Chapter 2: A Split Second Decision

Jace “Quickshot” Leál

Several weeks before…

The gnome who ran the mounts trading shop was one of the last of his kind. He had burn scars all along the left side of his face which were covered in tribal tattoos that did less to hide them, and more to draw attention, which I think was the point. I could respect a man who bore his scars with pride.

“Of all my stock, I recommend this one for a long journey through the Waste.” The gnome waved for his assistant to lead the Sand Strider for a lap around the exercise ring. She was a child elf, only slightly taller than the gnome, wearing the iron collar and identification tag that designated her his slave.

While I find slavery a despicable trade, I recognized that this child was well fed and tended to. She was one of three slave children I’d seen in his employ, likely sisters. Each was well dressed, polite, and bearing none of the tell tale signs signifying abuse.

I suspected that despite the gnome’s haggard appearance and demeanor, he had chosen to save these three from the hands of those who would not be so kind. Despite the fact that young elves like them would have cost a small fortune.

The Sand Strider was indeed a beautiful specimen. He was a bearded lizard with strong legs and bright, intelligent eyes. The gnome was no fool. He’d saved the best for last.

“How much?”

He told me, and I groaned internally. He was almost twice as expensive as the previous Strider. I didn’t care. I haggled with the shrewd gnome for ten minutes before we agreed on a price.

When we shook hands, the gnome’s one good eye gleamed. “Tell me true, you would have agreed to twice as much, wouldn’t you?”

I gave him a wry smile. “Aye. And you would have taken fifteen percent less if I’d pushed.”

His sharp toothed grin split his face ear to ear. “Aye.”

The world was poorer for its lack of the gnome people. They were honest traders, if shrewd. Their people would die before going back on an agreement made. They had remained neutral during the war, but that hadn’t stopped neither the Dominion nor the Kingdom of De’danaan from targeting them relentlessly by the end.

I walked my new mount out through the stables and back to the market square. On my way out, one of the elf sisters asked if she could pet the Strider and say goodbye. That she felt bold enough to ask such a thing without fear of reproach was more evidence that the gnome treated his slaves well. Perhaps he didn’t even consider them slaves. It wouldn’t surprise me if the collar was more for their protection than anything else. “Of course, kid. Knock yourself out.”

Her two sisters joined her once they realized I wasn’t a threat. When they finished saying their goodbyes, one of the girls asked me what I planned to name him.

I didn’t think about it long. “Boy.” I said. The girls seemed disappointed but soon I was on my way and tried to put them out of my mind. Boy wasn’t really a name, it was my way of keeping emotional distance.

As I crossed the market square, I stocked up on equipment and supplies. I haggled much more fiercely than I had with the gnome. Something about him had made me go soft.

Hope’s End. That was my destination and a hell of a name for a frontier town. I found it a fitting place for me.

After I finished at the market, I found a Sending Office and paid to place a call to the mayor of Hope’s End. I told him I was on my way and was leaving Sandport. He thanked me for the update and said he’d let the Sheriff know.

I’d be a gunsmith for the local law enforcement there, whose current one was close to kicking the bucket from old age. No more violence. No more hunting people. Just a job where I could work with my hands under a roof and in a remote place far from Valheim’s politics. If I was lucky, their budding imperialist ideology wouldn’t reach me before the reaper.

On my way out of Sandport, I stopped by to look at the Station at the End of the World, and the broken rails that stretched a short way into the sands beyond. That wasn’t its official name. Just what I decided to call it. Once upon a time, the rails made a network all across the empire, and even deep into elvish lands. Now they were just metal to be stripped and recycled.

As I led Boy away from the train station and toward the city gates, I grimaced as I passed a caravan entering town. Within a large iron-barred cage on wheels, a fresh batch of beaten and dirty elves was being carted toward the market to be sold. Their eyes were hopeless, vacant as they stared at nothing.

The ones leading the caravan were hairless, and sported ugly red skin with pus-filled black sores, along with their worn armor and weapons. They were Reavers.

They eyed me with hard stares as we crossed paths. I spit on the floor, staring just as hard. Fucking Reavers.

