The Warrior. Dinah McCall
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by the sound of the storm. He fired off another arrow, then another and another, until he’d emptied his quiver, leaving them with a band of far fewer men than when they’d landed.
It wasn’t until he grabbed a club and a spear from a nearby hut and began running toward them, screaming an endless war cry, that the others realized he was there.
A man named Miguelito Colon saw the crazed savage coming toward them and shouted at Vargas over the storm.
Vargas spun just in time to see the attacker run Colon through with a spear. Even though he was accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, he flinched as Colon’s guts spilled out on the ground, the spear still quivering in his belly.
Vargas roared in anger, surprised by both the savage’s sudden appearance as well as the shocking number of his crew who now lay dead. As the rain blurred his vision, a cold wind whipped through the village, suddenly chilling him to the bone.
At that moment, it crossed his mind that he should have waited until the storm passed before coming ashore. But nothing could change what was, and the savage was only one man—little more than a lingering nuisance.
“Get him!” he shouted, waving his men toward the tall, nearly naked man coming at them on the run.
Arturo Medajine grabbed for his handgun, took aim and fired. But the powder was soaked, and by the time he dropped the gun to reach for his sword, the savage was upon him.
The savage swung his wooden club as he passed, cracking Medajine’s skull. The man never knew what hit him.
Night Walker’s gaze was still fixed on the man who’d killed White Fawn. As he passed her grandfather’s corpse, he grabbed the spear from Brown Owl’s lifeless hands then leaped a small child’s body.
The next man to come at him did so with a broadsword. Night Walker dodged, then speared him in the gut. The man was still screaming as Night Walker took the sword out of his hands and decapitated him where he stood.
Vargas was shocked. The savage was still alive and downing his men one after the other. Compared to the others they’d encountered, this one was extremely tall—as tall as Vargas himself. Before he could react, thunder rattled the ground on which they stood. The lightning bolt that followed struck nearby, so close that they were all momentarily blinded. By the time Vargas could see clearly again, the savage was less than a hundred feet away and another of his men was dead.
His fingers tightened around the hasp of his scimitar as a storm gust staggered him.
“Damnation,” he cursed, and then swung his blade in the air. “Peron! The savage! Stop him!”
Luis Peron was at home on the deck of a ship, but, weakened from dysentery and slogging around in the mud with the armload of furs he’d just dragged out of a hut, he was at a huge disadvantage. Still, Vargas was his captain, and orders were to be obeyed. He dropped the furs and was reaching for the knife in his belt when a blow from the savage’s broadsword split his breastbone.
He dropped where he stood.
Vargas’s heart ricocheted against his rib cage. This wasn’t happening. He’d fought the most heinous of men—in seaports, on the sea, in the dark, beneath the subtle glow of a full moon, even in the alleyways of London, England, in full daylight. So why had killing one savage become such a difficult feat?
Nervous now that his men were too few, and knowing he was dangerously out of his element, Vargas began to retreat, taking the remaining men with him.
“Back to the boats!” he yelled, and then, without waiting to see who followed, he started running, now facing the full fury of the storm.
The few surviving sailors gladly obeyed and headed for the boats, following Vargas’s retreat. But for every two steps Vargas took, the storm slowed him by one. Afraid to look over his shoulder—afraid to slow down—all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Even though the intruders were falling one by one beneath Night Walker’s hand, he felt no satisfaction. Revenge would not be done until he had spilled the blood of the man who’d cut White Fawn’s throat and ripped away her medicine pouch. Not until he watched the tall, hairy-faced thief draw his last breath would the fire in his gut cease to burn.
When the invaders suddenly turned away and began running back to their canoes, Night Walker panicked. They couldn’t escape! They had to pay for what they’d done.
He caught up with the slowest of them within seconds, grabbed him by the hair hanging out from under his water-sodden hat and yanked.
The man’s white-rimmed eyes had one last glance of the sky before Night Walker’s flint knife sliced across his jugular and an arterial spray of red shot across his line of vision and everything went dark.
Night Walker only grunted as the body fell at his feet. He was nothing but one less man between him and the one who’d killed White Fawn.
Another flash of lightning shot out of the clouds, striking the bluff on which Night Walker had been standing only a short time ago, momentarily blinding him. Even as he kept running, there was a subconscious part of him that wished he’d still been on that bluff when the fire had come down. Then he wouldn’t be feeling this horrible, rending pain. Then he wouldn’t have to face burying every person he’d ever known and loved.
By the time his vision cleared, the strangers were at the edge of the great water and pushing off from shore, piling into one canoe as fast as they could climb, leaving the other canoes behind. Rage surged as he lengthened his stride. He couldn’t let them get away. Not now. Not when he was so close.
Then he saw the tall one—the leader—grab the oars and begin to paddle against the surge. Still too far from shore to reach them in time, Night Walker knew that revenge was slipping away. When the other men began to row, as well, he knew his chance had flown.
By the time he reached the water, they were as good as gone, but his rage and fury were not. He ran out into the surf until the backwash from the storm reached his knees. He lifted his arms above his head, screaming into the storm—cursing the man with White Fawn’s sky stones, calling for the Old Ones, pleading with the Great Spirit, offering his soul for the right to avenge the deaths of White Fawn and the dead Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.
As the canoe moved farther and farther away, he stood there in the water, and screamed and shouted, pointing toward the canoe, then slapping his chest and opening his arms as if embracing the storm.
He was daring them to come back, to face him man-to-man—to give him a chance to avenge his people in an honorable way. But it was obvious these men had no honor, because they kept rowing in the opposite direction.
Vargas couldn’t believe it. The bastard was still daring them—slapping at his chest as if offering the broad expanse as a target. After the humiliation of turning tail and running, he couldn’t resist the offer, but he was too far away to throw a knife, and his pistol was empty. He wasn’t sure if he could load his gun again in this downpour, but he was damn sure going to try. He crouched down in the boat, then pulled his jacket up and over his head. Using it as a cover, he began trying to load his gun. The boat was rocking so hard he kept spilling his powder. Twice he dropped the lead shot. His hands were shaking from exertion, but his determination won out. Rising from the bottom of the boat like Neptune coming up from the bottom of the sea, he threw off his jacket, stepped up onto a seat, bracing himself against the rock and roll of the boat. The savage was still there, holding his arms out at his sides and shouting words Vargas could not understand, although their meaning was clear.
He took aim and fired.
The sound of the shot rang in his own ears. Even through the downpour, he could smell the burning powder. In his mind, he could almost see the shot spanning the distance between himself and the savage.
He held his breath—waiting to see the savage