"Look there, Fredo," said Figaro. The boy looked towards the place Figaro indicated. "Yes Fredo, I'd swear it was those three footpads again plus another, except I know two of them I sent to Diablo's Inn and the third gone to some unknown place in the hills. Stay low boy and run if things don't go well!" With that, Figaro snapped sharply at the reins and the horses picked up a much faster pace than usual.
Figaro saw the man pulled off his horse and cast to the ground. The distance closed faster yet. On one turn the wagon made as if to lift two wheels off the ground. Fredo gulped as he felt the wagon tilt and then return to solid footing once more. The boy held on a little tighter than before.
The footpad reached down once more and Figaro guessed either the unfortunate dismounted rider was about to be struck or some way else would suffer from the footpad's rough handling.
The noise of his wagon must have finally been heard, for the man, no... not a man, a young man or adolescent, lifted his head to see who approached. The footpad manhandling him let him go and looked over his shoulder at Figaro's approach. The ruffian turned, as did the other three footpads. It was clear they were trying to make up their minds what to do about Figaro. They appeared to have decided to wait.
Figaro reined in his team of horses a short distance from the footpads and the, yes, very young man who was now sitting on the ground. "Gentlemen, may I be of assistance? Are you having some difficulty helping this young man to his feet." Cat felt some momentary relief as it was plain Figaro, who she recognized immediately, did not recognize her. But this was a jester, not a warrior, not a soldier, and certainly not a knight.
"This is none of your business, jester," spat one of the men, apparently the leader.
"You know, there were some of you on this road earlier who spoke unkindly to me. Is there something wrong with your breeding in this part of the Po?"
"Are you mocking me?"
"Hmmmm... Yes. I am a jester, aren't I?" Figaro's voice turned somewhat sterner as he handed the reins of the horses to Fredo. "Help the young man to his feet and return his horse."
"He has some items that belong to me," snarled the leader. "I think I'll take them and the horse first, if you don't mind."
"I do mind, and I believe he has items you hoped would be yours, that is, until I came along." Figaro saw hands go to their swords and daggers and knew what he must do next. His hand pulled a throwing knife from his shirt that found a place in the chest of the man holding the horse. Startled, the aged mare reared as the knifed footpad dropped to the ground. The horse trotted down the road then stopped and looked back as if to see what would happen next.
Three on one, almost even, thought Figaro as he reached into the recess of his wagon bench to withdraw his own sword.
The young man, now totally ignored by the footpads, rose to his feet and withdrew a knife as the three remaining footpads charged Figaro. Bravely, he attempted to stab one of Figaro's attackers, only to receive a blow on his knife hand causing him to drop his knife, and a second blow to his face from the back of the hand of another thief. The young man dropped to the ground, stunned, but with his vision clear enough to see the assault being mounted on the jester by the remaining three thieves.
Figaro perfectly timed his leap from the bench seat to somersault over their heads and land on his feet behind the charging footpads, his sword at the ready. The surprised thieves stopped in their tracks and spun around to confront the agile jester.
Clang, clung, clang, clump, clang! The sound of metal striking on metal reverberated off the walls of the surrounding elevations. Figaro was being pressed inordinately hard by the sheer number of swordsmen he had engaged. Hmmm, not good this time, he concluded as he struggled mightily. Maybe, just maybe, it is one too many, he thought. And the youngster. He quickly glanced to where the stunned youth sat on the ground, eyes open wide, mouth looking the same. No, no help there. Obviously not a warrior.
Cat sat on the ground, the pain of the blow largely forgotten, as she watched Figaro wield his sword more expertly than the best swordsman she knew of in the castle. The jester a swordsman? Willing to fight for a stranger? Who could have known? Cat felt a little guilty for assuming the worst about him because of his association with Ricco and the timing of his arrival. She drew her breath in that moment as Figaro's battle took a turn for the worse.
Figaro staggered under a particularly savage blow, nearly tripping over a large stone in the roadway. He recovered his balance just in time to ward off a flurry of blows from his attackers. Though his attackers were wearying, Figaro, fighting three at once, was wearying more rapidly, despite his skill.
A movement in the vegetation between the river and the road stole a moment of his attention. A new rider in sight, maybe a friend, maybe not. He seemed to be approaching. Figaro groaned inwardly. It was the footpad who escaped Figaro days before. Figaro recognized him immediately. ENOUGH! A reserve of strength surged upwards to ride a crest of calculated anger in Figaro's soul.
Figaro found an opening in the defense of one of the footpads and administered a strong blow with his sword to the man's neck. Spurting life, the man crumpled to the ground. The other two stepped back staring at their fallen comrade. Figaro paused trying to catch his breath. It was then the two remaining footpads caught side of the newly arrived ally; for they recognized the man as one of their own, in the same profession, now alone because his comrades were dead. News travelled quickly among those in the profession of thievery.
Figaro readied himself to battle three enemies once more. This time he added a brief prayer to his preparations. He suspected it might be needed. Cat saw the other man and guessed the worse. Knowing it might be fruitless and in desperate fear for herself... and for the jester too, she rose to her feet to fetch one of the fallen thieves' swords. She didn't know how to use it, but she felt she had to help in some way.
Figaro saw the young man who was the cause of his current prolonged problem walk to where one of the fallen footpads had dropped his sword. The youth attempted to lift it, but it was obvious this youth was not used to such weapons. "Drop it!" bellowed Figaro. "You'll hurt yourself more than them with it!" The youth's face reddened, but he said nothing; nor did he drop the sword.
"There are three of us once more, jester. Make it easy on yourself and drop your weapon. The youth is no help to you."
"Ahem," said the newly arrived horseman. "There is an error in your count, thief. I see only two of you."
The leader's mouth opened wide as his chin dropped. "Cesare, you are one of us, not a traitor to our ways!"
"Not today, thief," countered Cesare. "I'd advise you to remove yourselves. The jester may be a little worse for the wear, but I think the day will be his if you raise your swords against him any longer." Figaro, knowing full well this was the third thief, the one he hadn't killed, stood there sword at the ready, though he himself was thoroughly puzzled by the third theif's unexpected goodwill.
The leader and his surviving accomplice looked at each other in silent communication. Then the leader decided. "Till we meet again, jester." The thief raised his sword in the form of a half-hearted salute and he and the other thief swiftly ran into the vegetation leaving Figaro, Cesare, Fredo and the unknown youth alone on the road between San Luca Maggiore and Millefiore.
LANCER
One word deserves another.
[This message has been edited by Lancer (edited 06-19-2002 @ 09:24 PM).]