Fate of Thorik

Fate of Thorik

Thorik Dain's Journey, Book 1

A.G. Wedgeworth

Anthony G. Wedgeworth

Copyright © 2008 by Anthony G. Wedgeworth

Written by A.G. Wedgeworth

Front Cover Artwork by Elartwyne Estole

Illustrations by Steve Ott

Editing by Deborah Murrell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Altered Creatures

Epic Fantasy Adventures

Historical Date 4.0649.0913

Series: Thorik Dain’s Journey

Book 1, Revision 3.0

Fate of Thorik

www.AlteredCreatures.com

Contents

MAP

CAST

Prologue

1.Messenger of Doom

2.Farbank and Polenums

3.Painful Extraction

4.Harvest Festivities

5.Leaving Farbank

6.Curious Discoveries

7.Campsite

8.Fesh’Unday

9.Ov’Unday

10.River Cut

11.Leadership

12.Reunion of Old Friends

13.Hidden Memories

14.Kingsfoot Lake

15.Hot Spring Mineral Waters

16.Abandoned City of Kingsfoot

17.Speak of the Dead

18.Turning Point

19.Frozen Slopes

20.Del’Unday

21.Woodlen Province

22.Terra King

23.Vengeance

24.Frontal Assault

25.Coliseum

26.Shoreview

27.Dead Waters

28.Myth’Unday

29.Pelonthal

30.Friend or Foe

31.Luthralum Tunia

32.Australis Weirfortus

33.Del’Unday Ambush

34.Sibling Rivalry

35.Flood Waters

36.Return to Farbank

37.Assassin

MORE STORIES

Prologue

Thorik’s Log: 1 st day of the 9 th month of the 649 th year. I am no longer a child. Against my uncle’s strict rules and warnings, I plan to wake up early tomorrow and head beyond the safety of my hunting grounds and into the forbidden lands. I can’t wait to see what adventures await me.

Chapter one

Messenger of Doom

Grasping the weather-beaten boulder with his blood-covered hands, Ambrosius dragged his torso out of the freezing river water. Fluids oozed out from ruptured burn blisters across his face, neck, and arm. Leaning against the flat side of the cold rock, he rested and reflected on his situation. Now that the council members are dead, no one else knows of the upcoming attack.

Pressure squeezed his head from all directions, blood tasted coppery upon his lips, and stabbing spikes of pain ran up his legs. Survival was in jeopardy. His first order of business was to get to a safe location and determine the extent of his injuries. Fighting the river’s current, he swung his lower limbs out and onto the rocks that lined the rushing waters.

Pulling his body past the top of the boulder, he quickly found himself rolling over the other side onto yet another set of rocks. His spine cracked as he landed flat on his back. Losing whatever breath he had regained since leaving the river, he lay on the newly found surface for a few minutes and stared up at the stars. They were difficult to see as a haze clouded them.

Ambrosius’ tall, lean body appeared frail among the resilient stones. Wet, shoulder-length, mahogany-colored hair matted to his face, which was outlined by a properly trimmed beard and mustache. Made of the finest cloths, his clothes were burnt, ripped, torn, and soiled with mud. He was out of his element, but he was a survivor.

Once rested, he dragged himself off the rocky banks and into a grassy area to assess his health in the night’s dim light. Starting at his hips, he used his hands to inspect his lower limbs for injuries. Thick, wet fabric made it difficult. Nevertheless, rips in the legs of his pants allowed him to make contact with his skin, and he quickly recognized the problem. His right leg had a long gash with a stone shard wedged deep into one end.

The other leg was broken; he felt one of the bones pushing the skin out an inch from where it should have been. Instinctively reaching for his side bag, he realized it wasn’t there, nor was his metal quarterstaff. He would have to get along without them. He had healed his own wounds in the past, and he doubted that this would be his last time.

A sudden overwhelming feeling of sickness washed over him. He felt flushed, nauseous, and lightheaded. Fighting the sensation only increased its intensity. Immediate action was required to prevent him from passing out. His injuries could be worse than he had assumed.

