"Really?" Aqua inquired curiously.
"Not a stitch," Sibastian confirmed nervously, jerking back when he discovered Aqua to be mere inches from his face, in an attempt to follow his line of sight.
***
His ability to muster any real semblance of rational thought had long since gone the way of his now thoroughly subverted nerves. This had factored heavily into the reason why he had only caught a glimpse of the girl riding one of the larger types of beetles.
When the screeching reached his ears, instantly producing the haunting image of a crow-chicken-Demon, Jesse immediately forgot all about the beetle-riding girl and dove for cover, quickly crawling on hands and knees toward a shallow trench. Once he got there, he heard the creature's gut-wrenching cry once again as he dropped, flattening out to hug the ground in hopes that the beast might misjudge the depth of its dive, just in case it was in fact swooping down on him.
When the terrifying caterwauling trailed off far enough, he rose, so as to chance taking a look in that general direction, before deciding his best course of exit. Rather than a brunette girl of perhaps fifteen years, he was now faced by a blond-haired boy of a similar age, who, like the girl, also sat upon a beetle. But with no idea as to whether the great bird was in pursuit of the children, or perhaps in league with them, he quickly ducked back down.
They had obviously trained the beetles as beasts of burden. The idea of a crow-chicken playing the role of hunting-falcon to evil child-like monsters was not that much of a stretch at this point.
Had they seen him? Perhaps, though it did not really matter. If they controlled crow-chickens, then he was as good as dead anyway. Of course, if they had not seen him, his best chance was to lay low for a while, and then follow the trench for as far as it went before making a run for it.
From further away, the trumpeting screech sounded again, sending yet another nerve-ripping chill through him as he hunkered down to gather as much grass around himself as possible.
***
Maestro Spinwyp cautiously inched Miria's beetle forward, and then stopped. Again, he stood, but was as yet unable to discern the presence any purported persons, clad or otherwise. He squatted, and then jumped as high as he could, in hopes of a better glimpse without needing to move his mount further. As he landed, thereby delivering a pronounced clacking sound from his boots on the beetle's shell, something moved in the ditch just ahead. He could not see it directly, but the taller wheat, extending just above the ditch, suddenly shuddered, although there was no evidence of any breeze.
"Hail, friend!" he called in as cordial a tone as possible.
At this, the patch of wheat ceased its rustling.
"I say there! We are but a simple band of Bards, over here!"
"Speak for yourself, if you please," intoned Sibastian indignantly from behind the beetle.
"Shhhh!" Maestro Spinwyp admonished.
"Oh…sorry."
"No call to hide from the likes of us, friend!" he assured the foliage. "Sibastian? Come and try High speech. He doesn't seem to respond to Homidris, or Gnomish."
"I assure you, Maestro," Sibastian replied adamantly, "anyone articulating in my language is thoroughly acquainted with both clothing and straight razors."
Just then, the wheat rippled in a long, sliding wave along the edge of the ditch. Whoever was down there had obviously decided against any fraternization with the likes of Goppi Spinwyp, or his band of bellowing Bards. Regrettably, the traveling wave of grain sped along with no other apparent intent than escape, until, that is, when it came to a sudden cessation after meeting with a rather large igneous obstruction.
To all present, which included the Maestro, the Prince, and the beetle, it appeared as though the wheat may not have expected the boulder's company. This opinion was formed primarily through a resounding whack, which in turn, produced an almost melodic echo.
From the path, the others couldn't see well enough to tell what was transpiring, though the echo managed to reach them well enough. "Here, then! Are you fellows rendering aid, or striking up a cricket match?" Braumis shouted.
"Is he really naked?" Aqua shouted, thereby earning a concerned glance from Braumis.
***
"I think he'll be all right," Braumis announced as he exited the supply tent, mounted on the pack beetle's back. Then he climbed down the tent's rope ladder to join the others.
"How would you know?" Sibastian asked.
