The Leagacy of Heorot

Together, they headed up the zigzag path to the stronghold, the last hope of human life on Avalon.

They moved north along the streams. Where they clustered too closely, there were fights. The weaker or warier among the grendels stayed far from water, diving downslope where they saw no others of their kind, to immerse themselves and retreat uphill before they could be seen. A few had already discovered that if they moved slowly, calmly, they could reach the heights where flyers laid their eggs.

The largest of the grendels grew larger yet, up to a meter and a half long, and still they grew, for they were better fed. There was attrition among these. They had to stay closer to water. Some of their smaller siblings had learned to attack where they saw others attack. Larger grendels were torn to ribbons by grendels who attacked in concert, snatched mouthfuls of meat and vanished underwater before their chancy allies could choose another target.

They looked nothing at all like an army. They were refugees. Famine and war and overpopulation moved them anywhere their tiny minds might seek food or safety. But they moved north along the rivers, following the vacuum of the fished-out Miskatonic, until wind and water brought them a wild variety of scents from what had been pastureland.

Then each savagely independent grendel turned in the same direction.

What reached the farmlands was more enraged and starving carnivores than had ever been alive in Avalon's history, and they moved very much like an army.

The river and its shores swarmed with dark shapes moving upstream. Carlos made a final inspection of the door gun. "Okay. I'm starting now," he said into the intercom. He fired carefully, in short bursts, aiming at widely separated groups.

The water below exploded into frenzied life. Grendel shapes leaped from the water. Others pursued them. Frothy red tinged with orange spread across the water.

"It's working," Carlos said. "Die!" He fired again. One of his tracers speared into a larger grendel's back, with spectacular results. The speed sacs made a terrific oxidizer. The grendel streaked for the river with its back burning like thermite, and burned even after it was in the water. Carlos whooped.

Greg wheeled the Skeeter back around for another pass. "By God, it is working! Drive them crazy! Use that damned supercharger against them! Bless Sylvia's knotty little head, she said it would work."

The Skeeter dove down between the trees. "Die, defenseless, primitive natives!" Short bursts, he told himself. Short and careful. Conserve ammunition, we will need it. The river churned with blood, foamed with the dead and dying.

But all we're really doing is feeding the others. Carlos admitted to himself; and pushed the thought away in savage enjoyment of the opportunity to kill before dying.

"Ru

"Do it."

Carlos got on the radio. "I am returning to camp—"

He couldn't tell who answered: a masculine voice edged with panic. "Pick up Jill Ralston on the way. She's hurt. She's on a ridge, eight kilometers west and a little north of the northwest corner of the outer fence."

They should have had an hour of daylight still; but the western range cut the day short, and clouds were banking in from the sea. It was already dark enough that Carlos could see the dying fire spilling downslope from the ridge. He pointed, and Stu took the Skeeter down.

She lay at the high point of the ridge. A meter below her was a grendel. It didn't move when they came close, but Carlos fired a short burst into it anyway.

Jill was lying on her side a short distance from the fire. She watched them land but didn't wave. As Carlos ran from the Skeeter she was trying to stand up.

"Lie down, dammit." Her left arm looked awful. Cooked. He unsealed an anesthetic ampoule and slid the needle into her shoulder.

He got around to her right side and half carried her to the copter. He strapped her in before he asked, "Is there equipment we should recover?"

She shook her head and swallowed hard. "The flame thrower's dead," she whispered. "It's in the fire."

He squeezed in behind her. She stank. Her arm was cooked from shoulder to fingertips. She lay back against the seat and every now and again she sat up and looked around as if she couldn't believe she was safe. Carlos had always found her attractive, to no tangible purpose. "What happened?" he asked.

"They were coming up the defile. Ida van Don dropped me on the ridge with the Skeeter. She flew around shooting grendels, and I flamed them when they got close enough. Sandra ran out of power and had to take the Skeeter back for a recharge. Me, I kept shooting. A flame thrower works just fine on a grendel. It scares them. They go into speed and burn themselves up inside."

"Sure. Are you all right?"

"I am now. They kept coming. The flame thrower overheated—"

"You're not supposed—"

"I could feel my hands burning. Then the torch nozzle clogged and spit jellied gasoline on my arm. I ran and rolled and kept rolling, and behind me the damn thing exploded. I've been waiting to see what would get here first, you or the grendels."

Which is why we have to be careful with these egregious excuses for makeshift weapons. "Well, we're here. It's all over now." Down below Carlos could see grendels on both sides of the ridge. They'd gone around the other side of the fire. And it is lucky for you we came when we did. Five minutes more—She couldn't see him as he shook his head. Such a waste.

"They kept coming. I shot one with my automatic. Little one, under a meter. I hit it four times, I think. It could have taken me, but it never went on speed. Too hot already. It—" She shuddered. "It fell over. By itself. You saw it. They can die. They can."

"HEAR THIS. HEAR THIS." Cadma

Carlos glanced at his watch. Naturally Cadma

There were thick black clouds across the west.

"Hey, buddy," Greg called. "Ru

"No." Wearily Carlos went back to loading Hendrick's wrecked Skeeter.

Small boxes. Lightweight items. Blankets, sleeping bags. Before an item went into the wreck it was placed on the scales outside. The Skeeter itself would be needed uphill, for parts. Might as well use it to carry other gear.

Shooting grendels had been easier work.

Cassandra displayed the cumulative total mass they'd put aboard. "Some to go yet," Greg said.

"Yes." Wearily Carlos flexed his arms and bent over to stretch his back. "A pity."

"Cheer up. You could be laying bricks."

"Not me. I am a warrior."

"You're also a carpenter," Greg said. "But I won't remind them." He jerked his head to indicate the power room, where half a dozen men worked frantically to seal the blockhouse with bricks and mortar and welded bars. Others filled the blockhouse with equipment too heavy to send up to Geographic or ferry to the Bluff.

If the blockhouse held intact it would save months in rebuilding civilization. If it didn't—"It will be terribly inconvenient," Carlos said to himself. "But not deadly." He went back to the commons kitchen for another load. All food would be sent to the Bluff.

Minerva Two must almost have finished recharging the two Skeeters. The third was well uphill, beyond reach of the grendels. George Merriot had spent too much time shooting grendels—until it was too late to return to the Colony. He had taken the Skeeter as high as he could before the fuel cells went dead. Cadma