I tried to put the image of those elves behind me. There was nothing I could do about them anyway. Instead, memories of fire, blood, and screams took its place. Nothing new. Just what typically occupied my mind in the idle hours.

The first week of travel was uneventful, if full of plenty of depressing things to see, with the odd awe inspiring depressing thing to see thrown in as well.

All along the desert were reminders of the Shattering and the time before. There were countless ruins, strange landscapes, and lifeless mountains, some of which I knew were a result of high workings, the gravesite of entire cities crushed under their colossal weight.

There were chasms with mutated flora growing along the walls leading into darkness. There were nomadic poison gas fields that spread along a kilometers-wide basin that supported no life. The gas fields had no discernible place of origin, and would kill in seconds anything that was foolish enough to cross its path.

Then there was the rift in the sky. A glaring tear in reality, like the eye of judgment, always open, always judging. At least in Valenheim, the towering buildings and cloud cover provided reprieve from its unsettling stare.

I followed the map I’d bought, following the best route from oasis to oasis. I didn’t speak to the people I met along the way. They didn’t speak to me. There were no friends to be made in the Waste. Only passersby and enemies out to steal your supplies.

On the eve of my third week crossing the desert, I began to see signs of more Reavers. There were signs of a disorderly camp of dozens. But what really gave it away was the smell, along with the chewed bones of the dead: human, elf, and monster alike.

Not long after, I began to see their fires at night. In the desert, darkness is as complete as it is dangerous. Open fires like theirs could be seen for kilometers around. I liked to avoid fires when I could, unless I found a suitable cave or the ruins of a building that could hide my fire. Meanwhile, the Reavers were bound to attract all manner of beasts. In retrospect, maybe that was their intention. They are perpetually hungry.

Reavers are dangerous. They’re not quite people, not quite monsters. They’re something in between. They are the remnants of evil necromantic experiments held by treacherous elves who played both sides of the war. Those who survived the Shattering were destroyed when magic went wild before it stopped working altogether.

The Reavers however, remained. They are partially hive minded creatures, beholden to a chieftain and their lieutenants. How Reavers propagate is a closely held secret among their kind, but I can’t imagine it’s anything good.

That night, I decided to adjust my route. It might add a day or two to my travels, but it was worth it if I could avoid any roving scouts, or the attention of any monsters coming across my path on their way to their fire.

It was midafternoon when I stumbled across a Reaver scouting party returning from a hunt.

“That’s just my luck.” I muttered.

There were five of them—and a red-haired elf with her wrists bound.

They had noticed me before I noticed them, and waited behind a cluster of boulders for me to get close. I should have smelled them, but the sun was so hot, the air burned my nostrils and dulled my senses.

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Their leader stepped out first and three others followed, one of them holding a bound red-haired elf. She was tall for a female, about a half hand shorter than me. Pretty, if dirty and disheveled. But

I tried to put her out of my mind.

It was a good sign for me that the Reavers showed themselves rather than immediately attacking. It meant they wanted to talk. This wasn’t the ideal ambush position, though not the worst either and they knew that as well. It was likely they chose to reveal themselves as soon as they realized I was a gunslinger.

They were getting the measure of me.

The leader of their unit stepped forward wearing a black, gap-toothed smile, his arms spread out with his palms face up to show a lack of aggression.

“Well met, friend.” Gaptooth said. “I see you armed and ready, but we mean you no danger.”

My hand already rested on the sandalwood handle of my hand cannon. I scanned the area. In addition to the three who showed themselves, there were two more. One on each side. Not entirely concealed, but behind decent cover.

I also noted they didn’t have mounts, which was unusual but not unheard of. Reavers don’t tire. They don’t need mounts. They aren’t averse to taking them from their prey after a raid. But they’re just as likely to eat a mount as they are to ride it.

“Am I speaking to your face or chieftain?” I asked. It was the proper etiquette, if it could be called that.

Gaptooth chuckled. It was a wet, sticky sound that reminded me of tar pits and a death rattle. “I am myself now.”