"Well, I'm no expert," Braumis began.
"That's right, you're not," Sibastian agreed.
"Young Harnom here is the closest we have at the moment," Maestro Spinwyp inserted.
"His Daddy is a Cleric, but that doesn't make him one," argued Sibastian.
"His father is a Master Cleric," corrected Aqua.
"And whatever he might have picked up would be infinitely more knowledge than you possess, Highness," added Miria.
"No, the Prince is right," Braumis countered. "We should stop at the earliest opportunity. I believe the worst of his condition to be no more than simply malnourishment, and perhaps a bit of overexposure, but he should be examined by a real healer, just to be sure."
"I didn't mean to imply we should involve ourselves to that extent," Sibastian returned. "All I did was question your medical competence. As far as I'm concerned, we can just leave the breed where we found him. Mark my words, you'll regret taking on his ilk."
"Maybe someone should ride along with him," Aqua suggested, failing to mark the Prince's word.
"You mean, like someone who might not have gotten a better look after the Maestro dragged him back wrapped in a blanket?" Braumis asked thoughtfully.
"Not at all!" Aqua refuted indignantly. "I simply…thought to do my part."
"Surely," agreed Miria and Braumis in amused unison.
"Braumis will ride with our guest," Maestro Spinwyp declared.
Chapter Four-Contemptible Connection
[All right. What now?] {I'm not quite sure. I think we were severed by the program. The last thing I registered was a massive surge in chronomic progression. Then…nothing.}
Orval disengaged the program altogether, returning Sarah and himself to the normal progression of real time as the Hoffman residence congealed about them.
"You said we could reconnect!" Sarah shouted while removing her headset.
"Please try to remain calm, Mrs. Hoffman," Orval pleaded, not wishing to incur the unstable woman's wrath. Gingerly, he passed his hand over the bruised tissue about his right eye.
What followed happened too quickly for Orval to register fully. Something moved just into his peripheral vision as he was suddenly struck along the left side of his head. The only thing he knew for certain was that this particular act of violence had not been perpetrated by Mrs. Hoffman. Her expression of surprise was no doubt a fair facsimile of his own. Her expression of fear to follow was not. To Orval, it seemed as if the lights dimmed as the room tilted, and then nothing but a vaguely pleasant dream of what his day might have been like if Hereford had never been a part of it.
"Yes, Mrs. Hoffman. Do remain calm," ordered a threateningly calm voice from directly behind, as the man before her, wearing a brown suit and sporting a blackjack, seemed to have no particular interest in addressing her. Currently, he was hastily grasping Kwibee under the arms, and dragging him toward the front door.
Then the owner of the voice from behind became more of an immediate threat as something hard and blunt was jabbed into the small of her back, followed by a pronounced double click.
Sarah raised both hands above her head.
***
She had finally given up any hope that the Doctor might intervene. Whatever had gone wrong had obviously placed him in as precarious a position as her own current dilemma. Otherwise, he would surely have pulled the plug by now. Even with the game's time ratio crap, it could not have possibly taken this long. No. Whatever had her so glitched up, probably had him behind the eight ball as well. Strangely enough, she hadn't freaked ou
t yet. There was a certain amount of trepidation accompanying her realization of the filter's absent interface. This feeling came briefly to border upon true alarm when she noted that this would necessarily preclude her severance of communication with the Doctor.
Without stopping, she examined her scuffed palms again. She had no memory of how this had happened. Nor could she recall the origin of her bloody shin. She recalled their preparations to semi-sever the link. She could even remember informing Kwibee that she was prepared for that action. This is where everything became distorted, because the next thing she could discern from the jumbled chaos yet whirling about her head, and for the most part still outside her ability to coalesce, was an odd, dreamlike image of her husband careening backwards, and then falling into an endless chasm. This alone was disturbing enough without the added bonus of his accusative expression while continuing to plummet.
