XVI. Journey Home

Majestus Sinobe’s final command received the results it pronounced. Every cheek of those on the ledge was tinted red, and they averted their eyes from each other. Throats were cleared and collars tugged, and no one breathed too deeply, fearing of what they might smell in evidence of their uncontrolled deed. And for Tarl Bimbo it led to an exclamation:

"E-gad!"

What brought this extra reaction from him was memory of the inches tall girl stuffed in his pocket during the slaughter of the little people. That he wet his pants was embarrassing enough, but that he had subjected her to such a soaking was humiliating. He reached into his pocket—and his hand went straight through to his damp thigh. He blinked. By the feel of it she had bitten through the pocket threads and escaped down his leg somewhere along the way.

He was relieved she escaped this humiliating incident, sad at the loss of opportunity for a little…action with her and disgusted at the dampness his hand had been subjected to. With a quietly stated "E-yuck;" he pulled his hand from his pocket and wiped it front and back on his shirt. Then he felt the eyes upon him, brought on, he knew, by his exclamation. Feeling his cheeks heat up, he met their stare with a crooked smile and nervous giggle.

"I—I don’t remember," he said, indicating the fire framed doorway with his just-wiped-off hand, "passing this doorway on the way down this ledge."

Thankful as he was to draw their attention away from himself, he had no idea how thankful they were to have their attention drawn away not only from him but their own ill at ease situation. They were reminded of what the chasing fire had taken away, their chance to consider upon reaching the ledge. They looked around to find they were, in fact, on the ledge they had followed into the volcanic mountain, and no one remembered passing a doorway either.

A question popped into their heads. Could the turning of the candle shelf have opened this doorway as well? This question led to another. If that was true, why had it not closed like the other when the candle righted itself? But they had no time to seek answers to these questions.

"Race horses round the final turn to the home stretch! The late night walker’s eerie feeling he is being followed! We have reached the final expanse we must traverse to leave this mountain. There is no time to waste if we wish to escape the evil lurking within its dark places," Ty the Parson said in a flail of limbs, and he started up the ledge.

Grash and Orlon took off after him. Shing, Tarl and Tarftenrott skirted the fire framed doorway and hurried after them.

Round and round and round they went up the ledge and walking into the light rather than into darkness filled them with enthusiasm. No matter how uplifted their spirits, however, they could not deny the weariness of their limbs. Of all the ordeals they suffered within the mountain, the most tiring was trudging—running for their lives through the slimy tunnels. The upward slant of the ledge was enough to cramp their aching leg muscles, but the increasing daylight and corresponding warmth kept them moving.

There was no one more grateful to be exiting the volcanic mountain than Orlon. He wanted to see the whole wide world again, to witness the results of his having saved it from the clutches of evil Tibtarni—whatever. He caught his breath in anticipation…. What wonders would his eyes see in reward for his harrowing deed?

Up they walked, up and up. Round and round they went, and with each go-round the brighter and warmer it got. It was obvious the daylight they entered was of the very late afternoon variety, which left them wondering just how far they could get away from the mountain before darkness consumed them. The thought of spending a night sleeping on the ground did not sound good to them. To a man, the image of Talbortale’s Hotel popped into their minds.

Quickly as the image popped into their minds, it popped out. All they were concerned with at this point was getting out of the mountain.

Reaching the pit’s rim gave them a great sense of relief. They basked in the sunlight, breathed deeply of the fresh air, tainted though it was by the stink of their slimy, urine soaked clothing. They were simply overjoyed by what freshness they could get out of it.

Orlon made a point of looking about, turning around once, twice, and what he discovered was—an ordinary, everyday evening. His shoulders slumped, the brightness of expectation left his face shadowed in disappointment. With a sigh, he brushed off his disappointment at finding nothing spectacular to represent his world saving deed and took account of the day itself. The sun hovered over the western horizon, setting its uneven surface aglow in crimson… All he knew was he wanted to get as far away from the volcanic mountain as he could before night fell.

"We had better get moving, don’t you think?" Shing said.

The statement sent a jolt through Orlon. In order to "get moving," they would have to climb down the mountainside he had been carried up by the Oriental Ranger. He looked at him, aware of his burden—Expendendale—which ruled out a repeat of his assistance. His eyes drifted to Grash, too old, then Tarftenrott, who proclaimed himself too weak for the task earlier.

Into his mind appeared the image of the one person he had denied the chance to carry him up the sheer wall, Sharna. For reasons beyond him, he had feared her coming in contact with the Holy Pike. Well, he did not have the weapon now, and he did not have his self proclaimed protector either. With the latter thought he felt strangely listless, not really caring whether he made it safely off the mountain or not.

"Looks like the almighty One is all on his own this time," Tarl said, a giggle in his voice, as he stepped by him to join the others who had started the descent. Just before his head dipped below the rim, he paused to say, "Get a move on, buddy."

Orlon took in a deep breath, held it a moment before letting it out in a whoosh. A corner of his mouth twitched up with memory of an old quote: "My, how the mighty have fallen." His best friend had been right about him being on his own now. Once the deed was done, the quest concluded, the One became no more than Orlon…the Pure. He sighed. Well, if he was on his own, so be it.

He gulped and stepped up to the rim’s edge, looked down. His blue eyes went from Tarl, just feet below him, to those beyond, and grew wider and wider as they continued to the ground far, far below. He would have jumped back, startled, if not for memory of the pit behind him, knowing no one was there to catch him this time. Instead, he froze in place, and he knew that would not do. What he needed to do was break the ice that gripped him—and fast.

If not, the Party would leave him behind.

To break the freeze, he took several rapid breaths, worked his hands into shaking, a shaking that worked up his arms, engulfed his entire body. It stopped. Eyes closed, he told himself he could do this, ignored the quivering of his inner voice.

When he opened his eyes he felt…a little less unnerved about the climb before him. The first thing he did was sit on the rim’s edge, feet dangling, heart in throat. No matter how hard he swallowed he could not get it back into his chest where it belonged. He swung himself around and off the edge, hanging by his hands, feet seeking purchase. Once found in the form of a jutting rock and narrow creased, his descent began.

Hand- and foothold to hand- and foothold he crept down the mountainside.

More and more he precariously paused to wipe off sweaty palms.

All the while he kept his eyes on the sheer wall before him.

All the while he told himself with each hand- and foothold the lower he got.

All he desired was to feel solid ground beneath his feet once more.

Suddenly the Midget found no catch for his feet, no matter how he stretched his less than four feet frame in search. There simply was nothing for either foot to rest upon. His palms grew even more sweaty, and he feared he would fall. One foot recaptured its earlier purchase, giving him a moment’s sense of relief. Fear took that relief away with the realization he must look down if he ever hoped to reach the bottom. He did—and found he was only five feet off the ground.

A giggle drew his eyes to Tarl Bimbo, standing before the Party, arms crossed over chest, head shaking, a sneer accompanying his giggle. The others simply watched him.

Orlon’s cheeks reddened, a nervous giggle escaped his tense lips. Releasing his hold allowed him to drop to the ground. A blessed feeling swept over him. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his coat, took in a few breaths and composed himself before turning to face his best friend and the Party, smiling amiably.

Tarl gave him a wink and a thumbs-up, but Orlon could see the sarcasm behind his "good job" gesture…. The roll of his eyes was pre-empted by Ty the Parson, who, now that all were safely on solid ground, spun and sped down the porous pathway they had followed to reach the mountain. The Party turned their heads to watch him hurrying away.

In quick order, they took off after him, Tarl giving his best friend a shrug before following. Not wanting to be left behind, Orlon took off after them, and tired though his legs were, he caught up to them quickly, falling in step behind Tarl.

From porous path to rocky stretch to field of brittle grass, they went, and on into sickly forest, into healthy forest. Each stage of growing life in nature symbolized the distances they were attaining from vanquished Tibtarnitallimardarian’s lair and whatever evil…essence Ty the Parson proclaimed remained, yet that did not ease their frayed nerves one bit. Along with their worries about what lay behind them were concerns over what lay ahead. Would their avenue—the tree felled by Shing—across the river still be there?

They hurried down the wide, welcoming path through the forest, ears cocked, eyes eagerly looking ahead. Soon they heard and saw the rushing waters of the river beyond the path’s wide, welcoming entrance. This put more speed into their advancement, at a cost of pain in their aching legs, but none minded the price. To a man, they wanted not only to see if the felled tree remained, but to get across the river no matter how they had to accomplish it.

Upon reaching the path’s entrance, they lined up on the bank, and they breathed a sigh of relief. The felled tree still bridged the river. Staff pointing, Ty the Parson went to and crossed the tree bridge. The Party followed, with Tarl then Orlon bringing up the rear as usual… Orlon could not help but look at the water passing beneath the felled tree. What he saw stopped him, brought on a double-take. Just below the rushing water’s surface was the river’s pebble strewn bottom.

