Page 42 of Shifter King
His gaze moved from the city to the flatlands that lay beyond these foothills and the much farther mountains in the north. He'd passed over it earlier and noted how unusual it was. It was only now that it started to take shape why this large sand pit was wrong.
It just—it couldn't be natural. So what was the purpose of this large sand pit with the low coarse stone walls? After all, even if nature defied the likelihood of a perfectly spherical sand pit that was at least five miles across with only a few access points, how could it account for the coarse stones set to shore it up? No. Even though pains had been taken to keep it looking relatively natural, it wasn't.
It had been created for a reason.
He studied it, considering the possibilities. None were good.
Large segments of land on this continent were nothing more than what looked to be sand. Sometimes pale boulders or large chunks of obsidian broke it up, but nothing grew in these areas on the surface. In fact, any who hadn't grown up in this world might have assumed it was safe.
But it was the furthest thing from it.
A large steel observation tower had been built out in the center. A single narrow path that looked out toward Darmoste reached it. All of the windows and access points had been shuttered. So whatever it was for was not for this day. What then?
He lunged off the spire and transformed in mid-fall, allowing himself to become a veldrok glider. Its heat vision and exceptionally bitter scent meant most other predators and sentients would avoid him unless they were especially strained for resources.
He swooped down over the trees. Then, just as he reached the last few before it broke, he dropped farther. The leaves and branches slammed up around him, cracking and snapping.
Returning to his state of rest, he left the shelter of the forest. The air had a sharp tang to it. More bitter now that he was closer.
Death had been here. Fear as well. Something had made it cling and linger because that scent should not have lasted. He strode out to the edge of the circle and scented the air once more.
Clearly this was sand shark territory. Perhaps silt squids. The rough walls had been cut in such a way that they looked almost natural. Almost. But at easily ten feet in height, none of the average residents of this world would scale them easily.
Nothing flew over this sand pit either. Not even the quetzies.
That meant something that jumped. Fairly high at that.
Stone crocodiles. Clay barbs. Rock quills. Chalk rays.
A puff of sand flared up in a geyser of hot air and sand. A single mug-sized eye blinked at him, mottled brown and amber. A scaly tail then flared up.
These sands were death, cultivated and preserved.
He growled low. This—this was a cursed place.
The one good thing was that there were long narrow stretches where the other predators did not roam as freely. Mostly because these were designated hunting areas. The ant lions would consume whatever fell within their territory. The besreds appeared to keep their territory closer to the mountains and did not venture out into the sand. This was a stretch of marginal safety unless a predator was willing to risk encroaching on another's. For now, there was such plentiful food that it seemed unlikely.
He paced along the edge, then crouched down to study the marks on the stone. White scratch marks. Some teeth as well. Old blood spatter as well. This wasn't ant lion territory here though.
"You’re Vawtrian?" A young man's curious voice came from behind him.
Naatos turned.
A young Vawtrian crouched beneath a tree. He was little more than a boy, but there was a hardness in his amber-gold eyes, almost hawk-like. A youth who should have been nearing the tests and trials that would deem him an adult. He was perhaps five foot ten and had a runner's physique. His shoulder-length hair was golden blonde and partially held back by the dark-gold fox mask situated on the top of his head. His trousers were well worn and had been mended many times. His boots as well had been scuffed and showed thin points on the sides. Instead of a lithok on his left ear, he wore a large metal cuff that showed no indicators of his base, his cadre, his home, or his expertise. Nothing except what was likely proof of his race.
"I am." Naatos folded his arms.
"Are you looking for something then, Vawtrian?" He stood as well. "This isn't a good place for our kind. Better for the ones who want to hurt us."
Naatos chuckled a little. "Then why do you assume I've told you the truth?"
This time the youth laughed. The smile brightened his entire face. "Who would lie about being a skinchanger?"
He set his arms akimbo. "You’re ashamed of us?"
The youth chuckled as he held up his hands. "I’m not looking for a fight. And no, not ashamed. Just stating the truth. You don’t look like one of us though."
The fact that anyone would base appearance as the main reason someone could not be a Vawtrian was...stunningly ignorant. He narrowed his eyes. "And what...does a Vawtrian look like?"
