Urborg Panther, Creature
Illus. Cliff Nielsen

I'm hearing a voice? That makes no sense: no one is near me but my goats.

Wake up, little goatherd, the voice continues. A fire is in your thatch hut, and your family cannot open the door.

But I must rest my bones, I explain, and curl back into my pillow that was once a goat.

Wake up, you lazy little fool!

"Aaaahh!" I startle awake and scramble for my father's knife.

Eight of Twelve--no, of Eleven--stares into my eyes with purpose and determination, far more than most goats can summon. Something is in my goat, and I mean to cut it out.

Eight of Eleven looks at me angrily and backs away. In an instant, I see the resolve drain from my goat's brow, and he bleats in puzzlement. Did I dream this?

"Rrarrh!"--shrik! "Maaaa!" "Hark! Hark!"

I did not dream this. A black shape, angry and lean, stalks my goats. It is cat and not-cat, fur and fire. On the Ntatsu Plain, there are wildcats, but not like this one. This one's eyes are cunning and weathered with experience. And Chouri stands between the beast and a cringing Four of Eleven. My dog, growling and with one snaggletooth pointed out, has pinned the cat against a boulder. Right where the cat wants her. I must save my goatdog.

That cat, it can move, but I can move too. I flank to the side of the beast, apologize for stealing its supper, and hurl a stone into its side. The cat roars, then howls as Chouri takes a bite out of its neck. I draw my father's knife. We trap the beast, but we do not kill it.

Our mistake.

The black cat is cornered. It cannot go through me, it cannot go through Chouri. Too late, I realize it has only one path to freedom. At once it is all talons and fangs. It shreds Four of Eleven like a sack of greasy wool. And then it is gone.

The wind, it blows from the mountains. It howls cross the Ntatsu Plain. I have now ten goats. What could possibly go wrong?