The Gulschak Blessed, Vladimir of Burning Gears, and his men were surrounded. The two dozen soldiers gripping their spears and mechanical crossbows tightly stared at their opposition in the burning hellscape of a battle between two human empires.
In the center of the group stood the stitched giant, as tall as even Waddles and hauling a machine of war. The stitched giant, an unmoving amalgamation of human parts and beasts, some Blessed, others entirely ordinary.
On either side, the Gulschaks were flanked by the General’s dogs, the most expendable of Nov Yanosk’s Blessed. Wretch on one side and Waddles and Fingers on the other. All of them were obscured in a burning haze from the previous bombardment that hid the surroundings, stung one’s nose, and rasped the lungs with each breath. From all around them, the screams and rumbles of war echoed through, but in here, they were alone, at least for now.
A sudden shout from Vladimir sent the stitched brute to all four, the strange artillery piece aimed squarely at Wretch. The Gulschak’s eyes lit with fire as he placed a hand on the discolored metal, and the gears screamed into movement.
A stack of cylinders rattled, and one was slung forward at a blitzing pace. Wretch threw himself to the side, but the shot was quicker than even him. The cylinder embedded into the mud with a thud, barely missing him by a few feet.
“Waddles, charge them,” Wretch roared, rushing toward his enemy. That was all he had time to do before a click came from the canister, and the haze turned bright. The canister exploded, throwing burning liquid in an area large enough to cover an entire square. Despite his speed and improved physique, the flames swallowed Wretch whole.
“That one’s down,” Vladimir called through his gas mask. “Turn to the other two, spears forward.”
Waddles lumbered forward with a corpse dangling from his oversized hand. Fingers hung by his neck, whispering in his ear.
In a strike that substituted lacking finesse with inhuman strength, Waddles threw the corpse into the row of spears. It slammed against its former comrades, sending two men tumbling into the wet mud.
Waddles tried to reach for the nearest Gulschak, but jutting spears kept him at bay, a handful of crossbow bolts slamming into his chest and legs. The giant groaned, clutching his hand like a child with a splinter. Waddles and Fingers were no proper fighters. They weren’t even armed. Criminals who had betrayed their city but shown promise in the eyes of the Flame. Their role was that of fodder, Blessed fodder, but fodder nonetheless.
One Gulschak glanced behind, the burning sea of kerosene reflecting in the lenses of his mask. A figure burst through the flames, charred skin and burning fur, yet it still moved.
Wretch felt the blisters form on his skin, the scent of seared flesh filling his nose. It was painful, of course, to be burning alive with the sticky substance. But through his short life, he’d become intimate with pain.
He was on them in the span of a breath. A cry of anger from a Gulschak turned to one of fear as a burning claw slammed into the man’s chest, bursting straight through in a hail of blood and gore.
The Gulschak rank erupted in panic, a flaming beast tearing into them from one side while Waddles snatched up a distracted soldier, unscrewing his neck like a corked bottle.
Wretch swiped the head off another, the fiery liquid that covered his form boiling him alive.
Vladimir, the Gulschak Blessed, wasn’t idle. He slung something from his belt, pointing it in Wretch’s direction. A sleek metal invention with a large singular barrel connected to a handle and a trigger. It was reminiscent of a steam cannon, but handheld and lacking the tubing and furnace.
Wretch’s eyes flickered to the man. Whatever damage the next contraption could cause, he wasn’t interested in getting hit by another Blessed weapon. He tried to dodge backwards, pulling a dying form in front of him.
“Taste this then!” Vladimir exclaimed as a deafening roar exploded from his hands. The recoil of the handheld weapon made the Gulschak stumble backwards, but what was sent in Wretch’s direction was something different entirely.
He didn’t see it in time, only the flash from the barrel and a sharp ache in his chest. The world blinked, and he realized he’d fallen. In his claw, he still clutched the dead Gulschak, and flames still burned his thick skin like a candle. He tried to rise, but a fist-sized chunk of his ribcage was missing, something having bored through his Blessed skin and muscle.
A “Tssk” escaped Vladimir as he turned away toward the other flank. “One down, surround the other two.”
Waddles reached for another soldier, but his hand was impaled by a spear. Fingers launched themselves from the brute’s shoulder with a shriek and squirming skin. Human digits burst from the forearm to surround each limb like armor. A fist clad in human fingers slammed into a soldier's chin, making him fall to the ground. The Gulschaks retaliated, a crossbow bolt digging into Fingers’ abdomen in return.
Fingers clutched his stomach and fell to the wet earth.
Vladimir reloaded his handheld weapon, shouting orders as his hands moved.
“Project 7, leave the artillery. Kill these flies!”
The stitched giant, who had stood petrified until now, raised its neck, revealing a hastily stitched face of different beasts and men. A wheeze of excitement escaped its throat as the artillery piece hauled on its back fell to the ground with a tremor.
“Everyone, stay back, protect my inventions!” Vladimir exclaimed. “The projects are all unstable.” The stitched brute proved him right, trampling a soldier on its warpath toward the biggest target. Waddles.
“Take him down, Waddles!” Fingers groaned, clutching the bolt stuck in his stomach.
The two giants slammed into one another without any semblance of form, each relying only on brute strength.
