speed as Chandos hurriedly rewound the bowstring. The cross-
bow fired again, but the bolt glanced off a section of armor-
plating and caromed away. The Creeper was knocked sideways,
slowed momentarily by the force of the blow, and then it
straightened itself and came on.
Morgan saw at once that there would be no time for a third
shot. The Creeper was too close. Yet Chandos stayed atop the
crossbow, desperately cranking back the bowstring a third time.
The Creeper was only yards away. Outlaws and Trolls harassed
it from all sides, axes and swords hammering against it, but it
refused to be deterred. It recognized the crossbow as the only
thing it really had to fear and moved swiftly to destroy it.
Chandos shoved the third bolt into place and reached for the
trigger.
He was too late. The Creeper lunged and came down atop
the crossbow, smashing into its works. Wood splintered, and
the wheels supporting the weapon gave way. Chandos was
thrown into the night. Men scattered everywhere, crying out.
The Creeper shifted atop the wreckage, then lifted free. It drew
itself up deliberately, sensing its victory, knowing it needed only
one further lunge to finish the job.
But Padishar Creel was quicker. While the other outlaws fled,
Chandos lay unconscious in the darkness, and Morgan struggled
with his indecision, Padishar attacked. Little more than a scarlet
blur in the mist and half-light of the rain-soaked dawn, the out-
law chief seized one of the crossbow bolts that had been spilled
from its rack, darted beneath the Creeper, and braced the bolt
upright against the earth. The Creeper never saw him, so intent
was it on destroying the crossbow. The monster hammered
down, smashing through the already crippled weapon onto the
iron-tipped bolt. The force of its lunge sent the bolt through iron
and flesh, in one side of its body and out the other.
Padishar barely managed to roll clear as the Creeper struck
the earth.
Back the monster reared, shuddering with pain and surprise,
transfixed on the bolt. It lost its balance and toppled over, writh-
ing madly in an effort to dislodge the killing shaft. It crashed to
the ground, belly up, coiling into a ball. “Free-bom!” Padishar
Creel cried out, and the outlaws and Trolls were upon it. Bits
and pieces of the creature flew apart as swords and axes hacked.
The second pincher was sheared off. Padishar shouted encour-
agement to his men, attacking with them, swinging his broad-
sword with every ounce of strength he possessed.
The battle was ferocious. Though badly injured, the Creeper
was still dangerous. Men were pinned beneath it and crushed,
sent flying as it thrashed, and ripped by its claws. All efforts to
put an end to it were stymied until finally another of the scattered
crossbow bolts was brought forward and rammed through the
monster’s eye and into its brain. The Creeper convulsed one last
time and went still.
Morgan Leah watched it all as if from a great distance, too
far removed from what was happening to be of any use. He was
still shaking when it ended. He was bathed in sweat. He had not
lifted a finger to help.
There was a change in the outlaw camp after that, a shift in
attitude that reflected the growing belief that the Jut was no
longer invulnerable. It was apparent almost immediately. Padi-
shar slipped into the blackest of moods, railing at everyone,
furious at the Federation for using a Creeper, at the dead mon-
ster for the damage it had inflicted, at the watch for not being
more alert, and at himself especially for not being better pre-
pared. His men went about their tasks grudgingly, a dispirited
bunch that slogged through the rain and murk and mumbled
darkly to themselves. If the Federation had sent one Creeper,
they said, what was to prevent it from sending another? If an-
other was sent, what would they do to stop this one? And what
would they do if the Federation sent something worse?
Eighteen men died in the attack and twice that number were
injured, some of whom would be dead before the day was out.