He looked from it to those ahead and back again, and back again! The fact his fellow travelers were leaving him behind far outweighed his startlement over seeing the river’s bottom. He hurried after them, and when he stepped onto the narrow bank, he looked back to see the river’s waters running swift, running deep. But there was no time for him to contemplate or question this mystery.

Ty the Parson led them swiftly to and along the narrow path through the forest on this side of the river. Sidestepping though they must, they moved quickly along its weaving way. Yet there was hesitation in their step, all remembering where the path led them, what had happened there. And there was no one more affected by the memory than Tarftenrott, the only living member of the Party who had been involved in the act of horror.

Bursting into the clearing brought them face to face with a group of twelve inch tall men pulling a wagon full of branches, twigs and pebbles. They halted, the little people halted, and they looked at each other, wide eyed. Then the little men spotted the stuttering warrior, and they scattered. Within seconds all that were left in the clearing were the Party and the supply wagon.

One by one they looked at Tarftenrott. Aware of their disapproving attention, he looked into the distance, his cheeks tinted pink.

The uncomfortable moment ended with a wild spin by Ty the Parson, resulting in a wide-legged stance, staff pointing at the entrance to the path through the forest ahead. He hurried toward it, skirting the hill beyond which lay the slaughtered village of little people, and the Party followed. The Parson squeezed through the entrance, Shing and Crash right behind him. Tarftenrott paused and looked back, over the heads of the frowning Midgets, to see a couple of the little men watching him, and said:

"S-s-su-su-s-sorry. W-wu-w-wu-with thu-thu-the qu-qu-quest a-and a-all th-thu-the t-t-t-talk o-of du-d-du-du-danger, e-evil…"

He shrugged, went through the entrance, Tarl and Orlon on his heels.

Down the winding path they went in good time and soon enough found themselves lined on the bank of the second river. All looked from the river to the far bank. Top most in their minds was how easily Telluspett carried the rope across the swift current, as the river turned out to be only calf deep, but they also remembered the destruction of the raft and felled tree-bridge by the river monstrosity. They gulped.

"The chosen is cast into the ceremonial fire pit! The way is scouted by the man on point! Who will cross the river to secure the way across the river?" Ty the Parson said with a flail of arms that ended with a flamboyant arm gesture, a coil of rope dropping into his hand.

"I’ll do it," Tarl Bimbo said.

Orlon gave his best friend a double-take. Never in his wildest dreams would he have believed Tarl would willingly volunteer to do anything chancy—dangerous.

"Telluspett did it," Tarl answered Orlon’s reaction, shrugging. "Hey, remember the river is only inches deep, pal o' mine. Nothing to it."

With that, he took an end of the rope and started across the river. By his second step he disappeared into the rushing water’s depths. The rope in Ty the Parson’s hand uncoiled once, twice, a third, fourth, fifth time… Tarl surfaced several feet downstream, dogpaddling frantically against the swift current. Climbing was his forte, no doubt, but swimming, not so much.

Yet there was one thing that lent fins to his limbs, memory of the horrific creature that had thwarted their first two attempts to cross the river. His efforts focused more on reaching the other side than fighting the current, costing Ty the Parson several more coils of rope before the Midget finally reached and pulled himself onto the bank, where he rolled onto his back, took in great gulps of air to catch his breath.

A smile came to his pudgy face with the thought of the one positive aspect to this unexpected plunge into the river. The rushing waters had cleaned the slime and urine stains from his clothing. Crimson crept up his cheeks with the further thought of how the rushing waters had swept away the fresh urine released upon his thinking of the river monstrosity. He blurted a laugh. Now if he could just combat the chill of being soaking wet.

"Tie the rope to a tree," Shing hollered.

Tarl blinked, sat up and looked upstream at his traveling comrades.

"Tie it as high as you can," the Oriental Ranger added.

Tarl blinked again—and his eyes dropped to the rope in hand. When the reason he crossed the river returned to his mind, he smiled and gave them a thumbs-up. He got to his feet and quick-stepped it back toward them, eyeing the smattering of trees along the bank for the right one. He found it! And it was nearly directly across from the others, too. Stretching his four feet two inch frame to the limit, he tied the rope around the trunk a good five and a half feet up.

"Okay," he said, turning in a wide step to clear the way.

With the briefest of nods, Ty the Parson looped his end of the rope about a sturdy tree, pulled out all the slack and tied it secure. He then leaned on the rope with all his weight to test its strength. It held. A nod revealed his satisfaction, and he hung from the rope, swung his legs up to wrap around it and proceeded to pull himself hand-over-hand over the river. Once safely on the far bank, he stepped aside to await the others with Tarl.

Shing was next to pull himself along the rope to the other side, followed by Grash and then Tarftenrott. Each joined the others upon reaching the bank, and shortly they all stood together, looking at the last person on the far bank.

"It’s all up to you, Orlon," Tarl said with a big grin.

A frown touched Orlon’s face. There was no need for his best friend’s comment, or his obviously sarcastic grin.

He looked at the rope above him, and he swallowed. To reach it would be easy, just a simple jump, but it was what was expected of him after that worried him. Not only were his legs tired, his arms were weak from the strain of reaching this point as well. Did he have the strength to pull himself over the river? What if he fell into that swift current? He inwardly chuckled at the latter question. If there was one thing he had over Tarl Bimbo, it was that he could swim. Maybe he was not great at it, but he could swim.

"It’s all up to me," he breathed,

The simple jump to reach the rope proved successful. With great effort he was able to get his legs up and wrapped around it. He hung there. The weariness of his limbs was evident in their trembling, but he bit his lip, began to pull himself hand over hand over hand… Try though he might not to, he glanced at the rushing waters beneath him once, twice, a third time. Just as many times he gulped back bile. Nevertheless, he did not stop.

It was on his fourth glance down that he saw the edge of the bank, which renewed his waning strength. One pull, two pulls, a third and a fourth, and he was safely across the river. He let go his legs, then hands and dropped to solid ground. Upon remastering his balance, he turned to his fellow travelers, a proud smile on his face.

Reaction to his achievement took the smile right off his face.

Sappy staff pointing, Ty the Parson started through the forest, the Party right behind him. Tarl gave his best friend a shrug and followed.

A bit crestfallen, Orlon wiped his sweaty palms on his vest and took off after them.

Traversing the forest’s light and airy interior was quick and pleasant, even though the lengthy shadows that foretold of day’s end dimmed its light aspect more and more. They were not so concerned about the growing darkness, as they had been going the other way, and the fading of the river’s roaring current filled them with relief. The quest was over. They were heading…home.

No one, not even Tarl Bimbo, was more excited with the idea of going home, and the mundane life that awaited him there, than Orlon. A simple farmer, a happy farmer, he had been shanghaied on this quest to "save the world from the clutches of evil," and he had done it. To his way of thinking nothing would be better than to return to his simple, happy farm life in a continued time of peace and tranquility guaranteed by his deed. His only concern at the moment was getting there.

It was not so much that Tarl was unhappy with the thought of going home as it was a bit of a letdown for him. His dream of breaking free from Dwarf Road to see what lie beyond the farm community had come true—and he even exceeded his dream. He had had an adventure! And in that adventure he gained possession of and used his trusty sword, "Wasp." Oh, the experience had been exciting, exhilarating, as well as frightening beyond words. It had also exhausted him to the point he was amazed he was able to keep going.

So while returning to his humdrum life at home was on his mind, he thought of one other thing, too. Where would this leg of the journey end? Tired though he was, the idea of spending the night on the cold, hard ground did not appeal to him much. A nice night in a bed in a hotel room sounded better, but at this late hour he wondered if that was possible.

When they burst out of the forest they stopped, eyes turned westward. The sun had begun its dip beyond the horizon. Their eyes turned back to the plain they crossed yesterday afternoon and into the night, aided by Rae’s glowing staff. Well, they would not have the aid of that glowing staff this night, but the comforting thought of sleeping in a cozy bed at Talbortale’s hotel made the idea of crossing the plain in the dark of night sound not so bad.

They started off at a fair clip, thoughts of sleeping a night indoors dancing in their heads. On, they went, on and on despite their weariness. All the while they glanced at the sun which set more and more with each step they took…. Thoughts of partaking in a cooked meal before settling down in a cozy bed for the night added endurance to their weary limbs.

Night consumed them, but it was not as total as the night before. Clear skies allowed a full moon and surrounding stars to offer some relief to the darkness. They were thankful for that—and more. In the distance flickered a light they assumed must be a torch outside Talbortale’s Hotel.

With that light for guidance they had something more to keep their minds off their aches and pains.

Upon reaching Eltrondale Road they stumbled to a stop brought on by Orlon’s outcry.

"Hey," he voiced his astonishment of seeing the sea of armor was gone, and he asked, "What happened to all that armor?"