“Let me pass, or blood.” I rested my hand on the sandalwood handle of my cannon, but did not draw. The message I was sending was clear. I was not intimidated. I was ready to fight if they did not comply.

Gaptooth’s face did not appear concerned. Though he did not reach for the pistol I knew was tucked behind his belt, even though his fellows’ hands twitched toward theirs. The two behind cover already had their guns drawn, though they had yet to point them at me.

“Let us not be hasty. We do not wish for bloodshed.” Gaptooth let his arms fall to his sides.

He waited for me to ask what his intentions were. I prefer silence to do my talking for me in these situations. I find stillness more effective than words at unsettling my prey.

When enough time passed, I saw the signs I was looking for. A shifting of weight, shared glances between them, looking to each other for guidance. Gaptooth’s smile began to falter. He was the first to break the silence.

Clearing his throat—which did nothing to help his phlegmy throat—he said: “We are but humble traders.” He gestured toward the elf girl. “But, you see. We’ve run into some trouble during our recent collection.”

Collection—he meant the raid they’d just completed where they’d taken the elf. Though it was hard to tell because of the red flesh pitted with black sores, and because Reaver armor wasn’t known for being well maintained, there was fresh blood on their armor and clothes. It explained why I’d seen so many different groups of Reavers congregating recently. They were likely scouring the land for escapees after a raid.

Gaptooth continued. “We lost our mounts, and suffered casualties. We were hoping that you could aid us. Perhaps even loan us your mount so that we may more easily find our way home.”

How bold of him, I thought.

My hand still on my weapon, I didn’t move. Instead, I let a trickle of mana flow into my eyes for a moment, lighting them in molten gold.

Gaptooth’s smarmy grin disappeared instantly and his eyes widened. He raised his hands and ordered his men. “Stand down, men. Let him pass.” He bowed his head ever so slightly. “Apologies, Branded Soul. We will step aside.”

I hated that term. Branded Soul. It was the name the Dominion Army used for those who they unmade, then remade. But I have to admit there’s no better term. Those who survived the branding process, emerged with precisely a brand on their soul, and possession of special abilities. Each ability, and each color was different, but one thing we all have in common is that our eyes glow when channeling. Someone once told me that our powers corresponded to the nature of our soul. I don't know if that is true.

At any rate, even twenty years after the Shattering, it was still known that glowing eyes meant someone not easily trifled with.

I gestured with my chin toward the snipers. “Call ‘em down and make a line over there.”

Gaptooth was quick to comply.

This level of acquiescence was greater than I expected. It was something born of personal experience rather than hearsay. If he’d faced off against a Branded and lived, then he was lucky.

When all the Reavers were lined up, I pressed my heels into Boy and he stepped forward.

As I passed the line of Reavers, my eyes met the elf’s. Her dark blue eyes were fathomless as the night sky, and rimming with hate and fury. Despite her situation, she was not yet cowed. Something about that gaze stirred a memory, but my conscious mind avoided it like one might avoid touching a wound that never healed but always hurt.

In the back of my mind, the ever present screams howled louder. They were so loud, I barely heard when Gaptooth spoke.

“Is something the matter, Branded Soul?” Gaptooth asked. Only then did I realize Boy had stopped walking and I’d just been staring into those blue eyes long enough for the Reavers to become uncomfortable.

I let my eyes pass over the line of Reavers. Two in their party looked more confused than cowed. They looked young. Likely still green.

Out of the five of them, only three were experienced. Gaptooth, and the two who’d held the high ground.

I looked back at the elf. Again she met my eyes without fear. Just hate. Then I made a split second decision.

“Release the girl.” I said. “I’ll be taking her with me.”

Gaptooth snarled, forgetting his fear for a moment. “I will not! She is freshly caught. She is ours.”

I stared Gaptooth down, and once again let my eyes burn gold.

Gaptooth growled with impotent rage. I could see it in his eyes that he really didn’t want to die today. Could he see in mine that I wouldn’t care if I did? Maybe in his hindbrain he knew how lethal that kind of apathy could be.

