They spun on their heels and, tossing aside their now useless crossbows, hurried down the path. Franks pleas for death were soon lost in the forest’s roars, growls, howls and snarls.
Despite his physical strain, Orlon wished they would pick up the pace even more. He wanted out of this forest. The rumors, tales, legends of Dark Forest he heard in his youth were upper most in his mind, along with the thought he had witnessed the truth of those rumors, tales, legends. True, he had only seen one monster and presumably heard another, but that was enough, considering all the suffering and death they had been through on this journey.
He simply wanted out of this place before he witnessed any more.
And his mind turned back to the last suffering he witnessed, which made him shudder and swallow back bile. The image of Frank laying there in his own filth filled his mind, and he heard the poor man’s pleas for death. Chitintiare and Telluspett had agreed to oblige his request—and they left them behind to do so. They left them behind in this forest of horror! That had been—what?—five looping turns ago. He wondered if they would ever see the Dorks again. He kept glancing back in hopes of seeing them scurrying up the path to rejoin them.
During a look back he felt Sharna’s hand grip his shoulder, stopping him in mid stride. He shot a questioning look her way, then looked ahead to discover he was one step away from bumping into Tarl and Mishto, who had been stopped by those ahead. He frowned at this unexpected slowdown, leaned around his best friend to learn what caused it. The path had taken a sharp turn west, and for some reason those ahead were slow in following it.
Those ahead disappeared around the turn one by one, and step by step Orlon wondered more and more what caused this slowdown. The last time the path had taken a sharp turn it led to the south and north looping way, so he wondered if this turn meant they had reached the forest’s other side. If that was true, why did they slow down rather than speed up to get out of here?
For what seemed an eternity he trudged forward one step at a time before finally reaching the turn, and when he rounded it two things happened: he could not believe his eyes and, again, Sharna caught him by the shoulder to stop him. The Party stood on the edge of a clearing, backs to the thorny bushes that bordered the inward side, and in the tree walled outer side was the forest’s exit, like the entrance formed by a curious twist in two tree trunks. Beyond it was a sunny day.
That they reached the exit filled Orlon with glee, and what he saw next to it answered his question about what had slowed them down. Next to the gleaming split between trees was a man who captured his attention so thoroughly he did not even notice Chitintiare and Telluspett stumble into the clearing behind him.
The man leaned against a tree, well muscled arms crossed over barrel chest, well muscled legs stretched out, one foot over the other. He wore a sleeveless, brass colored mess shirt, mid length brass colored breeches and high strap sandals. About his trim waist was a gray girdle from which hung a scabbardless broadsword. It was a well cared for weapon, its fanciful hilt wrapped with a sweat cloth, its solid gold quillon shaped like eagles wings that curved toward the magnificent blade.
But it was not the man’s incredible weapon that had captured Orlon’s attention. It was the jet black of his shoulder length hair, the yellowish tint of his skin. The Midget had never seen anyone like him before. He could not help but wonder who this man was…
"Slit-eyes," Marcol breathed, clasping a hand roughly over Richtichtiare’s mouth.
Orlon frowned at the mercenary, doubting that was the man’s proper name.
"Shing," Ty the Parson said.
Orlon looked at the Parson, smiled, thankful someone knew the man’s name.
Ty the Parson quick-stepped across the clearing, the man brought himself to his feet with an elbow shove to the tree, and they talked quietly together.
No one watched them more closely than Orlon. Try as he might, he could not hear a word between them, which struck him as odd. Despite the forest’s ear-splitting roars, howls, growls and snarls, he had been able to hear everything said since they entered Dark Forest. Then there was the fact the more he looked at the newcomer the more he felt he knew him from somewhere…. He had it! Just before Tarl rudely interrupted his reading the fateful night Ty the Parson arrived he was reading about a man—just like this man.
"Hm," he brought a finger to chin, eyes staring back in time.
If memory served him, the man in his book was referred to as an Oriental Ranger. Few still existed, he remembered the book saying, and their origin was unknown beyond they came from somewhere in the East. An Oriental Ranger was said to be strong, battle trained and honest. And like a Parson, they were known to simple appear when needed… That was about as far as he read, and now he wished he had been able to read more.
He focused on the man’s face in hopes of judging his character. The man’s square jawed face was smooth skinned, had high cheekbones, a small, wide, rounded nose and small, nearly full lipped mouth. His eyes were black orbs pressed into narrow oval slits, topped by straight, thin eyebrows. All in all, he judged that face to be open and honest, and handsome as well.
A lustful sigh brought his eyes to Sharna. She rocked on her heels, fingers of one hand at her smiling mouth, a finger of the other twirling a stand of her hair, eyes locked on the newcomer. Never before had she looked so seductive, if that was possible, never before had the wanting in her eyes been so intense, never before had her attention been total on someone other than him. He looked from her to him and back again. A frown darkened his face.
"Small mouse! Innocent lamb! Orlon, come."
A snicker rolled Orlon’s eyes to land on Tarl, smiling a smile he knew well—and never liked. "He called you innocent lamb," Tarl mouthed, snickering again… His eyes jumped beyond Orlon, went wide, and he ducked behind Mishto. Orlon looked from him to Sharna and for a split second he caught an expression, a sharp glint in her eyes that set his nape hairs on end. When her eyes lowered to him the glint was gone, a smile brightened her face.
"Come on, Orlon," she said, letting her eyes fall on Tarl again briefly.
They crossed the clearing side by side, he being bumped by her swaying hips. But before he could respond to that they came to a stop before Ty the Parson and the newcomer. He met the latter eye to eye, and in those dark orbs he read intellect, a universe of life experiences and…something that told him this man could be trusted.
"I am Orlon," he proffered a hand.
"The Pure," the newcomer shook his hand, "the One…savior of our world, I know." He brought a hand to his chest, said, "I, Shing, heard the call and came to serve you."
Hearing this made him blush. "Th-thank you," he said.
"Sharna," Shing said, taking her hand and kissing it. "It has been some time."
She giggled like a child.
A frown darkened the Midget’s face.
"Shouldn’t we be off?" Shing turned to the Parson.
With a severe twitch of shoulders, Ty the Parson nodded, opened his mouth to speak…
"Yeow," Marcol wailed, slinging Richtichtiare from him. He looked from the bloody teeth marks in his palm to the Grumpling, who smiled at him with blood stained teeth. "Why you…" He drew his shortsword, swung it over his head, ready to strike.
"Wait," Shing and Grash warned.
Marcol brought his shortsword arcing down, splitting Richtichtiare in half, head to crotch. No bloody sprayed, no entrails splattered. Instead, the two halves simply fell apart, and upon inspection it was discovered there was a clear membrane holding the innards within each half. The mercenary looked from half to half, shortsword held limply in hand, wondering what was going on here. What had he just done?