Tarl looked up and down the road, twice, just as astonished by the absence of armor as his best friend. The Party, however, looked from the road to Orlon and back again, smiling at the Midget’s naivety.

"No doubt it’s all back on the yellow striped backs of the Whelps," Grash said with a dismissive sniff and twirl of a mustache end.

"Huh?" Orlon and Tarl looked at him questioningly.

"Once they feel the threat is over after a confrontation," Shing quickly stepped in to explain without derision, "they return to reclaim their armor—" he cast a slant eye on Tarl "—or at least what has not been stolen of it. Cowards they are, and the armor and weapons they wear to mask that fact are very important to them. Be it minutes, hours or days later they will always recover their property. They cannot live without it."

Before Orlon could inquire further on the subject Ty the Parson shot across the road and down the gravel path to the hotel door, by which a flickering torch was ensconced. They hurried after him to and through the door, where they came to a halt. The big room was well lighted—and devoid of people. Their eyes went from the five chairs in the room’s center to the counter to the left, upon which sat a bell with a sign behind it that read: "Ring for Service".

The Party moved to the counter as a block, and Ty the Parson rang the bell. Instantly, the door behind the counter opened just enough to allow a head wearing a bright red nightcap through. And they recognized the big green eyed, hook nosed, thin lipped face as the man they met outside the hotel yesterday.

Brow furrowed, the man looked at them with sleepy eyes a moment before the thought "Customers!" popped into his head. "Room for you ge—" he started, then crinkled his nose as he took in their slimy, urine stained state, concluding with a disgusted expression, "—nts?"

All but Tarl blushed with the realization for the man’s reaction to them. Tarl simply smiled with thanks for his unexpected dip in the river.

"Yes," Shing stepped up to answer the question.

"And perhaps a bath and clothes cleaning as well?" he suggested, stepping through the door to reveal his bright red night shirt and slippers.

"Yes," Shing said.

"And a meal," Orlon put in, adding when the man looked at him, "Uh, if it’s not too late…?"

"No," he stepped up to the counter. "No, no, no, no, no. It’s never too late at Talbortale’s Hotel. We are here to serve the weary traveler no matter how late the hour. I’ll wake Mother to warm up the stove, my sisters to warm up some bath water.

"But first things first. How many rooms, sir?"

Shing took a head count and said, "Six."

"Six it is," the man said, producing six numbered keys from beneath the counter, but before handing them over, asked, "And your means of payment?"

Ty the Parson raised a finger to draw the man’s attention, then performed an elaborate arm gesture, as he had whenever Marcol’s services were required, and…nothing dropped into his hand. He frowned. Once again he performed the gesture. Same result. His frown deepened, and he looked at his sleeve. A third time the elaborate gesture brought the same negative result. Baffled, he looked at the man and shrugged, turned and shrugged to his fellow travelers.

"I’ll pay," Tarl said, stepping up to the counter and pulling his hefty money pouch from a pocket.

Orlon gave him a double-take. He could not believe his ears, could not remember his best friend being so generous—ever.

In fact, Tarl could not believe his own ears. What had brought this sudden surge of generosity upon him was a mystery. Never pay if a sucker can be found to foot the bill had been his motto—right up to this very moment. And seeing the man eye his money pouch hungrily made him hesitate for a split second before shrugging off his worry over the expenditure. He would recoup the cost soon enough. How exactly he did not know, but he felt certain he would.

"So," he said, opening his pouch. "What’s the damage?"

"Let’s see," the man said, eyes to the heavens, tapping his right index finger on his left index finger. "That’s six rooms, six baths, six meals, and I’m sure you’ll want breakfast as well, which makes it… Oh, let’s call it eight gold coins even."

"Sounds fair," Tarl said.

He counted eight gold coins from the pouch, gave them to the man, who dipped behind the counter and after a soft clink-clank, came up, smiling.

"If you gentlemen will go to your rooms," he passed out the keys, "undress—there are robes available—and get yourselves settled in, someone will be up shortly to collect your clothing to be washed and escort you to the baths. By the time you are nice and clean, your meals will be ready, and then it’s off to bed with you."

With nods of thanks, the Party headed up the steep stairway to the second floor.

* * *

Orlon lay in bed fast asleep. The kind of sleep brought on by a warm bath, warm meal and the warmth of a blanket on a cozy, despite a lump or two, hotel bed. Oh, he had had spits and spurts of troubled sleep caused by dreams of his ordeal in the volcanic mountain, and mournful tosses and turns with dreams of his lost self proclaimed protector. The latter were the worse for him, especially memory of her fall…

"Sharna," he had called softly into the night. "Sharna, no."

But those troubled and mournful periods were eventually overrun by his utter weariness, sending him into his present state of slumber. What gave his weariness the strength to do so was his deep desire to awaken in the morning fully rested for the journey home, as well as to have clear, alert eyes to witness any results of his deed to save the world done. Surely after a day there would be some sign of the good deed somewhere.

To his ear came a tapping, a rap, rap, rapping on his chamber door. He tightened his eyelids, not wanting to acknowledge it. Tap, tap, tap, it came a second time with urgency, rap, rap, rap. With a roll onto his other side he tried to drive away this interruption to his sleep, and he might have been successful, too, if between the tapping and rap, rap, rapping he had not heard:

"Mr. Orlon, sir."

Hearing that voice—that lovely, lilting voice sent a jolt through him, popped his eyes wide open. Teri, her name was. She collected his filthy clothing to wash, as well as guided him to the baths, last night. She was not a Midget, though she stood four feet eleven inches in height, her shapely body in crimson blouse and white skirt. Framed in flowing brown hair, her round face was cute with full lips, dimpled cheeks and big blue eyes. He gulped. Well he remembered those big blue eyes, looking so wantingly at him when they met. He swallowed.

"Mr. Orlon," she said more urgently. "I have your clothes, all clean and ready, and a message from that talkative fellow in cloak." She took in a breath and hazarded her guess, "He said you need to hurry as the day is slipping away."

Orlon stifled a laugh. Yeah, that certainly sounded like Ty the Parson.

With a yawn, he looked to the window where the dim light of daybreak slipped through a slit in the curtains, and he yawned again. And the time of day for such a message from the Parson was right as well…. Yet he paused in asking her to enter, his mind on the expression he had seen in her eyes, so remindful of Sharna. Confused as he was about the whole man/woman attraction thing, as attracted as he might feel toward her, his heart just was not into it.

He sighed and made sure he was properly covered. "Come in," he said.

Even through the door he heard her nervous giggle before the door opened and she stepped into the room. She beamed as brightly as the coming day and as lovely to his eyes as the night before, dressed in a blue blouse and green skirt, his clothes draped over an arm, shoes in hand. His white shirt, brown coat, vest and breeches, and undergarments looked brand new. Even his neatly polished shoes looked purchased that very day.

"All clean and ready, Mr. Orlon," she said, placing the clothes on a nearby chair, dropping the shoes in front of it. She faced him and smiled, adding, "I used a little of my brother’s cologne to take out the…uh, to make 'em smell pretty."

Meeting her eye to eye made him blush with the thought of how awful his cloths smelt—and one of the reasons they smelt that way: Majestus Sinobe’s final spell. But the thought was lost when he realized his eyes had been captured by her eyes, and the desire he saw within her eyes sent a trickle of sweat snaking down his nape. It took a gulp, clenched fists and a hard blink to break his eyes free.

"Th-thank you, Teri," he said, eyes averted. "Now, if you wouldn’t mind… I do need to get dressed and catch up with my friends."

"Uh, okay," she said, disappointment in her voice. "All right."

When the door closed behind her he breathed a sigh of relief, felt a pang of guilt. A pang that was overwhelmed by his need to quickly perform his morning ablutions, get dressed and get a move on. He not only had the Party waiting on him, but a journey home to begin and some sort of result of his good deed to witness.

Orlon slid out of bed and went to the table beneath the mirror on a side wall. Atop the table were a pan, pitcher of water and wash towels. In quick order, he used these to perform his morning ablutions, lastly using his fingers to comb down his damp hair. After a last glance in the mirror, he made his way to the chair where awaited his clothes and dressed. Each stitch of clothing donned brought a marveled sigh to his lips. They were so comfortable! Teri had truly done an outstanding job. Even their smell, brought on by her brother’s cologne, was pleasing.

He looked around to make sure he had not left anything behind, found nothing, then left the room. The walk down the hall was a good stretch of the legs, as he was given the key to the room farthest from the stairs. Stopping at the top of the stairs, he found the big room empty but for the man in fancily collared and cuffed white shirt, with blue vest, black breeches and presumed blue shoes. Something wrapped in a napkin sat on the counter before him.

"Ah, the one they await for outside arrives at last," he gave Orlon a big toothed smile, which dropped into a slight frown, his brow furrowed. "Wait a minute," he said, wagging a finger at the Midget. "I know you—" he shot a thumb over a shoulder at the entrance "—them." His smile returned. "You’re the ones who came looking for that…that thing in the attic."

