by TW Iain
Shapes slid through the water, towards the bank with the wall of trees. One splashed more than the other two. Only a fool like Tris would try an overarm stroke.
Brice kicked, bringing his arms round in the water, and followed. A few strokes, no more than about ten, and his hands found branches, and he pulled himself through the detritus thrown to the edge of the river. Some of it came away in his hands, some of it held him. He pushed with his legs, and occasionally his feet found purchase. A couple of times they sunk into what he hoped was only mud, and his legs strained as he freed them. But he never stopped. Hand over hand, now under a branch, now half-out of the water, he worked his way to the bank.
And then he was out, grabbing a solid tree to stand up. He coughed, and thought he’d gag. The river taste coated his tongue, and he tilted his head back, letting the rain run down the back of his throat.
Ryann, Keelin and Tris stood a short way off, looking out across the river, and Brice followed their gaze. He could just about make out the far bank through the downpour, the dark trees merging with the black clouds that hung heavy. The surface of the river itself was a rolling beast, wide and dangerous. As he watched, a shape span past, too big to be a simple branch. The river threw the small tree around like it was nothing.
Just as it had done with the Proteus.
Cathal stood by his side. Brice hadn’t seen him climb out.
Ryann walked into the forest. Brice took one last look over the river. He could not see any sign of the Proteus. The river had claimed it.
Then he turned, and followed the others into the trees.
That was almost encouragement, although she couldn’t decipher if he was referring to the weather or the warths.
The forest was rich with trails, crossing through the undergrowth. One tasted of old age, with the flavour of decay waiting to pounce, a taste that Ryann had learnt to associate with death. That wasn’t always a bad thing, though, and she reminded herself that all things died. She could picture the old warth, curling up one last time, its fur tinged with grey where the pelt grew thin and wiry. Ryann could imagine it closing its eyes and taking a final breath.
Even beasts deserved their peace.
But there were younger trails too, of warths in their prime. And the cubs. Ryann spotted abandoned nests against thick tree trunks, the gathered branches now discarded in lazy heaps.
She guided them along the most sensible path, keeping clear of the denser undergrowth. This felt like an abandoned warth track, from the way the creepers spread across the ground. She stored details of the plant life as a matter of course—the thick, waxy leaves of the garithus, the almond-scented tendrils of corrack-grass—but only took active interest when the data told her something. Like the patches of Fingol’s lichen that appeared on trees to their right. That told her those tree-roots did not run as deep, and that in turn spoke of rockier soil.
Ryann guided the crew, using the lichen to aim for the cliff. The warth-trails would be thinner there. They were creatures of the forest, and although they were adept at climbing trees, their claws didn’t grip to rock.
The trees stopped some five metres back, leaving an uneven path of mud, moss and rock. Scattered branches reached up to brush the cliff, and rain fell in a fine, penetrating drizzle. Water coated the rock, too, and she brushed it with her hand, even though it was not a living thing, and so would always be cold to her. Yet she analysed, following cracks and bulges, and spotting what might be an opening to a cave about twenty metres up.
The top of the cliff was beyond her view, and was of no concern to Ryann. She focused on the trees, where a few warth trails still ran.
Cathal sussed to the others, using tight communication but letting her receive. That gave her distance to analyse the communication. Tris’ confidence was only skin-deep, but Cathal focused him on analysing data, keeping him occupied. Keelin had sealed the Proteus as far as she could, but was still hurting. Her craft was in pain, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Ryann could understand that. She remembered when her father had sick livestock on the farm. He’d say she was too sentimental, and she knew that keeping them alive only increased their suffering. But it still pained her when he had to put them down.
The Proteus was sick. When—she refused to use the word ‘if’—the craft returned to Haven, the damage might be too severe.
She pushed for Brice’s lattice, but a movement distracted her, and she focused into the trees. Something shifted, off to her left, about fifty metres back.
She scanned the area around the movement. A branch hung loose, a fresh rip, and she could just make out the pale flesh from inside the tree.
