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.
<But what about the third one?> he sussed.
<Get ready to climb,> Cathal’s voice was strangely distant. <You all see routes up?>
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.
<Up. Now!> Cathal slapped at Brice’s outstretched arm, hard enough that he almost dropped his lash.
<They’re coming.> Ryann sounded calm, but when Brice turned to her, she was already on the cliff face, and behind her a warth raced through the undergrowth.
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.
Brice balled his free hand into a fist and thrust it forward, jamming it into the crack. He clenched it tighter, and the rock grated against his skin.
But it held. Even when his other boot slid from the rock, his fist held.
He took a breath, heard a comment from someone, maybe Cathal, but he shut his eyes and ignored it. He took a second breath, holding it in as he scanned his body. The pain in his knee was fading fast, but his arm was pumped, the muscle too hard. And he realised his only point of contact with the rock was that fist.
Brice scrambled with his feet, and they found ledges. He swung his free arm, his fingers curling round the edge of the crack again. He transferred his weight to this hand and relaxed his fist. The skin was moist and sticky, his knuckles burning.
There was a drawn-out snap from below, cutting sharply through the drumming in Brice’s ears. The tree that had been shaking started to topple, falling towards the cliff. At the base of the trunk, one of the warths leaned against it, pushing hard.
They didn’t climb rock, but they climbed trees.
The tree crunched into the cliff, smaller branched crumpling under its weight, and it was close enough that Brice felt a rush
