The fortress rumbled, the steady beat of the approaching doom intermingling with the tremors of explosive ordnance cracking against the rock of the sunken bridge. The fight for Voska had lasted from fall deep into the winter, and now, it was coming to an end.
In the main hall, new defenses were being built. New lines formed. But this time there was nowhere to retreat.
Down below, in the infirmary, things were quiet. So many had perished that the wounded were not as numerous, or the starving soldiers simply did not have the energy to carry their comrades into the embrace of the healers. In the main infirmary hall, the stone floor was stained red with the blood of an entire generation, their lifeless bodies carried deeper into the pits below. Now, however, they were left where they lay, and the nurses worked at a slow pace, seemingly more out of habit than anything else.
In the much smaller hall reserved for the Blessed, the guards were nowhere to be seen, but in one of the rooms, a saw scratched against bone.
“I am certain I can perform the procedure, but I still need a replacement heart,” Astrid said as she worked the saw against his sternum. Her glasses were dirty, and the apron that had once been white was now fully stained in hues of rose. On a cupboard beside them, Whiskey the cat sat watching with unblinking eyes. Out of all the creatures in the fortress, this particular cat seemed to be one of the few that was still well fed.
Perhaps I sent him a few too many rats. He’s looking a bit plump, Wretch thought.
He was lying there on the examining table with a naked chest, his frame far too large for it. He cleared his throat, pushing away the discomfort of having his flesh sawed open.
“It’s alright. I have a plan. Just lay my heart bare.”
Astrid nodded, not looking away from his furred skin. Blood ran down his chest, but he regenerated each severed vessel as she worked, knotting each side to keep the wound open but free of bleeding.
“And then we leave?”
Wretch hummed a tune to numb some of the pain. “Yes. There is a way out for someone important, but I can't say any more just yet.”
“I can guess who,” Astrid replied, delivering the final cut to part his rib cage. “When the vows are broken, we’ll truly discuss this.”
Another tremor shook the fortress, dust drifting down from above. Wretch still had to act in the General’s best interest, and by recruiting Astrid, he had told himself he was doing just that.
The cut along his torso now stretched from beneath his collarbone all the way to his upper sternum, and the tiny healer nodded in approval.
“I’ll bend it open. I have an appropriate tool somewhere.”
Wretch held up a hand.
“No need.”
He latched his claws onto either side of the cut bone and pulled. His muscles strained, and bones cracked. A groan escaped him as his rib cage splayed open, revealing the organs beneath. His beating heart lay hidden beneath a thin membrane.
Astrid seemed unmoved by the violent display.
“The pericardium is exposed, but how do you reckon to deal with this?”
Another tremor shook the fortress, the lights flickering while shouts echoed down the hall. At any moment, the General could signal for the retreat, and he was bound to follow. At least for now.
Wretch grinned even as a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “Let me show you the fruit of my labor.”
From a pocket, he pulled forth his creation in all its hideous glory.
Astrid’s brow furrowed at the sight of it, and Whiskey hissed. At first glance, it looked like a pulsing ball of fur and skin. But on closer examination, it revealed itself to have four tiny claws and a head. It was a rat, breathing harshly. Its chest was enlarged to the point of rendering it completely immobile, and the skin had been pulled so thin that one could clearly see the heart beating within.
“We should be quick. I don’t know how much longer this one will last,” Wretch said.
Astrid picked up the altered rat, prodding it carefully with a gloved finger. “It’s strange to imagine how far you’ve come to force changes like this onto animals.”
Wretch chuckled, his own beating heart exposed.
Astrid got to work. First, she borrowed several sets of arteries and veins from his thigh. That was easy. Even though blood sprayed as she cut into him, he had plenty of time to regenerate such damage. His heart, on the other hand, was another matter. Even a simple cut would threaten to bleed out before he had time to heal the injury. A weakness he planned to mitigate soon enough.
Next, she soothed the rat-thing with a needle that amplified her calming power and carefully broke through the skin. She sewed the artery to artery and vein to vein, the two beating hearts lying on top of one another.
“Now comes the hard part,” she said as another tremor rattled the saw on the tray. “Are you sure you don’t need soothing?”
“I need to be sharp to regenerate the vessels,” Wretch growled in his deep, inhuman voice. “Count down from three.”
She nodded, positioning her scalpel to cut through both the empty graft and the pulsing aorta. To connect his blood flow to the graft, he would have to heal only the graft and leave the cut in his own aorta to connect him and his creation.
“Three…”
“Two…”
Wretch breathed out, holding on to the power needed to regenerate flesh and reaching out with his mind to the tissue.
Heal the graft and nothing else.
