The Godtrail

By Robin G. Sparrow

Chapter 1: The Goldeneye

Jace “Quickshot” Leál

Why does history have the ugly habit of repeating itself? If anything, it’s the single biggest clue that whether it be human or elf, everyone’s a damned idiot. And I was no different.

God, I hated the sun. I hated the desert. I hated the ugly, ever-present kaleidoscopic crack in the sky—the constant reminder of the Shattering. Most of all, I hated that it felt like I was doing precisely what I left behind in Valenheim.

I took off my wide-brimmed hat and wiped the sweat off my forehead with my kerchief. Then, I tied it around my neck again and tucked it under my cloak. The enchantments on my cloak worked extra hard, struggling to keep me cool. I wouldn’t last much longer on foot in the desert if I didn’t find fresh water, but searching for it meant letting my target create more distance.

I adjusted the shoulder strap on my rifle and got down on one knee, scanning the cracked hardpan for tracks. I cursed the squall that swept through last night, making my job that much harder.

It had been over an hour since I found the last tracks of my Sand Strider. Damn the elf for stealing it.

Three days straight. That’s how long I put one foot after the other, ignoring my screaming muscles as I devoured the kilometers one step at a time. Pain and lack of sleep, those I know how to deal with. The first is a product of training I’ve never forgotten. The second: well, skipping sleep means skipping nightmares. No great loss.

Finally, I spotted some tracks. Lizard-like Strider claws, identifiable by the slight ridge from the scales.

I followed the path the Sand Strider took around a crest of large rocks. Except something was wrong. The tracks were deep, wild.

A bit further and I found another set of tracks coming in from the west. They were jackaloth tracks. A whole pack was after my quarry. That didn’t bode well.

It took another hour before the hardpan turned to purple sand. Why purple? I didn’t know. The world had been wonky for two decades. Maybe something big died here and this was all that was left.

Three more hours and I was back on hardpan, climbing through and around half-buried pillars and blocks jutting out of the ground like pale bones. The tombstones of a ruined city. There was script carved on some of the remaining structures, though most had been sandblasted by the frequent storms. The words were written in Dominion, the eponymous common language of the once “great” empire.

At some point, I came across what was left of a frieze of a building. So far, it was the only inscription I’d seen that remained legible. I recognized the phrase. It was once a favored rallying cry for the empire. Now, it was but an ironic epitaph written on a headstone:

“In Unity, We Thrive Forever Unbroken.”

I placed my hand on the stone, waxing nostalgic as I traced a calloused finger along the letters. The pockmarked stone was brittle. It could crumble at any moment. I found a fault where the stone was most likely to break soon.

I unslung my rifle and struck the fault with the butt, splitting the stone. I smiled with wolfish satisfaction as I watched the frieze cave into itself, the stone spider-webbing with cracks until it crumbled. When the remains settled, only one word remained untouched. “Broken.”

How fitting. I left it there.

As if in agreement, the howling wind picked up, carrying with it the ghosts of a million souls.

Then I heard literal howling.

Recognizing the sound, I sprinted up the side of a fallen wall following the sound until I reached the crest of the ridge. Just as I suspected, I spotted the pack of jackaloths barking and howling at their prey. They encircled the base of what might have once been the plinth for an enormous monument.

Perched atop the structure were a sun-tanned elf and my Sand Strider.

My eyes took in details in an instant, and I reconstructed the scene. The jackaloths had likely been chasing my Sand Strider since the previous afternoon. The Strider kept ahead for as long as it could before taking refuge on the plinth.

Sand Striders are a feline lizard chimera, but they are more reptile than anything else. They have tremendous endurance, can regulate their own body temperatures, and hold water better than any camel. When allowed to move at their own pace, they can go on forever. But forced to flee from a much more agile enemy, it was only a matter of time before the Strider was overcome.

The elf must have run it nearly to death before finding these ruins. And by the looks of the black, drying blood painted along the side of their perch, it hadn’t done so unscathed.

Jackaloths are mutated chimera. An intelligent cross between jackal and sloth with an average of a two-and-a-half meter wingspan. They are just as formidable in forest environs as they are in a desert. And despite the stereotype you might have about sloths, jackaloths are wicked fast.

Also, their long, sloth-like claws and vicious grip can easily claw through wood or stone. They should have been able to dig into the side of that plinth and climb. The only reason they hadn’t was thanks to the blue barrier the elf had cast, which extended just past the edge of the stone.

There were seven jackaloths circling the plinth. Intelligent eyes kept watch over the barrier, biding their time until their prey exhausted itself.