“Gear-maker Vlad!” a soldier shouted.
“We’re crushing these unworthy traitors,” Vladimir exclaimed. “What is it?”
“The fast one…”
“He’s still moving.”
The Gulschaks turned away from the two brutes slugging it out to the flaming field behind them.
A figure rose in the flames. A burning monster whose eyes played with a flame just as intense as the kerosene. The hole in Wretch’s chest squirmed, and the tissue regenerated in moments, a low rumble coming from his throat.
“That was good, I need to put my back into it,” he said, swaying as bones and organs knitted themselves together. “Wholeheartedly seep myself in this feeling. How else would I reach Blaze and hurt those who killed my captain?”
Vladimir whipped a glowing rock from his coat and hurriedly pushed it into his weapon in a rapid reload.
“Shit, spears forward. I’m almost out of coals and flame.”
Wretch crouched low, the fur and veil charred away to expose wicked muscles.
“Here I come…”
Wretch pounced on all four limbs. The coal-powered gun in the Gulschak’s hand fired projectiles at incredible speed, but the Gulschak’s aim was much slower.
He burst to the left. A bang, and the ground beside him exploded.
“Father be praised,” roared the Gulschak and pushed another glowing rock into the weapon. By then, Wretch was already upon the shaking spearmen. He pulled on a form in his mind, urging the flame within him to change his physique. Bone-like blades pierced the thick skin of his forearm, utilizing his third blessing to temporarily transform into past prey. Now he looked the part, a burning beast with fiery eyes. Claws, severed hands, and weapons alike. Jaws around a neck, an acid spit from his throat melting a gas mask to the face beneath, a blade of bone gutting another.
Whatever rust had grown over his form as a prodigy of murder was burned away with the rushing of his heart.
Another shot, and Wretch dove between the Gulschaks’ own. A hole blasted straight through the flame-resistant leather of their own rank. In return, another handful of unblessed died by his hands.
By the time Vladimir reloaded for a third time, he was alone, the last of his men ripped in twain over Wretch’s head to douse whatever flames still lingered in his fur.
With a tremor of the earth, Waddles overpowered the stitched brute, the hastily conjoined muscles proving no match for the strength of a natural abomination. Waddles, bleeding from a ripped ear, closed his fingers around the creature’s throat as it gave a wheezing roar. Waddles pulled. Gore sprayed as the windpipe was forcibly removed. Before the stitched brute had died, Waddles had already begun to munch on the opposition, completely unaware of his surroundings.
“You disgusting Beast-Flames. I still carry a noble flame within,” Vladimir growled through his mask, raising his weapon toward Wretch. He dove to the side, but it proved unnecessary.
A thud came from the Gulschak’s stomach, and a spear ripped through his innards. Fingers, pale and without a veil, clutched a hand to a bleeding gut while the other jutted a fallen spear into the Blessed’s back. In shock, the man pulled the trigger, blasting a shot into nothingness. Vladimir pivoted despite his wounds, slamming his weapon into Fingers and sending the Blessed tumbling.
Wretch caught him by the neck.
“We’ll need to work on both your fighting forms. Or you’ll only be another pair of shackles to me.”
Fingers groaned where he dangled in the air, a hand still pressed to his stomach. “That’s all you have to say? I’m dying here.”
“I know a good healer. You’ll live if we finish this quickly.”
Vladimir searched for another piece of ammunition, but seemingly found none, letting his handheld weapon fall into the mud as he collapsed to his knees. A rattling cough coming from beneath his mask.
“I was impatient, didn’t experiment enough, didn’t build enough.”
Wretch stepped closer. “There is a Pyre among you called Grendel. And a demented man, The Professor. He who made the stitched one. Where are they?”
Vladimir, gushing blood, crawled up the fallen artillery piece previously fastened to the dead brute’s back. “I’ll take you all out with me. With or without enough Flame.”
He’d caught Fingers instead of killing the man outright. He needed the Gulschak alive for the questioning. Had he been wrong to do so? He rushed backwards, Fingers still clutched in a claw. Waddles was a lost cause, caught in some ecstasy as he devoured the stitched corpse of his previous opponent.
Vladimir’s eyes lit with a weak, waning flame, threads of fire flowing toward the contraption while Wretch retreated. The Gulschak poured all that remained of his Blessed power, trying to light all the ammunition at once. A roar of anger escaped from the filter of his mouthpiece.
Then it happened. Wretch felt it against his skin, the temperature dropping as if struck by a spell. A light shift of the air, a tremble of his own flame hidden deep within his chest, and a twitch through all the previously immovable forms of his slain prey that surrounded it. The old Flame, whatever it was, had seen the actions of their opposition, and now it judged.
“What’s happening?” Fingers stammered.
Wretch stopped in his tracks, wide eyes turning toward the shuddering figure lying over the artillery piece.
“The fool,” Wretch hissed. “He used the very last shred of flame given to him.”
Wretch had been warned plenty of times to never deplete his reservoir of power fully. He had tread at the edge of that rule plenty of times. The raving whispers of the flame reminded him to never forget what had given him those blessings he relied on. But for the first time, he saw someone break the only commandment given to every Blessed to ever exist.
Never snuff out your flame.