One stepped ahead of the other and said softly, so softly, I could barely hear him, “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want the sword.” He held out his hand.
His tone was so nice and reasonable, I almost handed him the sword. I might have too, but at that moment, the one behind him made a snarling sound and rushed me, his right hand coming out of the folds of his robe, and in that hand was a long saber, thin as a pool cue, black and double-bladed.
The first monk made a move to hold him back, but he was too late. Before I even had a chance to think, I jammed my hand into the duffel bag and whipped out the sword. My attacker hesitated, but only for a split second. He was nearly on top of me when I felt the sword in my hand whistle over my head—I don’t even remember lifting my arm—and then I watched as my arm brought it down, aimed right at the guy’s forehead.
He cried out and brought his sword up at the last second. The sound of the swords smashing into each other reverberated like thunder in the tiny hallway. He fell back a little, stunned by the blow.
The tingling in my thumb had spread to my arm, and I brought the sword around again as the first monk gave up trying to negotiate and rushed me.
His partner fell back, gripping the wrist of his blade hand. I fell back too. This taller monk moved more slowly than his buddy, but it was a thoughtful kind of slowness. I backpedaled until I bumped the stairwell door.
“Surrender the sword,” came the voice beneath the brown hood. A pale hand reached for me as another raised the black tapered blade.
I reached for the handle of the door with my left hand, shoved it down, then kicked at it with my foot. At the same time, my sword was whistling toward his left ear. He blocked the swing with the black-bladed sword. I grabbed his left wrist and yanked hard, stepping to my right at the same instant, and that sent him flying past me into the stairwell. I heard him cry out in pain as he tumbled down the stairs.
The smaller monk had recovered and now he rushed me, swinging his weapon so fast, it was just a dark blur in front of my eyes—but my sword was blocking every thrust, parrying every blow, like it had a mind of its own. I didn’t know how I was fighting this guy, who obviously knew what he was doing when it came to swordplay.
The sword in my hand seemed to weigh nothing at all, and everything started to slow down to a dreamlike dance: I could see his sword coming from a mile away.
He made one more desperate lunge at me. I turned his blade easily and brought my left fist down hard against the side of his head. He sank to his knees.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. I’m just trying to help my uncle so he won’t send me to a foster home. Who are you?”
Before he could answer, a hand grabbed me from behind and yanked me into the stairwell. It was the bigger man, the one who had first spoken. He swung me around and slammed his body hard into mine, forcing me back against the wall. He clutched my right wrist and held it against the concrete; the blade of my sword clinked against it. He took the tip of that black-bladed sword and pressed it against my Adam’s apple.
“Drop the sword if you want to live,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
I dropped the sword. For a second neither one of us moved; I think we were both surprised I dropped it. Then, without even thinking about it, I brought my knee up as hard as I could into his crotch. He fell straight down and didn’t move.
I hopped over his body, grabbed the sword, and met the other one coming through the door. He saw his fallen companion and gave a little cry. I grabbed him by the front of the robe and flung him behind me.
“Stop him!” the leader choked out from the floor.
I sprinted down the hall, the tip of the sword tapping against the carpeting as I ran. I punched the down button at the elevator. If no one had hit the call button since my attackers came out, it should be waiting for me.
The doors slid open, and Uncle Farrell was standing inside with a third monk in a brown robe, also holding a black-bladed sword, which was pressed across Uncle Farrell’s neck.
7
“Alfred!” Uncle Farrell squeaked at me.
“Throw down the sword,” the new monk said. “Throw it down or he dies.”
“Uh, Alfred,” Uncle Farrell gasped. “I think you better do what he says.”
I heard the stairway door open behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the first two monks coming toward me, the taller one—the one I had kneed—limping a few steps behind his partner.
“There is no escape,” the tall monk said. “If you give us the sword now, you still may live.”
“If you kill my uncle,” I said to the monk in the elevator, “I’ll kill all of you.” I sounded a lot braver than I felt. There was no way I could kill anyone, but these monks didn’t know that.
“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” the tall monk said. “We want only the sword.”
“So give it to them, Al,” Farrell said. “Stop screwin’ around!”
Right then the smaller monk behind me lost patience, I guess, because he leaped forward with a cry, bringing his black blade over his head. The tall monk cried, “No!” as he came for me. I blocked his downward thrust with an uppercut (if that’s the word for it; I don’t know fencing talk) of my bigger sword. I heard a loud screech of metal hitting metal. It sounded just like a car wreck.
His smaller blade shattered on impact. I grabbed his wrist and swung him into the elevator, pieces of glittering black metal raining down on us.
He fell into Uncle Farrell and the third monk, knocking both off balance. I reached into the elevator, grabbed Uncle Farrell by the hand, and pulled him out. I dragged him a couple of steps toward the stairs, but there was still the tall monk standing between us and the exit.
“Upon my honor,” he said. “All we want is the sword. Please. You know not what you are doing.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the sword and you will not be harmed. You have my word.”
I walked toward him, dragging Uncle Farrell with me, the tip of the sword pointed at the tall monk’s stomach. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I was doing it pretty well up to this point.
“Step out of the way,” I told him. “We’re leaving.”
“You will not get far,” he promised.
From beneath the hood, I swear I could see his eyes glowing, not red, like a demon or something, but a gentle bluish light, like the glow of a night-light.
“You cannot keep it long,” he said. “We know who you are.”