In the glow of the doorway the Party could see Ty the Parson was considering…something. The warriors fidgeted, mainly in the form of fingers flexing on sword hilts, with the uncertainty of what the Parson had seen. Those not of warrior stock, but for Tarl, who found himself flexing his pudgy fingers on the hilt of "Wasp," reaction to the stressful situation came in the form of sweat beading on foreheads.
What the Parson did next set each and every one of them back a step.
"Hiho," he leaped into the doorway, staff held high, other arm thrust forward, finger stabbing at the guard. "Let us pass."
Red orbs shrunk to slits, the guard looked him up and down, and his sneer broadened. He lowered his arms, crossed over his torso, thickly corded hands wrapped around the silver hilts, and he shook his head.
A smile played at Ty the Parson’s lips.
His eyes shifted to the left, then right.
A faint giggle escaped his quivering lips.
He reversed his leap.
A flashy move of his arm produced a pouch of gold from his baggy sleeve which he held up, dropped. Marcol soundlessly caught it and in a flashy move of his own spirited away the pouch somewhere upon his person. A tug led to Grash releasing his hand, allowing the mercenary to step by the Parson and into the doorway.
There Marcol remained for only the amount of time it took him to take in what he was paid to deal with. And the time it took was no more than a minute. From the half smile that creased his face, the slight shack of his head, he was not impressed by what he saw. If those watching him had seen what he saw—a huge, hairy guard in loincloth, who met the mercenary eyes to eye, sneer broadening even more, hands flexing on the silver hilts of broadswords—they would have thought him mad for such a reaction.
Marcol reached up, flipped his ponytail over a shoulder. Before it landed, he launched himself at the guard, shortsword raised. The guard brought his broadswords forth with blinding speed and awaited the mercenary to span the long cave. When the time came he met him with a cross-swing of his blades. One caught him under the arms, the other at the waist. In a spray of blood, entrails and gold coins, Marcol flew in three directions.
Reaction to the slicing, splattering and tinkling noises from those in the dark tunnel was soundless. To a man, and woman, they cringed.
"Ha!" burst from the guard’s lips.
Ty the Parson looked through the doorway—and his eyes bulged. The guard was charging across the cave, broadswords at the ready. But before the Parson could give warning of approaching danger, Majestus Sinobe leapt by him and into the cave. Landing in a wide-legged stance, dark blue coat swirling about him, he shot his arms up, wrists bent, fingers crookedly pointing.
"Ball rise!" he commanded.
A sizeable rock shot straight up into the air before the guard, and his red orbs followed it, but he did not slow his pace. When he stepped under it, head tilted, still looking at it, the rock dropped, smashing his face flat. With his next step he came crashing down, dead.
The sound of his collapse brought everyone in the dark tunnel to the doorway in search of an explanation. With an arrogant sniff, Majestus Sinobe turned to accept their applause… What he got was ignored. They looked at the dead guard, then what lay beyond. With a signal from Ty the Parson they walked by the man in tattered clothes, edged around the dead guard and continued on to the door the guard had protected.
Majestus Sinobe was crestfallen at their lack of recognition of his deed, momentarily. He hurried after them.
Crowded around the door, they were drawn to look at the three faces carved above it. Anger, fear and sorrow stared back at them, and to a man, and woman, they felt a chill run up their spines. And they brought their attention to the door. It was made of solid oak, an iron ring in its center serving as handle, but there would be no opening it with that. A chain looped through it and an iron ring secured to the wall, and a big padlock held the chain together.
They looked to Ty the Parson, who shrugged, and all turned their gaze to Majestus Sinobe. The man in tattered clothes looked away, hands stuffed in pockets, whistling.
Shing stepped forward and knelt to examine the lock. He drew his dagger and carefully jabbed it into the keyhole, worked it up and down, this way and that. The end result: it remained locked. Brow furrowed, the Oriental Ranger sheathed his dagger, brought himself to his feet and drew his magnificent broadsword. Taking aim by placing the blade edge on the lock, he then swung the broadsword over his head—only to be stopped by a long fingered hand on his shoulder.
"The bite snake rattles its tail before striking! The thief walks on eggshells! Noise will warn he whom we seek to stop. Silence is preferred," Ty the Parson breathed.
Orlon and Tarl thought of the battle with the Eunuchs and the guard, and wondered if it was too late to worry about that now…
With a half smile, Shing shook off the Parson’s hand, brought his blade down on the padlock—Tink!—and right through it. The chain fell away to hang from the ring on the wall. He sheathed his broadsword and reached for the ring to open the door—only to be stopped by a long fingered hand on his shoulder.
"The spy desires to be unseen! The glow-tail poison bug alerts potential victims! We must not allow any warning. I, Ty, the Parson, will extinguish any concerns about that," Ty the Parson said.
He went to the candle and blew it out. The flame burst back into life. He blew it out again. The flame bust back into life again. A third time he blew it out only to have the flame return. After a moment of thought, he performed a flamboyant arm gesture, caught the dirty rag that fell from his baggy sleeve. This he draped over the candle. Darkness! And in that darkness he made his way back to the door, taking the ring handle from Shing, who stepped aside.
A soft creak told of the Parson’s pulling the door open, as did a cold breeze that whipped through their hair and chilled them to the bone. Beyond the door was a long hallway that ended at a wall on which was ensconced a flickering torch. They entered in single file, led by Ty the Parson, his staff tip scraping along the wall as a guide…. Though they walked toward it, the torch remained the same distance from them.
His staff slid smoothly along the wall for thirty steps, then dripped into and out of a narrow crevice, stopping him, and those behind him with minimal bumping into each other. He investigated the crevice up and down, three feet forward and up and down. It was a door.
XIV. Tibtarnitallimardarian
Once he identified the door, Ty the Parson sought its handle. This he found in the form of an iron ring in its center. He gently pulled it. The door did not budge. He pulled it again. The door did not budge. He yanked, he jerked, he pulled with all of his might, and the door did not budge…. He gently pushed the door and it opened a crack, emitting a thin line of crimson light that shot across the hall, a wisp of vapor that snaked its way toward the ceiling.
He peeked through the crack, his face twisted in fear, then joy. Cautiously, he eased the door closed. His joyous expression grew serious.
"The child in the womb! He is there," Ty the Parson whispered over his shoulder, arms and legs twitching.
Hearing this sent a wave of nervous tension through the Party, but no one’s wave was bigger than Orlon’s. He grew stiff as a board, swayed, eyes wide, jaw slack, hand carefully holding the Holy Pike sweaty palmed. Fear of dropping the precious item forced him to take hold of it with his other hand.