“Let me go!” Daven struggled. The man bear-hugged him, pinning his arms at his sides. Daven paused, fearing the blade’s appearance. He tried to angle it away from himself. The goon felt Daven’s struggling ceased and reached one hand up to talk into his collar, “I have him at the old East Plat—oof!” Daven spun a hard right and smashed his elbow into the man’s stomach. Then he tore away and ran down the tunnel. The goon off after him, yelling into his radio.
The yellow wall tiling sped by around Daven. He knew he was almost back to the fork in the tunnel that had led him astray. Suddenly Guilfol and the other goon appeared. They collided with a grunt, and once again Daven found himself pinned. Guilfol had a gun in his hand and pointed it at Daven’s forehead.
“Thought you could get away, huh?” he sneered.
Daven felt the sword crackling to life. “New moon!” he said. He pointed the hilt towards Guilfol. The blade hummed, then flashed. Purple fire seemed to spring forward. Guilfol sprang back, but not before the blade pierced his side. He fell with a scream. The goon holding Daven lurched backwards in surprise, his own gun right in front of the skinny professor. Daven twisted the hilt in his hand and the virtually weightless blade slice clumsily backwards. The blade and gun connected with a shower of sparks. The man dropped Daven and stumbled back, clutching his severed fingers. Just then the last goon caught up to them. With a slash Daven took off his arm.
All three assailants were crumpled on the ground, moaning. Daven couldn’t stay. He dashed off, his mind spinning. He hurried back towards Metro Station, the pale sword glimmering in his hand. He spotted two women. Holding the sword behind him he yelled, “Hey! Help! Gang fight! Back there! Guys with guns and swords—knives! Knives and guns! Get help!”
The women looked startled, and both pulled out their mobile phones. Daven turned and fled back towards the fork in the tunnel. This time he followed the left fork, as he originally thought, but on a premonition stepped through a maintenance door. An access hallway was revealed, and the open subway tracks were visible on one side. The weak glow of the mystical sword provided only a tiny amount of visibility in the broken emergency lighting. Daven stumbled along to a quiet looking corner and slumped to the ground, gasping and shaking.
“Whatcha got there?” croaked a raspy voice at his right.
Daven jumped. A dirty wino was seated right next to him.
“Uh, party light. Festival up there.”
“Oh,” mumbled the bum.
Daven breathed a sigh of relief. He’s smashed, he thought. “Can I stay here? Too much partying for me.”
The bum nodded and mumbled something else, his head lolling back drunkenly.
“Thanks,” said Daven. He listened to the sound of his own heartbeat subsiding for several minutes, while trying to calm his trembling hands. He would wait until the sword disappeared again to leave the subway, even if it took all night. With luck, the police would incarcerate Guilfol and his goons for carrying guns around, and he could get away. He’d probably have to leave the city, and let someone else claim the discovery of the treasure now. Of course, if the other members of their discovery team had survived their escapes as well, then Daven could coordinate a place to meet. Enough of them could collaborate the real story; enough to convince any courts. Guilfol and his boss would never be able to sell the piece off once it went public. At least that would work. Daven let his head fall back against the grimy subway wall.
Take that girls, he thought, wouldn’t get that from your varsity quarterback, would you?