a more familiar hue looked no less odd due to the extreme contrast. A few laughed, but not in a friendly way. They ambled toward Greg, separating as they approached.
Greg blew out a breath. He raised his walking stick, adopting the sensen stance Nathan had ingrained in him, and waited to see what they would do.
Suddenly one boy lunged forward, swinging a length of pipe. He obviously thought to surprise Greg, and he did, but only because Greg had imagined him doing something far worse.
The thrust came as if in slow motion, and Greg easily diverted it away with his stick. The boy stumbled and nearly fell, but Greg made no advance against him. Instead he planted his walking stick on the ground before his feet.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’ll bet you don’t,” the boy said, and launched a second attack. Greg slapped away that thrust just as easily as the first, but a second boy took advantage of the distraction to come at Greg with a chain. Greg’s eyes widened. He’d never tried deflecting a swinging chain before. But then, he had once managed to deflect an enraged troll, not to mention a couple of angry spirelings. The thought might have calmed him, if the memories themselves hadn’t been so terrifying. Even so, he caught the chain on the point of his stick and yanked it away before it completely unfurled.
The boy with the pipe launched another attack. Greg barely managed to dodge the blow. He flailed his stick around for protection, accidentally striking the boy across the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” Greg said.
The boy looked even more terrified than Greg felt. He hesitated, his pipe dangling loosely at his side. But then he grinned, and Greg caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Greg ducked and spun and extended his stick, feeling the solid impact of wood on bone. A third boy had joined the fight and paid dearly for it. He screamed and fell to the ground, holding his side.
“Really sorry,” Greg added.
“Get out of the way,” growled a large purple-skinned boy. He shoved one of the others aside and lumbered forward, tossing up a large rock and catching it again. “Let’s see how far he can reach with that thing.”
Greg was just about to try reasoning with him when the boy lurched forward and unleashed the stone. Greg gasped, but months of practicing his chikan skills on the trail took over. His head jerked back, and he batted down the toss with his stick.
The purple boy’s jaw dropped. “What the—?”
“Get him!” someone shouted, and Greg nearly panicked when attackers rushed him from all sides.
He didn’t focus on any particular one, but instead began to dance through the chikan moves Nathan had taught him, adjusting the routine ever so slightly to slap away each strike that came his way, never hesitating long enough to see the results of his efforts. The attacks seemed to rain in on him forever, but not one of the boys managed to reach him with their makeshift weapons. Finally, when Greg felt he was about to collapse, a voice rang out above the crowd.
“Stop!”
Greg continued pushing his walking stick through his practiced movements for several seconds before he realized the attacks had ceased. He spun the stick a final time and planted one end in the ground at his feet.
His attackers pulled back to allow another boy to pass. This one stood smaller than any Greg had faced, but he walked with an air of confidence that worried Greg even more. His skin was dark but human looking, and he seemed vaguely familiar.
“Nathan?”
The boy stopped several feet away and eyed Greg, clearly confused but in no way intimidated. “Nate. Only my father calls me Nathan.”
Greg exhaled shakily. Who’d have thought Nathan would have been just as confident as a boy as he was as an adult? Was it possible Nathan knew magic before he ever left for Myrth? Greg shuddered at the thought. Then he had an idea.
“How is your father? I heard he was sick.”
The length of turned wood
Greg blew out a breath. He raised his walking stick, adopting the sensen stance Nathan had ingrained in him, and waited to see what they would do.
Suddenly one boy lunged forward, swinging a length of pipe. He obviously thought to surprise Greg, and he did, but only because Greg had imagined him doing something far worse.
The thrust came as if in slow motion, and Greg easily diverted it away with his stick. The boy stumbled and nearly fell, but Greg made no advance against him. Instead he planted his walking stick on the ground before his feet.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’ll bet you don’t,” the boy said, and launched a second attack. Greg slapped away that thrust just as easily as the first, but a second boy took advantage of the distraction to come at Greg with a chain. Greg’s eyes widened. He’d never tried deflecting a swinging chain before. But then, he had once managed to deflect an enraged troll, not to mention a couple of angry spirelings. The thought might have calmed him, if the memories themselves hadn’t been so terrifying. Even so, he caught the chain on the point of his stick and yanked it away before it completely unfurled.
The boy with the pipe launched another attack. Greg barely managed to dodge the blow. He flailed his stick around for protection, accidentally striking the boy across the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” Greg said.
The boy looked even more terrified than Greg felt. He hesitated, his pipe dangling loosely at his side. But then he grinned, and Greg caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Greg ducked and spun and extended his stick, feeling the solid impact of wood on bone. A third boy had joined the fight and paid dearly for it. He screamed and fell to the ground, holding his side.
“Really sorry,” Greg added.
“Get out of the way,” growled a large purple-skinned boy. He shoved one of the others aside and lumbered forward, tossing up a large rock and catching it again. “Let’s see how far he can reach with that thing.”
Greg was just about to try reasoning with him when the boy lurched forward and unleashed the stone. Greg gasped, but months of practicing his chikan skills on the trail took over. His head jerked back, and he batted down the toss with his stick.
The purple boy’s jaw dropped. “What the—?”
“Get him!” someone shouted, and Greg nearly panicked when attackers rushed him from all sides.
He didn’t focus on any particular one, but instead began to dance through the chikan moves Nathan had taught him, adjusting the routine ever so slightly to slap away each strike that came his way, never hesitating long enough to see the results of his efforts. The attacks seemed to rain in on him forever, but not one of the boys managed to reach him with their makeshift weapons. Finally, when Greg felt he was about to collapse, a voice rang out above the crowd.
“Stop!”
Greg continued pushing his walking stick through his practiced movements for several seconds before he realized the attacks had ceased. He spun the stick a final time and planted one end in the ground at his feet.
His attackers pulled back to allow another boy to pass. This one stood smaller than any Greg had faced, but he walked with an air of confidence that worried Greg even more. His skin was dark but human looking, and he seemed vaguely familiar.
“Nathan?”
The boy stopped several feet away and eyed Greg, clearly confused but in no way intimidated. “Nate. Only my father calls me Nathan.”
Greg exhaled shakily. Who’d have thought Nathan would have been just as confident as a boy as he was as an adult? Was it possible Nathan knew magic before he ever left for Myrth? Greg shuddered at the thought. Then he had an idea.
“How is your father? I heard he was sick.”
The length of turned wood
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