So while returning to his humdrum life at home was on his mind, he thought of one other thing, too. Where would this leg of the journey end? Tired though he was, the idea of spending the night on the cold, hard ground did not appeal to him much. A nice night in a bed in a hotel room sounded better, but at this late hour he wondered if that was possible.
When they burst out of the forest they stopped, eyes turned westward. The sun had begun its dip beyond the horizon. Their eyes turned back to the plain they crossed yesterday afternoon and into the night, aided by Rae’s glowing staff. Well, they would not have the aid of that glowing staff this night, but the comforting thought of sleeping in a cozy bed at Talbortale’s hotel made the idea of crossing the plain in the dark of night sound not so bad.
They started off at a fair clip, thoughts of sleeping a night indoors dancing in their heads. On, they went, on and on despite their weariness. All the while they glanced at the sun which set more and more with each step they took…. Thoughts of partaking in a cooked meal before settling down in a cozy bed for the night added endurance to their weary limbs.
Night consumed them, but it was not as total as the night before. Clear skies allowed a full moon and surrounding stars to offer some relief to the darkness. They were thankful for that—and more. In the distance flickered a light they assumed must be a torch outside Talbortale’s Hotel.
With that light for guidance they had something more to keep their minds off their aches and pains.
Upon reaching Eltrondale Road they stumbled to a stop brought on by Orlon’s outcry.
"Hey," he voiced his astonishment of seeing the sea of armor was gone, and he asked, "What happened to all that armor?"
Tarl looked up and down the road, twice, just as astonished by the absence of armor as his best friend. The Party, however, looked from the road to Orlon and back again, smiling at the Midget’s naivety.
"No doubt it’s all back on the yellow striped backs of the Whelps," Grash said with a dismissive sniff and twirl of a mustache end.
"Huh?" Orlon and Tarl looked at him questioningly.
"Once they feel the threat is over after a confrontation," Shing quickly stepped in to explain without derision, "they return to reclaim their armor—" he cast a slant eye on Tarl "—or at least what has not been stolen of it. Cowards they are, and the armor and weapons they wear to mask that fact are very important to them. Be it minutes, hours or days later they will always recover their property. They cannot live without it."
Before Orlon could inquire further on the subject Ty the Parson shot across the road and down the gravel path to the hotel door, by which a flickering torch was ensconced. They hurried after him to and through the door, where they came to a halt. The big room was well lighted—and devoid of people. Their eyes went from the five chairs in the room’s center to the counter to the left, upon which sat a bell with a sign behind it that read: "Ring for Service".
The Party moved to the counter as a block, and Ty the Parson rang the bell. Instantly, the door behind the counter opened just enough to allow a head wearing a bright red nightcap through. And they recognized the big green eyed, hook nosed, thin lipped face as the man they met outside the hotel yesterday.
Brow furrowed, the man looked at them with sleepy eyes a moment before the thought "Customers!" popped into his head. "Room for you ge—" he started, then crinkled his nose as he took in their slimy, urine stained state, concluding with a disgusted expression, "—nts?"
All but Tarl blushed with the realization for the man’s reaction to them. Tarl simply smiled with thanks for his unexpected dip in the river.
"Yes," Shing stepped up to answer the question.
"And perhaps a bath and clothes cleaning as well?" he suggested, stepping through the door to reveal his bright red night shirt and slippers.
"Yes," Shing said.
"And a meal," Orlon put in, adding when the man looked at him, "Uh, if it’s not too late…?"
"No," he stepped up to the counter. "No, no, no, no, no. It’s never too late at Talbortale’s Hotel. We are here to serve the weary traveler no matter how late the hour. I’ll wake Mother to warm up the stove, my sisters to warm up some bath water.
"But first things first. How many rooms, sir?"
Shing took a head count and said, "Six."
"Six it is," the man said, producing six numbered keys from beneath the counter, but before handing them over, asked, "And your means of payment?"
Ty the Parson raised a finger to draw the man’s attention, then performed an elaborate arm gesture, as he had whenever Marcol’s services were required, and…nothing dropped into his hand. He frowned. Once again he performed the gesture. Same result. His frown deepened, and he looked at his sleeve. A third time the elaborate gesture brought the same negative result. Baffled, he looked at the man and shrugged, turned and shrugged to his fellow travelers.
"I’ll pay," Tarl said, stepping up to the counter and pulling his hefty money pouch from a pocket.
Orlon gave him a double-take. He could not believe his ears, could not remember his best friend being so generous—ever.
In fact, Tarl could not believe his own ears. What had brought this sudden surge of generosity upon him was a mystery. Never pay if a sucker can be found to foot the bill had been his motto—right up to this very moment. And seeing the man eye his money pouch hungrily made him hesitate for a split second before shrugging off his worry over the expenditure. He would recoup the cost soon enough. How exactly he did not know, but he felt certain he would.
"So," he said, opening his pouch. "What’s the damage?"
"Let’s see," the man said, eyes to the heavens, tapping his right index finger on his left index finger. "That’s six rooms, six baths, six meals, and I’m sure you’ll want breakfast as well, which makes it… Oh, let’s call it eight gold coins even."
"Sounds fair," Tarl said.
He counted eight gold coins from the pouch, gave them to the man, who dipped behind the counter and after a soft clink-clank, came up, smiling.
"If you gentlemen will go to your rooms," he passed out the keys, "undress—there are robes available—and get yourselves settled in, someone will be up shortly to collect your clothing to be washed and escort you to the baths. By the time you are nice and clean, your meals will be ready, and then it’s off to bed with you."
With nods of thanks, the Party headed up the steep stairway to the second floor.
Orlon lay in bed fast asleep. The kind of sleep brought on by a warm bath, warm meal and the warmth of a blanket on a cozy, despite a lump or two, hotel bed. Oh, he had had spits and spurts of troubled sleep caused by dreams of his ordeal in the volcanic mountain, and mournful tosses and turns with dreams of his lost self proclaimed protector. The latter were the worse for him, especially memory of her fall…
"Sharna," he had called softly into the night. "Sharna, no."
But those troubled and mournful periods were eventually overrun by his utter weariness, sending him into his present state of slumber. What gave his weariness the strength to do so was his deep desire to awaken in the morning fully rested for the journey home, as well as to have clear, alert eyes to witness any results of his deed to save the world done. Surely after a day there would be some sign of the good deed somewhere.
To his ear came a tapping, a rap, rap, rapping on his chamber door. He tightened his eyelids, not wanting to acknowledge it. Tap, tap, tap, it came a second time with urgency, rap, rap, rap. With a roll onto his other side he tried to drive away this interruption to his sleep, and he might have been successful, too, if between the tapping and rap, rap, rapping he had not heard: