Now, think of the pain, think of what I said on the road. The magic will support you."

  J'role started to focus on the pain, desperate to please the ork—desperate so he could finish the ritual and run away and never see Garlthik One-Eye again.

  "No, you're just panicking now. Feel it? You're tightening up against it. You're thinking about the future, thinking about when the pain will be gone and you'll be safe. That time may never come. What's that doing for you right now? Forget anything but now. What do you want to be right now?"

  Gone, J'role thought fiercely. I want to be gone and invisible and safe. He hated Garlthik for tormenting him. Then an idea came to him, floating just above the pain, skimming across the surface of his thoughts from a place J'role could not fathom. He realized that was it. The desire to be safe, to hide from the pain.

  He focused on the pain and felt how miserable he was. He no longer wanted to get away from Garlthik but to get away from everything. He didn't want to exist in the world anymore. He felt his desire to vanish wrap-around him. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to be safe. The pain he felt now would haunt him forever, as his mother's death haunted him, as his loneliness haunted him, as his father's death and his father's-weakness haunted him. As his betrayal of his father haunted him.

  There was nowhere to escape but into himself, into the pain, into the magic.

  A lightness curved around him, then threaded through his body.

  Magic?

  "I am only pain."

  "Yes," said the creature.

  "No," J'role thought fiercely. "This is mine. You can't take this from me."

  "I won't. And the pain has always been yours? But I can enjoy it. I will. You've picked a perfect discipline.”

  J'role forced his mind closed against the thing. It spoke no more. He stepped forward. He did not want to be noticed by anyone, and when he stepped forward he felt the pain in him arc around under his feet. The magic wrapped around in a way he could not see, only feel, tingling his flesh, connecting it somehow to the wood—the very grain of the wood— and somehow, he stepped just the right way, or the wood responded to his step in just the right way, he could not be certain because it all—everything—blended together at that moment, and he did not make a sound. He continued to walk forward, amazed at the silence of his steps, the sound of his heartbeat the only sound he knew.

  The pain in his arm still burned, but it fed him now, a terrible anger at everything. He turned to Garlthik. The ork stood with his arms crossed, smiling.

  "Welcome, thief. And now J'role, your first test as an adept. You must steal the rich man's ring."

  J'role knew it was true. Stealing the ring was what he had to do. It would be good to steal the ring. His arm hurt, but knowing the rich man owned that lovely ring hurt even more.

  It should be his. He felt the magical ring against his chest, the longing strong. Stealing the ring would not stop the longing, but it would hold it off for a bit. Yes. Steal the rich man's ring.

  J'role stood on the windowsill and reached his right hand out along the exterior wall of the tavern, looking for a finger hold. His left arm hung limply at his side, the pain harsh and hot, but also a wellspring of determination.

  His fingers explored the wood of the wall, searching for loose joints and—there—he found a small hole. Before this night J'role might never have thought it possible to use the small gap between two boards as a finger hold; in fact, it would never have occurred to him to climb across the exterior of a building two stories up. But that was the way Garlthik had insisted he reach the rich man's room.

  "The door will be guarded," he said, "perhaps with a trap, perhaps even with magic.

  Better to take the window. They won't be paying as much attention to it."

  Now J'role stretched out his toes, again looking for a support hold. Under his bare toes, each grain of the rough wood seemed to reach up and grab his flesh Finally he found a toehold, and although he could barely press his big toe into it, he knew it would support him. His body, it seemed, was lighter. He felt as if he could let go of the wall and float into the sky. But even as the idea occurred to him, he knew that, no, he could not do that.

  It was the act of climbing the wall, sneaking about to steal the ring, that the magic rewarded. Flying would be too ... direct. Climbing, finding the small crevices and hanging on by the edge of the body— that was a thief's work.

  Putting his weight on his single toe and placing his finger between the boards, he stepped off-the windowsill and onto the wall of the tavern. There, suspended above the ground by no more than a few bones and muscle, tenuously connected to the wood of the wall in a fashion he could barely begin to understand, J'role hung for a moment. His heart beat faster in excitement. He wished the people of his village could see him now!

  Then he remembered his task, and reached his free arm, his burned arm, out in search of another gap in the boards. In this way he made his way slowly across the wall toward a window at the other side of the building.

  The pain tore so viciously through his arm by the time he reached the window that he almost wished he could chop the limb from his body if only to be free of the pain. Yet, he also accepted the pain. Anything he wanted was his by the right of pain. The more pain, the more he deserved to take what he wanted.

  And now he wanted the fat man's precious ring.

  The window curtain hung loose, moving back and forth in the cool night breeze. Perched on the ledge, J'role touched the edge of the curtain—not a sound!—and peered into the dark room.

  The rich man and the lizard-folk slept on their cots.

  On the wall J'role saw his shadow—dim, but definitely present in the fuzzy frame of light formed by the window. The sigh startled him, as though somehow he should have been safe from such concerns. His shadow should meld with the other shadows of the room, he thought. That would make sense.

