The scent of roasted nuts drifted across Haven-Hold’s northern avenues for three nonstop days.
It wasn’t the bitter stench of burning corpses that Kenneth Drake had feared.
The fifty-thousand-volt static-electric arc had flash-toasted the locusts in a split second, roasting the protein within their back shells while driving off excess moisture.
At first light on the morning after the engagement, Giles Croft walked the southern fence line with Captain Kenneth Drake and Toby Karr.
The sight along the outer edge was staggering. For six miles, a nonstop drift of charred, dark brown insect bodies lay piled against the concrete posts.
In some wind-sheltered water ditches, the drifts were six feet deep and twenty paces wide.
Toby knelt beside a drift, scooping up a handful of the roasted husks. They crumbled between his calloused fingers with a dry, pleasant crackle.
“They don’t rot, Lord Baron,” Toby said, sniffing his palm. “They smell like roasted barley.