Warths only caused damage like that when they were agitated.
The deep rumble of thunder rolled over her. The flash of lightning was filtered by the tree cover, and that gave enough light for Ryann to see the beast clearly.
It crouched by a tree, half-hidden, one paw raised, claws pressing into a branch. The fur on its flank gently rose and fell as it breathed, but otherwise it was motionless. The warth’s nostrils flared, the red interior visible for a moment. Ryann scanned down to its chest, and the nipples hidden beneath the fur. The surrounding tissue was swollen, a sign that this warth was lactate-ready.
A new mother. She’d be protective of her cubs, and there was a strong possibility that she’d have a mate.
And now she caught his trail. Further off, but moving in. The male was smaller than the female, but that didn’t make it any less of a threat.
Ryann raised a hand, bringing the crew to a halt. She crouched, peering into the trees, and knew the crew followed her actions. She could smell their nerves.
The female warth eased round a tree, and took a slow step closer. The male copied her movements, but from the opposite direction. Ryann followed their trajectories, and saw how they converged on the crew.
Brice had only even seen warths from a distance. Training didn’t count. The simulations couldn�
��t rip your limbs from your body and tear out your insides before you fell to the ground, or plough into you so hard that your bones shattered.
He lowered into a crouch, just like Ryann, and peered through the trees. The wind and rain kept everything in motion. He might be looking straight at a warth and not even know it.
Brice waited. Ryann was good at this. She’d capture images from her lenses, and annotate them before passing them on to the crew. It would be like looking at one of those picture-within-a-picture things, where at first you see nothing, no matter how hard you stare, but once you uncover the hidden object, you can’t unsee it.
But no images came. He saw nothing beyond the vision through his own eyes, filtered through his lenses.
He nodded in response to Ryann, and scanned the forest. He’d caught sight of one now, the beast Cathal wanted him and Tris to track. A part of the undergrowth wasn’t moving, and it slowly took on the form of a body. It was big, even crouched down like that. He didn’t want to imagine what it was like raised on its hind legs.
It was watching them. He could tell by the way it shifted its head, and the way its nose twitched. He could just about make out two eyes, like thin slits that reflected what little light there was.
Brice turned his head, trying to catch sight of the second warth, the one Cathal had said was coming along the cliff path. Did that mean it was moving their way? If that was the case, shouldn’t they be retreating? That was the standard procedure—stop, and if the warth came closer, retreat. Make no sudden movements, and do nothing to appear threatening. They wouldn’t attack unless provoked. They were harmless until they believed they were in danger. Or their cubs were at risk.
Ryann had mentioned a nest.
The beast in the trees made a snuffling noise, and Brice saw its lips part, revealing grey teeth. Brice gulped. He knew they were mainly herbivores, but that didn’t calm him. They would eat meat when pushed, or when there was no other option, and their jaws were powerful enough to tear through skin and muscle as easily as taking a bite from a piece of fruit.
Brice wondered if flesh tasted as sweet.
Brice glanced back, to the path they’d walked in on. Many of the plants had sprung back into place, but he could still make out their route where they’d broken some. He doubted that was Ryann, even though she’d been first through. Probably Tris, being heavy-handed.
And something caught his eye. A shape, just behind a couple of low-hanging branches. Something big.
But they never travelled in threes. On their own, or in pairs near a nest. Put a third warth in the mix, and they’d fight amongst themselves.
Yet what else could it be?
Brice focused. The fur was lighter, almost silver. Did that mean it was older, or younger? Maybe it wasn’t important. And maybe the way it opened its jaws and stretched its face was a sign of boredom, or some kind of exercise. Maybe it was in pain, a thorn stuck in its paw or something.
And maybe it was preparing to attack.
Brice moved a hand to his hip and flicked open the catch on his holster. He knew a lash would do little to stop a warth in full run, but it might do enough. It might be sufficient to give him time to escape.
