The Rock of Ivanore

by Laurisa White Reyes

  “The horsemen Vos spoke of, could they be the Mardoks?”

  “Yes,” answered Jayson. “Arik must have passed us during the night. We haven’t much time.”

  Thirty-four

  s Marcus and the others reached the bottom of the hill at the far side of Lake Olsnar, the mist grew dense once again. Without the river nearby, Marcus feared that navigating would be impossible.

  “We’ll never find our way through this,” said Kelvin, handing Marcus the rope. “Why don’t you use that key of yours?”

  Bryn was already digging in Marcus’s pocket for it. He fished it out and held it up like a trophy. “Shiny!” he said.

  Marcus took it from Bryn and rubbed it clean on his cape. “How can you tell what it looks like in this?” Marcus asked, indicating the cloud in which they were standing.

  “Grocs can see even better than we smell,” replied Bryn proudly.

  “I can believe that,” Kelvin retorted. “Do Grocs ever take baths?”

  Marcus rubbed the key between his palms and tried to decide the best plan of action. He wished he could speak to Xerxes, but with Kelvin and Jayson near, that was not an option. As though he could read Marcus’s thoughts, Xerxes’ eyes fluttered open.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he said with a wide yawn. “I know you cannot speak, so just listen. Squeeze the staff if you understand.”

  Marcus gave one long squeeze with his hand.

  “Not too tight. I’m not made of iron, you know! So how should we deal with this fog? You could condense the vapor into water, but that much water would turn the ground beneath us into a swamp.” Xerxes clicked his beak rapidly, and Marcus imagined the look of concentration that must be on his wooden face. “You might heat the mist so that it would rise. No, no. Where could you harvest enough energy to warm that much water? I will have to think . . .”

  Marcus decided to do what would take as little effort as possible. He held the key in front of him and focused his attention. He was about to utter a single command, but thought better of it. Remembering the snake in the forest, he chose instead to try giving his command in silence. I must choose wisely, he cautioned himself, or it might backfire and end up causing a hurricane or something.

  He settled on the word divide and repeated it in his mind. The key heated up more quickly than he expected. The mist began to churn like a small cyclone, which split into two halves, each spinning in opposite directions. The fog parted before him as though invisible hands had reached down and split a bale of cotton in two.

  Marcus tested the nearest patch of mist with the tip of the walking stick. It had not changed its composition but curled about the staff like angels’ breath.

  “Not what I would have done,” said Xerxes, “but effective nonetheless.”

  Marcus grinned with pleasure at Xerxes’ half-hearted compliment. Then, pocketing the key, he led Kelvin and Jayson along the straight, clear path until, several hours later, the fog finally lifted.

  They continued walking in silence, the hours passing slower than Marcus ever thought possible. Ahead of him, Kelvin followed Bryn, who trudged wearily several paces behind Jayson.

  “I’m hungry,” said Bryn finally. “When are we going to stop?”

  Using his crossbow, Kelvin prodded Bryn from behind. “Keep walking,” he said.

  “Didn’t you hear him?” said Marcus. “He said he’s hungry.”

  “We’re all hungry,” replied Kelvin, giving Bryn another nudge. “The only difference is we humans don’t eat each other.”

  Bryn stopped suddenly and turned toward Kelvin. “I told you before—I won’t eat you.”

  “And what if I don’t believe you?” said Kelvin. “All we have to do is close our eyes for a second, and you’ll turn into that monster thing and we’re through.”

  Bryn did not reply. Instead he bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Tears pooled in his eyes. “You hate me,” he said, “don’t you?”

  “Of course I hate you! You tried to chew me up and swallow me for lunch!”

  At this point Marcus thought it best to intervene. He placed his arm around Bryn’s shoulders and urged him gently forward. The three of them began walking again.

  “And why does a Groc travel with humans, anyway?” asked Kelvin. “Don’t you have a herd or brood of other Grocs to go home to? Won’t they miss you?”

