The ax rang on the honed steel of the big cleaver as Ryan parried it, feeling the shudder of the blow run clear up to his shoulder.
He heard a handblaster boom close behind him and saw another of the attackers throw up his arms and topple over onto the crust across the scalding lake, which opened to receive the body in a mass of steaming bubbles.
But all of Ryan’s attention was concentrated on his own opponent, who was grinning at him from the leathery mass of corruption that masked his brutish features. He was panting from the grim exertion of the fight, whispering to Ryan in a harsh, croaking voice.
“Come, outie, come on Cut your outie heart and fuck’n eat it up.”
Ryan didn’t waste his breath.
Around him, he could hear all the sounds of a pitched battle. Several blasters were in operation, which made him think the firefight should be going their way. J.B. and the others at the front had been lucky enough to have a couple of seconds more warning, giving them the precious moment to draw and start shooting at the attacking scabbies.
The handblaster opened up again, close behind him, and another of the muties rolled backward, most of its face vanishing in a fountain of blood, bone and brains.
“Got the bastard!” It was Abe’s voice, sent soaring up the scale by the adrenaline rush.
The ambush had failed.
Beyond his own opponent, Ryan could see that the rest of the scabbies had turned to flee, calling out in their broken, guttural voices as they ran back along the pathway, to disappear into the swirling bank of mist.
But the man facing Ryan wasn’t about to give up. He was still swearing and muttering to himself as he tried to find a gap through the norm’s impenetrable guard, lunging and swinging with the deadly ax.
“Let me take him, Ryan,” Trader called. “Other shitters broke and ran. Those that still could.”
“No!” The word was shouted angrily over his shoulder, his good eye not moving for a moment from the scabbie’s distorted, suppurating face.
The man was becoming tired. Ryan could sense it, almost taste the fatigue.
The hacking blows were slower, less skillfully aimed. It was nearly time.
Ryan realized that it had become silent, after the racketing of the blasters and the yells and screams. Now there was only the bursting of bubbles of the scalding gas and the faint hissing of steam.
And the ragged breathing of the mutie who was trying to kill him.
Ryan hefted the eighteen inches of sharpened steel, as if he were about to cut at the scabbie’s throat, dropping his aim to the groin. As the ax was lowered to counter it, Ryan swung back toward the neck.
Sixty seconds ago the mutie would have been fit enough and fast enough to dodge or parry.
Now he wasn’t.
There was enough residual combat skill in him to thwart Ryan’s purpose of hacking the head off his shoulders. He flinched, half lifting his left arm, protecting his throat, paying the price for his slowness.
The razored edge bit deep into his arm, a couple of inches above the wrist. It cut open skin and flesh, splintering through both the ulna and the radius, coming within a quarter inch of severing the hand, which dangled loose by a length of torn muscle. Blood gouted bright crimson, pattering on the path, into the boiling mud, staining the yellow dirt a deep orange.
The scabbie staggered back, looking in disbelief at the flapping, useless hand.
Ryan readied himself for the final, mortal blow, swinging the panga back to his shoulder.
His enemy saw death coming and tried to avoid it, whimpering in agony. But the lethal wound had made him clumsy, and he tripped over his own feet.
He started to fall, the ax tossed high in the misty air, spinning over and over as he toppled backward. His scream of mortal terror was loud and shrill enough to shatter crystal at fifty paces.
“Enjoy the bath,” Trader called.
The mutie landed on the left of the narrow trail, breaking through the thin layer of scale across the lake.