"Thank you for a wonderful night’s rest," he said to the sofa and headed through the door.
Down the short hall and out of the house he went, stumbling to a stop before a smiling Bobtart Towne, who greeted him and offered him the last biscuit on the tray.
"Thank you," Orlon said with a smile at the mystery solved, and after an awkward moment headed around the house, saying, "Farewell, Bobtart Towne."
"Good luck, little one," Bobtart Towne said, watching him go.
VIII. The Stirring Dog Inn
Orlon came around the house at a fair clip—came to a bone jarring halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with the Party. Brow knit, he wondered why they had stopped here, then, seeing how they looked nervously at the road ahead, he remembered what happened the day before. The idea of walking into another rock storm was far from desirable. But considering the time of day he thought the chances of such an event were slight.
Surely the Barlowes would not be up at such an early hour.
After all, the Townes, but for Bobtart, were still in bed.
Ty the Parson put a finger to his lips and signaled an advance. They did so, slowly, silently as requested. Within four cautiously placed steps the road between the houses came into view, as did Roxx’s push cart, still where it had been left the day before. A choked sob brought them to a halt. All eyes darted to Tarftenrott, whose eyes looked mistily at his dearly departed best friend’s cart. He blinked, became aware of the attention on him and smiled meekly, shrugged at them.
"S-su-su-s-s-sorry," he mouthed.
With a signal from Ty the Parson, the Party started forward again, even more slowly and, if possible, silently… They hesitated at the house’s corner, eyes on the Barlowe house.
All was quiet…. Too quiet.
If luck was with them, they would escape this ordeal unscathed. After a thrice repeated signal from Ty the Parson, they stepped into the road.
Luck, however, was not with them. The sky was clouded with a hail storm of rocks from the Barlowe house. But they were fortunate in the direction they were headed, as it led them away from rather than into that storm, and they ran for it. They ran on down the road a goodly distance, too, before Ty the Parson stopped them. Out of breath, they took stock of their situation, the results of their brief period under the rock shower, and were pleased to find only a few had been struck but none were badly injured.
"Those people are n-u-t-s," Tarl said, gently rubbing a bruised bicep.
There was a general murmur of agreement amongst the Party.
Any further thought of the Barlowes and Townes vanished when Ty the Parson wordlessly started down the road again, followed by Grash and Shing, who hollered over their shoulders:
"Come on."
They hurried after the trio, and just as they caught up to them, Ty the Parson brought them all to a stumbling stop. Confused looks were cast upon him. In answer, he performed a wild, limb flailing spin that left him in a wide-legged stance, staff pointing down the road.
Fifty yards ahead they saw four hills, the road crossing directly over two of them, the other two set directly across the road from each other. That meant the road dipped into a "bowl" between them all. It looked simple enough to traverse, nothing untoward about it, which made them wonder why the Parson had stopped them to point it out. Then they heard something odd coming from those hills. It sounded like—music!
Drifting on a soft breeze were the sweet notes to a merry little song played on a…flute. The notes swirled around them, penetrated their ears in a way that should have put a smile on their faces. Instead, to a man, and woman, the warriors tensed, suspicion of this pleasant melody evident on their faces. And Orlon met their reaction with a frown. He could not understand such a reaction to this wonderful song, no matter how mysterious its origin might be.
He noticed Sharna begin to tap her toe, the others begin to sway to the music. Chitintiare and Telluspet snapped their fingers, stomped their feet totally out of rhythm. He saw Tarl and Mishto Sharpaine began to dance together, and he found himself doing a little jig. What was going on here? What possible danger could this merry melody mean for them?
Like a conductor with a baton, Ty the Parson signaled with his staff for the Party to advance, and they did with a bounce in their step. The closer they got to the hills, the more they gave in to the music inspired desire to dance, and but for the rhythmless Dorks, it was obvious that the warriors knew a thing or two about the art of the dance.
Orlon became more and more frightened by the music’s hypnotic power over them, drawing them ever onward, and what the end result might be. Never before would he have thought such a beautiful melody could mean danger, but considering the horrors he had witnessed on this trip thus far, how could he think anything else? He wanted to stop them before they reached the hills, before it was too late. He knew he, who was proclaimed the One, could do so simply by speaking up. Yet all he did was put a finger on his head and do a fanciful spin as he danced on.
They reached the foot of the hill.
The music grew more entrancing.
They danced up the hill.
The music grew even more entrancing.
They reached the top of the hill—and stopped.
Before them the road dipped into and crossed the flat bottom of the "bowl" and went up and over the other hill. In the center of the bottom a small tree stood by the road, and seated under it was the music maker. He was a harmless enough looking fellow in green doublet and leggings, and pointy toed shoes, a triangular hat with long feather perched on his head, sitting with back to trunk, legs crossed. Long fingered hands floated along the flute held just below puckered lips.
Across the road from him was a bushy blonde haired boy who did not look harmless at all. Dressed in red tunic, green breeches and red boots, a sling shot and bag of rocks secured to belt, he had a spear in hand, and despite his dance, more a rhythmic series of battle moves with his spear, he looked quite dangerous indeed.
Orlon watched him jab, block and thrust with his spear, feet gliding him back and forth in perfect time to the music, and gulped. Could this boy be the danger they faced? His eyes shrank to mere slits. And if so, how much danger did he really pose in comparison to the sword wielding warriors of the Party? The answer to that question—not much—did not ease his fears one bit. There was something so violently alarming in the boy’s big blue eyes it set his nape hairs on end.
Ty the Parson studied the situation carefully, eyes darting from the music maker to the boy. After a moment of this, he nodded and signaled the Party to follow before starting down the hill himself. They followed, swaying to the music, yet keeping a wary eye on the armed boy. When they were between the two, Ty the Parson stopped them, feet shuffling to the music beneath his cloak. The Party found their own feet moving to the music as well.
Even so, Sharna did not forget her vow to protect the One. Keeping an eye on the boy, she eased between him and Orlon, a hand on the hilt of her saber. The boy continued his "dance" unabated, giving them a glance and nothing more.
"Greetings," the flutist said without breaking a note of his song.
"Greetings," Ty the Parson responded flatly.
He waved the Party to continue. In answer, they danced where they stood.
"The parched man crawls through the desert in hopes of finding water! We must continue to our quest’s end before it is too late," Ty the Parson said, the flailing of his limbs in time to the music.