Realms of the Arcane - Brian M. Thomsen [85]
In the few moments I required to study my surroundings, Kitten took her place on the tub of lard's lap.
"You must be Murph," I ventured with as much false bravado as I could muster.
The tub of lard turned to Kitten and said, "It talks to us?"
"It appears to have forgotten its manners, Murph," Kitten offered, "as well as a few other things."
Murph nodded in acknowledgment. "Ah, so you said. So you said."
I decided to bide my time in silence, having no desire to further offend my amply protected host. I felt Murph's watery eyes sizing me up.
"It knows nothing of its past?" my host inquired.
"No, Murph," Kitten answered, shifting herself off his lap and onto the arm of the exceptionally strong armchair that supported them.
"And it needs our powers of observation," Murph murmured aloud, "… and perhaps a situation."
"Yes, Murph," the feline female replied, steel in her voice.
"It should come closer," the tub of lard instructed.
Before I could regain my feet, a brigand on each side of me grabbed the ends of the bag that had been my settee and tossed me and it closer to my host. I landed hard, in his dale-sized shadow. I could smell the stale sweat of his seldom-washed corpulence. Murph leaned forward and gestured with his fingers to the left and right. I was jostled from side to side by his flunkies so that he might observe some of my finer details.
"It has a tattoo on its left hand," Murph rambled, "perhaps a slave mark, or the mark of a thief. The hands are strong, yet uncallused. The knuckles have been bruised more than a few times. Both earlobes remain intact; no substantial gut from a sedentary life. Not much intelligence either. Looks just less than average."
I had almost reached my limit of tolerance when Murph leaned back, sighed, and belched. "It no longer amuses us," he said dismissively. "Get rid of it!"
I tried to make eye contact with Kitten, but was immediately distracted by the breeze of a bashing blow that just missed my cranium. My shoulder was not so lucky. Without thinking, I rolled with the blow, turning as I tumbled until I regained my footing and a defensible posture, my back to the cellar wall.
The brigands hesitated just long enough for me to get my bearings. A quick look above failed to reveal the curtained chute, and the merry band would not give me time to find it. Turning my head once again forward, I spied my host, reclining as if awaiting the commencement of some boring gladiatorial combat. The chimerical Kitten was still at his side, the deadpan expression on her face failing to hide the fear and concern in her eyes.
Allowing myself a moment of self-satisfaction (realizing it might be my last), I thought silently-You dog, you! You've won her heart already. Too bad you won't have time to get better acquainted.
A quick blink and my concentration returned, and I faced the onslaught.
The brigands came at me one at a time, which didn't make much sense if they wanted to kill me. The first had a mace, the second a garrote, the third a dagger, and the fourth a short sword. In each case, I eluded my attacker with relative ease, surprising myself at my own agility and expertise. Having dispatched the fourth with the hilt of his own short sword, I seized the initiative.
I threw myself at the one I assumed would be the fifth. The heel of one hand smashed his forehead while the fingertips of the other extricated two carefully concealed throwing stars from the inner folds of his tunic. I propelled myself to the side and forward so that I was now situated on the lap of my host, deadly star poised against his jugular vein.
Before I could issue an ultimatum, the tub of lard hailed, "Enough!"
The brigands withdrew to the shadows.
Holding the star still in deadly place, I observed their