“Care to earn his freedom? My men will be here by dawn, so you have very little time. Come on in! We’ll fight for him! Your choice of weapons!”
“Don’t do it, Philip! He’s an aug—”
Gordon’s warning collapsed into a groan as Macklin yanked his arm, nearly tearing his shoulder out of its socket. The force threw him crashing to his knees. His throbbing ribs sent shock waves rolling through his body.
“Tsk tsk. Come now. If your man hadn’t already known about Shawn, it means he got my bodyguard with a lucky shot. If so, he certainly doesn’t deserve any special consideration now, does he?”
It took a powerful effort of will, but Gordon lifted his head, hissing through gritted teeth. Overcoming wave after wave of nausea, he somehow managed to wobble up to his feet. Although the world wavered all around him, he refused to be seen on his knees next to Macklin.
Macklin awarded him a low grunt, as if to say he only expected this from a real man. The augment’s body was aquiver like a cat’s — twitching in anticipation. They waited together, just outside the circle of lamplight. Minutes passed with the rain coming and going in intermittent, blustery sheets.
“Last chance, black man!” In a blur, Macklin’s knife was at Gordon’s throat. A grip like an anaconda’s twisted his left arm up behind his back. “Your Inspector dies in thirty seconds, unless you show! Starting now!”
The half minute passed slower than any Gordon had ever known. Oddly enough, he felt detached, almost resigned.
At last Macklin shook his head, sounding disappointed.
“Well, too bad, Krantz.” The knife moved under his left ear. “I guess he’s smarter than I—”
Gordon gasped. He had heard nothing, but suddenly he realized that there was another pair of moccasins down there at the edge of the light, not fifteen feet away.
“I am afraid your men killed that brave soldier you were shouting for.” The soft voice of the newcomer spoke even as Macklin spun around, putting Gordon between them.
“Philip Bokuto was a good man,” the mysterious voice went on. “I have come in his stead, to answer your challenge as he would have.”
A beaded headband glittered in the lamplight as a broad-shouldered man stepped forward into the circle. His gray hair was tied back into a ponytail. The craggy features of his face expressed a sad serenity.
Gordon could almost feel Macklin’s joy, transmitted through that powerful grip. “Well, well. From the descriptions I’ve heard, this could only be the Squire of Sugarloaf Lodge, come down alone out of his mountain and valley at last! I’m gratified more than you might know, sir. You’re welcome, indeed.”
“Powhatan,” Gordon gritted, unable to even imagine how or why the man was here. “Get the hell away, you fool! You haven’t a chance! He’s an augment!”
Phil Bokuto had been one of the best fighters Gordon had ever known. If he had barely managed to ambush the lesser of these devils, and had died in the process, what chance did this old man have?
Powhatan listened to Gordon’s revelation and frowned.
“So? You mean from those experiments in the early nineties? I had thought they were all normalized or killed off by the time the Slavic-Turkic War broke out. Fascinating. This does explain a lot about the last two decades.”
“You’d heard of us then,” Macklin grinned.
Powhatan nodded somberly. “I had heard, before the war. I also know why that particular experiment was discontinued — mostly because the worst kinds of men had been recruited as subjects.”
“So said the weak,” Macklin agreed. “For they made the error of accepting volunteers from among the strong.”
Powhatan shook his head. For all the world it seemed as if he were engaged in a polite argument over semantics. Only his heavy breathing seemed to give away any sign of emotion.
“They accepted warriors…” he emphasized, “…that divinely mad type that’s so valuable when needed, and such a problem when it’s not. The lesson was learned hard, back in the nineties. They had a lot of trouble with augments who came home still loving war.”
“Trouble is the word,” Macklin laughed. “Let me introduce you to Trouble, Powhatan.” He threw Gordon aside as if on an afterthought, and sheathed his knife before stepping toward his longtime foe.
Splashing into a ditch for the second time, Gordon could only lie in the muck and groan. His entire left side felt torn and burning — as if it were loaded with glowing coals. Consciousness flickered, and remained only because he absolutely refused to let go of it. When, at last, he was able to look up again through a pain-squinted tunnel, he saw the other two men circling each other just inside the lamp’s small oasis of light.
Of course Macklin was just toying with his adversary. Powhatan was impressive, for a man his age, but the monstrous things that bulged from Macklin’s neck, arms, and thighs made a normal man’s muscles look pathetic by comparison. Gordon remembered Macklin’s fireplace poker, tearing apart like shredding taffy.
George Powhatan inhaled in hard, shuddering gasps, and his face was flushed. In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, though, a deep part of Gordon was surprised to see such blatant signs of fear on the Squire’s face.
All legends must be based on lies, Gordon realized. We exaggerate, and even come to believe the tales, after a while.
Only in Powhatan’s voice did there seem to be a remnant of calm. In fact, he almost sounded detached. “There’s something I think you should consider, General,” he said between rapid breaths.
“Later,” Macklin growled. “Later we can discuss stock-raising and brewing, Squire. Right now I’m going to teach you a more practical art.”
Quick as a cat, Macklin lashed out. Powhatan leaped aside, barely in time. But Gordon felt a thrill as the taller man then whirled back with a kick that Macklin dodged only by inches.
Gordon began to hope. Perhaps Powhatan was a natural, whose speed — even in middle age — might almost equal Macklin’s. If so — and with that longer reach of his — he just might be able to keep out of his enemy’s terrible grasp…
The augment lunged again, getting a tearing grip on his opponent’s shirt. This time Powhatan escaped even more narrowly, shrugging out of the embroidered garment and dodging a flurry of blows any one of which might have killed a steer. He did nearly land a savage chop to Macklin’s kidneys as the smaller man rushed by. But then, in a blur, the Holnist swiveled and caught Powhatan’s passing wrist!
Daring fate, Powhatan stepped inside and managed to break free with a reverse.
But Macklin seemed to have expected the maneuver. The General rolled past his opponent, and when Powhatan whirled to follow, he grabbed quickly and seized the taller man’s other arm. Macklin grinned as Powhatan tried to slip out again, this time to no avail.
At arm’s length, the Camas Valley man pulled back and panted. In spite of the chill rain he seemed overheated.
That’s it, Gordon thought, disappointed. In spite of his past differences with Powhatan, Gordon tried to think of anything he could do to help. He looked around for something to throw at the monster augment, perhaps distracting Macklin long enough for the other man to get away.
But there was only mud, and a few soggy twigs. Gordon himself hardly had the strength even to crawl away from where he had been tossed. He could only lie there and watch the end, awaiting his own turn.
“Now,” Macklin told his new captive, “Now say what you have to say. But you better make it amusing. As I smile, you live.”
Powhatan grimaced as he tugged, testing Macklin’s iron-jawed grip. Even after a full minute he had not stopped breathing deeply. Now the expression on his face seemed distant, as if completely resigned. His voice was oddly rhythmic when he answered at last.