Devourer

O’Neer grimaced as he hefted the pack onto the hive beast’s broad back. The load was heavy with supplies, mostly those strange metal tins the humans insisted on carrying. He had never thought he would complain about having too many provisions. It seemed like a good problem to have, but the weight still irritated him as he tightened the straps.
“Why the long face, Captain?” Carla asked, grinning as she swung another pack onto the beast.
“Fucking heavy,” O’Neer muttered, locking the gear in place.
He drew his long rifle and opened the action, exposing the receiver. A faint trace of rust caught his eye, and the edges were dull from use.
“Can’t get back to Fort Rolv soon enough,” he said, snapping it shut and sliding it into its holster on the saddle.
“Yeah, these guns aren’t holding up too well,” Carla replied. She was inspecting her own weapon, peering down the barrel.
“Cracks,” she murmured, cocking it once before loading a few shells. “Needs a new barrel.”
O’Neer swung into the saddle, and the hive beast shifted slightly under his weight but remained calm. Its strange, multi-faceted eyes stared straight ahead, its gaze unreadable yet clearly intelligent. He frowned and kicked it; it just tilted its head to look at him for a moment before facing forward again.
“Do not irritate it,” Carla said with a sigh as she mounted up, rolling her shoulders beneath the weight of her gear.
It was going to be a long ride to Fort Rolv.
When they set out with the humans in tow, the road was calm. Strangely calm. O’Neer had never expected to travel this safely. One full day in, and not a single monster attack. No skirmishes. No trouble.
He did spot the occasional bloodstain along the path. Probably the hive scouts are moving ahead and clearing the way. Efficient, if a little unnerving.
Meat was meat, he supposed. The Imperial hive likely did not care much for taste.
“So what’s the plan?” Carla asked as she rode beside him.
“Why are you asking me now? Seems a bit late for that,” O’Neer said, giving her a look.
He knew she was just testing him. She wasn’t asking because she doubted the plan. She was asking because going to the Fort Rolv meant something was off.
You didn’t abandon a sector lightly. Not unless you needed resupply, command was planning a full restructure, or something serious had happened.
“I thought we’d be bargaining with the humans, not dragging them to the Fort Rolv. And I heard we might be going into the rads,” Carla replied. “I like my flesh sticking to my bones, thanks very much.” ℝἈＮǒBΕṤ
“They want to bargain. And frankly, we need a plan. A real plan. Not this 'try not to die' routine we’ve been stuck with for years,” O’Neer said, his brow furrowed as he looked ahead. “The people out here won’t last much longer. We either fix this place or get the hell out.”
“Go where? Human lands?” Carla asked, lips tightening slightly.
“Maybe. Judging by the food they brought, I’m guessing they’re not starving,” O’Neer said with a crooked grin. “I even heard they still have green trees.”
Carla’s eyes flicked upward. “Huh. Would be nice to see one. Maybe flowers,” she said, voice quiet.
“Yeah. We’ll need to live long enough to see it,” O’Neer replied, mouth tugging into a faint smirk before fading just as quickly.
The moment of silence dragged for a few minutes before he suddenly heard gun fire in the distance. But it was far, too far away for an attack.
“Hold!” O’Neer said as he raised his arm and the entire caravan stopped.
“Carla, with me,” O’Neer said as he rode ahead.
Carla nudged her mount forward, falling in behind him without a word. Together, they made for the nearest elevated dune, the crunch of claws muffled by the dry wind.
O’Neer narrowed his eyes as they climbed. They were close to a small town now, one of those poor, half-forgotten hovels clawing out a living in the dust.
When he reached the top of the dune, O’Neer pulled his mount to a stop and narrowed his eyes against the glare.
The town lay in the basin below, a dust-beaten sprawl of sun-bleached stone and rusted scrap. Shacks leaned against each other like they were too tired to stand alone. A crude perimeter wall circled the settlement, more for show than defense. Wind dragged sheets of grit across the ground, swallowing sound and softening the edges of the violence below.
Gunfire cracked through the dry air. Bandits were swarming in from the northern ridge, dozens of them on patched-together lean desert mounts. Their weapons flared with muzzle flashes, sending bursts of gunfire toward the town’s outer line.
Smoke drifted up from a warehouse near the edge. Flames licked at its roof, struggling to catch in the dry air. Civilians sprinted between cover, ducking behind broken walls and overturned carts. The defenders held their ground, firing back from sandbag nests and behind scrap-metal barricades. Tracer rounds zipped through the haze. The air vibrated with the sharp rhythm of rifles and the deeper cough of mounted guns.
“Shit…” O’Neer muttered. His face tightened as he turned his mount and rode hard back toward the convoy.
“Rangers! With me!” he called out.
His men broke away at once, claws pounding against the sand. The Imperials stood still, watching the dust trail rise.
Montis, already mounted, turned to the Living Armour Cavalry. Their chitin-plated forms gleamed beneath the settling grit, motionless until he pointed. “Follow,” he said.
O’Neer gathered his men and started giving directions. “Carla I’ll take half of us and go around. You take the rest into town to make sure they aren’t overrun.”