  Bryn glanced down at his feet as they walked. He was quiet for several moments before speaking. “No one misses me,” he said. “And I do not miss them. I left because I do not want to be a Groc anymore. I want to be—” Bryn hesitated. He looked up at Marcus, who gave him a reassuring smile. Then Bryn spoke again. “I want to be human.”

  Kelvin burst out laughing. “A Groc wants to be human! Did you hear that, Jayson?”

  Jayson, who was now several yards ahead of the others, called back. “I heard him.”

  “If you want to be human,” continued Kelvin, “why did you attack us in the canyon?”

  “I was so hungry,” answered Bryn defensively. “I try not to be a . . . a monster . . . but sometimes I cannot help it.”

  The road on which they traveled grew steeper. Soon it bent through a densely wooded area. Marcus heard the sound of bubbling water nearby and hoped they would stop there to rest.

  “If you cannot help being who you are,” continued Kelvin, “how can you expect us to trust you?”

  Bryn stopped walking once again and looked directly into Kelvin’s eyes. His expression was solemn. “Because,” he said in as serious a tone as Marcus had heard him use, “I promise. And unlike most humans, I keep my promises.”

  Thirty-five

  he day grew unusually warm, and Marcus wiped away another trickle of sweat from his forehead. He gazed at his reflection in the spring from which he had just filled his water skin. The surface was in constant motion, making the image of his face distort in humorous ways, and he laughed at himself.

  “Are the fish telling jokes now?” asked Jayson, sidling up beside him and dropping to his knees in the soft mud. He cupped his hands and dipped them in the cold water, drinking from them repeatedly. When he had finished, he sat down on a flat boulder and stretched out his legs. “After lunch we’ll continue. We should reach Dokur by midday tomorrow,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin.

  Marcus was glad the journey would not be long. On the eastern side of the Jeweled Mountains, the weather was cold, and frost would soon be garnishing the fields each morning. Yet here in the open valleys of the west, the air was near sweltering. A weak breeze and the cool water of the spring were their only relief.

  “Are there many villages along the way?” asked Marcus.

  “There used to be, but most moved out long ago,” Jayson explained. “Like the Cyclopes, my people once inhabited this entire valley, but when the humans migrated here from the mainland, things changed.”

  “But you’re part human . . .” Marcus let his voice drift off, afraid he might offend his companion.

  Yet Jayson appeared to take no offense. “Yes, my father is human. By the time I was born, the Agoran tribes had been removed to a reservation in Taktani, a piece of marshland fit only for frogs and flies. My mother died there. Things got so bad that eventually they sent me to petition Lord Fredric for aid. Because I was half human, they thought he might listen to me. They were wrong.”

  Marcus watched Jayson, waiting for more.

  Jayson sensed his interest and continued. “That’s when I met her.”

  “Ivanore?”

  Jayson smiled at her memory. “She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Long silky hair the color of autumn wheat. Eyes as blue as the sky. And her skin . . .” Jayson held up his hand and stroked an invisible cheek with his fingers. Then he dropped his hand on the rock beside him, becoming melancholic. “It was a long time ago,” he finished.

  Marcus dug his toe into the mud. He sensed Jayson’s reluctance to go on with his story, but it intrigued him so that he
dared to press him further. “You said your mother died. What about your father? Is he still in Taktani?”

  Jayson’s countenance hardened. “I haven’t seen my father since I was a boy. The Agorans do not trust humans and vice versa. My parents were forced to separate. Ivanore was taken from me—all because we are different from each other.”

  Marcus thought of the isolation he often felt because of being different. While the other boys learned the art of hunting from their fathers, Marcus spent his time with books. How he had longed to join in their games, and at times he had resented his station. But as he grew older, he came to accept who he was—though feelings of resentment still surfaced now and then.

  Jayson slapped his hand into the water, upsetting the reflection there. As he rose to his feet, a sudden ear-piercing squeal sounded in the distance. Jayson and Marcus looked at each other as though reading one another’s thoughts. Both of them scrambled to their feet and took off running.

  “Bryn!” shouted Marcus as he neared the grove of trees where they had stopped earlier to rest. “Kelvin! Where are you?”

