O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,200

his sword stick.

Pickpockets?

He might have been prepared to walk on and trust the milling crowd had enough mind for their own care, except he saw briefly the unmistakable flash of a small blade. Cutpurses? Or something more?

The blade disappeared into the pocket of the taller boy who then turned and walked off. His compatriots fell in behind the predatory Pied Piper. Kit left his place by the fire to follow also. The markets were not so bustling as to prevent him straggling a few yards behind yet still keep them in sight.

The lads appeared to be in no hurry, and they did nothing to draw attention to themselves. That, in and of itself, was alarming. There was no banter, no loud profanities that youths of that age were wont to use.

They reached an intersection. The eldest boy glanced back at his companions and offered a tight nod before ducking right and setting off into a run toward an alley.

Where the hell were they going?

Kit caught a glimpse of the edge of a cloak disappearing down the alley. He picked up the pace despite his damaged leg. The laneway was wide enough for a dog cart and no more. He listened. The carnival sounds of the market couldn’t quite mask the sounds of a scuffle deep into the blackness.

A cry of alarm.

Kit ran directly toward it.

The knife plunged down toward its victim.

Kit yelled, drawing attention to himself. Four startled faces looked at him. The victim was a young man about the same age as his three assailants. The ringleader was the first to recover and returned a level stare.

“He’s alone! Get him.”

The trio arrayed themselves across the alley six feet in front of him. Kit set a savage snarl on his face and withdrew his sword stick’s blade. Alarm flickered in the eyes of one of the smaller boys.

Kit held the weapon at the ready in his right hand. The ebony sheath felt good in his left. He brandished it as a club, ready to use it so if needed. Little did these diminutive demons know that Captain Kit Hardacre had faced down full-grown pirates and slavers in greater numbers than this.

His attention remained on the oldest youth, the one who was the greatest threat. Despite his baby-faced features, he was hard, inured to violence.

The small knife he brandished was directed at his stomach, but Kit’s own blade was leveled at the boy’s throat.

“Leave now, old man, and we won’t cut ye.”

“Less of the old, pup.”

“There’s three of us.”

“And only one of me…” Kit’s voice dropped an octave. “… yet the odds are still in my favor.”

A lunge toward the closest boy had the desired effect. His unexpected aggression caused the youth to run without looking back. Kit let him pass, but was not so distracted to miss a movement to this left. He swung the ebony sheath down, striking the younger brigand hard over the knuckles. The youth cried out in pain and decided against putting up a fight. He followed his friend back down the alley.

Kit instructed the victim with barely a glance his way. “You. Get up. Get out of here.” The young buck scrambled to his feet and ran back down the alley with a muttered word of thanks as he passed.

The oldest boy – Trouble – did not move. He remained where he was, knife still gripped in his hand.

“Now isn’t it time you joined your friends and stayed out of mischief?”

“You should really mind your own business, old man,” the boy snarled. But despite his game words, his resolve wavered. Kit remained on alert. A cowed dog still had teeth.

“I’ve never followed that advice before, and I don’t expect to start now. Drop the knife before you hurt yourself with it.”

Kit counted silently to ten before Trouble finally did as he was bid. The blade clattered onto the cobbles. Kit glanced at it before kicking it into the shadows. He had no doubt that Trouble would be back looking for it, and he had no intention of making it easy for him.

He stepped to one side and indicated with the point of his sword that the youth should precede him. As soon as they reached the edge of the lane, the boy took off at a run into the fog.

Kit sheathed his sword, and it was a walking stick once more.

Strange how a little excitement could ease his aches and pains.

He dipped into the pocket of his coat once more to reach a couple of