A tense, suffocating silence had fallen inside the cave, broken only by the crackle of the earth-fire and the ragged breaths of the tribe. All eyes were locked on Gron, who stood at the cave mouth, his body rigid as he stared down into the abyss. Karuk's frantic, fire-lit warning was seared into his mind. The enemy was not across the gap. It was here, now, climbing towards them.
"Bor, Fen," Gron's voice was a low, deadly calm. "To the ledge. Bring every spear. The rest of you, get back from the mouth. Kala, get the children to the rear wall."
The tribe erupted into controlled chaos. The hunters scrambled, their faces set in grim masks, grabbing not only their own spears but the spare shafts and hunting javelins. The women herded the crying children deeper into the cave, their own eyes wide with a terror they fought to control.
Gron, Bor, and Fen lay flat on their bellies at the very edge of the cave mouth, peering over. The moon had risen, casting a pale, merciless light on the cliff face. For a moment, they saw nothing but the familiar, pitted stone. Then, Bor let out a strangled curse.
"There," he whispered, pointing.
A hooked, chitinous limb, the color of dried blood, slid smoothly over a rock ledge thirty feet below. Then another. The head of the creature followed—a smooth, bony plate with no eyes, no mouth, just a silent, blind intent that was more terrifying than any snarling face. It moved with an uncanny, insectile grace, its body lean and powerful.
"Spirits of the deep earth," Fen breathed, his knuckles white on his spear. "What is it?"
"Death," Gron replied, hefting his own heavy spear. "Aim for the body. Where its heart should be."
As the first Cliff-Ghast pulled its entire form onto the last manageable ledge before the final, slightly overhanging climb to the cave, Gron acted. With a grunt of effort, he hurled his spear. It was a perfect throw, born of a lifetime of hunting. The heavy flint point struck the creature square in the center of its torso with a wet, cracking thud.
The creature did not cry out. It did not stagger. It simply paused, its head tilting as if curious. Then, with one of its hooked claws, it reached down, gripped the spear shaft, and pulled it out of its body with a sickening, slick sound. A black, tar-like substance oozed from the wound. It dropped the spear, and the weapon clattered down the cliff face into the darkness. The wound sealed before their eyes, the black ooze hardening into a scab-like crust.
A collective gasp of horror went through the hunters.
"It… it feels no pain," Bor stammered, his bravado shattered.
Their bodies are dense, fibrous. They feel no pain as you know it. They are like plants that move. You must sever the limbs. Or destroy the central core. The Voice's analysis was cold, clinical, and utterly terrifying.
Across the chasm, Karuk watched, helpless, his own horror a physical pain. He saw his father's spear strike true, and his heart leapt for a fleeting second—only to plummet as he saw the creature simply pull the weapon out and continue its climb, unfazed. They couldn't be killed. Not like this.
"Aim for the limbs! The joints!" Gron roared, snatching another spear from the pile. "They cannot climb if they cannot hold on!"
The hunters launched a volley. Spears whistled through the air. One, thrown by Fen, sank deep into the creature's shoulder joint where a powerful forelimb met its body. This time, the reaction was different. The limb went limp, hanging uselessly. The Ghast adjusted its weight with an unsettling fluidity, continuing to climb with its three remaining good limbs.
It was not enough. Two more Ghasts had joined the first on the ledge. The hunters' spears were having an effect, peppering the creatures' bodies, disabling a limb here and there, slowing them. But they were not stopping them. And with every spear thrown, their arsenal dwindled.
"We're running out of spears!" Bor yelled, desperation edging his voice. He threw his last javelin, which lodged in a Ghast's thigh, barely slowing it.
The first Ghast was now directly below the cave mouth, its one good upper limb reaching up, its hooked claws scraping against the lip of the cave floor, searching for purchase.
Gron looked back into the cave. At the terrified faces of his people. At his wife and daughter huddled in the shadows. They had no more spears. No more tricks. This was the end.
"The fire!" a voice cried out. It was Kala. Her face was pale, but her eyes were fierce. "Karuk's fire! It burns hotter than anything!"
Gron's eyes snapped to the pile of black earth-root near the central fire. A desperate, wild hope flared in his chest. He lunged for it, grabbing not a chunk, but a large, flat piece of slate they used as a hearthstone. He scooped a heap of the glowing, burning earth-root embers onto it with his bare hands, ignoring the searing heat.
He rushed back to the ledge. The first Ghast had its claws hooked over the edge now, its horrifyingly blank face beginning to rise into view.
"BOR! NOW!" Gron roared.
Bor understood. He grabbed the other end of the heavy slate. Together, they lunged to the edge and hurled the contents—the mass of white-hot embers—directly down onto the climbing Ghast.
The effect was instantaneous and horrific.
Where the black, tar-like blood had oozed, the creature's body now sizzled and popped. A sharp, acidic smell, like burning hair and rotten eggs, filled the air. The Ghast did not scream, but it convulsed, a violent, shuddering spasm. It lost its grip. For a moment, it clung by one set of claws, its body smoldering, before it fell, a silent, burning comet that crashed into the two Ghasts below it, sending all three tumbling down the cliff face in a tangle of limbs and smoke.
Silence.
The hunters stared, panting, at the empty space where the creatures had been. The only evidence was the foul smell lingering in the air and the few scattered, still-glowing embers that had fallen onto the ledge below, winking out one by one.
A ragged cheer went up from the tribe. They had done it. They had fought them off.
But Gron did not cheer. He stared down into the darkness, his face grim. He had seen the way the other two Ghasts had fallen. They had not been killed by the fall. They had been dislodged. And as he watched, a movement caught his eye. Further down, on a much larger ledge, shapes were moving. Not three. Six. Maybe more. They were regrouping.
He turned to his people, their faces now full of relieved hope. He had to shatter it.
"They are not gone," he said, his voice heavy, echoing in the sudden silence. "There are more. They are waiting." He looked at the pitifully small pile of remaining spears. At the exhausted hunters. "The fire… it hurt them. It is our only weapon. We must use it wisely. We must make it last."
The brief triumph died, replaced by a cold, weary dread. They had won a battle, not the war. The Cliff-Ghasts were patient. They had all the time in the world. And the tribe's fire, their one defense, was a finite resource.
Across the chasm, Karuk sank to his knees, his body trembling with a mixture of relief and renewed terror. They were safe for now. But as he watched the dark shapes gathering far below, he knew this was only a reprieve. The siege had begun.