Book 3 - Chapter 130 (Patreon)

Author's note: Whoops, I released this a day early by mistake. Oh well, enjoy! Next chapter on Sunday per usual.Sternthal was a fortress at the base of the Scar Spines, a mountain range of jagged peaks and twisting snowfields. The fortress itself was a patchwork of fortifications from different empires, metal clamps and rivets holding together ancient stone. Church towers defaced by wild monsters, then refurbished for worship of a different lord.

Now the Gulschaks ruled this place. The once sleek outpost had been turned into a protected logistics hub, capable of keeping the engine of the war machine running. That machine of war, however, was failing. Trains darted on tracks up the mountain without pause, delivering thousands of survivors back to their homes.

The Gulschaks might have lost this battle, but they returned with a grudge rekindled and inspiration for new ways to kill kin. The suns were setting, painting the Scar Spines in fiery hues above. In Sternthal, deep beneath the cloud of smog from the furnaces and machines, in an alleyway deep within the fortress, a scuffle was taking place.

A man pushed another up against the wall.

“Well, private. The coin from the bar needs to be shared. We are countrymen, are we not?” said the aggressor, clutching the other by his uniform collar with one hand, while he jutted a dirk toward the groin. “Or would you rather lose the jewels too?”

The victim blinked, cheeks flushed by alcohol. A bandage wrapped around his temple, obscuring one of his eyes. One leg was gone, a crutch under the arm holding him upright.

“Hey!” mumbled the wounded man. “You’d steal honest winnings from a veteran?”

The youngling kneed the man in the groin. The older man slid to the floor. The dirk now faced his face.

“We’re all veterans, idiot. And I ain’t returning home empty-handed. Now! You so smartly boasted of looted goods. Where?”

The older man, leaning on his crutch, groaned. “Now I get it. You’re one of the gulag boys. What crime did you do? Stealing? You have the face of a thief!”

A slap across the wounded man's face sent a rat scurrying from a stack of barrels. It passed out onto the stone, making for the next dark corner. It froze, turning its head slowly to gaze at the men with beady eyes.

The youngling grinned. “Murder, you old fool. Two years in that freezing hell by the surface. I’d have done sixteen more if it wasn’t for this lovely war.”

A chuckle from the wounded veteran. “How unfair. Here I lived with faith and virtue, but scum like you return unharmed. The Father will...”

The youngling angled the blade against the skin of the neck covered in stubble. “Last chance, or I cut you open and settle for what you won tonight. I don’t mind.”

“You don’t have the balls,” the wounded man said. “If I join the Father now, it matters little to me, kid.”

The youngling’s smile grew wider, and he shrugged his shoulders.

A swift move of his hand and the blade cut through an exposed throat. The drunken man gurgled, falling face-first onto the stone road. The youngling kicked the dying man onto his back, searching through his pockets with nimble fingers even as blood flowed from the neck.

A pouch that rattled and a pair of keys slipped into the youngling's black uniform.

“Well then, good night, corporal. I’ll make sure to spend your coin well. It just so happens my train leaves in an hour, so I won’t be attending any funeral.”

A glance behind him. The alley was dark, only a scarce light coming from either end. The sound of their conversation was hidden by the low and constant rumbling of the machines.

With some effort, the youngling opened one of the barrels stacked to the side and deposited the man inside, pushing the lid down over him with a click.

The youngling turned with a smile, wiping sweat from his brow. “Later, old man. I almost...”

Behind the man, a rat sat squarely in the low light, staring with its beady eyes straight at the man.

“What the hell are you looking at?” the youngling growled and launched a half-hearted kick. The rat scurried away into the dark.

“Tssk,” the youngling said and made for the exit with quick steps, wiping his hands on the black uniform.

A flutter from above, scarcely masked by the rumbling of the Gulschak war machine.

Something blurred before the youngling, a shape far larger than a man falling from above. It slammed into the stone with a crack, sending a tremor through the earth.

The youngling fell to the ground with a yelp, the stolen purse chiming in his pocket.

