The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith

now that he was here, all he wanted was for it to be over. His mouth was dry; he could not issue the challenge.

      It did not matter, he told himself: the deed was all that mattered. He aimed the sword at the middle of Tom’s shoulders, holding the blade flat, the way his stepfather had taught him, so it would slide between the ribs. The blood sang in his ears. He stepped forward.

      He trod too heavily. Gravel crunched under his foot. Tom spun around. For the first time in his life, Francis came face to face with the man who had killed his father.

      ‘Thomas Courtney,’ he asked, trying not to let his voice waver.

      He looked surprised. ‘I am he.’

      Francis lunged. Tom leaped back, just in time. The tip of the sword sliced open his shirt front; cold steel stung his skin, but it was only a scratch. The movement brought Francis too far forward, off balance. Tom could have knocked the sword from his hand, but already another figure was coming up beside the first, his heavy straight blade poised for a blow at Tom’s head. Tom retreated, out into a patch of moonlight that shone through a gap in the hedge.

      In the moonlight he saw that there were five of them. He knew Jacob de Vries, and three of the others were familiar faces, rough men who he had seen before in Jacob’s company. The fifth was the youth who had attacked him with the sword. He had never laid eyes on him before. However, his features were hauntingly familiar.

      He had no time to think about it. The boy came at him again, a flurry of quick, well-trained strikes that almost took his arm off. The other ruffians fanned out in a loose cordon, cutting off his escape and slowly tightening the net around him.

      The boy was clearly the ringleader. The skill and ferocity of his attack marked him as the danger man.

      ‘Who in the Devil’s name are you?’ he challenged him. ‘Don’t I know you?’

      The only answer he got was another lunge with the sword. Tom jumped back. Too late, he saw triumph light up his assailant’s face. The ground gave way beneath Tom. He tumbled down a muddy embankment into one of the empty sunken ponds. The youth stood at the top of the bank, breathing hard, looking down on his unarmed adversary.

      Behind him, Jacob turned to one of his men. ‘Stay here with the boy, make sure he finishes the job.’ He would have liked to watch Tom die, but he had to get back to the house before Dorian returned. Dorian would be helpless if Jacob was holding a knife to his wife’s throat. Perhaps he’d make him watch what he did to her, before he turned his attention to Sarah.

      He leered down at Tom. ‘It’s high time I paid a call on your pretty little wife. I’ll leave the boy to finish with you.’

      With a last glance of triumph at Tom Courtney, he headed back to the boarding house. Two of his men followed; the third stayed with Francis.

      In the bottom of the empty pond Tom was trying to recover his footing in the treacherous mud. He had killed so many men, perhaps it was inevitable that one day the angel of good fortune would desert him. His father had died before his time; so had his grandfather. But he still had no idea who this implacable enemy might be.

      And while he breathed, he would not let Jacob de Vries lay a finger on Sarah. He pressed his hands into the mud to push himself up and there, half buried, he felt something hard and sharp. He wrapped his fingers around it, and pulled it out of the mud. It was a length of heavy three-inch pipe that had once carried water to feed the pond.

      Francis came sliding down the muddy bank of the pond balancing like a dancer, with the sword poised to split Tom’s skull. Tom came to his knees and raised the metal pipe and blocked the blow. Metal rang on metal; but Tom was able to stop the blade inches from his own face.

      Tom pushed back, throwing Francis off balance. Francis’ feet shot out from under him and he went down in the black mud. Tom pushed himself to his feet and ran at him with the metal pipe poised. But before he could reach him one of the other men charged down the bank brandishing a cane knife. Tom turned to meet him and ducked under the swinging blade. Then he grabbed the wrist of the man’s knife hand and used the impetus of his blow to keep him turning off balance, twisting his arm up behind his back until his shoulder joint popped out of its socket. The man screamed with the pain and dropped to his knees. Tom swung the water pipe in his right hand into his temple and he toppled face down in the mud.

      Tom snatched up the cane knife from where it had fallen from the man’s hand and turned back to face Francis. But Francis was plastered with mud, and he had lost his sword as he fell. Now he refused to meet Tom again, and he staggered back up the bank, sobbing with terror and shame. Tom hurled the water pipe after him and it caught him in the middle of his back with a hefty thump. Francis screamed with pain but kept running. He disappeared into the darkness, and Tom let him go. His only concern now was for Sarah.

      Jacob de Vries’ threat echoed in his ears as he started to run: ‘It’s high time I paid a call on your pretty little wife.’

      Tom raced out of the gates of the garden and down the path that led to Mrs Lai’s boarding house. Two of de Vries’ henchmen stood on guard at the open door to the boarding house. They saw Tom coming but in the darkness they did not recognize him, and with the cane knife in his hand they took him for one of their gang.

      ‘You took your time, Hendrick,’ greeted one of them. ‘Jacob’s already getting started on the Courtney bitch.’

      A high-pitched feminine scream echoed from the house and the two guards laughed and turned to peer back through the door. One of them died without seeing the stroke of the cane knife that killed him. The second guard heard the blow and the sound of the falling body and began to turn. But he was too slow. Tom’s cane knife chopped into the side of his neck, cutting through his vertebrae so that his head, still partially attached to his shoulders, flopped forward onto his chest.

      As Tom jumped over their bodies and ran through the doorway with his heart pumping wildly, a pistol shot rang out ahead of him. He did not pause, but burst into the sitting room. Sarah stood across the room facing him, veiled in a thin cloud of gun smoke. Behind her crouched Mrs Lai, sobbing with terror and clinging to Sarah’s skirts.

      In her right hand Sarah held her tiny flint-lock Derringer pistol still fully extended at arm’s length. On the floor at her feet was the spread-eagled body of Jacob de Vries. He lay face down. The back of his skull had been blown away by the exit of the bullet. His buttery yellow brains were splattered over Mrs Lai’s colourful Chinese carpets.

      Sarah and Tom stared at each other for the hundredth part of a second then Sarah dropped the empty pistol and ran into his arms.

      ‘Tom Courtney!’ she cried, and her voice was half a sob and the other half hysterical laughter. ‘You promised to love honour and protect me. But where were you when the chips were on the table?’

      ‘Oh, my darling, my beloved darling.’ He dropped the cane knife and hugged her to his chest. ‘I shall never leave you again. Never! Never!’ Now they were both talking at the same time.

      Then there was a fresh hubbub at the front door and Dorian came through it, shoving a dishevelled and mud-soaked figure ahead of him.

      ‘Sarah! Tom!’ Dorian shouted with relief. ‘Thanks be to Allah, you are safe. I heard a pistol shot and then I saw this creature running down the hill.’ He gave his captive a kick in the back of his knees which dropped him to the floor. ‘I thought he was up to no good so I grabbed him.’

      Tom saw that it was the youthful swordsman who had attacked him in the Botanical Gardens.

      ‘Yes! He is one of the gang, if not the ringleader,’ Tom said grimly. Still with one arm around Sarah protectively he came to stand over the man on the floor.

      ‘Who are you?’ he demanded in a murderous tone. ‘Give me a good reason why we should not kill you the way we have done with your henchmen.’

      The man on the floor looked up at him. Then with an obvious effort managed to control his terror, and scowled, ‘Yes, Thomas Courtney. You are a natural born killer. You murdered my father