Chapter Eleven: Gatelands
Nil knelt in the tall grass, its feathery tufts tickling his face as they rippled in the wind. His skin glistened with sweat. Even under the cool shade of the sweeping sandstone formations, the Carja badlands lived up to their name. The pleasant morning lasted until the sun cleared the easterly mountains, and then the familiar sweltering heat set in.
Aloy crouched in front of him, her hair blending perfectly with the red-capped grass. There was a perfect stillness in the way she camouflaged herself. She wasn't motionless. A fixed silhouette in the waving grass would draw the eye of even the most incompetent bandit. No, she flowed with it in the way she breathed or with how she scythed through its blades. As if she was melded with it.
She became the grass and the wind. And the warm sunlight.
He felt like an impostor as he tried to follow her rhythm. To sink into it as she had. He thought about the tallneck and its rocking gait and how its power ebbed and flowed like the sea. But instead of going with the tide, he found himself floundering in its choppy waves.
He'd always been the hunter who never feared his prey. He was the disruption. The irresistible force who clashed against his enemies or ran them down. Even with Helis, he hadn't hidden for long.
He wanted to collide, forge-hardened or sun-brittled, and see who shattered first.
Aloy, though, she knew what it meant to be both the hunter and the hunted. For her to live long enough to become the predator, she had to first thrive as the prey.
A bandit trudged by, his hunched body lean and wiry. His armor clanked as he walked, a patchwork of scavenged machine parts sutured together with wire. A rusted halberd rested against his shoulder, its blade pitted and nicked.
He stopped, his hard eyes scanning the grass, lingering on Nil.
Nil cursed wordlessly at the rhythm that eluded him, and his hand reached for the dagger sheathed in his belt. But before he could draw it, Aloy exploded out of the grass, whisper quiet. She sunk her spear into the bandit's soft gut, its sharp tip angling up for his heart. He managed a stuttering gurgle, then he slid off her spear onto the dusty ground.
Shouts echoed, and black smoke billowed from the camp ahead, its alarm shrieking.
"So much for stealth!" Aloy said, enthusiasm bright in her voice, and she exchanged her bloodied spear for her hunter's bow. She had two arrows nocked as the first bandit cleared the blackened palisades surrounding the camp. They thumped into his chest, penetrating armor as though it were parchment.
"Two at a time now?" Nil said, as he drew his sharpshot bow, his aim on the archer in the dilapidated watchtower.
She nocked two more. "Actually, I'm almost able to fire three at a time. It seems real battle does make the difference."
The archer fell heavily from the watchtower, an arrow protruding from their neck. Nil nocked a fresh arrow. "You can't sharpen a sword on a soft whetstone. Only destroying an opponent as ruthless and cunning as you can hone your blade."
Her aim panned to a charging thug, his halberd brandished and eager to impale her.
"Do bandits count?" she asked.
"Maybe," Nil grinned as he drew his bowstring, his open eye on the thug. Then he loosed his arrow. It sliced over the man's shoulder and thudded into the bandit behind him, burying deep into their skull.
Aloy's arrows followed, and she planted them into the thug's gut. He stumbled, collapsing onto his knees, and she finished him with her spear.
They pressed towards the camp. With their bodies in motion, they spun and pivoted around each other as if two blazing stars sharing an orbit. As one plucked an arrow from their quiver, the other loosed theirs, seamless in their synchrony. And when the bandits closed the distance, their spear and dagger plunged and slashed, spraying the camp with red.
The enemies thinned until only the heavy remained.
The broad-shouldered brute trudged around the corner, his deathbringer anchored against his hip. The rapid thump of gunfire shattered the air and bullets hammered the ground, pulverizing rocks as his aim swept towards Nil and Aloy.
They both dove away, their bodies leaping in opposite directions as the ground blew apart behind them. And as they rolled to their feet, they were ready. Their arrows slammed into the brute, staggering him. Before he could wonder what had taken his legs, they were on him with their blades, running him through, his blood gushing onto the sand.
They stood there, their chests heaving as their lungs tried to catch up with their bodies.
Aloy blew out a weary breath. "Well, that was strenuous."
Nil stretched from side to side, loosening his muscles. "The best art always is."
"I feel like I need to reiterate that I don't enjoy fighting or killing. It's just a necessary evil."
