“Dogs,” General Frederic bellowed as the other guests stepped away from the individuals marked by Gustavius lions. “Kill the traitors.”
The General’s dogs were not just any Blessed. They were murderers, many marked by the Beast Flame and forced to exist in solitary confinement, their gums aching to chew and their fingers twitching to wrap around slender necks. No binding vow was needed for them hurt.
The black-veiled figures surged forward, Wretch one of the largest among them, zigzagging between the startled Blessed in their lavish dresses and suits.
The saboteurs were not idle. Their cover had been blown, but surely they had expected such a possibility. A male saboteur in uniform held out a hand, a ripple in the air forming a shield. A moment later, a black-veiled figure with an unimpressive stature emerged from the crowd, barreling toward him. From beneath the veil, a tentacle shot forward like a whip, slamming into the shield of air with a crack.
The man gritted his teeth and, with his free hand, whipped something from his breast pocket. A ball of gears no larger than a closed fist. A shadow flickered beneath the traitor’s feet, and a black-veiled Blessed launched from it with outstretched hands, appearing within the traitor’s defenses.
The traitor reacted quickly, whispering something with glowing eyes and freezing the dog in place, suspending him in the air like a floating statue.
Then came Wretch, running on all fours. The traitor whipped his head to the side, the shield around him growing thicker.
From beneath Wretch’s veil, two eyes glowed with fire as he burst forward in a strike. A hairy fist extended, squirming as it grew in size. All the momentum and Blessed power slammed against the shield, cracking it like an egg.
The man stumbled, trying to pull yet another gadget from a pocket. Wretch caught his head, and squeezed. With his monstrous form, that was enough to produce a symphony of cracks as liquid both red and translucent pressed between his claws. Before the traitor hit the floor, he was already dead, and Wretch moved on to the next.
The flame within him sang.
To the side, Wretch saw Waddles, unmissable by his stature, standing twice the size of a regular man. A traitor was striking at him with a sabre, drawing blood with each cut. A smaller black-veiled figure launched from between the giant’s legs, reaching out with a hand twisted with two dozen digits. It was the Blessed called Fingers. It was a sloppy attack, and a cut dug into the neck. Fingers clutched their throat, coughing.
But that had given Waddles more than enough time. A palm the size of a pan gripped the traitor’s arm. The Gulschak looked up with wide eyes as Waddles hoisted him into the air, leisurely ripping him apart and pulling chunks beneath the veil to chew, despite the man’s roar of terror.
In mere moments, the frothing dogs dismembered the traitors. Four lay dead or were in the process of being eaten alive, much to the furrowed brows of the other Blessed.
But Wretch sniffed the air.
There had been five. One was missing.
A tick brushed against his heightened senses, something moving toward Gustavius himself.
Wretch launched himself into the air, soaring over the study. He landed with a tremor, pinning something beneath his claws and feet. A figure appeared under him, pulled from invisibility by his touch. Wretch had only caught his legs, but a swipe from his razor-sharp claws shredded the man’s back. Still, he used his last moments to push a dark rock into another orb of gears.
Damn, Wretch thought through the singing violence. He had seen one of those before, a bomb powered by a coal, a source of power for Blessed like him.
He reached for the orb as it began to tick and spin, but it was just out of reach. The mechanical device rolled over the stone floor toward Gustavius.
The Right Hand of the Saint did not intervene but looked at the youngling beside him.
“I think that’s enough. Why don’t you settle this, Sasha.”
The youngling gripped the hilt of his oversized sword and disappeared. A gust of wind followed, and suddenly he reappeared with his back toward the orb.
The clicking mechanism shuddered, the glow within dimming. It split in two, cut cleanly.
With that, the room fell silent. Even if a few mangled corpses were still being dismembered by the black-veiled dogs.
“That’s enough,” General Frederic said sternly, his brow furrowed, hands behind his back.
With snarls toward the other Blessed, the dogs rose. Wretch caught a glimpse of not only Gustavius but the others around him. He took the opportunity to rip the coal from the dying traitor’s chest, pulling a strand of flame into himself. That was how the Blessed grew, killing one another and taking their power.
The forces of Nov Yanosk had suffered no casualties in the brutal display. All but one.
Fingers, the tiny Blessed, was perhaps the weakest among them and now lay bleeding on the floor, blood gushing between the grip around their throat.
Gustavius, still standing by the massive window overlooking the defenses, flashed a soft smile and stepped forward.
“Well, with that settled, I would like to impart a secret,” he said as he walked. “Most of you are mere Embers, barely touched by the flame, and your Blessings are easily read.”
He moved to stand over Fingers, who choked beneath his massive presence.
“But in a true battle between Blessed armies, strength is not the most important. Intelligence is what secures victory.”
A gurgle escaped from Fingers’ throat as Gustavius continued.
