He gulped at what all this meant for the future. If they had reached the evil’s lair ahead of finding the Holy Pike, what did that mean for them—him? A drop of sweat snaked down the back of his neck. If their quest failed, what did that mean for the world’s fate? He looked from the castle to the woods to Ty the Parson and back again and back again and back again, and his stomach filled with butterflies…
"Boy, am I glad we’re not going there," Sharna said.
X. Whelps
Before Orlon, and Tarl, had the chance to give Sharna a double-take, Ty the Parson started down Eltrondale Road. The Party followed, and the sight that had transfixed them a moment ago was left behind without a glance. And what they saw before them slowed them a pace or two. The road plunged into woods, and though the trees were not close knit or gnarled or crooked of limb, all remembered the last time they had entered a grouping of trees.
None, however, felt the unease over it Orlon and Tarl did. The Midgets had been raised on horror stories of Dark Forest, and having traveled through the forest, with its fearsome noises, and having witnessed its horrors—the loss of life in doing so were something neither wished to repeat. Add to that the terrifying woods of twisted trees they had just faced and the two were shaking in their shoes.
Then there was the utter silence of the woods ahead, so reminiscent of Dark Forest…
Yet there was one difference that kept them advancing. Rather than entering and traversing the woods by a narrow path, they would be doing so via the road they were on. The very road, presumably, that was leading them to their quest’s two goals. The fact they saw the turn west within the woods, leaving what lay ahead a mystery, filled them with minor worry nonetheless.
When they entered the woods earsplitting noises assaulted them, just as happened in Dark Forest. But this was different! Instead of howls and growls and snarls, they heard clinks and clanks and jingles of…armor.
They stopped just five paces from the road’s turn. To a man, and woman, the warriors laid hands on hilts. The clinks and clanks and jingles grew ever louder.
"What is that?" Orlon shouted.
"Sh," Sharna said.
They advanced cautiously to the road’s turn, followed it one step at a time, and when they rounded the turn, they stopped. The clinks and clanks and jingles stopped…. Ten feet in front of them had stopped a huge army. Spanning the width of the road—eight broad shouldered men standing side by side—and stretching westward to the horizon were men in plate armor, armed to the teeth, and then some. To a man, the soldiers looked as startled as the Party, briefly, before each grew resolute, taking on one threatening pose after another, hands at this weapon’s hilt or that.
Orlon was so unnerved he stepped closer to and slightly behind his self proclaimed guardian, placed a hand on her belt. She smiled.
"M-maybe we should…run away," Tarl whispered.
"Sh," Sharna frowned at him.
He gulped, unsure which threat was more dangerous, Sharna or the army before them.
Silence, but for the soft clinks and clanks and jingles of armor, gripped the scene.
Orlon looked at Sharna, startled to find she stood at ease, sword hand fisted at hip. He looked at the other warriors, caught his jaw. They, too, stood at ease. This was far from what he expected, considering they faced an army of incredible strength and by all evidence eminent threat to their wellbeing. He looked from them to the army and back again and back again, and looking at the army, each soldier striking threatening poses, he was at a loss. Where they in danger? Or not?
From the army stepped forward a soldier—and he struck a threatening pose. "Step aside," he demanded.
The booming voice nearly made Orlon, and Tarl, jump out of their skin. While his best friend found himself rooted to the ground, trembling, Orlon raised a foot to do as ordered. Sharna stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked at her questioningly. In answer, she put a finger to her lips. He looked at Tarl, who cocked his head and shrugged.
A moment passed.
With a flamboyant gesture, Ty the Parson produced a pouch of gold from a sleeve and held it out. Marcol placed a hand under it. The Parson dropped it into the awaiting hand. In a flamboyant gesture of his own, the mercenary secured it on his person…somewhere and stepped forward. He watched the soldier strike one threatening pose after another for a moment, then slowly reached up and tossed his ponytail over a shoulder.
"You step aside," he said.
With a jump back, the soldiers gripped their weapons menacingly.
"You step side," their spokesman demanded.
"You!" Marcol countered.
"You!" The soldier drew a sword just enough to reveal its well honed blade.
And thus began a back and forth of yelling, "You!"
Orlon was at a total loss as to what was going on here. He looked from the mercenary and soldier yelling at each other to the warriors of the Party. Not one appeared the least bit concerned about it. He scratched his head. He so much wanted to ask Sharna what this was all about, but knew she would only shush him. Well then, she would just have to, because he could stand this confusion no longer. He opened his mouth to inquire…
Silence!
The sudden lack of yelling startled the Midget, and he looked at the verbal combatants in time to see Marcol spit.
"Enough of this," the mercenary groused, drawing his shortsword and lunging at the soldier.
In the wink of an eye, the soldier—the army disappeared in a rattle and clank. All that was left behind were piles of armor and weaponry… Marcol tripped over the armor pile of the soldier that was his target and flipped into the sea of armor beyond.
Orlon and Tarl felt their jaws go slack, and they looked about them. In the surrounding woods they caught glimpses of wide eyes watching them from the shadows.
"What happened?" Tarl gave voice to their confusion.
"What happens whenever you are confronted by Whelps," Sharna said nonchalantly.
"Whelps?" Orlon and Tarl said in unison.
"Never will you find a more armored and armed, and more full of bluster…coward than a Whelp," Grash said with a twist of his mustache.
Orlon and Tarl turned to the elderly warrior, but before they could ask more Ty the Parson plunged into the sea of armor filling the road. The Party followed. Marcol surfaced, sheathed his shortsword and hurried after them. Last to follow were Orlon and Tarl, still lost in confusion. But it was the latter who swept aside his confusion when something amongst the armor piles sparked his interest. He snatched up a well polished girdle from which hung a fancily hilted shortsword in well polished scabbard.
"Hey," a faint protest of the theft came from the woods.
Tarl strapped the girdle about his plump waist—and somehow it felt…right. He had never used a sword before, but if the quest turned out to be real… He drew the blade and tested its balance.
"I christen thee Wasp," he said, smiling, and slammed the shortsword home in its scabbard.
Orlon rolled his eyes.
XI. Talbortale’s Hotel
Wading through a sea was slow work with the drag of its water and struggle with its currents. Wadding through a sea of armor was slow work as well, dodging and weaving through the numerous closely spaced piles to avoid sharp edges that could rend clothing, cut the delicate flesh beneath. Yet the Party found their speed hastened uncomfortably to keep up with Ty the Parson, who appeared to be a master at dodging and weaving.
Soon they came out of the woods into the bright day, and they halted, momentarily blinded by the glare. Fast blinking and shading hands helped them recover their sight…. And what they saw ahead was a continued sea of armor to the horizon—and on the grassy southern bank was a building that captured their attention, and for Orlon and Tarl, left them with mixed emotions.