For every one killed, five more climbed over the ash to replace them.
The math was bad. The math was aggressively, insultingly bad.
Fin slashed a head clean off with a strike that should have ended anything with a pulse. The body hit the ground, twitched once, and the head rolled back toward the neck like a magnet finding iron. Tissue stitched itself together, wet and wrong, tendons reknitting with a sound like someone chewing leather, and the thing lunged at him again before the blood had finished drying.
"DISGUSTING in the jungle. Disgusting here. Hasn't changed," Gavriel said.
"Form up!" Fin barked.
One of the men called it every time their triangle loosened, which was inevitable when you were fighting a horde that bred faster than you could butcher it. The formation snapped tight around Serena, shoulders closing rank like a gate slamming shut, and another gold shield slammed over the group hard enough to rattle the air inside it.
