The Grey Prince Page: 36
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Scrape. Scrape. Rustle-rustle.
The noise seemed to Morrigan peculiarly conscious. Regular.
Predictable. Too obvious. Why could they hear the Stalker's
movements now when before it was so agonizingly silent? He wanted
to raise up. To stand above the low foliage and survey the area,
inspect their surroundings. But he knew that if he did, their
hiding place would most assuredly be revealed.
Perhaps that is what it wants.
Abruptly, the scrape-rustling stopped. Morrigan tensed
expectantly. He imagined the sleek creature dropping through the
canopy above them and mauling them before they could even react.
He shivered. He decided that the scrape-rustling was better than
the silence. Nervously, he eased his blade from its sheath.
Suddenly, the quiet forest erupted with movement. Branches
snapped, leaves whipped, dirt scattered. It was charging straight
at them. Morrigan could hear the low rumble of its breath. It was
huge but fast. It crashed through the woods like a barrelling
warhorse. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. Five...and beyond! The
Stalker rocketed past the concealed warriors and continued through
the bush until it was out of earshot.
Morrigan did not dare to even think about moving.
Ten seconds roared by.
Thirty.
Forty.
A minute.
Two.
Whittle exhaled. His body relaxed as if he were deflating as
the air escaped his lips. Morrigan, too, drooped.
"It missed us," Whittle's voice quavered.
Ting!
Something bounced with metallic softness near Morrigan's
booted foot. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Warily, he bent down to retrieve the fallen object. He gasped when
he found it.
"What is it?" Whittle asked with terrified fascination.
"A ring," Morrigan answered. He held it up. It glinted, even
in the darkness. "Roberson's ring."
"It's toying with us! Oh, Aan..."
Morrigan saw the panic and fear welling up in Whittle's eyes.
He averted his own eyes and attempted to avert his own terror.
Think, Morrigan. Think I These are your woods, not that—that
thing'si This is your home, your territory, your abode. Use that
to your advantage. Don't let it spook you into doing something
stupid. Think, damn it I ThinkI
He searched his internal map for any nearby animal traps that
the Shield-roamers might have laid. None. He tried to think of
any holes or crevices that they could lead the monster into. Not
one. He tried to think of a way to trap the creature. Nothing.
Finally, he cleared his mind and started over with his mind-map.
The chances of killing the Stalker seemed virtually nonexistent,
but perhaps they could escape alive and return to hunt another day.
On their terms. And yet, Morrigan was not sure that they could
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Casey, Jim. The Grey Prince, thesis or dissertation, Summer 1991; Denton, Texas. (https://digital.library.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc146419/m1/41/: accessed March 29, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, UNT Digital Library, https://digital.library.unt.edu; crediting UNT Honors College.