No one was more unnerved by that than Orlon. Every time the volcano came into view amongst the intertwined limbs above he glanced at it, shivered. Oh, there was nothing overtly terrifying about the sight, but it affected him anyway, perhaps, he presumed, due to his knowing somewhere within its rocky depths lurked the evil being they had come to stop. He was just glad the forest offered them no threat.
That was when they stumbled to a halt in a small clearing.
While it was nice to be free of the path’s tight confines, they found themselves crowded to one side of the clearing by a steep hill that divided it in half. The small path went around the other side of the hill and came out the other side ahead to reenter the forest. With no evident threat present, they paused to catch their breath…
"Greetings," said a twelve inch tall man, smiling, as he stepped up to the hilltop.
"Evil," Marcol raved, ripping his shortsword from its scabbard. "Kill it."
"Wait!" the little man said—right before the mercenary’s blade sliced him in two.
"This is a freebie," the mercenary shot at Ty the Parson and leaped to the hilltop, followed by Tarftenrott and Shibtarr.
On the other side of the hill was a farm village of twelve inch tall people, who were startled and horrified by the weapon brandishing warriors. Panic sent the villagers scattering. The warriors leapt into the middle of the village, smashing buildings underfoot, and the slaughter began.
Everyone else was taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, none more so than Sharna. Would the sight and sound of the slaughter tarnish her charge’s purity? She looked upon Orlon and felt a great sense of relief sweep over her. He stood there, rigid, eyes closed tightly and hands clamped over his ears, and from the flapping of his tongue it was obvious he la-la’ed to himself to drown out any noises that might slip by his hands.
Her relief was swept aside by a more familiar feeling when she spied a little man round the hill, seeking to escape the massacre. She let her tongue round her full lips. Despite his fear, he was clearly handsome, and his physique filled out his brown tunic and breeches to muscular perfection. And before he had a chance to flee, she quick-stepped over and snatched him up. She looked upon him, admiring his physique. He opened his mouth to plea for mercy.
A finger to her lips and wink silenced him.
"Fear not," she said dreamily and tucked him in between her breasts.
He cringed as she did so, but once he was surrounded by the warm softness of her bosoms, he relaxed, a dreamy smile playing across his face. There was no way of knowing his fate, but as long as he was where he was, he did not mind the wait to find out.
Tarl Bimbo captured a fleeing woman rounding the other side of the hill. She was shorter than the other little people—seven inches at his best guess—and gorgeous with shoulder length curly blonde hair and a curvy body that would put many a regular sized women to shame. She wore a shoulderless white blouse and red skirt. Her fear was great as she watched the giant…Midget run his eyes over her lustily. He gently rubbed her ample bosoms with a thumb, smiling dreamily, but the sound of the ongoing slaughter brought him back to reality.
"Later," he whispered with a wink and carefully put her in a hip pocket.
A victorious "Ha!" marked the end of the massacre. He who blurted it, Marcol, and his two cohorts, stood in the middle of the smashed and scattered remains of the farm village, surrounded by hundreds of little bodies lying in pools of blood. It was a gruesome sight.
Looking around at his deed, the mercenary laughed a laugh of delight, which died in his throat when the words he had said to Ty the Parson echoed in his mind. He moaned softly with the realization he had done this for no financial recompense.
Shibtarr stood in a wide-legged stance, on the balls of his feet, bloody tipped spear held at the ready, sweat soaked blonde hair whipping back and forth as he looked about for more victims. His face was twisted in pleased rage, eyes afire. He was captured by a fighting frenzy that demanded an outlet for release…. Disappointment gradually seeped into him with the realization the battle was over, truly over.
Tarftenrott held his sword limply in hand, eyes taking in the slaughter about him. "G-g-gu-gu-good g-g-gu-god," he breathed. "W-wu-wu-w-what h-h-hu-have I-I d-d-d-done?"
He looked in horror at the gore on his sword. All the stuttering warrior wanted to do was to clean away the evidence—the memory of what he had just done to these simple little farm folk. His hand absently reached out to tear some leaves from a tree, stopped at the thought of what happened the last time he did that. With a casual whistle, eyes to the heavens, he cleaned the blade on a pant leg and sheathed it.
Meanwhile on the other side of the hill, when the squishy sounds of slaughter intermingled with agonizing screams and pleas for mercy ended, the only sound that filled the air was a loud: "La la la la la…" And all eyes turned to Orlon, standing there with eyes closed, hands clasped over ears and totally unaware of the massacre’s end.
"La la la la la," he went on.
All but one turned to Sharna, and she understood why. As his self proclaimed guardian, all things appertaining to Orlon were left up to her. But before she could do anything that one, Tarl Bimbo, stepped up to him, eyes rolling.
"Yo, Orlon," he shook his best friend’s shoulder. "Snap out of it, buddy. The slaughter’s over."
Orlon opened his eyes, frantically recaptured the Holy Pike, which nearly slipped from his feeble grip. To do that meant releasing an ear. When he heard nothing beyond his own verbalization, he fell silent—and becoming aware every eye was upon him, his cheeks turned a bright pink. He looked from those around him to the hill and wondered just how long ago the massacre had stopped… If any of those poor little people survived.
"The birthday boy forewarned of impending surprise party! The student delays home lessons! Evil knows of our coming. We must not dally a moment more."
With that, Ty the Parson squeezed onto the path through the forest on the other side of the clearing and hurriedly sidestepped along its weaving way. The Party followed. Tarftenrott and Shibtarr, who cared not to remove evidence of such a glorious battle from his spear, were quick to join them. Marcol cleansed his blade by running it through the grass on the hill before ramming it home in scabbard and following. Last to join them were Tarl, followed by Sharna and Orlon.
The journey through the forest was taken at such a swift pace Orlon had no time for anything beyond watching his footing. Still, he was aware of the looming volcanic mountain ahead and who, presumably, lurked within its depths, waiting. He also was aware of the Holy Pike, held carefully in hand, which grew heavier and heavier with each sidestep forward. And he was aware of a growing unease within himself.
Suddenly Ty the Parson burst free of the forest, stopped to face the narrow bank of a second river, and he was almost pushed into its rushing waters by those behind him. Once the Party came to a complete stumbling, bumping-into-each-other halt, they followed the Parson out of the forest and onto the bank, forming a line along the water’s edge.
To a man, and woman, they looked at the swift, deep current and remembered what happened the last time they tried to cross a river. They looked from Ty the Parson and Shing to Marcol, who had successfully got them across.