Ambrosius sat quietly for a moment to regain his composure and thoughts before focusing on the stone embedded deep into his thigh. Reaching out with the unique E’rudite powers of his mind, he tugged at the granite shard within his flesh. The stone vibrated and then made a slight lurch forward before being blocked from its escape by threads of his own skin and muscles that had snapped back into place over the entry hole. Pulling harder with his powers, the shard finally ripped out of his leg, tearing the flesh that held it in place. Catching the rock in his left hand, he screamed as blood gushed from the wound.

Tormented by this self-inflicted pain, he tore a piece of his tunic off and wrapped it around his leg to stop the excessive bleeding from the now-larger cut. One down, one to go.

Reaching out with his powers, he now focused on repairing his broken limb. Normally his abilities were second nature, as walking is for most. Instead, he struggled to use them to do nothing more than lift his lower leg off the ground and begin pushing the bone toward its original position. He was getting weaker with every passing moment.

Excruciating pain shot up his leg, causing him to yell in agony. It was becoming too great to handle. One last quick burst of power from his thoughts gave it the needed shove, popping the bone back into place.

Snap!

Ambrosius screamed, dropping his leg to the ground and collapsing from the pain. His entire body hurt. How much of what he thought to be water was actually blood? How much had he lost?

His self-concern stopped once he heard an animal from behind him, away from the shore. Silence followed. Looking through the haze was difficult and resulted in no answers. Rushing waters raced by on one side, while he could hear trees blowing in the wind on the other. He turned to face the trees, gathering his bearings and options.

Sitting ever so still, he waited to see or hear something. Anything. It finally came as a deep growl from within the trees. Perhaps up in them. It was not the call of a wolf or any large cat species that he knew of. Patiently, he waited for it again. A few moments later, he heard another noise. This time, the sound was from his right as he faced the woods. The growl was slightly higher pitched and had various clicks within it.

Thrashers.

Ambrosius had seen these savage apes in captivity, but never in the wild. Tribal, thrashers attacked all creatures entering their domain in a crazed frenzy, like a swarm of bees or ants. They were aggressive to anything, regardless of its size.

He dragged himself the short distance back to the rock formations near the river. Intense pain shot through his body with every move he made. Feeling faint once again, he leaned back on a boulder and faced the trees. Taking a needed breath, he looked up at the ever-darkening starlight. He could taste blood dripping down from his face, and his breathing was no longer a subconscious effort as he struggled to keep it under control. He tried to sit still and relax.

A series of barks came from the left, followed by a single howl straight in front of him. If it wasn’t the sound of the river drowning out the movement noise of the thrashers, then it was the ringing in his ears that had been nonstop since he woke up on the rocky shore. Where are you? Squinting, he tried to see any activity to focus his powers on. Perhaps a friendly shove will scare you off and send you on your way.

He listened to a few more clicks and howls from the trees at various elevations. By this point, he couldn’t see anything. The haze had totally removed all visibility. He focused his thoughts and E’rudite energy on the blackness directly in front of him and waited for a noise to come from it.

Eventually, one bark and set of clicks came from the area of his focus and Ambrosius pushed with his mind, hoping to scare the creature away. Tree limbs snapped and crashed to the ground. A screaming howl shattered a fleeting moment of silence. The trees came alive with noise. Howling and sounds of branches slapping against one another filled the air from every direction along the shoreline woods.

One thrasher jumped out of a tree and landed with a thud. A second one hit the ground, followed by another. Soon, it sounded like an apple tree that had lost its fruit all at once.

Ambrosius’ heart sank.

A screaming roar came from directly in front of Ambrosius. A multitude of other growls followed. The first beast charged toward him but was cut short as Ambrosius lifted his hands and used his powers to shove the creature back. Quickly realizing that it did not stop the rest, he spread his arms out to his sides to push them all away. A force emanated from him in a hundred-eighty-degree arc that plowed over everything in its path.

The sounds of surprised creatures resounded from every direction except one: behind him.

It was too late. A slash across his outstretched arm ripped open his forearm. A second assault from the other side caught his neck. Several thrashers on the boulder behind him mauled his upper torso.

The fallen creatures in front of Ambrosius quickly regained their footing and joined the attack. It was only moments before the hairy beasts had grabbed on to his arms and legs to rip them off. They lifted Ambrosius off the ground in a tug-of-war for body parts.

His mind was still fuzzy, and his body had failed him. His mind raced as he started giving up. No! I can’t let it end this way.

