Jeff Inlo - Nightmare's Shad

After witnessing the raw power of the creature, Ryson wasted no further time. He sprinted to the front lines of algors, those in the sand behind the last dune that separated them from the thrastil. He called to them all.

"We have to go!"

The algors did not respond as Ryson had hoped. Instead, with the last of the hook hawks eliminated, they took hold of their slings once more and prepared to fight off the next menace. Not a single algor broke ranks.

As the beast's head hung close to the ground, all that was visible to the algors on the desert floor was the massive tail that curled up into the sky. Quickly, however, the thrastil propelled itself up the side of the last dune and the sinister face came into clear view.

The algors looked upon the massive reptile head with surprising curiosity. The similar reptilian features clearly caught their interest. Certain qualities, however, were not comparable, and the algors appeared to have disdain for the creature's enormity. It was almost as if the algors saw the thrastil as a representation of their greatest fear.

The algors could come together and match the thrastil in size and focus as an army, but they could always return to the multiple solitary beings they longed to be. The thrastil lacked such ability. It was not a collection of smaller parts. It was a single entity that could not break apart into individuals-not an army coming together as one, joining in consciousness for a single purpose, but a massive being shackled as one vicious element for all eternity.

The thrastil, however, showed no such distress in its inherent nature. It concentrated on less philosophical concerns. The beast fully raised its entire body above the dune and looked down upon the algors in the sand. Its crooked smile seemed to widen as it paused to stare at the huge number of prey before it. As if the sand giants left a bad taste that could be quickly remedied by a new meal, the monster salivated.

Ryson ignored the macabre scene. He pressed what he saw as the inevitable truth upon the algors.

"Slings and spears aren't going to work against that. You can't win."

"We will not leave!" the algors answered in unison. The determined response carried across the desert like a crash of rumbling thunder. It contained defiance, but Ryson saw no victory in futile resistance.

"You don't have to leave. Just move back. There are dwarves waiting underground to help. Maybe they can beat this thing."

Every algor appeared to turn its head toward the delver. As if he just insulted them all, they glared at him, and yet again, responded together.

"No! We will fight as one. We are not dwarves, dwarves are not us. We fight as one."

Ryson found no shame in bringing up the dwarves. He didn't care if the algors blamed him for consorting with a race they saw as the enemy. There were larger concerns at the moment-one of which he blurted out.

"You're going to die."

"We will die as one."

Ryson realized he could not argue with them. There was no dissension in their viewpoint, even in the face of the thrastil. The algors were in complete agreement. They would not allow the dwarves to fight their battle. He could not, however, allow them to simply commit suicide.

"At least get back in your caves, all of you. Try to wear it out. Give yourselves a chance! Don't just stand there and die. Find a way to survive!"

The algors suddenly appeared uncertain-distracted. They looked once more upon the thrastil standing on the heights of the last dune. They might have been unwilling to accept any assistance from the dwarves, but they were not so adamant in denying the candor of the delver. If they did not retreat, they would certainly die, but retreating to their caves did not mean retreating from battle.

They finally broke, but they acted as if they had suddenly lost their unity. Their lines dissolved into disorganized masses of movement, but thankfully, they headed toward the cliffs. They climbed the walls and entered the caves of their sandstone home. They would not flee into the desert, but at least they gained some semblance of cover.

Ryson looked back over his shoulder at the thrastil that seemed to watch with detached curiosity. It appeared almost indifferent to the retreating movements of the algors, as if this maneuver changed nothing. The outcome would be the same.

The delver faced his own dilemma. What should he do? He couldn't hope to fight such a creature. What could he do? He could distract it, but for how long? And was that sensible?

Sensible or not, he sped off to the southeast, closer to the thrastil but away from the algor shelter. He called to the monster to get its attention, waved his arms, and prepared to move like lightning.

The thrastil eyed him, but only for a scant moment. The monster peered directly into the delver's eyes, almost seemed to recognize the tiny creature before it. It did not completely disregard Ryson, but showed absolutely no desire to attack. It lifted its head up from the ground and glared at the sandstone cliffs.

Stepping deliberately forward with all eight legs, the thrastil bypassed the delver, but showed clear diligence in avoiding Ryson, as if it did not wish to risk stepping on him. Once within reach of the elevated rocks, the beast sneered into the caves at the lower levels of the cliff wall.

Ryson could hear the whir of swinging slings echoing through the tunnels. He knew at least some of the algors were not seeking sanctuary deeper in the caves. He gave them credit for their courage, but couldn't help but question the sanity of the attack.

A surprising barrage or rocks flew out of the tunnel entrances as if the cliffs were spitting out pieces of its own self. Clearly, the algors had regained their cohesion, although a few spears flew out with the wave of stones. Perhaps this had more to do with the limited space within the caves then a handful of algors showing a streak of independent thought. Unfortunately, the spears had no greater effect than the rocks which simply bounced off their intended target.

The thrastil appeared more annoyed than angry at the response and certainly not injured. Rearing its head back slightly, it opened its massive jaws and then thrust forward with the full force of its body. Its mouth slammed shut just as its teeth met the rock. An enormous portion of the wall disintegrated on impact.

As rock and sand crumbled down on to the ground, the thrastil moved back slightly to review the debris. It immediately focused on several wounded algors that had been ripped from their dens. The jaws snapped quickly across the desert floor, devouring all algors whether still living or dead.

Ryson watched in silent agony as the thrastil skittered over to another section of unbroken rock. Once more it crashed its jaws down upon the algor sanctuary, destroying an even greater number of tunnels and dens. More algors fell helplessly to the ground. Those that could move tried to flee, but they could not escape.

The delver felt more than helpless… he felt trapped in anguish. He looked down upon the blood stained war blades still in his hands. He knew they were useless. They might have slashed through hundreds of shags, but they would not even scratch the hard shell of the thrastil's body or penetrate the thick scales of its head. He could try for the eyes, but that would be pointless suicide. There had to be another answer.

He thought of the dwarves again and perhaps there was some slight hope. So what if the algors didn't want help. He did. He wanted all the help he could get. The dwarves might be able to tunnel beneath the monster and trap it somehow. It was the best plan he could form.

He was about to race toward one of the tunnels when a strange voice called out to him.

"Ryson Acumen, stay where you are."

The delver did not recognize the elder man who stood behind him in the desert, and he had no idea where he came from. The stranger seemed to have just appeared out of thin air.