Rory’s face went nuclear; his thin smile was gone. “Who the ’ell do ya think you are, telling me what I can and cannnot do? If ya think I’m gonna dodder around and sing campfire songs with ya, you’re out of your fucking mind. Do youknowwho my dad is? He’s George O’Whirley, of O’Whirley Enterprises, a fucking Fortune 500 company. Atransportationcompany. If there’s a way to get me out of here, my dad’ll find it.” He looked smug. “And he didn’t make his bloody fortune lolling around singing ‘Kumbaya.’”
Fury welled in me like lava, ready to blow. “I don’t give a flyingfuckwho your dad is. Because he’s nothere, and no matter what you think or how much money he has, he’s not gonna gethere. All that matters is what goes down between us, right here, right now. And right now you’re going to give back what you took.” I paused. “Now.”
Rory looked amused, then his face slid back into a condescending sneer. “No can do, Holy Joe. I’m taking the knives and—”
A muffled noise at one o’clock caught my attention. Behind a pile of black rocks just past Rory, something rustled, then scratched. Something weighty. Listening intently, I tried to gauge what it might be, but it was hard to filter the sounds through Rory’s rants.
Rory was shouting now. “I don’t give a bollocks, you hear me?” A vein had popped out on his neck, and his flushed face splotched white.
“Whatever,” I said, wholly focused on Rory again. “Hand over the knives. Then you can go. I won’t stop you.”
“No.” Rory gripped the bag harder.
“Seriously. Don’t do this.” It was like a bad junior high moment when the kid saysmake me. “Give me the knives.”
Rory laughed. “Fuck you.” He spat at my feet, then turned and crashed up the path.
“Rory!” I yelled, dreading the coming fight. “Last chance!”
“Go to hell!” he roared over his shoulder.
“Already there,” I muttered.
I’d taken two steps when a massive creature exploded from the trees and landed on the path in front of Rory. Snorting and squealing, with two sets of stained tusks, bristles for hair, and patches of bare skin, it was the ugliest beast I’d seen on Nil.
Thing, I thought, pulling my knife. A mutant, scary Nil plaything.
As Rory skidded to a halt, the beast lowered its head. With a surprising burst of speed, it charged.
Yelping, Rory backpedaled, arms wild. I raced forward, angling right, gunning to intercept the beast from the side before it reached Rory. My attack window narrowed; Rory’s feet were slow.
Then Rory tripped and fell. The beast kept coming, barreling forward like a wild boar on ’roids. Too close to Rory, too far from me. Rory lay sprawled flat on his back, his legs at odd angles, but at least they were moving.
Get up, I willed Rory silently as I arced around the beast’s side. It’s impossible to fight when you’re not on your feet.
Still on the ground, Rory scrambled backward like a crab.
“Get up!” I shouted at Rory; I couldn’t help it. “GET UP!”
His eyes wide with terror, Rory struggled to find his feet. The shoulder strap circled his neck like a noose, and trapped beneath him, the loaded satchel pinned him to the dirt. Rory was still horizontal when the animal butted him with two quick strikes.
Rory screamed and threw his hands up to protect his face; at the same time, I targeted the beast’s side. The animal squealed and thrashed, its tusks flashing like weapons, making it tough to get a lock on its chest.
I lunged and barely nicked hide.
Before I could regroup, the beast charged Rory again, its head down, tusks in play. This time the animal struck Rory with enough force to toss him a meter through the air. As Rory flew backward, Istruck the boar’s chest, then hacked down, and when I ripped my blade out, blood spurted from the wound, a weak plume.
Not enough, I thought, spinning out of tusk range. Not enough to kill, just enough to draw its attention to a new threat: me.
I sprinted sideways, certain the animal would follow, but when I looked back, it hadn’t moved. Torn between Rory and me, its head vacillated erratically, its legs clumsy in indecision. Taking advantage of the animal’s confusion, I ran back, directly toward the animal this time, and drove my blade deep into its chest with everything I had. This time I felt my knife grind on bone.
Roaring, the beast swung to face me. I leaped back, but my knife jerked me to an abrupt halt. Hot pain slashed across my forearm as I wrenched my knife, hard.
Abruptly, the blade released. I stumbled away, bobbling my knife, watching blood gush from the animal’s chest. This time it was a geyser, a fountain of red.
The beast squealed in fury, and turning full on me, it charged. I cut right, moving fast, fighting to grip my slick knife; my hold was dangerously weak, but I was determined to draw the boar away from Rory. I cut right and the animal faltered. It was less than a meter away when it teetered and fell. The ground shook. The beast twitched violently, then lay still.
Silence dropped like fresh snow.
