CHAPTER 22There was an odour to it; a dry, musty scent like that of a cat. One matching the softness of the fur that clothed the body and limbs with a silken down. A covering for flesh and muscle surrounding the rigid bars of bone. Not an insect then; the shape had given that illusion, one augmented by the contours of the head, the row of eyes, the palps, the curved mandibles which closed on his throat like the dagger-jaws of pincers.
Luck saved him. Varl had fallen with his hands lifted to protect his face, his wrists now in line with his throat, trapped within the closing mandibles. As the tips touched his skin he tensed his muscles, pushing out with his wrists, moving the sharp points away from his flesh.
A victory won with tremendous strain; the leverage was against him. One he would