“One…”
The scalpel cut through the graft, pushing into his aorta with a sharp pain that spread through his entire chest and down his left arm.
A pulse of blood spurted several feet, splashing over the healer's glasses and apron. His eyes lit with fire. His power traveled through him, his will whispering into the tissue. It desperately wanted to heal the damaged heart, to knit him together from the life-threatening wound. He denied it completely, pushing it into the graft instead. The vessel had only been outside his body for a few minutes, but his connection to it was already waning.
“Do it, Wretchy! Do it now!” Astrid called.
Another pulse of blood escaped, and a groan slipped from his throat. The heat of his power found its way, and the graft squirmed to life like a worm. The wound healed, his own blood pumping into the graft and making it swell. The bleeding stopped, and they both breathed out.
“This is reckless,” Astrid said with a shake of her head.
“Yes, but I don’t have any other ideas.”
She wiped her glasses and moved on to do the same to the rat. Methodically, they created the valves connecting his own vascular system to the lethargic vermin, and each time he regenerated the damage. It was time-consuming and painful, but it would be worth it.
Finally, she tied a thick thread around the vessels of his own heart and pulled it tight. Immediately, a powerful ache settled in his chest. His blood pumped into the shuddering heart of the rat, a struggling wheeze escaping its tiny throat. His head spun, the organ struggling to sustain them both.
“Cut it out quickly. Pretty please.”
There was no shake in Astrid’s hand as she took hold of the scissors. In this war, he had killed hundreds, and she must have seen just as many pass. They were hardened by their own battles, and in this moment, they had to be.
The scissors cut twice, and a jolt passed through his system. A thumping lump was removed from within him, and blood rushed its way through the struggling graft into a heart that wasn't truly his.
The rat squeaked, sewn to his chest.
“Be quick. Get that out of here!” he groaned, feeling darkness creep into his vision. The graft leaked blood with each beat of the heart, spraying red from his chest and onto the bench beneath him.
“I’ve prepared, just as we discussed,” Astrid said while rummaging through a drawer with one hand, his still-beating heart in the other.
She produced a lockbox of thick metal and placed the organ within, closed the lid, and turned a key. They could do nothing but hope the blasts wouldn’t break it. There wasn’t enough time to dispose of it any other way.
“There. Break the vow. Break it now!”
Another blast shook the fortress from above, the bed rattling against the stone. The only vows he still held were to listen to the General’s commands and to act in his best interest.
Breaking that was simple.
A quiet command to a rat hiding down the corridor by the General’s office.
Find the General and kill him.
He had been watching his superior through the eyes of his spies. He had not dared to get too close, but he knew some kind of meeting was taking place between the higher-ups.
On the fortress’s upper floors, the rat burst forward, rushing over the luxurious carpet. It shot between the legs of a guard and under the door. Then some kind of spell broke his connection to the spy.
But his order had been given.
Come on.
His breathing grew harsher. Even as his lungs flared, he felt incapable of drawing in enough air.
Then a crack shook the room. The metal lockbox screeched in one corner of the room, Astrid taking cover in the other with Whiskey in her hands.
In his blurred vision, she let the cat go and dashed toward him with fiery eyes and outstretched arms. He felt a binding ease and pushed a thought into motion even as the graft sprayed blood and the rat gurgled in agony.
Time for an improvement.
He reached for a form in his mind. A hound killed long ago that had been merged from several of its kin. The same one whom he had stolen the acid gland from that now nestled in his throat. He had examined it closely and knew it possessed no fewer than four hearts.
He settled for two.
Pushing his flame into his own flesh, he began the transformation.
Arteries squirmed and shifted, flesh knitting itself together and bulging into fresh organs. Changing the heart was not a safe affair. Unlike any other muscle, it was always moving. His blood flow became irregular, and consciousness threatened to slip from his grasp.
With gritted teeth, he released his flame like a torrent, and strands of flesh reached from each side of his rib cage to heal the wound left by the saw. A claw gripped the dying rat and ripped it free with a final squeal.
A harsh breath escaped him, and he was done.
Two hearts beat in unison, one on each side of his chest.
He sat up slowly. Whiskey the cat jumped up beside him while Astrid’s hands soothed him.
“We did it,” she said.
He answered with a hoarse laugh. "The tunnel is in storage room twelve, let's be quick."
Another tremor shook the room, and Astrid wiped sweat from her brow.
“Let's move. I have some people in the main hall who can follow us. The General likely knows you broke free!”
He gave the tiny healer a long look, her blond hair stained and dark bags beneath her blue eyes. She would leave this place, but could he?