My hand still hadn’t left the handle of my revolver. Gaptooth looked at it, then spat on the floor in a strange parallel of what I’d done when I’d seen the Reavers back at Sandport.

He ordered the one holding the elf to remove her iron chains and help her up on my Strider. No sooner had the elf girl climbed on—her loathing still unwavering—than Gaptooth coughed sickly and his head was thrown back before suddenly fighting himself.

The expression he wore was no longer the cowed Reaver, and his posture was one of confidence.

I’d already pulled Boy back and created some distance, backpedaling but not giving my back to the Reavers.

“Fucking thief!” Gaptooth snarled, his voice not his own, but deeper, smoother. It was their chieftain making use of their pseudo Hivemind and taking hold of his Reaver’s consciousness. The other Reavers recognized their boss’s voice and each reached for their weapon in anticipation of the order that immediately followed. “Don’t just stand there, shoot hi…”

Gaptooth never finished his sentence. I’d already drawn, fired, and blown off his jaw and severed his spine. He dropped like a sack of stones.

“Kya!” I roared, digging my knees into Boy’s sides and urging him into a dead sprint—toward the Reavers.

There wasn’t much room in the valley behind me to run for cover. Breaking their rank was the only other option, and the only one I would have considered anyway. I pushed the elf’s head down to hug my Strider’s broad neck which would have to do for cover.

The Reavers’ reaction time was so slow I didn’t even need to slow time. They were undisciplined and easily broken by my charge. Also, their chieftain was an arrogant fool. He kept jumping from body to body, trying to gain the upper hand on me instead of letting his men work. All he did was disable his host for crucial moments so I could get off an extra shot unchallenged.

Five booms. Quick reload. Six booms. Quick reload.

They didn’t stand a chance. After my second charge, only one Reaver remained alive—as alive as a Reaver can be in the first place—and that was intentional.

The bloodied disgusting creature crawled armless and legless, wormlike. He uselessly tried to reach a broken rifle. Though for what reason, I couldn’t imagine.

Then he too convulsed and the chieftain possessed his body, which was what I’d been waiting for. He laughed. “You don’t know what you’ve done, silly gunslinger. You’ve earned my ire. I’ll find you. I’ll find the elf. I’ll kill you both. Then violate your corpses repeatedly.”

The easy certainty with which he said those words was chilling. I leveled my gun at the puppet’s head. “Forget me. Things won’t end well for you if you try.”

The puppet purred with delight. It was a disgusting sound. I let my eyes flash gold, then squeezed the trigger, putting a round in the last Reaver’s skull.

There was no real reason other than spite that I waited for the chieftain to show up. Now I almost regretted it. The bastard said he would come after me.

As for the Reaver corpses, I wouldn’t loot them. I didn’t want to touch their vile bodies.

So I rode off, the elf-girl in front of me, quiet the entire ride even after nightfall.

I asked her name, and tried making conversation. She just stared forward and said nothing. I wondered if maybe she didn’t speak, or perhaps she was one of those rare elves that never learned Dominion.

The silence was fine by me. I was used to being alone, even in the company of others.

It was a couple hours after nightfall when I found a suitably concealed alcove, and hitched Boy to make ready for camp. Once again I tried making conversation, but the girl just stared at me with loathing in her eyes. I couldn’t help but notice how she held her tattered green robes close to her body.

My cloak controls temperature fairly well despite the aging enchantments, so I’d failed to realize how cold it had gotten.

I judged we were too close to danger if the chieftain sent Reavers to hunt us through the night. Instead of a fire, I had Boy lay down and through hand signs and talking slowly—which made me feel like an idiot, I finally got her to lay down against the Sand Strider for warmth. She wouldn’t do it until I kept my distance.

It was obvious she hated me despite having rescued her. It made sense. I was human. She was an elf.

I shouldn’t have been so naive. I didn’t think she posed a danger to me, nor did I expect to fall asleep so deeply. If it was her magic, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Maybe if I’d tied her down, I wouldn’t have woken in the morning to find she’d stolen my ride.