Book 3 - Chapter 119 (Patreon)

From all sides, Voska was being bombarded. Blessed and mundane powers tore at the ancient exterior, and the abandoned watchtowers upon its peak burned like torches in the light of the setting suns.

Through a glass window carved into the ancient bridge itself, a massive figure could be seen. Gustavius the Lion gazed on the desecrated fields where the bulk of his army lay buried in the frozen earth. Below him, the remnants of what remained of Nov Yanosk’s fist fought for their lives.

War machines crawled over the stone wall, the outer districts of the stronghold burnt, and a siege ram, spewing steam, was already making its way towards the main gate. But the commander's eyes were not on those beneath him, but on the thing that crawled out from the tree line to the east—plates of porcelain, wires pulling from within, and steam and smoke bellowing from every seam. The strange metal had been twisted into the form of a newborn child the size of a fortress itself. A monster of metal made in the crude image of a day-old human through equal parts genius and madness alike. Trees crumbled beneath its knees, and hands the size of houses crushed the frozen trenches as it made its way towards the battle. A cry rattled over the fields of slaughter, not a human cry, but the scream of a thousand metal gears grinding against each other in a wail that tore at the borders of the mind. The memorabilia of the study rattled, and a crack shot through the glass.

At Gustavius' feet, lions growled in the direction of the porcelain monstrosity. The study was far from empty; white-veiled figures of the church were hurriedly clipping armor of gold and blue onto the giant’s form.

Steps came from the entrance behind him, but the General did not turn his head. Instead, a smile found its way onto his lips.

The generals, five in number, were all flanked by more of the church’s followers. Unlike their commander, the generals carried deep frowns, bags under their eyes, and gritted teeth.

“Commander Gustavius,” General Frederic said, stepping in front of his colleagues. “Have you called us to order the retreat?”

A thunderous tremor rocked the room. Still, five figures wearing white strapped a golden chestplate to the commander's chest using a set of ladders. “No, I’ve sent after you to offer congratulations. For a war well fought.”

General Frederic glared at his commander, then past him, through the smoke and haze, to the metal giant steadily making its way towards the fortress. “Hardly the hour for such things, is it?”

A pair of golden greaves clicked onto the General’s shins, each the size of a person in itself. “You’ve all played your part, you and your soldiers. Even if unknowingly.”

Another of the generals scoffed, twirling a mustache between two fingers. “I took the liberty of going through the resurrections you so proudly displayed. Despite many rumoured cases, only one was ever confirmed. The one you made at the meeting in front of all of us.”

Gloves of leather and woven metal plates were pulled onto Gustavius' hands. “Of course I do not possess such a power, a one-time Blessed item. A simple ruse really.”

“To trick our enemies?” another of the generals asked.

But Frederic, of many oaths, shook his head. “No, that was meant for us, wasn’t it?”

Another tremor shook the room. Gustavius the Lion flashed a grin. “I’ll pull you into the knowing from the goodness of my heart. Do you know the ritual for a Domination Flame to ascend from Pyre to Flameheart?”

The generals looked at each other with wide eyes. “You’re only a Pyre?”

The commander ignored them. “Slay your enemy on a field of the dead whose last thoughts were of you.” He gestured out towards the burning grounds, smoke coiling into the air while a massive steel contraption laboriously crawled towards them. “This field should suffice, don’t you think?”

General Frederic furrowed his brow and placed a hand on his sword as he seemed to reach an epiphany. “You set up the invasion. Let them ravage our city and strongholds. Sabotaged our defences.”

Finally, a helmet in the likeness of a lion was placed over Gustavius' head. He stood fully clad in glimmering gold and deep blue. Two of the white-veiled figures of the church offered him an axe each with a deep bow.

“Yes,” he responded simply.

The generals' faces twisted in anger, all but Frederic’s. He spoke clearly, eyes looking past the stone floor. “My men. Those you’ve sacrificed. I’ll only ever see their faces again in the likeness of their kin. Are you telling me this war was only orchestrated for the gains of those far above?”

Gustavius gripped both axes with a chuckle. “Oh please, every war is. Now, it is time for the tide to turn in a glorious last stand. You’ll always speak of it as such.”

The white-veiled figures pulled back, and the lions bared their teeth. They grew ephemeral as they circled the giant man. Their manes grew into ghostly wisps of gold before they plunged into the giant's form.

Another tremor and another crack through the glass. The porcelain giant let out another wail of steel against steel. The white plates on its back folded, exposing batteries of cannons and machinery. Then, a flash of light zipped through the battlefield. It slammed into its head with enough force to make it stumble. It was a singular spear.