In a last-ditch effort, Ambrosius pushed away the pain for one brief moment. Pulling all of his E’rudite energy into focus in that fraction of a second, he shoved as hard as he could in every direction.

Suddenly, he was airborne, and there was complete silence. Calm encapsulated his body and mind as he floated and recalled the memories of his life. He wondered if he had died.

A wave of wind interrupted his bliss, followed by a thunderous crack of tree limbs. It was the last sound he heard as he crashed back to earth and he was knocked unconscious.

Chapter two

Farbank and Polenums

Thorik Dain still had his thin and agile body well into his teens as he pushed his barrow of goods along the forest path with a slight bounce in his step on his way into the village of Farbank. His clothes were clean and neat but without question old and weathered. Like most Polenums, Thorik had soft facial features and hair salted with various colors from nature’s palette. His was a mixture of tree-bark brown shades as it feathered back from his face and then down over his shoulders.

Polenums, or Nums as they were referred to, had the gift of looking young and spry well into their fifties, making it difficult to tell their real age. That being said, the youthfulness of their exterior was not matched in some attributes. Like most species, the sight and dexterity of the body would fade, and their hair would lose its luster and thickness as it began turning gray. In addition, the minds of Nums tended to regress with age, causing them to regain a sense of childlike playfulness in their elder years. Fortunately for Thorik he was a young man who would see many years before such things would affect him.

Thorik breathed in the crisp and cool fall morning air as the path turned slightly and skirted the edge of the river. He loved this time of year. The changing colors of the leaves made the entire valley look like a gallery of art. Fall always gave the local villagers a wondrous seasonal sight.

Mountain foothills on both sides of the river were rich in plant life, providing every color imaginable. Areas of exposed rock added their own peculiar scheme of browns, reds, and tans as veins of minerals and uncovered crystal deposits were uncovered by the frequent rains.

Small streams ran down the mountain walls and merged at the bottom with the mighty King’s River. Upstream hosted thicker vegetation and narrow valleys, while downstream the river unfurled into softer hills and scattered open ranges. Farbank was nestled in the transition of these two regions.

Living just upstream from the village of Farbank, the young man had taken this windy path as his own. Not because he owned it, but because the only home it led to was his. Seeing that few people came to visit, he had adopted the dirt trail as his responsibility to keep well-trimmed.

A similar path on the far side of Farbank traveled to the Frellican house and not beyond. Farbank was somewhat isolated, and outside trading transpired only a few times a year with their cousins downstream in Longfield.

Working his way from the steep hillside to the boulder-lined King’s River, Thorik followed the water flow toward the village. Orange and red leaves, moist with morning dew, clung to his leather boots as he strolled down the path.

His single-wheeled barrow was filled with skins and meat from recent hunting & trapping trips. The skins were cleaned and dried and ready for use while the meat had been smoked and spiced with the Dains’ secret family recipe.

Nearing Farbank, he noticed his grandmother, Gluic, on her hands and knees reaching into the bitterly cold water. In her late sixties, she had shown signs of aging for several years now, giving her a more mature and wise look. This was in direct contrast to her actions as she played in the river like a small child.

Swirls of dark skin blossomed from the crest of her nose, up across her forehead, and beyond her dull silver hairline. The same style swirls were on her palms and were known to Nums as soul-markings. These naturally occurring skin paintings were unique for each Polenum and typically formed on their bodies as they became teenagers. Thorik’s had not come in yet, which seemed quite odd and was a point of embarrassment for him.

Resting the barrow on its two legs, Thorik stepped over along the shore. Granna? Have you lost something?

Found, my dear boy. Gluic reached deep into the chilled water, soaking her entire sleeve before pulling it back out. See? Opening her hand, she showed him a handful of mud and a single black weathered river rock.

Keeping his distance so as not to get mud on his clean clothes, he eyed the river stone. Very nice. But the water is cold, and the current is moving fast. I don’t want my only grandmother to be swept downstream just to be caught by some fishing net in Longfield.

She smiled with a delight that warmed her entire face. Various weeds, grass, and flowers had been used to decorate her hair, clothes, wrists, ankles, and the area around her neck. Stepping forward, she extended her hand out in front of him. Touch it.

