Treachery of Kings

SIXTEEN

"This can't be,” Finn shouted, standing his ground, staring at his foes. “Where is it written I shall be shot and skewered by Bowsers in a dark and fetid street? I can't accept this at all!”

“Zhooot ‘im, zhooot ‘im in zuh haid! Zhoot dis perzon ded!”

“No you don't, fellow. I'm not armed, can't you see that? It's simply not the thing to do-”

An ancient weapon blossomed with a tongue of scarlet fire, with a stink of black powder, with a horrible din. For an instant, a dark plume of smoke obscured the Bowsers, sending them into choking fits.

“Valor delayed is courage yet to come,” Finn said, and turned on his heels and ran. “Someone said that, I can't remember who.”

He chose the first alley to his left, praying it went somewhere, anywhere at all. It did, but only to a narrow, twisted maze of sewers, sumps, garbage bins and dumps. Somehow, he'd stumbled on the septic tank of the city, found it all alone, without the aid of a map.

Left, right, it didn't greatly matter. It was nearly pitch-black. He could barely see his hand in front of his face.

“I could smell my way out, if I knew where one odor stopped and the other one began”

Light, a pale reflection off a grimy brick wall. A torch, and the throaty yelp of Finn's foes.

“Zere, zere ‘e izt! Komen vit ze Svord, Zhep!”

“You getz ‘im, Mahx. Izt schmellin’ in zere.”

“You gotz ze Svord. I beze shtayin’ here!”

Finn searched about in the dark, setting the damnable clock aside. Soot, smut, broken bottles and pots. Things he hoped never to touch again. No fine blades, no weapon of any sort. His hand found something round, something short: the broken handle of a shovel or a hoe.

A head appeared out of shadow. Finn could see very little, but the white straw boater floated like an apparition in the dark. The Bowser went down without a sound. The crown of his hat collapsed atop his head, while the brim formed a collar about his neck.

“What a witless thing to do,” Finn said to himself, “blundering in without a torch. Why didn't the idiot wait for his friend?”

No need to hang around for an answer. He scrambled about, looking for the fellow's blade — found it, hefted it in his hand. More like a bludgeon than a blade. Short, heavy, dull as the opera “Bob” Letitia had dragged him to.

Still, a blade for all of that, one step up from a stick.

And, found in the nick of time, as it were, for the Bowser with the torch stepped around the corner, a tall, solemn fellow with droopy jowls, checkered vest, red bow tie, and a blade very much like Finn's.

“You be geshtoppen vere you izt, hooman. Dropen you veapon now!”

“Huh-uh. You be dropen yours,” Finn said, lashing out with a jab that snipped a button off the fellow's vest.

The Bowser didn't care for that at all. The button was imitation pearl, and difficult to find. He muttered an oath in the harsh, irritating tongue of his kind, slipping Finn's blade aside, going for the gut.

Finn stepped deftly to the right, his left foot squashing something vile. Then, instead of pressing his adversary, the Bowser backed off, assuming a formal stance, designed for defense, rather than attack.

Finn didn't stop to ask why. Feinting to the left, he whipped his blade high and came in swiftly from the right.

Too late, he saw his mistake. He'd paid no attention to his enemy's torch, intent on the dangerous blade. Now, the Bowser ducked low, and with his left hand thrust the burning brand in Finn's face.

Finn cried out as the heat scorched his brow. He heard his hair sizzle, felt his lashes curl.

This time, the Bowser followed through, leaping in fast, flailing away with wicked strokes while Finn was still blinking from the light. He fought back blindly, shouting at the top of his lungs, fought with such anger at his own near-fatal blunder, that the Bowser was startled, stunned by such a sudden, mad assault.

Finn cut him once across the chest, ripping the checkered vest. Cut him once more below the throat, a move that unraveled the red bow tie, and brought a gasp from his foe.

The Bowser raised a hand to his neck and stared at Finn. A gold-rimmed monocle dropped from his eye and onto the sodden ground. Finn had ever thought the monocle an odd conceit among these folk, for it didn't seem likely all their people had defects in one eye.

Once more, the Bowser leaped forward, whipping his weapon about. Finn moved in a blur, turned his blade around and struck the creature across his pointy nose with the heavy, weighted hilt.

The Bowser sagged and went down atop his companion, still moaning on the ground. Finn took a breath, and had little time for that. The third of his foes, with a comrade at his back, was yipping for his blood, scraping through the narrow alleyway. Finn was grateful the passage was a very tight squeeze. Grateful, too, that both the Bowsers wanted through at once.

And where, pray, was his large companion all this time? Had the Bullie found a jug of ale and settled down for the night?

“Prinz, here! Ze hooman's kilt dem both! Getz in an’ zhoot ‘im now!”

The Bowser in the rear crowded his companion aside, raised his enormous weapon and aimed it at Finn's head.

Finn backed off, came up against a sodden wall with nowhere to go. The immense, flared barrel of the musket looked a quarter mile wide. There was little metal showing, as most of the aged device was covered in rust and soot.

“If that is a Heinz-Erlichnok. 47 as I suspect,” Finn said, “I'd take a care if I were you. The trigger tends to stick on that model, especially in weather like this. If that lock you're using comes from the Sandow Works, which I believe it does, the weapon will likely freeze after two or three shots. From the noise you fellows made, I expect you're past that. If it truly fires, I'll wager it takes your head off instead of mine.”

“Vhat?” Prinz, for that was the short, chunky Bowser's name, looked curiously at Finn, then back at his weapon again.

“You zhink he bein’ a vizeass, Phydo? Nuttin’ zeems wrong to me.”

“Zhoot ‘im, don’ talk vit ‘im, phool!” Phydo bared his teeth, snatched the weapon from his friend, blew a cloud of soot from the lock, and aimed the thing at Finn.

“Hold it,” Finn said, his belly clenching up in a knot. “You look like reasonable fellows, let's talk about this.”

“Lezz nhot. Be shtillen, hooman. Don’ be jerkin’ round- whuuuuk!”

As if by sorcery, a strange, unnatural act of some kind, both of the Bowsers rose up off the ground and into the darkness above. They flailed, kicked, quivered and thrashed about. The musket went off and lit up the night.

In its sudden glare, Finn saw Bucerius on the roof overhead. His legs, stout as young trees, were spread wide. With scarcely any effort at all, he hauled the two Bowsers up into the night, bits of strong line looped about their necks. He dangled them there for an instant, watching them kick hopelessly about, then dropped his lines, and let the pair sink limply to the ground.

The Bullie jumped lightly to the alley floor, caught Finn's expression, and turned up his mouth as if something tasted bad.

“They isn't dead, though it wouldn't trouble me none if they was… “

Finn could scarcely fault the Bullie for his thoughts. Bucerius hadn't forgotten the merchant he'd found in the downed balloon, and those who'd likely perished in the flames they'd seen some blocks away.

“There might be others out there. We'd best have a care.”

“Isn't no one bein’ out there now,” Bucerius said, peering at Finn through the dark. “I haven't been takin’ no nap, in case you didn't know…”