Damn, she must have been holding that barrier up since the previous afternoon. Concentrating for that long should feel like hammering a nail between her eyes. For what it was worth, such effort was formidable.

Sniffing the air, I breathed in the sweet scent of mana—so absent in the desert that even from this distance I could almost taste it. If the elf had been foolish enough to cast anything with even a fraction of this power over her journey, it might have been the very thing that drew the jackaloths to her. Everything that lived was hungry for mana these days.

Mana—that mysterious resource, once so abundant. A force that fuels magic spells, enchantments, and all manner of technology across the known lands. Mana, the energy that once could be drawn so easily from the very air and ground, now only exists in any meaningful quantities within the life force of living things—but less so every year.

Where had the elf gotten the mana for such a working? Elves are inherently magical. They have more naturally occurring mana than most life forms, but when she’d been my prisoner the night she stole my Strider, I hadn’t sensed anything to indicate she possessed anywhere near what she would need for such a working…

Then it hit me. She found it.

The Sand Strider wasn’t the only reason I bothered to track her for three days without rest. You see, I’d been foolish. I left something precious to me in one of my saddlebags: the broken dagger.

The elf must have used several of the ruby crystals on the dagger. It was the only thing that made sense. I clutched my chest as a pang of shame, guilt, and anger flashed through me like a bullet through the skull.

There wasn’t time to regret. The elf’s barrier was already starting to flicker. Something that had not escaped the jackaloths’ notice. I briefly considered doing nothing. I had no obligation to this thief. An elf who loathed me enough to kill me even when I rescued her.

I sighed. That wasn’t my way. Besides, if I could save the Strider, then I wouldn’t need to walk in the sun anymore. Surely that was a more compelling reason to intervene.

I checked the sidearm in the oiled holster at my hip, testing the smoothness of the draw. Six 8.2 Parabellum Frag rounds in the heavy black revolver, check. I confirmed the three quick reloaders on my belt were easy to access. On the other side, I unbuttoned the pouch with five stripper clips, tucking the flap backward. I unslung my rifle. Five 7mm rune tipped bullets already loaded in the rifle. I pulled gently on the bolt to confirm a round was chambered. I put on my ear pro and I was set.

I didn’t expect to need more than a single round per jackaloth, but it pays to put in the extra effort to be prepared. The alternative cost is much higher.

Confident I was good to go, I made a quick study of my enemy to identify my first target. The trick to dealing with most pack hunters—and often it applies to humans as well—is to identify and eliminate their leader, commonly referred to as the Alpha.

Taking position on the ridge, I settled on the largest jackaloth, the one with an orange patch of fur along its ear. Then I lined up my sights.

Orange Ear and his fellows were getting antsy. The flickering of the elf’s barrier was getting more pronounced. Any second and…

I heard the elf scream with effort and despair. Then the barrier went out with a sound like the crack of a whip. In that same moment, I squeezed the trigger.

Here’s the thing about the ammo I was using. When it hits, it detonates.

Boom. It was a clean hit just behind the monster’s right eye. Its head exploded, showering gore on the hardpan along with fragments of bone.

I was lucky the barrier had gone out just then. The thundering boom of my rifle mixed well with the breaking of the spell. It confused the jackaloth and gave me another free shot.

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I pulled the bolt, ejecting the casing, then chambered another round with a push, and locked it. It was a practiced motion. Having done it countless times, my breathing was steady, my movements disciplined and precise.

Smooth is fast, fast is smooth.

The death of the first jackaloth froze the rest in their tracks and had them looking around for the source of danger. The death of the second zeroed them in on me. It would have been nice to get a third shot off before that happened, but I had been wrong in picking Orange Ear out as my first target. The largest hadn’t been the leader.

Surprisingly, it was the smallest of the jackaloths. He was quick to bark an order to his four remaining mates, and the five of them instantly began zig zagging to reduce my chances of getting an easy shot.

They must have come across a gunslinger before.

I took aim at the leader, a lithe beast with graying orange hair like a mohawk. Boom. Mohawk dodged left, moving preternaturally fast. My round only grazed its flank as it zagged to its left.

The bullet detonated when it hit the ground, the force causing it to tumble, but it recovered almost instantly. Mohawk remained in the middle of the pack and the others were almost on me. Shit, they were fast.

The lead jackaloth would reach me in five more seconds. I had time enough for one more shot. I couldn’t afford to miss.

Was I foolish for not using my Goldeneye? Perhaps. But I loathe that magic branded on my soul. It is only a reminder of bloody days of murder.

Besides, I was confident my skills were up to the task of killing beasts.

