Devourer

O’Neer clicked his lighter. Sparks snapped out, but no flame. He frowned and turned the device over in his hand. The casing was rough, pitted iron, stained from years of use. He drew his knife from his belt with a short scrape and jammed the tip beneath the panel. With a twist, it popped open. Inside, a wad of brown cloth sat crumpled. He pressed his thumb to it. Bone-dry. He hissed through his teeth, flipped the panel shut with a metallic snap, and shoved the lighter back into his coat pocket. The knife followed, back into its sheath with a low click.
“Need some fire?” a voice called out.
O’Neer looked up. The Knight Enchanter stood a few paces away, arms relaxed at his sides, fingers faintly curled. O’Neer raised one hand and tapped the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, then shifted his weight from one boot to the other and turned to face him squarely.
“You’re thinking of light,” he said, rolling his neck until it popped.
“Then do you need a light, Captain?” the Enchanter asked, lifting his hand. A steady flame flickered to life at his fingertip.
O’Neer pinched the cigarette from his lips, leaned in, and held it to the flame. He drew in slowly until the tip glowed red, then stepped back, cigarette returning to his mouth as smoke trickled from his nose.
“Much obliged, partner.”
The Enchanter walked over and leaned his shoulder against the stone wall beside him, crossing his arms without a word. O’Neer didn’t glance at him. His eyes were already moving across the camp, dozens of people sitting on the ground, slumped against carts, broken crates, or each other. Some held waterskins close to their chests. A few had bandages, wrapped hastily with torn cloth. One boy sat in the open, arms around his knees, staring down at the dirt.
O’Neer rolled his shoulder and adjusted the rifle sling across his chest, pulling the strap tighter. He spat out a bit of smoke and lowered his hand to rest against the butt of his sidearm.
“The beasts of burden will help,” the Enchanter replied, nodding toward a group of pack beasts tethered near the supply crates. “We took most of their stockpile. But your men can’t carry all of it without resistance.”
“You’d have burned what didn’t fit, wouldn’t you?” a voice cut in.
O’Neer turned. Montis approached with steady steps, boots crunching softly in the dirt. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other swinging loose at his side.
“Yeah. Sounds about right,” O’Neer said, tapping the ash from his cigarette with a flick of his index finger.
Montis stopped a few feet away and swept his gaze across the camp, his expression unreadable.
“So, Captain. Are you satisfied with the Imperium’s strength?” he asked, raising one brow slightly.
“You always ask obvious questions?” O’Neer asked with a grin, lips quirking at the corners.
“Never hurts to be sure, Captain,” Montis replied evenly, eyes shifting toward the Rangers moving supplies and organizing the rescued.
“Can’t argue with that. But yeah, you lot are alright.” O’Neer took another drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing bright.
“Not used to giving praise, I see. But as for our view, your Rangers fought well. We are impressed.” Montis’s voice was calm, his stance relaxed but firm, boots planted evenly in the dirt.
“Buttering us up ain’t going to do much good, you know,” O’Neer said, flashing a crooked grin. His fox-like ears twitched, catching some faint sound in the distance. He didn’t look away.
“Flattery is not our way. We simply give credit where it is due,” Montis replied, shrugging one shoulder. His cloak shifted with the motion, dust trailing off the hem.
“Yeah, yeah, you Imperials need to lighten up,” O’Neer muttered. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and let the smoke out through his nose. “Anyway, I think we can work together. Here's the drift. We get these poor souls to Water Hole, it’s the nearest friendly city. Then we talk. We’ve got a small Ranger base there. Proper supplies. Comms. After that, we figure out what comes next.” He flicked ash to the ground beside his boot and glanced toward the edge of camp.
“If you’re serious about looking for that gate, you’ll need guides. Not many of them left. The haze out there is thick, and the creatures in it aren’t shy.”
Montis gave a short nod. “Sounds fair. When shall we depart?”
“I’ll rally the men once I finish this,” O’Neer said, raising the cigarette and taking another drag. Smoke curled upward as he watched the camp settle into uneasy silence.
