Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [103]
Something rustled in the high grass. Glancing sharply in that direction, he saw nothing. As Barriss had told him prior to retiring, this planet was full of tiny, creeping night sounds. Entire communities of lesser local life lived out their lives below the crests of the waving wild grains without ever exposing themselves to sight or daylight. One could only wonder at what kind of havoc a stampede of lorqual would wreak on such hidden animal societies.
Probably not much, he told himself. Out here, in these wild open spaces, nature accommodated the needs of the small as well as the large. Tooqui’s tribe was a good example of that. Plucky little soul, that Tooqui. Annoying and overly inquisitive, to be sure, but as bold as his boastings. Having been forced to live most of his life on boldness alone, Anakin greatly admired the quality in others.
An hour passed before he was again disturbed by rustling noises. Each day added another couple of previously unencountered native species to his growing catalog of Ansionian life, but the register of nocturnal creatures was, for obvious reasons, considerably smaller. Having nothing else to do, he decided he might as well try to find out what was making the soft sounds in the grass. Whatever it was, it sounded conveniently close.
Turning to his left, he crouched slightly and began to move deeper into the tall prairie. The crackling noise came again, closer still. A small group of local animals, he concluded, busily gathering fallen grass seed under cover of night. It would be interesting to learn what they looked like. At least one of them sounded like it might be of fairly good size, perhaps even as big as Tooqui.
Surprised in midstalk, the shanh exploded from its place of concealment. It didn’t growl. Like so many of Ansion’s indigenous life-forms, it hissed. The hiss of a shanh was not like that of an intelligent Alwari, however, or some of the endearing creatures that roamed the vast open plains. It was a low, sinister blast of air—fury made audible.
Front and middle paws slammed into Anakin’s chest, knocking him backward and down. In an instant, the shanh’s heavy, fang-laden jaws would have been on his throat. There was no time to think, no time to decide what to do next, no time to ponder a best course of action.
As the shanh’s jaws descended, Anakin rolled madly to his right. The predator’s upper row of backward-curving, serrated teeth slammed into bare dirt instead of his neck.
Furious, the lithe, muscular carnivore turned to face its prey, all six legs working, single nostril flared wide, convex red eyes floating like small livid moons against the dark mass of the brute’s front shoulders.
Scuttling backward on hands and feet, Anakin tried to focus the Force while reaching urgently for his lightsaber. Drawing it from his belt, he activated the beam—and had it slapped from his right hand by one triclawed paw. Landing in nearby grass, the device struck on its control side—and switched off. That was what came, a small part of him reflected, of trying to do two things at once without knowing how. A true Jedi could do that. Painfully, he was once again made aware of how much he had yet to learn.
If he didn’t do something quickly, his learning days would be at a premature end.
Weaponless, he rose slowly to his feet. Hissing expectantly, the shanh watched him without blinking. Unlike the Padawan, it was not constrained by a need to think. Muscles bunching tight beneath short, striped fur, maw agape, it leapt.
Shorn of his only physical weapon, Anakin fell back on what remained to him. Concentrating as he had never concentrated before, he threw one hand out in front of him, fingers splayed, and focused.
His command of the Force was not yet sufficient to allow him to knock the charging shanh backward, but it was strong enough