Chapter 29 #2
He dared not look for Emily. It would distract him, and alert Weekes to his erstwhile captive’s presence. Cold logic washed over him, taking over where instinct had only moments ago set in, and he fought with precision. Thrust. Parry. Dodge.
“Your she-devil is worthless. I care nothing for her now. You are my true target.”
Weekes sounded less controlled. He was trying to goad Richard, and Richard knew it.
This was good. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.
Richard said nothing, and Weekes kept ranting.
“She can starve in her cellar for all I care.” He lunged forward again across the expanse of the table, and Richard leapt out of the way, knocking his adversary’s blade aside with his sword.
The cur clearly believed Emily still imprisoned. This was excellent. He must press his advantage.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Goading the man might be a dangerous ploy, but it would keep him distracted. He dodged another thrust. “Whatever did I do to you? I have never understood.”
“I needed a reason? Just looking at you was enough,” he panted. The rat’s breath was beginning to labour. Good.
Richard swept his blade in a wide arc over the table, forcing Weekes to leap backward.
There! A hint of movement caught his eye from behind the tatty curtains that covered the window near the fireplace. He must force Weekes away, in case— He refused to complete that thought. He swung again, pressing Weekes sideways along the wall.
Weekes jabbed with his dagger, ineffectual as it was across this distance.
He was angry now, and that boded poorly for him.
Angry men do not think clearly. Richard tried to goad him again with the point of his sword.
This was a dangerous ploy, for the room was not too large, and a mis-aimed jab could get the weapon stuck in some woodwork.
For now, however, it did what it was supposed to.
Weekes began cursing him again and venting his spleen.
“There you are, strutting in, the bloody son of a bloody earl, with your sweet promotion that should have been mine, and the colonel’s ear.
All of that was supposed to be mine! The promotion was mine—my father even paid for it, but he was denied—and the next one was mine as well.
When Barrow left, as he would have soon enough, the entire fort would have been mine!
” He swung again with his blade and was blocked, the screech of metal on metal echoing off every surface.
“And you stopped my games! That was my fortune! Those saps couldn’t keep their coins in their pockets—” thrust…
hiss… parry… “—and they too were mine! With my games, in my own fort—” dodge…
lunge… stab… “—the entire island would have owed me their fortunes! And the supplies! You stole my goods. You undid everything I worked for. I would have retired back to England with the deep pockets of a king.”
His goods? What…?
A piece of the puzzle fell into place. The extra supplies that had come in while Weekes was away at Fort St Catherine.
Of course! Those were no mistake but had been ordered by the fort’s secretary to be kept aside by him and sold for whatever profit he could make, supplies that were seemingly requested by the Dockyard but rendered directly into Weekes’ hands.
This was theft, pure and simple. And Richard had inadvertently stopped his supply.
“You thought yourself above the law.” Richard taunted him, forcing him into a corner where he would not find so easy an escape. “Your games came to naught.”
“Curse you!”
With that, Weekes propelled himself up onto the tabletop, where he could fight with the advantage of height.
Richard leapt aside, and Weekes all but tumbled on top of him, the dagger slashing perilously through the air.
Richard moved towards the fireplace to get out of the path of that flashing, lethal blade.
Then it happened—every soldier’s dread.
His foot landed on a spot on the floor that held a trace of last night’s ashes.
For just a moment, his foot slipped, and he had to fight for balance.
It was but a moment’s work to regain his footing, and Weekes had sensed his advantage.
He threw himself forward with his dagger extended, and the point caught Richard just below his ribs.
He managed to leap aside to avoid being disembowelled by the thrust, but he could not prevent the metal from piercing his skin.
He felt the blood gushing from the wound, and his vision was clouded by the pain.
There was no time for panic. He had to think, had to act. His sword, at these close quarters, was useless, but…
The thin blade he had used to break the lock… His fingers groped and grabbed the handle, and he fought back with every ounce of energy he had. The room was growing dim around him, his muscles reluctant to respond to his commands.
Fight.. he must prevail… he must stay conscious… By some instinct, he managed to parry his attacker’s subsequent jabs and lunges, but he could tell he was growing weaker with every movement. It was just a matter of time, unless he could disarm Weekes immediately.
Weekes attacked again, and Richard leapt backwards and fell against the fireplace, his knees buckling and sending him down to the floor.
He still held that thin blade, but Weekes was looming above him, that vicious dagger dancing through the air.
There was only the knife, and a hearth full of soot, between Richard and oblivion.
That blasted soot, those damned ashes that had caused his first error.
Ashes…
Ashes to ashes…
Dust to dust…
Sand…
Nathaniel Ackley’s teasing face flashed before Richard’s eyes, and had he the time and energy, he would have grinned. Ackley had felled him not so long before on that beach near Brighton. It was a lesson, and one for which he now thanked his friend.
Twisting out of the path of Weekes’ knife, Richard grabbed a handful of ashes from the cold grate and as his assailant bent down to strike his killing blow, Richard flung the gritty cinders into the man’s face.
It was not a lot, but it was enough. He staggered backwards, dropping his knife as he grabbed at his eyes.
And at that moment, a frenzy of motion emerged from the draperies. With his final breaths, Richard began yelling curses at his vile opponent, denigrating the man’s virility, character, and parentage. He needed Weekes to become blind with rage and focussed fully on him.
“What do you want of me?” Richard did not have to force his voice to rasp. He had managed to grab Weekes’ dagger, but it would do little good if he had no strength to use it. “What must I pay you to leave me be?”
Weekes laughed, a loud and unpleasant sound.
“Now you try to appease me! Now, after you destroyed my career and my plans! Yes, Fitzwilliam, what will you pay me? Perhaps the only payment I desire is your blood. Did you consider that? I can throw your pathetic body in the cellar with your hell-cat and let you both rot there. I believe—”
His last words were cut off by the sound of a heavy metal object striking the back of his head. Weekes crumpled to the floor without another sound. Behind him, Emily stood with a heavy metal fireplace stand in her hands and a grim look on her face.
“Is he dead?” She did not sound distressed at the prospect.
“I do not know.” The world was spinning around him, and his vision was narrowing down to a single point before him, growing dark at the edges.
“You must secure him,” he gasped, “before he wakens…” Richard’s legs gave out beneath him, and he staggered back against the wall for support.
The last thing he saw as he slid down to the grungy floor was the front door slamming open and a group of men rushing in, whilst Emily gasped in surprise. Then everything went black.