"The Holy Pike," Orlon said, descending the stairs. "That was us."

"Ha! I thought I recognized you last night under all that filth, but there were fewer of you, so I wasn’t sure." A hand reached up to tug on a big ear. "Tell me, what happened to you guys? To that…that pike?"

Orlon was brought to a halt at the foot of the stairs by the man’s questions. Oh, the story he could tell in answer to them, of the harrowing events in their trek to and into the volcanic mountain, of how with a thrust of the Holy Pike he saved the whole wide world from the clutches of evil Tibtarni—whatever. He sighed. Yet he knew with his fellow travelers awaiting him he did not have time for all that storytelling.

"Let’s just say we had quite an adventure—a costly one in lives—and the pike served its part in defeating a great evil that threatened our world’s wellbeing," he said briskly as he made his way toward the door. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, people are waiting—"

"Hold on there."

Orlon paused at the counter, looking at him questioningly.

"The old soldier said you all didn’t have time for breakfast," he said, holding out the napkin wrapped object, "so my Mother fixed each of you a little something to go. Here."

"Thank you," Orlon accepted the proffered wrapped meal. "Now, I must be off."

"Fare-thee-well," the man said to his departing customer and looking up at the attic entrance, breathed, "Huh. I wonder what other objects of…value might be spirited away up there."

* * *

Upon exiting the hotel, Orlon came to a wide-legged stance, arms akimbo, eyes scanning the world before him from west to east. Over the Party, awaiting him at the road edge, his eyes swept without notice, and again without notice on the return trip westward. What he found was—an ordinary, every day morning. His hands dropped from his hips, the napkin wrapped meal nearly slipping from hand, and his shoulders slouched…

Before the disappointment at yet again finding no evident result of his good deed darkened his face a thought came to mind. Perhaps not finding any great change in the world was a positive sign. Suppose it represented that the time of peace and tranquility continued unabated because of the quest’s successful conclusion. He smiled. Yes, that made sense. The world continued as before because he had stopped the evil threatening it. That made perfect sense.

"Victorious soldiers journey home after their enemy’s surrender! Home and hearth, family and friends are a well deserved prize! I, Ty, the Parson, and the Party must escort the savior of the world home. The concerned parent seeks out succor for ill child! And we must do it swiftly so that we can get assistance for he whose sacrifice helped insure our quest’s success. Let us begin."

Expendendale smiled in appreciation for the consideration.

By the time Orlon brought his attention to Ty the Parson his spasmodic episode and wild spine to a wide-legged stance, staff pointing down Eltrondale Road, were done with. The Parson took off down the road. Close on his heels were the Party.

"Come on, slowpoke," Tarl said over his shoulder. "We’re heading…home."

Orlon was startled by his best friend’s disappointed tone when he said "home," but he had no time to contemplate it. His own desire not to be left behind, to get home as soon as possible had him thinking only of catching up. He hurried after them.

There was speed to the Party’s pace, but it was not as fast as when they were going the other way, even with the hassle of zigzagging through a sea of armor. Yet their quickness was enough to make the Midgets work hard to keep up…. Soon enough they reached the point where the road entered the woods. Into them they plunged and were met by—silence! No clinks and clanks and jingles of armor stopped them. Therefore, they followed the turn of the road and came out of the woods without delay.

What stopped them was Ty the Parson, who halted at the entrance to the Stirring Dog Inn. The Party looked at him, but did not look at Orlon, which both vexed him and filled him with a sense of relief. His time as decision maker for them all was truly over. Then again, the decision whether to enter the inn or not was not his the first time either. All he knew was he wanted to stop in this time to get a drink to accompany his mystery meal.

Little did he know but the same thought was on his companions' minds as well.

Ty the Parson looked from the inn to the road to his napkin enwrapped meal and back again and back again and back again. Then he looked to the heavens, lost in thought a moment, looked at the Party, catching each by the eye briefly, then looked at the inn, brow furrowed in deep thought for what seemed an eternity to his traveling partners… Without a word, he plunged through the entrance, sending the batwing doors flapping frantically.

This caught everyone off guard, as it had the first time, but they did not look after him wide eyed this time. Instead, they smiled, and they followed him, stopping just within. Orlon and Tarl protected their posteriors from the in-swinging batwing doors with a hand. Locating Ty the Parson was ease—he sat in the same front left hand booth as before—and in quick order, they made their way there, seated themselves and awaited service.

While they waited, Orlon took a look-see around the inn. The last time he had seen some interesting and some disturbing people. This time he spotted no one amongst the few people there of interest, and his eyes were drawn to the room’s showpiece: Bechendorf, or to state it more accurately, the statue that once was Bechendorf.

The warrior stood where he had frozen when Telluspett’s stumbling-through-his-brother’s-innards thrust pierced his heart. Huge, looming, he stood there in gray, broadsword heaved above his head, ready for a downward death stroke, surprise etched on his face, and the Dork’s sword sheathed in his heart…. It was a sight to see, and the inn’s owner took advantage of it. From the sword in the giant’s chest hung a placard upon which were written the day’s specials.

"What’ll ya 'ave?"

All eyes, including Orlon’s, swung to the elderly barmaid who served them the first time they were here. She was dressed in white blouse and red skirt, and had her hair in a bun, as before, and in her cloudy blue eyes was the identical startlement she registered in their eyes—a startlement that was short-lived on both counts. The Party took this chance meeting simply as this booth was assigned to her. She, in turn, was fairly certain she had served these gents before, but there were more of them, including a couple of women…? Yes, she was fairly certain she remembered them.

But her mind reverted back to business, her question awaiting an answer. Her pencil wielding hand poised over pad to scribble orders down and her eyes focused on Ty the Parson. Thus began a series of orders for liquor of one sort or another from him on down the line. When she finally reached Orlon and he opened his mouth to speak she silenced him with a raised finger.

"Tea," she declared, smiling at her spot on memory, and began to write, but he stopped her with his own raised finger.

"No," he said and after a glance at his napkin wrapped…breakfast, it had to be, said, "Milk."

"Milk?" the barmaid gave him a double-take.

"Yes, please."

Shaking her head, she scribbled it down and hobbled off to fill the order.

Their wait for her return did not give Orlon a chance for a second look around, or to chat with his best friend. He was not concerned about either option, having seen nothing of interest the first time, and he had nothing in particular to say. Instead, he let his eyes linger on the napkin wrapped meal, hoped it would be as filling as Bretta’s biscuit… When the barmaid returned he watched her pass out the drinks, lastly placing a nice, cold glass of milk before him.

He took no notice of her curious expression upon serving him. "Thank you," he said, giving her an appreciative smile.

She half smiled and hobbled away.

Now that they had liquid refreshment, they carefully opened their napkin wrapped meals to discover egg sandwiches within. Each took a bite and found to his delight the sandwiches included bacon strips.

Hunger made them consume their sandwiches quickly, Orlon being the last to pop a final bite into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and downed the rest of his milk, leaving himself with a milk mustache. This he removed with a lick of his tongue, followed by a sweep of a forearm. He looked at his companions to find them looking at Tarl Bimbo, his head was thrown back, downing the last of his ale.

Tarl’s head came down, preceded by his hand to place the mug on the table, and he met his fellow travelers' stare. He immediately knew their intentions. With meal and drink done, and Ty the Parson out of gold pouches, someone needed to pay the bill. Since he had paid for the hotel… His eyes rolled to land on Orlon, whose confused expression made them look to the heavens.

"All right," he sighed, pulling his money pouch from a pocket. "I’ll pay."

With a nod, presumably of appreciation, Ty the Parson sprang to his feet, pointing his sappy staff at the entrance, and bolted toward it. The Party gave the pudgy Midget nods of thanks and followed him. Only Orlon remained seated.

"Go on with them," Tarl urged his best friend.

"I just thought—" Orlon started.

"I don’t need a babysitter," he said, frowning. "Go on. I’ll catch up. Go on, go on."

"Okay," Orlon said and went after the others.

* * *

Ty the Parson and the Party came out of the inn and headed up the road at a restrained hurried pace to allow Tarl time to catch up. Orlon, on the other hand, stepped out of the inn and stopped, eyes cast downward. Upon reaching the volcanic mountain’s rim, he sought a sign of his good deed done, only to find an ordinary, everyday evening. When he exited the hotel in hopes of finding a sign of his world saving deed he faced an ordinary, every day morning. And he surmised that must be the sign he was seeking, that things were unchanged, the time of peace and tranquility continued unabated.

When he stepped out of the inn, he thought of one place he just might find a sign of his evil destroying deed: the Dark Mountain. The creepy woods crowded about its base, traversed by a crooked path, the demon head castle on the plateau high above, the silently raging storm cloud encircled peak he remembered well, a chill dancing along his spine. Maybe, just maybe, what he accomplished in the bowels of the volcanic mountain had had an effect on it.

