Diomede untied his bearskin cloak, revealing his battle-worn armor beneath. He pointed his greatsword at the towering monster and shouted, "I SAID GET OUT OF THERE! WHAT? ARE YOU TOO SCARED TO MOVE FROM JUST ONE HIT, LITTLE CUB?"
Clayton snapped out of his daze, gasping for breath. He turned to run, desperate to get out of reach, but the Gultonk's massive hand caught his right leg and flung him toward Diomede like a ragdoll. With fluid precision, Diomede rushed under the flying knight, swung his sword in a brutal arc, and sliced the beast from its left hip to its right shoulder.
The Gultonk roared in pain, swinging its fists wildly at Diomede, but the giant was sluggish compared to the swift warrior. Diomede rolled beneath the blows and sliced the back of the monster's right leg, just behind its knee. As it crashed to the ground, roaring in agony, Diomede shoved it down onto its hands.
He glanced over—Clayton lay battered by the water's edge, coughing and soaked. Diomede returned his gaze to the fallen beast, now vulnerable on all fours. He cracked his neck, circled the monster, and wiped his bloodied sword blade on its shoulder.
Then, in an unfamiliar, exotic language, Diomede asked, "Why did you attack the village?"
To Clayton's shock, the Gultonk lifted its massive head and answered in the same strange tongue, "I come from hills like the voice said."
"What voice?" Diomede pressed, blade still at the creature's throat.
The Gultonk grinned, exposing rotten brown teeth. "The voice said to kill all humans, and so we did."
A cold dread filled Diomede's heart. That explained the encounter days ago. As they exchanged words, Clayton stood in silent awe, struggling to grasp how such a brutal savage monster could speak—that this was no mindless beast; this was a creature driven by something far darker.
Clayton rose shakily, raising his broken sword toward both men. The Gultonk's gaze shifted past Diomede, and in a playful tone, it said, "That one took my eye. Let me eat it and leave the village."
Diomede looked at Clayton with disappointment.
"Step aside, stranger," Clayton called out fiercely. "I thank you for your help, but from here on, I'll serve this monster its punishment."
Diomede sighed. "You hold a broken sword and are barely standing after your last fight. Let me handle it. No reward, no praise—hell, you can have all the credit for killing the big scary monster all on your own, little cub."
Clayton's fiery gaze didn't waver. "You just spoke with it! That means it's intelligent enough to have language."
Diomede nodded slowly.
"I may not speak its tongue, but I know when something wants to settle a score," Clayton said. "If it can speak and hold a grudge, then it also chooses. It chose to attack my brothers and this village. Why?"
Diomede met his gaze. "Because it wanted to."
Rage flared inside Clayton—raw, burning hot. His heart pounded faster than when he'd frozen in fear. "It chose to kill my brothers and these people… just because?"
Diomede took a step closer to him—but before he could speak, the Gultonk lurched up and slammed Diomede into the air. He lost grip of his sword and crashed through the roof of a ruined building, buried beneath rubble.
Without hesitation, Clayton charged. The Gultonk grinned wider, blood and jagged piece of a broken sword protruding grotesquely from its face. It raised its massive right foot to crush him, but Clayton dodged, leapt onto its knee, then onto its head, driving his broken sword deep into the beast's skull.
The blow enraged the monster further. It swatted Clayton aside like a pest. Pain seared through Clayton's ribs, but rage alone kept him moving. He scrambled up and spotted Diomede's greatsword nearby.
He lunged to grab it—but the sword felt impossibly heavy, as if fused into the ground.
The Gultonk advanced, bloodied face twisted into a sinister grin, the two jagged sword fragments still stuck in its head.
Clayton yelled, gripping the broken hilt tightly, "Let me lift you so I can kill this giant piece of—"
With all his strength, he heaved the greatsword and swung it with everything he had. The blade cleaved the Gultonk in two, slicing from its left shoulder to right leg.
The two halves of the Gultonk lay motionless on the cracked earth, a grim testament to the brutal battle just fought. Clayton sank to one knee, his breaths ragged and shallow, every muscle screaming in protest. His arms trembled as he rested the greatsword's heavy handle on his shoulder, the weight a dull reminder of the fight's toll. The pain from broken ribs pulsed through his sides, numbing the world around him.
From beneath the rubble, Diomede pushed himself free, dust and debris clinging to his armor. His eyes widened at the sight of the fallen monster and the battered young knight beside it. Slowly, he crossed the clearing and took the greatsword from Clayton's weakening grasp with effortless strength.
