Christopher Kubasik
Longing Ring
BOOK ONE
Torran amp; Samael,
I am Mountainshadow. Alone among dragons I have taken interest in mortal races. And now I have taken interest in you two.
Bother yourselves not with wonder at a letter from a dragon. My ways are my affair and no concern of yours. Perhaps if you agree to see your father, he will tell you of me. As it is, I have written to tell you of him.
Yes, your father. You have not seen nor heard from him for some thirty years now. How you mortals squander your few precious years on this earth. Your lives are slow mornings against my centuries; yet you let fear and pain swallow your hope and joy. .
Enough. My studies are my business.
Having had occasion to spend time in your father's thoughts, I can say that he longs to meet with you again. Yet he is afraid of you. Afraid? Yes. I know you two fear him; or rather, I suspect as much. Most likely you fear each other though none of you wishes it to be so. That is why I offered to act as — intermediary, and now write you on his behalf He agreed.
He is old; his flesh soft and dry, his bones brittle. Fear of life can make your kind commit acts of terror, and fear of death sometimes produces acts of contrition. It is such that your father wishes to conduct with you.
As for the two of you, why would you care to hear from the man who terrorized you and left you? I cannot say, but I have seen such desires in mortals before.
Do you wonder at my mention of spending some time in your father's thoughts? I am not the first creature to have shared his mind. Once, in J'role's youth, a Horror lived inside him. You are surprised? You did not know this? No, nor did anyone else. So now I offer the story of his first adventure. If you read it, you will better understand the man who is an- empty space in your hearts.
'In-deed, the tale is more complete than even he could have remembered. Having lived in his thoughts I know of many memories and sensations that have dimmed in his own consciousness. It was an odd experience. I have never… I… Enough. Expect no more of me. Send me no reply. I am done.
He 'believes he loves the two of you, and from what I know of the mortal heart, that is so.
If this tale touches ' you, tell ' him.
I am, Mountainshadow
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.