  Marcus and Jayson found Kelvin leaning against a tree, gasping for breath. He held his dagger in his hand.

  “What happened?” asked Marcus. “We heard something cry out.”

  “Bryn,” began Kelvin, trying to catch his breath. “He attacked me. I was resting against this tree when I heard a low growl. I opened my eyes and saw him coming toward me, his figure changed into that beast from the canyon. He lunged at me. I hardly had time to think. I swung my dagger blindly at him.”

  “Where is he?” asked Marcus, but Jayson was already heading deeper into the woods.

  Kelvin pointed to a large clump of bushes nearby. “He landed past me in that thicket over there.”

  Marcus hurried to the spot and arrived just as Jayson began hacking through the shrub. A moment later they found Bryn, a boy once again, lying face down on the earth, half buried in vines and vegetation.

  Seeing Bryn’s still form, Marcus wondered what had prompted Bryn to break his promise. He had been so certain that Bryn would not harm them. How could he have so misjudged the Groc’s character?

  Kelvin stepped up beside Marcus and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I told you he couldn’t be trusted.”

  Jayson grasped Bryn’s arm and carefully rolled him onto his back. Beneath him, a young warboar, nearly as big as Bryn, lay dead, a large gaping wound at its neck.

  Marcus spoke first. “He . . . Bryn was trying to protect you,” he said to Kelvin, a quiver in his voice. “He wasn’t attacking you at all.”

  Jayson poked the warboar with the tip of his sword. “It would have ripped you to shreds with those tusks.”

  Kelvin stood motionless, staring at Bryn’s body. Then he turned and walked away. Marcus wanted to go with him but sensed that Kelvin needed to be alone. Before Kelvin took three steps, however, Bryn moaned.

  Kelvin turned back as Marcus dropped to his knees beside Bryn. “You’re alive!” said Marcus. “We all thought you were dead. Are you hurt?”

  Bryn sat up slowly. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “I saw a warboar charging toward Kelvin. I threw myself at it but must have smacked my head against a tree. The next thing I know I’m sitting here with you.”

  Jayson helped Bryn to his feet. “Good,” he said, laughing. “You can scout out the next several miles of road while we prepare this warboar for lunch.”

  Bryn brushed the leaves and twigs from his clothes and rubbed the tender spot on the back of his head. Kelvin stood nearby, a contrite look on his face. “What I said before,” he began, “I was wrong about you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “You don’t hate me anymore?” asked Bryn.

  Kelvin shook his head. “I don’t hate you anymore.”

  Kelvin held out his hand to Bryn, but Bryn did not take it. For a moment Kelvin hesitated, not knowing how to respond should his apology be rejected. But when Bryn stepped forward and embraced him, it was clear that Kelvin had been forgiven.

  Thirty-six

  errid Zwelger spent the better part of the day crouching beneath a bush far off the main road. The mist that had rolled across the lake provided the cover he needed to escape from the Mardoks, but when the air cleared, he had to settle for the cramped hiding space embedded with thorns. He stayed there for as long as he could bear. But finally, at the urging of his empty stomach, he ventured out.

  The ground felt marshy beneath his feet. The willows growing along the lakeshore swayed in the breeze. He caught a whiff of baking bread and followed it around the lake to a cluster of Willenberry trees. A thin tendril of smoke curled up from the treetops, and Jerrid went toward it, hoping to find a hospitable host and a warm meal.

  After several minutes, he came upon a grassy clearing. In the center stood a massive structure made of stone. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was an oven, an oven taller than his home in Quendel. The oven’s door alone was more than twice as tall as he was. What or who would need an oven of such proportions did not cross his mind; the sweet fragrance of bread wafting out of it was all he cared about.

  It wasn’t until the Cyclops had him in his grip that he began to scream. Jerrid screamed so long and so loudly that he only stopped to suck in enough air to continue screaming. The Cyclops held him at eye level and cocked his head to one side. Certain the monster was about to take a bite out of him, Jerrid’s screams turned to tearful wails. The cacophony brought other Cyclopes in from the trees, and soon more than a dozen of them encircled Jerrid, still in the clutches of his one-eyed captor.

