The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [19]
The Russian's eyes flashed and pointed at Oglethorpe, and he bounced to his feet as if he had a steel coil in each thigh.
“Murderer!” the warlock shouted, his English heavily accented. “In the water!”
An arrow took the Russian in the throat before his drunken companions even reacted. Then, cursing and swearing, the others went for their muskets. Two sprawled with arrows in their flesh before Oglethorpe managed to splash onto the sandy spit, but another was turning with his weapon, firing the musket point-blank at Oglethorpe's midsection. He saw the flint spark, but there was no answering flash of powder from the pan—the weapon had lost its prime. Oglethorpe hacked with his heavy military broadsword, cleaving through shoulder bone to sternum, then wrenching his weapon out. The man spewed blood and rum on Oglethorpe's shirt as he went down. The only sound he made was a gasp, but several wretched screams from his companions cut the night's peace.
Oglethorpe felt as much as heard the rush behind him, and leapt aside as a broadsword took chips from the cypress next to him. He looked up to see the Russian, arrow still in his throat, mouth set grimly. Above each shoulder stood a floating eye of flame and mist.
“God of mercy,” Oglethorpe swore.
Came the warlock's broadsword again, too fast, quicker than a man ought to be able to wield one. Oglethorpe hurled himself back, and the wind from the blade parted his hair. Then he fetched into a tree, yanking his own blade up for defense.
Two more arrows appeared in the hellish creature, spun him halfway around. Oglethorpe took the moment to cut at his foe's elbow like a butcher separating a soup bone.
The arm came half off, hanging by a few tendons, and the Russian's broadsword dropped to the ground.
The warlock turned and ran like a deer.
“Damn it all!” Oglethorpe growled.
A quick look around showed the rest of the enemy already dead or captured, and no shots fired. Their screams hadn't been loud enough to carry to the house to whoever was garrisoned there. But if the hell man made it to them, the rest of Oglethorpe's foes would have warning.
So he mustn't make it. Swearing, Oglethorpe followed the warlock into the inky woods.
Following was not easy. The warlock's glowing familiars had vanished and the night had swallowed him. Oglethorpe could hear him, though, a wounded beast crashing through the brush. Inhuman he might be, but nothing injured as this creature could run a straight course. Oglethorpe followed the noise, knowing from memory that the path would soon come to the old fields near the plantation house itself. There, in the open, he must catch the villain.
Oglethorpe emerged from the forest panting heavily. A sickle moon was just reaping on the horizon, and in the pale light the sea of broom spread out before him. Farther, on higher ground, he made out the lights of the house.
But of the warlock, he saw nothing. Was he bedded down in the grass, like a wounded panther?
Sweeping his hanger before him, Oglethorpe worked frantically forward.
But the warlock was behind, still in the trees, uttering a ragged gasp of pain as he lunged from the woods, striking Oglethorpe with enough force to send his sword spinning into the tall brush. Fear jabbed Oglethorpe hard beneath the ribs, and turned there into fury. It was an old friend, that harsh lightning that came from nowhere. It took away all concern except that he should strike and strike, until what he hit was broken or he himself cut down.
The warlock staggered away, but Oglethorpe flung himself forward again, his fingers locking around the monster's throat. In turn, the Russian closed his remaining hand around Oglethorpe's Adam's apple. Despite his wounds, the fiend was still hideously strong.
“Die,” Oglethorpe gasped. “Die.” Then he had no air, and could only squeeze harder. For a long moment, the only movement the two men made was a faint trembling.
And then the eyes appeared again, just in front of Ogle-thorpe's nose, and he knew sergeant death had come for him.
Then