Regardless of all this, she was not exactly without direction. This is not to imply that she understood the almost irresistible howling. Nevertheless, it did afford a certain amount of comfort somehow. She realized that it shouldn't. She knew full and well that she should find such to be a good indication for hair-raising alarm. Instead, she drew strength from it. All is well, the howling seemed to tell her via the inner warmth generated by the knowledge that she was following the correct path.
***
Crumly was deep in meditation when disrupted by a chilling breeze, and something else: a truly unpleasant odor, steadily intensifying, and therefore progressively diminishing his ability to maintain the particular level of inner reflection he had only briefly achieved. It was bad enough having to refer to Goren as Master, not that he disliked the young Rogue. It just didn't seem fitting somehow. After all, he had forty summers on the overbearing upstart. But at this rate, he would be as old as that old Tarot woman before completing his apprenticeship.
While returning to normal awareness as slowly as possible in order to avoid several common problems associated with rapid transcendental ascent, he inadvertently opened his eyes out of sequence. Ordinarily, his particular cardiovascular system is required to accomplish a minimum thirty-four beats per minute before permitting any of the five senses to become active. The purpose behind this ritual was to avoid exactly what followed.
In realizing why he had broken the proper sequence of ascent, first verified by the setting sun, then by the Troll, now no more than ten meters distant as it rushed to close the gap, Crumly fell backwards, intending to roll out of the creature's path so that he could come up better prepared. Unfortunately, his rapid ascent from deep meditation had not afforded proper circulation. This facilitated the continued meditation of his legs as they both failed to respond to his urgent commands, thus causing him to flail in said failed execution of the maneuver as both uncooperative appendages were quite content to remain in lotus position, and thereby causing him to over shoot the rolling procedure altogether. The resulting excess in momentum, along with his rounded knees, short stature, and steep downward incline of the path behind him, promoted his continued rolling for quite some time. When at last he came to a stop, he attempted to rise, only to discover the contrast between near nil circulation and rapid rolling had combined to initiate a form of drunken oscillation in his perception and balance.
This did afford him a brief, albeit world-yet-spinning glimpse of the Troll as it lunged. He prepared for that anticipated impact as best he could, which under the circumstances was simply to close his eyes as tightly as possible. Strangely enough, no actual impact followed. After a moment, he tentatively opened his eyes to a landscape, yet half-tilting and half-spinning, though minus the Troll.
"You all right?" drifted a voice through his half-echoing ears.
"Yeah…think so," he replied in half-slurred speech.
After about half an hour, he began to feel a little better. He came to a sitting position with no apparent ill effect, and then removed the damp cloth from his forehead.
His benefactor was yet busying herself about the campfire she had built. She seemed to be preparing supper, if the aromatic tendrils now reaching his flaring nostrils were of any indication.
"I am in your debt, mistress…"
"Selina," she answered after a brief hesitation.
"Selina…?"
"Selina's good enough for now," she offered firmly.
"Of course, mistress. After all, who am I to put questions to my benefactor?"
"Good question. Who are you?"
"Crumly Knodwadle, at your service," he beamed brightly, standing to bow deeply, but catching himself after almost falling forward from an unexpected dizzy spell, and then promptly sitting and returning the cloth to his forehead.
"You really can't hold your liquor, can you?"
"Me, mistress? I don't drink at all," he returned politely, but with a tone of finality suggesting he might be as interested in convincing himself as her.
"Well if you're not drunk, then what? Flu bug?"
"Flew…bug, mistress?" he asked uncertainly, the image of some sort of flying beetle coming to mind.
"Never mind."
"As you wish, mistress."
"And stop calling me that, would ya? Sounds like I should be dressed up in leather underwear," she added with mild irritation, and then recalled that a good portion of her undergarments did in fact utilize thin layers of that very component.
"Yes, mis…umm, Selina."
"That's better," she smiled while passing him a stick-skewered hunk of roasted meat.