A creature rose before him. Black feathers and pale skin. A mix of anatomy so twisted and strange it could never be mistaken for human. Yet it spoke.

“Stay.”

The voice was low and thick, reverberating through the air. The youngling, halfway ready to dash to the other end of the alleyway, froze, a gasp still in his throat.

Wretch walked closer. Wings folded around him like a cloak. He leaned over the Gulschak, the man shivering in his presence. How could he not, for this man was vermin and he was their prophet.

A clawed hand carefully pushed the man on his back, another closed his eyes with a brush of his palm. “I speak, you answer.”

The shivering youngling nodded.

“Name?” Wretch said.

“Kiprian Kolotov. I am a good man. I promise!” stammered the youngling.

“Shhh,” Wretch said. “Family?”

“Only my demented gran Baba. I owe money to a gang in the Freezer. But I can loan more, and I have connections.”

“Address?” Wretch’s claws carefully pulled belongings from the young man's pockets.

“Coal Circle Seven, apartment 1638 B.”

“Dreams?”

“Dreams?” echoed the man in surprise and fear.

“Yes,” Wretch growled, sniffing the man with his long snout.

Kiprian pushed out an answer. “Money, power, women, and never getting locked in the slammer again.”

“A simple man. Now, let me see your face clearly. Try to relax.”

Wretch moved the hand obscuring Kiprian’s eyes. The youngling stared at him, chest heaving. Wretch extended his wings to curve around both of them, and then his eyes lit.

Kiprian took the opportunity to beg. “I know you, the one who controls the rats. I can...”

Once again the youngling fell silent. Not because of the wolfish face that stared down at him, but because of how it was changing. All of Wretch was squirming, every inch but his burning eyes. The long teeth fell from the maw to chime against the stone. The snout twisted as cartilage remolded. The wings fell to the ground with a thud.

In just a few breaths of time, a face not too unlike Kiprian’s stared back at him, features stolen from many slain prey.

The youngling screamed and attacked with the dirk in his hand. A hand covered his mouth, and the dirk slipped harmlessly from Wretch’s pale and unnatural skin. He looked human, but this new body was far from ordinary. Porcelain skin, two hearts, and strong bones.

From the alleyway, a series of cracks followed. A minute later, a young man exited the darkness, dressed in a dark Gulschak uniform with two swords in his belt.

Wretch glanced up and down the street, an empty part of this new Sternthal. A black crow landed on a roof, cawing down to him.

“Yes, I’ll miss the wings. But they are only a moment away. Also, please act natural.”

Wretch took to the left, not for the old train station but toward the outer wall. He walked unsteadily on human feet, swaying until he found his balance. How accustomed he had become to wearing tail and claw. A few hurried soldiers passed him by, only offering a nod.

He passed through a demolished gate, walking on a street marked by old burns.

He had been here before.

He let his fingertips drag against the wall as he approached a battlement now teeming with machines and defenses. How easily one could infiltrate through the air when smog clung like a cloud.

He stopped suddenly, fingernails scratching against a loose rock in the ancient battlement. He struggled to make the weak nails find a grip around the coarse surface. Finally, he managed to pry the stone free from its place in the mortar.

A tiny space nestled within. Twice had the fortress changed hands since Wretch had discarded these belongings. He’d promised to return, and so he had, wearing a skin that wasn’t his.

A worn leather book, a tiny pouch of coins, and a damaged coat.

He grabbed the coat and sniffed at the shriveled leather. A strange sensation to have a human nose, more alien than he had anticipated, yet it still smelled of home. Nov Yanosk. The tailor who had shown him so much kindness had put her love into this piece of clothing.

He left it there on the ground along with the coin pouch. The book under his arm, he turned back and made for the heart of the stronghold.

He passed by windows, most shattered. He glanced at one. The reflection was unsettling, an inhuman beast walking on all fours. It grinned at him, and he gave a courteous smile back.

He walked toward the plumes of smoke, zigzagging through alleys as rats darted through the dark to join his army of spies.

