-[Act 3 * Part 4]-

An elven sentry observed the ongoing battle over the Sea Dragon’s Roost from his post atop of the building. The sounds of gunfire raged across the span of several city blocks in front of him. The attackers seemed to have the upper hand as many flags had been raised along the line to signal the progress of their advance. The moorings of the enemy ships still remained out of their reach, but the sentry nodded with confidence as he wrote down his observations in a leather-bound note pad. An emblem of his crew—a white shield with a black chalice imposed over it—was sown onto his jacket, marking him as a member of the Iron Sentinels. They were an all-elf pirate crew that fancied themselves the cultured kind of pillagers.

Having taken his notes, the sentry put the notepad into his bag and was about to leave when a sharp gust of wind caught his attention. As he reached for his loaded rifle the man was greeted by a most unwelcome discovery.

A deathly sincere voice spoke to him words of warning that few would dare to dismiss. “You move, you die, pirate.”

Only now did the elf notice the tingle of a dagger’s point pressing into his lower back. The sentry froze in compliance with the demand.

“Put your hands behind your head and kneel,” the voice demanded.

“Do you know who you are messing with?” the elf asked. “The Iron Sentinels won’t tolerate any outside interference. When my fellow crewmembers find me—”

“They won’t,” the voice declared. The tip of the dagger pressed harder against his back and the elf was forced down onto his knees.

“My brothers will now relinquish all of your weapons,” the voice told the sentry. “Do not resist.”

The elf was surprised to find that two men, cloaked in black garbs, appeared next to him without so much as making a sound. They pilfered through his bag and clothes for documents and weapons, carried away his rifle and even found the little blade that he had tucked away into the sole of his boot.

Now thoroughly searched, the sentry was forced up on his feet and turned around to facing his enemy, only to find the true number of his captors to be a grand total of four. One to hold him at knife point, two to search him and the last one watching over the entire scene with an arrow notched in his bow, ready to fire at any poor sod unlucky enough to walk in on their encounter.

“Who are you?” the sentry asked.

“You don’t need to know that,” the black clad ranger said. “Now, move towards the stairs. We will be watching you closely, so no sudden moves. Our arrows fly fast.”

“Who’s your captain?” the sentry asked. “This fight is a private matter between us and—”

The dagger wielding man placed his finger to the elf’s lips. “Shush,” he said. “Your fate will be decided in but a moment. I’d advise you to cooperate without hesitation, if you wish to live. Now, follow me downstairs or suffer the consequences.”

Reluctantly, the sentry complied and moved towards the stairs. As they made their way down, he took comfort in the thought that his fellow sailors were waiting in ambush in the surrounding buildings.

Iron Sentinels were proficient fighters and tacticians. They never sent out scouts without a security detachment. He figured that the strange men in black had simply chanced upon him first, bypassing the others down below. They had, after all, appeared out of nowhere, so they must have been traveling across the rooftops. The other Sentinels might have simply missed them.

“You know,” the elf said with an air of arrogance about him, “I would be willing to look the other way if you leave now. Whatever master you serve surely does not seek an enemy in the Iron Sentinels. We’re kind off a big deal around Port Malus.”

“Is that so?” the man holding the knife to his back answered. “Who’s your captain?” he asked.

The sentry scoffed at the ignorance of his captor. “The legendary Gelwin Iron Blood, of course! What? Did you arrive in the Nine Hells yesterday?”

“No, just this morning, in fact,” the man answered. “What’s his power level?”

The sentry found the man’s question quizzical. “He’s well above fifty!” he declared. “Everyone’s heard of him!”

“Oh, so he’s a small fish…” the man answered. “How is such a weak creature in command of a pirate crew anyway?”

The sentry was taken aback by the man’s complete disregard for the power of his commander. A power level of fifty was well and above the average in Port Malus. Few creatures, in fact, could claim to be stronger than sixty. That was around the point where most legends began.

The black clad man delivered his final warning as they neared the exit. “Answer all of our questions in a timely manner and your life will be spared. Hesitate and—”

The sentry grinned as they stepped out into the street. He didn’t care for this ignorant ranger’s warnings. The elf figured that he had led these fools into a trap, but when he turned to look for his fellow sailors in the surrounding windows all he found were their lifeless corpses dangling from the ledges. Their throats neatly cut, the armored shapes slumbered quietly. Streams of blood still ran down the walls as their hearts beat their last.

