"Um. Excuse me."
All eyes turned to the group of farmers who crowded behind Sleen Manibeen, who tugged at his collar. The moment held for two more collar tugs. A shove from the farmers sent him stumbling forward a step, to bring himself up to proper posture and tug at his collar yet again, stretching his neck to the left then right. He plastered a smile on his face and said:
"We have…um…enjoyed this walk down the road with you. Um. Are we going back now?"
"The river begins its long, winding overland wondering at tiny rock opening! The journey of I, Ty, the Parson, the Party and Orlon, the Pure, to vanquish the ever growing evil just begins."
They looked from him to Orlon and back again, and back again.
"No," Orlon said.
"Oh."
With that, the farmers turned and headed back to hearth and home.
"We really traveled a good distance," one farmer murmured. "If we’d have gone much further we might not have made it back before dark."
Watching the farmers leave gave Orlon and Tarl mixed feelings. Tarl was disappointed to see a sure thing at getting up a dice game walk away, and he was pleased to hear they were continuing this trip, giving him the chance to see what lie beyond the farm community…. He also had a creepy feeling this trip might actually be a quest. Orlon hated to see them go and was glad to see it as well. To have more familiar faces along than his best friend and servant had been comforting. Thought of the dangers they might have faced had they continued on this quest was troubling.
"The land, time itself ever advances with the planet’s rotation on axis! So must we."
And so the Parson and the Party and the Midgets and the servant did—for a single step. What stopped them was a loud creak from south of the road. Every eye turned to the south and all but two sets of those eyes were filled with curiosity. The two sets of eyes belonged to Orlon and Tarl, and they were filled with terror! They knew well the house—the old Winslo place—from which that creak had come, and they knew the story about it.
The Winslos were amongst the settlers who founded the farm community on Dwarf Road. They were a young couple, happy and friendly, and a bit naïve, which was said to be the reason they built their dwelling so close to Dark Forest. At the time, the forest’s true evil nature was not known, but the oddity of it was enough to make the settlers fear it. Not so the Winslos, however, who found the forest tranquil in its utter silence.
With little help from their neighbors, they built themselves a pleasant cottage, the forest bordering its west and south sides, and tilled their fields to the east. And they lived happily there, though perhaps a little lonely, for a number of years, adding three children, two boys and a girl, to their family.
Then out of the blue, just five years after their last child was born, they disappeared.
No one knew what happened to them, nor could anyone hazard a guess as to where—how they had gone. And no one dared investigate why, as they found the doors to the house bolted tight and all the windows boarded over. The mystery of it created unease amongst the people, and with that unease came the inevitable rumors. Some said they were spirited away by demons of Dark Ages long ago. Others said creatures of the forest took them…
Whatever the truth, the cottage was shunned by the community, and as the years passed, the narrative that claimed the place was haunted grew into "reality." As the years passed, the old Winslo place became a curiosity for the children of the community.
A chill snaked up Orlon’s spine with the memory of the time Tarl dared him to touch it. How though filled with the fears of a nine-year-old boy he crept across the overgrown lawn and just as he was reaching out a finger to do so he was scared witless by an eerie moaning he later suspected was of Tarl’s doing, but could never prove it. Anger over this childhood prank welled up within him, but quickly subsided when another load creak brought him back to the here and now.
Framed on two sides by Dark Forest, the cottage remained as it had been all those years ago, and all those years had taken its toll. The white walls were gray with dust, stained brown along the bottom, and the thatched roof had grayed with age, sunken in here and there. Even the chimney could not escape time and the elements, leaning awkwardly now. The boards over the windows were gray and warped, yet the windows beneath remained unbroken. The door, though its paint faded, was solid in its frame. And it was here that every eye focused.
The door jiggled, pushed out and slammed back again and again, emitting puffs of dust, but its bolt held firm. A pause followed, then the jiggling, the pushing out and slamming back was repeated with the same end result. Another pause followed before the same actions were repeated a third time to end with the same result.
Orlon stepped back and a little behind the woman who had self-proclaimed herself to be "guardian of the One." Without conscious thought, he let his hand reach up to rest on the belt about her waist. She smiled at this. Seeing his opportunity, Tarl also stepped back and a little behind her, let a quivering hand brush against the smooth bare spot of her leg between breeches and boots. She frowned at this.
"The scout ant to the unattended picnic basket! Marcol, investigate."
At this command, the short warrior with a ponytail stepped forward to stand by Ty the Parson. And for the first time Orlon took account of the man who had caused his servant such undue misery. No more than five feet six inches in height, he was compactly muscled, dressed in crimson leather vest, black leather breeches and high strap sandals, and from the girdle about his waist hung a shortsword and three daggers. The midget was not overly impressed.
Oh, there was no denying his physique and dress designated him a warrior, and the scars on his arms and face showed combat experience. Even the set expression of his face, his smoldering black eyes showed he had the intensity of a warrior. Yet Orlon did not understand why he remained by the Parson instead of following through on the command. Could he be frightened?
The answer to his question came in a simple gesture and flamboyant response. Marcol held out a hand and Ty the Parson produced a bulging money pouch the same way he had produced the burning…object he cast in the fireplace, dropping it into the waiting hand. Marcol was a mercenary!
What happened next was—magic. The mercenary brought his hand back, somehow spiriting away the money pouch, on the way to drawing his shortsword.
Crouched, shortsword at the ready, he advanced to the overgrown, weed infested lawn’s edge, eyes seeking out the easiest way across it. The dirt path that led to the front door, though so overgrown with grass and weeds it was barely discernible, was by all evidence it. He looked to the heavens, and he started down the path cautiously, keeping an eye on his objective. The door continued its jiggling and dust cloud puffing outs and ins between pauses.
Step by step thorny weeds caught at his bare flesh as if attempting to hold him back, only to be torn free, leaving behind bloody scratches. He paid it no mind. All he was concerned with was that door, what he had been paid to investigate…. His final step to reach his objective consisted of tearing free of the thorny weeds last desperate attempt to stop him. He came to a crouched stance, on the balls of his feet, before the door and looked back at the Party, a sneer on his face.
When he turned back he was met by a billowing cloud of dust. He coughed. The smoldering in his eyes intensified, his sneer grew grim. He reached up, tossed back his ponytail… Before it hit his back, he leaped feet first at the door, ripping it from its bolt and hinges. Man and door and whatever was trying to open it flew into the house, landing on a sheet covered sofa, he flying over it.