Things had changed. The weeks, if not months, the three dogs had spent isolated in their trench had made them oblivious to what the rest of Voska was going through.
The lines of war were shrinking, the Gulschak encirclement encroaching one bloodied trench at a time.
Wretch walked from the outer perimeter towards the sunken bridge turned fortress. Behind him, a one-eyed soldier carried his unconscious underling. The one that remained. The other he had sacrificed. As he passed through trench after trench, battlement after battlement, he understood that he wasn’t the only one who had given up something of value.
There were no faces of innocence left. No rounded cheeks on the soldiers who stared as he passed. Only the gazes of those who had experienced the death of both friends and foes alike. They bowed their heads low at the sight of him. How could they not? A Blessed among kindling.
Voska itself had also changed. The sunken bridge from ages past had been fortified beyond recognition, holes bored through the stone as if it were infested with termites, palisades and cannons crammed along its surface and atop its peak.
Despite his wounds, Wretch’s feet were light, his breathing easy. His flesh had soaked in divinity for the third time, and he could feel it.
They questioned him only briefly at the gates. Hurried words sent up some chain of command he held no interest in knowing. He descended beneath the fortress, towards the infirmary.
The smell, however, told him that it was a miscategorization. Morgue. That was a much more apt name.
A cacophony of whimpers assaulted his senses, together with the stench of rot and infection, even as they made their way down into the dark tunnels. The hall had been widened, but the gas lamps fluttered weakly, illuminating the commotion within.
A thousand occupied beds with attendants dressed in white clothes that had been stained and washed so many times they had turned brown. The unblessed lay crammed together. The recovering shoulder to shoulder with the dying, all muttering the name of their commander, Gustavius the Lion, in the hope of resurrection. The worst of the putrid smell came from a dark doorway, and Wretch could only imagine the scene that lay beyond. The place where the dead were stored.
Wretch paid it all little heed, only giving a spare thought to how numb he had grown. He walked down another corridor with the half-blind soldier carrying Fingers in tow. Together, they entered into the hall reserved for the Blessed. That too had been widened but stood in contrast to the rest of the infirmary. A lounge with sofas and chairs. Newspapers worn at the edges, neatly placed on a coffee table. Beyond, proper rooms of wood with stacks of medical supplies beside each door.
Perhaps it was natural. The hour of the regular soldiers had passed, and now the Blessed dictated the ebb and flow of the war.
The same well-dressed man as last time pored over paperwork on a desk to the side. Wretch noted his suit was stained and there were bags under his eyes.
“Astrid. Where is she?” Wretch said without offering a proper greeting.
The man looked him over, a unnaturally tall amalgamation of beast and wolf, severed arm, burnt fur, and hastily closed wounds by the dozen. Then his gaze shifted to the one-eyed soldier and the figure over his shoulder.
“Another dog,” he muttered so low Wretch only heard it thanks to his improved ears. “Give me a minute,” he said with a frown and stood. A knock and the creak of an opening door.
An orange creature flashed from between the legs of the guard.
“Damn cat!” the guard hissed.
Whisky slid to a stop on the stone. All four legs in a wide stance. It gave the guard a hiss before turning towards the trio.
“Hey, little one, long time,” Wretch said with a tilt of his head.
The cat answered with a loud meow, darting up to his feet and clawing its way up his leg and torso to rest on his shoulder with a loud purr.
“You can enter, but not him,” the man said with a frown, gesturing to the soldier. “Only the Blessed.”
Wretch scoffed and picked up the limp Fingers, shooting the wide-eyed soldier a look before lumbering into the room. As they passed the guard, both Wretch and Whisky offered him two toothy smiles.
The door closed behind them, and there she was. His former comrade. Astrid was thinner than he remembered, and her gaze was more stern. Still, she looked at him with relief, perhaps even conviction.
“Hey Astrid,” Wretch said sheepishly. “You look to be well.”
She tilted her head and looked him over through the round spectacles. “You look terrible, as always. Have you reached Blaze yet?”
Wretch nodded. “First this one, then we talk.” He dropped the unconscious Fingers onto the bench. “Grendel kicked him in the head.”
Her hands, already reaching for the wounded, trembled for a moment. “You met that… thing.”
Wretch gritted his teeth even as Whisky licked his neck. “I couldn’t kill him. But next time, next time will be different.”
Astrid frowned but got on with her work. A needle to Fingers’ chest easing his breathing, a red locket on his forehead, and her eyes lit.
“New tools?” Wretch asked.
She nodded. “The Blessed die here, their weapons get redistributed. They don't like it, but when my flame runs too low, I help out in the main hall.”
Wretch looked at Fingers, the swelling by their temple receding and the burns healing with ultra-rapid speed.
“Must be tough.”
Astrid didn’t even blink, her expression emotionless.
“Since the last time we met, I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of people slip from my grasp. It inspires some pressing questions. Why are we here? When will I wake from this nightmare? What kind of war is happening above ground to grind these soldiers to ribbons? But perhaps that last one you can answer?”
Wretch let his claws carefully move through Whisky’s fur.
“They're closing in on us from all sides, machines, monsters, and men. We answer with much the same. One way or another, there will be an end to all of this.”
“I’d like to see it through,” Astrid said. “As long as someone needs me here. That is the price for what the city has given to me. But you, you never held a debt to begin with, not with what the city did to you.”
Wretch stayed quiet while she bandaged the temple of the unconscious Blessed.
“Done,” she called after a few moments of silence.