The monster in the lead was impatient. It made the mistake of sprinting the last dozen meters at me head on. Too easy. I squeezed the trigger. Boom. The round traveled 900 meters per second right through the soft tissue in its snarling, open mouth, all the way through its esophagus and into its guts. When it exploded, the creature was nearly blown in half.

Only four left.

I pushed myself to my feet. Slower than my normal speed. My muscles were knotted and dehydrated from three days of continuous movement with not enough water.

I should have eschewed that last shot to get into a better position. The next jackaloth, a black thing of nightmares with hooked claws as long as my forearm, leapt at me. I was too slow in stepping aside. Its claws found my chest, and the sharp talons raked across my flesh, drawing blood and tearing my cloak (which I considered the bigger blunder).

The pain was instant, but I didn’t slow. I spun my rifle to use as a club and held it with my left hand. With my right, I found the sandalwood handle of my hand cannon and in a blur, I drew and brought the barrel to bear. All of this happened in an instant. Before the monster completed its leap, I’d squeezed the trigger and shot the beast just between the ribs.

My Parabellum bullets don’t explode. They expand. The mushrooming of the metal is enchanted to blossom like a flower before spreading in a shape resembling a sea anemone. The lead hooks onto flesh and bone as it tears through both. Its stopping power is such that it nearly halted the jackaloth’s forward momentum and pushed it back several meters. It fell dead of an obliterated heart.

Three left.

Mohawk barked another order and the remaining jackaloths spread out around me. Smart. Even if I caught one, the other two could pounce on me simultaneously from positions that could make aiming at the others awkward for me.

“You’re a smart sonofabitch, ain’t ya?”

Mohawk’s bright red eyes narrowed. I could feel its hate and hunger. It opened its mouth, salivating in thick globs that dripped onto the hardpan. It growled, and I swear it was daring me to make the first move.

That was a mistake. Mohawk was smart, but slow to realize that if they made the first move, they had the advantage. A split second head’s start might be the end of me.

But they didn’t and it wasn’t.

Keeping my eyes fixed on Mohawk, I shot left and under my arm, startling the Alpha, who had expected me to target it instead of its subordinate, and so jumped sideways—with such speed that I realized hitting him without my Goldeneye might not be possible.

Meanwhile, the one I shot had a new breathing hole in its chest it would never use.

Mohawk wasted no time barking the order to attack and the remaining jackaloth pounced simultaneously, as I had expected. Damn were they fast.

“Fuck!” If I wanted to live, I had no choice but to use it.

It’s hard for me to describe how magic works. I’ve never been much of a caster. Complex spells involve math and esoteric concepts that are far beyond my ken.

Since the Shattering, however, complicated workings as well as simple ones have been out of most people’s reach. Not so for a branded soul like mine.

My “Goldeneye” as I’ve named it, draws on the natural mana that my body creates. All it costs is my stamina. As for how it works, it’s a matter of drawing attention to that golden part of my soul that has the brand, and focusing it through my eyes.

As for what it does…

My eyes burned, and though I couldn’t see them myself, I knew how they shone like molten gold. Time slowed ever so slightly, continuing to slow to a crawl as I pulled more of that searing energy into my eyes. I pushed my screaming muscles to their limit, twisting my head to look right, leaning back to dodge claws that, despite slowed time, still cut a path to my neck with frightening quickness.

I can slow my perception of time, and make my reaction times appear to the casual observer as near instantaneous. But I am still beholden to my human limitations. Pushing my muscles to move at such speed hurts.

The jackaloth’s pinky claw nicked my chin as I leaned back like I was playing the limbo at a birthday feast. Pinky—shut up, my naming convention is simply whatever comes to mind first—soared over and past me.

I used the butt of my rifle to keep myself from slamming into the ground, then pushed to right myself. I pulled even more mana into my eyes, causing a sensation akin to driving spikes into my brain through my eyes. Now I was not only fast, but could see forward in time.

It’s not as crazy as it sounds. And it isn't very far into the future. But a second is an eternity in slowed time.

It looks like so many golden shadows of probability layered over themselves and superimposed on reality. The darker the shadow, the more likely the outcome.

Mohawk’s quick reaction time was no match for my ability to hit where it would be rather than where it was. I clubbed the creature in the jaw, snapping bone. I continued to turn, my balance wrecked, but with slowed time, I barely felt it. I just kept spinning, and before I hit the ground, my hand cannon pointed right at Pinky’s asshole. Squeeze. Boom.

Shit and gore exploded out of the creature’s mouth in nauseating slow motion.

I released the magic and time sped up to normal. My mind reeled from the shock of so much information suddenly smashing into my brain in an instant.