I’m in a bit of a rush, as you know, he said with a smile. We don’t want our guest to wake up tied up like a prisoner.

If you tied him up, then he’s not going anywhere, is he?

Thorik knew he wouldn’t get out of complying with her request, so he smiled half-heartedly and touched the muddy rock with the tip of one finger in hopes of not getting dirty. It’s a good, smooth rock.

With her other hand, she grabbed his wrist and flipped his hand around to be palm up before she slapped the rock and mud into it.

Gluic’s eyes widened as she waited for Thorik to get excited about it as well. Can you feel its energy? It’s very old. Older than me.

He smiled at the obvious ridiculous nature of her comment. I would assume that to be true.

I’m older than you think, my dear boy. I remember times before the Mountain King war.

Only partially holding back a laugh, he replied with a smile. I think you mean you remember stories of the Mountain King. That was thousands of years ago.

Stories? This stone could tell us many wonderful stories. It even helps you remember what you forgot. It is a good one, isn’t it? She nodded her head to answer her own question.

It’s a fine addition to your collection. You have few that are this… Thorik stumbled as he tried to come up with the right wording. …perfectly round and smooth.

She agreed with him. And as wise. It’ll be useful for our journey.

What journey?

She slapped the back of his hand, shooting the rock and mud up in the air. Catching the stone in mid-flight, she eyed it like a treasure. Mud had splattered everywhere, coating Thorik’s face and shirt with small brown droplets.

Her expression of joy outweighed his feeling of frustration over being dirty, and Thorik grabbed a cloth rag to wipe his face clean. Watching her return to the river to wash the new collectable, he could hear her talking to the stone as she properly cleaned it with no regard to the chilling of her own fingers in the water.

Thorik patted himself down with the rag to soak up any remaining mud on his clothes before putting it away and grabbing the arms of the barrow. See you later, Granna.

She stopped scrubbing long enough to raise an arm into the air to signal goodbye.

With that, he lifted the barrow’s legs off the ground and wheeled it downstream.

It was only a few minutes down the path before he reached the village. The subtle smell of burning logs lofted from the chimneys and mixed with the aroma of meals being cooked.

Out beyond the cattails that lined this part of the river, several children sat on the docks with their fishing poles and lines waiting for some action. Rolled up pant legs exposed their bare feet, which periodically kicked water at one another.

You won’t catch any fish making all that commotion, Thorik yelled over to them.

They laughed and continued to play as they soaked up the last few days of warm fall weather.

The path turned away from the wide river and into the village, consisting predominantly of wooden houses placed on short rock walls. Shared wooden walls separating them and roofs of thatch were the most common, but moss and grass were used as well. A blanket of fall-colored leaves covered everything this time of year.

Each house had a fireplace and smokestack that was often shared with another home. Sometimes, even three or four dwellings would utilize one large chimney in the corner where they all met. They used various barks for sidings, including blackened oak, white birch, and every shade in between. The Nums took pride in their homes and would decorate them with items gathered from nature that best represented their families.

House placement was erratic, and paths often became dead-end streets without warning. As chaotic as the homes and patted down dirt paths were, they kept them quite tidy and clean. Among the odd-shaped alleys were open areas that served as places for entertainment and relaxation. Children would run and swing from tree branches, while adults gathered to talk and play various tile games.

Trees grew in most open areas. Then again, they grew everywhere, including in the streets and in the houses. Many houses used them as part of one wall, while others used the trunk in the center of the home to hang coats and clothes. It was stylish to have a tree as part of the front door frame. Besides its status symbol, it also provided shade from the summer sun.

In the center of the village was a solid stone spiritual building known as the Mori Site. It was a duplicate of the primary spiritual structure on top of Dula Peak. They used this Mori Site for the elders, who could no longer make the trek up the mountainside to teach the writings of the Mountain King.

Thorik wheeled his cart past the Mori Site to the open marketplace in the center of Farbank. Greeted often as he walked down the angled paths, he always returned the sentiment with a smile and a nod.

Small groups of children ran up to him, asking questions about the upcoming Harvest Festival Awards. But Thorik was not willing to give up any of his secrets as he teased them with hints before sending them on their way.

