When he reached the lawn’s edge the group came into full clarity—and brought him to a jaw sagging halt. He was so stunned by what he saw he did not even notice Tarl’s awkward stopping behind him. The make up of the Party solidified what he had feared the most. His jaw snapped shut as the churning in his stomach erupted, threatening to send its emptiness up.
Ty the Parson stood before a group of men, and a woman, who fit the Midget’s image of what a Party on a quest would look like. Each, but one, was dressed in warrior garb of one sort or another, swords prominently hung at hips, eyes warily looking up or down the road. The one not so attired was a plump man in white tunic and breeches, standing by a push cart sporting a cooking pot and cabinet of various sized drawers that must contain tools and supplies for the cooking trade.
What settled Orlon’s roiling stomach was catching sight of one warrior in particular.
He was dressed in well polished, heavily battle scarred armor with dome shaped helm. From his broad shoulders hung a limp, blood red cape, and from the worn girdle about his waist hung a fancifully hilted broadsword in bejeweled scabbard on right hip and fancifully hilted shortsword in bejeweled scabbard on left. From beneath the helm flowed curly gray locks, framing a square jawed face of wrinkled handsomeness accentuated by piercing blue eyes and gray handlebar mustache.
But for his advanced years, the man fit the description of a hero from Orlon’s book perfectly, which left him numb. He thought about his doubts of the Buyer’s claims the book was true, of his doubts about his grandfather’s tales… What the shattering of those doubts meant for his future!
Tarl went from a disapproving stare at his best friend’s back to looking over his shoulder at the group of men, and a woman, before them. He was amazed to see they were warriors and startled to find they ranged in age from young to old. And not one resembled Sleen Manibeen’s queer visitor. He shook his head. That this strange, spasmodic man in robes could convince so many apparently clear headed people to join him on this fool’s errand was too much for him to believe.
There was one positive thing he saw in having this Party along on the trip. With this many people the likelihood of getting up a game of dice was pretty good…. There was one bad thing as well. He could not help but worry about the effect they would have on Orlon, who had already showed signs of buying into the reality of what Ty the Parson said this trip was about.
All such concerns evaporated when his eyes fell upon the woman in the group. She was tall and shapely, and dressed in tight white shirt, short black breeches and knee high black boots. About her slim waist was a black belt from which hung a saber. She was a warrior! But he noticed this only in passing as he took her in from her exquisitely beautiful face, framed in long, wavy blonde-brown hair, to rounded shoulders, to her firm breast’s crested by erect nipples pressing into the shirt, to slim waist and shapely hips, to a glimpse of smooth leg between breeches and boots.
Letting his eyes continually run the circuit of her loveliness, his tongue traveled the full circle of his lips, twice. With this woman amongst them, he saw another positive prospect in having the Party along. He just hoped wherever this trip ended up there would be someplace discreet for such a prospect to occur. When his eyes returned to her face he saw her brow crease briefly, then she slowly turned to look his way, smiled. He blushed, looked down and cleared his throat.
She had seen Orlon.
When Jujay finally reached the lawn’s edge he stopped beside Orlon, looked over the group of warriors before them and scoffed. He had seen better. Then he gulped with the realization of what the presence of the warriors meant for their—his future. While looking them over again, his eyes shrank to mere slits. Something was not right here. There were…too few people in this group. And he had it! There were no servants.
This realization nearly made him blurt a "Ha!" Each warrior had a pack on the road next to him, and her, which meant they carried their own supplies. A half smile added wrinkles to his wrinkly face with the thought: My, how the mighty have fallen in stature during this time of peace and tranquility. He looked at the old warrior in well polished, battle scarred armor and a dim glimmer of recognition completed his smile. How the mighty have fallen indeed.
A twitch of shoulders preceded Ty the Parson turning his head to the three standing at the lawn’s edge. His eyes focused on Orlon. "The wounded messenger brings word from the front lines! You finally arrive," he said in a flail of limbs.
Not only did Orlon, Tarl and Jujay jump at the outburst, but to a man, and woman, the Party jumped as well. So too did the ignored two smaller groups. And all eyes turned to the trio, a move that made Orlon blush. He had never been under such scrutiny by so many people in his life.
A moment of silence gripped the scene.
"This," the old warrior said, looking the well dressed Midget up and down, "is the One you spoke of, Parson?"
"The man in the lineup is identified! He is indeed the One of whom I spoke," Ty the Parson said with a wild spin that ended in a wide-legged stance, dripping staff pointing at Orlon. "The vegetarian beast of a bygone age relies on its triple horns for protection while seeking sustenance! He is Orlon, the Pure, purest of the pure, who must rely on the Party to protect him on his journey to vanquish the evil that threatens the world."
"And these fellows are…?" the old warrior indicated those with Orlon with head bobs.
"I," Tarl stepped around Orlon, a hand on his chest and watching the lone warrior woman out of the corner of his eye, "am Tarl Bimbo, the One’s best friend and traveling companion, and he," he jerked a thumb at Jujay, "is our trusty servant, Jujay."
"Servant?" a short warrior with long black hair tied in a ponytail said.
All eyes turned to the servant, leaving Tarl a bit crestfallen. He had hoped to make a big impression on them, on the lone woman amongst them. After all, she did smile at him, did she not?
Unlike his master, Jujay did not blush under such scrutiny. Instead, he grew a shade paler. From the moment Tarl mentioned a visitor who wanted them to accompany him on a trip—a quest he had had an uneasy feeling. When Orlon mentioned the name Ty the Parson he wondered what they…he was in for. A long walk was one thing, but what he read in all those eyes sent a shiver of uncertain fear through him…. An uncertain fear that became icy certainty when he heard the short warrior say:
"Great! We need someone to bear our burdens on this quest."
Orlon opened his mouth to protest…
Tarl put a hand on his shoulder. "He is a servant, buddy," he said softly, "and servants have their duty."
Jujay cast a glare at the plump Midget, then turned his eyes to watch the warriors to a man, and woman, snatch up their supply bundles and approach him. In quick order they stacked and secured their burdens two wide and one atop the other upon his hunched back. The end result left him leaning heavily on his walking staff, braced legs trembling, to support a well secured stack five feet wide and ten feet high.
When he looked into his servant’s tired gray eyes Orlon read behind the obvious strain a sad resignation to his fate. And though it troubled him to see the old man put to such hard labor, he resigned himself to it, too—and thought how ironic it was that after yesterday’s hard labor he had planned to give Jujay the day off.
"The beaver’s mud and stick creation to quickly flowing stream! Our journey, twofold as it is, delayed, grows stagnant." Ty the Parson’s flailing limbs turned him to face down the road, staff pointing. "The bird’s yearly migratory flight! Heart contractions send blood coursing through arteries to sustain life! We must wait no longer to begin our journey to stop the ever growing evil that threatens to end—"