“What the city did to us, Astrid,” Wretch said. with a growl and a trickle of pressure. “But yes, I’ve decided to break the curse that keeps me here.”
Astrid turned to him, staring into his eyes without fear. She took a step closer and placed her slender fingers on his chest, letting her heat run through his body, healing what she could. He knew better than to refuse.
“Good,” she said. “You’ll need my help. I have a handful of things in mind. A memory wipe, a heart transplant, or a transferring Blessing are the most promising.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” Wretch held the purring cat in his arm.
“And then you’ll leave this place!” she demanded.
Wretch couldn’t lie, but he didn’t need to tell the truth. “Perhaps I’ll look for Elenya. I’d like to meet her. She’s fighting her own battles. You can't keep someone like that out of a war. Not her.”
“I’ll settle for that,” Astrid said.
In hushed whispers, the two conversed about plans in the depths beneath the stronghold. Observed only by the purring cat.
Later, Wretch lumbered through the stronghold, Fingers in tow. The twisting corridors were full of activity. A blur of uniforms and startled faces at the sight of him. His mind was somewhere else, reaching for things that scratched in the walls.
A sniffle escaped from Fingers. “I mean, Waddles was a monster, sure. I feared he would eat me at times. But he was our monster.”
Wretch pushed that to the side. “My condolences. We might join him soon enough.”
“Do you even care?” Fingers insisted as they ascended a set of stairs.
“Fingers,” Wretch began with a growl. “We are dogs of war. We fight and die for our handlers. You can blame me for his death, I sure do, but we’ll do best to focus on what’s to come for us. And she won’t let us go in without questioning.”
“She?”
Wretch stopped in front of the gates to the General’s dogs. The place where they had been held behind locked doors for weeks. Now the gates stood open. He patted his stomach. The hand-cannon rested now between his guts once more.
“Our handler, Kattla.”
Their steps echoed as they walked into the corridor still marked by carvings from the prisoners who once had called it home.
It’s quiet, Wretch thought. No moving bodies within, only the noise of a distant conversation.
In the main hall stood the three officers and Kattla herself. Even at a distance, Wretch could see that she was flustered, questioning another figure with quick, hard words. The figure was covered in so much dirt and grime that he was almost unrecognizable, if it weren’t for the layer of teeth that covered his torso and all four of his arms.
Yuri the Broken Smile, the Fireling Wretch, had beaten to an inch of his life the first night. Still alive, it seemed.
Kattla cast Fingers and Wretch a furious look as they approached. “Give those two veils before I puke.” Two dark bundles were handed to them, obscuring their features. “Now, get in line.”
They did as they were told, and Wretch weighed his options. He would try to obscure as much of his newfound power as possible.
“Who ordered you to retreat?” Kattla began with a hiss more fitting of a house cat than an officer.
“Don’t know,” Wretch said matter-of-factly.
Yuri shook his veiled head, casting a glance at Wretch. The man spoke with a tremor in his voice. “Me neither. I was stuck in that trench. The others had died weeks earlier. No supplies, no water but the puddles. How could you have waited so long to signal? Do you have any idea what I’ve had to do to survive?”
“Quiet, fool,” Kattla said, silencing him. “There was never supposed to be any signal of a retreat. This place is a storeroom now.”
“There is only us left then?” Fingers said.
“That’s already three too many. Now give me a report and make it quick,” Kattla ordered.
Yuri began. He had been subjected to an experience much like their own. Cut away from the main army and slowly whittled away. When it was Wretch’s turn, he told it from the beginning, all in detail, leaving nothing unsaid. She was tired of him after only five minutes.
“Quiet your ugly mug. You!” Kattla said, gesturing to Fingers, who jumped to attention. “You tell the rest.”
The tiny Blessed tried their best to fill in the blanks. The waves of infantry, the flying machines, and finally, Grendel, carrying the head of Sasha the Blade-Tide.
At that moment, Kattla grew pale as milk. “Damn it all. You’ll speak of this to no one.”
It grew quiet then, and she cast her eyes to Wretch. Did he catch a glimmer of something there? Something new in her gaze?
“Honored Kattla," began one of her officers. "We need to report this immediately. The Generals will want to know of—”
Kattla raised a hand, silencing her underling. Her eyes were still glued to Wretch, his dirtied form hidden under a new veil.
“Are you still a Fireling?” she asked.
There it was again. The glimmer in her eye of something other than the frozen expression of boredom, something besides that impeccable posture and unsullied uniform.
Fear.
She feared that he would have reached her heights. And he could tell no lie. There was no need to obfuscate any longer.
Might as well see what power this name holds.
“Oh, dear Kattla, why don’t you see for yourself?”
He imagined calling the vermin he felt hidden all around them. To rip those before him apart by a thousand bites, all while he stood motionless. Taking their lives without moving a single muscle.
His eyes lit, his name flooded the room, enveloping all inside but Fingers. The shadows flickered. The unblessed officers screamed, and his presence washed over the room like a wave of needles.
Wretch, Omen of Misfortune.
Kattla’s expression cracked. She stepped away. Hidden under a veil fit for a funeral, grew a bestial grin. Grendel lived, but he had ascended. It was an outcome he could accept for now.
Deep inside him, in the space reserved for his power, raged a furious flame. It cast its light on the creatures he’d slain. Twisting beasts and unfortunate humans praying before his blaze.
His new blessing was as clear to him as the scent of sweat pouring from the foreheads of those around him. Its rules and stipulations, as solid as the stone beneath his feet.
Vermin Prophet
Vermin heed your command. Those who bow to you may carry your Blessings as if their flesh were your own.