Sentinel

There weren’t always dragons in The Valley.

The beasts were accustomed to remaining in their vast caves which honeycombed the surrounding Crimson Range, emerging only to mate or to hunt. As mating season lasted only a few days each year, and as there were Scargoats aplenty to be found in the mountains for food, the dragons had no real motivation to descend from the Range. Nevertheless, it wasn’t uncommon, as the occasional charred, discarded bones of a Sapper attested.

The Valley was a cul-de-sac, with only one entrance in the north, between the two largest peaks in the Range. It was about a day’s journey on foot from end to end, with the Range forming a horseshoe-like shape around it. So named because of the rust-red color of its rocks, the Crimson range was an alluring sight at sunrise and sunset, appearing safe and serene to the casual observer.

Aron, Burnless of the North, knew better. That’s why he was here.

Located in the exact center of Kescad, the Range and the Valley were the only place in the land where dragons chose to live. At least, that had been the case for four hundred years, as far back as Aron could remember. At his best estimate, there were currently some hundred-odd of the winged monsters living in the Range, monsters which Aron was tasked to destroy with his fellow Burnless.

Killing a fully-grown dragon, even the more naturally placid female, was an impossible task, one an ordinary warrior could only dream of accomplishing.

Burnless were anything but ordinary.

Aron waited patiently between two large, rust-colored rocks on the slopes of the southwestern side of the Range, several hundred yards from a cave’s entrance, absentmindedly fingering the long, blonde braid of his Sentinel. The Valley was quite a sight from the mountain peaks. Aron never tired of it, despite the hundreds of times he had been up here. Due to dragonfire as well as a lack of sunlight, the Valley was entirely barren…with one inexplicable exception, the glorious Senneca trees, which flourished on the slopes. Unique to the Valley, the slender trees with their blood-red leaves contained a valuable sap that was much prized in liquor and food seasoning across Kescad. This was the only reason that humans dared to spend any length of time here. It was said that a single barrel of Sap was worth a man’s weight in gold

Aron could barely make out the Sappers, swarming up the spurs of the mountains like Fireants, already hard at work despite the sun having just risen. Most of them left after a day’s labor, carting the Sap away through the entrance, eager to be gone from the Valley.

Aron didn’t blame them. He’d never met one of the rough-looking folk; Burnless were strictly forbidden by The Patriarch from socializing with humans, for obvious reasons. All men are more comfortable when dragon land is safely behind them.

An all-too familiar whooshing, crackling noise caught Aron’s attention. He turned to see flames swirling and coalescing into a figure of a tall man holding a blazing sword aloft, where there had previously been just rock. The flames would have immediately inflicted serious burns on a human sitting where Aron was, but he felt nothing.

The fire slowly died out, revealing a man in red armor, Aron’s friend of five hundred years; Farlok, Burnless of the West. His body changed, of course, depending on his Sentinel, but all four of the Burnless could recognize each other regardless. Aron wasn’t sure how. But then again, he wasn’t sure how the Burnless did half the things they did. The Patriarch wasn’t exactly forthcoming on those details.

Farlok pushed back the visor on his red helmet, grinning.

“No matter how hard I try, I can never seem to beat you here. You’ve got a First Arrival streak of, what, two hundred years now? Dear Patriarch.”

“two hundred and sixteen,” Aron deadpanned. “I like to watch the sun rise on the Valley.”

Farlok laughed, “Dear Aron, I’m beginning to worry about you. Two hundred and sixteen sunrises? Nobody loves nature that much. Personally, I think you like to watch the sun rise on those fair Sapper women.”

“There are Sapper women? I cannot even tell which is which from up here, and I doubt I could do it down there either.”

Farlok took his helmet off, revealing the shoulder-length black hair and delicate features of his current Sentinel. He set the helmet on the ground next to Aron’s light-blue one.

“Are Tristane and Qwan here yet?”

“No. Your Second Arrival streak remains intact.”

“Ha-ha.” Farlok strapped his sword, Hellbreaker, over his back. Like all Burnless swords, Hellbreaker was massive. The blade alone was nearly as long as its owner was tall, with an enormous power and precision that belied its size. Burnless, with their unique abilities, could easily wield these massive weapons that would have been useless to humans. For the same reason, they didn’t bother with shields.

Farlok sat down next to Aron, looking down into the Valley. He sighed.

