the spider’s own impetus, until it was buried to the cross-piece, which prevented the spider’s charging up the impaling spear-shaft to fang the soft creature hurting it. The spider shrieked, foaming spittle and poison. It couldn’t hear its own ghastly noise; it was completely deaf.
Its forelegs reached out for the bard. He whirled Kincaid right and left in a double loop. Chitin shattered. Two clawed feet were ruined. Two more seized roots, stones, anything, and began to drag the hideous carcass closer “to Felimid in spite of the boar-spear. The butt began to slip, plowing a furrow in the wet earth. Then it lodged firmly between two oak roots. The spider continued to strain.
Pivoting on his good leg, Felimid swung Kincaid over-arm, and split the thorax between those intelligently hating eyes. The spider sank back on its long hind legs, sundered face to the sky. Felimid dodged around the oak. A forty-pound rock he met on the way caused him to stumble, and he pulled it up as if it were a turnip, helped by extreme feelings of terror, revulsion and rage, and finished his circuit of the tree. The spider tried to dislodge the sword with its maimed forelegs, rather as if preening itself. The weapon came out at last. Balancing on one foot, Felimid hurled his rock. It crashed into the spider where two legs joined the thorax. The thing fell down, further maimed.
Felimid wanted to dart forward and seize his weapon, Kincaid; however, with his hurt ankle he wasn’t able to dart, he found he didn’t dare. He sidled back around the tree, unarmed now save for the heavy single-edged Saxon knife at his hip. That was exclusively for close-quarter fighting and he didn’t trouble to draw it. If the spider achieved a body-to-body grapple, Felimid was doomed, nothing surer.
It blundered after him. With three injured legs on its left side, and the boar-spear it trailed constantly catching and sticking, it didn’t do well, despite the bard’s own lameness. At last it gave up. It clambered slowly aloft on the strands of its web, moving very clumsily, weary to death. Suddenly it lost its footing. Toppling, it became enmeshed. Its struggles entangled it the more.
Spiders are not immune to the adhesion of their own webs. They spin sticky threads to trap their food, and clean ones on which to walk, but this one was now too mazed by mortal pain and weakness to tell the difference.
Thus it was lost. It hung between the trees, legs twitching slowly, and dripped green ooze.
Felimid was convulsively sick.
When he felt better. he cleaned the befouled sword in wet black earth, wiped him and buckled him on. Looking up at the gigantic trees. he wondered how long the spider had haunted this place. Surely there could be no others! Belike it had eaten any such, as rivals, long ago . . . its own offspring included.
The bard’s eyes grew wide. The spider’s last victim was twitching in his grey shroud where he dangled aloft. He lived yet. In his amazement, Felimid put weight on his hurt ankle, and promptly hissed in pain. He couldn’t climb to the stranger’s aid. He’d be needing a crutch even to walk.
The spider’s death struggle had already damaged the web. Two of the main anchoring strands were within Felimid’s reach and he cut them, glad indeed of Kincaid’s keen edge. The living captive sagged lower, until Felimid was able to snag his grey swathings with the boar-spear and drag him to earth. Some careful slicing set him partially free.
‘Arrr!’ he declared, snapping his jaws.
‘Regan feverish, myself lamed, and you mute,’
Felimid said. ‘What a band of incapables! Be easy, now. I’m not meaning harm to you. It’s just that I want you to come with me for a while, and you will. Be grateful. Didn’t I save you from the spider? It would’ve sucked your blood else.’
The boy growled and yapped. He was a strange-looking creature, with sharp dark animal eyes, a tangle of coarse hair, and decidedly pointed ears. Plainly he
Its forelegs reached out for the bard. He whirled Kincaid right and left in a double loop. Chitin shattered. Two clawed feet were ruined. Two more seized roots, stones, anything, and began to drag the hideous carcass closer “to Felimid in spite of the boar-spear. The butt began to slip, plowing a furrow in the wet earth. Then it lodged firmly between two oak roots. The spider continued to strain.
Pivoting on his good leg, Felimid swung Kincaid over-arm, and split the thorax between those intelligently hating eyes. The spider sank back on its long hind legs, sundered face to the sky. Felimid dodged around the oak. A forty-pound rock he met on the way caused him to stumble, and he pulled it up as if it were a turnip, helped by extreme feelings of terror, revulsion and rage, and finished his circuit of the tree. The spider tried to dislodge the sword with its maimed forelegs, rather as if preening itself. The weapon came out at last. Balancing on one foot, Felimid hurled his rock. It crashed into the spider where two legs joined the thorax. The thing fell down, further maimed.
Felimid wanted to dart forward and seize his weapon, Kincaid; however, with his hurt ankle he wasn’t able to dart, he found he didn’t dare. He sidled back around the tree, unarmed now save for the heavy single-edged Saxon knife at his hip. That was exclusively for close-quarter fighting and he didn’t trouble to draw it. If the spider achieved a body-to-body grapple, Felimid was doomed, nothing surer.
It blundered after him. With three injured legs on its left side, and the boar-spear it trailed constantly catching and sticking, it didn’t do well, despite the bard’s own lameness. At last it gave up. It clambered slowly aloft on the strands of its web, moving very clumsily, weary to death. Suddenly it lost its footing. Toppling, it became enmeshed. Its struggles entangled it the more.
Spiders are not immune to the adhesion of their own webs. They spin sticky threads to trap their food, and clean ones on which to walk, but this one was now too mazed by mortal pain and weakness to tell the difference.
Thus it was lost. It hung between the trees, legs twitching slowly, and dripped green ooze.
Felimid was convulsively sick.
When he felt better. he cleaned the befouled sword in wet black earth, wiped him and buckled him on. Looking up at the gigantic trees. he wondered how long the spider had haunted this place. Surely there could be no others! Belike it had eaten any such, as rivals, long ago . . . its own offspring included.
The bard’s eyes grew wide. The spider’s last victim was twitching in his grey shroud where he dangled aloft. He lived yet. In his amazement, Felimid put weight on his hurt ankle, and promptly hissed in pain. He couldn’t climb to the stranger’s aid. He’d be needing a crutch even to walk.
The spider’s death struggle had already damaged the web. Two of the main anchoring strands were within Felimid’s reach and he cut them, glad indeed of Kincaid’s keen edge. The living captive sagged lower, until Felimid was able to snag his grey swathings with the boar-spear and drag him to earth. Some careful slicing set him partially free.
‘Arrr!’ he declared, snapping his jaws.
‘Regan feverish, myself lamed, and you mute,’
Felimid said. ‘What a band of incapables! Be easy, now. I’m not meaning harm to you. It’s just that I want you to come with me for a while, and you will. Be grateful. Didn’t I save you from the spider? It would’ve sucked your blood else.’
The boy growled and yapped. He was a strange-looking creature, with sharp dark animal eyes, a tangle of coarse hair, and decidedly pointed ears. Plainly he
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