Quickly as the image popped into their minds, it popped out. All they were concerned with at this point was getting out of the mountain.
Reaching the pit’s rim gave them a great sense of relief. They basked in the sunlight, breathed deeply of the fresh air, tainted though it was by the stink of their slimy, urine soaked clothing. They were simply overjoyed by what freshness they could get out of it.
Orlon made a point of looking about, turning around once, twice, and what he discovered was—an ordinary, everyday evening. His shoulders slumped, the brightness of expectation left his face shadowed in disappointment. With a sigh, he brushed off his disappointment at finding nothing spectacular to represent his world saving deed and took account of the day itself. The sun hovered over the western horizon, setting its uneven surface aglow in crimson… All he knew was he wanted to get as far away from the volcanic mountain as he could before night fell.
"We had better get moving, don’t you think?" Shing said.
The statement sent a jolt through Orlon. In order to "get moving," they would have to climb down the mountainside he had been carried up by the Oriental Ranger. He looked at him, aware of his burden—Expendendale—which ruled out a repeat of his assistance. His eyes drifted to Grash, too old, then Tarftenrott, who proclaimed himself too weak for the task earlier.
Into his mind appeared the image of the one person he had denied the chance to carry him up the sheer wall, Sharna. For reasons beyond him, he had feared her coming in contact with the Holy Pike. Well, he did not have the weapon now, and he did not have his self proclaimed protector either. With the latter thought he felt strangely listless, not really caring whether he made it safely off the mountain or not.
"Looks like the almighty One is all on his own this time," Tarl said, a giggle in his voice, as he stepped by him to join the others who had started the descent. Just before his head dipped below the rim, he paused to say, "Get a move on, buddy."
Orlon took in a deep breath, held it a moment before letting it out in a whoosh. A corner of his mouth twitched up with memory of an old quote: "My, how the mighty have fallen." His best friend had been right about him being on his own now. Once the deed was done, the quest concluded, the One became no more than Orlon…the Pure. He sighed. Well, if he was on his own, so be it.
He gulped and stepped up to the rim’s edge, looked down. His blue eyes went from Tarl, just feet below him, to those beyond, and grew wider and wider as they continued to the ground far, far below. He would have jumped back, startled, if not for memory of the pit behind him, knowing no one was there to catch him this time. Instead, he froze in place, and he knew that would not do. What he needed to do was break the ice that gripped him—and fast.
If not, the Party would leave him behind.
To break the freeze, he took several rapid breaths, worked his hands into shaking, a shaking that worked up his arms, engulfed his entire body. It stopped. Eyes closed, he told himself he could do this, ignored the quivering of his inner voice.
When he opened his eyes he felt…a little less unnerved about the climb before him. The first thing he did was sit on the rim’s edge, feet dangling, heart in throat. No matter how hard he swallowed he could not get it back into his chest where it belonged. He swung himself around and off the edge, hanging by his hands, feet seeking purchase. Once found in the form of a jutting rock and narrow creased, his descent began.
Hand- and foothold to hand- and foothold he crept down the mountainside.
More and more he precariously paused to wipe off sweaty palms.
All the while he kept his eyes on the sheer wall before him.
All the while he told himself with each hand- and foothold the lower he got.
All he desired was to feel solid ground beneath his feet once more.
Suddenly the Midget found no catch for his feet, no matter how he stretched his less than four feet frame in search. There simply was nothing for either foot to rest upon. His palms grew even more sweaty, and he feared he would fall. One foot recaptured its earlier purchase, giving him a moment’s sense of relief. Fear took that relief away with the realization he must look down if he ever hoped to reach the bottom. He did—and found he was only five feet off the ground.
A giggle drew his eyes to Tarl Bimbo, standing before the Party, arms crossed over chest, head shaking, a sneer accompanying his giggle. The others simply watched him.
Orlon’s cheeks reddened, a nervous giggle escaped his tense lips. Releasing his hold allowed him to drop to the ground. A blessed feeling swept over him. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his coat, took in a few breaths and composed himself before turning to face his best friend and the Party, smiling amiably.
Tarl gave him a wink and a thumbs-up, but Orlon could see the sarcasm behind his "good job" gesture…. The roll of his eyes was pre-empted by Ty the Parson, who, now that all were safely on solid ground, spun and sped down the porous pathway they had followed to reach the mountain. The Party turned their heads to watch him hurrying away.
In quick order, they took off after him, Tarl giving his best friend a shrug before following. Not wanting to be left behind, Orlon took off after them, and tired though his legs were, he caught up to them quickly, falling in step behind Tarl.
From porous path to rocky stretch to field of brittle grass, they went, and on into sickly forest, into healthy forest. Each stage of growing life in nature symbolized the distances they were attaining from vanquished Tibtarnitallimardarian’s lair and whatever evil…essence Ty the Parson proclaimed remained, yet that did not ease their frayed nerves one bit. Along with their worries about what lay behind them were concerns over what lay ahead. Would their avenue—the tree felled by Shing—across the river still be there?
They hurried down the wide, welcoming path through the forest, ears cocked, eyes eagerly looking ahead. Soon they heard and saw the rushing waters of the river beyond the path’s wide, welcoming entrance. This put more speed into their advancement, at a cost of pain in their aching legs, but none minded the price. To a man, they wanted not only to see if the felled tree remained, but to get across the river no matter how they had to accomplish it.
Upon reaching the path’s entrance, they lined up on the bank, and they breathed a sigh of relief. The felled tree still bridged the river. Staff pointing, Ty the Parson went to and crossed the tree bridge. The Party followed, with Tarl then Orlon bringing up the rear as usual… Orlon could not help but look at the water passing beneath the felled tree. What he saw stopped him, brought on a double-take. Just below the rushing water’s surface was the river’s pebble strewn bottom.
He looked from it to those ahead and back again, and back again! The fact his fellow travelers were leaving him behind far outweighed his startlement over seeing the river’s bottom. He hurried after them, and when he stepped onto the narrow bank, he looked back to see the river’s waters running swift, running deep. But there was no time for him to contemplate or question this mystery.
Ty the Parson led them swiftly to and along the narrow path through the forest on this side of the river. Sidestepping though they must, they moved quickly along its weaving way. Yet there was hesitation in their step, all remembering where the path led them, what had happened there. And there was no one more affected by the memory than Tarftenrott, the only living member of the Party who had been involved in the act of horror.