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.

It was hilt-deep, but he still tried to drive it in those extra fractions of an inch.

General skidded to a shuddering halt, front legs braced, nearly throwing Ryan over its head. It gave a strange, groaning cry, like an old man stricken with a heart attack. Ryan felt its gigantic body start to shake and quiver, as if it were suffering an ague.

He drew out the panga and drove it in again, pushing the hilt with both hands, feeling the steel nick on bone.

Like a brain-shot horse in an abattoir yard, General slumped suddenly onto his knees, snout gouging a furrow in the packed leaf mold. Then he rolled onto his side, legs kicking helplessly, enabling Ryan to step quite safely off, withdrawing the steel.

Feeling that he was being watched, Ryan spun, seeing at least a dozen of the mutie pigs staring at him from the edge of the woods, only a few yards away.

"Time to move," he said, sheathing the panga and drawing the SIG-Sauer. He reached for the self-light that he'd dropped on the ground.

Ryan realized that the pigs weren't looking at him. Their attention was fixed on their dying leader. General wasn't going gently into the good night. His hooves were scratching in the dirt, fighting for purchase, and he kept lifting his head, eyes red-rimmed, seeking the creature that had slain him. The monstrous bulk was convulsing, actually driving it along like a vast pink slug, toward Ryan. Bright blood trickled from the muzzle and streamed from the open, panting jaws.

The self-light blazed into life, its yellow flame hardly visible. Ryan thrust it into the pile of tiny twigs that he'd prepared, gathering the dried branches that the boar had scattered.

There was a wisp of smoke, then the scarlet glow of a fire that gathered momentum fast under the light breeze.

The herd of pigs had already grown in numbers to thirty, a few of them showing signs of restlessness at the scent of the flames.

Moments later, the fire was burning fiercely, tongues of red and yellow racing across the carpet of dead needles, igniting the chaparral and mesquite with explosions of flame.

Ryan straightened, checking that the course of the fire was right, along the canyon, toward the pigs. Some had already turned away and were starting to move restlessly down through the close-set pines trees at something between a fast walk and a lumbering trot.

It was burning more quickly than he'd anticipated, making it time to give Dean the gunshot signal to start his own bonfire before the entire herd of pigs gave way to panic and fled out of the box canyon.

General was snarling and grunting, more blood tumbling in gobbets from its open jaws. The boar could see that the fire was going to surround him and burn him alive.

Ryan saw that as well.

"All right," he said, aiming the SIG-Sauer just behind the mutie boar's left ear and squeezing the trigger. The crack of the heavy handblaster echoed from the granite walls. The pig's skull jerked and a tremor ran through its body.

A moment later it was quite still, the flames already licking at its mountainous carcass, singeing the bristles.

And Ryan was off and running.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

Krysty had been resting on the double bed in the room that she'd been sharing with Ryan. She suddenly got up and walked to the window that faced west, peering through the slats in the shutters. Doc had been sitting with her, the friends talking about when the brushwooders might put in an appearance. And when Ryan would return to them.

"What is wrong, my dear lady? Are you having one of your feelings?"

She nodded, pushing back an errant curl of her bright red sentient hair. "Something like that."

"How does it work? Do you see it or hear it? I find such an ability quite fascinating."

"Like hearing the sound of a bell, very far off. Sometimes the bell's bright and silver. Sometimes it's more like the tolling at a funeral. I don't mean that I can really hear a bell. Just that it's the nearest I can explain it."

"What can you see?"

"Over in the direction of the sea. Looks to be about fifteen miles or so away. Can't tell easily. Fog's coming back again. But it looks like smoke."

IT WAS WORKING.

Ryan felt his heart leap with excitement and delight as he ran as fast as he dared down the slope of the canyon, weaving and dodging between the trees.

The main flow of the fire was to his left, raging through the conifers, igniting the underbrush, flames reaching into the lower branches of the pines, bursting from tree to tree. The smoke was still relatively thin, rising in a boiling column, darkening the blue sky.

Ahead of him he could hear the constant squealing of the herd of mutie pigs, driven into a wild panic by the pursuing flames. Every now and then Ryan would glimpse some of the animals, scampering at speed, moving faster than he was.

For a moment he stopped, breathing heavily, wiping sweat from his forehead, moving the patch to clear it from the puckered socket of his missing left eye. He squinted through the drifting smoke to try to see whether Dean had heard the signal and had managed to set his own fire going, but he couldn't make it out from where he was.

Ryan continued to run toward the main trail.

NOW EVERYONE, including Bill Rainey, was in the bedroom with Doc and Krysty, crowding around the window. Trader turned away first. "I say that's two separate fires," he shouted. "It's two fucking fires." Jak nodded in agreement. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Two fires."

DEAN WAS WAVING HIS ARMS, whooping and jumping up and down in a cloud of choking gray dust, cheering on the stampeding pigs ahead of him.