He gulped and crossed his fingers and looked up. His nape hairs stood on end, his breath caught in his throat—and a frown descended on his face. The mountain, its surroundings looked as foreboding as the first time he laid eyes on them. He gulped again, and into his mind came the thought some places were simply corrupted by evil and it would take another quest, a harrowing good deed to free the Dark Mountain of whatever was corrupting it.

With a wipe of his brow, he breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that he had had his quest, had done his good deed of a lifetime.

"Leave it to you to be lagging behind," Tarl said, passing him on his way up the road, and glancing over a shoulder, added, "Come on, you dawdler, you."

Quick-stepping caught Orlon up to Tarl, and they quick-stepped it up to the Party. And the Midgets quickly discovered they needed to speed up even more just to stay up, as their fellow journeymen let go the restraint of their hurried pace.

Ahead of them were the four hills within which they met the musician and Shibtarr. Ah, they remembered the music that entranced them as they approached the hills then. The memory was so vivid it put a hop and a skip to their step—a hop and a skip that brought them to a halt with the realization there was no music on the air this time. To a man, they frowned a moment, disenchanted.

And the moment passed.

They walked to and up the hill, where they stopped. Before them was the "bowl" nestled within the four hills, the road swooping into it and up the hill ahead, and there in the center of the flat was the tree, but no flutist in green doublet and leggings and pointy red shoes sat beneath it, musical instrument poised at lips. With a wave of his staff, Ty the Parson led them down the hill, across the flat and up the next hill.

Just as they crested the hill, Orlon glanced back at the tree and sighed. It would have been nice to have the little man play them a song. Memory of how hypnotic the music had been, how it slowed them down darkened the thought. He was heading home and did not want anything to delay that. A smile touched his face, a skip in his step came and went, and he turned back to the road before him, the way home.

Down the hill they went, on up the road they traveled down a couple of days ago. Their pace was hurried, as before, yet there was a hesitation to their step. All remembered where this road led. A fair distance ahead where two houses directly across the road from each other, one owned by Bobtart Towne, one by Barlowe, and the two men—their families—were feuding.

And well they remembered these families choice of combat weapons. They threw rocks! To a man, the warriors cringed with the memory of the rock shower they suffered between the houses.

The Midgets shivered at the memory. Tarl Bimbo let a hand come to rest on the hilt of his sword for comfort, even though he knew a sword offered little protection from a rock bombardment. Orlon had suffered little injury during the rock shower days ago, the warriors physically shielding him from it. But at that time he was "the One" needed to defend the world against evil Tibtarni—whatever. Well, the quest was completed. The evil defeated. He was no longer "the One" which meant if rocks were thrown he would have to face it alone.

He sniffed, bit back a tear with a sorrowful thought that nearly brushed aside the dreadful memory. With the loss of his self proclaimed protector, whom he felt certain would have still defended him against any threat, he truly was alone…. Another thought helped him push away both emotional thought and memory. Since they befriended Bobtart Towne that meant the rock bombardment would only be coming from one side, from the Barlowes.

Thinking of that befriending turned his mind to Bretta’s biscuits. They were not only tasty, they had been quite filling as well. He thought them the perfect snack while working on the farm. He would have to ask her for the recipe.

When the two houses came into view, so did something that drew them up short. In the road between the houses was Roxx’s push cart. Tarftenrott was just as startled by the discovery as his fellow travelers, and he was also relieved by the sight.

"B-bu-bu-b-boy, a-am I-I g-gu-gu-glad t-tu-tu-to s-su-su-see thu-thu-that," he said, smiling. "I-I c-cu-cu-c-can r-ru-ru-return i-it t-tu-tu-to h-hu-hu-his f-fu-fu-f-f-family."

The stuttering warrior hurried forward, passing Ty the Parson and the rest. They hurried to catch up…

Upon reaching his goal, Tarftenrott took hold of its handle, overjoyed—for a split second. What spoiled it for him, as well as the mood for those behind him, was the bombardment of rocks—from both houses. They ducked and dodged and side-stepped and jumped this way and that, and they suffered the sting of being hit repeatedly anyway.

"Bobtart Towne," Shing, who had been their spokesman before, called. "Bobtart Towne, cease and desist. We are your friends—allies from two days ago, stopping by on our return trip home."

Response to his plea was a redoubling of the rock shower. No one said it, but everyone heard it in their heads: "Let’s get out of here!" And so they did.

They escaped the rock bombardment, ran on a fair distance before stopping to examine what injuries they received. It turned out they suffered only minor cuts and bruises. Still, those wounds hurt, some incredibly so, and to a man, they thought of the healing agent Ty the Parson produced from a baggy sleeve the last time and the fact they had no bucket of water to dissolve it in. Therefore, they resigned themselves to cleansing their injuries with dry handkerchiefs.

Tarl, however, was thinking of more than his aches and pains. A hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and he inwardly grumbled at how useless "Wasp" was in combating the rock shower. And his mind turned to what reaching the houses of Bobtart Towne and Barlowe meant in terms of their journey. It was nearing its end, which he regretted. Then he remembered…

Orlon had more on his mind, too, remembering his cleansing of Sharna’s wounds. He gulped, yet a smile played at his lips, briefly, before a deep sadness draped over him. She was…gone now, and he quickly sought a distraction from his sorrow. What he found was the field he had considered a nice place to build a house on after the quest…. No! He would be returning to his home. Then he remembered…

Both Midgets looked to the twin rivers ahead—and their jaws dropped. Where the bridges spanning those rivers had nearly collapsed beneath them, and did soon after they crossed them, were two bridges. Bridges that looked identical to those offering access to the other side before.

"How…?" Orlon and Tarl pointed.

"One should not question one’s good fortune," Shing advised, as he passed them, following Ty the Parson, who, after a spin and wide-legged stance, staff pointing, started up the road.

"Never look a gift horse in the mouth," Grash put in, following the Oriental Ranger.

Tarftenrott pushed the cart by them, shaking his head.

Orlon and Tarl looked at each other, shrugged and took off after them.

Oh, they quick-stepped it to the first bridge, but halted at its brink. The bridge did look like its predecessor, all the way down to its fragileness. No word needed to be spoken. Ty the Parson started across it with carefully placed steps, Shing giving him a few paces led before stepping onto the bridge himself, and so it went before Grash began, Tarftenrott began, and Orlon and Tarl began to cross the bridge. It creaked and groaned beneath them, and to a man, they were grateful for one thing: the Oaf was no longer with them.

Safely on the other side, they eyed the second bridge with more confidence, yet when they crossed it they did so just as cautiously as they did the first. Once back on solid ground again, they continued up the road without looking back.

There was no reason for caution now and Ty the Parson took advantage of it, increasing their pace to previous levels. Up and over the hill they went, on up Eltrondale Road at such a speed they reached Dark Forest in good time. And it was here he brought them to a bone-jarring halt—at the spot where they had exited the forest days earlier. Everyone, no one more so than Orlon, eyed him questioningly, but it was obvious the Parson had something other than which way to go on his mind.

Rather than at the forest, or up the road, he looked from Tarftenrott to Roxx’s cart and back again and back again and back again… The stuttering warrior frowned under this confusing attention. It did not help matters that all other eyes were soon upon him, too. He tugged at his collar.

"The picnic is lost in an unexpected hail storm! The newborn wails for mother’s nipple in the wee hours of the morning! Our chance for a midday meal ended with Bobtart Towne’s forgetting our established alliance with him. The hour grows ever more late for said meal," Ty the Parson said in a flail of limbs that led into a wild spin, ending in a wide-legged stance, staff pointing to the sun, which dipped into the early afternoon sky.

"The overflowing pot of sparkly coins at rainbow’s end! Bosom buddies know intimate details of one another’s lives! We lucked into finding Roxx’s cart. With you and he being such close friends, you surely know how to arrange a meal," he said in a flurry of limbs that brought him around to face Tarftenrott.

"Hu-h-h-hu-hey, R-ru-ru-roxx a-and I-I w-wu-w-w-were f-fu-f-friends, s-s-su-su-sure, b-bu-b-b-but thu-thu-that du-d-du-du-doesn’t m-mu-mu-mean—" Tarftenrott’s denial was interrupted by a loud grumble from his own stomach. He frowned, looked from his stomach to his fellow travelers and turned to the cart, saying, "I-I’ll s-su-su-see whu-whu-what I-I c-c-cu-cu-c-can d-d-du-do."

What he did was grope through the cart’s drawers and cabinets, and what he found, rather quickly, was fine fare for lunch. From a cabinet he located a chilled hunk of roasted pork and jug of apple juice, from a drawer came a loaf of bread and from a neighboring drawer cutlery to make sandwiches, and lastly from another cabinet he brought forth glasses for the drink. Each item found he placed on the cart’s counter, and as everyone approached, he went to work.

