Two massive stone doors ground open, casting a cone of light into the abode of the dogs. Kattla, the officer in charge of the general’s bound Blessed, strode forward with her entourage. She was not just anyone. She was a member of the secretive hunter corps, a Blaze and a devoted member of Nov Yanosk’s military might.
A loud whistle echoed through the hall, now littered with trash and discarded canisters. One particularly eccentric dog had even written long verses on the opposite wall, using their own blood as a substitute for the lacking charcoal or ink.
“Animals, it has only been two days. Two days, I tell you,” hissed one of the unblessed officers beside Kattla.
“Do not worry,” Kattla said. “This hall will be vacant soon enough.”
One by one, the remaining dogs poured out of the many rooms to stand in a crooked line before their commander. Each member of the group adjusted their black veils. Kattla trailed her gaze over the group and her eyes narrowed. She stopped on Yuri the Broken Smile, distinct with his four arms.
“You, you’re a Fireling, correct? Have you received the letter?”
Yuri nodded, sending a ripple through the black cloth covering his face.
“Upper command has lost their mind,” Kattla hissed under her breath before shouting another demand.
“The one who’s called Wretch, where is he?”
A tiny figure cleared their throat.
“He’s still in his room. He’s…” Fingers began. “Well, I wouldn’t go near him if I were you.”
A “tsk” escaped Kattla as she stomped down the hall.
“Stay where you are or I’ll gut you where you stand. That’s an order and a promise,” she called over her shoulder as her entourage stumbled to keep up with her.
Their steps echoed between the stone walls, marked by the scuffles of the prisoners housed within. All the doors stood open except one.
“Do not fear, he’s just a boy in the body of a monster. He’s nothing,” Kattla said to the officers. With an uncourteous pull, she ripped open the door.
“Fireling, why are you not in line?” Kattla bellowed into the naked room. “You wish for me to order you to rip out your...”
The group fell silent. The room was lit with a flickering gas lamp that did not quite dare to penetrate the darkest corners. At first glance, it looked to be in order. The bed was unmoved and the desk cleaned, save for a crumbled letter and a mirror.
“It’s empty?” one officer whispered. “Has he escaped?”
“Not possible,” Kattla answered where she stood surveying the room. “The vows would not allow it, nor the stone doors.”
Beside the door frame, something moved into view far above head level. Two burning eyes and crooked fingers clawing against the stone. The sight made the officers take a step back with a gasp, but what came next made them tumble to the ground. A killing intent, raw and coarse.
“Kattla… you reek of lies.”
Of the people peeking inside the room, only the Blaze stood steadfast. Short brown hair and a frown were plastered on her lips.
“Know your place, Fireling.”
Wretch exposed his teeth and took a step forward to tower over her.
“Not for long. I’ll figure out my name sooner or later. Then we’ll be the same. Just like my captain could have been, had you not been so filled with deceit.”
Kattla did not look away from the towering beast, answering with an intent just as strong as his.
“I could order you to gut yourself right here and now.”
“Funny you’d say that. From this range, I reckon I could kill the lot of you in the time it takes for my heart to explode. Wouldn’t that be something?”
They measured each other up. But Wretch knew she would not do it. She was a woman of orders, and theirs was to fight in a war, not amongst themselves.
“You’ll be quiet, in the line, NOW,” Kattla said finally. “Pray this war never ends, because when it does, your hide is mine.”
Wretch flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth, flexing his claws open and closed as he passed by the officers. Three of them were still on the floor from the shock of his visage.
Who should be the ones to pray?
For two full days, Wretch had stayed in his room mumbling every name he could think of.
Wretch the Hateful
Wretch the Claw and Fang
Wretch the Vengeful
Wretch, Collector of Losses
It never happened. He had kindled more than enough, but his next name eluded him. Still, he was boiling as the procession of black-veiled dogs was led out of the fortress. Even through the black cloth, the light was blinding. Two burning suns were setting in the west over a battlefield that had shrunk in the days since he last partook in it. They were surrounded, he realized. Each front was a wall of smoke and noise that stretched far into the cold winter air. The fortifications of Voska’s heart were covered in a thin layer of frost. Hundreds of soldiers and workers alike hurried back and forth, but all of them took the time to cast glances at the penal Blessed.
They were divided into the same groups of three. Waddles and Fingers were sent alongside him to the western front. Their tactics had changed. There was no specific target this time. They were instead to simply report to the frontline and give the non-Blessed a chance to fall back. Then they were to hold that ground, only retreating if a blue firework was ever sent into the sky.
Kattla wished them farewell with a string of orders on how to behave during the deployment and Wretch simply did not listen.
Fine, Wretch thought. Perhaps the war would give him inspiration for his true name, or for breaking the general’s curse.
It took hours to walk through the complicated network of trenches. As they approached the front, nightfall had already arrived and the grounds grew packed with infantry. The ground here had thawed into mud and a constant string of tremors vibrated through the earth. Each soldier looked more haggard than the last. No doubt this place had not been chosen at random, but rather because it was one of the hotspots.
Here and there, craters had demolished the battlements, limbs sticking up out of the dirt, too hard to retrieve.