Hours later, O’Neer was mounted as he calmly rode beside Montis’s carriage. The line of slaves was like a caravan. Most of them didn’t even have shoes, but there was no choice. Those creepy hive beasts from the Empire kept a respectful distance and maintained a good perimeter around the group.
O’Neer took another drag from his lit cigarette, fingers curled around it with casual tension. The end glowed briefly, then dimmed as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke that drifted upward before catching in the dry wind. His eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat, gaze fixed on nothing in particular as he turned the thoughts over in his head.
He wasn’t exactly comfortable with this whole arrangement. The Imperials spoke plainly, moved with discipline, and offered help without asking much in return. That alone made his skin itch. He didn’t fully trust them. Not yet.
As the old saying went, if a trading company wants to buy your house, there’s water under it. And these Imperials were acting far too generous for a region like this.
All this promised support. The food. The supplies. The manpower. It did not make sense. Not for the Vulpina Wastes.
The region was a graveyard of broken towns and sun-bleached settlements. Roads vanished into dust. Enclaves stood half-collapsed, patched together with rusted scrap and dry stone. There was no gold, no useful tech, no trade routes. Just long stretches of dirt, poisoned wells, and too many graves to count.
What value did this land hold?
Half the population spent their time trying to kill the other half. The rest clung to life in silence. Bandits moved as they pleased, unchecked across the region. No law held. No banner meant anything, yet one was stuck into every piece of shit by the side of every road. Only the quick, the cruel, or the lucky lasted more than a season.
So why was the Imperium here?
The World Gate, maybe. That made some sense. He had heard the stories. It linked to the Searing Hells. That much was clear. If all this aid was just the price to open a path to that place, then the deal was rotten. If they were trading bread and blankets for a shot at summoning demons, he wanted no part of it.
O’Neer took another drag, eyes fixed on the horizon. Smoke slipped from the corner of his mouth. The wind shifted and carried it away. He tapped the ash off his cigarette, his jaw tightening. Something was wrong. He could feel it deep in his bones.
But O’Neer had a nose for people. Montis was a cold bastard, sure, but a demon-summoning lunatic? That didn’t track. There was a saying in the Wastes: if you want to find the game, follow the profit.
Montis didn’t feel like a destroyer. He seemed loyal. Loyal to his Empire. Loyal to his men. And judging by the lingering musk around his carriage, loyal to his wife too. In another situation, O’Neer might have liked him. Might have even trusted him.
But not out here. Not with a World Gate looming in the irradiated wastes to the west.
Trust was a currency O’Neer wasn’t handing out today.
He took another drag from his cigarette before flicking it away. There was one more test, ironically, if Montis starts floating ideas of occupation and alignment with the Vulpina Wastes then at least they aren’t likely to destroy everything.
When they reached the town, Montis looked up from his horse. The outer wall stood high, about three or four meters, built from scavenged sheet metal, stacked stone, and timber. Rusted iron plating had been bolted over weak points. Split logs were sharpened and driven into the ground at angles, forming a crude palisade in front of the wall.
Firing slits had been carved low and narrow, just wide enough for a rifle barrel. Scrap metal sheets were angled above some slits to deflect incoming shots. Behind the wall, he could just make out catwalks built from uneven planks and supported by scavenged beams. Watchtowers stood at each corner, swaying slightly, covered in patched canvas with lookouts inside. Long Vulpus rifles rested against the railings, unmoving but ready.
The main gate was a thick slab of wagon wood reinforced with scrap metal, hung on iron hinges and locked with heavy crossbars. Chains were looped across it for extra hold. Above the gate, a rusted bell hung from a timber frame beside a torn black flag, stiff in the dry wind.
The place was silent. No shouting, no greetings. Just the wind, the groan of metal, and the steady pressure of rifles trained from the walls.
Montis watched as O’Neer rode ahead of the column, his horse’s hooves crunching dry gravel. A few of the rifle barrels shifted, following his movement with mechanical calm.
