Kallum
I’d expected them to wait until full dark. Amateur tactic. The survivors from last night’s assault had apparently convinced their reinforcements that we were dangerous enough to warrant overwhelming force, but not dangerous enough to warrant patience.
Figures emerged from the southern tree line. Spread in a loose formation, three-meter spacing. Someone had given them basic training. Not enough.
“Contact,” I said into the comm. “Full assault. Southern approach.”
Her voice came back steady. “I see them.”
I settled behind the rocks on the ridge, rifle braced. The position gave me clear sightlines across the southern field, the approaches to the barn, the farmhouse perimeter. She was in the loft, covering the eastern flank and the gaps my angle couldn’t reach.
I’d faced worse odds. Just not with something worth losing.
Don’t think about her hands on the rifle. Focus.
The lead group hit the first trap line. The explosion threw one of them sideways. Screaming started. I sighted on a second, squeezed. He dropped.
“One down from blast,” she reported. “One from you. Two from the west trying to flank.”
“I see them.”
I shifted position. Three meters left, behind the outcropping. Found the flankers through the scope. One shot.
“One down on the west flank.”
“The other?”
A crack from the barn loft. Pause.
“Now two.”
Four down. Too many remaining.
They weren’t retreating. Either they were confident in their numbers, or someone was paying them enough that dying seemed preferable to failure.
Neither option made this easier.
The second wave pushed through the trap field faster than the first. They’d watched where the explosions came from, marked the safe paths. Learning. Adapting.
I dropped one more before they reached the inner perimeter. Her rifle cracked from the loft. Another body fell.
Six down.
Movement near the barn.
“Anhara. Two at your east wall.”
“Handling it.”
I heard the shots. One. Two.
Eight down.
Turnip came out of nowhere.
He burst from the barn’s lower door, two hundred kilos of muscle and fury. He hit the closest attacker at full charge, tusks first. The man screamed once. Then he didn’t. Turnip kept going, caught a second one trying to run, drove him into the dirt.
“Good pig,” she said over the comm.
I almost smiled.
The main group had reached the farmhouse perimeter. Ten of them, spreading to surround the building. I couldn’t get clear shots on all of them from this angle. Too many trees, too much cover.
“I’m moving down,” I said.
“Don’t.”
“They’ll breach the farmhouse in three minutes if I don’t thin them out.”
Silence on the comm. Then: “Be careful.”
I didn’t answer. Careful wasn’t the point. Effective was the point.
I left the ridge position and moved through the rocks, working my way down toward the farmhouse. Rifle slung across my back now. In close quarters, I needed my hands free.
The first one didn’t see me coming. I came up behind him while he was crouched behind a grain bin, waiting for his squad to move. My blade went across his throat before he could turn. He slumped forward. I took his position.
Eleven down.
The comm crackled. “Southeast corner. Two of them trying to breach.”
I moved.
The southeast corner of the farmhouse faced the old equipment shed. Two attackers had stacked up against the wall, preparing to force the side door. The point man had his shoulder against the frame, waiting for the signal.
I came around the corner of the shed at a dead run.
The first shot took the rear man in the spine. The point man spun, weapon rising.
Too late. I was already inside his reach. My blade found his throat.
Thirteen down.
A third came around the corner behind me. I hadn’t seen him.
His knife came in low, under my guard. I twisted, but not fast enough. The blade caught me across the ribs. Right side. Deep enough to feel, even through Vinduthi toughness.
I finished him anyway. Knife up through the jaw, into the brain. He died with his hand still on the weapon in my side.
The pain came a second later. Sharp and hot, spreading across my right flank. Blood soaked through my shirt. I pressed my left hand against the wound, felt the wet warmth pumping between my fingers.
Not lethal. Not immediately. Keep moving.
“Kallum.” Her voice in my ear. Tight. “Report.”
“Southeast clear. Three down.”
“You’re hurt.”
I looked down at the blood spreading across my hand. “Define hurt.”
“Kallum.”
“Later.” I pushed off from the wall. “How many left?”
A pause. She was counting, same as me. “Twelve. I think. They’re pulling back.”
I moved around the corner of the farmhouse. My right side burned with every step. The blade had gone between ribs, maybe nicked the muscle underneath. Bad, but functional. I could still fight.
But the remaining attackers were already vanishing into the tree line. Running now, not retreating. The difference mattered.
Silence settled over the farm. The kind that came after violence, thick and ringing.
I leaned against the farmhouse wall. My hand was still pressed against my side, blood seeping between my fingers. The adrenaline was fading. The pain was not.
The bastards had known who they’d be fighting. Had come prepared, coated their blades with some sort of toxin that fought against the natural healing powers of a Vinduthi.
This wasn’t good.
“Kallum.” Her voice in the comm again. Closer now.
I looked up.
She came around the corner of the barn, rifle still in her hands. Turnip trotted beside her, his tusks dark with blood. Her face was pale in the fading light, but her hands were steady.
“Let me see,” she said.
“It’s not bad.”
“You’re lying.”
Probably. I couldn’t tell anymore. The edges of my vision were starting to blur, which was never a good sign.
She reached me. Set down her rifle. Her hands went to my shirt, pulling the fabric away from the wound.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were green in the dusk, and something in them made my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with the knife wound.
“Inside,” she said. “Now.”
I didn’t argue.
We’d thinned their numbers. Not enough.
More were coming.
And I was bleeding.
The math was getting worse.