"Thank you kindly," he offered gratefully, quickly blowing on the meat to cool it, and then fairly wolfing it down before it actually could cool. The burning sensation was a discomfort, but no great hardship. Dwarves are of a hardy constitution, especially when it comes to food.
"Oh, my!" he muffled. "This is wonderful!"
"Glad to hear it," she muffled, biting a chunk out of her own serving.
"Mmmm. What…is…it?"
"Huh?"
"What is it?" he repeated, after swallowing.
She smiled again, and then paused before answering. "It's whatever that shaggy critter was that jumped you."
***
"Stop looking at me like that!" she exclaimed for the third time.
"Well, I just don't see how anyone wouldn't know a Troll when they saw it!"
"Drop it already!"
"Well, excuse me!"
"You got any blankets?" she asked, hoping to change the subject, but still bearing a certain remnant anger in her tone.
"Afraid not. Rogues need no comfort against the weather unless the temperature drops below freezing, or rises to that of desert heat, as when the air itself ripples."
"How nice for you," she intoned sarcastically. After a moment, she recalled one of Selina's Paladin spells. She wasn't sure it would work, but she stood and tried it anyway. Nothing to lose but the chill.
She held her arms in front of her and toward the dying campfire, and then drew a triangle in mid-air before closing her hands about it. After a time, it became clear that nothing was going to happen. She looked to the Dwarf, who was making an honest effort not to appear as if he thought she was unstable, which of course he did.
She tried again, but this time drew a circle about the triangle. When she brought her hands together, a flame from one of the remaining embers leapt out at her, wrapping itself about her entire body like a cloak, and then solidified to a shimmering fabric that radiated warmth.
"Ahh, now that's a handy little spell," he offered.
"Thank you," she replied graciously, retaking her seat on the fallen log.
"Aren't you going to make one for me?" he asked.
"I thought Rogues had no use for such frivolities," she replied with an expectant grin.
He didn't press it, since he had in fact boasted a lack of necessity. Still, it just seemed rude on her part to let him freeze while she remained toasty. Without rebuttal, he turned over, facing away from the chilled breeze, and hugged himself tightly.
"Bah," he mumbled absently while tucking the blanket about himself.
"You're welcome," she laughed.
"Hold on!" Crumly exclaimed as he sat bolt upright. "Was that a Paladin spell?"
"Yep," she answered shortly, still trying to recreate the spell to replace her blanket.
"Well, Gwaurdenbog!" he shouted.
"Hey! Watch your language there, buster!" she admonished, recognizing his Dwarven reference to a specific form of extremely fresh excrement, produced by a particularly offensive specie of unwashed Ogre.
"Beg pardon," he offered hastily while throwing off the blanket.
"Hey! I speak Dwarf!" She smiled in surprise.
"How nice for you," he returned sardonically while gathering his possessions together, and kicking dirt into the fire.
"Excuse me! I was using that!" she intoned as the almost completed spell fizzed from a lack of fuel.
"Let's go," he told her shortly, already hiking back toward the northern path.
"Why should I go anywhere with you? Besides, just in case you hadn't noticed, it's dark out there. I'm not gonna go traipsing about like some loon in the dead of night!"
Crumly stopped, took a deep breath, released it, and then turned about. "You're a Paladin, right?"
"So what?"
"You come from Brinehaven, right?"
"Duh, it's the only city in this quadrant of the hemisphere."
He paused, took another deep breath, and silently counted to ten before continuing. "You heard the howling of a wolf, and felt compelled to follow."
At this she wheeled about.
"The feeling that drew you didn't cease until you reached me. That about right?"
"How…?" she began, but her voice trailed off.
"Milady," he began wearily, "I've been waiting here since before the last full moon. I was given no preference of choice in this ridiculous quest. Nor was I given any more answers than what I just gave you. So can we just go, while I'm yet young enough to remember the way?"
Rendering Nirayel - Thief's Prophecy Page 7