Chapter 15 Scythro
Ashmaws.
The first one comes rushing out of the haze at a full sprint, its four feet barely making any sound. Most other species never would have heard it coming. Truth be told, neither did I. But recall, we Hassaith have a good sense of touch. I felt the vibrations through the ground.
Ten paces out, the ashmaw leaps, mouth wide, fangs flashing.
I barely have time to get one shot off with the pistol.
The round goes straight down the creature’s wet gullet, exploding its head and a good portion of its forebody.
Inertia carries the dead thing forward. I drop on top of the human female, shielding her body with mine.
The scaly carcass thumps across my back, then tumbles in the dust on the other side.
Beneath me, the female gasps. I can feel the blood moving inside her. She is scared. She should be.
“Stay down,” I tell her. “There are more.”
Several more.
I feel bad for tackling her the way I did, but I had no other choice.
She does not have the reflexes to deal with a pack of wild ashmaws.
I do. That’s why I took her down and stole her gun.
I tried to make it as painless as possible.
As for the little winged android, I showed it less concern, simply dropping it on the ground beside her.
We can worry about that later. Right now, my priority is protecting the human.
And myself.
If I die, so will she. Getting eaten by ashmaws is not an easy way to go.
In a beat, I’m back on my feet and crouching, sweeping the perimeter with the gun. The satchel is still looped over my shoulder. The one I took from the Gathnarii yesterday. I drop it and reach inside, searching for my knife. I find it just as the other ashmaws emerge from the haze.
They are more cautious than their predecessor, moving forward slowly to survey the scene.
There are five of them in total, each as long as I am tall and hip-high at the withers.
Their bodies are covered in rough, black scales.
Their heads are bony and white. I can hear their nasal apertures snuffling the air, smelling the blood of their fallen companion. Smelling me. Smelling the female.
I take aim at the nearest ashmaw… and wait.
The gun is a snub-nose, designed for close-quarters defense, not long-range marksmanship. It also has a small battery, and therefore a small charge. I want the ashmaws closer before I pull the trigger. Can’t waste any shots.
The creatures circle slowly, heads held low, jaws dripping saliva. They are hungry. Very hungry.
“Scythro, look out!”
I already know why the female is shouting, but I appreciate her vigilance nonetheless. Behind me, one of the ashmaws has decided to make its move. I swing around, aim, and pull the trigger.
The shot takes the animal in the chest, blowing its guts out through its belly. The body slides to a halt a tail’s length from us. The woman screams.
The other ashmaws start to close in. They are not the smartest creatures on Ul, but they’re not the stupidest either.
They know enough to attack from behind, so that’s what they do, charging when my back is turned.
I spin and shoot, aiming as best I can. I manage to take off the top of a third ashmaw’s head, but the fourth shot flies wide, merely grazing the shoulder of my intended target.
Another shot is required to finish it off.
It only takes a fraction of a sareth, but that’s already too much time.
The fourth ashmaw springs. Its teeth are on my arm before I have a chance to turn. Pain shrieks across my nerves.
The gun falls.
Pushing through the pain, I use the creature’s momentum to my advantage, turning both our bodies so I’m on top.
With my free hand, I hammer the knife in at the base of the skull.
The blade pushes between the vertebrae, severing the spine.
The jaw loosens around my arm as the ashmaw breathes its last, filling my nose with the hot reek of death.
Someone screams.
The human.
Turning, I see her scrambling for the fallen gun. I admire her courage, but her speed leaves something to be desired. She will not reach the weapon in time. I watch in helpless horror as an ashmaw pounces, mouth agape, ready to devour. My heart twists inside my chest. I shout her name.
“Jeeean!”
Something whizzes past my ear. A strange, tingling heat that prickles my skin. The leaping ashmaw immolates in mid-air, unraveling in a burst of pink flame. By the time it reaches the human, all that’s left are a few dancing embers and a rush of empty wind.
The human just sits there, stunned.
The air is thick with the smell of ore.
I have some inkling of what that means, and it disturbs me, but the human is still my priority. With a shout, I clamber over the corpse of the last ashmaw I killed, and I rush to her side.
“Jean,” I pant, my words coming in ragged gasps. “Are you alright?”
“I think so,” she says. “But what—” Her eyes fall on the place where the ashmaw bit me. “Scythro, your arm!”
“It is nothing.”
My voice betrays the lie. It hurts. A lot. Worse, perhaps, than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. I shall live, however. By some miracle, the fangs didn’t catch any major blood vessels, and as far as I can tell, all my nerves are still intact.
“You saved my life,” Jean says, her eyes brimming with gratitude. The emotion looks lovely on her. Almost makes getting bit worth it.
Then her eyes open a little wider as a realization hits her.
“That last one,” she says. “What…?”
A sound interrupts her question—and answers it. A gentle chittering I know all too well accompanied by the clatter of six chitinous leg-tips striking the ground. Jean gapes as she looks at something beyond my shoulder.
As I turn, the scent of ore fades, replaced by a different, sweeter aroma.
Dreamweed.