He
glanced back at Jasfoup. “A little help wouldn't go amiss about
now.”
Give
me a moment. Who do you think I am? Mephistopheles?” Jasfoup
emptied more rubbish from his pocket. A pair of spectacles, a
sextant, a rubber duck. “Ah! Here we are.” He exrtacted all
forty-two inches of Harold's silver-topped walking cane. “I took
the liberty of bringing this along, you know, just in case.”
“Splendid.”
He held up a hand as Jasfoup executed the perfect toss in his
direction.
Harold took a step
forward into the path of the end-over-end throw and caught his silver
top cane. He transferred it to his left hand, grasped the handle in
his right and with a twist, disengaged the two parts to slide the
sword half from its wooden sheath. As he stepped back he raised the
saber to the first guard position, his right hand above and slightly
forward of his head, the tip of the sword pointing forward and thirty
degrees in both declination and horizontal position. Demons began to
spread out to either side and he took several steps back to keep them
in his periphery.
“It's no good, Mr.
Waterman. There's only one of you and two dozen of my demons. How
long do you think you can hold out?” Manoach smiled, though with
this many of his composite demons manifested the expression
highlighted the ruin of his face. Two centuries took a lot out of a
man. You can't hurt a demon with cold steel.”
“How about meteoric
iron?” It was a bluff. The only weapon he possessed made of
meteoric iron was a sixteenth century halberd and it was currently
wired to the wall of Laverstone Manor.
“That would certainly
sting a bit.” Manoarch's smile twisted into one resembling a snake
approaching an oblivious squirrel obliviously. “But your sword
isn't made of meteoric iron, so the point is moot.”
“Alas, my bluff
revealed.” Harold pressed a button on the sheath and a two-inch
spike unfolded like a flick knife. Both sections of the cane came
under the offensive-weapons-bracket-concealed-bracket but then, he
was fairly sure demons were fairly offensive, too. Especially the
ones the ones trying to kill him.
He lunged forward,
landing a cut on the nearest demon that split open the oily black
skin from shoulder to groin. It screeched like a Essex girl with a
lager and fell back, tentacles coiling and writhing as it sank into
the floor.
It was
Harold's turn to smile. “It might not be meteoric, but I did coat
the blade in holy water.”
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