  Could Garlthik do that? Perhaps. And perhaps J'role would also be able to with practice.

  Quietly ever so quietly, he lowered his left foot into the room. When it touched the floor he deftly brought the rest of his body in. Soundlessly. Perfect.

  He looked across the room and saw the fat rich man asleep. The man looked so peaceful.

  No pain at all. On his finger, the ring.

  J'role could just go get it, creep up silently, take it and be gone. But the lizard-folk might turn and see him, catch him from behind. The risk was too great. Could he sneak up to the guard, slit his throat quietly? Maybe. It seemed a good idea. Garlthik had given him a dagger, tucked now into the top of his pants. He drew the blade out. The handle seemed warm and comforting in his palm.

  Pain, pain, pain. And now he would give some.

  J'role began to move across the floor. Eight feet, then six. Four.

  A scream cut through th
e tavern. "Mother!" a boy wailed.

  J'role froze in place, uncertain what to do. The guard stirred, but did not wake. Footsteps raced up the stairs, came closer down the hall.

  His grip on the knife tightened. He had to kill him now, get the ring, get out ...

  The door crashed in.

  In the door frame, a flash of a face entering from darkness. Slinsk. "Mordom, he's here!"

  the dark-haired man shouted. "The boy’s here!"

  J'role turned and ran for the window, had just reached it when a hand grabbed at the back of his shirt and pushed him down. He fell, slamming his chin into the window frame as he went.

  Noises filled the air. From down the hall he heard Garlthik shout and then the sound of metal upon metal. Behind him came a cry of alarm from the tall lizard-folk, followed by two more screams.

  J'role turned himself around, and the pain in his arm blossomed. The magic's strength had left him. Where was Garlthik? What should he do?

  He looked around the room. On one cot rested the corpse of the rich man and on the other the guard, their throats slit into jagged crimson gullies. Slinsk kept his back to the wall, his eyes on J'role. In one hand he held a blood-drenched short sword. How had he killed them so quickly?

  "I've got the boy!" Slinsk shouted. From the next room the sounds of combat continued.

  "New friends, lad? They didn't last you very long, did they? Didn't Garlthik tell you?

  Everyone he associates with dies an early death."

  J'role began to get up.

  "NO!" screamed Slinsk.

  J'role froze in place. Slinsk seemed horribly on edge, but less sure of himself than back in the kaer.

  From next door Garlthik screamed again. Slinsk smiled, seemed to relax. "Mordom, he made up something special for our ork friend. Something left over from the Scourge."

  A chill passed along J'role's spine.

  "Please," J'role heard Garlthik gasp. "Please stop ... Mordom ... I'll give you . .. Please stop."

  The sound of Mordom's muffled voice came through the wall.

  "Wait! The boy!" Garlthik gasped. "He's got it."

  The ring felt like ice against J'role's chest. How could Garlthik betray him and their quest so easily?

  "If that's all you've got to offer, then you'll die," Mordom's dry, precise voice declared.

  “I'll need more if you want to live. Bargain with me, Garlthik. Like the time we first met.

  You know more than you ever let on."

  "So . . . do . . . you," Garlthik said, his defiant spirit returning. For a moment J'role thought that the ork had found a means of escape. Maybe he'd only told them about the ring to stall for time. But then Garlthik screamed again. Outside, J'role could hear the sounds of villagers shouting to one another.

  "Don't waste my time. I'll find it with or without your help.” Mordom said with great impatience.

  More shouts from outside. Slinsk carefully maneuvered himself toward the window, keeping his blade toward J'role. Reaching the window, he pulled the curtain back slightly and looked out. He sighed.

  Once more Garlthik screamed. "He can speak of the city. Ha! You knew, didn't you?

  When he puts on the ring, he talks . . . please, ahhhh . . . He talks of it. The city. He's connected to it somehow . . . Mordom, my good friend, I only tricked the boy. Gained his trust. An elaborate lie. I would never—" Outside, the cries of the villagers had become louder. Garlthik gasped for air, an infant too tired to sleep, but Mordom said nothing.

  An image came to J'role's mind—Mordom cracking his skull open, searching for the creature in his thoughts, searching for his connection with the city. He would be no more than a small spider for Mordom's inspection, an object of curiosity—the way the boys in his village used to pull the legs off insects just to see what they would do.

  Footsteps approached from the hall. "I think we're surrounded," said Slinsk even before Mordom appeared in the doorway.

  "No matter. I can handle them," said Mordom as he came through the door. J'role had forgotten how disturbing was Mordom's face—narrow and strong, with the pure, white eyes. The wizard raised his hand and the eye Garlthik’s eye—stared at J'role. "I have something to show you," he said slyly.

  Then Mordom turned slightly, tugging at someone standing behind him. Over the magician's shoulder J'role saw a long, pale face. Almost disembodied, it was like the face of a ghost as it came floating out of the darkness.

  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 r
oom 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.