"You foolish boy," Diomede muttered, shaking his head with a mix of awe and frustration. "You killed it before I could learn more."
Clayton met Diomede's eyes, standing as tall as he could despite the pain. "I know I can't take you on, not even in a fair fight. I know there are worse things out there. But I took an oath to protect the people of Umar, and I won't break it. You don't have to like it, but I won't falter."
Diomede stared, struck by how much the young knight had changed—from terrified boy to stubborn defender.
He cleaned his blade, sheathed it, and tied his bearskin cloak back over his shoulders.
Diomede regarded him silently, the weight of the moment pressing down on them both. The fury and desperation that had driven Clayton now gave way to a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. The young knight's eyes flickered with pain and relief, as if the fire inside him was finally dimming after a long, violent storm.
"You should sit before you fall," Diomede said gently, but before he could finish, Clayton's knees buckled and he crumpled unconscious to the ground.
Diomede stood over him, the evening air thick with silence. The village lay scarred and broken around them—buildings smoldering, streets strewn with debris, and the echoes of screams fading into the night. The horrors of the battle clung to the air like a choking fog.
As the first stars began to prick the twilight sky, a small crowd of villagers cautiously approached, their faces a mixture of awe and sorrow. They marveled at the fallen Gultonk, cleaved cleanly in two, and turned their hopeful eyes toward Diomede.
"He killed it?" one whispered.
Diomede nodded toward Clayton, his silent gesture speaking volumes. The villagers recognized the young knight—one of their own.
"All the others…" a voice cracked, "they didn't make it."
The weight of loss settled over the group like a shroud.
Diomede began to walk toward the tavern, the burden of the night heavy on his shoulders. Behind him, the villagers gently lifted Clayton's unconscious form, carrying him toward the cleric's home for healing.
Clayton's brief flicker of awareness came as they passed the ruined barracks. His eyes scanned the destruction, searching for Jonathan and Frank—but they were gone. He stared upward at the stars, questions and doubts swirling in his mind, wondering why the gods had allowed such devastation to fall upon this small village.
Back in the tavern, Diomede found new faces: a rare Nesfundur bard with red scales and decorated horns spinning tales in the corner, a young woman drinking mead with a great axe wrapped beside her, and a cloaked figure draped in green.
The bartender nervously approached and asked if all was well.
Diomede nodded and shared news of the Gultonk's attack.
The bartender sat, pouring two deep glasses of whiskey.
"Where's this from?" Diomede asked.
"An old bottle of Dyken whiskey," the barkeep replied with a grin. "It'll knock you out cold, and tomorrow your head will feel like it's got a battle band of Dykens inside."
Diomede cracked a half smile and downed the drink.
The bartender raised his voice, calling out, "Drinks on the house tonight! For those we lost. May the high ones guide their souls. And may the monsters of this world meet their end at the hands of the righteous!"
The tavern cheered—everyone except Diomede, the cloaked figure, and the woman with the great axe.
As the night wore on, the Nesfundur asked about the attack.
"All the others…" a voice cracked, "they didn't make it."
Another villager added softly, "Clayton's at the cleric now, being tended to. The poor lad gave everything."
The weight of loss settled over the group like a shroud.
The Nesfundur listened intently to the hushed conversations, his red-scaled features reflecting a mix of curiosity and inspiration. The tales of the knight who faced the Gultonk alone stirred something deep within him.
Diomede, nearly finished with the whiskey, passed the cloaked figure and whispered, "Your ear's sticking out… Boarkar."
The figure nervously adjusted their hood, then unexpectedly followed Diomede to his room and burst inside, sword drawn.
Diomede remained calm, finishing his drink. "If this is how you treat those who help you, there might be a problem with your upbringing."
The figure ripped off their hood—revealing a green skinned woman, with thick curly fire red hair and small tusks poking out from the bottom of her lips. It was a young Boarkar woman—she yelled, "Never again insult my upbringing! It's far better than anything you humans can imagine."
Diomede held up his hands in apology.
She composed herself but kept her sword drawn. "What do you want, human? Why point out that I'm Boarkar?"
"Simple," Diomede replied, "I wanted to get you in here to ask a few questions."
He laid down his weapons and introduced himself. "I am Diomede."
A pause followed, then she said with a bow, "I am Kira, daughter of War Chief Blood Tusk."
Diomede was surprised she came alone, without escort or her father.
He offered her a seat, and she accepted cautiously, hand on her sword.
When he asked why she came unprotected, Kira replied, "Because of the war my people are fighting."
Diomede asked, "War with whom?"
Kira looked down, then met his gaze with tear filled eyes. "Everyone."