There was speed to the Party’s pace, but it was not as fast as when they were going the other way, even with the hassle of zigzagging through a sea of armor. Yet their quickness was enough to make the Midgets work hard to keep up…. Soon enough they reached the point where the road entered the woods. Into them they plunged and were met by—silence! No clinks and clanks and jingles of armor stopped them. Therefore, they followed the turn of the road and came out of the woods without delay.
What stopped them was Ty the Parson, who halted at the entrance to the Stirring Dog Inn. The Party looked at him, but did not look at Orlon, which both vexed him and filled him with a sense of relief. His time as decision maker for them all was truly over. Then again, the decision whether to enter the inn or not was not his the first time either. All he knew was he wanted to stop in this time to get a drink to accompany his mystery meal.
Little did he know but the same thought was on his companions' minds as well.
Ty the Parson looked from the inn to the road to his napkin enwrapped meal and back again and back again and back again. Then he looked to the heavens, lost in thought a moment, looked at the Party, catching each by the eye briefly, then looked at the inn, brow furrowed in deep thought for what seemed an eternity to his traveling partners… Without a word, he plunged through the entrance, sending the batwing doors flapping frantically.
This caught everyone off guard, as it had the first time, but they did not look after him wide eyed this time. Instead, they smiled, and they followed him, stopping just within. Orlon and Tarl protected their posteriors from the in-swinging batwing doors with a hand. Locating Ty the Parson was ease—he sat in the same front left hand booth as before—and in quick order, they made their way there, seated themselves and awaited service.
While they waited, Orlon took a look-see around the inn. The last time he had seen some interesting and some disturbing people. This time he spotted no one amongst the few people there of interest, and his eyes were drawn to the room’s showpiece: Bechendorf, or to state it more accurately, the statue that once was Bechendorf.
The warrior stood where he had frozen when Telluspett’s stumbling-through-his-brother’s-innards thrust pierced his heart. Huge, looming, he stood there in gray, broadsword heaved above his head, ready for a downward death stroke, surprise etched on his face, and the Dork’s sword sheathed in his heart…. It was a sight to see, and the inn’s owner took advantage of it. From the sword in the giant’s chest hung a placard upon which were written the day’s specials.
"What’ll ya 'ave?"
All eyes, including Orlon’s, swung to the elderly barmaid who served them the first time they were here. She was dressed in white blouse and red skirt, and had her hair in a bun, as before, and in her cloudy blue eyes was the identical startlement she registered in their eyes—a startlement that was short-lived on both counts. The Party took this chance meeting simply as this booth was assigned to her. She, in turn, was fairly certain she had served these gents before, but there were more of them, including a couple of women…? Yes, she was fairly certain she remembered them.
But her mind reverted back to business, her question awaiting an answer. Her pencil wielding hand poised over pad to scribble orders down and her eyes focused on Ty the Parson. Thus began a series of orders for liquor of one sort or another from him on down the line. When she finally reached Orlon and he opened his mouth to speak she silenced him with a raised finger.
"Tea," she declared, smiling at her spot on memory, and began to write, but he stopped her with his own raised finger.
"No," he said and after a glance at his napkin wrapped…breakfast, it had to be, said, "Milk."
"Milk?" the barmaid gave him a double-take.
"Yes, please."
Shaking her head, she scribbled it down and hobbled off to fill the order.
Their wait for her return did not give Orlon a chance for a second look around, or to chat with his best friend. He was not concerned about either option, having seen nothing of interest the first time, and he had nothing in particular to say. Instead, he let his eyes linger on the napkin wrapped meal, hoped it would be as filling as Bretta’s biscuit… When the barmaid returned he watched her pass out the drinks, lastly placing a nice, cold glass of milk before him.
He took no notice of her curious expression upon serving him. "Thank you," he said, giving her an appreciative smile.
She half smiled and hobbled away.
Now that they had liquid refreshment, they carefully opened their napkin wrapped meals to discover egg sandwiches within. Each took a bite and found to his delight the sandwiches included bacon strips.
Hunger made them consume their sandwiches quickly, Orlon being the last to pop a final bite into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and downed the rest of his milk, leaving himself with a milk mustache. This he removed with a lick of his tongue, followed by a sweep of a forearm. He looked at his companions to find them looking at Tarl Bimbo, his head was thrown back, downing the last of his ale.
Tarl’s head came down, preceded by his hand to place the mug on the table, and he met his fellow travelers' stare. He immediately knew their intentions. With meal and drink done, and Ty the Parson out of gold pouches, someone needed to pay the bill. Since he had paid for the hotel… His eyes rolled to land on Orlon, whose confused expression made them look to the heavens.
"All right," he sighed, pulling his money pouch from a pocket. "I’ll pay."
With a nod, presumably of appreciation, Ty the Parson sprang to his feet, pointing his sappy staff at the entrance, and bolted toward it. The Party gave the pudgy Midget nods of thanks and followed him. Only Orlon remained seated.
"Go on with them," Tarl urged his best friend.
"I just thought—" Orlon started.
"I don’t need a babysitter," he said, frowning. "Go on. I’ll catch up. Go on, go on."
"Okay," Orlon said and went after the others.
Ty the Parson and the Party came out of the inn and headed up the road at a restrained hurried pace to allow Tarl time to catch up. Orlon, on the other hand, stepped out of the inn and stopped, eyes cast downward. Upon reaching the volcanic mountain’s rim, he sought a sign of his good deed done, only to find an ordinary, everyday evening. When he exited the hotel in hopes of finding a sign of his world saving deed he faced an ordinary, every day morning. And he surmised that must be the sign he was seeking, that things were unchanged, the time of peace and tranquility continued unabated.
When he stepped out of the inn, he thought of one place he just might find a sign of his evil destroying deed: the Dark Mountain. The creepy woods crowded about its base, traversed by a crooked path, the demon head castle on the plateau high above, the silently raging storm cloud encircled peak he remembered well, a chill dancing along his spine. Maybe, just maybe, what he accomplished in the bowels of the volcanic mountain had had an effect on it.
He gulped and crossed his fingers and looked up. His nape hairs stood on end, his breath caught in his throat—and a frown descended on his face. The mountain, its surroundings looked as foreboding as the first time he laid eyes on them. He gulped again, and into his mind came the thought some places were simply corrupted by evil and it would take another quest, a harrowing good deed to free the Dark Mountain of whatever was corrupting it.
With a wipe of his brow, he breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that he had had his quest, had done his good deed of a lifetime.
"Leave it to you to be lagging behind," Tarl said, passing him on his way up the road, and glancing over a shoulder, added, "Come on, you dawdler, you."