Claimed by the Alien Mercenary: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Raiders Book 3) by Viki Storm

Author:Viki Storm [Storm, Viki]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-06-26T23:00:00+00:00

The ships land fast, like raindrops falling from the sky. One minute, nothing. The next, Kraxxoid ships are blanketing the capitol.

I grab the nearest Fendan officer—at least I think he’s an officer—and tell him to sound the alarm.

“The time is now!” I shout. At least I’ve got fifty soldiers gathered in the training yard with me. I scan the crowd for familiar faces—my best fighters. Then I notice something that’s strange, but not all that surprising.

Vhorwig is nowhere to be seen.

He was here a moment ago, before the last round of fighting. And now—gone. I push my suspicions to the side. They don’t matter very much right now. Right now, the only thing that matters is cutting down the Kraxx.

“Hold fast! Today, you are warriors!” I say to the confused crowd. “Today you get to feel the squelch of your blade as it sinks inside Kraxx flesh. Today, you get to listen to the sound of your enemies crying in agony—the sound of their boots on the ground as they flee screaming from your attack. Today, you’ll get to smell the dark, foul stench of Kraxxoid ichor as you wipe it from your sword. Today is the day! Today we fight! For Fenda!”

“For Fenda,” they scream. More have joined us in the yard, their swords ready. Yes, I think, their swords are ready—but what of the rest of them? Their hearts and minds? Judging by the look in their eyes, they’re only on a passing acquaintanceship with the state of readiness.

We charge. The ships have landed in the capitol, scattered about as noisome insectoids will scatter about your meal as you sit down to eat. We have the advantage of being close at hand, able to run on foot to meet the invaders.

I unsheathe my own weapon and begin the work to which I was born.

- - -

The best thing about fighting is that you can’t think about anything else. Your mind enters a fugue state where it becomes singularly focused on survival and destruction—of yourself the former, and your enemy the latter. Your mind doesn’t wander. You do not obsess or worry or fret. Ironically, you have no fears. There’s nothing but the movements of your arms and legs—the movement of your enemy. Even the cries of pain and the stench of blood and shit and sweat are secondary—you’re aware of them, but only as if through thick layers of gauze.

I sight an enemy. I charge. I strike. I dodge. I bleed. But I survive—I come out the victor in every engagement. I lose count of the Kraxx that I strike down. Several of the Fendans are on the ground—some groaning, some still, some dead. I step over them, only dimly aware that my brothers-in-arms have fallen. That awareness comes after—after you come out of the fugue.

There are dead Kraxx on the ground—and not all by my own hand. The Fendans are fighting. The Fendans are killing.

I hear the delicate crunch of boots on gravel. Despite the din of battle—the shouts and screams and sobs—I hear the boots behind me.

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