With that, he spun in a display of spasming limbs and hurried down the path.
"Quickly," Grash said, stepping forward authoritatively. "Clean your swords that we may be off."
Those with goo covered swords looked about for a solution to the task and finding none, shrugged, and began stabbing their blades into the thorny bushes. Eventually the blades were clean enough that after a shake or two, they reluctantly sheathed them. One by one, they started after the Parson, and as each warrior passed Tarftenrott, they cast a disgruntled look at him.
"H-hu-hu-how wu-wu-was I t-tu-tu-to nu-n-nu-nu-know?" he said, sheathed his perfectly clean sword and followed.
"Come on, Orlon," Sharna said and drove her saber home into its scabbard.
Falling in behind her gave him the opportunity to look at the "defiled" tree, and he scratched his head. No taller than he was, its thin trunk supported a web of even thinner limbs that struggled to hold up the only healthy looking part of the plant, its large, brilliant green leaves. He was amazed such a pitiful looking tree could wield such power…. He thought about what he was expected to do at this quest’s end and half smiled. Maybe big things could come in small packages. He gulped, and he hoped so, at least in his case.
Grash was pleased by how rapidly the others had responded to his order. He sheathed his broadsword, gave the scene of Jack’s demise a cursory final survey—and saw the primitive man was still there. Crik-or was on his hands and knees by a narrow ravine that skirted the thorny bushes, eyes scanning the ground before him diligently. The old warrior raised an eyebrow.
"Crik-or," he said commandingly, "come."
"Can’t find rock," Crik-or continued his search.
"Just grab any old rock," he said with a flip of a hand.
Crik-or froze, turned his head to face Grash, thick brow knit. "Want my rock," he said and went back to looking.
Grash’s raised his eyes to the heavens, and Crik-or lowered his to look in the ravine. He smiled and said, "Found it."
He reached into the ravine to retrieve it. A huge, leathery claw reached up out of the ravine, grabbed him and yanked him into it. Loud rips and tears and screams of anguish followed, loud enough to challenge the forest’s roars, growls, howls and snarls.
"IIIIIEEEEEYAAAA," Crik-or bellowed and pleaded, "Help me."
So loud was the primitive man’s ordeal those moving down the path stopped, looked back to see Grash coming quickly toward them.
"We have lost Crik-or to another dastardly creature of the forest," he said, passing them on his way to take his "rightful" place at the head of the Party.
They stood a moment, looking back. There was no sign of the primitive man, but his cries of agony and pleas for help were clearly heard. Then one by one they turned and put the mystery behind them. The last to turn was Orlon, who could not understand how a hero like Grash could leave a fellow warrior in such dire straits…. Into his mind came the notion Crik-or was dead, that the pleas for help were the creature’s base attempt at drawing in more victims.
What the truth of it was was soon lost in the Midget’s desire to get out of this dreaded forest before any more lost their lives. There was also his growing worry that somewhere along the way he would tucker out, would not be able to go on. Somehow the Party had found a way to go beyond breakneck speed. South loop, north loop, south loop, north loop… On they went down the path, and arms pumping, legs pistoning, he did his best to keep up.
A loud pop stopped them.
An acrid odor filled their nostrils, and they looked about for the culprit.
Frank’s bowels exploded!
Everyone scattered, as much as the thorny bushes allowed, trying to escape the flying…goo. Sharna raised one arm to shield herself, with the other pulled Orlon behind her. Tarl and Mishto were thrown stumbling by the blast, but did their best to keep clear of the splatter nonetheless.
And when the shock of it subsided, they heard a pitiful plea that drew their eyes to Frank—and nearly brought up their last meal. The warrior lay in a pile of his own reeking filth, hands clutching at his crotch, the last bit of flesh that held his legs to his torso. His face was a twisted map of pain, his wide eyes pools of misery, as they took in the Party member by member, and, again, he pleaded:
"Kill me."
To a man, and woman, the warriors found it hard to meet him eye to eye.
"Kill me."
Throats were cleared, collars tugged.
"Please, kill me."
Swords were hitched, feet shuffled.
"Kill me, please."
Frank’s eyes came to Chitintiare and Telluspett. The Dorks met him eye to eye and smiled.
"Kill me!"
A jolt went through them as if they had been goosed, and they blinked. Chitintiare looked at his brother, Telluspett met his eyes and for a moment the scene held. They blinked again, and if it was at all possible their ignorant expressions grew even more so. Then, eyes wide, forefingers shooting to the limb webbed sky, they turned on the pitiful man and smiled brightly.
"Okay," they said, unhooking their crossbows from their belts. "We’ll do it."
"Shouldn’t we be moving on," Sharna urgently said to Grash, giving him a dramatic eye roll that came to rest on Orlon.
The old warrior looked from her to him and back again. "Yes, uh, uh, yes," he said. "That we should, as our quest should be delayed as little as possible." He turned to the Dorks, who were busy loading bolts into their crossbows, and said, "You two do your…deed and hurry after us."
Chintiniare and Telluspett paused in loading their crossbows, gave him a thumbs up.
After giving his handlebar mustache a theatrical twist, Grash signaled no less theatrically for the Party to follow and strode down the path. One by one, they followed. Tarl, still "protectively" holding Mishto, and absent his three companions, fell in after them. Sharna urged Orlon along, and as they went down the path, he could not help but look back. A firm finger on his chin turned his head back to see Sharna shake her head. He understood.
Soon they followed another looping turn and those behind were lost to them.
Alone now, Chitintiare and Telluspett, both sporting loaded crossbows, and Frank, laying in agony upon his own pile of filth, faced each other. The plea they saw in Frank’s eyes brought a frown to the Dorks' blank faces. They scratched their heads—and alarm muscled its way into the warrior’s eyes. Could the dullards have already forgotten what they promised to do? Relief edged out his alarm when they looked at each other with an "oh yeah" expression on their faces.
They took aim and fired their crossbows.
"Oops," Telluspett said.
"Uh ho," Chitintiare said.
Frank cringed with the added pain of a bolt sticking in his hand and one in a foot. "Kill me," he begged.
They reloaded their crossbows, took careful aim and fired.
"Augh," Frank bellowed, a bolt now sticking in his forearm and one in a calf. "Please kill me," he urged.
Thus began a series of quick reloads, misfires and pleas for death. And with each misfire, Chitintiare and Telluspett grew more apologetic, and Frank more and more could not believe this was happening to him. Finally, the two reached to their quivers for another bolt and their hands closed on thin air once, twice, a third time…five rapid times. They looked at their target, cheeks red.
"Kill me," Frank, now a pin cushion in every nonvital body part, pleaded.
"Sorry," the Dorks said with a shrug. "We’re out of bolts."