A backpack he salvaged from a pile of refuse, cramming his weapons inside along with a most excited bird.

At the entrance to the train station, guards stood. A metal fence hastily bolted to the remnants of a gate. A dozen men and women stood guard. At least two were Blessed, judging by the ribbons on their uniforms and huffing machines beside them. One carried a ticking spidery device while the other checked paperwork.

A divination machine?

Wretch had prepared for such things. He carried a locket stolen from Kattla,

Forgotten Reflection.

With a charge of flame, hides the wielder from divination and makes others see themselves in your likeness. Turns your reflection into something hideous for all to see.

He hadn’t put it to use willingly, though he was sure forces in Nov Yanosk were more than keen to spy on his whereabouts. Wretch simply stayed away from any windows and handed over a paper ticket and a pass with a face similar to his.

The guard barely looked at him before waving him through. Past the ticking machine. Eyes on the ground, then down the dark corridors to a train station he knew well.

The remnants of a gate still marked the entrance, the surface marred by claws. Beyond was the station of Sternthal. He’d fought here, held at bay a siege with a family he now vowed to avenge. The space had been widened. The singular track expanded to four, each containing a sleek train. The space was packed with officers, soldiers, and workers pushing forward to board the train toward a home Wretch didn’t know.

He looked to the left. A set of stairs stood there. Up to a tiny room that was now abandoned. He could see him there. His captain, Edmund Richter. A content smile creased the sides of his eyes with a hint of worry, leaning on the railing with a pipe between his lips. Their gazes met, and Wretch smiled back as best he could in human skin.

A man passed through his sight. And the first person to ever show him kindness was gone.

He retrieved from his pocket a lighter given to him by Astrid. An emblem with an impaled beast-head marked the worn surface. Edmund’s lighter, one of the few treasures he now carried.

A minute later, Wretch handed a ticket to a conductor. The woman only paused briefly at his stare. With a short string of words, she instructed him to his seat.

The train's interior was cold and sleek. Steel and glass, free from any cloth. Rows and rows of uncushioned seats.

Wretch sat down, other haggard soldiers joining him. A few minutes later, the train rumbled into motion, darting from the station to the mountains above.

Only when the man beside him snored did Wretch glance at the book in his lap. He let his pale human hands brush over the marred leather, then he opened it to flip through the pages. His father's only gift was now returned to him, and within lurked the man he sought.

Inked monsters flipped by before him. An aven atop a black tower, a moving mountain of dead sea behmoths, and finally, a recognizable figure.

Grendel The White Death.

A Pyre. One whole step above him.

But he would not get another chance to enter the Gulschak’s city where his enemy recuperated, so here he was.

The white-haired youngling stared back from the page at him, and Wretch carefully closed the book.

Around his wrist hung the locket from Kattla. With a click, he opened it. A tiny mirror opposite to a wrinkled photograph. The Richters in their home, smiling wide at a life well lived. He was there too, or the man he had once been. A child midway through a transformation he had now gone beyond. Now, more human in appearance than ever, but only on the surface.

His eyes flicked to the mirror.

For a moment, it showed him as others saw him. A young man with a pointy nose and adolescent features. Lips too thin and eyes too hollow. Kirilin, a murderer who had done his time in the war in exchange for freedom. A simple man destined for nothing but failure.

Then the figure morphed in a horrid transformation. Jaws twisting. Teeth growing sharp. Fur breaking from the pale skin. A monster lurked within him, visible to anyone who saw his reflection. A wretched thing.

The reflection tilted its head and spoke in a growl. “Onwards, little beast in stolen skin. Without fealty or fear. We hunt what we wish.”

The man beside him stopped snoring, opening his eyes to look at him with blurred eyes.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Kirilin snapped the locket shut and gave a wide smile.

“No, friend. Let's get some rest while we can. The Furnace awaits us both.”

The train darted through snow-filled fields toward the looming mountains of the Scar Spines and the forbidden city within. Tired soldiers returning from war, defeated in body and spirit. And amongst them, a monster in human skin.

END OF BOOK 3