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."