He then stopped and looked across the wide opening for a specific face. This was the only location inside Farbank that was not sheltered by trees. Therefore, several large tents were erected to protect the Nums’ fair skin from the sun’s rays.

He quickly found the Num he had been searching for and headed straight for her. Emilen had a smile that melted Thorik’s heart. Petite in frame, she was far from frail as she bartered with storekeepers for goods. The bright autumn leaf colors of her long, curly, red and gold hair reflected the sunlight peeking between the tents as she stepped out from under one of them.

Thorik couldn’t hear or see anything else when he gazed at her face and into her large, greenish blue eyes. Thin lines of darker skin traced over her eyes and extended to her ears. He felt queasy and soft every time he looked at her beauty and soul-markings.

Her demeanor was cheerful as she flirted and sweet-talked several men into giving her what she wanted. She knew how she affected them and used it to her advantage.

Thorik wheeled his cart over and greeted her with excitement. Good morning, Emilen. How have you been?

Turning, she smiled. Fine, thank you. But I haven’t changed a lot since yesterday when we talked.

Oh, right. Pausing, he thought about how to continue. Speaking of that, remember when I was telling you about the maps I was making of the upstream valley? Well, I brought them to show you.

Taxing her memories from the prior day, she didn’t recall the conversation. We talked about maps?

Yes, I told you how I was mapping out the valley to help with my hunting and trapping patterns. He removed a rolled-up map from his pouch and unraveled it for her to see. So, if this is Farbank and this is the White Summit, then this is what I have mapped out so far. My father knew an ancient path that isn’t used any longer.

Glancing over the sketches on the paper, Emilen feigned interest in his interest. Well done.

Every peak and valley is labeled. I created names for those that hadn’t been given one yet.

That’s very brave of you, Thorik. Taking it upon yourself to name an area that belongs to the Mountain King. He died to free us from slavery. What have you done to earn this right? she mocked with a giggle. But his excitement was contagious. This is by far the best map I’ve ever seen since I left Kingsfoot. A wink of approval comforted him.

Thorik blushed slightly as he rolled up his map to put it away. Are you going to the festival with anyone yet?

An expression of surprise crossed her face, but before she could reply, they were interrupted.

Yes, she is, Wess Frellican announced as he stepped up behind Thorik and put his heavy muscular arm across Thorik’s back and onto his far shoulder. She’s going with me, once I ask her. Wess was a few years older than Thorik and more developed. His broad chest and back rested on a lean muscular torso and waist. Sharp soul-markings on his neck and exposed arms resembled long, deep claw marks.

Wess was the youngest of the four Frellican of Farbank brothers who hunted on the downstream open fields. They had always been a successful family with plenty of soft rolling hills to hunt on. The easy hunting grounds provided them with more luxuries than most of the villagers, including nice new clothes and a large hillside house that boasted three trees. Two of them ran along the sides of the front double doors while they used the third tree trunk as a support for the center of the house, much like a tent pole.

Thorik never particularly liked the Frellican family. They had always mocked the Dain family for only having their little cottage, small hunting rewards, and even smaller name. Nums were proud of many things. At the top of the list were their family names and soul-markings. Not only did Thorik not have any soul-markings, but he had the shortest last name of any in the village. The villagers with longer names carried more status in the community and often were viewed as the upper class. Last names like Mullenfrather added credit to your character and respect at gatherings. Trumette Mullenfrather of Farbank was definitely a respected old man.

It was customary for Nums to give their full name at the first meeting with others. This included their first and last name and the place they were born. Some had the slight benefit of having a prefix for spiritual rank that included ‘Fir’ for the community’s spiritual leader and ‘Sec’ for the Fir’s assistants.

Ah, Dain. Wess always reminded Thorik of his short family name whenever he had the opportunity. Shouldn’t you be in a rush? Fir Brimmelle told me you were all tied up for a while.

Thorik felt the back of his neck heat up while listening to Wess’ comments. No. I’m not in a rush. I can stay and talk, he assured Emilen.

Are you sure? I thought you had something at your home keeping you preoccupied.

Emilen’s interest was growing. You mean you have something other than maps back at your cottage?

Glaring at Wess, Thorik obviously didn’t want to discuss it. No. There’s nothing at my home. Nothing at all.

