He skirted inland past the broad bay where the Portuguese fort was, fighting exhaustion and thirst and trying to edge his way northward without raising an alarm. Kynan closed his hands, longing for some sort of weapon to defend himself, but he had none. He had only a sense of duty to drive him forward, step by aching step. Which did him no good at all when he staggered, unwitting, into an ambush.
One moment he was alone beneath a steaming forest canopy. The next, he was on the ground with Portuguese shouts in his ears and hard hands on his arms and legs. Kynan heaved and broke loose. He rolled and came to a crouch with his back against a tree trunk. Then swallowed hard. He faced half a dozen snarling Portuguese, all of them armed with guns or crossbows.
Honor demanded he fight. Duty demanded he try to escape and rescue his lost comrade and commander. A strong sense of practicality told him he could do neither, given his exhaustion and the unwavering weapons trained on him. One of the men grinned slowly and said something Kynan didn’t understand. Then, in bad English: “Witch…”
Kynan’s blood ran cold.
They’d found Margo or Koot van Beek or the raft they would torture and burn him alive-
He groped behind the tree trunk, closed his hand around a chunk of stout deadwood. He’d rather be shot with gun and crossbow than burn. Then another, worse thought came to him. They would burn Margo, too, and the sick Afrikaaner who had taught Kynan to shoot the semi-magical rifle. If Kynan let these men kill him now, the others would have no chance of escape at all. If he let them take him alive …