He kept up a stream of foul-mouthed abuse at Ryan, calling his paternity and his manhood into question.
But the one-eyed warrior ignored him. He flexed the fingers on his numb right hand, aware that a little feeling was creeping back and he was recovering movement, which meant a bad bruise, but no break. It was difficult using the weighty panga left-handed against the switchblade, like dueling against a rapier with a cutlass.
Bivar was skillful with his blade, holding it low in front of him, point upward, in the classic knife man’s pose, ready for the thrust to the groin and lower stomach, the most difficult of all to parry.
Ryan was being forced backward, step by step, toward the fence, yielding ground to the dazzling attack, barely holding off the needled point. He desperately tried to bring some life back to his injured right arm, but it was still feeling painful, his reactions sluggish.
Bivar sensed victory the way a feral animal sensed weakness in an opponent, and he smiled.
“Near fuckin’ end, amigo.”
Sweat ran down Ryan’s face, seeping behind the patch, stinging the raw, empty socket. He tried to blink it away, suddenly spotting an extraordinary thing.
A toddler had been hiding in the hut, and he now came waddling out, plump and naked, holding a barbed hunting arrow, taller than him, in both hands, like a spear.
He stood staring in bewilderment at the two strange men as they feinted and lunged, sparks struck from the clashing blades. For a moment his face puckered as if he were about to start to cry, then he seemed to change his mind and padded silently toward the man nearer to him.
Bivar.
Intent on his prey, the chief of the slavers never noticed the child.
Until the youngster drove the arrow into his buttocks.
Bivar yelped in pain, half turning, slashing toward the toddler’s face, missing him by at least eighteen inches.
The quarter second of stolen time was all that Ryan needed. He hefted the panga in a round-arm swing, aiming at the exposed side of Bivar’s neck. At the last splinter of time the slaver started to turn back, dropping his chin, raising his shoulder in a vain attempt at protection.
The broad blade, whetted to a whisper, hacked into the angle of the jaw, cutting through tendons and muscle.
Bivar tried to open his mouth to yelp his agony, but the force of the blow had almost severed the lower jaw, leaving it dangling loose, blood pouring down the man’s neck. His tongue flopped grotesquely forward, like some hapless reptile.
As he tried to turn away and run, the lower jaw swung down, hanging across the front of the neck, held only by the threads of gristle on the right side.
It was a truly macabre sight, and Ryan held off for a moment, fascinated by the triple-bizarre injury, unlike anything he’d seen before.
The little boy chortled and dropped the arrow, waving his chubby fists in the air.
Bivar dropped to his knees, using both hands to try to hold the appalling wound together, his dark eyes turning toward Ryan. His voice was muffled, the words garbled by the choking flood of blood that filled his mouth. But with an effort Ryan could just make out what the desperate man was trying to say.
“Don’t let them burn me. Anything Not the fires and the black swords. You chill me.”
Ryan had no affection for the dark-hearted villain, but the torture and sacrifice that he’d witnessed had made him feel sick to his stomach.
The little boy lost his balance and sat down with a thump in the blood-splattered grass.
Ryan stepped in closer to Bivar, still wary, sheathing the blood-slick panga. He picked up the SIG-Sauer with his right hand, pressed the muzzle of the blaster against the kneeling man’s nape and squeezed the trigger.
The shock jolted his bruised arm, making him wince at the sudden pain.
Bivar pitched down in the dirt, feet kicking as though he were trying to swim through thick water. After a few seconds the corpse was still and the fight was over.
And the baby started to cry.