Not only did Orlon feel for the warrior’s loss of a friend, he felt sorry for the world as well. He saw no escape from this nightmare of raining rocks. Soon his protectors would be beaten down, killed by it, leaving him to suffer the same fate…. The quest would fail, and after such a long time of peace and tranquility the world would suffer at the hands of Tibtarni—whatever. He bit his lip, knowing when that happened he would have failed his fellow man.
The rock shower ceased.
It grew quiet again…. Too quiet.
And in that quiet the victims of the rock throwing remained unmoved but for their eyes that darted from house to house. Time passed. Not a word was spoken, not a moan of pain from the numerous bruises and cuts suffered was uttered. They waited.
"Truce, my lifelong enemy," a deep, gravelly voice boomed from the house on the right.
The Party jumped, looked to the right.
"Truce," boomed a deep, rumbling voice from the house on the left.
They jumped, looked to the left.
A tall, brawny man dressed in faded red shirt and blue breeches, a rock in hand, stepped from behind the house on the right. "Welcome to the house of Barlowe," he boomed.
They jumped, looked at him.
A hairy man twice his size, dressed in white shirt and brown breeches, a stone in hand, stepped from behind the house on the left. "Welcome to the house of Bobtart Towne," he boomed.
They jumped, looked at him.
""The mother dog reacts to threat to pups! The strongest of us should speak," Ty the Parson said softly, arms and legs twitching.
Grash sniffed knowingly, twirled an end to his handlebar mustache, started to step forward.
"Shing," the Parson continued, "speak for us."
Grash looked startled, disbelieving…crestfallen.
Shing nodded and stepped forward. "Greetings," he said.
"To who are you allied, him or me?" Barlowe demanded.
"We are just passing by and have no wish to become involved in your…quarrel," he said.
"To who are you allied?" Bobtart Towne demanded.
Shing looked from one to the other and back again, stepped back to the Party. "We have no choice," he said. "We must choose."
Hearing that a choice must be made filled Orlon with dread. When he saw everyone looking at him expectantly, he swallowed and looked to his best friend, but there was no succor to be found from Tarl Bimbo, who looked him up and down, wearing that smile.
"Don’t look at me, buddy o' mine," he said. "Remember, you’re the—" he fingered quotation marks in the air "—One."
Orlon looked to the heavens, to the expectant Party, and closed his eyes. The thought of what his last choice cost them in lives weighed heavily on his mind, to the point he did not want this burden, to suffer memory of this new choice’s end result. He took in a breath, held it, let it out… This choice was different. It was between two men, not the safety of the road against the danger of a path through an accursed forest. What was the worst that could happen as a result of this choice? An inward blurted laugh twitched the corners of his mouth. More rock throwing?
He opened his eyes and took in his two choices: Barlowe was a big, muscular man with coal black hair and a square jawed face that looked like it had been chiseled by an angry artist. Bobtart Towne was a big man of muscle, with shaggy brown hair, bushy beard and mustache, and a round, red cheeked face bearing a stern expression that might break into a laughing smile at the drop of a hat…. The choice appeared obvious to him, he hoped.
"Have you made a decision?" Shing asked.
Orlon’s eyes jumped to the Oriental Ranger. He nodded.
Smoothly, Shing knelt before him, cocked an ear into which Orlon whispered his choice.
"Well?" Barlowe and Bobtart Towne demanded in unison.
The Oriental Ranger smoothly brought himself to his feet, drawing his mighty sword, and, turning about, stepped forward, sword pointed downward. After a tense moment, he brought the sword up to point at Bobtart Towne, saying, "Him."
The rocks flew.
VII. Bobtart Towne’s House
Bobtart Towne hurled his stone over Barlowe’s house. "Hurry," he urged his new allies and quick-stepped it around his own house.
"You heard the man," Shing said and took off after him, Ty the Parson close on his heels.
That the rocks were coming one way and were fewer in number was a relief. Still, those warriors protecting Orlon had their duty to perform. All, but one, formed a wall of bodies between him and the rock shower, and they started around the house. The one not with them, Tarftenrott, was passed by Tarl, Mishto and Rae, the Oaf and Dorks, on his way back to the road.
"Where is he going?" Tarl said with a shake of his head.
Where he was going, arm raised to protect his face, was to the battered cart and his fallen friend, Roxx, lying beside it. A hand placed lightly on the cook’s chest, he looked him over, focused on the stone embedded in his face and moaned his worry. He took him under the arms, tried to lift him—failed. He tried again, failed again. Desperate, he took him by his ankles and tried to drag him to safety, but the cook proved too heavy for him.
"H-hu-hu-hey," he called, yanking at his friend and getting nowhere, "w-wu-wu-w-w-we c-cu-cu-can’t l-lu-lu-l-leave hu-hu-him."
They stopped at the house’s back corner, looked back. Tarftenrott looked at them pleadingly as he yanked and tugged on his friend to no avail. They started on around the house.
"He’s right," Orlon said, stopping them. "We can’t leave Roxx behind."
"Come on, Orlon," Tarl said. "Can’t you see he’s—"
"The One has spoken," Ty the Parson stated flatly, produced a money pouch from a baggy sleeve and just as flatly ordered, "Marcol, assist him."
"Criminy," the mercenary muttered, accepted the money pouch and dashed into the rock rain.
Rocks bouncing off the ground around them, bouncing off them, Marcol took an ankle from Tarftenrott, and the two struggled to drag the cook after the others.
"They have got him," Shing said. "Let us go."
There was no need for further urging. They rounded the house and once there, free of thrown rocks, those protecting Orlon collapsed. The Midget, unscathed by the affair, watched them tenderly examine their wounds—cuts and bruises and abrasions—earned for their duty. He felt guilty at what he witnessed, felt a pang in his heart when he saw one warrior in particular, who had taken the worst of it. His self proclaimed guardian, Sharna, offered him a smile he tried to return, but his guilt would not let him.
So great was his guilt he could not even hold eye contact with her, and when he looked away what he saw did nothing to alleviate his guilt one bit. Tarl and Mishto had suffered greatly during the rock throwing ordeal, their expressions telling him exactly how painful their injuries were…. They suffered so badly because they were not protected like he had been. This turned his mind to the reason he was protected, the reason for this quest, what he was expected to do…
Not liking that train of thought, he shifted his eyes again, and what he saw led to his utter bewilderment. The Oaf stood there, snatching jerky strips from bruised and battered Chitintiare and Telluspett, totally uninjured. There was no denying he had to have suffered more than the others simply due to his immense size and slowness, yet he was uninjured. Perhaps it had something to do with his flabbiness, as well as the thick crust of dirt that covered him head to toe…?
Around the corner of the house came the stuttering warrior and the mercenary, Roxx in tow. Once clear of the rock shower, Marcol dropped his ankle, forcing Tarftenrott into a stumbling halt. The rude act did not matter to the latter, whose only concern was for his best friend.