A Dread Sentinel is, by nature, half-dead; sunlight never truly harms him, yet the day smothers his potential. Only beneath a thin, fading moon can one pour every last drop of buried might onto the field.
The moon tonight was weak and veiled, so Kael stepped forward without hesitation.
Thorne's voice trembled. "You're sure you can handle it? Things bigger than I expected."
"We have to." Kael's tone was Iron.He had this breed in the game: a Great Cyclops Devourer. Dangerous, but within his reach; Kael never entered a battle he doubted he could win.
His calm bled into Thorne, unclenching the merc's shoulders. "What do you need from me?"
"Hold position. Guard Lira."
"R-right. Just… come back breathing."
Kael inclined his head, then faced the monster. Sword raised, he pointed the broad tip at the slobbering brute. The blade was crude but razor-edged.
The Devourer's lone eye crinkled in what passed for amusement. Saliva dripped in ropes while they measured one another, and both burst forward at the same breath.
The beast vaulted high, tongue snapping down like a whip. Kael swept his longsword across the air; iron met flesh, carving a bloody channel, but it failed to sever the elongated muscle.
Not sharp enough.
The monster howled, curled its tongue, and yanked. Metal screeched—half the blade snapped away like brittle glass.
Kael sighed at the ruined weapon. I liked that sword.
He jettisoned the stump, ripped a hand-axe from his belt, and exploded toward the creature. The key was obvious: close the gap, deny the tongue.
He struck.Thunk! The axe buried itself in the Devourer's shoulder; one second earlier, and it would have cleaved the skull. Howling, the beast skittered back on four limbs, desperate to widen the gap.
Kael pursued, tireless. The Cyclops had a hair more speed, not a fraction of his stamina, the outcome already set.
The Devourer knew it. It launched itself upward, torso twisting mid-air so face became back and back became face, landing at the perfect range. Jaw gaping, tongue darted like a spear, faster than before—survival strength.
Whip!The muscle lashed Kael's right arm, crushing plate. He tried to hack at it with the axe; no use. Pressure climbed; armor groaned, warped; the shoulder twisted grotesquely—
With a wet crack, the limb tore free. Black-cold blood sprayed. The monster grinned.
Kael felt lighter.
He clamped his left hand on a jagged shard of his forearm plate—blade-sharp—and lunged. Metal spike rammed straight into the Devourer's flapping maw.
The thing screamed, toppled. Kael vaulted atop it, hammer-fisting the embedded shard deeper, again and again.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Each blow strikes Ironron's father, Ironverizing his throat and spine. Ho,t gore geysered. The struggles weakened, slowed, and finally ceased; the single eye dimmed to gray.
Kael spat. "Irritating."
Thorne and Lira murmured from behind, half in awe and half in horror.
"Who fights like that…?""Are all Dread Sentinels so brutal?"
Even veteran Thorne rarely witnessed such ferocity; only a man numb to pain could wage combat that mercilessly.
Kael looked himself over: armor crumpled, arm missing. Hunger flared.
Crunch!He punched the corpse. Crimson energy pulsed through the gauntlet; life-force surged into him. A scarlet line crawled from the shoulder stump, sprouting branches, weaving flesh. In seconds, an arm re-formed; the plate straightened with creaks, dents ironing out.
Useful shell, Kael mused—instant repair for a price paid in enemy vitality.
He surveyed the clearing. The lesser Devourers watched, quivering—the predator that slew their alpha walked toward them, axe in hand.
Once the leader fell, the outcome was inevitable. After brief, panicked clashes, the creatures scattered into the trees.
Thorne wiped cold sweat. "Thought I was dead meat."Around him lay husks—Devourer bodies drained to papery mummies. Without Kae, they'd have been dying on the ground.
Even so, the escort had losses: three civilians, shredded during the duel. Lira whispered soft rites over each corpse, tears shining in torchlight.
Thorne let her work, then sidled to Kael. "Soloing a Great Devourer—never seen the like. Strange, I've not heard of Sir Kael before. Where've you been hiding?"
"No fixed place."
"So where'd you set out from?"
"Russell."
Thorne mouthed the name, blinked. "That northern village? Only three weeks from here."
"A year," Kael corrected.
"…Come again?"
"I traveled alone, lost the trail."
"Lost? Gods, even a toddler could—"
Kael lifted a fist; Thorne shut up.
Lira finished the final prayer, exhausted. Kael asked, "Done?"
"Yes… finished." She wiped her face before he could offer another cloth.
"Then we move. Blood-scent draws trouble." Wearied survivors rose quickly.
No beasts approached; the alpha's gore stank enough to keep lesser predators clear. Kael led on, night forest no obstacle to a Sentinel's eyes. The group hurried to match his stride; dawn's first gold caught them as they left the trees.
Open plains glimmered ahead, and a vast city rose behind triple walls and clustered towers at their heart, bathing in a sunrise.
"Iron," Kael said—the Empire's second capital, main stage of the old game. Reaching it had taken a year of wandering. Awe stirred in him despite himself.
If I hadn't strayed…
Thorne beamed. "First time here? Wait till you see inside—if you've coin to spare."
Kael marched. Spirits lifted among the refugees; speed quickened. Nearing the walls, they passed a shantytown of lean-tos and scrap. Ragged children darted out, palms wide, but retreated at Kael's baleful presence.
Thorne waved his shield. "Back off, brats. We're not your marks."
Kael's hand slipped to his purse—old habit. A few copper pennies clinked into the dust. Kids' eyes ballooned; they grabbed the coins and vanished.
Thorne groaned. "Throwing money now? Sentinels doling alms—next dogs will eat grass."
"Dogs are omnivores," Kael noted.
"Not the point!" Thorne launched into a lecture on pickpocket gangs and false beggars; Kael barely listened. Lira, hearing the exchange, stared at his back in puzzlement.
They reached the gate. Two guards lounged against stone, yawning—until they saw Kael. One snapped upright, spear thrust to the Sentinel's throat.
"Stay where you are!"
"I only wish to enter—"
"Identification!"
Kael had nothing; a year on the road leaves little paperwork. He produced coins—a bribe reflex from the game—and offered them.
The soldiers recoiled. "Filthy sorcery dares buy us?"
Kael blinked.
"I see corruption beneath that armor!" the first guard snarled. "Dungeon for you until a high cleric arrives!"
So, another drawback of the class. Followers of the Light despised Dread Sentinels; these usually lazy sentries burned with zeal the instant they saw one.
Kael froze, a step from his destination, now staring at the prospect of irons and a cell—perhaps forever, branded heretic, apostate.
All that travel, only to be locked away at the gate of Iron.