[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
a fine-grained, water-polished club.
A subsequent search through a pile of splintered rock produced several sharp
triangular chips. His patient efforts to secure one to the end of the club with
fibers drawn from a local plant eventually resulted in a serviceable if
primitive weapon. He swung it in short, experimental arcs, exulting in the
swoosh it made as it swept air aside. Now the means for defending himself
extended beyond mere bare hands.
Hoping to find material from which to fashion a sling, he pocketed some of the
hard round pebbles from the bottom of the stream as he followed it for a while
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file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20The%20Damned%2002%20-%20The%20False%20Mirror.txt
before striking off again into the brush.
On the fifth day he killed a grazing herbivore. It was nearly his size, and
skinning it with the crude tools at hand was a messy and time-consuming process.
He persevered, however, and when he was through he had acquired an outer garment
which not only would shed rain but disguise his smell. If he dropped to all
fours and imitated the animal's gait, it might be enough to fool a casual
observer into believing they were seeing anything but a renegade Ashregan.
He had now acquired weapons and camouflage that, although simple, were a great
advance over nothing at all. With luck, his pursuers would not imagine him
capable of such inventiveness.
He was beginning to think he could roam the wild, heavily vegetated mountains
forever when he was nearly surprised by the Tracker.
Though there had to be many of them on his trail, this one was alone. No doubt
they had spread out to cover as much of the countryside as possible. The
procedure struck him as eminently sensible. Anyone finding evidence of his
presence could immediately call for assistance.
Unless he spotted them first.
The bipedal figure was still some distance away, too far for him to make out the
species without a scope. Probably Massood, he thought. Their height, sharp
vision, and long stride made them notable Trackers.
Not that it mattered. From now on he would move at night, when his pursuers were
likely to be sleeping, and hide himself during the day. Either he would outpace
them or they would pass him by. He began searching for his first hiding place.
In this manner he successfully passed the first week, then a second. No doubt
those local authorities whom the Weave had seen fit to entrust with a minimum of
information about his escape were frantic by now, wondering where in their
civilized midst the dangerous escaped warrior might choose to materialize.
Better yet, they might think he'd fallen over a cliff or perished of hunger and
scale down the pursuit.
He was feeling very good about his situation as he worked his way through a
night-shrouded grove of tall, oddly bent trees and stumbled over the dozing form
of the Tracker.
Because of the camouflage blanket, the low mound had looked like any other clump
of earth. Only when he started across did it yield spongily beneath his feet and
emit a startled yelp. A blast of heat lit up the night and singed his ear as a
weapon went off wildly under him.
The blunt side of his club was less urbane, but more effective.
There were no more shots. The struggling figure beneath the blanket went limp.
Ranji staggered backward a couple of steps and sat down heavily, gulping air.
Everything had happened so fast that he was only now beginning to sequence the
events in retrospect. Gingerly he touched the left side of his head. He could
still feel the heat of the bolt's passing. A finger length more to the right and
it would have gone through his eye. If not for his extensive training and superb
reflexes, he'd be sprawled out on the ground right now instead of sitting up
considering his assailant.
His instinct was to flee. Instead, he forced himself to approach the motionless
shape under the blanket. If it was dead, its companions would soon learn of its
fate by reason of its noncommunicativeness. Regardless, it might be carrying
much he could use.
After pocketing the surprisingly small gun, he dragged the blanket off the
unconscious form and began to fold it neatly. The Tracker's pack lay near its
feet. It was encouragingly full and would ride easily on his back. That done, he
knelt and felt along the furless legs-clearly not Massood-until he came to the
service belt. Undoing the secure-tight he slipped it around his own waist and
was gratified to find that though he had to place it on the last possible
setting, it fit.
Continuing to probe the body in hope of finding something else useful, he was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
a fine-grained, water-polished club.
A subsequent search through a pile of splintered rock produced several sharp
triangular chips. His patient efforts to secure one to the end of the club with
fibers drawn from a local plant eventually resulted in a serviceable if
primitive weapon. He swung it in short, experimental arcs, exulting in the
swoosh it made as it swept air aside. Now the means for defending himself
extended beyond mere bare hands.
Hoping to find material from which to fashion a sling, he pocketed some of the
hard round pebbles from the bottom of the stream as he followed it for a while
file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%2...%20Damned%2002%20-%20The%20False%20Mirror.txt (43 of 139) [7/1/03 12:04:33 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20The%20Damned%2002%20-%20The%20False%20Mirror.txt
before striking off again into the brush.
On the fifth day he killed a grazing herbivore. It was nearly his size, and
skinning it with the crude tools at hand was a messy and time-consuming process.
He persevered, however, and when he was through he had acquired an outer garment
which not only would shed rain but disguise his smell. If he dropped to all
fours and imitated the animal's gait, it might be enough to fool a casual
observer into believing they were seeing anything but a renegade Ashregan.
He had now acquired weapons and camouflage that, although simple, were a great
advance over nothing at all. With luck, his pursuers would not imagine him
capable of such inventiveness.
He was beginning to think he could roam the wild, heavily vegetated mountains
forever when he was nearly surprised by the Tracker.
Though there had to be many of them on his trail, this one was alone. No doubt
they had spread out to cover as much of the countryside as possible. The
procedure struck him as eminently sensible. Anyone finding evidence of his
presence could immediately call for assistance.
Unless he spotted them first.
The bipedal figure was still some distance away, too far for him to make out the
species without a scope. Probably Massood, he thought. Their height, sharp
vision, and long stride made them notable Trackers.
Not that it mattered. From now on he would move at night, when his pursuers were
likely to be sleeping, and hide himself during the day. Either he would outpace
them or they would pass him by. He began searching for his first hiding place.
In this manner he successfully passed the first week, then a second. No doubt
those local authorities whom the Weave had seen fit to entrust with a minimum of
information about his escape were frantic by now, wondering where in their
civilized midst the dangerous escaped warrior might choose to materialize.
Better yet, they might think he'd fallen over a cliff or perished of hunger and
scale down the pursuit.
He was feeling very good about his situation as he worked his way through a
night-shrouded grove of tall, oddly bent trees and stumbled over the dozing form
of the Tracker.
Because of the camouflage blanket, the low mound had looked like any other clump
of earth. Only when he started across did it yield spongily beneath his feet and
emit a startled yelp. A blast of heat lit up the night and singed his ear as a
weapon went off wildly under him.
The blunt side of his club was less urbane, but more effective.
There were no more shots. The struggling figure beneath the blanket went limp.
Ranji staggered backward a couple of steps and sat down heavily, gulping air.
Everything had happened so fast that he was only now beginning to sequence the
events in retrospect. Gingerly he touched the left side of his head. He could
still feel the heat of the bolt's passing. A finger length more to the right and
it would have gone through his eye. If not for his extensive training and superb
reflexes, he'd be sprawled out on the ground right now instead of sitting up
considering his assailant.
His instinct was to flee. Instead, he forced himself to approach the motionless
shape under the blanket. If it was dead, its companions would soon learn of its
fate by reason of its noncommunicativeness. Regardless, it might be carrying
much he could use.
After pocketing the surprisingly small gun, he dragged the blanket off the
unconscious form and began to fold it neatly. The Tracker's pack lay near its
feet. It was encouragingly full and would ride easily on his back. That done, he
knelt and felt along the furless legs-clearly not Massood-until he came to the
service belt. Undoing the secure-tight he slipped it around his own waist and
was gratified to find that though he had to place it on the last possible
setting, it fit.
Continuing to probe the body in hope of finding something else useful, he was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]