The Oren were one and their strength was legion. They had it
all figured out, in their own parasitical, cold-blooded way.
But they'd neglected one she-cat of a girl....
* * * * *
He crossed the rickety bridge at sundown and saw the squat, fat fellow
whipping the girl with a board. His mind leaped to a conclusion: _an
Orenian prowler, convincing his victim to hold still_. He clubbed the
fat fellow with a rock and toppled him over the seawall into the
lagoon where he floated face-down.
"Are you stung?" he asked the girl.
She picked herself up weakly, and she was a gold-bronze beauty with a
black mane of hair and long, narrow eyes. She shook her head to his
question and whimpered slightly while she examined her bruises.
"He was my husband," she explained.
"Not an Orenian?" he gasped.