In quick order, everyone held a ham sandwich and glass of apple juice. They moved off to find a comfortable spot to settle down and eat.

Orlon and Tarl Bimbo took a seat on the opposite side of the road from the forest. Nothing was said between them, as each was lost in his own thoughts. And the way their eyes wandered back and forth between the opening into the forest and the road going around it revealed both were thinking about which direction the Party would take from here…. One time their eyes met, and they quickly looked away.

Nearing the end of his meal, Tarl chanced a glance at his best friend and inwardly smiled. The last time they had the choice of following the road around or the path through this accursed forest Ty the Parson proclaimed it could only be decided by Orlon. Well, that had been at this journey’s beginning, and now they were closing in on its end. Orlon was not the big wig anymore. Therefore, the choice of which direction to go should be anybody’s to make.

Tarl had a definite opinion on that choice this time.

That opinion was to take the road around the forest. Oh, it was not that he was afraid of Dark Forest—he let a hand come to rest on the hilt of his trustworthy sword "Wasp"—as it was he wanted to lengthen the trip, just to see a little more of the world before reaching home. To see whatever was along the road around the forest would be…something to see, and he was determined to speak up when the time came.

With each bite of his sandwich, Orlon considered their options of continuing the journey home. He was relieved the decision was not solely up to him this time, and yet he was concerned about it. Not only had the quest been a long one for him, there was an unattended crop awaiting him when he got home. He needed to get home as soon as possible.

His eyes focused on the opening into the forest. He gulped, shivered. The problem with his desire to get home quickly was the quickest away was the dangerous way.

Then into his mind came a name: Jujay! With that name came a catch in his throat, a tear in his eye. His trusty old servant had died in Dark Forest. Died and been left behind all in the name of their need to hurry.

He popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, chewed it contemplatively. Memory of the servant he had known his entire life, the man who served his family and later him so loyally, put him in a different state of mind in terms of getting home quickly. The idea of facing the horrors of the forest, pausing long enough to perform a burial did not thrill him much, but he could not imagine leaving Jujay to rot in there, forgotten.

When everyone had swallowed their last bite, washed it down with a final drink of apple juice, they gathered around the cart and placed their glasses on its counter. Tarftenrott was not sure what to do with them, or the utensils, then remembered something he had seen Roxx do with dirty dishes and the like. The stuttering warrior placed them in a lower cabinet, where they fit nicely, and closed its door.

There followed a moment of awkward silence, filled with fidgeting and glances amongst the Party. And it was clear to Tarl what their unease was about. A decision as to which way to go must be made, and they all were awaiting Ty the Parson to begin the conversation. He kept his eye on the Parson with plans of his own…. A twitch of the cloaked shoulders told him the verbose man was about to start his oration—and Tarl opened his mouth to cut him off…

"I think we should take the path through Dark Forest again," Orlon said.

"What?" Tarl gave his best friend a double-take.

"We left Jujay in there, Tarl," he answered the double-take, "and I think it only right we find his body and offer him a proper burial."

Mumblings amongst the Party told Tarl they were in agreement with Orlon’s reasoning, and to be honest, he found he could not dispute his reasoning either. Jujay may have been nothing more than a bothersome old servant to him, but there was no denying Orlon’s love and affection for the old coot. The feel of his sword at hip gave him both the confidence to face the forest’s dangers and the thoughtfulness to put aside his desire to lengthen the journey a little more. He looked up the road, sighed and turned back to his best friend.

"Jujay was a good servant—man, buddy," he said, and he turned to the others to say, "I say we do as Orlon requests."

Another moment of awkward silence descended on the scene. It ended with a twitch of Ty the Parson’s shoulders, followed by a wild spin into a wide-legged stance, his sappy staff pointing at the opening into the forest.

Without a word, he darted through it. One by one, starting with Shing, they followed him.

* * *

Roars, howls, growls and snarls assaulted their ears, yet beyond an initial cringe they did not react to the ear-splitting noise. They well remembered it from their first trip through Dark Forest. Still, they did stop. What stopped them was memory of when they entered this small clearing before. It was here they met the Oriental Ranger, an imposing figure indeed, and the disastrous splitting of the Grumpling by Marcol occurred, leaving two Richtichtiares to belabor the mercenary with insults.

They looked to the split in the thorny bushes across the clearing, the path just visible beyond, and their minds turned to the losses they suffered when they crossed the forest four days ago. Five members of the Party had lost their lives.

No one was more affected by this thought than Tarl, who remembered Jack, Frank and Carlo, three friends he made on this trip only to lose them along the path. When images of their gruesome—gross demises came to his mind he was far from the desire to offer them decent burial like Orlon wished to give Jujay. In fact, he did not even want to see their remains…

His thoughts shifted to the person responsible for his friendship with the three swordsmen. Mishto Sharpaine had been awaiting them before a tent on Dwarf Road, right where the Party ended up camping for the night. While her inviting smile was ignored by most, Jack, Carlo and Frank were drawn right to her. Once Orlon was settling in for the night with Sharna, Tarl, having nowhere else to go, was drawn to her, too, along with hopes of striking up a dice game in the mix.

Thus the friendship between the men was born, and something a little more. Yes, he had been drawn to her, knowing what her business was, and yet he found something about her to be…special.

Mishto Sharpaine was beautiful.

A smile played at his lips.

No, she was gorgeous.

The smile faltered into a frown.

She had been a Campfire Girl.

And she was, according to members of the Party, the reason for the death of Jack and Frank, at least, as Carlo was killed by the bloodsucking monstrosity…. Despite the talk of her curse, her wrong time of the month, he still felt a pang in his heart for her, sorrow for her curious death upon touching the Holy Pike.

Without a word, or wild spin, or point of his staff, Ty the Parson bound across the clearing and through the split in the thorny bushes. The Party followed, skidded to a halt on the path beyond, narrowly avoiding a collision with the Parson. Their angry reaction to this unexpected stop was short lived, as was their angry glares. All eyes turned to the path before them, went wide.

The path before them was—different! Rather than looping north and south, it ran straight ahead of them into the forest. They looked from it to each other and shrugged. How the path could have suddenly changed made no sense, but at the same time this mystery filled them with a great sense of relief. If the path ran straight all the way through the forest, that meant they would pass through this nightmarish place all the quicker.

Orlon was just as relieved, and mystified, about the path as the rest, but he also felt a deep remorse. A different path meant not finding Jujay’s remains, which meant no chance to offer his beloved servant a proper burial. Another thought, however, overpowered his feelings about Jujay. He could not help but wonder if perhaps this change in the evil forest’s path might be a sign of his good deed done…?

Yet he had no time to contemplate this thought.

Again, without a word, or wild spin, or point of his staff, Ty the Parson started down the path at a fair clip, and they took off after him.

Following a straight path proved a good thing in another way: a direct route meant avoiding the thorny bushes bordering each side of it was much easier. Yet that easy avenue ended quicker than they expected when the path abruptly turned north, and from there it became a frustrating series of sharp turns and loops that made their journey much, much longer. A sudden turn to the east brought them to a stop, to emit a sigh of relief. Before them was a line of close knit trees and at the path’s end was a split between two trees. Beyond was Dwarf Road.

* * *

There was no need for a speech, as to a man, they wanted out of Dark Forest, and Ty the Parson did not disappoint them by giving one. He did, however, perform a wild spin, ending in a wide-legged stance, staff pointing at their way out. He darted through the split in the trees. They were close behind him… A skidding halt brought them up short by less than an inch from running into the sappy staff thrust out before them.

Confused, angered eyes turned to find Ty the Parson eyeing them warningly, a long finger pressed to his shushing lips. The eyes followed that long finger as it stretched the length of a long, baggy sleeved arm, pointing. And when the eyes saw the subject of that point, they blinked.

Near the bush where Orlon settled for the night with his self proclaimed protector when the Party camped in the field across the road lay a man in voluminous shirt and breeches, a floppy brimmed hat obscuring his facial features in shadow. Above him fluttered three Fairies, which all but Orlon recognized. They were in a hand-clapping, "ooh" and "ah" frenzy, big eyes on the bulge visible despite the man’s baggy pants.

Hands valiantly went to sword hilts, but not a warrior made a move to save the man. Oh, how strong was the urge to bound into action within them—why, even Tarl Bimbo held tight the hilt of his newly acquired sword—yet they stood firm. Not only did they wish to avoid the sappy staff barring their way, they knew their fate if they drew the attention to themselves by daring to intervene.

To a man, they were set back a step by what happened next.

"Wanna check out the equipment?" the man said, grabbing suggestively at his crotch.

"Ooh," the Fairies squealed, flying loop-the-loops about each other. "Do we!"

