the ancient riverbed where they'd "landed" was huge far bigger than the
rancor. A krayt dragon--it had to be.
The creature was yellowish-brown in color, almost golden as its scaled
back caught the suns' rays. It had three huge horns, one above each eye
and one in the middle of its forehead. Slitted nostrils flared above a
mouthful of fangs nearly as long as Yarna's arm. A ridge of dorsal
spines studded its back from its neck to its spike-tinned tail. The
monster stood on four squat legs that were bowed outward from the huge
mass of its body. The dragon's eyes were greenish-yellow, with
horizontally slitted pupils that glittered like sapphires.
Yarna stiffened as the massive head, many times the size of her own
body, swung toward her. Then she heard Doallyn's voice. "They hunt by
sensing motion.
Stand still!"
There was nothing else she could do. Yarna felt as though her feet had
taken root, become part of the rocks beneath her. She rolled her eyes
sideways in their sockets, and saw DoallYn. The hunter was crouched
low, moving toward the dragon from behind a low ridge of rock.
His blaster was in his hand.
What is he doing? she wanted to shriek aloud, but fear held her
paralyzed. He can't mean to try and fight that thing! The idea of a
human, even armed with a blaster, taking on that huge mountain of an
animal was ludicrous.
But that was plainly what Doallyn intended. The krayt dragon snorted,
testing the air, and the finned tail lashed back and forth.
The head swung slowly from one side to the other, with the horns
lowered, as though the beast were using them to detect motion.
Doallyn was close, now, crouched only a few dozen meters from the beast.
He checked the charge on his blaster. No. Yarna wanted to shriek.
Let's climb up the cliffs! It can't follow us there!
Doallyn, NO!"
But no sound would emerge from her paralyzed throat. She could not
move.
Coiling himself like a spring, Doallyn leaped to his feet, vaulted over
the low barrier of rock, and raced straight toward the dragon.
His movement broke Yarna's paralysis. "No!" she shrieked. The massive
head swung toward the hunter, the jaws gaping, slavering, wide enough to
swallow the landspeeder in two bites. "No, don't!" she screamed, and
moved. Darting out from behind her rock, she grabbed a chunk of
sandstone from the riverbed and flung it at the creature.
The horned head swung toward her. Yarna skidded to a halt, and back
pedaled frantically. Doallyn, taking advantage of the distraction,
covered the distance between him and the dragon in two huge bounds. He
leaped up, catching hold of the rightmost horn, hanging on as the
beast's head went skyward in a sickening rush. It roared, the sound
deafening in the confines of the ravine.
Doallyn clung like an insect to the horn, then he threw himself forward,
grabbing the middle horn.
The beast swung its head in a sickening arc toward the cliff wall,
plainly intending to crush the annoying creature against the stone
surface. But before that arc could be completed, Yarna heard the whine
and saw the flash of Doallyn's blaster. He shot the beast right below
the middle horn, between the eyes.
Air rushed out of the krayt dragon's lungs with the force of a small
explosion. As Yarna stood transfixed, the huge legs splayed outward,
bonelessly, and the head dropped like a boulder, to crash against the
rocky bed of the ravine. The impact flung Doallyn · free, where he lay
motionless.
He killed it, Yarna's numbed brain realized, a second later. By the
Moon Lady, he actually killed it!
But had Doallyn survived his victory?
With a muffled exclamation, Yarna ran forward to the sprawled body of
the man. She crouched beside him, calling his name, for what seemed
like an eternity--but was, in reality, only a moment or two--before he
"Doallyn, are you hurt?"
His voice reached her, muffled by the helmet.
"Breath... knocked out..." He struggled to raise himself, and, seeing
that he moved freely, if stiffly, she helped him. He gasped for a
moment, then said, in a more normal tone, "It's dead?"
"As dead as Jabba," Yarna said solemnly. "I can't believe you killed
that thing with one shot!"
"Vulnerable point... the sinus cavity leads directly into the brain . .
. good thing I studied them."
Pushing Yarna's supporting arms gently aside, Doallyn levered himself up
until he was standing, surveying his kill. Yarna saw his shoulders
straighten, and his whole body proclaimed the triumph he was feeling as
he regarded the dead behemoth.
"I'll have to get a trophy," she heard him mutter.
"No one will believe me, otherwise."
"You are the best hunter in the entire galaxy," Yarna said, and she
believed every word of it. "I don't think anyone else could have killed
that thing."