Wess nodded with a smile and a wink at Emilen. You heard the lad. He has nothing. Of course, his family never did. Glancing back down at Thorik and then at his clothing, he continued. It doesn’t even appear that you have anything clean to wear to the festival. He casually tried to dust off the mud droplets on Thorik’s shirt with his free hand.

Before Thorik opened his mouth, Emilen stepped in. I think I will just meet you both there. She smiled, turned, and then walked away to continue her shopping.

The two young men remained standing still as they watched her from a distance.

She’s mine, Dain. You have nothing to offer her.

Get your arm off me. Thorik pushed out from under Wess’ heavy arm and turned to face him head on. I’m tired of your games, Wess. Just back off!

Wess looked surprised at the feedback. Slow down, Fir-pet. What’s your problem? Can’t you take a little harmless fun?

Thorik straightened his shirt. You don’t know what it is like to be me. I have duties to perform for the Fir and at the school. I perform all the hunting north of Farbank without any brothers to help, he said, justifying his attitude. It must be nice to still live at home with your family with no real responsibilities.

Wess smiled at how ruffled Thorik’s feathers were. Yes, it is, no-soul. A sharp nod of his head added extra arrogance to his words. She’s mine, he clarified once again before turning and walking away.

No-soul. The lowest thing that he could be called, especially under the circumstances. Thorik was the only Polenum ever to not have any soul-markings at his age. The embarrassment he could live with, but the thought of disappointing his family with such a deformity was torturesome.

Arms straight and fists clenched, Thorik stood motionless as he tried to regain his composure. Wess’ words ate at Thorik, taking bites from his emotional flesh. Ever since he was a child, Wess had always made Thorik feel uncomfortable. He often said that the Mountain King prevented Thorik from having soul-markings because he had caused the death of his own parents. The guilt of being involved in his parent’s death was often more than Thorik could handle.

After several minutes of stewing about Wess, Thorik pulled a flat, hexagonal stone from his pocket and held it between his palms while closing his eyes. Taking several deep breaths, his heart rate slowed, and his skin returned from a red to a pale tan.

Putting the stone away, he opened his eyes and started noticing the good things about Farbank again, such as the sound of flutes in the air while people came together and traded and socialized. It was enough to start him on his way again.

He stopped periodically at shops with an armful of skins and meat on his way in and a load of various harvested goods on his way out. Life was grand, and he hoped it always would be.

After a swift day of trading, he returned home to his cottage at the end of his path, in the woods, upstream of the village. In his mind, it was the best place in the world to live. Not a grand house nor colorful, but well built and maintained. Strong and sturdy, it would hold up for many more generations. It was sound and warm, making Thorik thankful for what he had.

He opened the door and exposed the one-room cottage, which included a kitchen, a sitting area, and a table and chairs, as well as a bed. However, the place of rest was occupied by a tall human with mahogany hair who had cuts and burns across most of his body and face. Ambrosius was unconscious in Thorik’s bed with several restraints, keeping him from rolling off in his slumber.

Good evening, friend. I hope you had a fine sleep. Thorik wheeled his barrow right through the doorway. This was much more efficient for putting items away, and he did so in a quick and orderly way. Thorik spun the cart around and then pushed it out of his home, around to the side of the cottage, and up toward the hillside. He stopped at an outcropping of rocks and placed it in a location designed just for his sturdy barrow. A single long rock arched over his tool shed, providing his items with perfect protection from the elements. Harmony in the home brings harmony to the heart, he said to himself with a smile.

Pleasantly, he walked back to his comfortable single-room home. Once inside, he sat down at his little table and grinned at the human while he had a bite to eat. I wonder where you’ve traveled, my friend. What adventures have you taken and what wondrous sights have you seen? Taking another bite, he could only imagine what existed beyond the limits of his valley.

The fresh fruits and vegetables were better than he had remembered. He loved harvest time. After eating, he cleaned up and boiled a pot of water, to which he added various herbs and pinches of items from many little jars on his open cupboard shelves. All jars were well organized and positioned with their labels facing forward for easy reading.

He let the broth boil for nearly an hour before letting it cool to a simmer. During this time, he spent endless moments looking over maps and drawings at the only table in his home. He had recorded every place he had ever been on various maps with details of unique canyons, bluffs, and rock formations. There were sketches and notes from his travels about various animals he had seen. He removed each valuable sheet from a decorative two-hinged wooden coffer, which he used to store them.

