Looking at his father J'role realized that the tired man would, as usual, be no help.
Bevarden sat with his gaze turned away from Garlthik's beating, eyes closed tight. In that moment J'role hated his father. The man could do nothing-not even look! His father mumbled something through tightly clenched teeth. Listening carefully, J'role heard him saying "preparations" over and over again. Bevarden winced each time Garlthik cried out in pain, but his brief prayer continued.
In that moment J'role loathed his father with a clarity that rivaled the ring's pure silver gleam. The man would never do anything! The thought of being like his father in any way repulsed him, and in his father's inaction came J'role's decision for action.
The beating had stopped. Garlthik lay completely still. Slinsk turned Garlthik's body over as if it were a corpse. While Phlaren stood guard over the ork, sword drawn, Slinsk rifled through Garlthik's clothes, searching for secret pockets and ripping the lining out of the wonderful blue cape.
J'role moved his foot slowly, carefully extending it toward the ring on the floor. The movement was awkward, but he could do nothing about that. If someone spotted him, he would deal with it then. His bare toes just reached the ring, but he could not actually snare it and bring it closer. He lowered himself even more, sliding down along the wall of the fountain, gaining the precious inches he needed, when his father suddenly spoke.
"J'role," Bevarden said softly, eyes still closed. J'role drew in a sharp breath and froze. He glanced at Mordom, who stood facing Garlthik's body, and Phlaren and Slinsk, now searching through Garlthik's pockets. No one glanced back; the ork had their complete attention.
"Did you mean what you said?" his father continued. His mouth hung open slightly, the bones stretching the flesh thin. Bevarden's eyes were wide and wet.
J'role had no idea what his father was talking about, unless it was something from some other time. If so he certainly did not remember. Then J’role thought for a moment that his father might be referring to the sounds that had come out of his mouth earlier. But that was gibberish, and he dismissed the thought.
"I'm sorry," his father said again.
J'role nodded, hoping to keep his father quiet. The nod worked, and his father turned his head and closed his eyes once more.
J 'role continued to slide his body down against the fountain, finally managing to get the ring under his toes, and began slowly to drag it back
"What are you doing?" asked Mordom. J'role looked up, surprised to see the wizard's head still facing away. Only the palm of his hand with the eye was facing him.
J'role froze, uncertain what to do. His foot hid the ring, so he wasn't worried about that.
But his body was stretched out as if he was doing something — maybe trying to escape.
The wizard turned his body toward J’role and walked toward him. The scarlet robe fluttered, and the bare tree branches painted on the robe seemed to sway back and forth as if in a mild wind. He walked up to J'role and with his eyeless hand slapped him across the face.
J'role's sight went red, then black, then came back.
The wizard grabbed J'role by the neck and started to drag him up against the fountain's wall. Struggling to keep his face from revealing the effort of his work, J'role tried to curl his toes around the ring. Let me get it, he thought over and over. Let me get it.
As J'role caught the ring under his foot, an extraordinary sensation rushed over him as he touched it. The metal was as cold as the ice a wizard could make with his magic. Yet a heat emanated from it, a warmth of memories-
— of something-
— something J'role could not remember, but thought he should.
"Now stay," said-the wizard, his voice low. J'role realized he had closed his eyes when the strange sensation filled him. Mordom had apparently read his expression as one of fear. "I am in no mood for childish attempts at escape," he said. J'role nodded, and the wizard turned with his strange hand toward Garlthik.
The sensation turned into a low buzzing in his mind as he kept his foot pressed tightly against the ring. All that remained after the initial shock was an emptiness in his chest; a tunnel to his heart filled with a cool wind.
"Does he have it or not?" Mordom asked his companions.
"It isn't on him," said Slinsk.
"He could have put it anywhere," said Phlaren throwing her arms wide. “ Anywhere in the kaer."
"He ran everywhere," said Slinsk.
"But I don't think he would have simply tossed it away in the tunnels," said Mordom. "He would have hidden it carefully … or maybe left it back at the tavern where we found him.
Perhaps he hid it in his room. Is he conscious?"
Slinsk smiled an odd smile. "Not at all."
"Very well. Phlaren, bind him. We'll torture him if we have to when he wakes up. Slinsk, go back to the tavern and search his room."
Phlaren said, “They'll be wary now. We killed at least five of their people in the attack."
"Exactly," said Slinsk with a laugh. "They won't be expecting anybody to come back."
"Whatever you think best," said Mordom. "Just search his room carefully."
Phlaren tied Garlthik tightly. It seemed to J'role she went to absurd lengths to secure him.
Yards of rope were used to bind the ork's ankles and wrists, his arms and legs bent behind his back. Phlaren used complicated and strange knots.
When it was all done, very little of Garlthik remained visible; he was a bundle of hemp.
She dropped him down onto the floor near J'role and Bevarden, and went off to confer quietly with the wizard. Mordom kept the eye of his palm toward them.
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.