Afterlife? -No: Aftershock!
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Chapter Thirteen
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The rain still poured steadily and had a soothing effect on Boromir, while he began brooding about how he could survive in this world, where, judging on the people's appearances, there was no need of warriors. Looking around him once more, Boromir noticed that the houses around him were less high and had less glass on them, than before.
The streets were dirtier and less frequented by people. It was evening, and in the twilight shadows grew bigger in many places. There even were less hovercars in the sky above, while Boromir became aware of eyes watching him.
He didn't see the eyes, nor the faces they belonged to, but he felt their stares all over him. Hunters were about, ready to get him. Hand on the pommel of his sword, Boromir walked on, now very much on the alert. Small sounds reached his ears. The swish of cloth against a wall, the scrape of a shoe against the hard ground, a suppressed cough.
Here and there he could spot a movement, but nothing clear, just a shadow sliding sideways or deepening suddenly. Again there was that cough, nearer now, and still Boromir walked on, not ready to show hesitation, his watchers might interpret hesitation as fear.
Five hundred yards later, one of them showed himself. The man stepped out of the shadows suddenly, right into Boromir's path. The man wore black clothes and shoes and in his hand was an ugly looking dagger. Boromir showed no surprise at the sudden appearance and stood easily opposite the man, his hand lying casually on the pommel of his sword.
"Good evening!" He greeted the man, then waited.
"Good evening to you, too!" The man answered silkily. "And where might you be going, so late in the night?"
There was some sort of threat in the man's voice, but Boromir was not to be impressed so easily,
"I am going east, Stranger, and where are you headed?"
"I think I'll stay here with you a little while longer." The man answered. "If you would tell me your name? I am Malcolm."
"I am Boromir."
"A strange name." Malcolm said jeeringly. "You're mother must've been stoned making that one up."
Sniggers filled the street. The pack liked the jokes of their leader. Boromir stayed calm. There was no point in reacting to insults he didn't understand, but he filed the word 'stoned' away to all others he didn't know.
"I wouldn't know, she decided what my name should be before my birth." He answered coolly.
"Smart one, are you?" Malcolm scowled. "If you're so smart, why'd you walk our streets without permission? My gang's greedy for your blood, buddy, you trespassed and they want to punish you."
"Your gang? The "Gully Rats"?"
"Exactly. So you know our name. Then you know what you're in for now, Borry- buddy."
At Malcolm's words, his gang stepped out of the shadows. A quick count told Boromir that they were about 20 young men, all with a knife, a heavy chain, or just some sort of club in their hands that served them as a weapon.
He knew this was going to be a mean fight, and a tough one at that, and he had no choice but to fight it. In a flash, he had pulled his sword and now he held it before him, ready to defend himself at the first move one of the men made on him.
"So you can use the blade you have with you. Great! This will make the fight much more fun!" Malcolm grinned meanly, advancing towards Boromir together with his men.
Boromir grinned back. He was ready. He had been in worse situations and survived, he knew what was coming. Maybe his wounds hadn't healed completely, but they weren't so bad that he couldn't fight.
"Ready when you are." He told the man. "Who wants to be first?"
A noise coming from behind warned him. At once he turned and raised his sword, just in time to parry the sweep of a dagger; he stepped sideways, avoiding a second stab, and swept his sword around in a wide circle, clearing himself some space.
The "Gully Rats" knew they were fast, but they had seen how fast Boromir was, and he was DAMN fast! Nevertheless, they had the advantage of numbers and they knew the terrain. Deciding that attack was his best defence, here, Boromir struck out, quickly, wounding two men, providing one of them with a gash all along his right arm and the other with a deep cut in the side. An instant later, Boromir appeared in front of another man who was several inches taller than him and struck him unconscious with the flat of his sword.
Turning sharply, he was in time to fend off two men holding heavy chains they swung at his head. Ducking, Boromir jabbed upwards with his sword and stuck his sword through one of the men's belly, then he straightened and kicked his foot out backwards, making contact with something soft.
