James Edward Oglethorpe stood as still as the knobbed cypress trees that drew their dark outlines against the starry sky. He took in the thick, hot night air in small sips so the grating of his lungs wouldn't deafen him to the faint voices in the distance. His eyes strained against the moonless night, until he saw, at last, through the trees and Spanish moss beyond, the flicker of firelight.

“There,” he breathed.

“I hear,” whispered Unoka, the little African, captain of the Maroons under Oglethorpe's command. “I see.”

“Come along, then,” Oglethorpe said, “but quiet as mice, all of you.”

“Listen to ‘em,” said Tully MacKay, his head in silhouette nodding toward the faint laughter. “They wouldna’ hear Gabriel comin’ wi’ his trumpet blawin'.”

“They have devils with them,” Oglethorpe reminded him, “black-souled warlocks who can see like an owl and hear like a cat.”

That sobered them all. They started off again slowly, wading through water that came up to their waists. The water was the temperature of blood, and Oglethorpe knew for a fact it teemed with leeches and snakes. But it quieted their progress, and he doubted that their foe would imagine anyone wading through half a league of flooded rice fields at night.

But he wasn't anyone. He was James Oglethorpe, and he had already taught his red-coated former countrymen some bitter lessons about warfare in the New World. And this wasn't just any rice field—it was his own property, and he knew it like he knew the lines of his hands.

He meant to have it back, and his country with it. The lightless memory of trees and Spanish moss swallowed up the firelight again, but he had them placed now, at the bend where Megger's Creek came around the little spit he had used to call Italia, for its shape.

He wondered how many foemen waited. In his band were only six—the rest of his forces were back with Captain Parmenter, across the Altamaha. Six, but six good men for night work: Unoka, with his pitchy skin and years in wilderness both African and American; three Indians—two Yamacraw and one Yuchi, ghosts in these their native lands day or night; MacKay, a margravate regular, born in the hollow of a tree during Queen Anne's war, as surefooted as a fox; and finally himself, who, though born to privilege in England, had been well educated these past twelve years.

They proceeded with less noise than the alligators they doubtless shared the waters with, came around the bend, and saw their enemy.

Ten men caroused on a sandy bank: six English, by their knee breeches and pale skin, and four Indians Oglethorpe figured to be Westo, judging by their hair. The men were reeling about a small bonfire, drinking rum or brandy from a clay bottle. With them were three women, all Indian or half Indian in look. These three bore expressions ranging from terror to fury. All were young and passing attractive, and it was clear what the men's intentions toward them were.

“Here, darlin',” one of the English grunted, thrusting the bottle toward one of the women, a pretty thing in a worn checked dress. “‘l make you more sociable.” Oglethorpe recognized her suddenly—Jenny Musgrove, the daughter of an Indian trader. She had been working for Oglethorpe at his own trading station when last he saw her, and taking tutoring from his valet. His brows bent further. The Musgroves had trusted him with their daughter, and this was what had become of her: a plaything for the occupying army.

Another man was not drunk and he was not drinking, and Oglethorpe did not even think him a true man. He wore a dark green coat, black waistcoat, black riding boots, and a narrow tricorn. A basket-hilted broadsword sat propped against a tree, within his easy reach.

And his eyes glinted red in the firelight, like the eyes of a wolf.

He looked bored.

“That one,” Oglethorpe said, with barest breath. “A Moscovado by his dress. But see his eyes? He'll be hellish.”

“Got t'at one.” Unoka grunted. The bow he had been carrying above the water creaked as he slipped an arrow in place. The three Indians bent their staves as well.

“A little closer.”

The water was lower, here, only to their knees, but still enough to stop a good charge.

The Russian's eyes flashed and pointed at Oglethorpe, and he bounced to his feet as if he had a steel coil in each thigh.

“Murderer!” the warlock shouted, his English heavily accented. “In the water!”

