Stolen by the Zandian - Renee Rose Page 0,26

myself to focus and get into the zone of attack that helped me so well back at the auction. When the world slows to a crawl, I know I’ve hit the sweet spot. A local being pops up out of the mist and raises a bow to his shoulder; my weapon is ready first, and I fire, dropping the being to the ground. Then I get another one.

Behind me, Khrys roars a fearsome cry and shoots fast, dropping at least five. “There are so many of them,” he calls out. “At least forty. Our only option is to scare them into retreat.”

So far, the locals haven’t faltered. A flock of arrows fly, singing in the air with high, wheedling screams. I duck and whirl, using my enhanced vision to predict where they’ll be when they hit me, and barely avoid the attack.

“Don’t even touch the arrow tip on the ground,” Khrys orders. “I don’t know how much toxin is fatal to us.”

He shoots off his laser guns. Ragged cries and screams arise from the locals as a body falls hard.

When Khrys fires again, the mood of the locals changes. They roar as one, the voices merging into a symphony of sound, swelling like the thunder in the sky. Then they run toward us, arrows coming like hail.

“Leave the sacks and run,” Khrys orders, grabbing my free hand.

My heart rips in half at his command, but I’m already running with him, as fast as we can, even harder than we did back at the auction—in the opposite direction of our craft.

Landscape skims by, the flower field recedes. We’re going so fast that the arrows stop; I can only assume that the locals are focused on running, not shooting at moving targets buried in mist. But their footsteps never waver, and they seem to be closing the gap. “They’re gaining on us,” I pant, and the panic spurs us both into a new burst of speed.

But as at the auction, I can only do this for so long. I start to feel desperation, when we see something new through the fog—craggy foothills dotted with twisted trees.

“Finally,” Khrys rasps, pulling me behind the closest trunk. We’re panting, and I can barely breathe. “When they get closer, we attack. Our weapons are deadlier. All we need is this cover, and we can drop them all.”

Dizzy with exhaustion, I drop to a crouch and grab my head, trying to control my air. “Understood.”

“They’re fanning out. But we’ve got the higher ground.” Khyrs’ voice is clear and precise. “On my command, you attack to your right. I go left.”

“Yes,” I gasp. I stand up and ready my weapon. In the near distance, figures waver and get into formation.

But suddenly, everything changes. With a particularly loud eruption, the clouds open up and dump freezing rain. The beings in front of us immediately break ranks and turn to each other, then—to my amazement and relief—turn around.

“The locals are turning back!” Khry’s voice lifts with exuberance. “They’re going the other way.”

Indeed, the entire group of them races in the direction we came. In the distance, a herd of antlex scream and rear up and gallop to the left, disappearing over a ridge.

“Khrys?” I blink against the rain, which has a biting urgency against my face. “Why would they all run away from a little rain?” I wipe my brow and shiver—the liquid is so cold it’s like ice. “Even the animals?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is tense. “Perhaps the rain is a sign of worse weather to come. I suggest we find shelter.”

As he speaks, the raindrops increase—now they are the size of eyeballs. The protective gear keeps me dry enough, but I feel the power of the water through the fabric, and the sheer amount of rain is blinding. “This way.” I point ahead. “Higher ground, and it’s rock. Maybe we can find a cave.”

We scramble up the hill for what seems like forever, as the visibility worsens. “Faster,” urges Khrys.

I’m still out of breath from our run, and my energy flags. It’s all I can do to drag myself up the next part of the slope by grabbing a thick root and pulling, inch by excruciating inch.

“You got it.” Khrys grabs my hand to help.

Then the hail starts. At first, the individual crystals are tiny and thin like paper. Within seconds, they’ve grown bigger than my pinkie nail, each icy shard has sharp claws.

A particularly hard hail punctures my jacket and the skin on my arm, freeing