Chapter 5: What Lies Beneath

Jace “Quickshot” Leál

Days passed since the night Ayla tried to end my life. I could have been irritated, but it was so damned funny that I couldn’t bring myself to ire.

When I was a boy, I tried to rescue a bee from a pool where my friends and I were swimming near the Eld. It stung me. I was angry at the bee then. Why couldn’t it just let me save it? In another second I would have set it on a branch to dry, and it could have gone on its merry way, returning to life in the hive. Instead, I had a barbed lancet sticking out of my finger, pumping venom, and the bee was disemboweled. And for what?

I wasn’t angry at Ayla for trying to murder me. There was something poetic about dying at the hands of someone I tried to save, rather than someone I tried to kill. I deserved nothing less. Death by her hand would be my just deserts.

Each night after the one she tried to murder me, I’d catch her staring at me, eyes reflecting the flickering flames of our campfire. I could see her thoughts plainly in those flames, taking my measure. If she did try again, I wouldn’t stop her. But every night, the moment passed. She’d turn away, her expression unreadable, and I’d find myself drifting to sleep more peacefully than I’d slept in years.

The sun beat down mercilessly as we trudged through the endless expanse of the Wastes. We were nearing the last leg of the desert, but it was the driest stretch by far. We were running low on water. We needed to reach the next outpost today, or we’d be in trouble. If we still had the Strider, we could have gone around, but without it...

“We have to cross that dry riverbed.” I pointed at the wide stretch that cut across the landscape like a colossal claw carved a snaking scar through the hardpan. The sand along the bottom was softer, and I knew what lurked beneath. I crouched and picked up several fist sized rocks and tucked them into a pouch I secured onto my saddlebags. Days and days of carrying them hadn’t made them any lighter, but an extra pound wouldn’t kill me.

Ayla watched me curiously, but didn’t ask me about the rocks. Instead, she pointed out the fact I seemed reluctant. “What is it? Why are you afraid?”

I shook my head. “I don’t like what we’re likely to find in those sands.”

Ayla shifted her weight uncomfortably. It must have been the first time she’d seen me show any uncertainty. “What will we find?”

“Sandsharks.” I said, keeping my voice steady. “They hibernate beneath the sand until they sense movement. Then they swim through the sand like fish in water, zeroing in on anything that moves.”

Her eyes widened, and she glanced at the riverbed. “How do we get across? Can’t we go around?”

I shook my head. “We need to cross. We move very, very slowly, and stay alert. If we’re lucky, they’ll stay asleep. If not...” I let the sentence trail off, not needing to finish it.

I drew my knife and handed it to her. It was a long, heavy thing. Black steel, convex, and inwardly curved. In her slender hands, it almost looked like a short sword. She looked at me, surprised that I would trust her with a weapon.

I shrugged. "It's good for stabbing and chopping. It could make a difference in a crucial moment." Inwardly, I cringed. A well-placed shot from my rifle might take out a single Sandshark, but if we were swarmed, my quickdraw was our best chance of survival. It was unlikely the weapon would make much difference at all, but I understood better than most the comfort of not facing danger empty-handed.

She nodded, her eyes scanning the ground. We climbed down the bank and onto the sand. We took a tentative step forward, and I paused, listening. Then I turned to Ayla. “When they come, it sounds almost like crunching snow. It’ll be loud, impossible to miss. Keep your steps light and follow my pace.”

She nodded again. All the animosity she usually showed me was replaced with focus. That was good.

We tread the sand in silence for some time. The other side was only two or three hundred meters away, but inching forward to avoid disturbing the sand too much meant the crossing would take a while.

Ayla’s tension was palpable, her breathing somewhat erratic.

“So where are you from?” I asked. I kept my voice low, enough that I could still hear if something was approaching. She looked at me wide-eyed. I tried to smile reassuringly. “It’s alright. They’re deaf. It’s just the vibrations we need to worry about. But you need to calm down. I’m not carrying you across if you pass out.”

Ayla swallowed. Her lips were so cracked. I knew mine were just as bad. I wished I could offer her some water to wet her lips, but the little we had was being carefully rationed.

“Why do you care?” Ayla answered. She tried to make herself sound bitter and tough, but failed. The hand she had clutched to my saddlebags for comfort had a lot to do with that.

“I’m just trying to keep your mind busy. But maybe it’s better just to stay focused.”

A few minutes of silence passed before she spoke. “I was born in Tyrna.”

I grimaced. I knew how horribly things had gone in that region. My home hadn’t fared any better. “I wasn’t there when everything along the Eld burned. But I’m from the Sisters.”

The Sisters were named after the three majestic mountains near the town that resembled three women huddled together whispering. Mountains that no longer existed.

