The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [111]
"Come here, you bastard," snapped the king's agent.
"I'm unarmed," revealed Oliphant, walking forward with his arms spread wide.
"I don't care."
"That's not very gentlemanly."
"There are many who claim I am not a gentleman," noted Burton. "They call me Ruffian Dick. At this particular moment in time, it's a title I intend to live down to."
He suddenly sprang at Oliphant and thrust at his heart. The feline man twisted and jumped back, the point of the rapier catching and slicing his shirtsleeve.
"I'm too quick for you, Burton!" he panted, then, lightning fast, ducked down, pounced in, and swiped at the adventurer's thigh with his sharp talons.
Burton predicted the move and caught the albino's hand in his own.
"My reactions aren't bad either," he said.
His grip tightened and bones crunched.
Oliphant screamed.
Burton dropped the rapier and sent his fist crashing into the albino's jaw.
"And I think you'll find that I'm stronger."
With his left hand mercilessly breaking the bones in Oliphant's right, Burton set about pounding his opponent's face to a pulp. Blood spurted as the panther-man's nose snapped and flattened. Canine teeth broke. Skin tore.
Burton was thoroughly scientific about it. He revived the boxing skills of his youth, choosing where to strike with a cold detachment, timing his blows to perfection, measuring the damage to ensure that the albino suffered every crunching blow without slipping into unconsciousness.
It was more than punishment; it was torture, and Burton had no qualms about it.
As the beating continued, Fidget cautiously stepped back in through the door and began to skirt the wall toward Swinburne. Glancing repeatedly at his master, he padded around the edge of the big rectangular space then crept in until he reached Swinburne's feet. He sniffed at the blood-spattered boots, pushed his nose into the too-short trouser leg, then bit the skinny ankle.
"Yaargh!" screeched the poet.
Burton turned, and in that unguarded second, Laurence Oliphant ripped his mangled hand from the explorer's grasp and, with a sudden thrust of his legs, propelled himself away. He rolled, leaped to his feet, and sprinted to the huge doors of the power station. Perfectly balanced, they swung open at his touch and slammed shut behind him.
The king's agent, who'd instantly thrown himself after the albino, crashed into the doors, pushed them, pulled them, and realised that his enemy had escaped.
He hurried over to Swinburne and shoved Fidget away.
"Are you all right, Algy?"
"Bloody ecstatic, Richard."
"Can you walk?"
"I thought I could, then that blasted dog bit me!"
"Idiot. It was just a nip. Come on, up with you."
He slipped his arm beneath the poet's shoulders and heaved him upright. There was barely an inch of his friend that wasn't smeared with blood.
"I have to get you seen to as quickly as possible," he said. "We need to get this bleeding stopped."
"It was marvellous," gasped Swinburne. "I took everything he dished out! Was that courage, Richard?"
"Yes, Algy; that was courage."
"Splendid! Absolutely splendid! Oh, by the way, John Speke is in there."
Before Burton could reply, a howl echoed from the other end of the courtyard.
"Werewolves!" breathed the king's agent. "We've got to get out of here!"
He dragged his friend toward the door in the main gate, scooping up Oliphant's swords tick on the way, but before he got there half a dozen redcloaked wolf-men loped from an arched opening and came racing across the courtyard.
The head of the pack glared out from the shadow of its hood, displayed its sharp teeth in a terrible grin, extended a claw toward the retreating Englishmen, then exploded into flames.
The remaining creatures scattered, diving away from the sudden inferno. In the midst of this confusion, Swinburne thrust himself away from Burton, plunged at something on the ground, snatched it up, then launched himself through the door in the gate, knocking Burton backward. They landed in a heap outside the power station with Fidget tangled in their legs.
The king's