The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Arthur!’ Knightly had gone pale.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Jack turned his head to glare at Knightly for the first time.

  It gave the Russian the opening he had waited for so patiently. He stepped forward and punched Jack hard, the blow rising fast and connecting squarely with the side of his head. Jack staggered away from the impact, his ear ringing and his vision clouding. The Russian closed on him quickly, fists hammering away at his body. Jack tried to twist away from the blows, but the Russian was relentless. Another punch smashed into his stomach, followed by a further one that knocked the revolver from his hand, sending it spinning away. He lifted his arms and tried to fight back, but he felt the strength leaving his body as the Russian pummelled at him without pause. A fist connected with his jaw and he fell.

  He hit the ground hard. He tried to get back to his feet, but the Russian gave no quarter, kicking out with his heavy boots as Jack scrabbled in the dirt in a futile attempt to escape.

  A kick caught him in the pit of his gut, driving the air from his lungs. The pain flared bright and he couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth, but the dust choked him. He writhed on to his side, desperate to get some air into his lungs, but the Russian flopped on top of him, straddling his battered body. He tried to push him away, but the other man laughed and batted his flailing fists aside before reaching forward to take his throat in a vice-like grip.

  Jack was choking, his neck crushed under the Russian’s thick fingers. His lungs screamed, the last of his breath roaring in his ears. In desperation he tried to hammer his head forward, seeking to batter his way free. The Russian saw the attempt and forced Jack’s head backwards, grinding it into the dust.

  Jack’s vision faded. His lungs screamed out in agony, the need to breathe torturing him. He let his body go limp, his mind still trying to find a way out even as the Russian throttled him. He had one last chance, a final, desperate gamble. A glimmer of hope as the darkness rushed forward to claim him.

  The younger Russian had leapt at Knightly in the moments after Jack had fallen. Knightly had not moved, unable to do anything but stare in horror at the sudden eruption of violence in front of him. The Russian officer was as fast as a viper and he had his sword held at Knightly’s throat before the British lieutenant could even think of drawing his own. He tried to step away, but the Russian pushed the blade forward, scoring it into the soft flesh at the base of Knightly’s neck. The sharpened steel drew blood and Knightly went completely still, held fast by the threat of death.

  He felt his body begin to shake. He watched the Russian batter Jack into bloody submission, powerless to intervene. He felt frozen, his whole being mesmerised by the vicious blade that hovered under his chin. He could smell the sheen of oil on the polished steel, the metallic tang catching in the back of his throat. With the point cutting into his flesh, he could do nothing but watch events in stupefied terror.

  The hard-eyed Russian officer stepped away from Jack’s body. Knightly felt his throat close in horror as he saw the limp figure on the ground. His friend was dying no more than half a dozen paces away and he could do nothing to save him.

  The Russian officer glanced once at Knightly before bending to snatch the fallen revolver from the ground. With practised ease he brought the gun around, aiming it at the body of the hussar officer who had tried to capture him.

  ‘No!’ Knightly screamed, the dreadful sound exploding from his lips.

  He saw a thin smile appear on the Russian’s scarred face as he cocked the weapon. He lifted the revolver a fraction of an inch and then turned to look at Knightly. His eyes bored into the young officer, daring him to move. The revolver remained pointing at Jack’s skull. At such close range the Russian couldn’t miss. He smirked at Knightly, relishing his distress.

  With a final twist of his lips, the Russian pulled the trigger.

  The trigger clicked on to an empty chamber. Jack had used all his rounds in the final fight with the Persian infantry and had not had the opportunity to reload. The weapon was useless. He had been bluffing when he had threatened his two prisoners.

  The Russian’s face betrayed his shock. He pulled the trigger again and again before throwing the gun to one side, his hands reaching for the sabre at his side.