An arrow took the Russian in the throat before his drunken companions even reacted. Then, cursing and swearing, the others went for their muskets. Two sprawled with arrows in their flesh before Oglethorpe managed to splash onto the sandy spit, but another was turning with his weapon, firing the musket point-blank at Oglethorpe's midsection. He saw the flint spark, but there was no answering flash of powder from the pan—the weapon had lost its prime. Oglethorpe hacked with his heavy military broadsword, cleaving through shoulder bone to sternum, then wrenching his weapon out. The man spewed blood and rum on Oglethorpe's shirt as he went down. The only sound he made was a gasp, but several wretched screams from his companions cut the night's peace.

Oglethorpe felt as much as heard the rush behind him, and leapt aside as a broadsword took chips from the cypress next to him. He looked up to see the Russian, arrow still in his throat, mouth set grimly. Above each shoulder stood a floating eye of flame and mist.

“God of mercy,” Oglethorpe swore.

Came the warlock's broadsword again, too fast, quicker than a man ought to be able to wield one. Oglethorpe hurled himself back, and the wind from the blade parted his hair. Then he fetched into a tree, yanking his own blade up for defense.

Two more arrows appeared in the hellish creature, spun him halfway around. Oglethorpe took the moment to cut at his foe's elbow like a butcher separating a soup bone.

The arm came half off, hanging by a few tendons, and the Russian's broadsword dropped to the ground.

The warlock turned and ran like a deer.

“Damn it all!” Oglethorpe growled.

A quick look around showed the rest of the enemy already dead or captured, and no shots fired. Their screams hadn't been loud enough to carry to the house to whoever was garrisoned there. But if the hell man made it to them, the rest of Oglethorpe's foes would have warning.

So he mustn't make it. Swearing, Oglethorpe followed the warlock into the inky woods.

Following was not easy. The warlock's glowing familiars had vanished and the night had swallowed him. Oglethorpe could hear him, though, a wounded beast crashing through the brush. Inhuman he might be, but nothing injured as this creature could run a straight course. Oglethorpe followed the noise, knowing from memory that the path would soon come to the old fields near the plantation house itself. There, in the open, he must catch the villain.

Oglethorpe emerged from the forest panting heavily. A sickle moon was just reaping on the horizon, and in the pale light the sea of broom spread out before him. Farther, on higher ground, he made out the lights of the house.

But of the warlock, he saw nothing. Was he bedded down in the grass, like a wounded panther?

Sweeping his hanger before him, Oglethorpe worked frantically forward.

But the warlock was behind, still in the trees, uttering a ragged gasp of pain as he lunged from the woods, striking Oglethorpe with enough force to send his sword spinning into the tall brush. Fear jabbed Oglethorpe hard beneath the ribs, and turned there into fury. It was an old friend, that harsh lightning that came from nowhere. It took away all concern except that he should strike and strike, until what he hit was broken or he himself cut down.

The warlock staggered away, but Oglethorpe flung himself forward again, his fingers locking around the monster's throat. In turn, the Russian closed his remaining hand around Oglethorpe's Adam's apple. Despite his wounds, the fiend was still hideously strong.

“Die,” Oglethorpe gasped. “Die.” Then he had no air, and could only squeeze harder. For a long moment, the only movement the two men made was a faint trembling.

And then the eyes appeared again, just in front of Ogle-thorpe's nose, and he knew sergeant death had come for him.

Then more blood spattered in his face, and the vise around his neck slackened and fell away. The red eyes, so near his own, still stared at him with preternatural fury as the warlock stepped back. Oglethorpe could see that an ax was buried in his skull, just above his right ear.

The Russian sank to his knees. He shook a finger at Oglethorpe, as if in accusation.

“Damn!” Unoka, darker than a shadow, stepped up and wrenched his throwing ax from the warlock's head, and the man finally fell prone. The ax chopped a half-dozen more times as Unoka cursed in his own tongue and then finally straightened, holding something vaguely pumpkin shaped.

“I t'ink he dead, now,” the Maroon observed.

“Very good,” Oglethorpe managed, massaging his throat. “Let's rejoin the rest, see if they managed to leave any of the Tories alive that we might question them.”