Doallyn's helmeted head swung toward her, and he nodded. Without seeing
his face, she knew that he was grinning exultantly. "But I couldn't
have done it without you, Yarna! If you hadn't distracted him by moving
at just the right instant, he'd have gotten me!"
The Askajian laughed out loud as some of his triumph was transmitted to
her. Then, as she climbed to her feet, reality rushed back like a blow.
"Doallyn, the landspeeder... all our supplies... are gone.
Sucked down into a sand pit."
"We'll have to walk it," Doallyn said. "There are hubba-gourds.
We can survive on them for a couple of days."
"But what about your breathing cartridges?" she asked, quietly.
He stood still, as transfixed by that thought as she had been by the
dragon. "I put a couple into my pocket," he said, slowly, digging his
fingers down. Moments later, he held out three cartridges. "Not good,"
he said, slowly.
"Enough hydron-three to see you into Mos Eisley?
We can buy more there, can't we?"
"Yes, most vendors who sell spacesuits or breathing gear would have it,"
he said, slowly. "As to whether it will be enough . . . it should be.
If we don't dawdle."
Yarna tugged at his sleeve. "Then let's start walking right away."
"In a minute," he said. "There's something I have to do first."
Realizing that he was asking for privacy, Yarna realized that she, too,
could use a few minutes to herself.
She nodded at Doallyn. "Which way do we go?"
He pointed. "Due east."
"Meet you back here in a few minutes, then."
He nodded, and turned away.
The Askajian dancer turned and walked in the opposite direction, past
the krayt dragon's snout. In death, the beast appeared only a little
less fearsome than it had in life. It's a reptile, Yarna thought,
remembering similar creatures (though only a fraction of the size) on
Askaj. It won't really die until the sun goes down . . .
AS soon as Yarna was out of the way, Doallyn sprinted as quickly as he
could back to the krayt dragon's hind-quarters.
Sketches of the beast's anatomy flashed through his mind as he drew his
blaster again, resetting the weapon so it would fire a narrow, slicing
beam rather than explosive bursts.
It was a gory, smelly job, carving up the krayt dragon's innards, but
finally he had alternately sliced and vaporized enough hunks of scale
and meat to reveal the creature's intestines. The last chamber of the
gizzard, he thought, studying the bloody welter of internal organs that
splooshed messily outward, sliding onto the ground. Where is it?
"There you are," he muttered softly. Drawing a vibroblade out of his
boot, Doallyn waded in for the final few strokes. The first sac he cut
into was one of the middle chambers--the stones he drew out were larger
than his fist, hunks of granite and sandstone only a little rounded and
smoothed.
Using that chamber as a guide, the hunter was able to locate the organ
he wanted--the last chamber of the krayt dragon's massive gizzard
system. The beasts had teeth, yes, but those teeth were used only to
kill and rip apart prey. The dragon had no grinding molars for chewing.
Instead it had a gizzard, rather like a bird's, but multichambered. AS
food passed through the organ in progressively more pulverized and
digested chunks, the rocks in the gizzard ground it finer and
finer--until it reached the intestinal system.
Doallyn braced himself, said a quick invocation to the Sky Seraphs, and
sliced open the last chamber.
Reaching inside, he felt around, then pulled forth five perfectly round
objects. Each was as large as the last joint of his thumb. As he wiped
the blood and ichor away, they glowed in the sunshine like the jewels
that they were.
Dragon pearls.
Beauty incarnate. Two were clear green, the color of Yarna's eyes. One
was the blue of the sky just after sunset. The fourth was white, and
iridescent--and the fifth was as black as the depths of interstellar
space. As Doallyn stared at it, marveling at its perfection, he seemed
to be able to see into the stone, as though black light were trapped
deep inside.
Doallyn wanted to shout, to dance, to sing--but he remembered that with
every breath he was using up his precious stock of hydron-three.
Quickly, he stowed the dragon's pearls away in the inside, sealed pocket
of his tunic. Glancing around, he realized he was covered in dragon's
blood. He had to have some excuse for that, or Yarna would ask
questions . . .
The hunter headed purposefully for the krayt dragon's tail. He'd cut
off one of the spiky fins for a trophy, and that would, he hoped,
account for the condition of his hands and clothes. If he kept Yarna
from walking around to the beast's other side, she'd never know what
he'd been doing.
Kneeling down beside the dragon's tail, Doallyn grabbed the fill and
began slicing at it. Of course he intended to share some of the
treasure with Yarna, he told himself. After all, she had made it
possible for him to kill the dragon in the first place. I'll keep the
pearls for a surprise, show them to her after we reach Mos Eisley, he
told himself, uncomfortably aware that he was rationalizing, if not
outright lying to himself. After all, we have to get on the road now.