  Jack rose from the ground, roaring like a madman. He threw himself at the Russian, punching his right fist into the foreign officer’s throat. It was a brutal blow and the Russian staggered backwards, his hands clutching his crushed windpipe. Jack went after him without a moment’s pause, his fists flashing at the man who had tried to kill him, smashing blow after blow into the Russian, who crumpled under the onslaught, his legs giving way beneath him. Jack lashed out as he fell, kicking the tip of his boot viciously into the man’s throat, driving the clasping hands into the abused flesh, choking off the last of his breath.

  Knightly saw the fear flash in the younger Russian’s face as he watched the man he had thought beaten rise from the ground and batter his fellow officer insensible. The tip of his sword wavered and Knightly reacted without thought, slashing his arm upwards, knocking the blade to one side. The Russian fell backwards, giving Knightly the freedom to finally draw his own sabre. It rasped from the metal scabbard and he slashed it forward, forcing the Russian to jump away.

  As he cut at the Russian, a yelp of childish glee burst from his lips. He was fighting for the first time and he felt invincible. He stamped forward, hammering his sword at his enemy, forgetting his fear. The Russian parried the blows but the effort caused him to stagger, and Knightly thrust the point of the sword forward, sliding the sharp steel into the man’s flesh. He could barely believe how easy it was. He pushed his weight behind the blade, driving it deep into the Russian’s chest. When he looked up, he saw the agony reflected in his foe’s eyes, his bitter surprise revealed in a look of abject horror.

  Knightly let go of the blade. It was stuck fast in the Russian’s flesh and he could not find the strength to wrench it free. He stared at the man’s hand as it flapped at the blade, the fleshy tips of his fingers torn as they clasped the sharpened edge. The joy of killing faded and the heat of victory was replaced with coldness, the shock of having killed a man freezing his soul.

  The Russian staggered forward. He yelled as he lurched into motion, a spew of foreign words rushing from his mouth before they were cut off in a torrent of blood.

  Knightly screamed, shrieking like a child confronting a monster from a nightmare. He was still screaming when the Russian rammed his own sword forward. It was thrust with the last of his strength and it cut deep into Knightly’s body. The Russian fell, his hand falling away from the blade he had buried in the British lieutenant’s flesh.

  Knightly’s fingers scrabbled at the Russian’s sword. A wave of panic engulfed him and he fell silent, unable to comprehend what had happened. He felt his strength ebb and he fell to his knees. He tried to pull the blade from his own body but it was stuck fast. Blood spilled down the length of the steel, smothering Knightly’s clutching fingers. He screamed again and then again, releasing the horror that surged through him.

  Jack had turned as soon as he heard the sounds of the fight. He watched as Knightly fought, recognising the rage that took hold of the young officer. The struggle was short, the two men trading barely half a dozen blows before Knightly struck the Russian down. It was only when the lieutenant let go of his sabre that Jack lurched into motion. He knew what was about to happen and he rushed forward, his cry of warning stuck in his tortured throat.

  He could do nothing as the Russian made his final thrust. He saw the sword pierce Knightly’s flesh and he moved quickly, reaching his friend’s side just as he fell to his knees. Knightly’s hands pawed at the blade in his flesh but Jack knocked them to one side and eased him to the ground, setting him down in the dust as gently as he could.

  He didn’t need to look at the thin sabre buried in Knightly’s chest to k
now what was going to happen. He drew the young’s man head into his lap, cradling him in his arms, the bitter futility of what had happened sending a surge of anger coursing through him. As he held Knightly close, he looked down at the ashen face of a boy about to die.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Knightly choked as he spoke, the breath refusing to come.

  ‘You’re going to be all right.’ Jack ran his fingers through the young officer’s hair and hugged his head to him as if he could stop what was to come.

  Knightly could not speak. A tremor ran through him, his body convulsing with fear. He was sobbing now, an incoherent stream of terror, as he realised he was about to die. Jack could do nothing but hold him tight, fighting against the darkness that threatened to lay claim to his very being.

  The young man’s body went still. Jack looked down and fixed his eyes on the face that stared up at him. He was still watching as the final spark of light fled, to be replaced by glazed nothingness.

