Book 4 -Chapter 145 (Patreon)

All along the Fumes, gearheads wandered through the empty streets of night. Eyes in every corner of the streets. Dragging their feet along empty walkways. Suddenly, they all stopped, all turning their eyes to the ground. On the carefully placed cobblestone, the gravel vibrated.

Deeper beneath the ground, rock cracked, stone shifted, and roars of both man and beast alike echoed through the network of tunnels. The three underlords of the Fumes were on the move, ready to settle grudges from the surface in the unseen below.

The men of Duri Geld blasted a section of a tunnel, opening up an entrance to a cavern littered with red markings. They had the advantage of surprise, the chance to blow up their opposition in one fell strike. Or so they had thought, if not for a letter that had been delivered to the Widow's door just an hour earlier, warning of what was to come.

The Widow's people struck those who thought themselves the predators. The thick-bearded miners against the black-clothed followers of the Widow herself, each carrying a mask of red under a flat-brimmed hat.

Blessed powers churned and intermingled as the two sides fought. Violence leaked into the side tunnels. The denizens who called it their home fled deeper into the mountain or joined the fight in hunger.

Duri charged forward, levitating a stalactite the size of a log over one hand and a pickaxe in the other.

A Blessed in a red mask shot from the shadows, enveloped by a shimmer of rose. The slab of rock shot forward, grazing the figure. A blade thrust towards Duri’s throat—then his axe struck.

It hit the figure with enough force to rip the masked figure into a haze of red. A wild laugh came from the miner’s throat. “Get them, brothers, we’re never losing a fight in the dark.”

His men surged.

From above, a cloud hovered unseen. Another mask shot from the cloud with fiery eyes and a needle in hand. Duri grinned and raised a finger. A pillar of stone ruptured from the ground, hitting the woman in the chest in a chorus of cracks. It smashed her against the roof.

“We got them, lads!” shouted one of the miners. “Smash them into—”

A burst of needles shot from the dark, each tipped in something green and vile. Duri raised a hand, and the floor rose in a shield, protecting him and his closest men.

Slowly, the barricade slid back into the ground, revealing a wide-eyed miner. A dozen needles pierced his skin, a green substance running down his neck. A shiver ran through his core, growing into a convulsion that wracked his body. He aged terribly, his skin grew dry, his lips cracked, and in a moment, he died of old age.

“Widow,” Duri growled, swinging his axe and ushering a cluster of floating rocks before him. “It’s time we met face-to-face after what you did to my brother!”

The killing intent of Duri the Shifting Stone rattled the stone.

A soft laughter came from the dark, and two fiery eyes grew from nothing. A flare of light appeared around a pedicured, womanly hand, and three dozen masked individuals stared back from the dark.

“How simple! is all you do, throw rocks around, even as a Blaze? And that beard, oh, I’m sure it’s nice and prickly when you lean in for a kiss. Shall I give you one?” said the woman in the dark. Her hat was wide and her features fair. Over one eye she held a monocle welded to a golden rod, held in a ladylike grip. In the other hand, needles jutted from the gaps between her fingers. She bit her lip, and a lick of a long tongue soaked the metal weapons in green.

“You’re far too old for me, Death-Flame. I’ll encase you in stone and let your breath run dry,” Duri answered, a cluster of rocks levitating before him.

“Too old!” the Widow answered in an expression of mock appallment. “We'll see what you think when I bestow upon you a kiss. Your first, I presume?”

Duri gestured with his hand, and the barricade of stone fractured with a crack. “I have plenty of experience, but I have a mouthful of rock for your stupid grin! Get her, lads!”

A hand gestured out. A hail of splintered rock shot through the air, a flutter of a black dress followed, and the projectiles turned to dust. The two sides crashed into one another with the two Blazes at the center.

