"Th-th-thanks," he said, not even looking at Marcol, who walked away, rubbing his biceps, and tapping the stone, said: "D-du-du-don’t yu-yu-yu-you w-wu-wu-w-wu-worry, R-ru-ru-ru-roxx. I-I’ll h-h-hu-hu-have thu-thu-this o-off yu-yu-you i-in a-a fl-fl-flu-flash."
With that, he drew his broadsword, carefully jammed its point between the stone and the cook’s chin. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he placed a foot on Roxx’s chest and bore down on the hilt with all of his weight. His muscles bulged, sweat beaded all over his body, tears streamed from his tightly closed eyes.
The stone trembled.
The cook’s head bent back as far as possible.
Suddenly the stone popped free, followed by a gush of blood.
Roxx lay there, a flat faced corpse.
Disappointment and sorrow were etched on Tarftenrott’s face. "S-su-su-s-sorry, o-old p-p-p-pu-pal," he said. "I-I t-t-t-tru-tru-tried."
Orlon watched Tarftenrott sheath his broadsword, head down, sadness heavy on his face. He felt for the man’s loss of a friend. Though not quite the same, he thought he understood what the man was going through, since his own loss of Jujay, a friend as well as servant. It was a tough thing to endure, especially alone. Within him welled up a desire to go to the warrior, to comfort him in some way. Yes, that was exactly what he would do.
But, foot lifted to take the first step, he froze, remembering all too well what happened the last time he went to comfort a member of the Party. The feel of hair draping over his hand, the image of white skin turning blue, the stare of wanting pink eyes… An uncontrollable shiver passed through him. With a look Tarftenrott’s way, he let his foot drop, stuffed his hands into pants pockets and, rocking on his heels, looked the other way.
Out of the corner of his eye Orlon caught something that drew his attention away from his guilt. Bobtart Towne, Ty the Parson and Shing were huddled in conversation. He fought back an urge to giggle as he watched them, their talk being quite an unusual thing to witness. From time to time the Parson would flail in some verbose oration, leaving a confused crease in the big, hairy man’s bushy brow, which would be smoothed out by a word from the Oriental Ranger.
Several moments of conversation passed between them, and a crease formed in the Midget’s brow. He wondered what they were talking about… To his utmost astonishment, the answer came in short order.
In that curious way of his, Ty the Parson produced a small pouch from a baggy sleeve and handed it to Shing. He then had a word with Bobtart Towne, who eyed the pouch and nodded, and the two walked over to a well. Bobtart Towne drew a bucket of fresh water from the well’s depths and turned to the Party.
"My newly acquired allies," he boomed, drawing everyone’s attention. "Please, come and cleanse your wounds, some of which I humbly apologize for causing before I knew you were with me rather than that blackguard, Barlowe."
"Ty the Parson has offered us a healing agent," Shing held up the pouch. "This will—" he poured its powdery purple contents into the bucket "—speed up the healing process a might." He produced a handkerchief from some location on his person and dipping it into the bucket, stirred its contents. "Do come and partake," he said, stepping aside. He drew his sword to use its magnificent blade as a mirror and dabbed the soaked cloth at a bruised cheek.
This led to a lining up of the Party, each armed with a handkerchief, to do as advised. One by one, they dipped their cloths into the bucket, stepped aside and with drawn blades for mirrors, dabbed at their cuts, bruises and abrasions. Even Chitintiare and Telluspett found a way to dip a cloth and treat their wounds, while feeding the demanding Oaf. As for Tarl and Mishto, each dipped a handkerchief and moved off to treat each other’s wounds.
Sharna was last in line and after dipping her cloth, she returned to Orlon, hand on hilt, ready to draw her saber. But he stopped her by placing a hand on hers. She looked at him questioningly.
"Please," he said in a voice that sounded as confused by his action as she was, "let me do that for you."
"W-why, thank you," she said, handed him the damp handkerchief and squatted.
Every nerve was on edge when he accepted it. He gulped. Something made him jump to offer his assistance, but now his unease around women made him hesitate… Then he looked at the abrasion on her forehead, the cut on her cheek and his guilt eased his unsteady nerve—a bit. She had been harmed protecting him! Shakily but carefully, he dabbed the abrasion, hoping he was not hurting her. She showed no sign of discomfort. He inwardly smiled with the thought she was a warrior, not the type of person to show pain.
When he moved to the cut on her cheek, wiping away the blood around it, he cringed in sympathetic pain. The smile she gave him upon noticing him cringe put a pink tint to his cheeks. Less shakily and more carefully, he cleansed the wound, and he hoped it would not scare her beautiful face. He hoped Ty the Parson’s healing agent would prevent that.
Once he completed his attendance to her cheek, pleased to see the cut was already looking better, he started to offer her her handkerchief, only to be stopped by her offering him the arm she used to shield herself. His eyes went wide. All along her forearm were cuts, abrasions and bruises aplenty, and blood. His guilt reached new heights, almost as high as his desire to treat those wounds. He went to work carefully, gently, thoroughly…
Treating her forearm took time, but he got it done. And he was pleased at how well the wounds looked after treatment. Why, even the ones on her face looked better than before. Ty the Parson’s healing agent actually worked…miraculously.
"Here you are," he offered her her handkerchief back.
"I do have one more," she said, reaching down to lift her shirt. "It’s—"
"Something I think you should handle yourself," he said quickly, averting his eyes.
She smiled at his shyness, the wanting in her eyes increasing dramatically, and taking the cloth from him, she quickly looked down at the large, nasty bruise on her ribcage. For a moment she breathed softly to calm herself. Then, a little less carefully and gently than Orlon but just as thoroughly, she treated the wound.
While Orlon looked away, there was one set of eyes that darted right to Sharna. Tarl, treating a nasty bruise on Mishto Sharpaine’s ribcage, froze. There was no denying his disappointment that the warrior woman only lifted her shirt up to her nicely formed breasts, but to see her firm, flat belly with its sexy button was enough to make him swallow back drool.
Mishto’s eyes snapped open when the painful-yet-pleasant treatment of her wound ceased. She looked down to see the Midget’s hand with dripping handkerchief poised a half inch from her bruised flesh, followed his eyes to Sharna busy treating her own belly wound. A sad smile touched her lips. Then she brought her attention back to him. She cleared her throat once, more forcefully twice.
Tarl blinked, brought his eyes around to meet Mishto’s eyes, and he smiled lamely. He resumed dabbing her bruised flesh. His attention focused on her less firm, flat belly with sexy navel. Such a beautiful midriff belonging to such a beautiful woman…. Into his mind appeared the images of Jack and Frank—memory of their fate front and center. Such a beautiful midriff belonging to such a beautiful woman cursed to periodically kill by her profession. He sighed sadly.
Upon averting his eyes, Orlon looked at the woods bordering the farmhouse’s backyard. The woods were much thicker here and the animal noises he thought he heard from the road were quite clearly heard here. A finger came to his chin. There was something so familiar about those woods.