Flinx Transcendent_ A Pip & Flinx Adventure - Alan Dean Foster [56]
Lord Eiipul IX was no fool. He knew when he was being toyed with. Instead of making him think, this only enraged him further. The human, a softskin, was condescending to him! In hand-to-hand combat! It was scarcely to be believed. He redoubled his efforts. But regardless of the attacking combination he employed, each time he struck, the softskin somehow managed to deflect his most forceful effort. Truly, the human was taller, and truly, he had the advantage of youth, but Eiipul felt that his long experience should have more than countered both of these factors. Instead he found every thrust shunted aside, every kick blocked, every bite clamping down only on empty air. His legs were starting to grow heavy—he could not kick as high and as often as in earlier days. His breathing was coming in longer, deeper gasps. And his tail threatened to become an appendage useful for little more than maintaining balance. It was no longer the sound barrier-breaking weapon of yore.
In addition to mounting fatigue, he was also beginning to feel the first inklings of fear.
He did not show it, of course. Not only his opponent but his offspring were watching. Why didn't the softskin strike back? Several times Eiipul realized that a failed attack had exposed him to a potentially ruinous riposte by the human. And each time, his surprisingly agile opponent had simply waited for Eiipul to recover and attack again.
Even though it was a strategy that had already failed several times, he decided to go low and try to take his taller opponent's legs out from under him. Once again he feinted with both hands, one after the other, bit down with his jaws, and whirled. His tail whipped around, extending his reach beyond his feet.
Too slow, he realized immediately. Far too slow. The softskin could easily step back out of range. Or worse, leap forward. A move like that would put him on Eiipul's back.
That was exactly what happened. Dimly, he heard the escalating hisses of dismay from his progeny and their damnable friend Kiijeem. Though slim, the human was heavier than Eiipul expected. The alien weight forced him to the floor. He flailed with his tail but struck nothing; the softskin was too high on his back. One fleshy but muscular arm went under Eiipul's chin, forcing his jaws closed, up, and back. The other limb—long, limber, and deceptively soft—pulled the noble's right arm behind his back. Pressure was applied. Despite himself, Eiipul let out a hiss of pain. There was enough weight behind that grip to break the bone.
The human continued to pull—and abruptly rolled over onto his own back. A disoriented Eiipul found himself dragged on top, albeit with his arm still pinned. His tail was free now to strike downward against the human's legs. Incongruously round pupils peered up into his own.
“I yield, noble Eiipul! I am defeated. I cast mysself upon your mercy.”
What softskin twaddle was this? a bewildered Eiipul found himself wondering. The alien grip on his right arm was still unyielding. The human had been in complete control, in a position to end the fight however he saw fit. Instead, he had chosen to roll over onto his back and surrender. It made no sense, absolutely no sense.
As little sense, in fact, as the softskin's mad, lunatic tale about an undetectable threat to the entire galaxy and his individual involvement in some fantastic attempt to deal with it.
Voices drew his attention. Unexpectedly released from their anguish by the surprising turn of events, his offspring were shouting wildly at him.
“Throat!” his daughter was screaming. “Tear out hiss throat!”
“Legss!” Eiipul IXb was hissing from the top of his larynx. “Dissembowel before it can risse!” Standing