Now, however, Zed’s master was no longer Ashton McCaggers. A writ of manumission from Lord Cornbury had secured Zed’s freedom. This stony and wooded patch of earth might well have been the ex-slave’s kingdom, if he could not yet reach the golden shore of Africa. In any case, the scowling expression on Zed’s face spoke to Croydon, and it said in no uncertain terms: Get off my land or pay in blood.
Croydon understood that message, for he turned tail and fled for the skiff. Unfortunately for Croydon, the king of Oyster Island was not in a mood to treat a trespasser with a welcome hand. Even as Croydon reached the skiff and clambered into it, Zed was upon him. The flat of a hand against the back of Croydon’s head sent a spray of saliva from the man’s mouth and perhaps caused the teeth to snap shut on the tongue because there was a plume also of scarlet liquid. Then Zed followed that with a fist to the middle of the forehead, same as had been delivered to Squibbs. As Croydon slithered down like a gutted fish, Zed picked him up bodily from the boat and swung him onto the shoreline’s rocks, where the body made a hideous series of crunching sounds and began to twitch as if Croydon were dancing to Gilliam Vincent’s abusive direction.
“Ah!” came a voice with a quiet lilt. “What is this?”
Matthew and Berry saw that Sirki had returned from his task. Bloody light from his red-glassed lantern had fallen upon Zed, whose fathomless black eyes took in this new intruder and seemed to glow with centers of fire.
“A Ga,” said Sirki, with a note of true admiration. Obviously he knew the origin of the tattoos and the reputation of the Ga as supreme warriors. “I am pleased,” he went on, “to make your acquaintance. I see you have taken up for my guests. And now,” he said with a red-sparkly smile, “I suppose I shall have to kill you.” He hooked the lantern’s wire handle over a low-hanging tree branch, which would have been out of the reach of normal-sized men. Then he reached into his cloak and brought out a curved dagger whose grip gleamed with various precious stones. Its outer slashing edge was formed of vicious sawteeth. Matthew wondered if Sirki would have used it on Mrs. Sifford and Mr. Dupee if the tea had failed to put them under. Still smiling with murderous intention and delight, Sirki advanced upon Zed, who plucked up an oar, thrust out his chest and stood his ground.
There was nothing either Matthew or Berry could do. Sirki kept striding forward, now through the ankle-deep water, as if on a simple mission to cut open an extra-large grouper.
By the red light, the two forces neared conflict. Zed waited with the oar ready to strike, and Sirki’s blade made circles in the air.
Suddenly they were upon each other, with the same swiftness in the same second; whoever had made the first move was impossible to tell. Sirki dodged a swing of the oar and came up underneath it, his knife’s point going for Zed’s belly. But Zed retreated through the shallow water and turned aside, and the knife did no more damage than popping a button from his coat. When the energy of the thrust had been expended, Zed brought the oar’s handle up to slam against Sirki’s shoulder. The East Indian giant gave a hiss of pain, but no more than that, and as he staggered back to get out of range he was already swinging the blade at Zed’s face to imprint another initial upon the flesh.
Zed was faster still. The sawteeth missed his nose by an African whisker. The oar was in action again, coming at Sirki’s head. The giant threw up an arm and the oar’s shaft cracked and shattered across it, bringing from Sirki a small grunt as one might make stubbing a toe on a garden stone. The knife’s angle changed direction in midair and what had begun as a strike to the shoulder now became a quest for throat’s flesh. Zed’s free hand caught the wrist. A fist slammed into Zed’s jaw and made his knees wobbly but he stayed on his feet and thrust into Sirki’s midsection with the oar’s jagged end.
A sudden twist of the body and the oar tore through cloth underneath Sirki’s right arm. Sirki’s fist shot out again, catching Zed square in the mouth and rocking his head back. Still the massive black warrior did not fall, and now he squeezed Sirki’s wrist with a desire to burst bones and Sirki fought back by hammering at Zed’s skull with his fist. Zed’s concentration was complete; the blows to his head may have been painful but he shook them off like beats to a tribal drum, and letting go of the oar’s splintered shaft he grasped Sirki’s knifehand and began to squeeze those bones with the tenacity and power of a python.
Sirki resisted as long as he could, and then with a muffled gasp his fingers opened and the fearsome knife fell into the water. He was no longer smiling. He jabbed the fingers of his other hand into Zed’s eyes. Zed gave out a tongueless roar of pain and swung Sirki around in preparation to throw him sprawling into the rocky drink, but Sirki held tight to him and both the giants staggered and fell together into the water. They struck and splashed and kicked and grappled, rolling over stones layered with oyster shells. Zed got hold of Sirki’s turban and it came undone, revealing a brown scalp bald except for a thick strip of black hair down the middle. Then Sirki chopped the edge of a hand into Zed’s throat and Zed gurgled and fell back, and as Matthew and Berry watched in horror the East Indian killer got on top of the Ga warrior and, grasping the throat with both hands, forced the bearded face underwater. Zed thrashed to escape. Sirki’s arms quivered with the effort of holding him under.
Matthew saw the other oars in the skiff. He roused himself to action and started out over the rocks to get an oar and beat Sirki upon the head with it, but suddenly there was an upheaval of water and Zed came up with his teeth gritted and his eyes full of Hell. He took hold of Sirki’s throat with both hands and with a single powerful thrust he was suddenly on top of Sirki, whose face was sinking beneath the foam.
Now it was Sirki’s time to wildly thrash. The muscles of Zed’s shoulders and back bunched and twisted under the sopping-wet coat. Sirki’s hands came up, the fingers clawing at Zed’s tattoos. Zed’s body shook with the effort; Sirki was fighting for his life, and his strength was yet undiminished by the process of drowning.
In all this violence, the rowboat that slid onto the shore with a lantern at its prow hardly caused a ripple. Matthew saw it contained five men. And one woman. The woman being Rebecca Mallory, real name Aria Something. One of the men being Doctor Jason Mallory, real name unknown. But both certainly alive and well and unburnt to crisps as had been their unfortunate lie-ins.
“Stop that!” Doctor Jason shouted. Two of the men, having realized their stately champion was being defeated by this black misfit in drenched rags, were already clambering from the boat. They grabbed hold of Zed from either side and tried to pin his arms. That lasted only a few seconds before a Herculean shrug sent them flying, one to land in the water and one in the weeds.
“Mister Grimmer!” Doctor Jason was directing his shout to another man in the boat. “Run him through!”
A thin man in a brown tricorn and a dirty brown suit with ruffles of grimy lace at the sleeves and throat stood up, drew a rapier from its sheath and stepped into the water. He approached Zed with no hesitation, and raised the sword to drive it into the black warrior’s back.