DW02 Dragon War by Mark Acres Page B

pounded down them and barged into a tawdry sitting room. Startled shrieks came from the bevy of ladies, some with gentleman callers, who occupied it. A red velvet curtain barred the way to the front door. There should be a vestibule, then the door to the street, Bagsby thought. Don’t want the street. He, it, whatever, is out there. He turned left, bumped into a chair, did a double take to admire the exposed beauty of the young woman in the chair, then ran down the hallway to the rear of the building.
    He crashed through a door and found himself in the kitchen where two older women tended the pots. A round of beef sat steaming on a platter. He stopped, cut off a chunk of meat and popped it in his mouth.
    “Delicious,” he called to the old hags, who grinned their thanks.
    “This way out?” Bagsby asked, pointing to a back doorway.
    The crones nodded.
    Bagsby ran, threw open the door, and stepped outside into the brilliant midday light. He was in another alley, but this time with no dead end. He turned right, away from the alley where he’d fought the—whatever it was—and ran. The crowds were thinner here. He made good progress but soon became winded. He slowed then stopped. He rested his hands on the fronts of his thighs and sucked in the air as he looked about.
    The alley emptied into a kind of tiny square formed by the backs of many buildings and the front of a one-story hovel. The square was almost deserted; Bagsby hurried into it, cast about for any sign of his nemesis, saw none, then stopped again.
    Overhead, a lone crow cawed once, but Bagsby did not notice.
    “Are you not hearing?” a voice called to him. Bagsby looked again at the only human figure remaining in the tiny square. He was an old man, very thin, naked to the waist, barefoot, and clad only in a pair of short, dirty, white linen trousers. He sat in the doorway of the one building that fronted the square, his arms resting atop his bent knees, A few fine wisps of white hair shot out randomly from his tiny, brown, bald scalp. The old man’s eyes were also small, but they burned blue with an intensity Bagsby had seldom, if ever, seen before. Inhis weathered hands, the man held a small, white, cloth bag.
    “Didn’t I hear what?” Bagsby asked.
    “The call of the bird,” the man said.
    “What bird?” Bagsby asked, growing slightly exasperated. If that thing was anywhere nearby, he didn’t have time for this.
    “Ah, it is nearby. In fact, it will be here very soon,” the old man croaked.
    “What? How do you know.... How did you know what I was...?”
    “Look,” the old man said, nodding and pointing to the narrow alley.
    Bagsby whirled. The figure stood in the alleyway, sword in hand, a broad, light green silk sash tied around its neck.
    “No,” Bagsby breathed.
    “You will be needing this,” the old man said softly, extending the hand with the small white bag.
    “What? What’s that?” Bagsby asked, drawing his daggers, bracing again for the renewed struggle.
    “Oh, no, no, no. It wouldn’t do to be saying,” the old man said, not moving. “He might be hearing.”
    “I’ve no time for riddles,” Bagsby snapped. “That gentleman over there is looking for me, and his intentions are not kind.”
    “Oh my goodness, yes, that I know,” the old man said. “But he is looking as well for me. Let us be seeing which will the most interest him.” The old man slowly unfolded himself and stood. “Hello there, friend,” he called to the hideous corpse. Without the slightest show of fear, he walked calmly across the small square, his tiny brown feet padding softly on the sand. He stopped directly in front of the soldier. “I think I am someone you are wanting to talk with, is it not so?” he asked.
    “You!” the zombie gasped. “You are...”
    “Yes, yes, I am the one you are much seeking,” the old man said, smiling pleasantly. “Please, now, I have not much time. Bend down here and in my ear whisper what is it you wish to