“Astrid, I’m not running away. Not now, when I’m finally free to hunt those who hurt our family.”
She looked at him, then moved. Something flashed in her grasp, something sharp aimed toward his side while he was still weak.
“I knew you’d do something like that. I've six men ready to drag you out of here with me, willing or—”
Wretch couldn’t help but sigh. She had anticipated that he would never leave. And he had anticipated that she would try to stop him.
Wrapped around her hand was his tail. The Blessed needle, the one that amplified and could be charged with her power to soothe, poked harmlessly by his side. She had planned to render him unconscious and drag him away through the tunnels he knew.
But he had been quicker.
His claws flashed.
He wrenched the needle from her grip and, in one smooth motion, pricked it into her exposed neck. She had no time to respond. Instead, she stumbled.
“Shhh,” he said, wrapping his arms around her tiny frame to break her fall. “Live a long, good life. For the both of us.”
She answered in a mumble and tried to retrieve something from her breast pocket. She barely got it free from her apron before her eyes rolled back and her breathing eased as she fell unconscious.
Whiskey the cat circled his feet with angry meows. Another rattle shook the interior, the lamp flickering above.
“It’s for her own good.”
He turned to the door.
“Fingers, it’s time!”
The door groaned open, revealing his underling. The first human who had sworn to be bound to him, vermin as they were.
The tiny Blessed was still dressed in rags, eyes shifting back and forth.
“Seriously, that whole thing was painful to listen to. Can we finally move? The fortress is falling at any minute!”
He had been surprised to find the Ember rummaging through trash, but just as Wretch had his share of fortuitous encounters, so had Fingers. They had been to the south and fought a Gulschak who used memories for fuel. Fingers had won that fight, if only marginally, and forced their opponent to extract the memories. At least that was what Fingers remembered.
“You can take her. I’ll lead you to the passage, and you’ll be free. My crows tell me reinforcements have already arrived from that side. And don't do anything stupid, I'll always know where you are from now on.”
It was strange commanding a human. Their intellect was vast, and with a livid personality, he could merely suggest to the tiny Blessed what to do. That didn't stop him from trying.
"By the Saint's mighty bosom, stop commanding me. It's freaky, like I'm attached by strings." Fingers grumbled under their breath, but they took the healer from his hands and carried her over their shoulder.
Wretch laughed harshly. "You sure you don't want me to bestow you any improvements? Some fur would suit you nicely.
"Not even a little! Just knowing you're looking through my eyes is a nightmare strong enough." Fingers answered and walked out of the room.
Wretch looked to the floor.
Whiskey sat there staring at him. Beside the cat lay the thing Astrid had reached for. A lighter and a black-and-white photograph, the one of their old hunter crew. The twins laughed, and his captain smiled at him.
Wretch gave it a long look.
The lighter he could recognize anywhere. The marred surface and the emblem of an impaled beast head. The Richter's emblem. Edmund’s lighter.
He picked them up as Whiskey jumped onto his shoulder.
The pair moved out of the healer’s quarters. The guards had already been sent away, and they had needed little convincing to leave their posts. Out in the main infirmary, they blended into the chaos. They made for the stairs with bowed heads.
That was his plan, at least.
A command echoed over the chaos.
“WRETCH!”
He froze and turned his head.
Between the beds and panicked infantry, a woman pushed her way through the masses. Several swords peeked over her shoulder.
Kattla. Wounded by the look of it. A gash where her ear should have been. “What the hell are you doing here? Someone should have sent you up to die long ago,” she snarled.
Wretch turned to Fingers and handed them the cat.
“Go. You’ll have to deal with the two guards yourself,” he whispered.
To their credit, Fingers didn’t protest, bursting into a sprint with the unconscious healer and cat clinging to their neck.
“Who was that?” Kattla asked.
Wretch shook his head.
“This isn’t a good time, dear Kattla.”
All around them, bodies moved, moans echoed, and the light above flickered, but the two Blessed, Blazes as they were, only stared at each other.
Kattla spoke first. “I’ve thought about what you said. If the General dies, you’ll no doubt be free.”
“I’m heading up top as we speak. I intend to fight and die by our enemies' hands, you know I can't lie. Don’t do anything hasty,” he said.
Kattla touched the wound on her ear and looked over the hall. It was evident to anyone. The final stand had come. “They told me to test you lot. But even if the chance is small. I can’t let another like you run free…”
She met his gaze. “Wretch, end your life right here and now. That’s an order.”
Wretch opened his eyes wide, and a soft smile spread across Kattla’s lips.
He moved his claws toward his throat, seemingly struggling.
A moment before the razor-sharp claws reached his skin—
He lunged.