He glanced over at the Living Armour Cavalry. “You lot, with me.”
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The riders guided their clawed mounts forward in eerie silence, the sound of armored limbs and chitin scraping against the sand as they fell into formation.
O’Neer reared his own mount and kicked forward. The beast lunged into motion with a guttural hiss, its hooked claws tearing into the dune as it sprinted. He leaned low, wind pressing against his face. One-handed, he reached back, unfastened the pack strapped behind him, and let it drop into the dust mid-gallop. He had no use for it anymore.
They swept around the ridge, claws ripping shallow gouges in the slope, trailing plumes of sand in their wake. The air shimmered with heat and tension. Gunfire still echoed from below in sharp, chaotic bursts.
A few shots cracked in their direction. O’Neer saw the flashes, tracked the arc of panic-fired rounds that fell well short.
He sneered.
Too far. Too slow. The bastards couldn’t hit air if it stood still.
Behind him, the Living Armour Cavalry moved with brutal grace, spreading into a loose wedge. Their mounts were built for war, lean plated beasts with segmented limbs, slit-pupiled eyes, and claws that tore into the sand with each stride. The riders lowered their lances, visors down, eyes locked forward. No words. No signals. Just focus.
O’Neer pulled his rifle free, checked the chamber with a quick glance, and gave a sharp nod to no one in particular.
Below, the shouts were rising. Thin, panicked, barely cutting through the wind and the rattle of gunfire.
“Come on, boys! Let’s give them a Ranger’s welcome!” O’Neer shouted.
He fired a round into the sky. The crack rang out sharp and clean. His men roared back, voices fierce and full of fire. Morale surged.
Then they charged.
The moment the ridge dropped away, O’Neer leaned forward and gave his mount the signal. The beast lunged down the slope, claws tearing into the sand. Behind him, the Rangers charged in formation, coats snapping, weapons raised. Pistols flashed, shotguns boomed, and the air filled with dust and fury.
O’Neer’s rifle cracked twice. Two raiders dropped mid-turn, their mounts screaming as they stumbled over the dead. Shouts rose from the enemy ranks, panicked and disorganised. Some fumbled for weapons. Others tried to run.
Then the Rangers hit.
One Ranger rode low and fast, shotgun balanced in one hand. He fired both barrels into a knot of bandits, sending limbs flying. Before he could reload, a round struck him clean in the chest. He toppled from the saddle, hitting the ground hard, his mount clawing the air before stumbling to a halt.
Another Ranger, yelling as he fired his pistol, took a shot to the throat. He fell backward off his mount, blood spraying across the sand. His mount kept running, riderless, crashing into a barricade with a guttural shriek.
O’Neer pressed forward. His mount slammed into a pair of bandits, crushing one underfoot. He brought his rifle down like a club, cracking the skull of the second. Blood splattered across his coat. He turned and fired into a third, point-blank, dropping the man mid-scream.
To the right, the Living Armour Cavalry tore through the bandit line with savage precision. Their mounts screamed as claws ripped into enemy beasts and riders. Lances punched through torsos, pulled free with wet slurps, then stabbed again without pause. One Living Armour dismounted and waded into the melee, cleaving through flesh like it was nothing.
Another Ranger let off a blast from his shotgun while still mounted. The recoil rocked him, but the shot ripped through two raiders charging with spears. Before he could fire again, a lucky round struck his shoulder, spinning him from the saddle. He hit the ground with a grunt, trying to crawl back, but a bandit finished him off with a crude blade before being shot down himself.
The town’s defenders opened fire from behind crates and sandbagged walls. Their bullets tore into the chaos. Bandits caught between two fronts panicked. Some dropped weapons. Others screamed for help. A few tried to retreat, only to be gunned down or cut off by Rangers circling around.
O’Neer caught movement to his left. He fired his pistol into a raider’s gut, then swung it up to catch another in the jaw. A mounted Ranger beside him was struck by a crossbow bolt, slumping forward as his mount continued to charge blindly into the fray. The Ranger slid off, lifeless, blood smearing the saddle.
Still, they pushed on.
A Living Armour rider rode down a fleeing group and impaled two on a single lance. Another Ranger reloaded mid-charge, blood running down his leg, and still managed to fire both barrels into a group crouched behind a crate.
The bandit line shattered. Some ran. Others dropped their weapons and begged. The Rangers did not answer. Their shots were the only reply. Bodies littered the battlefield, bandits, mounts, Rangers. The wind dragged dust over the fallen. A few groans lingered in the air, but the rest was silence.
O’Neer sat in the saddle, blood on his face, breath heavy. He looked over the field. He spat into the dirt.
“Casualty report!” O’Neer barked, voice cutting through the haze.
One of the Rangers limped toward him, dragging a bloodied leg, shotgun slung across his back. His face was smeared with grit and sweat.
“Three down. Two hurt bad. Rorek’s not gonna make it without help.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the corpse-strewn ridge. “Mounts took a beating too. We lost one. Two more won’t last the day.”
O’Neer clenched his jaw, scanning the line of battered fighters. Some were patching each other up. Others just sat in the sand, too tired to speak.
He exhaled, slow. “Secure the wounded. Strip gear from the dead. Get the Imperials over here.”