They hadn't, but the women were all right. Jenny Musgrove leapt right into Oglethorpe's bloody arms.

“Margrave!” she gasped.

“There, miss,” he soothed. “Are you well?”

“Well enough.”

“Did they …?” He didn't know how to complete the sentence.

She looked down, her eyes a little dull, and he took that for an affirmative.

“Poor Jenny,” Oglethorpe said, stroking her hair. “I've betrayed you.” By leading the doomed Continental Army. He should have been here, with his people, not off on Franklin's errands.

“You're here now,” Jenny murmured. “You'll set things to rights, won't you?”

“By God, yes,” he said. “Can you tell me how many more men there are on the plantation? In the house?”

“A few more in the house, but most of ‘em went to Fort Montgomery. They say to fight Mr. Nairne, who brought the army down from Fort Moore.”

“How many is a few, Jenny?”

“Ten, I think.”

“Ten.” He almost laughed. Who was this general who had taken his house for a command center? Not the best or the brightest the Pretender had to field, Oglethorpe guessed. He turned to MacKay. “Go. Tell Captain Parmenter to cross the river by the hour before dawn and join us at my house. I'll have it back, I think.”

“We took most in their beds, sir,” Captain Parmenter told Oglethorpe a few hours later. “Van der Mann was wounded, but he'll live. Otherwise, no casualties.”

“Good. And who did we catch napping in my bed?”

“I think you'll like this, sir.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oglethorpe followed him into the house. It was a two-story building, not logs, by damn, but good split timbers over a stone foundation. It would never compare with his family's estates in England, but then those were destroyed, and this still stood, and he had built it from nothing. There was something good in that.

“Sir!”

He turned at the familiar voice and saw Joseph, his valet.

“Good God, man, are you well?” Oglethorpe asked.

“Well enough, sir, now that you've returned.”

“You remained here? I expected you should have fled.”

The old black man shrugged. “Where to, sir?”

“Well, I'm glad you stayed. And I'm glad you're well. Do you have any complaints I should take up with our guest?”

“Not so much for me, sir, but the women had some rough treatment.”

“I'm aware of that. Did this general, whoever he is, take part in that obscene business?”

“No, sir. I don't think he knew.”

“We will sort out who did what—and who knew what. You will help me with that, Joseph?”

“Quite right, sir.”

“Good. Well—show me to my guest, will you?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

He followed Joseph to the library, where the leader of the occupying force awaited. When Oglethorpe saw who it was, he uttered a sharp laugh.

“Well, I'll be damned. Bobbing John.”

The ruddy-faced old man in the armchair blushed a darker shade of crimson. “Young Oglethorpe,” the Earl of Mar muttered.

“Not so young anymore, my good Mar, but I'm flattered that you place me.”

“You disgust me. You're a traitor to the cause and a warrior without honor. You studied with Eugène of Savoy, man! How is it you conduct yourself this way, attacking a gentleman in his headquarters, in the wee hours of dawn. It isn't right!”

Oglethorpe grinned coldly. “My lord, this is my home you are squatting in. Those are my friends and servants your men have been abusing and raping. This is my country you and your hellborn allies have invaded, and I will conduct the defense of it any damn way I please. And you, sir, will be damned lucky if I don't let my Indian friends practice their tortures on you.”

“You wouldn't dare!”

“Sir, you should not try me there.” He cocked his head. “By any chance, is the siege of Montgomery your command?”

“Of course it is.”

“Well, that's grand, very grand.” He looked up at Joseph. “Did he leave me any brandy?”

“I hid the best bottle, sir.”

“Bring it here, if you don't mind, and pour yourself a dram.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you intend to do with me?” the Earl of Mar asked.

Oglethorpe didn't answer until the brandy was in his hand and he had taken a sip. “I'm usually a temperate man, you know,” he said. “I had some unfortunate occasions in my youth involving this stuff. Just now, however, I need to steady myself for what may soon come.”

“What, sir? What do you mean?”

