Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold Page B

life. The chair holding Ayres’s immense backside groaned even as he spoke, and bits of food sprayed out across his purple doublet. ‘That is surely our most fearsome enemy,’ he said, his vastly layered neck bunching as he looked down to unfasten the buttons at his midriff in order to allow for expansion of his girth with the prodigious intake of food.
    Hogg dearly wanted to berate the quartermaster for the sin of gluttony, but managed to bite his tongue. ‘Greater still than that, sir,’ he said levelly.
    ‘None other than Satan himself, gentlemen!’
    It was Major-General Collings who had spoken, and the amusement in his voice was not lost on Hogg. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why the clearly sceptical Parliamentarian had asked him to come to Devon. He tore his gaze away from Collings, meeting some of the other faces at the table as he spoke. ‘I am a witch-hunter, as you are no doubt aware. Therefore my enemy is not the natural, but the supernatural.’
    ‘Are the dark arts prevalent in the Americas, sir?’ one of the infantry colonels asked. He was a slim man with hollow, deeply pock-pitted cheeks and bulbous eyes that looked as though they might pop out of his skull at any moment.
    Hogg stabbed a small piece of venison with his knife. ‘It is the red man, Colonel Stockley. The native. He worships all manner of false idols, every one of them a demon, of course.’ With his long teeth he picked the meat from the point of the knife and chewed it for a few moments before continuing. ‘The God-fearing folk of Europe fled persecution at home, only to find themselves in a land veritably flooded with evil. It is only natural those of a weaker disposition are ultimately seduced by it.’
    ‘Tell me, sir,’ Major Matheson said in his seemingly permanent gruff tone, ‘which part of the New World were you at work?’
    ‘We travelled extensively around New England, Major,’ Hogg responded. ‘Boston and all along the Mystic River, Salem, Charlestown, Plymouth.’
    ‘Later Providence Plantation,’ José Ventura spoke for the first time.
    Hogg met the Spaniard’s brown eyes, buried in two deep pits of flesh, noting wryly that, for once, Ventura was not the fattest man in the room. ‘Aye, there too. And Saybrook.’ A thought struck him, and he looked to Collings. ‘You will know that last settlement was founded by the Lord Brooke. I hear he is one of the rebellion’s foremost leaders now.’
    Collings shook his head and quaffed the rest of his wine. ‘Alas, no. My Lord Brooke was killed at Lichfield, near two months back. Shot through the eye, so says the story.’
    ‘By a deaf mute, would you believe?’ Major Matheson added with a face full of triumph. ‘Punishment for his Puritan ways, I’d wager.’
    Hogg turned cool eyes on the major, not wishing to waste valuable breath on such an imbecile, but knowing he must respond. ‘Brooke’s murderer was clearly empowered by Beelzebub, sir. The powers of evil are strong with the King’s Army. That is why they must be driven into the sea.’
    ‘A tragic loss, either way,’ Major-General Collings muttered.
    ‘A tragic loss indeed,’ Hogg said genuinely. Brooke had been one of the more prominent reformers in both New and Old England. His death would surely prove a major blow to the gathering Puritan power base. He sucked briefly at his long teeth. ‘Still, we shall not let that setback turn us from the Lord’s work, eh Ventura?’
    The big Spaniard swept a chubby hand through his slick hair. ‘No, señor. Ours is an unending fight.’
    Hogg nodded sharply. ‘Amen to that.’ He noticed the sceptical expressions around the table. ‘You must understand, gentlemen, that Satan strives against mankind with every passing moment. He sends his minions to work towards our downfall, as he himself worked his way with Eve.’
    ‘I saw the old woman dance the morris yesterday, Master Hogg,’ Colonel Stockley said, his tone uneasy. ‘Was she