Walf's Adventure

Chapter 7: Time To Flee

       “I’ll take another one of those and a sack of those too, please. Oh, and do you have someone who could deliver a message? This letter needs to go to a man named Jos at the Gold Wallow Inn. Here’s a few extra trigs for your trouble.”
       Logen paid for the provisions while Alex and Walf sat talking on a bench,.
       “So how’s your head?” Alex asked.
       “Not too bad now. If that ugly spook hadn’t whacked me over the head and stolen my dagger.”
       Alex looked at the boy’s head. It was bandaged well and, unlike his own wrist, wasn’t in a splint. Yes, his hand would be useless for quite some time before it healed.
       “But it’s ok.” Walf went on, “It’s my ear that I’m worried about.”
       “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. You know, Bjarn the Forestman only had one ear too.”
       Walf brightened a bit at this and his mouth rounded up into a smile.
       “Why,” Alex continued, “You had to be on the good side if you wanted him to understand you correctly.”
       Walf’s smile dropped.
       “But then I guess I didn’t need to tell you that.”
       Just then Logen came back with the packs of provisions he had purchased.
       “Is that enough?” Alex inquired.
       “It better be.” said Logen, “That was the last of my money.”
       “So what happened? You know, with the sword. Who was that other ghost?”
       “Oh yes…well, you remember I said there were two dead Dragon Masters right where I found the sword? I saw there faces and that ghost you saw was one off them. Now come on, let’s get going.”
       “Where are we going?” asked Alex.
       “Dunno...anywhere but in Classic LEGOland…” Logon replied.
       Alex swore, “Tyco! One after another I’m being banished from faction to faction...I’m always in the wrong place at the wrong megabloks time.”
       Logon grunted in understanding. There was silence for a moment, then Walf said, “I’m cold.”
       “So am I…” sighed Alex, “but we’ll have to manage until we get somewhere friendly.”
       “We are quite a sight for sore eyes...let’s hope our reputation as evil tricksters doesn’t precede us…” Logon muttered darkly.

       As the cart shot off into the night, Brugs didn’t hit the ground, but sunk into it slightly before springing up again as if on a trampoline. That was only one of many strange aspects of being a ghost that Brugs was just getting used to; the ability to become almost solid and hold objects, or transparent enough to disappear at will, and the big advantage of not getting tired, or hurt, while easily doing damage to others.
       Brugs spat, his ghostly spittle doing little to smear the landscape. He cursed the one disadvantage to his predicament, his confounded connection with the sword.
       Someone groaned behind him. Ah yes, another problem...his stupidly pacifistic traveling companion was also a burden. Without Dale, Brugs would have free reign over the sword.
       Brugs turned and, ignoring Dale who was just struggling to get up, searched about for the barrel in which the sword was trapped. It was in a stinking sewer gutter, and Brugs smashed it into shards against a brick wall. He then moved over to Dale, bloodshot eyes glaring.
       “I wasn’t able to get my revenge with you shifty-brick friends, but there’s be blood spilt tonight!”
       “No!” Dale staggered upright, “Brugs, listen to me, you don’t have to be like this…”
       “Shuttup! I have I life I had planned to live, and thanks to ye I’m dead! I might be able to walk and talk, but where’s my meat? Where's my ale? Where’s my wenches? Gone, megabloks!”
       Brugs flew off, the sword clattering down the cobblestones behind him like a trailing leash. Dale stay put for a sec, but was also jerked forward by the sword. Dale longed to go fine his friends, but he didn’t want Brugs to find them, and where he went, Brugs went. A tear spilled down his cheek as his slid into the dark of the Reno’s cursed sword.
       It was a mistake. As soon as Dale was within the sword, so was Brugs, and the lethal weapon was off like a firecracker, swerving drunkenly down the street, half of it searching for victims, the other trying to prevent murder. It was only a matter of time before the first of many screams pierced the black night.

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