Light poured through a thick curtain into a narrow room. Six figures hunched around a table,blue overalls stained by oil, fingernails blackened by soot and their jaws marked by stubble. Next to a shuddering boiler, a clock ticked.
On the table, lay a crude drawing of a fortress, rings of walls around the heart of the battlement. One of them tapped the second ring with a finger.
“If we take out the outer wall, it will stop their charge. The fortress could hold.” A man said, eyes flickering to his comrades. “But if we let the horde take care of the outer, and we the second, the beating heart is laid bare.”
One of the men swallowed hard, a tremor to his hands. Another gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It allright Vlad. He said. “We have kept up the act for long enough, now our wait is over.”
The clock chimed. Vlad jerked upright at the sound, licking his dry lips. He forced on a smile.“I’m sorry,” he said with a shake of his head. “I just wished Victor was here to see it.”
Another placed a hand on his free shoulder.“The true shame is that more hunters didn’t fall. Captain Edmund, he’s dangerous, capable.”
The broad man chuckled dryly. “We still need them to do their part,” he said, looking up at the clock.
A third clasped his hands in prayer, eyes closed.“We’ll join Victor soon enough. Release your tether to the flesh, embrace the certainty of steel.”
The broad figure lifted a battered barrel onto the table. “It’s time.” he said and the room grew tense.
Hands moved in silence, personal luggages ripped open, revealing army uniforms. The overalls were discarded, new boots pulled on and wrinkled fabric straightened.
“And the explosives?” Another said, fastening buttons up to his neck.
The broad figure slapped the barrel on the table, with a lopsided smile. Undoing the lid he held up an intricate orb of gears and inscriptions, catching the light with a golden shine. “From the best Gearmakers the deep furnace has to offer, been waiting here for months, hidden in a cellar. But the real problem was getting us and the fuel here.”
“Fuel?” Another asked.“This was outside my door this morning.” The broad man revealed a bag, dripping with a viscous fluid. He pulled a glowing stone from within, throwing it to his comrade. “A coal, the same thing used by the machines of the Gearmakers.”
Vlad stared at it with wide eyes. “To think I, lowly kindling, would get the chance to wield such power.”
“Who smuggled these?” You’d think the church would sniff it out.” Another asked, catching a coal thrown his way. “And why are they covered in… saliva?”
The broad man shook his head.“Its not our role to know, the machine has its ways.”
The man with clasped hands breathed out and opened his eyes.
“Pray with me one last time, brothers,” he said. “Tonight we become ghosts in the Father’s machine. Nov Yanosk will burn and our meager flesh will be the spark to ignite it.”
A violent regurgitation echoed through the thin wooden walls, followed by a tap turning and running water. The men looked at each other with questioning expressions.
_______________________________________________________________________
Blood gushed from between his teeth, spiraling down the running drain. Still, he refused to let his concentration go despite vomiting blood.
To his mind’s eye the squat houndlike monster Dagdag the Acid Cut bowed before his flame. He’d examined it thoroughly. It’s tongue had a gland at its base, secreting the acidic saliva and its mouth and esophagus produced a neutralizing agent. Another burst of blood mixed with thin shreds of tissue assaulted the sink and he drew a raspy breath.
There we are.
He gave a final red-tinted spit and looked into the mirror.
Outwards, he looked much the same, but the sensation of his tongue was vastly different. It was pressed further back in his mouth and he could sense a gland under his command.
He stuck it out between his teeth. It was longer, and thinner, easily allowing him to lick his nose. He held out his hand and tried to squeeze the acid-gland at the back of his throat.
Only a few drops had yet to be made, but perhaps that was fortunate. They shot from his mouth into his palm. Burning the skin like pressing it against a stove. He rubbed his hands together, the texture was oily. It hurt of course, but that wasn’t much of a bother.
Carefully he examined the state of his palm.
The skin was webbed with white streaks and felt tight.
Another tool, he thought, pushing his hands under the running water.
A while later, the Richters walked through Sternthal’s narrow roads, stone passages without businesses, every building a function of the military garrison, armories, belching foundries and stuttering engine-halls. All packed closely together under sprawling battlements that segmented the city into squares at different heights.
The hues were bleak, reduced to gray stone, soot, and brown brick. Atop the remnants of an ancient tower, now refurbished to a stack of chimneys, a handful of banners snapped in the wind, depicting the Saint in the same mellow palate. A wagon creaked by, pulled by children in wool coats, their breaths like steam in the cold air.
Even the children work here. Wretch thought.
The freezing winds rolled from the Scar Spines above, and he pulled his coat tight.
“Where are all the people?” Wretch asked.
“This is a stronghold,” Edmund replied, one hand resting on his sword-hilt. “And the southernmost to boot, the soldiers here keep an eye on the Spines. It’s more watchtower than city.”
Astrid turned to him, squinting through her glasses.
“Is your voice a little deeper?”
Wretch shrugged his shoulders.