Gustavius burst into a laugh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. The hunters are here. And I have a worthy opponent to slay.”

With those words, he burst through the glass window.

Far to the east, the Gulschak backline suffered. Blessed warriors in hunters’ cloaks tore through their ranks. Two giants, one fat, the other long and slim. A wolfish man cast lightning, and a red-haired warrior ravaged through the backline. Still, the Gulschak warmachine roared in return, spewing fire onto the encircled stronghold even as their own was torn asunder. The Nov Yansok forces had shown their final cards, and the Gulschaks had answered with the metal construct of their father. All that remained for the massacre in Voska to finally end was for a victor to be crowned.

In the depths of the crumbling stronghold, the soldiers, however, were none the wiser. They only saw the cracks running up the walls and the shattering of their pillars. The gas lamps of the main hall had finally failed. And open fires now lit the interior in a flickering glow. Hasty barricades had been erected, the few Blessed that remained stationed in between the regulars manning the steam cannons in long rows of shuddering boilers and hissing steam. All watched the buckling metal gate before them.

From between the boots and rows of barbed wire darted a rat, zigzagging towards the gate. It threw itself towards the metal gate with a squeak.

“Hold the gate. Make them fight and bleed for every inch!” called a uniformed man gripping two war hammers from atop a battlement. His left eye was bandaged with a bloody cloth.

Another dozen rats darted between the men and shuddering boilers.

“Blessed Conrad!” a soldier shouted over the rumble of the metal gates being buckled. “Something's coming!”

“Of course something's coming. Have your ears stopped working?” Conrad answered with a jutted warhammer.

“Not from the gate! From behind, from the infirmary!” another answered.

Eyes turned, the dirty soldiers who had survived through skill or luck gripping their weapons tight.

The tunnel down to the infirmary was steeped in darkness. But something grew closer, and then the orange light from the open fires reflected in a thousand tiny eyes. Rats flooded from the floor to blanket the exit. All squealing in excitement.

The soldiers stood petrified at the sight.

The tap of claws against stone sounded from within the tunnel. Two fiery eyes grew from the dark, shining so strongly they almost illuminated the surroundings.

Wretch entered the hall with a sword in each claw. His furred upper body exposed in its abominable glory.

“It’s the general’s dog,” someone whispered. Another screech from the gate and the metal buckled inwards.

A thousand vermin poured out from the infirmary tunnel, forming a crescent-shaped mound of claws and teeth behind Wretch as he walked closer. Still more poured out of the tunnel in chattering calls for what was to come.

“Eyes on the bloody gate!” Conrad roared. “You devils are in luck, Nov Yanosk's newest Blaze has arrived.”

That was perhaps true, though he belonged to no one any longer. Wretch walked closer, his clawed feet tapping on the stone floor. Despite their officers' orders, many cast him wide-eyed glances. Some, no doubt, had seen the beginning of the fight down in the infirmary. And now he held two wicked swords that didn’t belong to him.

Wretch met Conrad’s gaze. The one-eyed man was haggard, his war hammers thick with coagulated blood. The officer trailed his eyes to the weapons in his hands and the blood dripping from his dark fur. He knew, Wretch realized.

A shudder wracked through the fortress, chunks of stone falling from the roof above.

“Conrad. I’ve come to collect my favor…”

The man stared at him intensely. The low light of the fires flickered across his dirtied face. Wretch spoke in his deep, inhuman voice. “Open the gates, Conrad. Let me face them.”

The man turned back to the defences, pressing his lips together. Finally, he seemed to settle on a course of action.

“Rev those cannons. Crossbows at the ready. Then… open those doors and show them that we still live.”

Shuddering boilers hissed steam in the room, hands quickly moved, and weapons were raised. None objected; they knew this was a final stand. A chain loosened. With a crack, the two metal gates slammed open with a deafening crash. The steam cannons answered, hot mist discharging in clouds, and a hail of bolts followed. It demolished the opening, ripping stone from the archway and filling it with a blurry haze.

On the other side, Gulschak’s orders grew over the noise. It didn’t matter. With a command, the swarm screeched into motion. Furred bodies ran, so numerous they formed a wave. Wretch stretched his arms wide and took a deep breath. All his struggles had finally led to this. Set free and with enemies aplenty. His flame, having been brought low by the battle with Kattla, had already grown strong. It roared within him, urging him to bestow blessed misfortune. He was a beast, a monster, a weapon. And such a creature only had one use.

Finally.

The tide of fur passed by Wretch and rolled between the soldiers, leaving them unharmed. The gray tide crashed through the gate.

Conrad turned to where Wretch had stood. “Kattla, did you really—”

He was gone. Swept away by the tide, never to return.