Then he considered the healthy money pouches dangling from the men’s belts and smiled. Perhaps there was another reason for them being there. He glanced at the sun. Yes, there was still a good bit of afternoon left, and with a little luck he could scrounge up a dice game with them that might earn him a little of what he would have earned had he got a game up with the Dorks.
One hand slipped into a pocket, grabbed hold of the dice, the other slipped into the other pocket, took hold of the paltry money pouch. His smile faltered just before he took it away, settling his features on a pleasant expression. Now he was ready to approach them, and so he did.
"Hello, lady," he said, coming to a stop at the campfire, "gentlemen."
When they turned to face him he was both pleased and uncertain of the expressions that met him. The woman smiled, and in her hazel eyes he registered that inviting, seductive expression he had seen before. The three men nodded their greeting, but their tight facial features, a glint in their eyes told him they were not happy to see him there. Nevertheless, he was not one to back down, especially if a woman was in the balance, and forged on.
"I’m Tarl Bimbo," he introduced himself, proffering a hand.
"Mishto Sharpaine," the woman delicately accepted his hand, shook it.
"I am Jack," the middle of the three men said with a smile and tossing an arm over each of his comrades' shoulders, said, "And these are my friends, Carlo and Frank."
Tarl was startled by the sudden attitude change, at least of one of them, and he much more preferred it to the others' still scowling faces. He found them to be an odd trio.
"Nice to meet you, miss," he said, with a slight bow to the woman, and to the gentlemen he gave a head bob, "and you as well."
A moment of silence slipped by—and Tarl decided to try his luck.
"Not wishing to exclude the lady," he said, bowing his head to her before turning his full attention on the three, "but with a fair bit of the afternoon left to us, I was wondering if perhaps you gentlemen might be interested in a little game of chance…?" He produced the dice from a pocket, holding them between thumb and forefinger. "Something entertaining to pass a little time before we get down to…activities tonight. What do you say?"
In answer, Jack, Carlo and Frank hemmed and hawed noncommittally.
Mishto, on the other hand, caught his eye, smiling, and something told him she knew about his lack of funds. He tugged at his collar, unsure what this meant for his future with her. She winked. He frowned.
"Sounds interesting to me," she said, squatting by the fire to warm her hands. "What do you say, gentlemen."
Tarl caught his jaw before it dropped. She was actually trying to help him! And his ego stepped up to brush aside any confusion he had about it. Of course she was helping him. He might not be as finely dressed as the three men were, but he knew it was not clothes that made the man, and he knew without a doubt he was a man ladies wanted. Why would not Mishto then?
"Well, uh, I’d be interested in a little game of chance," Jack spoke up and looked to his friend’s for support.
"Uh, yeah," Carlo said. "That sounds like it might be fun."
"Sure," Frank put in, "why not."
Tarl opened his mouth to speak…
"Before you begin," Mishto said. "Let’s retire to my tent for a little privacy, hm."
No one found anything untoward with her suggestion, and they followed her to the tent, where she lifted the entrance’s flap and waved them in. The last through was Tarl, and he paused when a whiff of something tasty drew his attention to the cook. Roxx stood at his push cart, slicing a slab of beef into strips to add to the pot, from which floated the tasty aroma. For a split second he wondered where the cook got his supplies, but he shrugged it off and entered the tent, followed by Mishto Sharpaine who let the flap drop behind her.
While the rest of the Party was settling down, Roxx was just getting wound up. He had cooked them vegetable soup for lunch and after cleaning pot and cooking implements set his mind to what he would prepare for supper…. A smile came to him. There was nothing better, to his way of thinking, than ending a long day’s journey with a nice bowl of beef stew and slice of fresh made bread.
So the afternoon became a busy time for him, preparing the planned meal, and at times like this he became lost in his own world—a world that revolved around the push cart. That is, when his best friend Tarftenrott was not along on the journey and quite talkative, as he had been while he was preparing lunch.
From drawer to drawer he went, retrieving implements and food stuffs he needed for his task. And he was always pleased with his cart. Small enough to be easily pushed, it looked like it could contain only minimal supplies. But he knew better. His push cart was special. It was magical!
He was the son of the son of the son of the son… of a wandering cook, and the push cart had been passed down generation to generation. No one was certain, but it was believed the cart dated back to his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather who obtained it from a wizard for a price no one wished to disclose. All anyone cared about was that it afforded each who inherited it the chance to make outstanding meals.
Like his father and grandfathers before him there was nothing he liked more than journeying on a quest and supplying tasty meals for his fellow journeymen…
Just as the sun began to dip into the western horizon, he dipped a spoon into the pot’s simmering contents, gave the stew a taste test. He smiled. The stew came out as he hoped it would: delicious. He stepped back from the pot, letting his eyes drift to the stack of six fresh made loafs of bread on the push cart’s counter—and he came out of his own world.
"Okay, everybody," he called, turning his attention to those in the field. "Sup—" the smile dropped from his face "—per’s ready."
Everybody was asleep.
IV. Dark Forest
Daybreak found the Party sleeping peacefully. But for a soft snoring here and there, the buzz of an insect or two, the murmur of a passing breeze—the unending mumbled insults thrown at a cringing-in-his-sleep Marcol by Richtichtiare, silence reigned. Even Ty the Parson appeared to be in a peaceful slumber, having not moved a muscle since he had settled down in the field the afternoon before.
His eye snapped open. It scanned those sleeping in the field before it, came to rest on Orlon. The Midget lay on his belly, head nestled in his folded coat pillow, fast asleep. Sharna lay on her side just beyond him, a hand resting on his back and a smile on her face. The brow above the eye creased. The eye jumped to the long man shaped shadow stretching out before it, detecting its ever shortening length. The brow shot up, wrinkling the forehead.
"The submerged bouncy ball is released! The red liquid within the glass tube when applied to the sick child’s underarm! The sun rises quickly, as does the continued growth of the evil’s power over our world," he said in a bizarre flail of limbs that brought him up to a wide-legged stance, staff in hand. "Arise, arise all. Our quest must begin."
With his outburst, the Party stirred, got up and packed away their sleep mats, and Mishto Sharpaine, Tarl and the three fancily dressed warriors stepped out of her tent, yawning. But there was one who appeared to have heard nothing. Orlon did not move a muscle.
"Come on, Orlon," Sharna said, rubbing his back briskly. "It’s time to get up."
Orlon turned his head, pressed his eyes tightly closed. He did not know who had dared enter his house—his bedroom to trouble him at such an early hour, but he was not going to give…her the satisfaction of getting away with it. His brow furrowed. And everything about his life over the last day and night flooded into his mind, and filled him with dread… Recognition of the alluring voice dispersed the flood, and he felt a smile tug at his frowning lips. He opened his eyes and looked up into Sharna’s beautiful face, and his smile came.