The river Eld once flowed by our small city and cut through the mountains and into Tyrna territory. Before the war, there was frequent trade between elves and humans in the region, and we had good relations. She must have known that.

We were both silent as memories of home haunted us. I remembered the bottomless chasm that replaced the Eld, that caused the mountains to crumble in on themselves. The endless stream of fire that spewed from there when I last laid eyes on it. I’d heard the magma settled and the region is quiet now. But I never returned.

“Before the Sisters were built, there was a field of silverbell flowers,” Ayla said, her voice part bitter, part nostalgic. “They drew the caribou every spring. It was a sight to behold.”

The implied slight that the humans had destroyed this beautiful landmark was not lost on me. It wasn’t as cutting as I would have expected, though. Maybe she knew how pointless holding on to that anger was, given that nothing remained now. Not even those humans, not even the Sisters.

Something else caught my attention. “The Sisters must have been eighty years old by the time I was born. You sound almost as if you’d seen the silverbell fields with your own eyes.” Ayla arched an eyebrow. Maybe even elves didn’t like their age getting pointed out. Regardless, I persevered. “How old are you, exactly? You don’t look a day over twenty.”

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“I’m one hundred and thirty-five,” Ayla said, her eyebrow still arched. Yep, even elven women didn’t like to flaunt their age.

I knew elves were long-lived, but I’d never had the opportunity to question one myself. That Ayla could be so much older than me but look so young made me feel odd. “You look good for a great, great-grandmother.”

Ayla didn’t hear the joke. Instead, she took me literally and said, “I never had children. Why bring a creature into this world just for it to suffer?”

I knew how she felt. I’d long ago made a similar vow myself. It wasn’t the kind of thing to joke about. Nor was there anything to say.

I heard a rumbling groan, like crunching snow. And I felt my sphincter tighten. I raised a clenched fist, signaling Ayla to stop. The sound was getting louder and closing in on us at an alarming rate.

Suddenly a striped, serrated fin poked up from the sand a dozen meters ahead of us. Its movements were smooth and serpentine, mirroring the sinuous undulations of the creature beneath.

It headed straight for us.

“Jace?” Ayla’s voice was tense. It was the first time I’d heard her say my name without even the barest hint of animosity. She was afraid.

“Don’t move.” I said, keeping my voice steady.

I untied the pouch of rocks I’d secured onto the saddlebags earlier, then gripped the end of the drawstring tightly. With a flick of my wrist, I twirled the pouch, waiting until the creature was only a few meters away. Despite the heat and dehydration, I felt a bead of sweat on my brow.

Then, at the last moment, I released the drawstring mid-spin. aiming for several strides away from us. The pouch opened mid-air, scattering rocks in a wide arc, then hitting the sand with soft thuds.

In a blink, the Sandshark adjusted trajectory and exploded from the sand, mouth agape filled with rows of shark-like teeth. It kept its four stubby legs tight against its core as its snakelike body curved inward and down upon the rocks.

While it was still midair, I shrugged off my saddlebag and snapped my rifle into position. It was so close there wasn’t much need to aim down its gullet.

Boom. The resulting explosion was deafening, sending a shockwave rippling through the sand.

The Sandshark’s head was obliterated in an instant, chunks of flesh and bone scattering in all directions. The shockwave from the blast rippled through its body, causing it to convulse violently even as what was left of its body hit the sand. The force of its fall sent up another plume of fine sand and grit, the scent of gunpowder mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

I cycled the bolt, caught the casing and pocketed it out of habit.

Ayla shrieked, almost a delayed reaction, as the attack had started and ended so quickly. I felt her clutch at my arm involuntarily.

I exchanged glances with her, finding my eyebrow was arching this time. I’d have laughed if the situation wasn’t so urgent.

“Now we run.” I said, not giving either of us a chance to dally. “The vibrations no doubt alerted all the Sandsharks in the area.”

No time to lament the loss of saddlebags and bedroll. There wasn’t much use for them if we were dead.

Ayla’s eyes were trained on the still writhing Sandshark. Was she stunned? This couldn’t be the first time she’d seen blood. I threw decorum and caution aside and grabbed her arm, then pulled her behind me as I sprinted through the sands. “We gotta move!”

The fine, loose sand made every step treacherous, our feet constantly slipping or sinking almost to our knees. Now we were running, the other side was only a minute away at most.

Sometimes a minute can feel like an eternity.

The tell-tale groaning of Sandsharks weaving through sand came at us from left, right, and behind. The creatures weren’t known for their craftiness, so I knew they would be making a straight line for us. If we could just stay ahead of them we might just…

The first Sandshark leaped out of the sand early, opting to come at us overground. Its short stubby legs worked in tandem with its long snakelike tail to rush at us in quick, darting motions.