Pearly smiles beaming, they drew themselves up, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, wings flapping in unison, hands clasped at chests, eyes on the target. They zoomed in—and all became chaos! The man leaped up, grabbing at them, and the Fairies screamed in terror, trying frantically to dodge his clutching hands, which utterly confused the audience to this fiasco. Yellow and brightly spotted butterfly wings, brown moth wings beat furiously, legs kicking, hands slapping in a desperate attempt to escape him.

Then the man’s hand closed around the ankle of the moth winged Fairy. He jerked his leg, kicked and pushed with his free foot, hands flailing about wildly, wings beating the air, and he was pulled down, down, down into the man’s inescapable clutches. They fell to the ground and rolled behind the bush… The bush began to shake violently.

"Help me," the captured Fairy pleaded between grunts and groans and moans. "Oh, please, help me."

His fellow Fairies flitted and fluttered above the bush, gasping and gagging, and holding out their hands to repel what they witnessed going on behind it.

"Ee-yuck," they squealed and squawked, "Gross, gross, gross."

This whole turn of events left those on the road, especially those knowledgeable of Fairies, bewildered. Never before had they seen or heard of a victim of the dastardly critters offering it up willingly. Never ever in their wildest dreams did they imagine a Fairy would refuse such an offer.

The bush stopped shaking.

The commotion above the bush stopped.

A moment passed wherein the two little winged men’s eyes were captured by what lay behind the bush, and the audience on the road looked at the bush.

From behind it came the moth winged Fairy, and what a sight he was. His wings were withered, flapping a little out of sync, body limp, his head barely held up by a trembling neck, and his droopy eyes looked to his fellow little winged men imploringly. They looked down upon him, eyes filled with stern reproach and sickness.

"Brucey…Stanley Boobicans…" he reached out to them.

With a sniff, the yellow winged Fairy turned his head away.

Eyes to the heavens, the brightly spotted winged Fairy huffed.

"Jonny Poo," they said in unified disgust. "You and…and a woman. Ee-yuck!"

They spun and flew away.

"Fellas, please," Jonny Poo pleaded, fluttering after them. "She—I—we— She raped me."

But those on the road had lost interest in the Fairies after hearing the word "woman." Their eyes darted to the bush upon its utterance. The big shirt flipped over it, followed by the voluminous breeches, and lastly a rather large cucumber. All of this was a prelude to a woman standing with her back to them, in the midst of pulling a tight white shirt on over her head. When her head popped through the neck of the shirt, revealing wavy blonde-brown hair, those watching blinked, frowned.

When she turned around, revealing an exquisitely beautiful face, wearing a rather-pleased-with-herself grin, to a man, they blurted:

"Sharna!"

No one was more surprised, and pleased, to discover she survived her fall from the mountain than Orlon. A smile brightened his face. And when she saw them—the Midget, she smiled, too. Their eyes met, and he felt a pang in his heart he could not quite comprehend. As for Sharna, her smile broadened, and she started across the field, arms open wide.

Seeing her approach that way made Tarl smile, as well as gave him a pang in a lower region of his anatomy. Either they were in for a group hug, or a series of individual hugs. There was no question he preferred the latter, the idea of close contact with such a gorgeous creature, but he could live with the former. Hey, any contact with her was better than nothing…. He watched her run straight to his best friend, scoop him up and they embraced.

Tarl caught his jaw before it dropped, turned away, hands stuffed in pockets. "Lucky stiff," he mumbled, kicking at the road.

"I missed you," Sharna said, holding Orlon tight, then she looked at the others, blushed, and quickly said, "All. I missed you all."

"I thought you were dead," Orlon said, oblivious to anything but the two of them.

"So did I," she brought her eyes back to him.

"How…?" he stumbled over the question on everyone’s mind.

"I landed in a lake."

Orlon, and everyone but Tarl, who still brooded over missing out on a hug, gave her a double-take. They had crossed the twin rivers, but no one remembered even seeing a sign of a lake around Tibtarnitallimardarian’s mountainous lair. Then again, it was a mountain and they were only on one side of it, so…

"I fell a long way," she went on, "bracing myself for a fatal landing amongst stone and earth, when I hit the lake’s icy waters. I didn’t even get a chance to take in a breath before I sank deep beneath the surface, and I feared I was done for. But I refused to give up, fought against a swift undercurrent to reach the surface. My chest ached, my lungs desperately pleading for air, but I refused to give in, to take in the breath that would surely mean my end.

"When I finally surfaced I found myself being swept away on a river that snaked its way through a forest. My first concern was to reach a bank, which the swift current made hard to achieve, but I did it.

"I lay there on the bank, weak as a kitten, sucking in air. Twilight came before I arose to look around me, my only concern whether you…all survived the Eunuchs. My only desire was to rejoin you…all, if you had. With no idea how far the river had swept me away from the mountain, I had to decide whether I should try to get back it, or find my way back to Dwarf Road in hopes of running into you…all. I decided on the latter, obviously, and I am glad I did." She brought her attention back to Orlon, smiling. "That I found you."

"I am, too," Orlon said.

"Yeah, I bet you are," Tarl groused over a shoulder, kicked at the road again.

"We are all glad to see you still live," Shing said, after the briefest of glances at the pudgy Midget. "That you are with us to…"

"…escort our charge, Orlon, here, home in conclusion of our long ordeal to save the world from evil’s clutches," Grash cut in to finish.

"Sh-shu-shu-shu-shall w-wu-wu-w-w-we thu-thu-then," Tarftenrott rolled his eyes.

With that, they started down Dwarf Road toward the farm community Orlon and Tarl Bimbo called home—and within just a few steps a cleared throat stopped them. The Party looked at Orlon, still nestled in Sharna’s arms. She brought her eyes down to meet his.

"Um, I think you can put me down now," he said.

"Uh, oh, yes," she stammered and set him on his feet. "Sorry about that."

"No problem," he assured her with a smile.

Tarl grumbled under his breath, stuffed his hands further into his pockets, which meant one hand went straight through the gnawed open pocket. That surprise, and reminder of a lost opportunity with the little woman, as well as his other hand pressing into his depleted money pouch, did not help his mood one bit.

And they renewed their journey down the road.

* * *

His bad mood kept Tarl shuffling along behind his fellow travelers, hands still stuffed in pockets, eyes on the road. When he glanced up he saw the farm community that had been his lifelong home ahead. He sighed. Seeing it signified the end of the quest, his opportunity to see what was out there. He spat. The very idea of returning to a drab life on the farm put a bad taste in his mouth. The crease in his brow depended even more as he began to wonder why…

A shift in those ahead of him drew his attention. To a man, and woman, the Party began to whistle, eyes to the heavens, which confused him, briefly. His eyes darted southward, to the old Winslo place, and he gulped. The house looked as they left it with front door broken in, revealing its dark interior…. Was that a whispered call from within its dark confines? A tuneless whistle burst from his lips, his eyes averted.

Orlon, on the other hand, felt his spirits lifted upon seeing the farm community he called home. His neighbor farmers were out and about on late afternoon business, and seeing them made him smile. But when he eyed their healthy, four-days-in-the-growing crops he felt a little sick at the stomach. He had figured they could handle the damage of a crop neglected for a little while. Four days was not a little while, and with Jujay’s death they would be shorthanded in trying to make up for all that neglect.

Concern over the abandoned acre on his farm was lost in startlement when they reached the old Winslo place. He fought to subdue both his unease and a desire to look at the accursed house. His success in accomplishing the latter only led to his startlement growing into spine tingling fear, as he watched the farmers point at them, conversing excitedly, then gather on the road and approach them in a mumbling-amongst-themselves mob.

The two groups met, and the mob fell silent. They eyed each other questioningly, and no one was more filled with question than Orlon and Tarl. The two Midgets wondered why their fellow farmers would accost them so. And the answer to that came in an outburst of questions from the famers concerning where they had gotten off to.

Listening to them brought Tarl Bimbo out of his bad mood—and right into a greedy mood.

While funding the return trip, he figured he would recoup his expenditure once he got home. Two options had been on his mind to accomplish this task. A lucky run with his dice could win it back for him, or he could use the quest to expand the book he was writing. Yet he was aware of the flaw with both ways: with his usual luck gambling the former was very chancy at best and the latter would take too much time not only in completing but selling the manuscript.

A smile creased his pudgy face. Out of the blue a sure fire moneymaker had been handed to him on a silver platter. The story could be told…for a price.

He rubbed his hands together, a sly grin on his face. Yes, that was a marvelous idea, if the price was reasonable. Then he froze when a small problem that might very well ruin the scheme popped into his head. The story could only be told by one person—he cast a judgmental eye on his best friend—and he wondered if Orlon would be willing to do it.

With an inward giggle he brushed such silliness away, reminding himself just how gullible his best friend was. Convincing him to do this would be a carefully worded walk in the park. A twitch of Ty the Parson’s shoulders drew his attention, and the Parson opened his mouth to speak…

"Gentlemen, and ladies," Tarl stepped forward, raising his hands to quiet the mob. "So many questions to answer, and we’d love to answer them all for you, but we have traveled a long way over the last four days…"

"How far did you go?" Sleen Manibeen asked.