He saw his father emerging from the billowing smoke and the shifting threads of fog. "See 'em go!"

The boy had his retrieved Browning in his right hand, ready to encourage any stragglers among the animals. His fire was burning well, completely blocking the trail to the east, forcing the mutie creatures to funnel down the ravine to the west. "Which way we goin', Dad?" There was a temptation to withdraw to the ville, skirting the flames by climbing above them, but that would mean missing out on the final act of the drama. When you had a good plan that seemed to be working, you wanted to see it all the way through.

"After the pigs," he replied, jerking his thumb toward the camp of the brushwooders.

"Think they'll run when they see the stampede coming?"

"Won't have much choice," Ryan told him.

MOST OF THE MEN AND WOMEN in the camp had celebrated their earlier victory by consuming large quantities of home brew, and were rotten drunk. Some had been sick, and others had passed out. One or two had been copulating openly. Children wandered around, helping themselves from the caldrons of food that were beginning to burn over open fires.

Ditchdown and Straub were sitting together at the western edge of the village, sipping at a jug of home brew. The leader of the brushwooders was three parts drunk, belching as he took another pull on the jug.

"We hit them tonight?" he mumbled.

Straub was three parts sober. He looked around at the squalid scene of debauchery. "If we can sober them up in time. Way that they look right now, I wouldn't back them against a handful of angry rabbits."

"They'll be fine and jim-dandy when the time comes, old friend. You see."

Straub sniffed at the air, his forehead wrinkling. "What's that?" he asked, standing, uncoiling himself from the dirt with a pantherish grace.

"Usual stink of sulfur," Ditchdown replied unconcernedly. "Fog's coming back, as well. Wind must be

westerly for the smell to be"

"Stupe!"

"What?"

"Wind's northerly, veering easterly. Freshening. It's not the sulfur. It's wood smoke. Look. There's a fire

burning toward the ville."

Ditchdown set the jug down, where it fell over, its contents gurgling into the thirsty soil. With an effort he staggered to his feet, peering toward the narrow canyon that bore the trail east, bunking owlishly. "By the gods! You're right, Straub, old comrade." He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, brushing the white scar.

Straub was licking his lips with his long, reptilian tongue. "Been no lightning to set a fire. It's a trick from that one-eyed whoreson, Cawdor. But what good does a fire do?" He cocked his head to one side, his silver-spangled eyes opening wide as his keen hearing caught the first sound of pounding hooves, overlaid with a high-pitched squealing.

He relaxed, half smiling. "Of course," he whispered. "The mutie pigs."

RYAN AND HIS SON RAN behind the pigs, losing distance to them, following the trampled trail along the canyon. They passed three or four animals, dead or dying, all hideously mangled by the hooves of the other panicked animals.

"Close now?" Dean called, glancing back over his shoulder for his father to catch up with him.

"Yeah. Don't get ahead. Fog's thickening again. Some of the brushwooders might manage to get around the herd and come this way. Keep ready."

An almost invisible path snaked off to the right, only a foot or so wide, leading to a bluff that overlooked the brushwooders' settlement.

"There," Ryan said. "Get a grandstand view from up there."

THEY HAD NO TIME to collect any possessions, no time to gather any viable defenses against the raging torrent of ferocious animals.

Ditchdown staggered around the camp, yelling at the top of his voice to rouse the brushwooders, hesitating by the main fire, his AK-74 on his shoulder, unfired.

"Straub!" he shouted. "Where are you? Use your skills and save us all."

But the shaved-headed man was nowhere to be seen.

The place was in a turmoil of panic, with women scooping up bawling brats, carrying them under their arms, dashing here and there, staring wildly and hopelessly at the steep hills that cupped the camp.

One or two of the more drink-sodden men couldn't be roused from their stupor, and their relatives left them sleeping to face their fate.

"Straub! You bastard! Save us!"

DEAN SCRAMBLED UP the trail like an agile mountain goat, crouching on the lip of the dead ground, beckoning to his father, who was panting along a few yards behind.

"Pigs are nearly there!"

Ryan dropped flat on the top of the bluff, staring down through the wreathing bank of mist that was creeping silently inland from the ocean.

It was the best seat in the house.

Below him and to his left, the vanguard of the stampede was pouring through the ravine like a gray-pink tidal wave, dust rising around the unstoppable column.

They were now within a hundred yards of the edges of the brushwood settlement, where the lords of chaos held total sway.

Like ants scurrying around when their castle has been destroyed, the inhabitants of the settlement were dashing in all directions. Above the sound of the pounding hooves of the giant mutie creatures, Ryan could clearly hear the noise of screaming, high and thin, and futile.

DITCHDOWN WAS STANDING still, a fixed point in the milling idiocy of the confusion. He held his blaster at the hip, staring toward the place where he knew that the pigs would be appearing.