He jerked away from the food, away from the Skirrit in the trench coat. But another was right behind him and wrapped its insect stick arms around him. The first pulled a bladed weapon like a short, curved sword from beneath its coat and pointed it at Mack’s chest.

A ripple went through the crowd of tourists as more and more realized that a couple of very big grasshoppers—grasshoppers not unlike the ones some of them were eating—were kidnapping a kid.

People ran. The vendors and cooks working the food stands ran. It took about four seconds for everyone to go from normal to complete panic, and then it was screaming and running and knocking over hot woks, and awning poles broken and ice bins spilled all over the sidewalk, and everywhere food: food flying and food dropping and food slithering because it was still alive.

A giant glass aquarium full of octopi shattered, and hundreds of confused octopi attached their suckers to legs and sandaled feet and bicycle tires.

That last part was actually kind of funny. If you ever get the chance, attach an octopus to a bicycle tire and ride around. You’ll see.

Then the first flames appeared as hot wok met spilled oil.

“Back off, bugs!” Stefan roared.

He threw himself, fists pummeling, at the Skirrit that held Mack tight.

“He’s got a . . .” Mack had wanted to yell, He’s got a knife; but it wasn’t exactly a knife and Mack didn’t know quite what it was, so he ended up just yelling, “He’s got a” followed by ellipses.

But Stefan had seen the blade. With sheer, brute force he lifted the Skirrit and Mack together in one armload, spun around, and slammed the first Skirrit straight into the outthrust blade of the second.

“Ayahgaaah!” the stabbed Skirrit cried.

His grip on Mack loosened. And loosened still more when Jarrah snatched up one of the confused octopi and hurled it into the Skirrit’s face.

“Thanks,” Mack gasped.

But thanks were premature. There was still one Skirrit left.

He advanced on Mack with his nameless blade out and ready. “You die,” the Skirrit said. With blinding speed he switched the blade from one hand to the other and lunged. The blade hit—shunk!—a plastic tray held up as a shield by Stefan.

The blade went right through the plastic tray but stuck. Stefan twisted the tray, trying to yank the blade from the bug’s hand.

And . . . yeah, that didn’t work.

Instead the Skirrit pulled the blade free, took a step back to steady himself, stepped on the ice that had been spilled, did a comic little cartoon wobble, and landed on his face, hard.

Stefan was on him fast. He stomped on the bug’s blade and with his other foot crushed the exoskeletal arm.

“Ayahgaaaaaahh!” the Skirrit cried.

Apparently that is the Skirrit cry of pain.

Stefan picked up the blade, smiled, and began to admire the weapon. Jarrah looked on, admiring both Stefan and the blade.

There came the sound of sirens approaching. At least one of the food stands was burning. Its red-and-white-striped awning sent flames shooting high into the night sky.

The crowd had backed away to a distance and were each and every one fumbling with cell phones to take pictures and video.

“I don’t want to be a YouTube sensation twice in one day,” Mack said. “Let’s get out of here.”

They turned their backs on the chaotic, burning, but still somehow cheerful market, and plunged through the crowds that were now rushing to see what all the yelling was about.

They practically stumbled into a mass of people on bicycles.

Short people on bicycles.

So short, especially in their stumpy legs, that they’d each strapped wooden blocks to their feet so they could reach the pedals.

Mack was just noticing this odd fact when he was smacked on the side of the head by a club shaped a bit like a bowling pin.

Tags: Michael Grant The Magnificent 12 Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net