Foolish girl!
If but he could say the words aloud,
and to her face. But alas, he could not. For starters, he would be but a
stranger to her, and words such as those—uttered as they would be with
exasperation and reproach—were none a stranger, let alone a boy, should say. Furthermore,
she was quite a few yards ahead of him and with the pair of rogues closing
rapidly on her. As such, there were more pressing matters to attend beyond
chiding her for the silly cat and mouse game she had attempted to play. That
could come later, if at all.
First, he had to deal with Vasek’s
hirelings.
That they were two to his one was
enough to give him pause. There was also the matter of weaponry to consider. He
was in no doubt that Vasek’s men would be armed, most likely with daggers of
the discreet stabbing variety, more for show than actual use. Intimidation
would be their game, and nothing was more intimidating than the sight of a
naked blade. In most instances, that was all they required, which suited men of
Vasek’s ilk just fine. At heart, men such as these were cowards, relying on
fear to bring about cooperation. Though should they be pressed, they wouldn’t
shirk from drawing a little blood.
Richard was without a weapon, having
left his own dagger, which would be concealed in his boot, at home, not
suspecting that he’d be released from the interviews so early and be saddled
with time to wander the markets. So, as expediently as he could, he let his
eyes scan around the detritus left in heaps at the mouth of the alley. Without
fuss, for he had no time for such, he pulled free a sizeable length of
four-by-two from a smashed crate, complete with a jagged quartet of nails at
the far end. This he tested with a few hearty swipes, finding it somewhat
clumsy, but knowing that it would serve its purpose anyways. As an
afterthought, he stooped down again and disentangled a mouldy hessian sack, a
very basic strategy formulating in his mind.
While not wholly satisfied with his
choices, he nonetheless carried on, pausing only to peer around the corner and
down the throat of the alley itself where the girl was backing away from the
two brutes. They advanced slowly, unaware that they themselves had been tailed
and in error, thinking that they had time to spare to make something of a
spectacle of proceedings. To this end, the man on the left had his arms folded
across his chest; as such, he presented no immediate danger to the girl. His
companion, though, was a different matter altogether. In his hand was a short
dagger, which he flashed before him like a child’s play thing, turning the
blade so that its keen edge caught the meagre sunlight angling in over the
craggy and claustrophobic shoulders of the buildings that formed this tight
alleyway. Whether he intended to use the dagger or not was immaterial. Just
having it ready at hand was threat enough.
And so, knowing the disposition of
his foes, and rudely armed, Richard Seth drew a deep breath, counted slowly to
five, and rounded the corner.
He moved swiftly, knowing that time
was precious and the window for surprise was apt to slam shut sooner rather
than later. To this end, stealth was out of the question. Besides, the heels of
his boots scraped and clattered loudly over the cobbles in his haste, so any
attempt to be sneaky was doomed to failure from the onset. It didn’t matter
though. The bandits were so engrossed with baiting their prey that Richard was
almost upon them before they realised what was happening.
With a shout, he lunged forward, his
first target the bandit with the knife. Of the two bandits, he reacted first,
spinning swiftly, if rather awkwardly, in an attempt to bring his weapon to
bear upon the intruder robbing him of his prize. His curse was abruptly cut off
when Richard threw the hessian sack into his face, entangling his knife arm—and
the knife itself—within the tatters of sodden, putrefied material.
Richard had no time to ascertain the
success of this ploy; the second bandit, wasting no time for curses, dipped a
hand inside the folds of his robe, feeling for his own weapon concealed therein.
In a matter of seconds, Richard pounced, swinging the four-by-two at the
bandit.
The impact was loud, terrible. Richard
heard the crack of cartilage, saw a bloom of crimson burst from the bandit’s
shattered nose. And even before the bandit brought his hands up to cover his
face, Richard saw the deep and jagged rents along the man’s cheek where the
quartet of nails at the end of the makeshift club had scored through the flesh straight
to the bone.
For the briefest moment, he was
repulsed, sickened not by the sight of blood, or the way the wounds on the
man’s face pulsated and flapped like fish gills, but by his actions. There was
nothing even remotely resembling chivalry in this act. This was thuggery, pure
and simple.
Yet, Richard did not stop.
Could
not stop.
Something clicked inside him,
pushing aside the dry as dust lectures about integrity and fighting the fair
fight. This was no textbook engagement; there would be no test at the end, no
grading, and no second chances. It was brutal, that was certain, but hadn’t
Richard seen bloody noses from fights before: those he had inflicted, seen
inflicted upon others, or even received himself?
There were no formalities here, no
build up, or the obligatory exchanges of antagonistic (and, for the most part,
moronic) jibes, and certainly no spark to set off the actual fighting. Instead,
it was cold, calculating, and utterly spontaneous. Something new to Richard,
and even if it jarred with some of his beliefs, he nonetheless felt a flutter
of excitement.
This all shot through his mind in an
instant, so quickly in fact that it didn’t have time to coalesce into a
coherent thought. It was primal, raw, above cognition. Above reason. Thus, he
reacted.
He swept forward again, three quick
steps. The four-by-two once more drew an arc through the air, ending with a
sickening crack across the back of the bandit’s skull. Almost immediately, the
half-rotted timber snapped, the piece with the protruding nails bouncing away
from the force of Richard’s swing. The bandit shuddered, blood spraying from
his face as his hands fell away. Then he flopped forward, his head striking the
cobbles beneath with a dull, meaty thud. His legs twitched once, twice, and
then he was still.
Richard, now with only half of the
club in his hand, turned to face the second assailant, who had only just
divested himself of the hessian sack. He stared levelly at Richard, schooling
his features so as not to give anything away. In turn, Richard returned the
stare, hoping his relative naïvety in such a venture wasn’t written on his face
for his enemy to see.
The man facing him looked battle
hardened, complete with a jagged scar that burst from the widow’s peak atop his
closely cropped head and ran straight down to the bridge of his nose. He held
the knife now with more purpose, knowing the true mettle of his opponent. There
would be no more tricks, no more showing off. The tables had been turned, and
turned quickly, with much embarrassment to the men in question. Would Scarface
be seeking to make an honourable withdrawal, or would he now be seeking blood?
That he chose the latter came as no
surprise to Richard. What did, though, was the manner in which he chose to achieve
it.
He lurched forward, his knife poised
for a thrust into Richard’s stomach, meaning to end the mêlée in one decisive
action. The attack was rushed, uncoordinated. Richard was able to easily side
step the clumsy advance, even when his adversary slashed out at the last second
with his blade, and brought his own weapon down onto Scarface’s outstretched
hand. The hand holding the knife flicked open and the weapon tumbled to the
ground. Without a pause, Richard booted it away.
With no weapon, and a recumbent
partner, Scarface did what any thief caught in the act would do. He deftly
dodged Richard’s return advance—not before receiving a short, but harmless clip
around the ear for his trouble—and dashed like a startled rabbit for the mouth
of the alleyway, all thoughts of treasure and sport secondary to the safety of
his own skin.
Richard waited until Scarface had
turned the corner before lowering his weapon, counting off five long seconds
lest that worthy should have a change of mind and return for another round.
Only then did he turn his attention to Scarface’s colleague, still lying face
down in a spreading pool of crimson. Satisfied that this man wasn’t likely to
cause trouble, he finally looked towards the girl.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