We really don't have-Without warning, the dragon's giant tail moved in
his hands, jerking away from Doallyn's grasp, then twitching hard from
side to side. One fill caught the hunter across the side of his helmet,
sending him hurtling down, into instant--and complete--darkness . . .
Yarna found him minutes later, where the tail's reflex twitch had flung
him. She stared in horror, then, by placing her hand on his chest, and
feeling its slow rise and fall, realized he still breathed.
Moon Lady, what shall I do now? she wondered despairingly, gazing
around at the stark landscape.
And all because he had to have a trophy--Just like a male furious.
Males always have to have something to flaunt and brag about. For a
moment she was so angry that she felt like kicking the unconscious
hunter.
Anger was good, she discovered. It lent her strength. Yarna stood
there for a moment, feeling the anger rush through her veins like a
powerful drug, then, slowly, carefully, she bent and grabbed Doallyn's
arm. Slinging it over her shoulder, she slowly straightened up, until
his prone form was draped over her like a Tomuon lamb. She had carried
many such slung in just this fashion.
Eyes narrowed against the noonday rays of the suns, jaw tight with
determination, Yarna turned so she was facing due east. She began to
walk.
Slap, slap . . . slap, slap. The sound of her leather sandals hitting
the hard-packed road was the only sound in the universe. Yarna counted
the beats of her stride in her head, knowing she could not afford to go
slowly, though every muscle screamed for her to lay her burden down and
rest.
How long had she been walking? Her world had narrowed so greatly that
she could not be sure. Scattered memories surfaced. Yellow globes in a
rock recess . . . hubba gourds. She'd smashed several and dripped the
water into Doallyn's mouth, rubbing his throat until he swallowed. Then
she'd allowed herself several sips of the sour, but blessedly wet,
liquid.
How many times had she given Doallyn water? Two?
Three? She could not be sure, just as she could not be sure how long it
had been since she had stumbled upon this road that led in the right
direction. Yarna thought it might be yesterday that she'd found it, but
time . . . time was a slippery thing, as slippery and fluid as the pulp
in a hubba gourd. She was no longer sure of anything---except that
Doallyn was still breathing. Her ears were attuned-to the sound of
those harsh, painful breaths. She'd checked his breathing cartridges
every few hours. He'd used up the one that was in his helmet, plus two
others from his uniform.
She'd slipped the last one into place hours ago.
How long could he live without hydron-three? Yarna had no idea.
All she could do was walk, slap, slap . . .
slap, slap . . . walk as rapidly as her fading strength and muddled
mind would allow her to go.
At some point last night she'd awakened to find herself sitting in the
middle of the road, with Doallyn's body draped across her lap. She
must've fallen asleep while walking, and sunk to the ground without ever
waking up.
How long had she slept? Yarna had no idea . . .
but the thought that the time she had spent sleeping might mean the
difference between life and death for the man she carried, haunted her,
even through the growing haze of exhaustion that clouded her mind.
Slap, slap . . . slap, slap . . .
Doallyn's breaths were coming quicker now, as though he were gasping.
Yarna lowered him to the road, and looked at the gauge on the side of
his helmet.
The marker hovered in the "empty" zone.
The gasps changed, grew recognizable. Doallyn was trying to speak.
Yarna leaned close. "So
rry . . ." she made out. "Save yourself . .
. leave me . . ."
"Not while I live," she replied fiercely. "Be quiet save your breath.
It can't be far now . . ."
He clutched at the front of her desert robe, babbling urgently.
Some nonsense about a treasure. Yarna ignored him. It took all her
strength, all her concentration, to get him settled across her shoulder
again.
Slap, slap . . . slap, slap . . .
She plodded along, forcing herself to move as quickly as possible,
knowing that every second might be Doallyn's last. Head down,
concentrating on moving as quickly as possible, she was actually walking
down one of the streets in Mos Eisley before she realized she'd reached
the town.
Yarna's head jerked up at the cry of a water-seller. I've made it! Now
to find a vendor who sells breathing gear!
Stumbling, she forced her legs into a rough approximation of a trot. Was
Doallyn still breathing? She couldn't be sure . . . she could no
longer hear him.
Was that because of the blood rushing past her ears, as she tried to
run?
Ahead of her, a bigger street. Vendors with stalls and carts, crying