They aren't using their acid, Sol noted, sidestepping a lunging insect and driving the butt of his spear into its thorax.
It was true. The Dreadwings, usually so eager to rain bone-melting venom from the sky, were engaging entirely in close-quarters physical melee. The sheer density of the horde was actually saving his life. If the insects started spitting their radioactive green acid in this tightly packed, chaotic encirclement, they would inevitably melt dozens of their own allied Badgers and fellow Dreadwings. The friendly-fire risk was too high, even for the primitive, blood-crazed minds of the beasts.
If they could spit, I'd have been a gurgling puddle of soup five minutes ago, Sol thought grimly, deflecting another heavy blow.
But even without the threat of the acid, he couldn't go on like this.
