If one hovered high in the sky, the battle for Voska looked like a burning piece of paper. A fiery ring slowly crept inward over ground covered in a thin layer of snow, the flames reaching toward the fortress at the center. White pigeons flew over the battlefield, surveying the carnage below. The war had been slow, hundreds of lives exchanged for a handful of yards. Only recently had the Blessed entered the fray in earnest, deployed by either side to break through or stem a bleed in the line. Firelings and Embers paved the way for those above them to strike.
And that time had come.
From the hulking machines in the northeast that marked the Gulschak backline, gas lighter than air was funneled into sealed vessels and a dozen forms rose into the sky. Oval-shaped crafts of epic proportions, propelled by spinning rotors with gondolas fastened beneath them. An unnatural mist surrounded them, moving with the machines to obscure them, if only slightly.
As if to celebrate their approach, the artillery along the front roared to life in the early morning.
Hanging by the side of one aircraft was a young man with blue eyes and stark white hair fluttering in the cold wind.
“Master Grendel!” a call came from inside the gondola, where a man in a captain’s uniform turned a wheel as one would on a ship. “The zeppelins are approaching the frontline.”
Grendel looked down over the curved front. From this height, the explosions rumbled and the infantry looked like bugs swarming across no-man’s-land. From the Gulschak side, machines of war crawled forward, answered by steam cannons and Nov Yanosk Blessed.
“Stay the course, Captain,” Grendel called with a crooked smile. “They’ll send something out to deal with your fleet, and I’ll be here to meet them.”
Across the exploding battlefield, through the plumes of steam, past the wall of stone, rose Voska, the battlement carved from a sunken bridge built in ages past. Behind a large window set in stone stood a handful of figures around a giant. The commander of Nov Yanosk’s forces looked at the zeppelins approaching and gave a nod.
“The Gulschaks have played another card. This must be the reason for the increased sabotage,” he said with an unreadable expression as a lion yawned at his feet. “The Ingenuity Flame truly is unique. Flying machines. Ludicrous.”
General Frederic of Many Oaths frowned beside him as a white-veiled agent of the church addressed the group.
“There is someone guarding them. They are protected from divination, but I can still see him. It’s Grendel, the White Death,” the woman said, eyes glowing through the fabric with the use of her blessing.
“What will be our response?” Frederic asked.
Gustavius the Lion chuckled. “A formidable opponent, no doubt. A traitor fit for punishment. What do you say, Sasha? I know even the sky isn’t safe from that cut of yours.”
He turned to the figure beside him, a young man. Sasha’s face still carried the roundness of a child’s, but the bored expression and the massive blade fastened to his back spoke of a warrior.
“A Pyre against a Pyre in the skies above,” Gustavius said. “What are contraptions and claws against Nov Yanosk’s sharpest blade?”
The group looked to the young blademaster, who gave a simple nod.
“A fitting addition to my legend.”
As the zeppelins glided overhead and cast shadows across the Nov Yanosk trenches, a loud whistle came from the east. A front of infantry charged over no-man’s-land, led by pairs in rubber suits and gas masks. One carried a hose attached to some kind of engine strapped to the other, and with a roar the weapon cast plumes of fire across the frost-covered trenches.
Along other parts of the frontline, the thunder of steam cannons answered, but this particular stretch of Nov Yanosk’s line was quiet, isolated and half-surrounded by Gulschak forces pressing inward.
The trench of the three dogs.
A figure, half wolf and half man, rose from the dugout with fiery eyes. His arms, already clawed and dragging near the ground, grew in size until they were almost too large for even his impressive frame to carry. One planted into the frozen earth with a thud while the other reached for a neat stack of fist-sized rocks waiting beside him.
The Gulschak charge roared forward, flamethrowers approaching with rows of spearmen and crossbowmen behind them. Yet the figure waited. He waited for the enemy to advance, waited for them to step into their domain.
A moment before the advance leapt into the trench, Wretch hurled the rock with all the strength of his inhuman muscles. The scattershot whistled through the cold winter air and reached the infantry in the blink of an eye. It tore through the center of the advance, shredding the first two rows. One canister carrying flaming liquid cracked and detonated, swallowing those nearby in a fiery blast.
The first line of Gulschaks jumped into the trench, two dozen men with weapons drawn.
A spear flashed upward from below, impaling the gas mask on a screaming Gulschak. Fingers spun the weapon and slammed it into another man’s skull.
A pair carrying a flamethrower had made the sprint and took aim. A jet of fire roared through the trench, illuminating Fingers’ wide eyes a heartbeat before it swallowed him.
A heavy thump came from behind the flamethrower crew and one of them turned. A barbed log smashed into another Gulschak’s head with enough force to splatter it against the trench wall.
Waddles barreled forward, swinging his crude weapon with brutal force. Pikes and bolts clanged against the plate strapped to his chest as he drove through the infantry. A spear thrust into his collarbone finally stopped his charge.
Half of the infantry still stood.
“The trench-clearer!” a muffled voice shouted.
The flamethrower crew raised the weapon toward Waddles, willing to burn friend and foe alike.
A shadow passed over them.
Fiery eyes met theirs, carrying enough killing intent to freeze them for a single breath. Bone-like scythes burst from Wretch’s forearms and his claws flexed.
