"Ha ha," Marcol bellowed in triumph, hitting the floor beyond in a roll that brought him to his feet. He bound forward, casting aside the door, shortsword held high, ready to strike death—and he froze.
A cute, tow-headed boy of no more than six years old lay on the sofa, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. He was dressed in rags that looked once to be nice clothes, a handkerchief, obviously a gag, tied around his head, worked down to his chin. Gnawed through ropes encircled his wrists and a rope encircled one ankle, a length trailing from it off onto the floor. The scene held for a minute…two before the boy half smiled, half frowned and said:
"I am Richtichtiare."
Marcol blinked, and all his intensity and grimness and triumph evaporated. Lowering his shortsword, he took in a deep breath, let it seep out.
"I," he finally got out after a half dozen jaw wags, "am sorry."
"Yes, you are."
Marcol gave the boy a double-take.
Ty the Parson, the Party, the Midgets and the servant gave the boy a double-take.
"The name fits," Richtichtiare stood and looked the mercenary up and down. "I’m just glad I wasn’t responsible for your mother’s pregnancy—at least in your case." He wiped his brow, looked him up and down once more. "Of course, I am sure you and your father were close—" he grabbed his butt with both hands "— real close, if you know what I mean."
And thus began an endless stream of insults and innuendoes cast upon the mercenary by the boy.
"Shut up, "Marcol screamed to no avail.
Tarl tugged on Orlon’s coat sleeve, not taking his eyes off the boy. "You don’t think he’s a Winslo, do you?" he said.
"He’s awful young to be a Winslo," Orlon replied, eyeing the boy curiously. "The Winslos were amongst the settlers of Dwarf Road and that happened a long time ago. If he was a Winslo he would have to be ancient, I’d think… What I would like to know is why anyone would tie him up and leave him in an abandoned building like that."
"Just listen to him," Sharna cut into their conversation. "He’s a loudmouthed brat. Just imagine having to listen to that day in and day out. If I had to, I’d have tied him up and left him, too. Wouldn’t you?"
"I would," Tarl quickly agreed with her.
Orlon frowned at his best friend and guardian, and said, "But he’s just a child…and he can’t keep that up forever. I mean, surely he’s got to stop sometime."
"Don’t bet on it," Sharna said.
"What do you mean?" Orlon said, utterly confused.
"What I mean is that is not a child," she said. "He’s a Grumpling, and Grumplings never shut up once you get them started."
"A Grumpling," the two Midgets said in unison. "What is that?"
"They were a pesky people who roamed the world years—ages ago," she said. "Legend has it they would latch on to any unsuspecting person who showed them the slightest kindness, or as in this case, ran into them in some untoward way and apologized, and follow that person, degrading them every minute of all the days thereafter. Never letting up, never giving quarter, never shutting up. Many times these…pests would drive a person—victim to the brink, to suicide.
"Legend has it the people eventually rose up to stop them, forming Death Parties to hunt them down wherever they might be. Never letting up, never giving quarter, never showing mercy." She watched the boy circling the mercenary, endlessly cutting him down, and sighed. "Obviously the belief the Grumplings had been totally eradicated was untrue, as we now bear witness."
"But if Grumblings are of legend and legends are old," Orlon said, bringing a finger to his chin, "then why is he a boy and not an old man?"
"He is a boy because Grumblings are boys," she said and as he opened his mouth to question this statement, quickly added, "They never grow up physically, or mentally for that matter. Oh, they can appear to be six years old, seven years old, an eight-, nine-, or ten-year-old, but they are forever boys… They simply are what they are."
"And what they are is something I hoped never to see again," Grash cut in. "The world was a far better place, better populated as well, when those little fiends were dealt with." He took the stance of a man ready to orate, one hand fisted on hip, the other twirling an end of his handlebar mustache. "Ah, I remember those days well. I, a young soldier in training, being assigned to one of the clean-up squads formed after the main work of the Death Parties had come to a close. They had done a good job, those Death Parties, but there were still a few—"
"The river escapes through tiny fissures in dams that have restrained its flow for time untold! We must escape this delay. Our journey must continue."
With that, Ty the Parson started down the road once more, followed by most of the Party.
Grash stood his ground, nonplussed at the interruption to his narrative, something he clearly liked giving whenever possible. Then he realized something else he liked was leaving him behind. The Party was walking away without his leadership at its head. That just would not do. He cleared his throat, adjusted his swords and, for a man of his age, took off at a swift clip to retake his "proper position" amongst them.
Orlon did not appreciate the interruption of Grash’s story one bit, too. There was nothing more thrilling to him than hearing an adventure of a character in his book told by that character… It was Sharna’s gentle push that sent him, with her close behind, after his fellow journeymen.
Close on their heels came Tarl, followed by Jujay. The former was glad to see the trip start again, as it was now taking him beyond the farm community’s boundary for the first time ever, and the latter was simply thankful to be moving again. If they would have remained stationary one minute longer, the servant was certain he would have collapsed under the weight of his burden.
Marcol slammed his shortsword back into its scabbard, planted his hands over his ears and stomped across the thorny weed filled lawn, Richtichtiare hot on his heels.
"Ooh, look out, ladies," the Grumpling said, hands on cheeks. "Just look at the swivel of those hips, will you. He’s definitely competition to catch a man’s eye, he is," he grabbed his butt with both hands, "and other things, if you get my meaning."
While Ty the Parson’s hurried pace through the farm community had been of little concern, his swiftness beyond it was much appreciated by Orlon, and Tarl. Dark Forest bordered the south side of Dwarf Road to its turn north and along its west side a fair piece up from there. The forest’s true evil, learned from rumors and stories, all fortified by the mysterious disappearance of the Winslos, had become "legend."
The Buyer—travelers, in general, were always seen to hug the north side of the road until entering the community. A fact that explained why Orlon worked his way around to walk on Sharna’s right ride and Tarl abandoned his desire to be near her, slipping nonchalantly around to walk on his best friend’s right side. Both felt safer with her between them and the forest. Though she did not care a bit about Tarl, she was glad to see Orlon wished her to provide protection for him.
Orlon eyed the Party curiously. To a man, they walked straight down the middle of the road, acting as if they did not have a care in the world. Yet it was plainly obvious to him they kept a wary eye on the forest. What else would explain the slight turn of their heads to the south every couple of steps?
Just as they rounded the turn north a firm feminine hand on his shoulder brought Orlon to a halt, oblivious of Tarl’s stumbling stop a couple of steps ahead.
Brow furrowed, Orlon looked from the stopped Party to Sharna and back again. This sudden stop set his nape hairs on end, drew his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to stop them, to the forest. Its surrounding trees were so tightly bunched together, their limbs intertwined yet not one hanging over the road, they made a glimpse within impossible, nor could any sound from within escape them. He scratched his head. With no evident danger coming from the forest, or, to be totally honest, no visible way for danger to come from it, he was left to wonder why…