49

It had been wounded, it could tell from the burning sensations in the flesh of its face, from the fact that one of its legs was responding slowly to signals from its brain, and from a numbness in one of its hands.  It looked at the hand and saw that a finger was hanging by strands of sinew.  It tugged at the finger until the sinews snapped, then it cast the finger away and scooped up mud, which it packed around the bleeding stump.

It did not feel weakened by the wounds, it felt strengthened, invigorated by an elation born of triumph.  It had met an enemy worthy of it — not merely prey but an adversary — and had conquered it.

Its wounds were nothing; it would survive and recover.

It no longer perceived the need for defense, no longer felt caution, for from somewhere deep within itself had come a conviction that it was now invincible.

It saw a light in the distance, at the end of this sloping ground.  Light meant shelter, and perhaps more opportunities to destroy more enemies.

Leaning into the hill, it dragged its sluggish leg up the slope — moving slowly, veering this way and that, not concerned with time.  Time meant nothing to it; it was immortal.