Drawing one of his daggers, Boromir threw it at his other chain-swinging opponent, so it sank into his throat. Then he turned again, swinging his sword in a wide half-circle, cutting through more than one arm. He grabbed one of the men's wrists, tugging him into his sword. With his left, he snatched the man's knife out of his grasp and immediately threw it backwards at opponents advancing from there.
Five or six down, two injured, thirteen or fourteen more to come, Boromir thought to himself, ignoring the dull ache that began to emanate from his old wounds. And he hadn't been injured at all, yet. Leaping to the side, he forced his opponents to adjust and reorganise their attack, while he had time to slice one of them a wound from his left shoulder to his right hip and to strike down another one of them with a blow on the head with the flat of his sword.
Two more down, twelve more to go. One of them was Malcolm, who'd insulted Boromir's mother. The "Gully Rats" were hesitating now and well they might. Nearly half of them were already down and still Boromir didn't have so much as a scratch. Malcolm turned to the man whose arm Boromir had sliced open in half a second.
"Ring the HQ! Tell them, we need support! As many men as we can get!"
The man nodded and fumbled at his trouser pockets with his free hand. Boromir lost no time. He flung his second dagger and it flew straight and true, right into the man's heart. Then Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, cried his battle cry, advancing swiftly towards his remaining enemies.
He never reached them. Before he was near enough to touch them, they were off, running for their lives. Panting, Boromir slowed down. It was no good idea to follow them. Undoubtedly, they were running towards their den, where more of their gang waited. Instead, he wiped the blood from his sword, sheathed it, retrieved his daggers, wiped then too and returned them to their sheaths, and then jogged off. There was no knowing if the remaining "Gully Rats" would return in even greater numbers to get revenge.
As he moved on, he suddenly smiled. His musings had been wrong in one point, hadn't they? There was a need for warriors in this world. Maybe he'd fit in better than he'd thought.
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Chapter Thirteen
.
The rain still poured steadily and had a soothing effect on Boromir, while he began brooding about how he could survive in this world, where, judging on the people's appearances, there was no need of warriors. Looking around him once more, Boromir noticed that the houses around him were less high and had less glass on them, than before.
The streets were dirtier and less frequented by people. It was evening, and in the twilight shadows grew bigger in many places. There even were less hovercars in the sky above, while Boromir became aware of eyes watching him.
He didn't see the eyes, nor the faces they belonged to, but he felt their stares all over him. Hunters were about, ready to get him. Hand on the pommel of his sword, Boromir walked on, now very much on the alert. Small sounds reached his ears. The swish of cloth against a wall, the scrape of a shoe against the hard ground, a suppressed cough.
Here and there he could spot a movement, but nothing clear, just a shadow sliding sideways or deepening suddenly. Again there was that cough, nearer now, and still Boromir walked on, not ready to show hesitation, his watchers might interpret hesitation as fear.
Five hundred yards later, one of them showed himself. The man stepped out of the shadows suddenly, right into Boromir's path. The man wore black clothes and shoes and in his hand was an ugly looking dagger. Boromir showed no surprise at the sudden appearance and stood easily opposite the man, his hand lying casually on the pommel of his sword.
"Good evening!" He greeted the man, then waited.
"Good evening to you, too!" The man answered silkily. "And where might you be going, so late in the night?"
There was some sort of threat in the man's voice, but Boromir was not to be impressed so easily,
"I am going east, Stranger, and where are you headed?"
"I think I'll stay here with you a little while longer." The man answered. "If you would tell me your name? I am Malcolm."
"I am Boromir."
"A strange name." Malcolm said jeeringly. "You're mother must've been stoned making that one up."
Sniggers filled the street. The pack liked the jokes of their leader. Boromir stayed calm. There was no point in reacting to insults he didn't understand, but he filed the word 'stoned' away to all others he didn't know.