“Oi! Open the gate!” O’Neer shouted, raising a gloved hand.
For a moment, nothing. Then a worn hat edged into view above the wall, followed by a scarred face. An old grey Vulpus leaned out from a firing slit, missing one eye and half an ear. His coat was patched and sun-bleached, and his voice was still sharp.
“Captain O’Neer! I figured the wastes finally chewed you up!” the old Vulpus barked, laughing as he waved a hand. Behind him, the riflemen relaxed, barrels dipping out of sight.
“Not that easy to kill me, old man,” O’Neer called back, smirking.
“Open the gate. Rangers are home!” the old Vulpus shouted, turning to yell at the crew behind the wall. A bell rang twice, and the groaning of chains echoed as the gate began to creak open.
“Why is it every time you show up, you’re bleeding or dragging in some poor bastards who are?” the Vulpus muttered, shaking his head with a crooked grin.
“Oh shut it, One Eye. The humans brought gifts,” O’Neer said, glancing back at the column with a jerk of his chin.
One Eye leaned forward, squinting hard. His one ear twitched as he scanned the riders. “By the sands, my eyes must be worse than I thought. These are humans? I figured they were just shaved Vulpus!” He let out a harsh laugh as the gates groaned open and the stench of smoke and gun oil drifted out to meet them.
“Come on in, Water Hole welcomes you!” One Eye called, his head disappearing behind the wall.
Montis trotted his horse up beside O’Neer, eyes still scanning the defenses as the gate creaked open.
“Quite the boisterous bunch, aren’t they?” he said, voice steady.
O’Neer grinned, adjusting the strap on his saddlebag. “You won’t find more honest folk in the wastes. Tough, crude, and gritty. My kind of people.”
Montis gave a slow nod, his gaze lingering on the sharpened stakes lining the trench. “Fitting.”
“It don’t look like much from out here, but Water Hole’s held for four hundred years,” O’Neer said, nodding toward the walls. “Plenty of warlords got dropped from those firing ports.”
Montis glanced up at the barricades again. The walls were crude, but tall and layered. Every angle had coverage. Every gap was filled with steel or stone.
It didn’t surprise him. This place was a fortress. With the weapons he’d seen in the last battle and the open terrain around the walls, attacking Water Hole without enchanted siege gear wasn’t just foolish. It was suicide.
“The Imperium could take this place in a day,” Montis said, voice calm, eyes on his men as they entered the caravan.
O’Neer gave a low chuckle. “I don’t doubt it, General. But this is civvie ground. Not worth the real firepower. Fort Rolv’s the one you ought to worry about. Pre-Collapse cannons. Reinforced bunkers. We Rangers don’t fold easy.”
He grinned wide, teeth bared, daring Montis to test it.
Montis gave a small nod, expression unchanged. “Strength is expected. Her Grace has little use for weak allies.”
There is a slight pause before O’Neer slaps him on the back and says with a laugh, “Glad you Imperials get it, worry you lot would start pulling papers and pens out. Gotta keep it abit wild in the wastes.”
Montis looked at him go and silently followed. He kept his expression neutral, but he didn’t buy it. Not only that, he would bet his right hand. O’Neer didn’t exactly appreciate what he did either. But no matter; conquest is on the table. With the Vulpus as fragmented as they are, they would be easy to conquer. Now, Montis needs to find out one thing: are they stable enough to be ruled? Or do they need to be restructured, reeducated even. But Montis isn’t that worried, the empire wins either way, thorugh alliance or conquest.
Let the Vulpus think what they wish. If they are wise, they will recognise the merits of joining the Imperium. If they are too stupid to realise the threat, then something has to be said of their intellectual abilities. But to be honest, Montis feels O’Neer knew he was bluffing and this was a test. O’Neer is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.
Plus O’Neer was right; this was not a military installation. The slaver camp had fallback positions. This place was just a wall with holes to shoot out from. Difficult to attack, but it was more deterrent than any semblance of military value.
Montis let out a small sigh as he turned to his adjutant.