"Yes, yes," he sighed dejectedly, though he couldn't quite hide his smirk, "And your boasting about being almost good enough to fire three arrows at once was, in truth, a lament about this very hardship."
She scoffed at him, then playfully shoved his shoulder, her expression sly. "No one said I couldn't be proud of myself."
"I wouldn't dare deny you that vice. Or your desperate need to loot every corpse, no matter how disgusting they are."
She knelt beside the heavy, prodding his armor with an arrow, her ear bent for anything that might jangle. "New gear doesn't pay for itself."
"It does not," he chuckled, spying down at her. "So, in terms of other vices, how do you feel about gluttony? Are you hungry?"
She looked up at him, her green eyes bright. "Starving."
His hand reached out for hers. She took it, and he pulled her up until she hopped onto her feet. Together, they left the massacred camp, skirting the dead as they walked, and headed back for the sandstone formations.
The midday sun roasted their backs, and when they stepped into the cool shade of a towering outcrop, Aloy sighed, her hand seeking her canteen. She uncorked it with her thumb and began gulping water thirstily. Soon it was dousing her flushed cheeks and pouring down her neck.
"The desert is a different beast than the snow-capped mountains," he said as he reached into a crag and tugged out his bag. It dropped onto the ground, and he knelt beside it to uncinch it.
"Ugh," she grumbled, brushing away the trickling water from her chin, "The Sacred Lands get snow or rain year-round. I never knew it could get this hot and dry. To think, the only thing separating our climes is a mountain range and a few thousand feet in elevation."
He laughed. "Well, I'll take my skin blackened by the sun over the frost any day."
"Says the man who loathes the smell of blaze and roasting meat."
He shrugged. "I am a paradox."
"That I can agree with," she said, then she nodded towards his bag. "So, how about some food? Tell me what you've got, and then I'll tell you what I have."
He looked up at her, his hands blindly unpacking his supplies. "You brought food? Not sure Nora cuisine is my style. It's rumored that all your tribe eats is wild game and shock wax root."
She put her hand on her hip, elbow akimbo. "Shock wax root is delicious. It's full of nutrients and calories, and it even tingles the tongue when it's cooked right."
"I'll take your word for it."
She eyed him critically, then she thrust her chin at him and asked, "So… what have you got?"
He sighed as he organized the assorted sacks and jars, his collection its own desert. "Not much, unfortunately. I had intended to reup on my stock in Brightmarket a while back, but I kept finding myself delayed by an ephemeral redhead."
She raised an eyebrow.
"…And the occasional unlucky bandit patrol," he admitted. "So, I have enough masa to make some tortillas and some dried apples."
She grinned.
"What?" he asked.
She reached behind a boulder and dragged out a large, canvas pack. It bulged, straining at its seams, and she wrenched the flap down to give it enough slack to uncinch it. The flap flew open and produce spilled out, bouncing onto the ground. Bright greens and golds, they shined like lush oases in the rust-red sand.
"You see," she said, as she piled more fruit and vegetables onto the boulder. "There's this very nice vendor in Brightmarket, who I might have helped out a while back, and when I visited again, she gave me all this for practically nothing."
He stared at the mountain she was building. "She must have been very grateful."
"And I don't even know what half of it is." She turned the pack upside-down and gave it a good shake. "The Nora pride themselves on living off what All-Mother provides. And on top of that, the Red Raids didn't endear them to trading with the Carja either."
"Your ancient device doesn't know what fruit is?" he asked, tapping his temple.
"No, I didn't use my focus. I was going to let you do the honors and tell me instead."
He blinked, surprised.
"I can be patient… sometimes."
"Well," he said, gesturing to the large, striated fruit, "Those are melons. The green one has red flesh and the gold one has orange. The yellow, oblong fruit that's starting show some bruising is a papaya. There are also some citrus and avocados. The rest are probably familiar to you. Tomatoes, onions, and a few peppers."
"So, does that mean there's enough here to make a meal?"
He stifled a laugh. "Let's just say that if there are any more bandits lurking about, we'll be so bloated that they'll win the reputation lottery by simply stabbing us where we lay."
She furrowed eyebrow at him. "…I'll take that as a yes."