"I wouldn't know, she decided what my name should be before my birth." He answered coolly.
"Smart one, are you?" Malcolm scowled. "If you're so smart, why'd you walk our streets without permission? My gang's greedy for your blood, buddy, you trespassed and they want to punish you."
"Your gang? The "Gully Rats"?"
"Exactly. So you know our name. Then you know what you're in for now, Borry- buddy."
At Malcolm's words, his gang stepped out of the shadows. A quick count told Boromir that they were about 20 young men, all with a knife, a heavy chain, or just some sort of club in their hands that served them as a weapon.
He knew this was going to be a mean fight, and a tough one at that, and he had no choice but to fight it. In a flash, he had pulled his sword and now he held it before him, ready to defend himself at the first move one of the men made on him.
"So you can use the blade you have with you. Great! This will make the fight much more fun!" Malcolm grinned meanly, advancing towards Boromir together with his men.
Boromir grinned back. He was ready. He had been in worse situations and survived, he knew what was coming. Maybe his wounds hadn't healed completely, but they weren't so bad that he couldn't fight.
"Ready when you are." He told the man. "Who wants to be first?"
A noise coming from behind warned him. At once he turned and raised his sword, just in time to parry the sweep of a dagger; he stepped sideways, avoiding a second stab, and swept his sword around in a wide circle, clearing himself some space.
The "Gully Rats" knew they were fast, but they had seen how fast Boromir was, and he was DAMN fast! Nevertheless, they had the advantage of numbers and they knew the terrain. Deciding that attack was his best defence, here, Boromir struck out, quickly, wounding two men, providing one of them with a gash all along his right arm and the other with a deep cut in the side. An instant later, Boromir appeared in front of another man who was several inches taller than him and struck him unconscious with the flat of his sword.
Turning sharply, he was in time to fend off two men holding heavy chains they swung at his head. Ducking, Boromir jabbed upwards with his sword and stuck his sword through one of the men's belly, then he straightened and kicked his foot out backwards, making contact with something soft.
Drawing one of his daggers, Boromir threw it at his other chain-swinging opponent, so it sank into his throat. Then he turned again, swinging his sword in a wide half-circle, cutting through more than one arm. He grabbed one of the men's wrists, tugging him into his sword. With his left, he snatched the man's knife out of his grasp and immediately threw it backwards at opponents advancing from there.
Five or six down, two injured, thirteen or fourteen more to come, Boromir thought to himself, ignoring the dull ache that began to emanate from his old wounds. And he hadn't been injured at all, yet. Leaping to the side, he forced his opponents to adjust and reorganise their attack, while he had time to slice one of them a wound from his left shoulder to his right hip and to strike down another one of them with a blow on the head with the flat of his sword.
Two more down, twelve more to go. One of them was Malcolm, who'd insulted Boromir's mother. The "Gully Rats" were hesitating now and well they might. Nearly half of them were already down and still Boromir didn't have so much as a scratch. Malcolm turned to the man whose arm Boromir had sliced open in half a second.
"Ring the HQ! Tell them, we need support! As many men as we can get!"
The man nodded and fumbled at his trouser pockets with his free hand. Boromir lost no time. He flung his second dagger and it flew straight and true, right into the man's heart. Then Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, cried his battle cry, advancing swiftly towards his remaining enemies.
He never reached them. Before he was near enough to touch them, they were off, running for their lives. Panting, Boromir slowed down. It was no good idea to follow them. Undoubtedly, they were running towards their den, where more of their gang waited. Instead, he wiped the blood from his sword, sheathed it, retrieved his daggers, wiped then too and returned them to their sheaths, and then jogged off. There was no knowing if the remaining "Gully Rats" would return in even greater numbers to get revenge.
As he moved on, he suddenly smiled. His musings had been wrong in one point, hadn't they? There was a need for warriors in this world. Maybe he'd fit in better than he'd thought.