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Aron raised an eyebrow, “To kill dragons. Their eggs are recently hatched, and the population must be purged. I thought that even you could figure that out after five hundred years.”

“Oh, flame you. You know what I mean. Every year, for years, we’ve been at this: after the eggs hatch, we come here to do some lizard population control; but what actually are we doing? Why not kill all of the dragon hatchlings? I can see no purpose which the creatures serve.”

Aron examined his helmet, “Perhaps that is because your eyes spend so much time gazing at the mirror.”

“Can I help it if my Sentinel is a self-obsessed twit?”

“Well, you chose him.”

“For his fighting prowess, not his looks.”

“There were others who were just as qualified as him, but uglier. You like to slay dragons and look good doing it.”

“Nothing wrong with that. When I’m tossing my Sentinel’s black curls while chopping off lizard’s legs from under them, you’ll be standing around with that ridiculous blonde braid.”

“I can toss the braid too,” Aron grunted.

“All right, wise one, do you see a purpose for the dragons? The two dragon pups that are allowed to live?”

Aron hesitated, “It would be better if you did not doubt The Patriarch’s wisdom. He may be listening to us right n…”

“He’s not a god,” Farlok snapped. “I don’t care what Qwan says.”

“The Patriarch created us specifically for this. If he wants to leave some dragons alive, he has his reasons, and it is not our place to question them.”

“So loyal, Aron,” Farlok snorted. “Don’t you ever feel like a pawn? That the four of us are just pieces on The Patriarch’s board? Playing a game we don’t even know exists?”

“Hundreds of years, thousands of dragons slain, and you’re just now asking questions?” Aron stood up.

“At least I’ve got the guts to ask them,” Fardok shot back, remaining seated. “There’s so much we don’t know, that He isn’t telling us. Makes me wonder…”

Aron turned to stare at him. “Wonder what?”

Fardok kept his eyes on the horizon. “If he keeps us in the dark because we would refuse to do his bidding if we knew.”

Aron shook his head, “I settled these questions for myself long ago, Farlok. I. Do not. Care. If there is a game, I do not care. If I am a pawn, I do not care. I am here to fulfill my purpose, to do what I was created to do.” He unstrapped Sunstorm from his back. “Come on, what do you say we take this first one ourselves?”

“Tristane and Qwan will…” Farlok started.

“Tristane and Qwan can eat dung,” Aron spat. “There’s nothing in our Bond that says we have to work together to kill every dragon, only that all four of us must be ‘involved.’ Vague language.”

A voice came from behind the rock to their left, “Well well, look who studied Supernatural Law.”

Farlok instinctively leapt up, his hand going for Hellbreaker’s hilt. Aron cursed, “Damn it, Tristane! How long have you been listening?”

“Long enough,” said a second voice. The thin, lanky figure of Qwan’s Sentinel appeared around the rocks, absentmindedly swinging Ashrune in his left hand. Burnless of the South, Qwan was quiet and loyal.

Tristane, of the East, was bombastic and intense. He came right behind Qwan in his bright orange armor. His Sentinel was the shortest among them, and with a crooked nose and a bald, scarred head, it was also the most brutal-looking. Rebellious to a fault, Tristane preferred to strap his sword Windbane on his waist instead of across his back, letting it rattle on the ground behind him. He claimed that the constant added weight on his Sentinel’s legs helped him with his balance and footing in a fight when the weight was gone. Having seen him in action, Aron could hardly dispute him.

Farlok swept his helmet up from the ground and joined Aron as he walked towards the two Burnless. Tristane bowed stupidly as the four of them met.

“Greetings, lovebirds. Now that you have finished admiring the sunrise and questioning the purpose of our existence, shall we get to work?”

“That was not me, that was Farlok,” said Aron. “And what he said stays between us.”

“Excuse me,” said Farlok, “I wasn’t the one admiring the sunrise.”

Qwan’s helmeted head turned to face Aron. “The Patriarch is watching and listening all the time.”

“We don’t know that,” Farlok snapped. “You only think that because he told you so, and you believe him to be a god.”

Qwan didn’t even look at him. “I believe what I believe,” he said softly. “What you said, Farlok, is very close to treasonous.” Qwan never removed his helmet in their presence, so none of them knew what his Sentinel looked like. Conversations with him were unnerving.

Unexpectedly, Tristane spoke up, “Is it treasonous to want to know why you do what you do?”

Aron looked sharply at him, "What are you saying, Tris?"

