Like a hideous grey wave, the slime swept in upon them—miring them, surging high onto their lumbering bodies.
The djevodas screamed and slashed and struggled.
But it was as if they were wallowing in quicksand. Each lunge, each tusk-slash, only brought the grey tide rolling higher. Splattering, each grey patch grew as it touched its quarry. In bare seconds the wave-thing engulfed the struggling giants.
The last scream died, swallowed up in the grey death of the ourobos. Folds of slime rippled over final, paroxysmal spasms.
Shuddering, Craig whipped his disc into a tight, climbing spiral. The breeze was suddenly chill upon him, and he retched till his quivering stomach emptied.
Grim-faced, Bukal hovered beside him. "A pretty picture, is it not?"
Craig couldn't answer.
"So it goes everywhere across the grasslands. Like a tide, the ourobos sweep over the south, pausing and gathering only long enough to kill, then spreading out once more in ever-greater numbers...." His voice trailed off.
"But—is there nothing—?"
"—Nothing that will stop them? No." Bukal's jaw jutted, hard and angry. "No, Craig. Nothing. Our people learned that long ago, on Xumar, the ourobos' home planet. Tanagree oil injections will render man distasteful to them; otherwise even the barons' military stations there would have had to be abandoned."