The Deavys by Foster Alan Dean

Author:Foster, Alan Dean [Foster, Alan Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504015875
Publisher: Open Road Media Teen & Tween
Published: 2016-02-16T14:03:07+00:00

XIII

Frightened as they were both for themselves and their sister, Rose and N/Ice weren’t about to let any of them be sliced up and added to the butcher shop’s selection of prime cuts. Raising their hands, they prepared to fling what they could at the stout, threatening giant while simultaneously hoping to free their trapped sibling. Tybolt the Butcher was an ogre. Big, menacingly big, he was also no fool. Observing their preparations, he stopped where he was and took stock. “OI, SO THAT’S ’OW IT IS, IS IT? WICKED LITTLE MAGICIANS, BE THEE? NO WONDER YOU MANAGED TO COST ME SO MANY GOOD EMPLOYEES.” Grinning evilly and flashing snaggled, broken teeth, he swiftly brought the edge of the enormous chopping knife right up to Amber’s neck. Instantly, she stopped struggling. One stiff shove of that massive hunk of razor-sharp steel, an agonized Simwan realized, and Amber’s head would go rolling across the floor. He knew incantations for stopping bleeding, and for repairing injured limbs, but he didn’t know any spells strong enough to reattach the head of a loved one. From the alarmed looks on the faces of Rose and N/Ice, they didn’t either. “SUBMIT!” Tybolt the Butcher bellowed, pressing the edge of the knife into Amber’s neck so that it just barely dimpled her smooth skin. “SUBMIT TO ME NOW, OR I’LL MAKE THIS GIRL’S SKULL INTO A PLAY-PRETTY TO DANGLE FROM ME EAR!”

Simwan looked around frantically, urgently, as if help might materialize simply from the wishing for it. Rose was no less panicked, and N/Ice was crying tears that vanished into elsewhere before they could hit the floor. They couldn’t give their binding submission. To do so would be to look forward to an unrewarding future as cold cuts in someone else’s freezer. But not to do so would mean seeing their sister decapitated right in front of them. As he struggled desperately with how to respond, how to reply, Simwan thought he heard something in the silence of the room. It was so subtle and soft as to be nearly inaudible. It barely tickled his ears.

Was that a meow?

He was almost afraid to turn around, almost afraid to do much of anything. But at the moment, the ogre’s attention was fixed on Amber’s sisters. Glancing around as furtively as he could manage, Simwan found himself the focus of Pithfwid’s urgent stare. His fur all bottled up and presently the color of pure silver, Pithfwid was standing next to one wall, the claws of his right rear foot pressed up against it and dangerously close to …

It was something Simwan had seen the cat do before. Whether it would work this time, and have any effect if it did work, he had no way of telling. Not knowing what else to do, he determined to do his part. It couldn’t worsen the situation, and it was certainly more promising than doing nothing. He returned his attention to Tybolt the Butcher and the ogre’s limp, helpless prisoner.

“If you touch one hair of my sister’s head!” Simwan began warningly.

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