"Just that. I agree with Farlok. We know what we're doing here, of course. We've done it hundreds of times. But we don't know how we do it, and most importantly, we don't know why." Tristane looked around. "Are me and Farlok the only ones who are curious about that?"

“Good soldiers follow orders, without question.” Qwan crossed his arms. “I advise you to keep your rebellious thoughts to yourself.”

“Did I ask you for your advice, Qwan?” Farlok hissed. “Or do you think I'm such a fool that I couldn’t act without it!”

Aron put a hand on Farlok’s shoulder. “When did you get so tense? Don’t you love doing this? What happened to the man who drove Hellbreaker between a dragon’s eyes, out the back of its head, and yelled ‘in your face!’ at it?”

Farlok looked at the ground. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

From somewhere off amongst the slopes there echoed an unmistakable low-pitched shriek. The four Burnless looked in the direction of the sound, unconsciously drawing a little closer together.

“Terrible pun, by the way,” Tristane murmured.

Aron glanced around at him. “What?”

“In your face. Really? Where'd you even hear that, Lok?"

"My Sentinel said it once. He had just knocked his neighbor unconscious. Seemed appropriate."

"If you can communicate with your Sentinel so well, tell him to get a haircut," Tristane chuckled.

Aron unstrapped Sunstorm, ignoring Farlok’s glare at Tristane. “We are low on time. Come on.”

Together, they ran towards the cave entrance.

* * *

2000 miles west of the Valley…

First Phoenix materialized at the top of the hill, the circle of fire still burning around him, scorching the grass, although it got fainter by the second. Beyond the circle was darkness. It was a moonless night. Good.

Flamewalking was an enormous convenience, to say the least, but it didn’t exactly make for inconspicuous traveling, especially when arriving at night. Doubtless the guards at the Boreas outpost had seen the flames and were already coming to investigate. The Patriarch should have chosen a spot further away from the town to send First, but he was impatient, for some reason. He had told the two Phoenixes before they departed that he wanted the missions done within ten minutes. And quite unusual ones, at that.

Phoenixes never questioned The Patriarch, but they were all confused about these missions. This kind of thing hadn’t happened for hundreds of years. The missions themselves were easy, but First Phoenix was worried about the aftermath; messing with Burnless and their Sentinels couldn't end well.

Movement. Just outside the circle. First dropped to the ground instantly. His Talon gauntlets emerged from his jerkin to cover his arms, fingers ending in long, razor-sharp knives. Made from unknown metals, the Talons were a gift from the Patriarch himself to The Phoenixes. They were truly the perfect assassin’s weapon. Unbreakable yet moldable, they sometimes seemed to have a mind of their own, emerging and retracting a split second before he was about to command them.

A small, portly man stepped nervously into the circle of light, carrying a small torch. He spoke softly, “Hail Patriarch.”

First exhaled. It was the man who had lit the circle of fire into which First had Walked, under orders from The Patriarch. First stood up and walked over to him, raising one arm…

“Hail Patriarch.”

…and with eye-blurring speed, swept his hand across the man’s throat, decapitating him.

First swiftly moved the bleeding body off to the left, where there was a small group of trees, waiting for the guards to come investigate the still-smoldering fire. He didn’t like killing the man, but The Patriarch’s orders had been clear. No witnesses.

From his vantage point, he could see Boreas at the bottom of the hill, marked by the twinkling of lanterns and the dark shapes of the buildings. Here in the west, the houses were mostly made out of brick, there being an abundance of clay in this area of Kescad, and were usually multiple stories high. Lowlord Casiin’s manor, however, was easily spotted on the far side of the town, towering over the rest of the buildings. It was the only building with a wall around it.

The townsfolk apparently saw no need for a proper wall around Boreas itself. Most Lowtowns couldn’t afford one anyway. The West was a peaceful place, and roving bandits were extremely rare. Besides, all boys of Kescad were trained in the sword and spear very early on in life, so a militia could be quickly formed if needed. That was more a tradition than anything else, however. There had been no need for a militia in generations.

First spotted the three guards coming up the slope to his right. They weren’t expecting trouble, but were ready for it nonetheless. Their spears were at the ready, their shields up.

He let them pass his line of vision, then silently scurried down the slope towards Boreas. Hopefully, the guards hadn't left a man behind, since the fire was so close to the outpost.