  Knightly was dead.

  ‘I told you to twist your bloody wrist.’ Jack felt a blackness engulf his soul. He placed Knightly’s head gently on the ground and closed his eyes, trying to hold fast against the wave of bitter grief.

  The feeling passed. He opened his eyes once again and felt nothing.

  He slipped his hand forward and unbuckled the flap of Knightly’s holster, pulling free the revolver that he knew had not been used that day. Then he got carefully to his feet and walked towards the first Russian officer. The man lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his hands twisted around his broken throat. Jack straddled his chest, crushing the man’s tortured lungs, then threw the Russian’s arms backwards and pinned them under his knees, leaving the man completely at his mercy.

  He looked down at the beaten officer. The man’s eyes were glazed, so Jack slapped him hard around the cheeks, hitting him again and again until his vision focused.

  ‘So, where were we?’ He spat a wad of bloody phlegm on to the Russian’s chest. His own throat burned and he could feel the place on his neck where the other man’s fingers had dug into the soft flesh. He felt no compassion, no mercy. ‘Who is the fucking spy?’

  The Russian said nothing. He simply stared at Jack, the air rasping in his gullet as he tried to breathe through the ruin of his throat.

  Jack felt the solid shape of Knightly’s revolver in his hand. The weight was reassuring and he brought it around, placing it with care so that the barrel rested against the Russian’s temple.

  ‘Tell me who the damn spy is or I’ll blow you to kingdom come.’ He pressed the barrel into the soft flesh just under the Russian’s hairline. He felt empty, his soul drained of all emotion. ‘Tell me, you by-blow of a whore, or I’ll fucking kill you.’

  The Russian spat. The thick globule landed on Jack’s chest and stuck there, hanging from the gore-splattered dolman before slowly falling away and landing on his bloodstained thigh.

  Jack leant forward. ‘Then go to hell.’ As he whispered the words, he saw the flare of fear deep in the man’s eyes. He pulled the trigger.

  The crash of the gun going off was loud. The retort echoed around them, the sudden noise somehow out of place even on what had been a field of battle.

  The Russian jerked in terror and Jack nearly lost his balance. He had turned his wrist as he pulled the trigger. The bullet had scorched through the Russian’s hair, missing his scalp by no more than half an inch.

  The other man went still. Jack stared down into his eyes, betraying no emotion. Slowly, carefully, he cocked the revolver for a second time, bringing another chamber under the hammer.

  ‘Tell me who the spy is.’

  The Russian began to shake. Jack could feel the tremors running through the man’s body, yet he felt no remorse. He steadied his wrist and pulled the trigger for a second time.

  Again the sound of the gun firing exploded around them. This time Jack’s aim had not been as careful, and the bullet caught the Russian’s scalp, tearing a path through the man’s hair, parting the delicate flesh on the very top of his head.

  The Russian screamed, and jerked like a landed fish, but Jack did not move. He waited until his captive went still before he leant forward and spoke softly.

  ‘There are three bullets left. One of them will kill you. Tell me who the spy is.’

  The Russian closed his eyes. The blood from the wound to his scalp ran freely down his face, streaming in thick rivulets down his cheeks so that it looked like he was crying tears of blood.

  Jack waited. He counted to ten and then slowly prepared the revolver to fire again. The click of the rotating chamber was loud in the silence. The Russian’s eyes snapped open, blinking away the thick covering of blood.

  ‘In my pocket.’ The words were slurred, fear thickening the man’s accent, his crushed throat barely letting him speak.

  Jack didn’t move. He simply stared down at the Russian, as if unmoved by the words he had waited so long to hear. Then, with a sudden flurry of movement, he cracked the revolver hard against the man’s skull. The sound of the vicious impact was sickening.

  Jack leapt to his feet, immediately covering the Russian officer with the still loaded revolver. But the brutal blow had bludgeoned the man insensible. A thick stream of blood ran from his temple, and his head sagged to one side, all signs of consciousness gone.

