These mysteries had his mind reeling as he hurried after Sharna down the path.
The last standing on Dwarf Road, Jujay, leaning heavily on his staff under the weight of his burden, watched his master fast-walk down the path. He could not believe this was actually happening to him in his advanced years, then again… Orlon was such a nice, decent fellow—innocent as the day was long, he should have known it would happen eventually. A scowl darkened his face. He should have known a Parson would be behind it.
The thought if he had stayed with Orlon’s parents this quest would not have spoiled his retirement crossed his mind, and he ushered it on across and out of his mind.
Despite his disappointment at his own fate, he would not have passed it up if it meant he could not serve his master. He had been there from Orlon’s youngest years, had in his own small way helped raise him…had seen him grow into a fine young man. He had grown quite fond of him over those years and to this day. That this quest had come about was something he must accept, and he was determined to see it through for his master’s sake, for Orlon.
He sighed, brought his attention to the forest’s entrance. Formed by a curious bend in two tree trunks, it was not very tall or wide. In fact, those who went through it before had stepped high and bent low and twisted sideways to fit through. A smile played at the wrinkles around his mouth. Perhaps if he could not fit through it the warriors would have to return, break down his burden and carry their supply bundles through the forest themselves. The idea sounded quite pleasing to him, but he knew he would never know until he tried.
With a swift up and down motion he placed his walking staff through the entrance, followed it with a leg—and as was the mystifying mystery of such occurrences, he easily slipped through the entrance burden and all. He cursed his luck, but looking ahead, he saw the Party hustling down the path, and not wanting to get left behind hurried as best he could to catch up.
By his third step he found himself short of breath, but he pushed on nevertheless. He did not know what was causing the soft buzzing in his ears, and he did not want to find out alone. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaked his hair, formed half circles under his arm pits and a "V" down the front and back of his tunic. Still, he pushed on…
Suddenly he stopped, arms and legs quivering, tightness in his chest leaving him gasping for breath. A sharp pain shot down his left arm. He collapsed under his burden.
"Jujay." The name sprang from Orlon’s lips for reasons he could not fathom. He stopped and looked back, and exclaimed: "Oh no! Jujay!"
So loud was his exclamation it brought all those ahead of him to a halt, their heads snapping around to see what was up. What they saw dropped their jaws. The tall stack of supply bundles lay flat on the ground. The only evidence of the servant who carried them was a wrinkly head jutting out from underneath it and two flabby arms thrust forward, arthritic hands clasping a walking staff held perfectly upright.
"E-gad," Marcol blurted. "We’ve lost our supplies. We must hurry even more now."
In answer, the Party spun on their heels and dashed down the path.
"But wait," Orlon said, looking from them to the stack of supplies—his fallen servant—and back again. "We can’t just leave him."
"I’m afraid we must," Sharna said, an urging hand pressed against his resistant back. "We must hurry."
"But…but…" he stumbled forward, continuing to resist, then gave in.
As they rushed after the others, he looked back, a tear in his eye, to bid Jujay a silent farewell, just before the servant and the supply stack that had crushed him were lost to sight when the path took a sharp southern turn.
From the turn the path went straight southward a fair distance, then looped around northward for a fair distance before looping back southward, then northward, and so on and so on… These bizarre direction shifts did not slow the Party’s breakneck speed one bit. With each tight loop, they simply checked their speed enough to insure no one brushed the bordering thorn bushes.
Tough though their pace was, all were able to keep up, even the Midgets with their short legs. All, that is, but one. Carlo, walking with Jack, Frank, Tarl and Mishto, suddenly felt funny. He felt—tired. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead, followed by many more drops. Try as he might, he was too fatigued to keep up, and step by step he began to drop behind his companions, who did not notice.
Feathered hat in hand, he wiped his forehead with a forearm, drying it only as long as it took him to replace his hat on head. He could not understand it. With each step, he grew more tired, weak. There was no denying he did not get a full night’s sleep the night before. How could he with a hot dice game going on and a hot female like Mishto in the mix? But this was not his first night of lost slumber, and he never felt this way before. He dropped behind Orlon and Sharna.
Orlon glanced at him as he passed, eyes shrinking to mere slits. He had noticed something funny about him. The man looked…ill. Concerned, he started to mention it to Sharna, but found that keeping up this breakneck speed left him no breath for anything else.
Putting every effort he could into keeping up gained Carlo no ground. He continued to lose ground! His eyes went from watching those ahead quickly leave him behind to his surroundings, his ears filled with the endless bestial snarling, and he did not want to be left alone in this forest…. He panicked, opened his mouth to call out…
His call transformed into a cry of agony when a huge snake-like creature zoomed out of the thorny bushes to sink inch long fang into his calf.
Both his cry and following pleas for help were so loud they brought all those ahead of him to a halt, turned their heads to see what was up. What they saw made the warriors to a man, and woman, draw their swords. Carlo writhed on the path, screaming, pleading eyes turned their way, hands clutching at his leg just above the serpent-like head, its scaly, tubular body running back to disappear amongst the thorn bushes.
"Carlo," Jack exclaimed and hurrying to his friend’s aid, shouted over a shoulder, "Come on, Frank."
Frank followed, at a fast walk.
As for the rest of the warriors, they found themselves trapped in a quandary, eyes moving from the tormented man to Orlon and back again and back again… Even Tarl, who held a frightened Mishto Sharpaine "protectively," looked from one to the other, then to the warriors, wondering why they hesitated. With a roll of her eyes, Sharna broke them free of their dilemma.
"I will safeguard the One," she said, urging Orlon behind her. "Go!"
To a man, but one, the warriors sprang into action, attacking the creature. The one, Grash, merely stepped up next to Sharna—and drew a wide-eyed look from Orlon. The Midget could not understand why this warrior, this hero of so many battles was not leading the assault on the bizarre creature that had attacked a fellow member of the Party. His wide eyes shrank to normal under knit brow when he saw despair etched on the old warrior’s face as he watched the episode before him. What could it mean? In search of an answer, he turned back to the attack.
Enraged yells battled with the forest’s noises. All along the creature’s scaly body the warriors hacked savagely with their swords, no one more determined than Jack, who focused his assault just below its head. Crik-or bounced his rock off the tubular body once, twice…a third time, before taking it up and smashing it repeatedly against the scaly hide. The result of this assault: no damage at all. Nevertheless, the attack continued undaunted.
In the blink of an eye, the creature released Carlo and slipped back into the thorny bushes.
Caught off guard, the warriors stumbled, checking whatever action they were taking, swords swinging up, swords swinging down.