Mar's bluster was nearly gone, leaving only a shrunken, pitiful old man. Why in heaven's name had James kept this fool as a general?

Oglethorpe set his drink down. “Sir, how you are treated very much depends upon you. If you give me the details of your campaign against Nairne—true and accurate details, including the number and placement of all your diabolic engines—and if you tell me everything else you know concerning the Pretender's troops, designs, and intentions, then I will treat you as a gentleman. But if you vex me in the slightest, I fear I will be forced to demonstrate just how we treat your sort on this continent, if we take a mind to.”

The earl tried to glare, and the veins pulsed on his forehead.

“James is your rightful king,” he said weakly.

“I once would have agreed with you,” Oglethorpe said mildly, “as well you know. But that was before he forsook God and took Lucifer and the damned Russians as his bosom companions. Now only two sorts of men serve him—the evil and the foolish. Which are you, Mar? Evil I will not tolerate. I have the head of your pet witch in a bag. My Indian friends wish to burn the evil from you, slowly, with all the craft of their kind. But if you are merely foolish, you can make amends. You can set things right.”

“May I have some brandy?”

Oglethorpe laughed. “Yes, and you may have some brandy.”

“No —I meant—now, I meant …”

“I know you did. You may have it. Will it be one cordial of many to come or your last drink before dying?”

“You are no gentleman, sir, and your father would be ashamed.”

“My father is dead, and his estates are ash. Answer my question.”

The earl dropped his head. “Curse me for an old man,” he muttered, “but do not give me to the savages. I'm tired of this place, weary of this war. I will tell you what you wish to know. Only do not give me over to them.”

And Oglethorpe smiled as he might at a wayward child.

“You have my word. Serve me as I wish, and you will be quite safe. Joseph, bring him some brandy, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mar gulped at it when it was in his hands. “I heard you were dead, you know,” Mar said, after a moment. “We had reports that your army had been crushed.”

“I don't doubt it. I put those reports out myself.”

“Eh? But General Simmon's command—”

“Quite destroyed. But I found one of his field aetherschreibers, and thus sent word back to Charles Town and your false king of a … different outcome. I'm sure they're onto the trick by now, but now they don't know where I am. Even with their flying corvettes, they must have some idea where to look, and they have none.” He raised his glass. “But they will. Nairne is at Fort Montgomery.”

“Yes.”

“And you have laid siege to it.”

“I have.”

“And how does that proceed?”

“Not well, thus far, but—” Mar stopped quite quickly.

“I did say everything,” Oglethorpe reminded him gently. “Vex me in the slightest, I said.”

“I sent for reinforcements,” Mar admitted.

“Are they coming on foot or in the flying ships?”

“Neither.”

“Boats, then, up the Altamaha? Come, sir, do not make me guess.”

“Boats, yes. The underwater boats the Moscovados brought.”

“Oh, yes. Franklin told me about those. I have not seen one with my own eyes. But I think I shall. How many men do you have at the siege?”

“Five hundred men and fifty taloi.”

“Fifty taloi.” Five hundred men was a lot, considering he had only fifty-four. The taloi were automatons, made of alchemical stuff and inhabited by demons. At close range they could be dealt with, for the wizard Franklin had supplied him with a depneumifier—his men called it a devil gun—that could strip the demons from their artificial bodies. But the redcoats had learned that much and used the taloi as mobile artillery; and in that capacity they were still very much a danger.

“How many men do you suppose Nairne has?”

“I have guessed two hundred. But the women and even the children have been seen firing muskets.”

So Nairne probably had fewer actual soldiers than Mar thought.

“When will the amphibian boats arrive?”

Mar took a long, deep breath. “By morning,” he murmured.

“How many?”

“Four, each with fifty troops.”

“Two hundred more men. Seven hundred men, four gunboats, fifty taloi. Anything else?”

“No. Fort Marlborough would spare me no more.”

“Ah. So they hold the Altamaha sound. Thank you for that, too, Mar.”

I have fifty-four men, Oglethorpe thought. Then he smiled. Fifty-four men and an idea. He had won with less.