"As for the meal itself," he said, his eyes scanning the barren slopes, peppered with more rocks than dried brush. "There's not much kindling in the badlands, so I think we'll forego the fire and mash up the avocado with onions, tomatoes, and peppers… Then stuff ourselves with fruit."
She smiled. "Let's do it."
Nil searched his supplies and picked up a plate. He placed it on the boulder and plucked up a red tomato. His fingers gave it a gentle squeeze, then he lifted it to his nose, inhaling its sweet tang. He grunted, satisfied, and set it on the plate. His hand felt for his belt and a sheathed knife he never used in battle. He drew it, its polished steel reflecting the sunlight. Then he began dicing the tomato, each cut precise as he used his curled fingers to guide the blade.
Aloy watched, her mouth parted in fascination.
"Would you get the bowl, please," he asked, his fingertips drenched in juice and pulp.
"Sure," she replied, and after a moment of rummaging, she produced it.
Using the back of his knife, he swept the tomato into the bowl. Then he reached for an onion and tested its firmness. It felt hard and crisp, and he slid his knife under its papery skin and began to peel it. White flesh shined underneath, and he diced it into fine, even pieces, its vapor stinging his eyes. When he was done, he added it to the tomato, covering it like snow. His attention turned to the colorful peppers next, and he sorted through them.
He glanced at her, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "So, is shock wax root the most exciting food they have in your homeland?"
She eyed him, her look unsure. "I guess?"
"Well," he said, smiling devilishly, "I think it's time for you to be anointed with a little fire from the heart of the Sundom."
He plucked up a small, orange pepper and carved out its stem. Tiny seeds clung inside, and he minced them with the pepper and swept them into the bowl. Avocados followed, their buttery flesh yielding as he sliced them through to their pits and pulled them apart into halves. Their dark, bumpy skins turned inside-out as he peeled them away, and the rest, gold-green and creamy, ended up in the bowl. He picked out a bundle of leafy, green herbs and teased out a few sprigs. He minced them beside shiny cloves of garlic, releasing their pungent flavors, then dumped them all in. Pinches of salt and black pepper came next, and he finished by splitting the limes into wedges and squeezing their tart juice over the top.
Aloy peered down at the ingredients, a mosaic of bright colors waiting to be blended. Her stomach rumbled, and her cheeks flushed a little darker.
He smiled, relishing her hunger. Then her tunic caught his eye. He reached out and prodded at a tear in the suede at her shoulder.
"What are you doing?" she asked, and her attention fell to the dangling fringe, "Oh… an arrow almost got me."
"Take it off," he sighed as he picked up his bag. He unsnapped a side pocket and searched through it. Then he withdrew a spool of thread and a sleeve lined with needles. "I'll mend it."
"I appreciate the thought, but you don't have to do that. I know a stitcher. He'll fix it for me the next time I visit the Embrace."
"It's the outer shell, and given the wealth of trouble you get into, the piece will tear off before you leave the badlands. If you let me, I can fix it now and you won't have to give it a second thought. And I can almost guarantee I'm a better stitcher than your friend."
"But what about the food?"
He chuckled. "I trust you to mash it together. There's a pestle among my supplies."
"You want me to finish it?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. "I'm not a cook."
"All you need to do is mash it."
She frowned at him.
"No skill required," he added.
"Fine," she agreed wearily, undoing the ties on her tunic. It fell off her shoulders, revealing an inner shell of unblemished, supple leather. "You murder. You cook. You sew."
"I know," he boasted as he stroked his trim beard. "I'd make an excellent Carja wife. Too bad I don't have much of a dowry."
She laughed and handed him her torn tunic, her eyes sparkling. "Well, the Nora are matriarchal. The head of the family is the wife and mother. So, it's she who provides something like a bridewealth to the groom's family as a token of the value he will add to her home."
He grinned as he threaded the needle. "Sounds like I don't have to pay either way."
She looked away, hiding her suddenly reddening face, and she stooped with her back to him as she searched through his supplies. When she found the pestle, she picked up the bowl and anchored it against her belly.
He pinned the split suede together, lining up the edges along the uneven tear until they perfectly matched. Then he began to sew them back together, his needlework blending seamlessly with the grain.
Under the shade of the outcrop, they smiled inwardly as they worked, the sweltering day forgotten.