"Telluspett," Marcol called, shaking the coil of rope from a shoulder.
"Yeah?" the Dork said, carefully making his way down the line to him.
"Cross the river," he gave him a rope end, "and tie this to a tree."
With a smile and nod, Telluspett started across this river as he did the last. On his second step he disappeared into the river’s depths and was swept westward by its rapid current. The rope was yanked coil by coil from the mercenary’s hand… The Dork surfaced several yards downstream, dogpaddling frantically but being swept away by the current nonetheless.
"Hang on," Marcol screamed and started reeling in the rope. "Hang…on."
Telluspett frowned at the yelled command, then, feeling the tug on the rope, understood the command only as a Dork could. He smiled, waved the rope end and let it go, and was swept away.
"Great," Tarl said, hands flung into the air. "Just great. Now what’re we going to do?"
Orlon gave his best friend a double-take. The very thought of Tarl Bimbo being upset over the obstruction of a way leading to danger was inconceivable to him. He wondered when and how Tarl had grown a backbone, which made him think of the sword—"Wasp," he had named it—he now wore at his hip. Yes, he wondered about that…
"The false start is repeated! Shing, fell a tree to form a bridge," Ty the Parson said, arms and legs flailing.
With a nod, the Oriental Ranger drew his magnificent blade and looked for a twin to the tree he chopped down to bridge the first river. It stood not five paces from him. Six swift strokes of the keen blade set the tree to swaying, a seventh sent it falling over the river, its top crashing through the tree line of the opposite bank and…nothing! Everyone looked from the newly formed tree bridge to the rushing waters and back again and back again and back again, waiting for…nothing.
"We cross," Ty the Parson stated flatly—and he did so.
In single file the Party followed, step by cautious step, eyes ever darting to the rapid current around them, unable to subdue the fear some monstrosity lurked within those depths, waiting to spring forth and devour them. But no such monster interrupted their progress and soon enough they stood safely on the other bank, facing more forest to trek through.
And looming above it all was the volcanic mountain.
XIII. Eunuchs
The forest was not as thick on this side of the river, promising easy access and advancement without a path. Yet there was a path nearby. It was not small like the one they had sidestepped along earlier. No. This path offered wide and easy access, its way through the trees not crooked or overly weaving. No, again. It looked comfortable—welcoming but for one thing: its final destination. The volcanic mountain ominously awaited them in the distance.
Sight of the mountain made the Party uneasy. And no one was more uneasy than Orlon, his eyes captured by the sight of it. Into his mind returned the comparison of what they now faced to the Dark Mountain. The volcanic mountain looked menacing in no way, as it might have with signs of life, the threat of eruption, yet there was something troubling about it…. The weight of the Holy Pike made his arm tremble. He gulped.
Tarl stood by him, looking from the volcanic mountain to his best friend and back again and back again. When he spotted and followed a drop of sweat make its way down the side of Orlon’s face, he smiled, for one second. The unease he felt deep down began to surface, and with his eyes on their destination, he let a hand rest on the hilt of his shortsword. He gulped.
Without a word, Ty the Parson started down the path before them, staff pointing the way. Shing followed, as did Grash, the path’s width allowing them to walk shoulder to shoulder. The rest followed, as always with Tarl at the rear, Sharna and Orlon close behind him.
Keeping up a brisk pace not only strained the Midgets' endurance but step by step led them from a healthy forest to a sickly forest. All around them the trees grew thinner, shorter, less robust, with pale leafage where leafage could be found. Then they burst free of the forest and started across a field of brittle grass, which soon gave way to a rocky stretch, where Ty the Parson led them up a porous pathway that weaved its way to the mountain’s sheer wall, ending at a steaming hole in the mountainside.
But no one showed any concern about the pathway’s origin, their attention on the volcanic mountain wall. The Party eyed the wall surface in search of access to climb it.
Orlon and Tarl, on the other hand, looked at the obstacle before them with wide eyes. Both could make out plenty of jutting rocks, cracks and ledges to make the climb possible, even for people of their short stature—and they saw the incredible height they must climb to reach the mountaintop. They looked at each other and back at the mountainside.
Tarl was a little awed by the thought of making such a climb. As a child he had done plenty of climbing wherever it was possible on Dwarf Road, but climbing to a rooftop, be it house or barn, or to a treetop was one thing. Climbing to a mountaintop was another. With a sniff, he hitched his girdle and told himself this was nothing more than another thing they must overcome on their journey. He was determined to see it through, if for no other reason than to see what was up there.
Orlon, however, was totally awed by the thought of making this climb. Oh, he had been on a number of his best friend’s climbing jaunts, but he was never comfortable with heights, which earned him a taunt or two or three or… He brushed aside such thoughts, focusing on the enormity of the climb before him now and the fact he had no choice but to make it. A shiver danced up his spine, and he feared he just could not do it.
Then he felt the weight of the Holy Pike, held carefully in hand, and remembered his obligation to Ty the Parson and the others, which meant he must make this climb. The fate of the world was on his shoulders! He gulped. But what if he fell? Or during the ascent lost his grip on the weapon needed to complete his task?
"We cannot risk the life of the One on such a dangerous climb," Grash said with a twist of an end of his handlebar mustache. "Marcol, Tarftenrott—" he waved a finger at the two offhandedly "—carry Orlon the Pure."
Marcol held out a hand, palm up. When no pouch of gold was produced and placed in it, he simply looked away as if unaware anything was said.
"N-nu -n-nu-not m-m-mu-m-me," Tarftenrott half flexed a scrawny looking arm. "I-I’m t-t-tu-too wu-w-wu-weak."
"I will carry—" Sharna spoke up.
"No," Orlon cut her off.
She shot him a hurt look, and he felt a flush of guilt crawl up his cheeks, as well as a pang in his heart. How could he explain to her his concern over her coming in contact with the pike—his fear she would suffer the same fiery demise as the Campfire Girl? He brought a finger to his chin. How could he explain to himself why he felt that way?
"I will carry the One," Shing said and knelt before the Midget.
Orlon mounted his back, wrapping an arm about his neck and legs about waist, careful to keep the Holy Pike from touching the Oriental Ranger.
Shing rose to his feet easily and began the ascent of the sheer wall of the volcanic mountain. Due to the need to locate good hand- and foot-holds, progress was not only slow but led to swings this way and that so wild at times Orlon’s heart was in his throat. He dared one look down, seeing Tarl start up after them, followed closely by Sharna, the rest starting up to the left and right, before a swing spanning a dizzying distance to reach a narrow ledge closed his eyes tightly.
With his eyes closed, his sense of hearing was enhanced, and the first thing he heard was a rumbling he, at first, thought came from his stomach. A slight trembling felt through Shing’s rock solid muscles, which had to come from the volcano, told him it was not as dead as it appeared. That realization filled him with panic they might be washed away by erupting molten rock. His grip on Shing tightened, and he breathed deeply in an attempt to waylay that panic. He quietly told himself repeatedly they would reach the mountaintop safely…