Glancing over at the injured human, he couldn’t wait to ask the outsider what lay beyond what he had mapped and perhaps even what was beyond the mountains of the river valley. There were so many questions he had for the unexpected visitor.

Daydreaming of what was beyond the next set of foothills, he drew his own conclusions. This activity was his only escape away from the small village and hunting grounds to the north. If it were up to his Uncle Brimmelle, Thorik wouldn’t even go past the first ridge.

Two crisp knocks at the door interrupted Thorik’s peaceful pondering of distant valleys. Fir Brimmelle Riddlewood the Seventh of Farbank opened the door and let himself in as Thorik stood from his chair after hiding his maps in his wooden coffer.

Brimmelle was more than twice the age of Thorik and about the same height, but more robust. His dark chestnut and coal-colored hair added width to his already round face, which centered attention on his thick, bushy eyebrows. Broad strokes of dark skin traveled from his left hand up to his neck, stopping abruptly at his jawline.

Fine threads were used in Brimmelle’s attire, adding color to an otherwise monotonous man. He was clean and sharp in his mannerisms, yet stale and shallow in his charisma. As the spiritual leader of Farbank, he had respect from the villagers without having to earn it.

Has he spoken again? Brimmelle asked, dropping a finely crafted wooden chest hard onto the old table. Carved hexagonal designs coated all sides of the forearm-length box.

Thorik finished cleaning his items off the table while answering. Yes, this morning I was able to get his name.

I told you my daily readings would help him. Tugging at his thick eyebrow, he frowned at the human. He said nothing else?

Bits and pieces. He’s still saying the same date. The thirteenth day of the twelfth month must be important to him. The rest I can’t understand, Thorik answered.

Have you soaked the wounds yet?

The herbs Granna gave me have finished soaking, so I was just about to. Thorik collected several small thick cloths and dunked one into the simmering herbal water he had prepared. Once fully saturated, it was removed and folded tightly to extract most of the water before being placed on the neck of his patient. Humans tended to be a head taller than Nums, with stronger facial features and darker tan skins. This thin human met all those attributes.

Brimmelle looked upon the sleeping man partially covered with a thin blanket. The badly burned side of the man’s face and neck was still visible. And what is it?

Confused by the question, Thorik continued patting the cloth on the man’s burns. Is what?

His name. What are we calling this outsider?

Ambrosius.

Fir Brimmelle helped himself to one of Thorik’s pears and took a bite. Well, don’t get too attached to him. No good ever comes from dealing with outsiders. The sooner he heals, the sooner he can leave.

Discouraged by the comment, Thorik asked, Why do you dislike anyone that doesn’t live among us?

It has nothing to do with disliking them. I don’t trust them. Brimmelle’s conversations were brief and to the point. He didn’t allow pondering on other options. Issues were easier to resolve when they were black and white. I have had poor luck with the few that have come to our village, including Su’I Sorat. I still blame him for your parents’ death. You would have been gone as well if I hadn’t saved you. Pear juice sprayed from his mouth as he pointed a stern finger at Thorik. Remember, outsiders don’t do things for others unless there is something in it for themselves. It’s that hidden something that costs us in the end.

Thorik lowered his head at the thought of his parents’ death and at the debt he owed Brimmelle for saving his life. A moment of guilt strained in his chest as he recalled his responsibility for their deaths.

Moving his wooden chest to the bed, Brimmelle pulled a chair up next to Ambrosius and opened the lid of the box. Selecting one of the many small scrolls that filled it, he unrolled it to expose the writing upon it. He then began reading the spiritual limericks. Each scroll had its own topic that related to a specific rune symbol.

He read the colorful words of inspiration in a dry tone that paled their complexion, much like listening to a beautiful song sung by a tone-deaf singer. It was pointless for Brimmelle to unroll and read each one, for he had a perfect memory and had recited them easily after his first reading. But it was tradition, and he followed the teachings without questioning them.

His monotone scroll reading went on for an hour before he suddenly stopped and stood to leave. Setting the dry pear core on Thorik’s table, he walked to the doorway with his chest of