A Knight in Central Park(26)
The man’s armor dug into Joe’s skin, making him wince. As he fought to get untangled from metal and rope, he tasted blood and dirt. The horse’s reins became ensnared between their bodies. The animal’s eyes rolled back in fear as it reared up, giving Joe mere seconds to roll out of the way. Harig’s armor prevented him from moving as quickly. The big man roared out a great sound like that of a mythical beast right before massive hooves crashed down upon his chest, silencing him in an instant. The animal broke free and galloped off, leaving its rider with droplets of blood splattered across his scraggly beard and face.
Joe came to his feet and listened for signs of life, hearing instead only his own raspy breathing as nauseating spurts of adrenaline coursed through his veins. His gaze never left Harig’s bulky form, a large shadowed heap of metal. This had to be a movie set. Nothing else would explain the horrid realness of it all. At any moment the director would appear and yell, “Cut!”
No such luck. Only the pounding of his heart and the high-pitched chirping of myriad crickets could be heard. Even the boy, whose life had been spared for now, was quiet among the higher branches of the oak.
Everything about Harig’s armor looked inconceivably authentic, from the mail leggings and quilted thigh protectors to the knee plates and greaves covering his shins. Even through stinging, watery eyes, Joe could see that Harig’s well-used gauntlets were of quality craftsmanship with iron plates riveted to fabric. With a shaky hand, he reached out and touched Harig’s throat. No pulse. Sighing, he peered upward into the twisted branches, hoping to spot the boy in the shadows. Instead, the sharp crackling of fire drew his attention.
“Alexandra!” he called out.
Where was she? The house was covered in flames and Alexandra was nowhere to be seen.
“Watch out!” the boy shouted from behind.
Joe whipped about, pushing the cape over his shoulder and out of his way. Harig wasn’t dead after all. He was alive and well and his face was a maze of angry lines. The beast of a man had been trampled beneath the hooves of a gigantic horse, but it hardly slowed him. He was like the terminator and it was beginning to look like nothing but a cask of molten metal was going to stop him. Maybe not even that.
Harig grunted, sliding his sword easily from its sheath.
Once again Joe figured he was a goner until Alexandra appeared seemingly out of thin air. “Put ’em up, mister, or I’ll shoot!”
Harig and Joe both looked her way.
Standing in a stiff-legged John-Wayne stance, she held the BB gun with both hands, steady and confident.
Joe no longer thought he was a dead man, he had no doubt whatsoever. Obviously Alexandra had watched one too many late-night cowboy movies over the last few days.
Harig took a step in her direction.
She didn’t hesitate. She aimed, shot, then ducked as little metal pellets ricocheted off of the big man’s armor.
“Ow!” Joe said, clutching his arm. “What are you doing?”
A crash sounded behind her, drawing their attention to the house. Flames shot up from the roof and great billows of smoke followed. Without another word, she dropped the gun and ran off, leaving him alone to face Harig.
Harig looked unbothered by her disappearance, obviously uncaring as to whose life he took first. He turned back to Joe, and slowly raised his sword. He also raised his upper lip, revealing a row of chipped, discolored teeth.
Forced to decide between the last of the artillery in his possession, the pocketknife or the lighter, Joe opted for the Bic.
His hands shook, making it difficult to light. He flicked his thumb over the flint once more, and then again. Seconds felt like hours, and then click a tiny flame appeared. “Fire,” he said to Harig in an excited, if not slightly deranged voice.
It was working.
Harig was entranced. At least until the flame fluttered and fizzled out completely.
Joe took two steps backwards, holding out a hand. “Why don’t we talk about this. No need for any violence.”
Grinning, Harig stepped toward him, easily plucking Joe up by his collar, having no care to chat for a while.
Joe’s feet left the ground. The cold steel of Harig’s blade touched at his jaw. Joe had never considered himself a deeply religious man, but he reached inside his shirt, pulled out his medallion, and kindly asked God for a little help.
A few uneventful seconds passed. His feet still hovered inches from the ground, but nothing happened. Joe dared to peek through one eye, surprised to see Harig’s eyes grow round with fear, maybe even terror. As if he had been bitten by a snake, Harig released his hold, letting Joe drop to the ground before he scrambled away, tripping on his own feet as he ran off.