“I got a new tongue. It can spit an acidic substance but I had to change the mouth and throat too. It’s a side effect.”
“Saint,” Astrid answered. “Someday I won’t even recognize you anymore.”
They walked up a winding pair of stars. The rock polished by countless feet through the present to ages past.
They ascended to the top of a wall, peeking over the stones onto a breathtaking view. A valley stood between the lonely fortress and the Scar spines, clouds bellowed around the peaks, refusing to disperse under the rays of the suns. Groups of pines clung to the rocky crags and snowstorms moved as if they cared not for how the wind blew.
“A wicked land.” Wretch said. “But you can’t deny it is beautiful.”
“No,” Astrid said, not breaking her gaze with the ominous mountain range. “You really can’t.” They walked along the wall, passing crude iron bands that held the fractured stone together. All along the defences, pipes were bolted to the rock, twisting erratically along the battlements. Soldiers were evenly spaced in pairs, watching over the jagged slopes, others manned massive steam cannons, all of them dressed in the mellow green tones of the army.
Ahead, a group of figures stood beside such a cannon, a colorful bunch compared to the surroundings. The mismatched gear of the hunter’s standing out in the surroundings of iron and stone.
“Best behavior, ladies and gentlemen.” Edmund ordered and Wretch and Elenya scoffed in unison.
Dalynja waved at them as they closed in. Her appearance, surprisingly composed after the loss of a teammate, contrasted sharply with that of her colleague, the fighter, whose eyes were bloodshot and glassy.
A short man with a bald head and wild sideburns stood beside them, his hands tucked behind the intricate uniform he was wearing. Flanking him was a dozen other uniformed men and women, nodding in approval at his every move.
He turned as they approached, taking a quick step forward and extending a hand.“Captain Richter, welcome.”
“Major,” Edmund said, giving a firm handshake.
“Thank you for your work. Cut off from the rail means isolation to us, no shipments of fuel, food or necessities. You’ve earned Sternthal’s thanks.”
“Sir, it was a mission.” Edmund said simply. “We merely did our duty.”
“You did. And you fulfilled it despite a tribe of slaughter hounds, only losing an Ember.” The major put a hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “Impressive work.”
“Tell me, Captain. Have you considered leaving this hunting business behind? The army is much more suited for a man of your skill,” he continued.
Wretch peeked out behind Elenya. “Slaughter hounds?”
Edmund shot him a hard glance, but the major nodded. “The unholy offspring of war and ferocity. They live in tribes at the base of the Scar Spines, each led by a blaze. Dangerous, but nothing compared to the things that walk slopes above. Thankfully, they have their paws full with tearing each other apart.”
Blaze, just one step above myself, Wretch thought.
Astrid shot out from the other side of Elenya. “What about the mist, sir. There was a thing walking through it, Vamir, The Voice Forgotten?”
The major spread his hands, shooting a look to his subordinates who nodded like broken gears. “There are many such places beyond the walls. It's been decades since that stretch of the rail broke down. And the beasts come and go.” The major said.
“Why don’t they just break the rail?” Astrid continued, scribbling notes.
“They’re said to be enchanted,” the major answered. “But not even I know that secret.”
Edmund rubbed his temple at the curiosity of his crew, but the major seemed more than happy to show off his knowledge.
“My offer stands, Captain. To you and your crew. Pension at fifty five. Real work for the future of Nov Yanosk, Dalynja has already accepted.” The major said with a wide grin.
Something brushed against Wretch’s mind. A sound, faint but certain. He frowned, turning towards the mountains.
“Uhh… cap..”
“I will consider it.” Edmund cut him off.
“That is all I ask.” The Major said. “Now tell me, how do you find Sternthal?”
“A fortress worthy of the name, sir.” Edmund answered.
“Thirty cannons. two hundred unblessed soldiers. twenty Embers, three Firelings. And me, the only Blaze until the next stronghold over.” The major gestured broadly to the patchwork of ancient and new defences. “Add to that another two hundred troops relocated in response to the Gulschak’s activity”
“Captain…” Wretch said.
Edmund sighed. “What is it son?”
“Drums,” Wretch said.
The group looked at him with blank stares.
“What?” Edmund asked.
“I hear drums from the mountains.”
The group turned to gaze at the slopes of the Scar spines. The major’s smile vanished. “Telescope.” He commanded.
An aide pressed a brass cylinder into his hand and he lifted it, scanning the pine-covered slopes. The Major’s frown deepened.
Wretch didn’t need a telescope, his beast eyes already saw it in vivid detail. Movement in the treeline, a tide of gray, swarming to the beat of drums. A faint cacophony of inhuman laughter.
“Slaughter hounds, thousands of them,” Wretch said.
The major lowered the contraption and spoke in a grave voice. “Raise the alarm. Lieutenant, send telegram to central, Sternthal is under attack.”
He turned to the Richter’s
“I am afraid your departure will be delayed, Captains.”