Knight Life by Peter David Read Free Book Online Page B

but said nothing. Talking had never been his strong suit. Nor was he very sharp on conscious thought.
    Â Â Â Â  Their most recent foray into clothes shopping, this time into a Salvation Army drop-off box (or, as they referred to it, their Uncle Sal) had garnered them dark sweatshirts and tattered jeans with holes in the knees. Buddy was also wearing battered basketball Nikes and a thin wind-breaker. In his social strata this alone was enough to qualify him for the best-dressed list.
    Â Â Â Â  Buddy said, “Look at him. Like he’s got the whole world for his oyster. He must have enough on him to keep us goin’ for a few days, at least. Geez, he must be from out of town. C’mon.”
    Â Â Â Â  He and his partner, or what there was of him, stepped out of the bushes. Buddy looked down and scowled. “Who told you not to wear shoes, you idiot. Geez, aren’t your feet cold?”
    Â Â Â Â  Elvis looked at him blankly. “Feet?”
    Â Â Â Â  The two ill-equipped, ill-advised, and generally just plain ill muggers found themselves quickly at a disadvantage. Their intended victim was walking quite quickly, and they felt compelled to remain in the background. The general intention was not to be spotted by the victim until it was too late.
    Â Â Â Â  Their own paranoia made this problematic. They insisted on taking refuge behind trees and shrubbery every time they thought, even for a moment, that they might be detected. These brilliant attempts at camouflage consisted of noisily rustling bushes or tripping over projecting roots. Colorful profanity and frantic shushing usually accompanied such endeavors. At one point Elvis and Buddy were almost within striking distance, but out ofnowhere a police car materialized. It prompted them to dive headlong into the bushes to avoid detection. When the police car drove on past, they emerged cut and bleeding, and Elvis wiped at his nose and asked if they could go home now.
    Â Â Â Â  “That’s it,” growled Buddy. “We’re endin’ this right now.”
    Â Â Â Â  They scuttled ahead but found, much to their chagrin, that they had lost their quarry at the fork in the road. Trusting to his luck, which had not served in good stead for over a decade, Buddy pulled his partner to the right and walked as quickly as he could.
    A RTHUR SMILED , ENJOYING the game. There was no way of his stalkers knowing that the man they were pursuing was possessed of a warrior’s sixth sense, which warned him that a couple of badly intentioned but inept thugs were following him. But he made no effort to discourage them. They seemed harmless enough, and in a perverse sort of way he was very curious as to how they would react to the events that would shortly transpire.
    Â Â Â Â  At one point he felt he was losing them, so he waited and watched from the shadows, and when he saw them coming, stepped back out onto the path. If they had guessed wrong, he’d been prepared to clear his throat loudly to guide them on their way. He began to walk, paused momentarily, and cast a glance over his left shoulder. There was the expected crash and curses as the two leaped into the bushes once again. Arthur laughed to himself. He hadn’t had this much fun in centuries.
    Â Â Â Â  The road angled down, and within a few more moments Arthur stood at the edge of Central Park Lake. His nostrils flared. He could smell the magic in the air, like a faint aroma that lingered long after a great feast had been cleared away. It was a pleasant scent, a familiar one. Afterall, he had lived with it for more years than any man could rightly expect to live. Magic had cured him when he’d been struck down through the duplicity of his bastard son, Modred, and magic had kept him alive. It was as mother’s milk to him … except he distrusted it. But sometimes one has to learn to live with that which one