The ruined visage grinned at J'role, confusing him about where his father was. It overwhelmed J'role with a cold fear, and his only thought now was of running away; not running to escape, but to hide.
Fighting off the fear, he focused on his father so he could help him. He charged forward, crashing into Mordom and knocking him out into the hall. With a loud gasp Mordom fell to the floor as J'role slammed the door shut.
Whirling back toward the room he found his father whimpering and beginning to back away. J'role grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him toward the window. Behind him he heard the sound of blades beating against one another.
His father began to cry, softly, his head hanging down. J'role wanted to say, "Please don't," but held his tongue and raised his hand to his father's face. His father pulled back at first, but then leaned in, seeking comfort from J'role's touch, pressing his tears against J'role's palms.
From the hall Mordom called for Phlaren. J'role looked through the hole that Garlthik had created in the wall, and saw the big woman warrior struggling to her feet, blood trickling down her temple. She hefted her sword and staggered toward the hole. Spotting J'role, she smiled and increased her pace.
Slinsk screamed as Garlthik disarmed him and slashed with his sword, cutting a gash all the way from the man's collarbone through the leather armor down his chest. Streaming blood, Slinsk collapsed to the floor, staring up in surprise at Garlthik. The ork laughed and said, “I'm better than you!"
J'role waved his arms and tried to get Garlthik’s attention as Phlaren rushed in from behind, slamming her sword against his back. The ork's thick skin absorbed some of the blow, but he still cried out in pain as he whirled around to fend off the attack.
J 'role looked out the window and saw many villagers milling about outside the tavern, as if they Wanted to get in but could not. Some people spotted him and cried out for others to come and help. When the villagers had gathered below, holding their arms up, J'role seized his father by the shoulders and forced him out the window. Caught off guard, his father could do little more than give a short cry and then he was out the window.
"Go!" shouted Garlthik, now backing slowly toward the window as Phlaren closed in on him and J'role.
Then the door flung open and Mordom entered.
Without pause J'role flung himself out the window, in the moment of free fall wondering once More what it was like to be dead. Then he felt hands slap against his shoulders and legs, breaking his fall. Slamming into the ground he thought he'd broken a leg, for the intense pain rivaled the pain in his arm.
Strange hands seized and jerked him away. Then Garlthik landed beside him, cursing in pain, clawing at himself, his thick arms and legs contorting in odd ways.
Then he heard a roar from the villagers, and saw Mordom looking out the window, his hand pointing down. The villages sent a hail of stones and sticks up at the window, forcing the magician to retreat inside.
As the villagers helped J'role to his feet, he looked to his right and saw two figures at the door of the tavern. Skeletons, he realized, armed with swords, waiting patiently for anyone to try to enter the building. None of the villagers had made the attempt, though several men and women were trying to distract the skeletons so others could get by. But the skeletons did not move away from the door, and a stalemate had been reached.
The siege started at night, with Mordom and the others trapped inside the tavern. The villagers carried J'role, his father, and Garlthik a short distance away from the tavern and set them down on the ground. Water was brought, and a questor of Garlen arrived. The questor was a woman in her twenties, older than J'role, but he still thought her very beautiful. When she smiled down at him, he realized that everything would be all right.
Praying to Garlen, she tended to each one of them, touching the tips of her fingers to their wounded bodies. As J'role awaited his turn, he overheard some of the villagers talking.
"Burn them out, I say," said one man, whose friends identified him as Hobris.
"Aye," said another. "She's as good as dead. Everyone in there is."
J'role remembered the screams they'd heard just before Slinsk entered the room. There was little chance that the villains had left anyone alive as they searched the tavern for the ring. J'role turned his head and saw the villagers-now at least four hundred strong-
ringing the tavern, brandishing torches and rocks and sticks.
Hobris leaned down to J'role. "Who are they, boy? Do you know?"
J’role shook his head and touched his throat.
"Did they do that to you?"
J'role nodded. He didn't want them wondering about it.
The questor, Valris, said, "This man is.." She stopped, searching for the words, staring down at Bevarden. "I've taken care of most of his injuries. He will need time to rest. But his thoughts. ." She turned to J’role. "Did the wizard do this to him?"
Again, J'role nodded. This time he told the truth.
"We've got to kill them. Worse than Horrors," said a woman.
Hobris said to the questor, “The wizard ruined his voice. See to that as well as the arm."
He then walked off, presumably to deal with Mordom and the others.
The questor touched J'role's throat. She spoke a prayer to Garlen, and a wave of memories washed over J'role. Memories of his mother and Xiassis came to him, and for the first time in many years he felt himself relax into peace.
"Can you talk now?" she asked.
Could she actually have healed him? He paused, but felt the creature in his thoughts, though it tried in its crafty way to be still, and shook his head.
She frowned, somewhat troubled, and turned her attention to his arm.
A cheer had begun to rise up from the crowd now, and J’role saw them waving torches and beginning to pile wood around the base of the building. He was stunned by their festive atmosphere. Did they know something he didn't? Would it all be over so easily?
A window at one corner of the upper floor opened and Mordom appeared, waving his hands in a simple pattern. A group of people screamed, falling to the ground, dropping their torches.
The crowd fell silent for a moment, drawing back. In that silence Mordom said, "I want only …" His voice was rich with power and rage. But the mob swelled forward once more, throwing more rocks as well as their torches up at the window. Under different circumstances, J’role thought, with fewer people, Mordom's commanding voice and the use of the horrible spell might have been enough to send everyone fleeing. But not now.
Mordom retreated from the window. A young girl threw off her long dark cloak, revealing a bright orange robe with patterns of leaves and flames upon it. She waved her arms and a stream of fire rushed from her fingers to ignite the base of the building and the wood piled around it. The villagers threw their torches into the kindling, and a thick, billowing smoke began to rise up around the building.
Beside him, J'role heard the questor gasp. Turning, he realized that she had finished her work on him while he'd been watching the fire, and his arm and leg were both now whole and well. An unfamiliar sensation of well-being coursed through him-a gift from the passion of Garlen.
T he sensation quickly evaporated, however, when he looked at what had stunned me questor. She was staring at Garlthik, where a black shadow writhed in the crack in his head. The ork was whimpering, and without a moment's hesitation the questor reached in and tried to pull the shadow out. Garlthik screamed with pain and clawed at the questor’s hands.
She called for help, and a few villagers came and forced Garlthik's hands to me ground.
She drew a deep breath, pressing her hands against her face for a few moments, smearing her cheeks with Garlthik's blood. Then, from a bag tied to her belt, she withdrew a pair of small metal tongs.