The Celtic Knot: Chapter OneFREDRICK CABBAWORTHY SPRINTED DOWN MERRY COBBLE Street. He was moving like a jaguar, too fast enough for his friend, who seemed to be moving like an injured tortoise.
“Can…we…take…a breather?” The boy in the brown jacket made out, stumbling across the rough, worn stones of the road.
“No, Peter,” replied Frederick, “we can’t afford to get caught, not with this,” he dug his hands into his pocket and pulled out a small object that gleamed in the cloudy day…how could it gleam on a dark day without the sun?
“We still don’t even know what it does!” Peter shot back.
“Well, you’ve regained your breath, so let’s just go,” Frederick peered over Peter’s shoulder and saw the forms of two men dashing toward them, armed with dull bronze daggers and-was that a gun? They were only a couple hundred meters away: that was too close.
“Like, let’s go, now!”
Peter shook his head and muttered to himself, then raced to catch up with his friend.
After about another fifteen minutes of the guards pursuing the thieves, Peter gave up.
“Aw, come on Peter, just a couple more minutes,” Frederick moaned, then added, “Please,”
Peter then said, “That’s what you have been saying for the last hour. You know what, let’s just hide.”
Hiding’s for losers, Frederick thought of saying, but he knew Peter was too sensitive for jeers. You know, maybe he’s right, though. There were a million voices screaming in his head.
“Fine,” Frederick said, “we’ll hide.”
Peter smiled. That was the first time in ages he had listened to his friend. “All right,” Peter replied, nonchalantly on the outside, but cheering on the inside, “let’s hide right up,” Peter then jumped on a nearby shop’s brick wall, then climbed up the side to the balcony, “here.”
“You’re kidding me. You know I don’t like heights.” Frederick admitted.
“So,” Peter then said, “you can probably dodge, and battleaxes and fat men, even bullets, but you cannot climb up a two-story Shoppe? That’s even closed?”
“Well-” Frederick began for his defense, right before he was yanked upward by the seemingly weak Peter. And Peter was seemingly weak, for he then threw his friend onto the stone on the first story.
“Never…do that to me…again!” Frederick spluttered.
“You mean, ‘Thanks, Peter, you’re the best,’” was Peter’s reply.
Then they heard the sound of shoes on the stone. The two boys looked down from the shop. “Did you hear that?” One of the men said. He reminded Frederick of a lion. The other man looked the same. “Yeah,” he twisted and turned, “Where the heck did they go? We were on their tails!”
“Well, Carney, they’re hiding somewhere, I bet that voice belonged to one of those thieves,”
“Well, let’s go down Gredard Place, we’ll find them there, for sure,” the one called Carney took a few paces when he heard the noise. Chink. Then the man picked up a watch-Peter’s watch. “Darn it,” muttered Peter, almost in audibly. Frederick’s face cringed and slowly backed away from being seen by the Royal Guards. The guard looked up. He then grimaced. “Meade, I think we’ve found our thieves.” The two boys swallowed.