Thrand (Part Ten)

 

Thrand was too surprised to be angry. Such things did not routinely happen to him in the course of his day. At first, he looked down dully at the clinging brown blot on his new cloak. The pungent odor of manure rose to his nostrils and his bristling brows knotted in puzzlement. Then realization hit and he looked up snarling.

There were two young street urchins about ten feet away, gazing at him with scorn. One was a brawny young Morg, barely into his Second Beard; the other was a weedy human boy of about fifteen. Though such cases rarely ascended into his court, he immediately recognized by certain signs that they were members of the Exhorters, one of the Mad Lad gangs that roamed the City, beggars who enforced their charity. They were known by their simple hats, stitched up the middle, and boots to the knee.

Most concerning for the moment, though, were the stout cudgels they carried. The boy had his slung over his shoulder while the Morg held his in one claw, slapping its weight suggestively into the other. He spoke again. His voice sounded thin coming out of his bulky body.

“Don’t you go ignorin’ me. It ain’t charitable. I said, Grampa, don’t yer have anythin’ to spare for a coupla poor fellas down on their luck?”

“It’d be good luck for ya if you did,” sneered the other lazily. Thrand noted several missing teeth in the boy’s mouth. “Otherwise, who knows what might happen to ya. Right, Snav?”

“Too right, Terp.”

Thrand puffed up like a toad at the words.

“Do you really expect me to reward such insolence with money?” he huffed, grabbing a fold of his soiled cloak and shaking it at them in display. “I just bought this! We are in mourning! Have some respect for the King’s passing, if you have none for me!”

In response, the two ruffians exchanged a knowing glance, looked back at the old Morg, and began advancing on him slowly in unison.

“Just bought it, eh? Then yer can easily spare the change from the transaction, can’t yer?” The young Morg grinned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the end of his club. “A little charity right now might keep us from gettin’ desperate and driven to violence in a bit.”

“Totally werf it,” agreed the boy. “A real act of charity, for all concerned.”

Thrand looked at the two figures as they strode toward him and his eyes widened a bit as his true situation suddenly cut through his anger. They were young, true, but then he was old, and tired and fat and sick, at that.  He looked around. This stretch of the street was quiet and empty at the moment, with no cross lanes on either side. The walking staff in his hand seemed light and frail now, compared to the approaching cudgels.

“Look, lads,” he said gruffly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice and not totally succeeding. He reached carefully to his belt and detached the pouch hanging there. He held it out. “I haven’t got much, but you’re welcome to it. Why don’t you take it and we call it quits?”

The two thugs never paused in their advance.

“Oh, we’ll take it,” the boy smirked, eyes fixed and gleaming. “But we’re owed a bit more now than what you have there. We needs a touch o’ satisfaction, we do, for your insolence, old sack.” He raised the club off his shoulder. They were almost on him.

“And we’ll just take it off your crusty hide afore we go,” the young Morg concluded, taking his club with a grip in both paws.

Thrand stood, petrified with shock. He could feel in the back of his mind the vague thought that he had never expected his day to end like this. He watched in fascination as the clubs rose like striking snakes, but slowly, as if time were dragging through the sunny air like honey. He couldn’t even raise his own stick to ward off the blow.  His fat body ached in anticipation, when suddenly a new voice cut through the air, startling them all and halting the falling weapons in their courses.

“Hey! Are you crazy? What do you guys think you’re doing!”

Notes

Looking back, I noticed with guilt that I had written nothing on Thrand for almost two weeks, even though I knew what was going to happen. ToyQuest 2023, while not taking up a lot of juice in its separate parts, seemed to be taking all that I had. I determined that today, before I went on with the action figures, I would produce a portion of Thrand to the best of my ability.

And it brought me around to toys again in a strangely circuitous manner. I knew the kind of hat I envisioned the ne'er-do-wells wearing. It was the same kind that Eric Idle wore in Monty Python and the Holy Grail as he called for people to 'bring out your dead'. In looking for a picture to clearly show what I meant, I came across a 12-inch action figure of him by Sideshow, produced around the earliest years of the century. It now illustrates this part of the tale.