I said I’m familiar with pain. By itself, it won’t usually slow me down. The backlash—the term I use for that moment when I have to pay the cost of using my ability too aggressively—is a whole different magnitude of pain.

My body hit the ground hard. Then I rolled to the side. My vision blurred, then refocused.

Mohawk made a loud gargle that sounded part shriek of pain, and part surprise that it had been struck. Its jaw hung loosely, dripping blood. Wide eyed, it stared at me.

“Don’t feel bad.” I grunted, breathing hard. “We all meet our reaper someday, and today I’m yours.”

Mohawk stood on its hind legs, swung its arms like a high jumper trying to clear the bar and leapt. It was a suicidal move, but not necessarily a foolish one if it intended to take me with it when it died. Its weight alone might crush me, but with claws extended and pointed at me, it could rip through me even if it died before landing.

I was too winded to move quickly. My handcannon has good stopping power. Not enough to defy gravity when a two-hundred kilogram monster is falling right on you.

That wasn’t the case for my rifle’s rune tip explosive rounds.

I activated my Goldeneye once more. My movements would need to be precise and perfectly timed.

I twisted my grip, rotating the rifle. In one fluid motion, I brought the barrel up, the fingers of my left hand instinctively finding their positions along the stock and trigger. A good soldier learns to fire right and left handed.

Following the golden shadow, I aimed at its midsection, then I squeezed the trigger and rolled to the side.

My accelerated time sense shattered along with the explosion that ripped through Mohawk’s guts. The kinetic force nearly stopped it in the air for a millisecond, before twisting what remained of its bulk sideways. Bone shrapnel and hot guts splashed over me, along with the back of a single arm that hit my back and winded me.

When I got my breath, slowly, I crawled from under Mohawk’s arm.

The battle was over. Today wasn’t my day to die.

I picked up my gore soaked hat that got knocked off my head at some point and put the hot, wet, stinking thing on my head. All of me was soaked. All of me stunk.

Goddam elf. All of this was her fault.

A gurgle drew my attention to dying Mohawk. It was a testament to his resilience and stubborn pride that it refused to die.

Maybe his last stand wasn’t as suicidal as I’d thought. He might have lived, even taking one in the chest from my handcannon.

I knelt over its head and looked into its nearly lifeless eye. “Sleep, warrior. Well fought.”

It was foolish to waste a bullet that way. But sometimes I’m a foolish man.

I pressed the barrel of my weapon behind its ear, pointed at its brain. Death came instantly when I squeezed the trigger.

Before I got up, I sensed a strong pulse of mana within the gore that was left of Mohawk’s obliterated chest. Sifting through it barehanded was gross, but I found what I was looking for.

A charged beast core. It was a sphere of concentrated essence, about the size of a large marble. Though slimy with blood, I could see the shifting hues within the clear orb, feel the thrum of raw mana resonate in my bones.

“So that’s why you were so tough, eh?”

Once upon a time, when mana was plentiful on the Paxrathan continent, it was common for creatures to slowly accumulate mana inside them. If they lived long enough, and if they consumed enough mana from the flesh of their prey, they developed beast cores. This one was charged enough that it was nearly ready to trigger an evolution.

It meant this creature was a rare remnant from before the Shattering. God damn, but that’s depressing. Mohawk had survived the Shattering and twenty years since, only to die at my hand. I’d just killed a relic.

I wiped the core on my pants, which did absolutely nothing to clean it. Then I pocketed it. I’d try to make good use of what Mohawk left behind. It was the least, and only thing I could do.

I checked the rest of the dead jackaloths, but none of them had developed a core.

I took the time to collect my spent brass. With the right materials, I could always make my own bullets.

Then I limped toward the plinth, where I climbed the stone using the grooves the jackaloths left behind when they tried to reach the top.

There I found my Strider dead. Fuck.

There I found the elf girl, alive but unconscious. Fuck.

I sighed. The Strider had been disemboweled. It was nothing short of a miracle the beast managed to leap up to the top of this plinth in that condition. I petted its head, then I ran a hand over its eyes, closing its lids for good. “You were a good Boy, weren’t you? Yeah, you were.”

The elf girl’s hair was red, albeit currently more dusty red and tangled. Her skin was tanned by the sun. Her once-green robes were awful for traveling through the desert even before they turned to tatters.

I took the broken dagger that was clutched in her hand. It had two less shining mana crystals embedded on the hilt than the last time I’d held it, confirming my suspicion about where she’d gotten the magic for her barrier spell.

Fuck.

I didn’t care that my cloak stank and was coated in gore. I took it off and threw it over the elf. Then proceeded to strip my dead Strider of the saddlebags.