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Now
Mancuso spoke for the first time keeping an eye on all who closed in
on him, “This old man drew blood before your grandfather drew the
breath of life.” He spoke with a thick accent – with a stiff
upper lip and rolled his R’s -- an accent no one could quite place. “Face
facts, old man. The days of the Firesmyth clan are over.” “Over?
Do you not remember the prophecy? When
fire brands the smith of old,
The stories shall then be
retold, The
robber shall forfeit his gold
And time will once again
refold.” He
waited, allowing the words to sink in. “No, the days of the
Firesmyths are not yet over, but yours is at hand.” He
saw them flinch a little in reaction, but not quite giving in to this
insult. Their training would not allow them to give in.
Instead, they resumed the walk around him drawing in the circle, burning
in outward anger and inward fear. Mancuso
looked at Consus eye to eye and asked, “What would you have of me?” “We
will have what you came for. What’s that you have in the chest,
old man? Let’s take a look.” “Who
sent you?” asked Mancuso without showing emotion. “Sent
us?” Consus acted stunned, unconvincingly. “No one sent
us, we was just out for a little loot. Come on, did you find some
for us?” All the while advancing, the others now jeering and
mock jabbing at him with their swords when his back was turned. Mancuso
shook his head
slowly. “The false-hearted
always lie: a treasure seeker declares himself an explorer; a bandit
claims to be a treasure seeker; but only an assassin or worse would
admit to being a thief.”
He gently placed the chest down with stiff back and bended
knee, never taking his eyes off of Consus. Patting the small chest
with his free hand he replied, “Now, why not come and take a look,
little children?” Training
or no, this was just the push they needed. At once, Consus and the
others rushed at Mancuso. |
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