Brice rolled his eyes, but a part of him was worried. If Tris was forgetting stuff in his panic, what would he do if those things did attack? He’d be a bloody liability.
Brice moved back until he was against the rock. He twitched his fingers, wondering how the rain would affect the holds. But if Cathal said it looked easy, Brice would have no problems. He didn’t know about the others, though. He hadn’t seen them climb.
Not in the rain. And never with three angry warths at their heels.
Brice looked back to the third warth. It was slinking through the foliage, keeping low to the ground, like it was trying to stay hidden. But it was unmistakable, as were its intentions. Its gaze never once wavered from where Brice and the others stood.
He slid the lash from the holster and curled his fingers round the grip. He brought his thumb up and placed it on the control panel, calling up full power, high intensity. Anything less would be little more than a light slap. He needed a heavy punch.
The crosshairs in Brice’s lenses tunnelled as he brought them together on the target, zooming in on those beady eyes and that glistening nose. He lowered his aim, to the yellow teeth, and the mottled pink of the weaker mouth tissue
Brice locked on to the target. Even if he moved the lash now, his lattice would compensate. There was no way he could miss.
Ryann urged caution, and Cathal told them to hold firm. They would wait for the first move. While the warths remained stationary, there was no danger.
Brice didn’t turn. He knew how to climb. He could work out a route on the fly, no problem.
The warth in his sights was smaller than the other two, but muscles rippled beneath the fur on its haunches. And now, Brice saw that it was not silvery, but was covered in mud, like it had been wallowing in a pool of the stuff.
Did warths do that?
It rocked back on its haunches, the sides of its mouth twitching. Through the constant dripping and the roll of thunder, Brice heard a guttural growl vibrate from the beast’s throat. He saw the head lower as a flash of lightning lit the sky.
Brice didn’t have time to shout a warning as the warth charged.
Brice squeezed the trigger and the crosshairs glowed brilliant red. The air shimmered as the burst of energy flew. For a moment he could no longer see the beast, or its open jaws. He felt his arm twitch as his lattice compensated for kick-back.
The blast hit the warth mid-jump.
The beast landed awkwardly, thrown off course but still upright. And this time the roar was loud enough to fill the forest.
Tris and Keelin were already climbing, as was Cathal. Brice holstered his lash, turned, and grabbed the rock. Branches cracked behind him, and he didn’t know how close they were.
He pushed off with one foot, reaching up with his hands, finding one hold, then another. Cathal was right—it wasn’t a hard climb. Brice moved fast. But those beasts were big. He needed height.
If they stretched up, how high could they reach? Four metres, five?
He pushed on, not sure if the roar in his ears was from the storm, the warths, or his own heart and the blood it sent round his body. He felt the warmth of muscles working, and the adrenaline rush of action.
And he was out of the danger zone now, too high for the beasts to reach. He stopped, leaning back from a vertical crack, and looked around.
The others were above him. Even Tris. Data-dork climbed just how Brice expected—thugging his way up, with no finesse or control. Keelin, on the other hand, moved with quiet efficiency, and from the way her head constantly moved, Brice knew she was constantly re-evaluating her route. Not like Tris, grabbing from one hold to the next.
Ryann and Cathal flanked them, climbing steadily. Brice knew he should be level with them, not lagging behind. But he’d give them a bit of distance, then catch up. Maybe even overtake. Show them what climbing was all about.
There was a crash from below. Brice looked down. A black shape blurred beneath him, and he felt a second crash as the warth slammed into the cliff, one limb outstretched, razor-sharp claws scraping at the rock. And further back, he saw movement from the trees. No—of the trees. One of them shook violently.
But warths didn’t climb rock. They were no longer a threat.
Brice carried on climbing, closing the distance from the others. He reached into a crack, leaning away, bringing his feet up high. The next hold, one lunge away, was bomb-proof.
His boot slipped.
His knee slammed into the rock, sending a jolt of pain through his leg. His fingers started to slide. They felt hot and tight.