"Oh," Tarl said, bringing a finger to his chin," we must’ve traveled a mile…"

"Ooh."

"…or two…"

"Ah."

"…or even three."

"Oh my!"

Tarl felt like a fisherman toying with a catch. All he had to do was await the right moment, sink the hook home and reel it in. That moment came quickly.

"Tell us about it, please."

"I’ll catch up," he said over a shoulder, then spread his arms wide and began herding the farmers off the road. "I’ll tell you," he said to them, "what I’m going to do…"

Orlon watched his best friend usher the mob clear of the road. Though he could not hear what Tarl, whose voice had dropped to a whisper, said, it did not really matter. His nape hairs were astir and he knew why. Oh, he had noticed the judgmental cast of eyes upon him earlier—had presumed what it meant. The pudgy Midget was up to one of his schemes and the cast of his eyes meant he expected Orlon to be a part of it…. Well, he was no longer a gullible child to be easily talked into anything, so Tarl would have his work cut out for him when the time came.

"Orlon, come."

Snapped from his reverie, he turned to find the Party was heading down the road without him. Sharna was at the line’s end, looking back over a shoulder, waving a hand for him to follow. He did as requested, quick-stepping his way to her side, and on down the road they went.

With each step Orlon felt happier and happier to be home after his journey. He looked from farm to farm, now occupied by wives and children busy with chores, and smiled. Not even the healthy crops troubled him this time, although disgruntled glances from the wives, first at him then the neglectful farmers and back again, did send a chill along his spine. Still, it was so nice to be around so much familiarity.

Why, he was so thankful to be home he breathed deeply, reveling in the sweet scents of the farmland. A coughing fit gripped him, yet his smile did not waver. Even the foulness of farmland air was a pleasure…this time around.

Then he saw his four-days-unattended acre—and he stumbled over his own feet.

A little rainfall during his absence had had its effect on the plowed acre, and its biggest effect was filling the acre with weeds. He grumbled under his breath. What he saw was a whole lot of work in the coming days for him and Tarl Bimbo, who was not the best of workers. What he felt was a tingling fear they might have no crop to offer the Buyer at season’s end, leaving them with no income for the future.

He jerked his eyes away from the acre, and all the hard labor it represented, and let them come to rest on the simple white walled, thatched roofed farmhouse he called home. After being away so long, he was so happy to see it he smiled brightly. Sure, he noticed the lawn needed trimmed and weeded, but that did not matter to him at the moment. He was home!

They stopped on the road before Orlon’s house, and he stepped up into the yard, turned to face his traveling companions. He opened his mouth to speak…

"The kidnapped is returned after ransom is paid! The caterpillar after metamorphosis! I, Ty, the Parson, and the Party have brought you home safely after your triumphant deed led to a new era of peace and tranquility free of the grip of evil," Ty the Parson said in a flail of arms. "The kicker who scores the game winning goal! We owe you gratitude, Orlon, the pure, for what you have done to save the world."

Crimson crawled up Orlon’s cheeks and he clasped his hands behind his back, stretched a toe out to brush through the grass. "Gosh, I—" he started.

"The son finds himself on porch, bags in hand, door striking his bottom, on his eighteenth birthday! The seed pod flies free from mother plant! Now that our quest is at its end, I, Ty, the Parson, must be off to seek out places to give birth to new quests performing good deeds."

And with that, he was off down the road.

"It was an honor serving with you," Grash said with a salute.

Orlon found himself caught in a web of uncertainty. The quest was over, he was home and it was time for goodbyes, yet… Here was a character—a man from the book he was reading. Already he had heard him tell a story or two…well, parts of a story or two, as each was interrupted in the name of the quest. This was his one chance to hear a full story or two, or more, if he could coax the old warrior to stay a while.

Before he could make up his mind what to do Grash was gone, hot on the heels of the Parson.

"Farewell, little one," Shing said and was off as well.

Though he lost the opportunity to bid the Oriental Ranger goodbye, he did get the chance to wave farewell to the battered and broken warrior he carried in a sack on his back. Expendendale gave him a crooked smile and somehow found a way to work an index finger up to return the wave.

"S-su-su-s-s-su-so l-lu-lu-l-l-lu-long," Tarftenrott spun and pushed the cart after the others.

Since his hand was already up, Orlon pointlessly waved farewell to the stuttering warrior’s back. He blinked. Now that all his surviving male traveling companions had departed, that left only his self proclaimed protector—a woman—to go. He gulped. His lifelong bashfulness when it came to the opposite sex sent a quiver through him.

Then he thought of the experience in the tunnel of Tibtarni—whatever’s lair, when he watched her fall to her apparent death while trying to protect him… He remembered the elation he felt when he discovered she had survived that fall… With a pang in his heart, and a bit of confusion over that pang, he realized he would momentarily be losing her again. He tried to console himself with the thought he knew all along they would part ways at quest’s end. It did not help much.

He turned to face her, felt a blast of heat course through his body. Sharna was so beautiful standing there in her tight white shirt, short black breeches and knee high black boots. Framed in long, wavy blonde-brown hair, her face was exquisite. He looked into her wanting brown eyes and saw in them the sorrow he felt at the idea of parting. And he did not know how to say goodbye to her. She apparently had no problem putting it into words, saying:

"See you later."

"S-see you," he found himself saying as he watched her hurry after the others.

* * *

Once she—the Party was beyond sight Orlon sighed and felt weariness bear down on him like a ton of stones. Not only the day’s walk, but the harrowing events of the last four days had worn him to a frazzle. He sagged, weak at the knees, rallied back with a reminder of where he was. There would be no sleeping outdoors this night. He stood on the front lawn of his own property, just a short stroll from the comfort of his own bed.

First, he looked west to find the sun kissing the horizon in a splendor of crimson, and he thought of the just-departed Party. Would it not have been wiser for them to have taken rooms at an inn or tavern until morning? Remembering their lack of funds answered that question, as well as made him wish he had asked them to stay at his house. He shrugged. Oh, well. They were, after all, journeymen, and -woman, so they must like camping out.

Then he looked at Tarl, who still talked animatedly to the mob of farmers. His eyes went to the heavens. Whatever scheme his best friend was cooking up must be a big one. Well, he had no intention to wait for him to finish, and he about-faced, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The little farmhouse looked like paradise to the Midget, despite its unattended surroundings. With half-lidded eyes, he walked toward it, aware of the tall grass brushing against his legs, the weed infested acre in his peripheral vision, but he did not care about that.

He stepped onto the porch, took hold of the door knob, and a sigh escaped his lips. When he stepped through the door it would signify the true end of a journey he never imagined he would have taken. That sure sounded good to him. He opened the door and stepped in, shutting it behind him. Once his eyes adjusted to the inner dimness, he groaned. What he saw before him was even more work in the form of a four day layer of dust that covered everything.

"Tomorrow," he murmured. "I’ll deal with it all tomorrow."

And his eyes landed on the book, still nestled in the quilt where he left it the perplexing night of Ty the Parson’s initial visit. Behind his eyes was a mind filled with the image of Grash in full storytelling stance, surrounded by echoing stories partially told by the old warrior, and a desire to read, read, read… Yet that desire was met by an irresistible force. Orlon yawned a wide mouthed, back bowing, arm stretching yawn. He was tired!

From the book his eyes shifted to the doorway leading to his and Tarl Bimbo’s bedrooms. Rubbing an eye, he shuffled across the room, through the doorway and down the short hall to stop before his bedroom door. Joy filled his weary heart with the thought he was within mere steps of his bed. Another yawn racked his body, but he fought it enough to enter his bedroom. He shut the door with a thump, leaned back against it.

Before him was his bedroom as he left it, neat and tidy, everything in its place and a place for everything—but now covered in a four day layer of dust. With a shake of his head, he shuffled across the room to stand at his bed. He looked at the dusty bedspread, sighed.

"I’ll deal with it tomorrow," he huffed.

He threw back the bedspread, blowing up such a cloud of dust it brought on a resounding sneeze. After wiping his nose, he looked from the inviting bed to his dressed body and back again and back again. Did he want to get into his nightshirt or not? The answer to that question came after he slipped out of his coat and vest, which he draped over the footboard, and kicked off his shoes. That was close enough. He slipped into bed, rolled from left to right side before settling in.

A smack of his lips, a yawn, and he was asleep. But he did not find the refreshing slumber he sought. No, he twitched and thrashed about, dreaming dark dreams of the quest, wandering through mysterious places, the fear of dangers ever so real, and the tragedy of loss repelled him. Yet he could not break free from it no matter how hard he tried…

Then he grew calm.

A little smile came to his lips.

He felt strangely—protected from his own nightmare.

Into his dream had stepped a tall, shapely warrior woman with long, wavy blonde-brown hair.