The Ranger gave a tired nod and moved off, shouting orders to the others.
O’Neer looked out at the field again. The wind picked up, dragging dust over the fallen, bandit and Ranger alike.
He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his glove, but it only smeared across his cheek.
Soon, the Imperial healers arrived from the convoy. They moved quickly, kneeling beside the wounded and working with calm precision. O’Neer watched as their magic pulsed through open flesh, knitting torn muscle and sealing wounds like it was nothing.
He grimaced. He knew the terms. The Imperials only fought in engagements that were formally agreed upon. That was the deal. Everything they brought with them had to last, no reinforcements, no second chances. They couldn’t afford to get pulled into every fight the Rangers found themselves in.
But that didn’t make it easier to swallow. If the Imperial mages had been with him when the shooting started, he wouldn’t have lost three men. Still, it was something that the Living Armour Cavalry had stepped in. He’d seen the bullets bounce off their plating. If someone had to take the front, they were the right choice.
“Was that wise?” a familiar voice said, and O’Neer turned to see General Montis on his fine white mount.
“A shoot-out would have been worse.” O’Neer replied gruffly as he bent down and ripped a gun off a dead raider.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Montis said. His tone was even, but his eyes were cold. “Was it a good idea to risk valuable military assets for a scrap heap of a town?”
O’Neer didn’t answer right away. He stood still, the stolen rifle resting against his thigh, his hand flexing slightly around the grip. He glanced down at the dead raider, then over at one of his own men, face pale, body covered with a blanket that did nothing to hide the stillness underneath.
The wind picked up, tugging at the corner of his cloak. Dust clung to the sweat on his brow, and he wiped it with the back of his glove, slow and deliberate.
Finally, he looked up at Montis.
“Do you know why Rangers don’t grow old?” he asked, voice quiet.
Montis shifted in the saddle, expression unreadable.
“We fight for those who can’t,” O’Neer said. “And most of us die in that fight.”
He exhaled through his nose, glanced toward the town where smoke still rose from broken rooftops, then back to Montis.
“Every Ranger knows the cost.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder and adjusted the strap with one hand. “But we pay it anyway.”
Montis said nothing. The only sound was the low groan of the wind and the distant cries of wounded townsfolk.
O’Neer turned and walked off without another word.
“All I suggest…” Montis said suddenly.
O’Neer stopped mid-step. At those words, he froze. His shoulders tensed, and after a pause, he turned back around to face the general.
Montis sat upright in the saddle, reins held loosely in one hand. He didn’t look angry. If anything, he seemed unaffected by the aftermath. There was no judgment in his tone, but no warmth either.
“Next time, ask for our help,” Montis said. “Don’t rush in. The town would have lasted at least an hour. That would have given us time to plan a more precise engagement instead of charging in. The Hive could have gone in first to draw fire.”
He spoke calmly, almost conversationally, like it was just another tactical review. Not a reprimand, not praise. Just facts. Montis let the moment stretch, then continued.
“You’re a capable front-line platoon leader, O’Neer. No one doubts that,” he said, adjusting the reins slightly as his mount shifted beneath him. “But you’d do well to start thinking in broader terms. Not every fight needs to be met head-on. Especially when you have assets at your side that you’re not used to commanding.”
He glanced down at the battlefield, eyes passing over the fallen.
“I’ve commanded armies, O’Neer. Hundreds of thousands. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s watching skilled soldiers bleed out for poor positioning. Your Rangers fight better than most. But I’d rather see them alive than remembered.”
He looked back at O’Neer, his expression hard but not unkind.
“The truth is, our forces don’t fight together well. Not yet. Rangers and Imperials, we’re still moving in parallel when we should be moving as one. That needs to change. Let today be a start. Let the Rangers who died here mean something. The more we learn to fight as one, the more lives we’ll save down the line.”
O’Neer didn’t speak. His jaw flexed, and he gave a small nod, just once. His eyes drifted again toward the wounded, then to the burned-out edge of the town where smoke still rose.
Montis didn’t wait for a reply. He gave a short tug on the reins, and his white mount turned smoothly beneath him. Without another word, the general rode back toward the convoy, armor gleaming through the grit.
O’Neer stood there a while longer. Then he turned and walked back toward the fallen, boots crunching in the dirt, hands already reaching for the nearest discarded rifle.
He knew Montis was right. That didn’t mean he liked asking for help. His mum always said he was stubborn.
The general wanted formations and schedules. That worked in the places Montis came from. Places with clean supply lines, standing armies, and spellcasters on standby. Maybe it wasn’t just preference. Maybe it was habit born from having more to work with.
He paused at that thought.
Montis had said he’d commanded hundreds of thousands. That number stuck with him. O’Neer had never even seen that many soldiers, not in one place. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to move that kind of force, to carry that much weight in your head every time you gave an order.
Out here, you were lucky to get twenty men who could shoot straight and follow orders. Out here, a man moved fast or died slow.
Still, the thought sat heavy in his gut. The Rangers were bleeding thin. Too thin.
A curse rose in his throat, bitter and hot.
See you guys next year!
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in advance!