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Peter
was propped with his back to the corner. The rock floor below him was
icy cold, but his leg was numb for another reason. For two or three
minutes he'd been crouching there, hardly daring to breath and hoping
it would not find him by his smell. The bleeding was pretty much under
control but the poultice-were' the toothless alchemist had sold him
back in Bree was a poor substitute for a true potion of healing. Though
soon it's dweamer would still heal the six inch gash across his leg,
even reconnecting the torn muscles and tendons.
'What I wouldn't give right now for a cool "Frost Giant" ale', he thought.
The fat man behind the bar at the "Dancing Weasel" would cough and spit
on the floor in such a way as to make the customer feel comfortable
with his own bodily functions and expectoration. Ah, that place was
home. Yet Bree was far away and the displacer beast was near. He could
hear the creature snarling in anger, furious at what had just been done
to it. Displacer beast! Thought Peter.
This was supposed to be a simple operation. Four or five orcs had killed
and robbed a caravan of pilgrims traveling to the temple of Arth-Slya.
Rafael the Sneak had called it an easy score when he had tipped Peter
off about this hide-out in the foothills of Black Pearl mountains. It
was supposed to be a routine diversion, grab the loot and be gone. If
the simple minded orcs could not be fooled, he would have just destroyed
them. Peter might be a thief but he could fight. Even six or eight common
orcs were no match for his swordsmanship. Yet upon finding the treasure
unguarded and the orcs nowhere to be found, he had no clue that they
had perished hours ago and that another adversary far more dangerous
was laying in wait for him.
It was a miracle he was alive at all. A displacer beast generally kills
it's prey before it knows what hit it, but Peter had grown up on the
streets of New Thrandor and his thieving skills (not to mention his
half-elven ears) were sharpened by years of depending on them to survive.
The catlike beast had made the smallest noise with it's final intake
of breath before pouncing. Peter leaped forward more instinctively than
anything, avoiding the initial attack. His enemy however was the quickest
thing on four feet and the creature attacked again with such speed and
force that the thief was thrown back against the far wall, his sword
flung to the floor and his right leg sliced open to the bone.
The displacer crept forward slowly, certain of victory against this
human. Savoring the final moments before the kill. It was then that
Peters hand came upon the answer. A displacer beast appears either left
or right of where it actually is, due to a supernatural "Phasing" ability.
So grasping as much dirt as possible, he had sprung forward on his one
good leg. Choosing randomly, he threw the rocky soil three feet left
of where his enemy appeared to be and made a direct hit into the eyes
of his foe. Even a magical beast must see to to attack and this kitties
eyes were definitely giving him trouble.
Dashing back and forth from one side of the cavern to the other, the
beast screamed as only an angry cat can. Viciously clawing and biting
the air all around, it was totally disoriented. Peter had then made
a dash for the opening but the temporarily blinded yet otherwise undamaged
beast, heard his dragging foot and before Peter could make good his
escape, the creature had found the doorway and stood vigil against his
departure.
With his leg bleeding at an alarming rate, Peter had been forced to
retreat quietly to this space behind a pillar to use the crude but effective
poultice and think about what chance he had for survival. His sword
was somewhere out on the floor but he dared not attempt to retrieve
it until his leg was stronger. His dagger would have to do. Crawling
forward to peer at the doorway, Peter could see that though the creature
continued to paw at it's eyes, it remained squarely in the path of his
freedom. Momentarily appreciating the beauty of this great feline, Peter
sensed it's tremendous patience. Soon enough it's eyes would clear and
then it would finish off this troublesome morsel and go nap some place.
The leg was almost healed now but he had lost a lot of blood and with
it a good deal of his strength. It was now or never. Soon kitty would
have his sight back and then a slim chance would become no chance. Peter
Longstaff rose to test his repaired leg. Good as new, he thought. Pulling
his long curved dagger without a sound, he prepared to attempt the impossible.
Kill a twelve hundred pound out-of-phase, razor blade factory, with
his bare hands and what amounted to the equivalent of a butter knife....
(To be continued)