'I don't care.'
'That's not very gentlemanly.'
'There are many who claim I am not a gentleman,' noted Burton. 'They call me Ruffian Dick. At this particular moment in time, it's a title I intend to live down to.'
He suddenly sprang at Oliphant and thrust at his heart. The feline man twisted and jumped back, the point of the rapier catching and slicing his shirtsleeve.
'I'm too quick for you, Burton!' he panted, then, lightning fast, ducked down, pounced in, and swiped at the adventurer's thigh with his sharp talons.
Burton predicted the move and caught the albino's hand in his own.
'My reactions aren't bad either,' he said.
His grip tightened and bones crunched.
Oliphant screamed.
Burton dropped the rapier and sent his fist crashing into the albino's jaw.
'And I think you'll find that I'm stronger.'
With his left hand mercilessly breaking the bones in Oliphant's right, Burton set about pounding his opponent's face to a pulp. Blood spurted as the panther-man's nose snapped and flattened. Canine teeth broke. Skin tore.
Burton was thoroughly scientific about it. He revived the boxing skills of his youth, choosing where to strike with a cold detachment, timing his blows to perfection, measuring the damage to ensure that the albino suffered every crunching blow without slipping into unconsciousness.
It was more than punishment; it was torture, and Burton had no qualms about it.
As the beating continued, Fidget cautiously stepped back in through the door and began to skirt the wall toward Swinburne. Glancing repeatedly at his master, he padded around the edge of the big rectangular space then crept in until he reached Swinburne's feet. He sniffed at the blood-spattered boots, pushed his nose into the too- short trouser leg, then bit the skinny ankle.
'Yaargh!' screeched the poet.
Burton turned, and in that unguarded second, Laurence Oliphant ripped his mangled hand from the explorer's grasp and, with a sudden thrust of his legs, propelled himself away. He rolled, leaped to his feet, and sprinted to the huge doors of the power station. Perfectly balanced, they swung open at his touch and slammed shut behind him.
The king's agent, who'd instantly thrown himself after the albino, crashed into the doors, pushed them, pulled them, and realised that his enemy had escaped.
He hurried over to Swinburne and shoved Fidget away.
'Are you all right, Algy?'
'Bloody ecstatic, Richard.'
'Can you walk?'
'I thought I could, then that blasted dog bit me!'
'Idiot. It was just a nip. Come on, up with you.'
He slipped his arm beneath the poet's shoulders and heaved him upright. There was barely an inch of his friend that wasn't smeared with blood.
'I have to get you seen to as quickly as possible,' he said. 'We need to get this bleeding stopped.'
'It was marvellous,' gasped Swinburne. 'I took everything he dished out! Was that courage, Richard?'
'Yes, Algy; that was courage.'
'Splendid! Absolutely splendid! Oh, by the way, John Speke is in there.'
Before Burton could reply, a howl echoed from the other end of the courtyard.
'Werewolves!' breathed the king's agent. 'We've got to get out of here!'
He dragged his friend toward the door in the main gate, scooping up Oliphant's swords tick on the way, but before he got there half a dozen redcloaked wolf-men loped from an arched opening and came racing across the courtyard.
The head of the pack glared out from the shadow of its hood, displayed its sharp teeth in a terrible grin, extended a claw toward the retreating Englishmen, then exploded into flames.
The remaining creatures scattered, diving away from the sudden inferno. In the midst of this confusion, Swinburne thrust himself away from Burton, plunged at something on the ground, snatched it up, then launched himself through the door in the gate, knocking Burton backward. They landed in a heap outside the power station with Fidget tangled in their legs.
The king's agent pushed himself up, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. There was no way to secure it from the outside, so, while the werewolves were distracted, there was only one thing to do: run!
He grabbed Swinburne, threw him over his shoulder, and took to his heels.
With the basset hound scampering along beside him, he sprinted westward over a patch of wasteland toward railway lines and, beyond them, the busy Kingstown Road and Chelsea Bridge.
'Hurry! They're coming!' cried Swinburne.
A quick backward glance proved the poet right: the loups-garous were pouring through the gate.
Despite his short legs, Fidget put on an astonishing show of speed and sprang ahead across the railway track. Burton tried to keep up but Swinburne's weight slowed him and now he spotted, to his right, a locomotive pelting down the line. There was no way, it seemed, to make it to the other side before the engine passed; his escape route was blocked and the wolf-men were gaining fast.
He set his mind to the task, sucked in a deep breath, and focused every ounce of his being into his pumping legs. Run! Run!
The events of the next few seconds happened so quickly that his consciousness couldn't register them, yet he dreamed about them for many months afterward.
The locomotive was upon him.
He put everything he had into a jump across its path.
His feet left the ground.
Claws ripped through the back of his jacket and ploughed through his skin.
A deafening whistle.
A wall of metal to his right.
Scalding vapour.
Gravel slamming into him.
Rolling.
A thunderous roar.
The blur of passing wheels and, under them, flames.
A receding rumble.
Slowly dissipating steam.
The grey sky.
A spot of rain on his face.
A groan at his side.
A moment of silence.
Then: 'Ow! For Pete's sake! The blessed beast bit me again!'
Sir Richard Francis Burton started to laugh. It began in his stomach and rose through his chest and shook his whole body and he didn't want it to stop. He laughed at India. He laughed at Arabia. He laughed at Africa. He laughed at the Nile and the Royal Geographical Society and John Hanning bloody Speke. He laughed at Spring Heeled Jack and the wolf-men and the albino and that silly damned dog that kept biting Swinburne's ankle.
He laughed away his petulant anger, his resentments, his confusion, and his reluctance, and when he finally stopped laughing, he was Sir Richard Francis Burton, the king's agent, in the service of the country of his birth, and it no longer mattered that he was an outsider or that he stood in opposition to the Empire's foreign policies. He had a job to do.
His laughter abated. He lay silently and looked at the grey sky.
London muttered and grumbled.
He sat up and examined Swinburne. The poet had lapsed into unconsciousness. Fidget the basset hound was
