Friday, November 2, 2012

Dead Rite chapter 130.11


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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