The small, brick outpost was empty. All three guards had gone to check on the fire. Good. First hated killing any more than necessary. The Talons retracted themselves, and he walked swiftly into town, towards the Sentinel’s house. There weren't many people out at this hour, yet there were enough that First's presence wouldn't seem conspicuous. Even so, he drew his hood further down his face, hiding the telltale red eyes.

First turned left down a brick alleyway, following the directions given to him before his departure. His light cloak fluttered softly in the nighttime breeze, gently kissing his face.

Like the kiss of death, he thought grimly. That may as well be my name. His soft leather shoes barely made any sound on the bricks. All Phoenixes had naturally silent movement. It was the first thing they were taught in the brutal training that only the most aggressive and vicious boys of Kescad were eligible for.

First saw the house. It was connected with others; customary in Lowtowns. The windows were dark, as expected. The Sentinel would be asleep, having intense dreams about fighting dragons.

He walked up to the door, surreptitiously looking to his left and right. Only one person was visible. Obviously drunk, the man was slumped against a doorway some hundred feet away, muttering incoherently. First slid one Talon in between the door and the jam, silently severing the cheap lock. He pushed it open and stepped inside, closing it behind him. He leaned against the inside of the door, exhaled softly, and pulled out his Quencher. Holding the thin, ornate knife up to his lips, he whispered softly, "Vu ston Elston."

* * *

3000 miles east of the Valley...

Seventh Phoenix arrived inside the cottage of the Sentinel, crouching amid the flames in the fireplace. Lovely.

He quickly shuffled out into the main room, making sure he didn't crack his head on the wood chimney. The fire couldn't harm him, of course, but he quite liked his black, mysterious new cloak, and didn't want it singed. As the youngest Phoenix, this was his first real mission on behalf of The Patriarch, and he was determined to carry it out perfectly.

Seventh looked around him. The cottage was small and cozy, as all Sentinels lived alone. There was a chair right in front of the fireplace, with a bowl of unfinished stew sitting on a small table beside it. Tristane hadn't even let the poor man finish dinner.

It was still light outside; Seventh could barely make out the fields of the small farm from a window on the far side of the room. Being winter here in the east, they were barren. Out of curiosity, Seventh walked across the room to look out the window.

Outside of the fields and stable that marked the farm, there were no signs of civilization; typical in the East. It was the least populated of the four regions in Kescad, mostly due to the unstable terrain. Earthquakes and violent storms were common here, and it was a hardy man who could really settle down. There was only one Hightown in the East that Seventh knew of. Lowtowns, inns, and standalone cottages like this one weren't rare. They were just far in between.

Turning away from the window, Seventh saw the closed door to the bedroom on his right.

The Sentinel would be in his bedroom, of course. It would make the illusion of dreaming seem more genuine when he was Released. Seventh drew his Quencher, walked silently to the door and pushed it open. Oh, the toilet.

Abashed, Seventh closed the door and walked across the cottage to the only other interior door. He could already hear the other Phoenixes making jokes about his mistake. Just had to answer nature's call during an assassination, eh?

Gritting his teeth, Seventh reared up and kicked the door with all his might. It flew off its hinges, smashing to the floor. The noise didn't matter. The Sentinel wasn't asleep; comatose would be a more appropriate word.

A short, bald man was lying on the bed, breathing rhythmically. He was on his back, and his eyes, wide open, stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His arms were crossed on his gently heaving chest. The man looked for all the world like a corpse lying in a coffin. But for his breathing, Seventh would have thought him to be one.

Seventh glanced at the Quencher. It was glowing a faint red. First was ready. Seventh held the knife in front of his face, and spoke aloud.

"Vu ston Elston."

To burn the Burnless.

Immediately the knife glowed bright red. It was time.

Seventh walked over to the bed. The Sentinel remained motionless beneath him. Helpless. Seventh hesitated for the briefest moment, and then plunged the Quencher straight into the Sentinel's lungs.

* * *

Flames immediately shot from the Sentinel's chest, blinding First. He recoiled, but kept the Quencher in position, straining. The Sentinel began to spasm violently, but noiselessly, jerking to the left and right on the bed where First had found him, as flames and sparks continued to spray from his lungs.

First used his Talons to pin the man's arm to the bed. The wounds didn't bleed. Sentinels were invulnerable to conventional means of assassination.

