Free City of Dreams and Nightmare by Ian Whates Page B

its head. Beyond was a seemingly endless mess of cobbled-together shacks, apparently built out of whatever people could lay their hands on – scraps of wood, corrugated metal sheeting, boxes, cloth, wire, rope and goodness knew what else. As buildings went, these were sorry excuses. None of them looked capable of standing up to a strong sneeze.
    A small girl ran up to him, as if to beg, but was called back by a barked command from a stoop-shouldered woman who presumably was her mother. She offered the Kite Guard a quick apology and then dragged the child back behind a curtain that masked the doorway she’d emerged from, scolding her all the way.
    “What have I told you ’bout razzers?” he heard as they disappeared from sight.
    Tylus was so distracted by this cameo that he failed to notice the street-nicks until they were all around him. Were these the same ones who had been hanging around the stairwell? Two of them were, certainly – he recognised them – but he thought that they had also been joined by others.
    One bumped into his left shoulder in passing; apparently an accident, as if he had been pushed by one of his fellows, but Tylus doubted it. Alert for some trick, he wasn’t at all surprised to feel a feather-light touch on the right side of his belt, but even so was too slow. By the time he spun around, the offending hand was gone, taking his puncheon with it.
    The youth skipped a few backward steps, now in front of the Kite Guard and flanked by the rest of the small gang, five in all.
    “Give that back to me.”
    “Come and take it, razzer.”
    Boxing lessons may have been abandoned with the other accoutrements of youth, but Tylus still made a point of sparring regularly. Confronted with a situation like this, he immediately braced himself and raised his fists in familiar boxer’s stance, rising onto the balls of his feet in the process.
    The youth holding the puncheon threw his head back and laughed, which was the signal for the whole group to snigger and jeer. Then, after tucking the club into his belt, the street-nick raised his fists in mockery of the Kite Guard’s posture. But it was just a mockery and no real defence at all.
    Tylus danced forward, two quick steps, much to the further mirth of the onlookers. But it brought him within reach of his tormentor. He led with his left: one, two quick jabs to the face and then a third, which became the opening blow in a left-right combination. It was the right that packed the real punch. The Kite Guard doubted whether any of these grubbers had seen a real boxer before. Certainly the lad he was facing had no idea how to defend himself against one.
    The street-nick collapsed backwards, to sit on the ground with blood streaming from his nose and a bewildered look on his face.
    Tylus was still determined to reclaim the puncheon and knew he had to press his advantage before the rest of the gang recovered enough wit to attack him. Besides, he couldn’t resist – the lad’s chin was just too inviting. A quick step to readjust his balance and the Kite Guard lashed out with his foot, feeling satisfaction as the blow connected, knocking the street-nick onto his back, where he lay unmoving.
    This might not have been in any boxing manual, but the kick had certainly proved effective enough.
    The puncheon rolled loose. As Tylus bent down to pick it up, the largest of the street-nicks let out a bellow of rage and charged him. He swivelled and fired the puncheon. The club shot out, smashing into the lad’s forehead. At such close range and with the attacker’s own momentum adding to the force, the effect was devastating. The street-nick keeled over like a felled tree.
    The puncheon snapped back into its casing and Tylus held it before him, brandishing it in the direction of first one of the two remaining street-nicks and then the other. Two…? He could have sworn there were five in the original group, but no matter; perhaps one had already seen enough and run