Fate of Thorik Read online

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 happened to be 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 too, 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 did not prove true for other attributes. Like most species, the eyes and dexterity of the body would start to fade and their hair would lose its luster and thickness as it began turning gray. In addition, the mind of Nums tended to regress with age, regaining a sense of childlike playfulness in their elder years. Fortunately for Thorik he was a young man who would see many years before he would affected by such things.

  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 with plant life, providing every color imaginable. Areas of exposed rock added their own peculiar scheme of browns, reds, and tans as veins of mineral and crystal deposits were uncovered by the rains.

  Small streams ran down the mountain walls and merged at the bottom with the mighty King’s River. Thicker vegetation and narrow valleys could be seen upstream, while downstream it unfurled into softer hills and scattered open ranges. Farbank was rested 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 Dain’s secret family recipe.

  Nearing Farbank, he noticed his grandmother, Gluic, on her hands and knees reaching into the bitterly cold water. In her sixties, she showed 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 they typically formed on their bodies as they became teenagers. Thorik’s had not come in yet, which seemed quite odd and 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 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 supporting her request, so he smiled half-heartedly and touched the muddy rock with the tip of one finger in hopes not to get 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? Very old. Older than me, and many stories to tell. 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 occasional 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 predominately 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. Various barks were used for sidings, included the blackened oaks to the white birch barks and everything in between. The Nums took pride in their homes and would decorate them with items gathered from nature that best represented their families.

  Erratic placement of houses and paths often became dead end streets without warning. As chaotic as the homes and patted down dirt paths were, they were kept 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 everywhe
re, 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 their 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 design of the primary spiritual structure on top of Dula Peak. This Mori Site was used 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 market place 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 Num’s 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 the tents.

  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 pacified his interest. “Well done.”

  “Every peak and valley is titled. 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 which 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 gave him comfort in her words.

  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 the sides of the front double doors while the third tree trunk was used 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. Thorik had the shortest last name of any in the village. The villagers with longer names carried more status in the community and often were looked at 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 as well as 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 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 starting to grow. “You mean you have other than maps back at your cottage?”

  Glaring at Wess, it was obvious we didn’t want to discuss it. “No. There’s nothing at my home. Nothing at all.”

  Wess nodded with a smile and 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 without any 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. Embarrassment he could live with, but the thought of disappointing his family with such a deformity was torturing.

  Arms straight and fist clinched, Thorik stood there motionless as he tried to regain his composure. His words ate at Thorik, taking bites from his emotional flesh. Ever since he was a child, Wess had always been able to make Thorik feel uncomfortable. He often said that the Mountain King prevented Thorik f
rom having soul-markings because he had caused the death of his own parents. The guilt of this action 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.

  Placing the stone away, he opened his eyes and started noticing the good things about Farbank again. 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, sitting area, 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 his 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 to put items away, and he did so in a quick and orderly way. Totally ignoring the sleeping man in his home, 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.”

  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 began to boil a pot of water to which he added various herbs and pinches of items from many little jars on his open cupboard shelves. Each jar was well organized and labeled as they faced 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. Every place he had ever been was recorded on various maps with details of unique canyons, bluffs and rock formations. Animals had been cataloged with sketches and notes from his limited travels. He removed each valuable sheet from a decorative two-hinged wooded coffer, which he used to store them.

  Glancing over at the injured human, he couldn’t wait to ask the outsider of what lies beyond what he had mapped and perhaps even what is 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. It 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 over twice the age of Thorik, about the same height, but more robust. His dark chestnut and coal colored hair added width to his already round face that 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 jaw line.

  Fine threads were used in Brimmelle’s attire, adding color to an otherwise monotonous man. He was clean and sharp in his mannerisms, 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.”

  “As I told you, my daily readings would do him good.” 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. 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 burnt side of the man’s face and neck were 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 to 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 short and to the point. He didn’t allow pondering 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 parent's 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 parent’s 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. Filled with small scrolls, he selected one and unrolled the scroll to expose the writings 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 each one and read them, for he had a perfect memory and had been able to recite them easily after his first reading. But it was tradition and he followed the teachings without questioning them.

  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 scrolls. Pausing for a moment at the open door, he looked into the night air and took in a deep breath of cool fall air. “I noticed that you have missed my teac
hings several times in the past month. It will not happen again. Is this understood?”

  Thorik didn’t have to speak. He bowed his head and it was understood. A parishioner missing Brimmelle’s reading was unacceptable, but Thorik was Brimmelle’s nephew as well as one of his spiritual assistants. Missing his readings was serious and Thorik had missed more than one while out on adventurous hunts.

  Without turning away from the night sky, Brimmelle made one last comment before stepping out the doorway. “You are too old to be playing with maps and fantasies of distant valleys. I want all of those papers you hid, when I arrived, to be set aside so you can focus on memorizing the Rune Scrolls. It’s time you grow up.”

  And with that, he left Thorik standing in his one room cottage with a mysterious man recovering from severe injuries. Struggling between his mentor’s words and investigating this man’s journeys would keep Thorik from having a good night sleep far more than the inconvenience of having to sleep on the floor.

  Chapter 3

  Painful Extraction