“If you know the Blessings of the enemy, a suitable weapon can be wielded, or one of you can be chosen as a counter. First the kindling will fight. The losing side will deploy their Embers. The other will counter, and so on, each side keeping their Blessings hidden until the time to strike.”
“Yet today, I will break such rules and impart one of my own Blessings.”
His eyes turned to Fingers, dying on the floor.
“As you die, revere me. Whisper the name of Gustavius the Lion in your mind.”
It was quiet for a few moments as Fingers drew a few last raspy breaths before going still. Whispers spread through the crowd as a glow rose from their chest.
Fingers, the Between, was dead.
Gustavius, however, seemed unperturbed, and slowly a smile spread across his lips, a flicker of fire in his eyes.
“Those who truly revere me shall rise once more. And such you should. Rise again, for I demand it.”
Slowly, the glow in Fingers’ chest receded. When it was entirely gone, a pulse of gold flushed over their body, and with a gasp for air, the Blessed sat up in shock.
A wave of whispers spread through the crowd as Gustavius turned toward the window.
“Revere me as you lie dying, and with sufficient faith, your life may be returned to you. For my subjects, I deny even death.”
Gustavius gazed out the window, the scene behind him a mixture of bloodied figures in black veils and Blessed in exquisite clothing.
The glass window was set into the side of the crumbling stone bridge that marked the center of Voska. Chimneys and towers crowned its peak, and far below, thousands of soldiers moved through trenches, setting up perimeters and digging shelters in the cold earth. Layers of defenses stretched for miles, barbed wire and shuddering boilers leaking hot steam into the frigid winter air.
Further northwest stood the edge of Voska’s defenses, wooden palisades and shivering soldiers staring into the massive trees that marked the wilds.
A noise was growing louder by the second, a choir of screaming metal over the constant groan of a thousand gears. Further still, between the leafless trees, a procession of engines approached.
The Gulschak army.
In the front, machines the size of houses rolled forward, cutting trees that fell with tremors that rattled the earth for miles. Behind them, an array of spidery machines crawled, each laying railroad track behind them to form a line into the horizon. Sleek trains, unlike the spiked ones of Nov Yanosk, stretched into the distance. Soldiers dressed in fur coats kept watch as an army of gears and bolts advanced steadily, leaving a trail of ash and burning fuel that threatened to black out the suns.
Inside one of the spidery machines, a circular window of thick glass let in what little light survived the smog.
A man stared outside with a frown. His features were delicate, highlighted by white hair and striking blue eyes. A simple fur coat, blackened with ash, draped over his shoulders.
“Grendel,” a voice called from inside the room. The tone wheezed and echoed against the metal interior. “Are you listening? The loss of spies is no small matter.”
Grendel turned his head, lips pressed thin.
The room was filled with twisted metal, controls of brass and steel marking the cockpit of the hulking vehicle.
Four figures stood in a circle over a map, marked by hundreds of copper figures reminiscent of crude toys.
Grendel lifted his head toward the speaker.
A genderless figure clad in red cloth that did little to hide its strange physiology. The face revealed barely any skin, instead covered in lenses and an intricate breathing mask that drew rattling breaths. A continuous trail of steam leaked from beneath the figure, who stood on a dozen metal legs like those of a spider.
“My apologies, Engine-Seer. You were saying?”
From deep within the machinery came a wheezing sigh.
Four hands made of warped metal moved over the map with jerky motions, shifting pieces.
“Five of the spies have fallen. I can no longer feel their gears turning.”
To the side, a hulking man leaned over the board. His skin was white as snow, his upper chest bare, revealing an impressive physique marked only by metal rivets. From his back, a tank of green luminescent liquid sloshed as he moved, fixed to his body with tubes running into the back of his skull and torso.
“It matters little,” the man said. “We have plenty more. Besides, at this stage their usefulness is diminishing.”
“Karthal, you may be a Blaze, but this is not the time to throw caution to the wind,” wheezed the Engine-Seer. “Half of their forces are still in Nov Yanosk under Maria the Impaler. We must soften Voska before the father’s weapon arrives.”
“We encircle them, move methodically, starve them, burn it all an inch at a time,” the Engine-Seer continued.
A chuckle came from the fourth figure. A middle-aged man with gray hair pulled back neatly and cold eyes behind round spectacles.
“Have you had another ludicrous epiphany, Professor?” Grendel asked with a frown.
The Professor shrugged. “I think it will be beautiful. Whoever wins this war, a new generation of Blessed will be born from the ashes.”
“Do not test my patience again,” rumbled the Engine-Seer over Karthal’s laughter. “I have given you enough patience for a lifetime, forgiven only because of what you create. We will see how effective it truly is.”
The Professor played with a ring on his finger, both hands marked by fresh calluses.
“Oh, my friend. I believe what is to come will be a blessing for all involved. I have many sons and daughters brimming with promise. One sits here in this very room, and another, I hear, wears a funeral veil.”
Grendel cast the Professor a murderous glance and was met only with a warm smile in return.