The ailing man had his eyes closed, shutting away the doubtful horrors of the last day or so, letting his beloved coins ease his uncertainties.
A dark blue silk bag held two dozen extra fine double florins from the time of Queen Victoria, and another held superb examples of soft-gleaming sovereigns.
Letting the cold metal caress his fingers, Baron Weyman was happy and contented, all of his worries forgotten for the time being.
RYAN HAD THE STEEP SLOPE of the hillside behind him and a maze of stark pine trees. There was a strong urge to turn and run, hoping to outdodge the lumbering brute, but he was only too aware that time was not on his side. By now his son would be waiting for the signal of the gunshot.
The panga was ready, perfectly balanced, an extension of Ryan’s right arm.
Still General waited, working himself into a terrifying rage, his grunting growing louder. Blood flecked the twisted cord of frothing drool.
“Come on, you bastard,” Ryan growled, beckoning to the monster animal, waiting for the inevitable charge, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, shuffling in the loose soil to make sure of his footing.
The charge was explosive, as though the mutie boar had been fired from a huge cannon.
Ryan feinted to throw more stinging sand in the pig’s eyes, and General instinctively jerked his head away, altering the angle of his attack.
The boar gave the man the opening he’d hoped for, and he slashed down at the shoulder of the great monster as it lumbered past him. But the animal’s skin was tough and leathery, almost jarring the panga out of Ryan’s hand, leaving only a shallow cut a few inches long that wept a little purple blood. “Fireblast!”
It was enough to provoke General to even dizzier heights of crazed ferocity. He turned, hesitating a moment, weighing up the opposition, not committing to another blind charge, taking greater care.
Since a slashing blow with the edge of the panga was likely to do nothing, except probably get him killed, Ryan had to rethink his own strategy.
The pig was a far more lethal opponent then he’d imagined, and chilling it was a triple-serious problem.
Ryan’s back was to the steep path down the side of the hill, the scattered pile of brush to his left. General was directly in front of him with the ground sloping gently through dense trees to the right.
The pig came at him again, a little more slowly and cautiously, its great head swinging from side to side, ready to try to rake him with either the short or the long tusk.
Ryan saw a chance and took it, despite the appalling risk. If he missed either his footing or his grasp, then he would be down in the dirt, easy meat when the mutie creature would turn and rip him apart.
As General thundered toward him, Ryan stood slightly sideways on to the creature, waiting for the right moment.
Waiting.
He jumped high in the air, steadying himself with the left hand on the bristled shoulders, avoiding tusks and teeth, and landing astride the pig’s back. Ryan gripped for his life with his thighs and knees, hanging on as the enraged animal tried to turn its head to savage its oppressor. But he was far enough away from the rending jaws to be safe. For a few hectic moments.
General tried to buck him off, running around in a tight circle, giving an almost human cry of rage.
Ryan knew it could only be a matter of seconds before the wily old boar spotted the way out and rolled on the ground, wiping him away like a mule shedding a tick.
He fought for balance, risking letting go with his left hand, holding the hilt of the long knife in both hands.
Ryan picked his spot carefully, at the juncture where the head joined onto the back, plunging in the sharp point of the blade with all his strength.
There was a momentary hesitation when Ryan feared for a second that the thick skin had diverted the blow. Then he felt the steel penetrate through, deep into the wedge of muscle, finally reaching the delicate spinal cord.