Chapter 14
The world exploded into a nightmare of sound and motion. Michelle lurched to her knees. For half a heartbeat, the peaceful pop of the dying fire was the only familiar sound. Then her ears registered rustling in the underbrush, the scrape of claws on stone that raised every hair on her arms.
The sounds came from every direction.
Zeke was on his feet in front of her, claws fully extended. Kraath and Raaze scrambled up, weapons drawn. The comfortable weight of sleep evaporated from her limbs as adrenaline flooded her system.
“We’re surrounded,” Raaze hissed.
Terror crawled up her spine, but she listened.
Zeke’s hand clamped on her shoulder, shoving her behind him with enough force to make her stumble.
Her broken leg screamed at the movement.
Any other time, his protective gesture would have sparked her anger, reminded her of their unresolved argument.
But the shapes moving in the darkness beyond the firelight killed any protest in her throat.
Red eyes. Dozens of them, glowing red. They blinked in and out of sight as bodies shifted between the trees, too many to count, and impossible to track.
Her leg throbbed as she grabbed a burning branch from the fire. The weight of it felt pathetic in her hand, a child’s toy against what was coming for them, but the heat against her palm grounded her, gave her something to focus on.
“Form up around the human,” Kraath commanded. “Watch the flanks. They’re trying to box us in.”
The three warriors moved without hesitation, forming a tight triangle around her. Their bodies became a living barrier, weapons angled outward, backs to her.
The math hit her with sickening clarity. Three warriors against what had to be thirty ferals. Maybe more. The shadows kept shifting, making it impossible to get an accurate count. Ten to one odds at minimum. Even with Izaean strength and skill, those numbers were shit.
The canyon walls that had sheltered them just hours ago now boxed them in. There were no retreat routes and no high ground to claim. They’d walked into a killing floor, and the ferals had been patient enough to let them settle in first.
Her earlier fears about being a burden seemed laughable now. This wasn’t about independence or equality. This was about dying in a forgotten canyon on an alien planet, never seeing her children again, never getting to tell them she loved them one more time.
Movement at the edge of the firelight drew every eye. A feral stepped forward, and her breath caught in her throat.
This wasn’t like the ones she’d seen around the garrison, the ones that still looked mostly Izaean despite their glowing eyes and black armor plating.
And it wasn’t even like Scarface or his group, who’d looked just this side of odd.
This thing had crossed some terrible line into something else entirely.
It’s body was wrong… joints bent at unnatural angles that hurt to look at, limbs too long, and it’s spine curved in ways that shouldn’t allow it to walk upright.
Black crystal formations jutted from its shoulders and skull like a crown of obsidian thorns.
One arm had split into two below the elbow, both appendages ending in claws that caught the firelight.
But its face was the worst part. Stretched and distorted, the jaw was elongated to accommodate too many teeth. Scars crisscrossed every visible inch of skin, old wounds that had healed into ridged, corrupted tissue.
It tilted its head, studying them with an intelligence that made her skin crawl. Then it made a sound... a huffing, rhythmic noise that took her brain several seconds to recognize.
Laughter.
It was laughing at them.
The other ferals responded immediately, their own sounds rising in an eerie chorus that echoed. Not quite howls, not quite screams, but something between that spoke of anticipation and hunger. The sound pressed against her ears, made her bones ache with some primal recognition of its wrongness.
More shapes emerged from the darkness. Some walked on two legs, others loped on all fours.
She saw ferals with extra limbs growing from their backs, and others with crystalline formations that had consumed half their bodies.
Young ones—gods, there were young ones—moved between the adults with the same predatory grace, their smaller bodies no less twisted.
These were not just ferals. They were something else, something that had lived in the deep wilderness so long they’d become things that shouldn’t exist. The organized pack behavior, the patient stalking, the tactical positioning… everything about this screamed smart in all the wrong ways.
Zeke’s growl rumbled through the air, a sound that vibrated in her chest. His shoulders had broadened again, black armor flowing down his arms.