“As I said,” the black clad minion reiterated, “hesitate to provide us with the answers that we seek and you will die like the rest.”

A black armor-clad ranger stepped out into the street and approached the captive. He had short black hair and a pale expression. The two-handed sword that he carried over his back sang with a low hum as he pulled it from its scabbard.

“Lie to us,” Schwartz said, “and we will kill you slowly.” He tried out a few swings with his impressive weapon. A lone drop of fresh blood broke free from the weapon’s tip mid-swing and struck the horrified sentinel in the face, leaving a red stain.

As Schwartz approached his prey, the disparity in their power only grew wider, as the proud Iron Sentinel measured barely tall enough to reach his shoulders. “Piss us off,” Schwartz continued as he wiped the blood form the elf’s face with his gloved hand, “and we will kill you and your precious captain both, in a manner so cruel that all of the Nine Hell’s will shudder at the mere description of it.”

His warning delivered, the black clad atlas of a man smiled and looked deep into the eyes of the sentry. “Let’s begin with you explaining your purpose here,” he said. “Then we can discuss the finer points, such as your battle plan and who I should kill to make your adorable little band of pirates disperse.”

The elven sentry fell to his knees before the murderous rangers and answered any and all questions that the man asked of him. Throughout their conversation his terrified sight was fixed to the sleeping corpses of his comrades. The manner in which they had been killed had left a strong impression on the elf and he was of no mind to seek a similar fate.

Having answered the last question the broken man was surprised to find that the black clad rangers simply left him out in the street as they proceeded towards the sounds of battle. Reduced to a near-mindless observer, he looked on as a band of armor-clad warriors soon followed the rangers down the road. Their shields and swords at the ready, the knightly figures formed a defensive circle around a trio of imposing warriors—a giant horned demon in the middle, a tall female knight on his right and a succubus on his left. The former two all but ignored his presence while the succubus seemed to relish at the sight of the broken man on his knees. Her expression was bright, but a wicked darkness lingered in here gaze.

The leader of the rangers bowed to the demon and delivered his report.

“Lord Doom,” he began, “I believe we should move to aid the besieged Admiral posthaste. This looks like an envelopment by two pirate crews at once.”

The hulking demon briefly turned his gaze upon the kneeling sentry and the elf felt his limbs grown numb. But his fears were levitated once the beast dismissed him for what he was—a coward who had bargained away his loyalty for his life. Whatever motivations or values these strangers held, adherence to their promises seemed to be among them and the elf was spared their wrath.

“What do they seek?” Basil asked.

“Control over the Sea Dragon’s Roost,” Schwartz replied. “They are looking to oust Razazil from his position in the 9th Hell.”

“What is the composition of their forces?” Basil asked.

“Two bands,” Schwartz answered. “Iron Sentinels,” he said and nodded at the kneeling elf, “and some filthy orc outfit going by the name of Red Hands—a little over a thousand men between them with war beasts, mages and artillery for support.

“The Admiral will not be able to hold on to the port for much longer against such overwhelming odds,” Schwartz concluded.

“Then we proceed as planned,” Basil announced. “Time is of the essence, so we will assault Razazil’s enemies head on. Slay them all.

“Scarlet will take overall command, but I want you, Schwartz, to personally see to the Admiral’s safety. This will all have been for nothing if the old Sea Dragon dies before we have had our talk.”

“I shall guard him with my life,” Schwartz promised. Having bowed his head to his master, the dark ranger vanished into a cloud of black smoke.

Basil then gestured for Scarlet to take the lead. Her shield maidens organized themselves into pairs and spread out into the adjacent streets to form a line of battle across as much of the harbor as possible. The rangers of Schwartz took their positions on the rooftops to cover the advance of the paladins.

The deafening thunder of cannon fire erupted ahead signaling the final phase of the battle—the fight for the harbor and the ships moored therein. His enemies had overcome the outer lines of Razazil’s defenses and were now closing in on their prize.