  Jerrid’s wails turned to sobs and then to intermittent sniffs and whimpers. When he realized that he was not going to be eaten, his crying stopped altogether. “W-why haven’t you k-killed me?” he asked, wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  The Cyclops that held him looked bewildered. “Urtur ah Breah,” he said.

  Jerrid tried again. “I thought you would have eaten me by now. You know . . . eat.” He lifted his fingers to his mouth as though he were putting food into it.

  The Cyclops repeated the same phrase as before, copying Jerrid’s gesture. “Urtur ah Breah.”

  “No,” said Jerrid. He was beginning to feel frustrated. If the monsters were going to eat him, he would prefer to get it over with quickly. “If you’re not going to have me for supper, let me go!” he shouted.

  The crowd of Cyclopes shifted, and an elderly one came forward. He was bent with years, and a wide jagged scar marred his forehead.

  “Who is there?” the blind Cyclops said.

  He speaks my language! Jerrid realized, relieved to know that someone would be able to understand him.

  “My name is Jerrid,” he said. “I was hungry and smelled the bread cooking in your oven. I didn’t know what . . . that you lived here, or I wouldn’t have come.”

  The Cyclops that held him spoke again. “Urtur ah Breah.”

  “He says his name is Breah,” explained the old Cyclops. “I am Vos. By your voice I sense you are but a child. What is a boy doing alone at Lake Olsnar?”

  “I’m fourteen, actually,” said Jerrid. “I’m on a quest.”

  Vos spoke to Breah in the Cyclopes’ language, and Breah set Jerrid gently on the ground.

  “You smell familiar,” said Vos. “I’ve smelled you before, but it was many years ago, before your time.”

  Jerrid remembered the stories of his father, how he had carried home a Cyclops’s eye for his prize. He decided he should change the subject—and fast.

  “That bread smells delicious,” he said. “May I trouble you for some?”

  Vos requested that Jerrid be fed. He was not only given bread, but also roasted yams, cabbage salad, and nectar, as well. By the time he had finished eating, Jerrid was glad he had stumbled upon the Cyclopes.

  “I should be going,” he said after thanking them for his meal. “I have to get to Dokur.”

  When Vos heard the word Dokur, he droppe
d his massive hand on the ground in front of Jerrid.

  “Why do you go to Dokur?” he asked.

  “I told you before,” replied Jerrid. “I’m on a quest.”

  “What is the nature of your quest?”

  Jerrid hesitated. But then he thought, what would Cyclops care about Jayson?

  “I seek the Rock of Ivanore,” he said.

  Vos and the other Cyclopes gasped. They began speaking with one another in frenzied voices. Vos held up his hand to silence them. He leaned over and sniffed the air above Jerrid. Then he opened his mouth and roared. The sound was deafening.

  “I know that stench now!” Vos bellowed angrily. “It is the smell of the creature that blinded me and left me for dead more than twenty-five years ago!”

  “No!” shouted Jerrid, suddenly terrified. “It wasn’t me!”

  “It could not have been you, but your smell is the same as his. How can that be?”

  “It w-was m-my father!” Jerrid’s legs turned to jelly. He struggled to remain standing.

  “And now you, O spawn of my enemy,” continued Vos, “you want to go to Dokur to destroy the only friend the Cyclopes have on all of Imaness! He who taught me to speak his language! He who defended us against the invasion of humans! You will not harm him!”

  Jerrid found himself once again in Breah’s grasp, but this time there was loathing in the Cyclops’s face. With his free hand, Breah opened the great door to the stone oven and tossed Jerrid inside. Then he slammed the door shut with a bang.

  Jerrid looked around him. A narrow shaft of light filtered in through the chimney above. The chimney was wide enough for him to escape, but its opening was too high for him to reach. The walls of the oven were still warm, and Jerrid feared that they would light a fire underneath it and cook him for supper after all. With nothing else for him to do, he dropped to his knees in the center of the cavernlike space and wept.