The alpha raised one twisted hand, claws extending with a sound like knives being drawn. The chorus of anticipation from the pack increased into howls that split the night air.
Her hand tightened on the burning branch until splinters dug into her palm. The pain helped focus her mind, and kept her from dissolving into panic. Her injured leg trembled with the effort of standing, but she locked her knee.
Kraath shifted his stance, and she caught the gesture he made to Raaze—something about the canon wall to the left. But the ferals had already positioned themselves to block that route. They’d thought of everything.
The alpha’s laugh cut off abruptly. Silence fell over the canyon, complete and suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, each pulse counting down seconds they didn’t have. The izaeans around her had gone perfectly still, that deadly quiet. She felt the tension radiating from Zeke’s back.
The alpha’s lips pulled back in what might have been a smile if smiles could be made of nightmares and too many teeth. It lowered into a crouch, muscles bunching beneath its distorted skin.
The pack mirrored its movement, dozens of bodies dropping into attack positions and the circle tightened.
She caught her breath. This was it. They were out of time, out of options, out of miracles.
The alpha’s claws scraped against stone as it shifted its weight forward.
The sound seemed to release some invisible restraint, and they charged from every direction at once.
The sound of their approach... claws thundering on stone, monstrous shrieks, and the crash of too many bodies filled the canyon until she couldn’t hear her own scream.
The first feral hit Zeke like a shuttle made of corrupted flesh and crystalline armor.
His claws punched through its throat, hot blood spraying across his face as he twisted and threw the dying creature into two more charging from his left.
His legion roared through his veins, flooding every muscle with power that made his movements fluid and lethal.
Another feral lunged from his right. He caught its wrist mid-strike, bones crunching under his grip as he yanked it forward and drove his knee through its ribcage.
The wet snap of breaking bone was lost under the chaos of the fight.
Shrieks scraped against his eardrums as weapons and claws clashed on hardened flesh.
They attacked in waves, pulling back when wounded, letting fresh fighters rush forward while others circled to find weak points. The youngsters darted between the adults’ legs, slashing at ankles and knees before vanishing back into the melee.
Trall.
A blade whistled past his ear… Michelle, swinging what looked like Raaze’s weapon.
Her movements were all wrong for the oversized blade, her grip too high, and her stance unbalanced on that broken leg.
But she fought with determination that made his chest tight, blood running down her temple from a gash across her forehead.
Zeke spun to intercept a feral coming at them from the side, but Raaze was already there, his blade opening it from shoulder to hip.
The warball player moved with an economy of violence he hadn’t expected, every strike calculated for maximum damage, no wasted energy on flashy moves, just brutal efficiency.
“Left side!” Raaze barked, and Zeke reacted without thought, catching a feral’s claws inches from Michelle’s ribs. He crushed its windpipe and used the body as a club to clear space around them.
Kraath’s weapon sang through the air on their right, the garrison commander holding his section. For a handful of heartbeats, they moved like one unit, three warriors forming a lethal perimeter around the female at their center.
But the math was against them.
His muscles burned as he tore through another attacker, his body already pushing against its limits.
Sweat ran into his eyes, mixing with blood that might have been his or might have been from the half dozen ferals he’d already killed.
Bodies littered the ground around them, but more kept coming, always more.
He heard them moving through the shadows…
at least twenty still mobile, probably more.
They’d already killed fifteen, maybe twenty, and hadn’t made a dent in the assault.
These weren’t separate hunting packs that had stumbled across each other.
This was a clan, a tribe... something that shouldn’t exist according to everything he’d been taught about ferals.
Michelle’s breathing had gone ragged behind him, each exhale carrying a sound of pain, her swings slowing, the blade dropping lower with each pass.
A feral with two heads—two draanthing heads on one body—rushed their position. Zeke met it head-on, driving his claws through both throats, but three more used the distraction to push forward, and their formation broke.
Everything went to hell in seconds.
The ferals drove between them like wedges, forcing them apart through sheer mass. He tried to hold position, but a massive brute with crystal spikes for shoulders slammed into him, driving him back three steps.