The Noor huffed
impatiently, eating the brush – every so often those long amber eyes
would cast a glance his way, sniff the wind.
He waited patiently, his laser spear resting on this shoulder,
the loincloth his only clothing. The cool mud from the river had long since dried in the hot
sun, making movement difficult. The
clay would slow the beast. He
waited in the shallows, his bamboo slippers sealed tight against the
river worms – nearly microscopic beasties that would travel his legs
to his brain, and short circuit everything.
Armor, though leaden in the water, encased his lower legs –
more than one exile had been bitten through by the carnivorous fish
that lived in these waters.
He had never seen it,
but he had heard tell of a Noor, monstrous beast that it was, chased
into the river by the giant crocodiles that lined it’s banks, and
the fish brought it to it’s knees in moments, the water churning
blood, and nothing left but bone and hair for the crock when he got to
it.
He
was after such a croc now. The
more ancient ones among them grew to enormous lengths – some old
timers said they had seen some 75, 100 feet long.
No one believed that, but these were still 30-40 feet, and
dangerous. They could
outrun a man, or a Noor, take horse and rider in one easy bite, and
only pieces of the Noor would remain for seconds.
