"I think I’m over it now," she said sheepishly.
"Ah, nuts!"
He ran to the forest side of the road, yanked a handkerchief from a pocket and jerked down his pants, began frantically scrubbing his loins.
"Ooh."
The high pitched squeal brought his eyes up, what he saw sent a jolt through him. He stood at the forest’s edge, its tree wall heading straight away from him, and not five feet in front of him a man no bigger than a six month old baby fluttered on yellow butterfly wings, big blue eyes looking him up and down lustily.
"Hey, fellas," the man called, thumbing at Tarl. "Here’s a guy offering it up."
Tarl looked beyond him, saw a man dressed in dust colored farm clothes laying exhausted on the ground fifteen feet away, a small plow lying nearby. Above him fluttered two small men. One had brown moth wings, the other brightly spotted butterfly wings. Both looked at Tarl.
"Ooh, Brucey," they squealed in unison. "You lucky you, you."
With a scream, Tarl dropped his handkerchief, pawed up his pants, backing away.
Brucey swooped down and snatched up the handkerchief. Taking a sniff of it, he looked at Tarl, batted his long eyelashes. Tarl gagged and backed away even faster, nearly running over Mishto Sharpaine, as the winged man fluttered after him. She stopped him with hands on his shoulders, and he glanced back, hesitated, briefly contemplating which would be a worse fate, her or Brucey, then scurried around to hide behind her.
Upon reaching the road, Brucey snapped bolt upright, eyes wide. One by one, he took in the warriors, who mysteriously took no notice of him. They did, however, when he performed a series of in-place loop-the-loops, pointing at each and every one of them, squealing in delight.
"Look at all these men," he squealed, the handkerchief drifting from his hand, forgotten.
In answer, the two other winged men fluttered out, performed the same one by one take in of the warriors and did their own squealing loop-the-loops.
"What the—?" Marcol gasped, drawing his shortsword.
"Fairies," Shing and Grash answered and warned, "Stand your ground."
But their warning went unheeded.
Tarftenrott, Expendendale, Chitintiare and Telluspett drew their swords, spanned out to give themselves swordplay room, eyeing the Fairies warily. To a man, they were tense, ready to react.
"Yummy," Brucey swept around them, hands clasped at bosom. "There are just so many of them."
"And they’re all so strong," the moth winged man said. "So manly."
"Mm," the brightly spotted winged man said, fluttering before Shing. "Just look at this one. So manly. And look at that sexy skin color. Mm."
"Ooh," Brucey said, arms akimbo. "Stanley Boobicans. You can pick theeeeem."
"You can pick them, Stanley Boobkicans," the moth winged man agreed, fluttering close to Marcol, said, "But my choice isn’t ugly."
"Ooh," Stanley Boobicans said. "He is beautiful, Jonny Poo."
"Hm," one Richtichtiare said, looking at the mercenary’s back. "I wonder where his wings are."
"Probably keeps them hidden under that ponytail," the other Richtichtiare said.
Jonny Poo swept in, flipped Marcol’s ponytail with a finger. "Mm mm," he cooed. "That’s one of the sexiest things about him."
And thus began a bizarre "song and dance" routine.
Marcol slashed at the Fairy, who skillfully darted clear of danger and swooped back in to coo another seductive comment at him. Driven mad by this, the mercenary attacked again, only to be dodged and complimented again…
Jonny Poo’s Fairy partners were not idle. Brucey played a three way with Tarftenrott and Expendendale, fluttering and swooping around them, cooing at them and skillfully dodging sword slashes and thrusts… After several failed attempts to rile Shing, Stanley Boobicans looked at Grash and shook his head, took on Chitintiare ad Telluspett. The Dorks proved the easiest of victims, attacking the Fairy before he completed his first seductive taunt…
When Sharna urged him to walk away, Orlon was disappointed, wanting to hear what Grash had to say. He cocked an ear in hopes of hearing something despite their leaving. When she asked about his farm, he gave her a double-take, finding it hard to believe the warrior woman could possibly be interested in a farm. Then again, maybe it was not interest in a farm but interest in his farm…. Maybe it was interest in him. He cleared his throat, tugged at his collar.
She had asked him about his farm, that was all! He focused his mind on that.
"There," he began, struggling to gather his scattered thoughts on the subject into a coherent line, "there’s not much to tell, really. It’s a one acre farm with a small house." He laughed. "The smallest farm on Dwarf Road, I’ve been told numerous times by neighbors. A beginner’s farm, you might call it. I do. My dream is to one day build on to it. Buy more acres, enlarge the house, rear a family there…" He felt the heat of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks.
"Anyway," he hurriedly went on. "To do that I need to build up enough profit to afford my desires. That, I’m afraid, isn’t easy to do with one acre. I, Tarl and…Jujay have worked the land three years now, have raised successful crops and have little financially to show for it.
"And now that Jujay is gone…"
He took in a deep breath, the image of his old servant filling his mind. That he had died on this quest troubled him greatly. Whether it was his duty, as Tarl reminded him, or not, that the Party so easily—so thoughtlessly loaded him with their supply bundles also troubled him. Did they not see how old he was? He let the breath hiss out. Did they really have to leave his body on the path that way after?
"Let’s sit here," Sharna placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
With a blink, Orlon was brought back to the here and now, and he blinked again when he saw where they were. They had not only walked to the field side of the road, but down the road a good ten feet. He shrugged it off and did as she suggested, sitting down on the road’s edge. Sharna knelt on her haunches next to him.
She had asked him about his farm for two reasons: to drown out Grash and she was honestly interested in what he—the One—did for a living. She wanted to know all about him. There was no denying that she could be obsessive, and when she became obsessed she ran with it until it passed. Orlon was her present obsession, spurred by her desire to protect him on this quest and that he was different. He was a Midget. She looked at him, registered the sad expression on his face, and cursed herself. She should have known asking about his farm would remind him of his servant.
Silence griped the scene.
Eyes on the field, Orlon inwardly shook off the sadness of his servant’s demise, somewhat. Jujay was old, after all. He glanced at Sharna, who looked out into the field, and wanted to say something. He wanted to ask her about being a warrior. Surely, her story, whatever and wherever it might lead, would be far more exciting than his about farming. What he needed was an avenue to spark up a conversation. That was when he remembered the apple in his pocket.
He fished the it out of his pocket, smiled. Not only could he use the fruit as an avenue, he was hungry.
"Share this with me?" he asked, holding it up.
Her eyes went from his smiling face to the apple and back again. She smiled and nodded.
"Let me half that," she said, pulling the ivory handled dagger from her boot.
He handed her the apple. She halved it and gave the juicy blade a wipe on a breeches leg before returning the dagger to her boot. With a wink, she handed him a half, took a bite of her own. He began munching on his half.