Recovering from his momentary blindness, First was able to see that the Quencher was somehow drawing in the flames that had come from the Sentinel's lungs. The knife was glowing brighter and brighter, becoming infused with untold power. The Sentinel was frenzied at this point, thrashing like a dying roach, so much so that First feared that the Talons would rip right through his arm, allowing him to roll onto the floor and dislodge the knife in his chest. First brought his foot up onto the bed and used it to pin the Sentinel's other arm.

The knife was so bright now that First couldn't even look at it.

The Sentinel was still completely silent.

Flames...

Smoke...

Power...

* * *

A dragon's cave, somewhere in the Crimson Range...

Aron slid under the dragon's belly, running Sunstorm along the ribcage as he did so. He felt resistance, and then his sword pushed through.

The large, black dragon screeched in defiance and reared up on its two thick back legs, bringing the first ones down on Aron in an attempt to crush him.

He Combusted just in time, and rolled away. Looking up at the massive beast, he saw Qwan straddling its neck. Ashrune, still flaming, was thrust through the dragon's left shoulder, and Qwan was hanging on to the hilt. The dragon swung its neck back and forth attempting to snap at Qwan, but he was just out of reach. He looked down at Aron.

"Enjoying yourself?!" He shouted

"Somewhat," Aron yelled back, running up to the dragon. It saw him, and lashed its massive tail around. Aron Combusted as the tail hit him, and then again as it swept back, and kept his momentum going. Just before reaching the dragon, he spun in a circle, Sunstorm held straight out, generating as much power as possible. The dragon, confused about why her attacks were futile, stopped moving for a split second. Sunstorm, flaming like a torch, cleaved straight through her right front leg, severing it at the hip joint.

Spraying fire from its mouth in a ear-shattering roar, the dragon collapsed onto the ground, finally flinging Qwan off its back. He landed hard near the cave's entrance. Although grievously wounded, the beast was still very dangerous. It attempted to get back up onto three legs as Aron leapt onto its back, reversing his grip on Sunstorm. The dragon turned her head around, breathing fire right at Aron.

Unfazed, Aron let the fire hit him, drinking it in. He felt its power in his armor, his sword, in his very soul. He looked the dragon straight in its beautiful, emerald-green eyes. It stopped, stupefied. Despite their reputation of being clever, the dragons had yet to figure out why their fire was useless against the Burnless.

Still locking eyes with the lizard, Aron swept the burning sword across the dragon's back, severing her spine.

The dragon collapsed onto the cave floor. Unable to feel any pain below its neck, it ceased screeching, but continued to whip its head around, snapping its two-foot teeth at Aron, who remained safely out of range.

Qwan came up to him, eyeing the beast.

"Shall I deliver the deathstroke?"

"Go ahead," Aron said, turning, "I'll go see how Tris and Lok are getting along with the pups."

Dragon caves all had the same basic structure. The pups usually spent their first few weeks in a smaller, warmer cave off of the main one, until they were developed enough to get a sense of their own body temperature, so they could move in or out as needed to heat up or cool off.

Aron couldn't hear any sounds of fighting inside. Pups didn't pose any real threat, but could be a bit of a nuisance. They were small, quick, and hard to corner. In fact, they usually took longer to kill than the mother dragon, especially as the Burnless had to make sure to leave two alive. Aron stooped slightly, looking inside the small cavern.

They were all dead.

Aron recoiled in shock. Tristane and Farlok were lying motionless on the ground, their bloody swords beside them, next to six dead dragon pups. They had killed all of them. In direct defiance of the Patriarch. What had happened here? Aron knelt next to Farlok, taking off his friend's helmet.

Farlok's face was pale and clammy, his eyes cloudy. Aron couldn't find a pulse in his neck. This was madness. Burnless couldn't be killed. Certainly not by three-day old dragons!

Aron turned to call out to Qwan, only to find the man standing right behind him, a few splashes of blood on his armor.

Qwan looked at the bodies, then back up at Aron. His body language betrayed no surprise. Then, of all things, he sighed. He walked past Aron to Farlok's body and dropped to one knee. laying a hand on the corpse's armored chest.

"It was inevitable," he said quietly.

Aron was breathing hard, tears in his eyes. Farlok was dead. How? Why? He looked hard at Qwan, suddenly suspicious.

"What do you know about this?"

Qwan was silent for a while. Aron knew that the man had heard him. He waited, his arms folded, still fighting back tears.

Then, Qwan stood, faced Aron, reached up with both hands, and removed his helmet.

Aron gasped.

"We need to talk," said Qwan.