Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [75]
Determined not to let the prowler get away, she rose to her feet and raced after it. If the rocky cleft branched off into multiple passages, she would have to terminate the chase and return, defeated, to her companions. On the other hand, if it dead-ended somewhere not far ahead, she would have the furry bandit cornered.
Though clearly cut by running water, the crevice cooperated by not splitting into different branches. Agile though he was, the intruder was slowed by his ill-gotten burden. He never managed to slip entirely out of her sight. In fact, she was gaining on him noticeably when he suddenly turned to confront her. Jumping up and down, he proceeded to unload on her a series of furious squeals that she struggled to translate. The dialect was far more difficult to decipher than the comparatively sophisticated speech of the city, the idiom spoken by Kyakhta and Bulgan, or even the rough variant that was employed by the wandering Yiwa.
“Get back, get back, go away, go away, leave alone, leave alone!” In addition to these straightforward exclamations there were also numerous rapid-fire individual phrases that proved beyond her capacity to interpret, but whose general implication could be inferred from the vaguely obscene gestures that accompanied them. On careful consideration, Barriss did not believe any were intended to be flattering. Such imprecations and insults didn’t bother her.
What did were the dozens of echoing comments and cries that emanated from the thief’s cohorts, who by now lined both sides of the crevice’s upper rim. Yelling and screaming, they hurled exceptionally inventive epithets down at her while their absconding colleague stood his ground and assumed a posture of unmistakable triumph.
The sight of them was as astonishing as it was unexpected. Despite their diminutive stature, proportionately slightly larger eyes, and full fur body covering, the similarities to the dominant Ansionian race were unmistakable. Her little thief and his comrades clearly represented a distinct branching of Kyakhta’s and Bulgan’s species, a dwarf genetic offshoot. Already she’d recognized their speech as a variant of the Ansionian norm. Every one of them, she noted, boasted a different pattern in its fur.
The cleft in the hill was a dead end, all right. For both thief and pursuer. But he was the one with the swarm of allies. It occurred to her that not only did her companions not know she was in trouble, they didn’t even know where she was. Master Luminara would be displeased. Cautiously reaching for her lightsaber, Barriss hoped fervently that she would be able to accept that displeasure in person.
“Hahaheehee!” With unflagging energy and enthusiasm, the thief was jumping wildly up and down. “Tooqui fool you, fool you! You trapped good now, you big back-bald bully-goo! Squinty-eyes! Syrup-stink! What you do now now?”
That depended entirely, she knew, on what the thief’s comrades did next. If she backed slowly down the crevice, retracing her steps, would they track her retreat from above? Or would they immediately lose interest in lieu of scrambling down to fight one another over a share of their successful colleague’s plunder?
The answer came in the form of a hail of stones. None was particularly big, but she would only have to catch one fist-sized rock between the eyes to be knocked senseless. Derived from her training, her response was pure reflex. Raising a hand, she concentrated hard, hard.
The flung stones hit the sides of the narrow cleft. They struck the floor at her feet. But none made contact with her. She was too busy focusing on deflecting the missiles to wonder how long she could maintain her concentration. Sweat began to bead on her forehead. She couldn’t spare the energy to yell for help. Given the twists and turns in the cleft and the distance she’d come, she doubted her shouts would be heard by her friends, anyway.