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The sea was hot, the salt like acid against his wounds, burning gloriously as he trudged
through the dwindling surf to stand upon the pebbly shore once again. Demonhatch had
smacked him a good one with its fifty-foot tail, launching his body toward the ocean,
beyond where the mammoth waves showed themselves as more than a brooding swell.
And so he’d swum, ditching his heavy breastplate, his helm, his chain mail—all the
things that wished to drag him down so the foul water could fill his lungs and silence his
heart.
Except his greatsword, Slayer. No, never that.
Gunner Skale had clutched his weapon with one hand and swum with the other, his
eyes open to watch the fiery beast, no matter how much the salt stung. And now he was
back, exhausted and achy, but ready to finish the job. If he killed Demonhatch today, so
soon, Gunner would easily go down as the greatest gamer ever to enter the world of
Plague and its thousands upon thousands of bloodthirsty monsters.
Soaked, muscles scorched, his sword feeling as if it weighed half a ton, Gunner broke
into a run once he reached dry ground, sprinting as best he could to where the beast
crouched, eating the remains of something that had once been human. Clearly,
Demonhatch thought its last blow had finally killed the greatest warrior it had ever
faced—and if not, the raging sea would’ve finished the job. And so, ever arrogant, it
feasted, its back to the gray-green waters of the ocean and its battered shore.
Gunner picked up speed, holding Slayer’s hilt with both hands, his arms cocked to
thrust or swing on a moment’s notice. The pebbles turned to rocks, rocks to boulders
over which he bounded without so much as a glance down. He couldn’t afford to take his
eyes off the beast. And so he trusted his instincts, his balance, his feet, his peripheral
vision. Hell’s glory, he was Gunner Skale, for crying out loud. With a smile, he charged
forward, knowing that the biggest, baddest, deadliest monster in Plague was about to get
its head chopped off.
Demonhatch finally heard his approach and whipped around to look at Gunner with
all four of its slitted, red-tinged eyes. Then its mouth opened, a monstrous bear trap of a
thing with hundreds of blade-sharp teeth, jagged points with serrated edges, perfect for
ripping up its prey. Then came the roar, followed by the burst of fire, an avalanche of
liquid flame that poured down on Gunner.
Gunner rolled and ignited the Shield spell for which he’d had to betray his closest
comrade-in-arms to gain. It kept off most of the heat, though he knew he’d feel some
residual burn when he Lifted back to his Coffin. He landed, spun, leapt back to his feet,