The wielder of the fire spitting weapon tried to pull the trigger, but one cut severed his hand. Before the infantry could scream, another slash opened his throat. Wretch waded through the trapped soldiers like a storm of claw and bone. Muffled screams filled the trench for only a few breaths before falling silent, leaving only the heavy breathing of Wretch and Waddles.
“Lil Fingers got burned,” Waddles muttered. “Can I eat?”
“I didn’t train him to die to something like that,” Wretch said, moving toward where the little one had been incinerated.
When the charge died down, rats accustomed to the slaughter poured from cracks and tunnels. Wretch paid them no attention, and neither did they bother him.
Beneath a pile of sizzling corpses lay a clump of flesh shaped like a cocoon. On closer inspection, the surface was made of thousands of interlocking fingers fused together into a shield.
Wretch poked it twice with his tail.
The burned digits shifted and withdrew back into the Blessed’s skin. Fingers drew a deep breath and coughed as he rolled onto his stomach, stray burns marking his face and neck.
“Shit,” Fingers muttered. “I hate it here. I really do.”
“No time to grieve. That can’t be all for today, not with those things flying above.”
They looked up at the hovering vehicles drifting overhead. Steam cannons fired toward them, but even those could not reach.
Instead, something fell from the gondolas. Black dots rained over Nov Yanosk territory.
“Get down. Open mouths and cover your ears,” Wretch snapped, forcing the other two into the trench.
The impact knocked them off their feet and a deafening roar rattled the air and shrieked against their eardrums. They collapsed into the cold earth in a tangle of limbs, Wretch shielding both Blessed.
When they recovered and stumbled upright, their trench had been buried under shattered clay and debris. Rats scrambled past their feet seeking cover.
“By the Lion,” Fingers groaned. “Our base is gone.”
A whistle sounded from the far side of no-man’s-land.
“Get your weapons,” Wretch growled. “That was only to soften us up.”
The trio peered over the edge as a chorus of roars echoed across the battlefield. Figures were being driven forward out of the trenches beyond. Strange silhouettes with too many limbs, each different, each equally monstrous.
Long poles with nooses forced the creatures onward.
“The Professor’s creations,” Wretch muttered.
With another whistle, the creatures were released. Five in total. They barreled over the battlefield toward their position.
A bitter realization settled over Wretch, whatever horrific process their maker had used to create them, the Professor was improving. These were no longer conjoined vagrants dragged from the Lows.
These were something else.
Muscular bodies likely recovered from the battlefield, stitched together and partially encased in metal to shield their vitals or mount weapons onto unwilling flesh.
One of the abominations, a five-armed creature with a bucket-shaped helmet and blades bolted to each hand, broke from the pack. It crawled with impossible speed and attacked one of its own, a many-legged thing with the number 38 tattooed on its chest. Its blades tore into flesh while a distorted scream echoed from inside its helmet. It butchered its kin, then turned and crawled back toward the Gulschak lines while three others continued charging.
“They’ll be busy with that one for a while, get ready,” Wretch said, licking his snout. “We’ll tear those things apart.”
The first was a core of stitched muscle, some animal by the fur, four limbs assembled from multiple arms and legs ending in metal clubs. Another was smaller, a dozen limbs fitted with blades. The last was a hulking mass of fused men.
“I’ll weaken them, then I’ll take the four-armed one. Fingers, you take the smaller creature. Waddles, the big one is yours.”
Above them, something was happening, a white slash streaked across the sky toward the drifting zeppelins dropping bombs below. Mist burst forward from empty air to intercept it.
The three dogs had no time to look. Their battle had begun.
Wretch launched from the trench and charged. A rumbling scream escaped the creature's bucket-like helmets, along with three names carried in murderous intent.
Johan, Made of Many.
Vargahl the Resurrected.
Bucket, the Steel-Capped.
Vargahl, the many-limbed one, rushed forward on a dozen bladed legs and pounced. A violent retch rose from deep in Wretch’s throat. An acid gland stolen long ago, finally used.
A glob of corrosive spit splashed across the creature before it touched the ground. Wretch’s fist met it, sending it tumbling to the side. A scream came from beneath its helm, but Wretch had already moved. The rest was up to Fingers.
The larger one, Bucket, was already on him with an axe strapped to an uneven arm.
Wretch ducked low and kicked the side of an armored knee. Bone cracked in both bodies, but with a flare of flame Wretch regenerated the damage. He pushed forward on all fours.
That left Johan.
Steel clubs bolted to each limb. It advanced in short leaps, spraying frozen earth with every impact. Wretch slid to a halt, breathing in the tainted air to sharpen his reflexes.
Bone blades burst from his forearms. A quick and cheap transformation. one dodge, one kill, that would be enough to settle this.
Johan pounced, muscles rippling with some unknown blessing.
At the last moment Wretch pivoted.
The blow shattered frozen ground beside him as he unleashed a flurry of slashes against the creature’s core. He expected the cuts to dig deep into the organs beneath. But to his surprise, the bone of his weapons screeched against the flesh instead of sinking in.
Another crushing strike whipped toward his snout and he pulled back. Around him he heard impacts and snarls as the others fought.
No time to look. He glanced at his bone scythes instead.
They were littered with cracks.
A roar echoed from the abomination’s helmet as it stomped through the craters. The wounds he had opened were shallow, but enough to reveal what lay beneath. Bands of metal woven through muscle.
“Your creator is truly taunting me, isn’t he?” Wretch said.