Ducking under a wooden beam into a cramped room dug beneath the earth, Wretch let his eyes trail over the interior. To call it a room did not do it justice. It was more akin to an animal hollow. Puddles of water covered the mud-stomped floor, wooden boards laid on top. Canisters and fuel in different degrees of unpacking were scattered across the gloomy space. Bunk beds were pressed close to a hissing boiler where one man lay shivering. Even from this distance, Wretch could smell the rot growing in his lungs. Four soldiers shot to their feet at the sight of the black-veiled trio. A whistle followed by a clasp of force came from the distance, sending a trickle of dirt falling from the beams above.
“Corporal Zolinski,” Wretch said, eyeing the famished and mud-covered infantry. “Respite has arrived.”
One of the soldiers, a woman, gave a deep sigh of relief as he continued.
“Take your man back to Voska. Your battalion is being pulled back.”
Soon the fifty or so infantry left, giving them passing prayers and gnarled hands clutching toward their black veils. Their steam cannon was long gone, having been hit by falling artillery from some Blessed machine, turning it into a morbid statue of twisted metal and desecrated remains from the men who had operated it. Their worn spears and crumbling crossbows were outmatched. This was their front now, and they would have to hold it until a blue mark appeared in the sky or death came, whichever arrived first.
He got to work. He needed time to figure out his true name, but for that he needed time. Even if he did not want to admit it, he needed Fingers and Waddles for what was to come.
“You two,” he said. “If you want to live, search around the perimeter for metal plates, scraps, whatever you can find.”
“If Nov Yanosk won’t fashion weapons and armor for us, we’ll do it ourselves.”
They got to work, searching through the crater-filled battlefield. In the meantime, Wretch plunged a claw deep into his gut, slowly pulling something from within his own body.
A bloodied brass barrel, loaded with a single coal. The weapon that once belonged to a Blessed named Vladimir.
Final Purpose.
He attached it to his belt and was struck with a flash of inspiration.
Perhaps, he thought. Wretch of Ripped Flesh?
He stood there for a moment, observing the burning flame within himself. It was strong, ready to ascend further. He already knew he had faced more than enough to justify it.
“Guess not…”
For another few minutes, he continued in a similar fashion.
Wretch the Scoundrel
Wretch, Starved Dog
Wretch the Unlikeable
He exited the hollow and glanced up into no man’s land. A good two hundred yards of crater-filled mud. It had been quiet for a while, but he doubted that would last.
Wretch the Stupid?
“No, not that one either. Just need some more inspiration...” he said with a cathartic chuckle. A series of bangs came from the west and he trailed his eyes over the fields of mud, buried corpses and barbed wire lit by the odd fire. From behind the haze of the Gulschak front, several dozen projectiles made wide arches into the night sky.
He stretched his arms wide and took a deep breath.
“And here it comes.”
He turned as the fiery lines pivoted back toward the earth and leisurely made his way back to the bunker, a bundle of barbed wire digging into his palms.
“Where the hell have you been!” Fingers called, peeking out from the defense with wide eyes. “We’re about to be blasted to the afterlife any minute.”
Wretch peeked up at the night sky and the incoming bombardment fired by some Blessed infernal machine.
“I reckon we still got about ten seconds, but you bring up a good point. Maybe Wretch the Living Grave?”
“No, not that one either.”
“Come on!” Fingers exclaimed and pulled him inside with a yank.
Waddles was standing there with a handful of metal scraps in his arms, sniffing the air.
“There’s cans in here. Waddles can take, right?”
Wretch crouched to the floor. “Waddles, do me a favor and cover your ears,” Wretch said as he did the same to his own.
Fingers had already crawled into the deepest corner, his muffled call still reaching the others. “Think of the Lion. If we die, you might get another chance.”
The brute looked around with a startled expression, Wretch giving a nod toward the ground as a series of whistles grew louder. Wretch offered the commander a thought should a shell hit just right.
A deafening chorus roared and the world shook. Dirt sprayed from above as one of the beams cracked from the impact. The tremor sent the stacks of supplies rattling and settled a continuous pitch in his ears. After the first salvo, Wretch stood up and cracked his neck, letting a pinch of fire heal the damage to his sensitive ears.
“Alright, that wasn’t so bad,” he said and grabbed the fallen wooden beam.
In one corner, Waddles was poking at his ears, scared eyes staring at the roof while in the other, Fingers clutched their own knees, rocking back and forth.
“Saint almighty, come and hold me tightly,” the tiny Blessed whispered.
“Get ready,” Wretch said as he rolled the barbed wire around the head of the wooden beam. The spikes cut into his hand as he worked.
“For what?” Fingers said with a shiver.
Wretch threw the spiked club of massive proportions to Waddles, who clumsily caught it.
“I know the Gulschaks. They rely on their weapons. Now they’ll try to secure what can be gained.”
“Fingers, you take a spear. Wrap yourself in whatever protection you can with your Blessing. Stay low if you can. We’re not allowed to retreat this time, even with a wound to the gut.”
“You can’t be serious?” Fingers groaned.
A loud whistle reverberated over the battlefield and Wretch exited the bunker. The previously frost-marked trenches were now burning and partially collapsed. From the other side of no man’s land, a long row of figures jumped the trench, rushing forward in the dark of night.
Wretch cracked his knuckles, Waddles chuckled and slapped the massive club into his palm while Fingers jumped up and down trying to catch a glimpse.
“Maybe your next name is Wretch, Protector of Friends?” Fingers said.
“I doubt it.”