The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [118]
“It won't,” Franklin said, drawing his sword. “It might hurt you though.”
Sterne laughed. “Well played, Mr. Franklin.” And he pulled the trigger.
Franklin had always wondered what the depneumifier would do to a warlock. He finally got a chance to see.
What happened was Sterne's eyes went wide, and he dropped the weapon. The malakus above him flashed a bluish green color; and Sterne screamed, a quite unholy sound, and clapped his hands to his ears. Franklin leapt forward, sword extended. After all, there had to be differences in the natural articulator of a warlock and the devised ones the devil gun was designed to work on.
There were; even through his pain, Sterne was not yet licked. His blade was out and parrying before Franklin got there. Franklin couldn't really fence—he had only played at it a bit with Robert and wore the sword more for show than for anything else. If he really had to tangle with the man, he was done. But Sterne was clearly in pain, and this was his only chance. The others were counting on him.
So instead of backing up and trading blows, Franklin continued to rush forward so that their blades locked at the guards, and brought his good left fist up into Sterne's jaw with every ounce of strength he owned.
If felt like he'd broken his hand. The warlock's teeth clicked together, and he nearly fell; but he still shoved Franklin back with superhuman strength. Franklin teetered a foot from the edge of the deck, desperately trying to set his stance, as Sterne lunged deep and long, straight for Franklin's heart. Without even thinking, Franklin stuck his own arm out straight.
And stared. His blade was buried four inches in the war-lock's breast. In his heart. Better yet, Franklin himself had not been pierced—the warlock had pulled his own weapon back to parry the counterattack, at the last instant and too late.
Sterne stared, too. “How stupid …” he began. “Why would anyone make such a stupid counterattack?” He looked up at Franklin, down at the sword still clutched in his hand, picked up the point to run Franklin through in turn.
Franklin let go of the hilt and sidestepped. The warlock fell, body jerking weirdly.
“I don't know how to fence, sir,” Franklin replied.
“Ah,” Sterne replied, and died.
Don Pedro had regained his feet, and by the look of him, his vision.
“Well done, Señor,” he said. “The ‘parry of two widows.’ Only a madman would use it and hope to live. Wonderful.”
“Th-thank you,” Franklin stuttered.
“Shall I run him through again, to be certain?”
Sterne wasn't moving at all, now.
“Yes,” Franklin replied.
Don Pedro nodded and stepped up to do so, when suddenly the ship bucked like a wild horse, and the deck slipped from beneath their feet.
Oglethorpe reckoned he had lost more than half his troops, but breaking the artillery had put a fire in them the like of which he had never seen in fighting men. They fought like devils; and many of their opponents, perhaps sensing that they had wakened something terrible, fell back.
He reserved his feeling of triumph, however, as they closed the distance. Too many important questions were unanswered. Were the ships still there? Had Franklin and the rest done their job? Or would they arrive to discover it was all for nothing?
Of course, it wasn't—whatever happened, by God, they had stung this enemy. But somewhere, by his accounting, there ought to be a few more thousands of them.
He had a crawling feeling he knew where.
Franklin caught hold of the raised edge as the barge convulsed again.
“Their charges are starting to break through!” he shouted. “Red Shoes and Montchevreuil must be failing. Don, help me!”
He scrambled toward the opening and down it. As he had suspected, two heavy casks had been shoved over the cabin hatch. Franklin ignored that for the moment, hunting in a different corner and coming out with a keg full of small spheres, each with a single knob.
“Free that lower hatch,” he shouted to Don Pedro,