There wasn’t time to aim while in full sprint; instead I shot from the hip, aligning my barrel roughly with the target and fired. The round blew away the creature’s front left leg, causing it to emit a loud clicking growl as it writhed its way under the sand, leaving a trail of blood and its severed limb behind.

In this way, Sandsharks are similar to their ocean namesakes. Several creatures that hadn’t yet let their fins peek above the sand surface suddenly writhed forth and began devouring the injured monster, a bloody battle of limbs ensued.

If only that drew all of them, but it didn’t.

Two more sharks leapt toward us. I fired, but my bullet missed. They nearly crushed us as they slithered under the sand. Thirty more seconds. That’s all we needed. But the swarm was upon us. I counted a half dozen sharks writhing to the surface on each side, ready to leap. We weren’t going to make it.

“Don’t move,” I growled at Ayla. “Stay as still as possible if you want to live.”

Then I slung my rifle and stomped forward. Eight sharks leapt at me simultaneously from multiple directions. I grinned wolfishly.

I’d faced worse odds.

I blinked. Time slowed. The familiar burning sting flooded my eyes. And as they filled with molten magic, my awareness expanded.

I drew my revolver and spun right, anticipating the trajectory of the beasts and finding a gap. My jaw clenched with the strain of pushing my muscles to move faster and with more precision than the ordinary limits of humanity.

The first shot struck the roof of the first shark’ mouth. The second, between another’s sand crystalline eyes. I put two into a third’s midsection. The fourth, the fifth…

Dancing between the bodies of monsters twice my size when a single mistake meant being mauled and killed—was thrilling. As thrilling as any battle with stakes like these.

I ducked under a shark and let time slide forward to relieve some of the strain on my senses. In one fluid motion, I released the spent casings and reached for my speedloader. The new rounds clicked into place with a quick twist. I pocketed the loader, snapped the cylinder shut, and was firing again.

With each pull of the trigger, the revolver barked loudly, a bloom of fire flared, then a thin wisp of smoke curled from the barrel. As I fired shot after shot, the smoke thickened, forming a ghostly haze that hugged me like a death veil.

I leapt and stepped twice on the back of a shark before jumping forward. Then I fired again and again.

Not all the creatures died when I hit them, but with many, no sooner had I inflicted wounds, than others of the sharks were driven mad with bloodlust and turned on their bloodied fellows.

Hot blood that smelled vaguely sweet along with its pungent stink, mingled with acrid gunpowder scent. I reloaded. I fired. I danced between the piling corpses.

The sharp, acrid smell of burnt powder stung my nostrils, mixing with the dry desert dust. The wind picked up, carrying the wisps away in swirling patterns.

Then there was enough mayhem in the writhing corpses that I knew it was time to move on.

Ayla had obeyed. She stood petrified, clutching the black knife tightly in front of her, then looking between the piles of corpses and writhing monsters, and at me—with a new respect that wasn’t at all unwelcome.

“Come around this way. Careful to keep a distance from those ones feeding over there. We need to move before our luck turns sour.”

It didn’t take long to reach the other side of the dry riverbed. Then, I realized I’d made the biggest blunder a soldier can make on the field. I don’t believe in God or gods, but I do believe in the world’s unfaltering habit of spiting those who so boldly dare fate and irony to bring exactly what they don’t want to happen. My comment regarding our luck turning sour was a mistake.

As I helped Ayla reach the lip of the embankment, I heard the groan of sand behind me as it erupted, a smallish shark—compared to its fellows; this one was maybe twice as big as the average human, not including its tail—taking its chances with the fleeing prey rather than competing with the others in the maelstrom.

I pushed Ayla the rest of the way, and tried to scramble up myself, but I miscalculated. I turned. Even activating my Goldeneye, I wasn’t fast enough to turn and shoot in time.

The shark’s nose pushed me upward and onto higher ground, past Ayla. Its maw closed around my arm. Pain cut through me like an electric buzzsaw as one of its many teeth dug into a nerve ending somewhere.

I pressed the hot barrel of the gun flush against the side of the shark and emptied my cylinder, doing my best to wreck its jaw joint. One of them must have found its mark because I felt the pressure of its teeth slacken, though the beast was still writhing and had its teeth in me. Until suddenly it wasn’t, and I realized through my haze of pain that Ayla was mounted on the monster stabbing repeatedly in and around its eye, and randomly along its head. It was hard to tell whether her stabbing or one of my bullets contributed most to making the shark go limp, but I was grateful when it finally did.