  Jack tossed the revolver to the ground, then bent forward and started to rummage through the Russian officer’s uniform, grunting in satisfaction as he tugged a thick sheaf of papers from the man’s pocket. He stood back and flicked through them, his eyes scanning the neat copperplate script, the elegant sloping letters revealing to him what he had come so far to find. He had discovered the identity of the spy in the British camp.

  He looked down at the body of the man he had beaten senseless. He contemplated picking up the revolver and blowing the Russian to kingdom come. He turned his head and saw Knightly’s staring blue eyes. The sight sickened him. He turned his back on the scene of so much blood and so much horror and walked away.

  He went to do murder.

  Jack rode at Ballard’s side on a horse borrowed from Outram’s stable. It had not taken long to reveal all that he had discovered. If Ballard had been shocked by the revelation, he had not shown it. It had taken barely thirty minutes to secure Outram’s permission for the two intelligence officers to leave the army and race back to Bushire to apprehend the enemy spy. They had left Palmer behind, the bodyguard ordered to guard their possessions and Ballard’s papers. The two men would deal with the spy themselves.

  It was still not past midday but already the redcoats were going about the gruesome task of sorting the dead from the still living. The battlefield was theirs, the victory complete. Jack and Ballard left the British army as victors of the field and went to finish the job they had started but which had been left unfinished for too long.

  The heavens opened. The afternoon sun was hidden behind a bank of thick, rolling clouds that had rushed across the sky to smother the brightness and shroud the land in a dark cloak. The two officers rode on regardless, paying the deluge no heed. They faced a long journey. They would ride on into the night, pushing their horses hard as they sought to cover the miles back to Bushire as quickly as they could.

  The crash of thunder and the crack of lightning split the sky. It was as if the gods had been angered by the slaughter and now raged in the heavens, their displeasure manifest in the violent storm. The road the two officers followed became little more than muddy slurry and sand, the slop splattering the horses and riders with a thin covering of foul-smelling muck. The rain fell constantly, driven almost horizontal by the biting northerly wind. The officers could do nothing but endure the tempest and ride onwards, their mission too vital to be turned aside by even the foulest conditions.

  Jack could not ever remember being so weary. His sword arm felt like lead, the mu
scles deadened by a night and day of fighting. His leg throbbed from the lance wound that was still untended, his throat burnt from the throttling the Russian officer had administered, and his spine felt as if it had been severed, such was the pain in the small of his back. He ignored it all, driven on by the need for revenge on the person he blamed for so much of the suffering, the power of betrayal fuelling his body past the point of exhaustion.

  The storm raged around him. Every minute was a torment, a torture that would never cease. He endured, staying in the saddle and forcing his horse forward, each step taking him closer to the confrontation he sought.

  He thought of nothing. He refused to dwell on the bitter battle or on the fight that had led to Knightly’s death. He felt nothing. No anger. No grief. No remorse.

  He rode through the tempest, his soul empty. He rode to exact revenge. He would find the British spy whose identity the Russian papers had revealed. And he was ready to kill.

  They arrived in the dead hours before dawn. It was the time when the camp was at its quietest, the men left behind slumbering through the last of the night. No one remarked on their progress, the two weather-beaten officers left to pick their way through the empty spaces. With so many men with the main column, the camp felt eerily still, the tents silent, only shadows moving through the darkness.

  Ballard looked across at Jack. They had not spoken for hours, the only exchanges coming when they passed through the network of vedettes and picquets that ringed the British base, keeping it safe from marauding enemy cavalry.

  ‘Let’s get this done.’

  Jack nodded. His did his best to force away the exhaustion. He had one last duty to perform. Then he could rest.

  They rode into the staff headquarters. Lieutenant Colonel Shepheard had been left in command of a combined army and naval detachment to safeguard the encampment whilst the column made its lightning attack on the Persians. In the small hours, the headquarters was quiet, only a handful of men left to work through the night.