happened to be caught in their webs. Maybe this one caught occasional birds and squirrels thus, but their few juices could never sate its hunger. Did it stalk larger animals, leaping on them from tree-limbs, driving those loathly poison-fangs in? Or . . .
Felimid began to sweat anew. He imagined cunning drop-nets with sleek, invisible trigger-threads, snares fashioned and set with a hangman’s craft, perhaps dead-falls, the least disturbance of any communicated at once to those eight clawed legs, alert on the lines as a fisherman’s fingers.
Traps all about him! Belike scattered all through this part of the forest! What if he’d avoided them by sheerest ignorant luck until now?
Skin rippling cold on his flesh, he began to move, casting continual upward glances to be sure of the spider’s location. It undid him. His foot met sudden,elastic tension, a loop of grey cord whipped around his ankle in a living grip, and he was snatched into the air with a force that almost dislocated his hip. The boar-spear dropped from his hands and was lost in the brush. He hung head down, feeling foolish indeed. Like a swift dream-vision, he remembered dangling above King Oisc’s pit of wolves in the same way . . .
The great spider moved. With ugly deliberation, it crawled along one of its self-spun roads to secure this morsel. The strands sagged and hummed with its weight.
Felimid reached for his sword. Kincaid slid from the sheath with a blue glimmer of steel. The bard writhed, upside down, and cut; the spider’s cord parted,and Felimid fell, twisting like a marten to land on his feet. He dropped among crackling, rain-drenched brambles. and his luck was astonishing in that he didn’t impale himself on his own sword.
He’d injured his foot in the fall-a fire of agony blazed from his heel to the nape of his neck. Red suns rolled across his vision. Tears blurred the red suns. He ignored all these things. Frantically slashing with Kincaid, he cut his way out of the brambles.
The spider had left its web. Legs gathered under it, the horror clasped a centuried tree like prey. Briefly it paused, motionless.
From jaws to anus it was maybe five feet long. Its thick legs, rounded sack-like belly and the twin palps beside the mouth, all sprouted sensory bristles like obscene brown fur. The thorax was also brown, but bare and hard. with thorny serrations of chitin along the back. Set between the palps, black poison-fangs slid in and out of mandibles, vermilion-red like the joints of the eight bent legs.
It scrambled down the trunk.
Felimid’s boar-spear had been lost when the snare took him. With fingers that felt like sausages, he unbuclded the scabbard and let it fall. His eyes quested for the monster now hiding in tangled brush. Fear tasted like iron rust in the bard’s mouth. Was the monster accustomed to stalking? How silently could it move?
The boar-spear’s butt poked up from a hawthorn bush. Felimid breathed thanks, and seized it. With that in his right hand, and the sword Kincaid waiting in his left. he felt better. Once he’d set his back against an enormous tree, he felt better still-for a moment. Then waking nightmares assailed him, of a noose dropped over his head from above, or more than one of the monsters hunting him.
His injured ankle pained ferociously. It wouldn’t bear an ounce of weight. Darkly he thought that it might be broken. That would be wonderful; that would be fine indeed.
The spider came rustling out of the dense bushes. It looked at Felimid with eyes like malevolent red jewels, from thrice its own length away. Then it rushed upon him with terrifying speed.
Felimid had barely time to ground the boar-spear’s butt, and guide the point under the hard thorax. To face those clashing mandibles and deadly eyes with his mind in control and his own eyes wide open was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
The broad spearhead ripped through abdominal hide, tough as ox-leather, and pierced deep, deep, driven by
Felimid began to sweat anew. He imagined cunning drop-nets with sleek, invisible trigger-threads, snares fashioned and set with a hangman’s craft, perhaps dead-falls, the least disturbance of any communicated at once to those eight clawed legs, alert on the lines as a fisherman’s fingers.
Traps all about him! Belike scattered all through this part of the forest! What if he’d avoided them by sheerest ignorant luck until now?
Skin rippling cold on his flesh, he began to move, casting continual upward glances to be sure of the spider’s location. It undid him. His foot met sudden,elastic tension, a loop of grey cord whipped around his ankle in a living grip, and he was snatched into the air with a force that almost dislocated his hip. The boar-spear dropped from his hands and was lost in the brush. He hung head down, feeling foolish indeed. Like a swift dream-vision, he remembered dangling above King Oisc’s pit of wolves in the same way . . .
The great spider moved. With ugly deliberation, it crawled along one of its self-spun roads to secure this morsel. The strands sagged and hummed with its weight.
Felimid reached for his sword. Kincaid slid from the sheath with a blue glimmer of steel. The bard writhed, upside down, and cut; the spider’s cord parted,and Felimid fell, twisting like a marten to land on his feet. He dropped among crackling, rain-drenched brambles. and his luck was astonishing in that he didn’t impale himself on his own sword.
He’d injured his foot in the fall-a fire of agony blazed from his heel to the nape of his neck. Red suns rolled across his vision. Tears blurred the red suns. He ignored all these things. Frantically slashing with Kincaid, he cut his way out of the brambles.
The spider had left its web. Legs gathered under it, the horror clasped a centuried tree like prey. Briefly it paused, motionless.
From jaws to anus it was maybe five feet long. Its thick legs, rounded sack-like belly and the twin palps beside the mouth, all sprouted sensory bristles like obscene brown fur. The thorax was also brown, but bare and hard. with thorny serrations of chitin along the back. Set between the palps, black poison-fangs slid in and out of mandibles, vermilion-red like the joints of the eight bent legs.
It scrambled down the trunk.
Felimid’s boar-spear had been lost when the snare took him. With fingers that felt like sausages, he unbuclded the scabbard and let it fall. His eyes quested for the monster now hiding in tangled brush. Fear tasted like iron rust in the bard’s mouth. Was the monster accustomed to stalking? How silently could it move?
The boar-spear’s butt poked up from a hawthorn bush. Felimid breathed thanks, and seized it. With that in his right hand, and the sword Kincaid waiting in his left. he felt better. Once he’d set his back against an enormous tree, he felt better still-for a moment. Then waking nightmares assailed him, of a noose dropped over his head from above, or more than one of the monsters hunting him.
His injured ankle pained ferociously. It wouldn’t bear an ounce of weight. Darkly he thought that it might be broken. That would be wonderful; that would be fine indeed.
The spider came rustling out of the dense bushes. It looked at Felimid with eyes like malevolent red jewels, from thrice its own length away. Then it rushed upon him with terrifying speed.
Felimid had barely time to ground the boar-spear’s butt, and guide the point under the hard thorax. To face those clashing mandibles and deadly eyes with his mind in control and his own eyes wide open was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
The broad spearhead ripped through abdominal hide, tough as ox-leather, and pierced deep, deep, driven by
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