Steel flashed and Fox dropped. Powder exploded above him and his own blade clattered.

He lunged at Harv. A knife had stuck in the man’s shoulder and the pistol was gone. Fox grabbed the man’s flopping arm, just as Harv yanked the Earl’s knife from his shoulder and slashed with it. He ducked, spotting Shaldon atop Sir Richard, rolling over and over down the rocky hillside. Behind them, men shouted, and more shots rang out, powder swirling in the air.

Fox ducked again, pulled Harv off balance and laid a punch on his wound. Harv howled and lunged drunkenly. Fox took the opening to lock the wrist of Harv’s knife hand, and the man charged again, teeth flashing in a stench of onion.

Perry had smelled this.

He dodged a bite from those putrid teeth and whipped Harv around by the wrist. Bone cracked. The knife went in clean to Harv’s back with apop.

Like a damn Christmas pudding being poked.

Fox slid Harv to the ground. Shaldon was gone, as was Sir Richard. The fighting on the other side of the path had settled. The second skiff had turned back, the first one drifted out empty. Bodies littered the rocks, some of them starting to pick themselves up. He hurried down to the beach.