Free Morticai's Luck by Darlene Bolesny Page B

forgotten how to walk these alleys. Besides, it seems pretty quiet tonight.”
    “Yeah … sometimes, it is. Well, take care, Dyluth.”

    * * *

    They parted company, and Morticai began backtracking his way to the coach. Despite his disappointment at losing Ellenwood, he found his thoughts drifting back to his conversation with Calsen. It pleased him to know that his old friend was still alive—it had been too long since he’d lifted a mug with him. He did find it puzzling that Calsen still lived in the Pit. If he was working the docks, he should be making pretty fair wages—unless he wasn’t working regularly. He could see that in Calsen, who had always been a carefree sort.
    A low whistle interrupted his reverie. He spun to see four rough-looking young men eyeing him from the opposite end of the block. The humans exchanged glances among themselves.
    “Hey!” the tallest one shouted at him. “Corryn!”
    Morticai took a cautious step backward and found himself regretting that he’d not taken Calsen’s offer to walk him back to his coach. The gang’s knives came out in a flash. No one wasted time with more talk. Everyone in the Pit was prey to the gangs, even Watchmen, even Arluthians. Morticai drew his sword and dagger, spun on his heel, and ran in the other direction. Hoping he still remembered the area, he ducked down the next turn.
    The four men gave chase, as he knew they would. One of them whistled in odd, interrupted bursts. The younger Morticai would have understood the code, but too much time had passed since he’d been an urchin hiding in the warrens. He did know what the call meant, though—they were summoning the rest of their gang, informing them that they were in pursuit of a mark.
    The alley turned and ended at another that ran crosswise to it. Morticai heard rushing footsteps coming from the right before he entered the turn. His right hand flew upward. He blocked a downward knife thrust with the cross guard of his dagger and immediately followed up with a sword stroke that pierced his unarmored opponent’s chest just below the breastbone.
    Using his sword as a lever and his unfortunate target as an anchor, Morticai swung himself to the right, placing his back to the wall. He withdrew his blade from the man’s chest, and the would-be attacker crumpled. The two gang members who had been following the dying man stumbled over him and began yelling as they tried to pull the body out of their way.
    Morticai was already running. He was glad that knives were still the popular weapon here in the Pit—his sword would help even the odds. He passed the next side alley and fifteen feet later regretted it—his alley turned right, but went no further. By the time he made it back to the intersection, his pursuers had closed the gap and entered the intersection as he did.
    The narrow confines of the alley’s mouth allowed only two of them to come at him at once. The first to reach him tried to block Morticai’s sword with his knife. The Northmarcher easily disengaged and thrust his sword through the man’s belly even as he used his dagger to block a left-handed knife thrust from his partner, a grinning youngster.
    Another knife shot forward, driven by the youth’s other hand. Morticai abandoned his sword in the first man’s chest and grabbed the knife hand. The boy’s face showed surprise, but he quickly recovered and tried to disengage his other knife from Morticai’s dagger. Before his assailant could complete the maneuver, Morticai brought his left knee up hard, catching him in his privates. The youth doubled over and started retching.
    A dagger struck the wall a couple of inches from Morticai’s head, thrown by a gang member who stood behind the slumping man who was still wearing Morticai’s sword. The others pulled and kicked at the wounded man and the youth, trying to shove past to get at Morticai.
    Morticai lunged forward, grasped his sword, and jerked it out of the bleeding, howling gang