The Osiris Curse by Paul Crilley Read Free Book Online Page B

“Some would say you are the traitors.”
    â€œWe did what had to be done. We needed drastic action to save our people.”
    â€œWe were not just sitting idly around,” said Molock, and Tweed saw that he was getting annoyed. “We had a plan.”
    â€œA plan! What plan? To skulk around until you worked up enough courage to politely ask them to stop? If you thought that would work then it just confirms we did the right thing.”
    Sekhem pointed his walking stick at Molock. There was a quiet snick sound and the wood separated into two halves that shot out to either side, revealing a gleaming steel blade.
    â€œToday you die.”
    Sekhem lunged forward, swinging the sword in a backhand slice that was aimed at Molock's neck. Molock jerked back, the tip of the blade connecting with a shirt button, sending it spinning into the air. Sekhem swung the sword again, but Molock stepped into his reach and smacked his forearm into Sekhem's wrist, stopping the sword in mid-movement. At the same time, Molock balled his left fist and hit Sekhem hard in the face.
    Sekhem staggered back, eyes wide with surprise. Then he rolled his shoulders, swinging the thin sword in complex patterns through the air.
    â€œYou're a lot faster than the last time we met,” he said.
    Molock shrugged. “That's all down to you. Losing the crown made me realize I had to train myself.” He slid his jacket off and took up a defensive stance, weight balanced evenly between both legs.
    Sekhem came straight at him. Tweed wasn't sure if it was a feint, something to throw Molock off guard, because, really, who just ran at you with a sword? Where was the finesse? The skill?
    But then a moment later Tweed saw the finesse. And the skill. Plus a lot more that he couldn't explain.
    Molock dodged the blade, spinning away from it and lashing out with stiff fingers. They caught Sekhem in the throat, and Tweed thought that was it. Fight over. A blow as hard as that, with fingers stiffened in such a way, it should have crushed the man's larynx. But Sekhem just shrugged it off and attacked.
    Molock used his forearms to deflect the blows, somehow managing to turn the sharpened edge of the weapon away each time it connected, rolling his arm so that the sword slid harmlessly aside.
    As Octavia and Tweed watched, the pace of the fight picked up, the two men moving with almost inhuman speed, their attacks and defenses so effortless, so smooth, Tweed felt like he was watching a graceful dance. Neither of the fighters could land a wounding blow, but they kept trying until their arms were a blur: attack, block, spin, duck, attack, deflect. On and on until Tweed actually grew bored.
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” he said, pulling out his Tesla gun.
    â€œWait,” whispered Octavia fiercely. “What are you doing?”
    â€œI'm not waiting here all night for those two to finish. I'm tired.”
    Tweed stepped out from behind their cover. He raised the gun and struck the kind of heroic pose Atticus Pope always pulled on the covers of his books.
    After a few seconds he realized he was still standing in the shadows and no one could see him. He thought he heard Octavia sniggering at him, but he couldn't be sure.
    He muttered under his breath and walked into the light.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said.
    Sekhem and Molock whirled around to face him. When they did so, Tweed actually backed up a step. It was surely a trick of the light but for a tiny moment there the two men's eyes seemed to glow yellow.
    Tweed waved the gun in the air. “Stop this now. It's all very fascinating, and I'm sure if you did your little dance in Piccadilly Circusyou could charge a few crowns for the show, but it's been a long night and I really, really want to go to bed. I lit the fire before I came out,” he explained. “By now my room will be the perfect temperature for a sweet, dreamless sleep.”
    The one called Molock looked at him as if he were