Sharpe's Fortress Part 50

Sevajee smiled.

"This crowd will accept the result of a fair fight, Ensign. They might not like it if I simply rescue you. Besides, you don't want to be in my debt, do you?"

"I'm in your debt already," Sharpe said, 'up to my b.l.o.o.d.y eyeb.a.l.l.s." He turned and looked at Prithviraj who was waiting for a sign from Jama.

"Hey! Goliath!" Sharpe shouted.

"Here!" He threw the tulwar at the man, keeping the spear.

"You want a fair fight? So you've got a weapon now."

The pain seemed to have vanished and even the thirst had gone away.

It was like that moment at a.s.saye when he had been surrounded by enemies, and suddenly the world had seemed a calm, clear-cut place full of delicious opportunity. He had a chance now. He had more than a chance, he was going to put the big b.a.s.t.a.r.d down. It was a fair fight, and Sharpe had grown up fighting. He had been bred to it from the gutter, driven to it by poverty and inured to it by desperation. He was nothing if he was not a fighter, and now the crowd would get the b.l.o.o.d.y sport they wanted. He hefted the spear.

"So come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Prithviraj stooped and picked up the tulwar. He swung it in a clumsy arc, then looked again at Jama.

"Don't look at him, you great ox! Look at me!" Sharpe went forward, the spear low, then he raised the blade and lunged towards the big man's belly and Prithviraj made a clumsy parry that rang against the spear blade.

"You'll have to put more strength into it than that," Sharpe said, pulling back the spear and standing still to tempt thejetti forward.

Prithviraj stepped towards him, swung the blade and Sharpe stepped back so that the tulwar's tip slashed inches from his chest.

"You have to be quick," Sharpe said, and he feinted right, spun away and walked back to the left leaving Prithviraj off balance. Sharpe turned and lunged with the spear, p.r.i.c.king the big man's back and leaving a trickle of blood.

"Ain't the same, is it, when the other fellow's got a weapon?" He smiled at the jetti.

"So come on, you daft pudding. Come on!"

The crowd was silent now. Prithviraj seemed puzzled. He had not expected to fight, not with a weapon, and it was plain he was not accustomed to a tulwar.

"You can give up," Sharpe said.

"You can kneel down and give up. I won't kill you if you do that, but if you stay on your feet I'll pick you apart like a joint of b.l.o.o.d.y meat."

Prithviraj did not understand a word, but he knew Sharpe was dangerous and he was trying to work out how best to kill him. He glanced at the spear, wishing he had that weapon instead of the tulwar, but Sharpe knew the point should always beat the edge, which was why he had kept the spear.

"You want it quick or slow, Sevajee?" Sharpe called.

"Whichever you prefer, Ensign," Sevajee said, smiling.

"It is not for the audience to tell the actors how the play should go."

"Then I'll make it quick," Sharpe said, and he pointed at Prithviraj with his free hand and motioned that thejetti could kneel down.

"Just kneel," he said, 'and I'll spare you. Tell him that, Sevajee!"

Sevajee called out in an Indian language and Prithviraj must have decided the offer was an insult, for he suddenly ran forward, tulwar swinging, and Sharpe had to step quickly aside and parry one of the cuts with the spear's staff. The blade cut a sliver of wood from the shaft, but went nowhere near Sharpe.

"No good doing that," Sharpe said.

"You're not making hay, you great pudding, you're trying to stay alive."

Prithviraj attacked again, but all he could think to do was make great swings with the blade, any one of which might have slit Sharpe into two, but the attacks were clumsy and Sharpe backed away, always circling around to the middle of the courtyard so that he was not trapped against its edges. The crowd, sensing that Prithviraj might win, began to urge him on, but some noticed that the Englishman was not even trying to fight yet. He was taunting thejetti, he was evading him and he was keeping his spear low.

"I thought you said it would be quick," Sevajee said.

"You want it over?" Sharpe asked. He crouched, raising the spear blade, and the motion checked Prithviraj who stared at him warily.

"What I'm going to do," Sharpe said, 'is cut your belly open, then slit your throat. Are you ready?" He went forward, jabbing the spear, still low, and Prithviraj backed away, trying to parry the small lunges, but Sharpe dragged the spear back each time before the parry could connect, and Prithviraj frowned. He seemed hypnotized by the shining blade that flickered like a snake's tongue, and behind it Sharpe was grinning at him and taunting him, and Prithviraj tried to counter-attack once, but the spear slashed up to within an inch of his face and he went on stepping backwards. Then he backed into the blinded jettt who still crouched on the flagstones and Prithviraj staggered as he lost his balance.

Sharpe came up from the crouch, the spear lancing forward and the wild parry came far too late and suddenly the blade was punching and tearing through the skin and muscle of the jettfs stomach. Sharpe twisted the leaf-shaped steel so that it did not get trapped in the flesh and then he ripped it out, and blood washed across the temple floor and Prithviraj was bending forward as if he could seal the pain in his belly by folding over, and then the spear sliced from the side to slash across his throat.

The crowd sighed.

Prithviraj was on the stones now, curled up with blood bubbling from his sliced belly and pulsing from his neck.

Sharpe kicked the tulwar from the jettt's unresisting hand, then turned and looked at Jama.

"You and your brother did business with Captain Torrance?"

Jama said nothing.

Sharpe walked towards the shrine. The guards moved to stop him, but Sevajee's men raised their muskets and some, grinning, jumped down into the courtyard. Ahmed also jumped down and s.n.a.t.c.hed the tulwar from the flagstones. Prithviraj was on his side now, dying.

Jama stood as Sharpe reached the steps, but he could not move fast with his limp and suddenly the spear was at his belly.

"I asked you a question," Sharpe said.

Jama still said nothing.

"You want to live?" Sharpe asked. Jama looked down at the spear blade that was thick with blood.

"Was it Torrance who gave me to you?" Sharpe asked.

"Yes," Jama said.

"If I see you again," Sharpe said, "I'll kill you. If you go back to the British camp I'll hang you like your brother, and if you so much as send a message to Torrance, I'll follow you to the last corner on G.o.d's earth and I'll castrate you with my bare hands." He jabbed the spear just enough to p.r.i.c.k Jama's belly, then turned away. The crowd was silent, cowed by Sevajee's men and by the ferocity they had witnessed in the temple courtyard. Sharpe tossed away the spear, pulled Ahmed towards him and patted the boy's head.

"You're a good lad, Ahmed. A b.l.o.o.d.y good lad. And I need a drink. By Christ, I'm thirsty."

But he was also alive.

Which meant some other men would soon be dead.

Because Sharpe was more than alive. He was angry. Angry as h.e.l.l.