Picks ripped through skin and muscles. A set of fangs sank into an exposed neck. And in the air, poisoned needles and levitating rocks whipped like rain. The Widow’s cultists fought with underhand tactics, glinting blades tipped in poison, boots fitted with razors, grouping up on the weakest of Geld’s men. They answered with their own tactics, undiluted strength. Picks and rocks hurled like comets. Fists in hard leather gloves ruptured organs with a fury that could not feel fear.

The two Blazes fought their own duel in the center of the underground chamber, pushing their underlings into the side tunnels lest they be killed by a stray whiff of their Blessings. Duri remodeled the space itself, pillars and spikes shooting from the roof and ground. The Widow levitated unbothered in her black dress. Her shroud turned all that touched it to dust while poisonous darts shot from her fingers.

The two figures fought in a cacophony of Blessed power that shook the mountain. That’s when something struck. Out in the periphery of the battle, a miner chased a mask through the deep earth with a thick laugh. “Come here, little blood-sucker! I ain’t finished just yet.”

A yelp echoed from the dark, and two eyes glowed back from the shadowy tunnels.

The miner raised a lantern, illuminating the way forward and forcing the shadows back. Something stood there, surrounded by corpses. A man, tall and broad, in just a set of pants and a leather harness over his wide shoulders, a sword sheathed to either side. But his clawed hands dripped blood.

The miner’s eyes grew wide. A step backwards.

“Vasili!” he stammered as the Blaze's battle roared behind him.

Wretch licked a claw and stepped over the newly deceased. “For tonight, yes.”

The man swiveled around and dashed back. Something met him. The gruesome maw of a creature, half spider, half wolf, thrust him towards the wall and wrung his life away.

Wretch sniffed the air, taking in the clamor of battle. He heard the things driven deeper into the tunnels. And other things still, being drawn to the noise of the clash. Nostalgic, almost longing. He had not been away from the war for long. Yet, now it called to him. Ushering him to join the place where he belonged. In that narrow space between life and death that didn’t leave room for regret.

He walked past the wolf-spider and drew the two swords from his back. Already more of the underlords' servants were coming towards him, and he drew a breath. He lowered his shoulders just a little, and a sense of ease found him.

“Violence has marked us, dear spider, like a plague of the blood that siphons weakness and joy to leave only strength and madness. A rushing river. A brand of the soul. The thing we are can only destroy, so let us then.”

A Blessed shot from the dark, cloaked in a robe that twisted and moved as if alive. Wretch’s blade cut the figure in twain, and his eyes lit with fire. Blood Starved Edge drank deep, and its power awakened a furious hunger and bloodlust in him. His veins bulged, his sights grew red, and the muscles ached to move. Before the corpse had hit the ground, he broke into a sprint along the dark tunnel with a howl.

His footsteps echoed against the bloodied walls of the complex.

Two miners stood in his path, pummeling a figure on the ground. They grinned as he approached, unaware of who he was. The spider shot from above, pushing one to the ground while both his swords gutted the other. He did not break pace.

A Blessing rumbled through the earth, shooting spikes of rock in every direction. Wretch jumped, sailing through the air in a whirl of shimmering metal and deadly grace. The head of a figure clad in black slid from their neck, thumping to the floor.

A shout, but he did not listen. A bolt of blood-red energy crackled through the tunnel in his direction. He kicked, sending himself up to the roof. A pair of the Widow’s men. One casting a spell that enveloped the other in a reddish glow. The second of the Widow's followers were unnaturally crooked and unfurled spidery claws of bone from under their robes. A hiss from under their mask.

Wretch kicked, propelling himself with all his unholy muscle. Two swords screeched against the red glow. A Blessing of protection. “We got this—” the spellcaster said, but a sticky goo shot from the side.

His own spider had tricks of its own. It caught the spellcaster's mask over the eyes. And the red glow waned. His two swords whipped through the air, impaling her against the wall. The bone-legs shot towards Wretch. He simply caught them. He pulled.

The creature screamed as he ripped it in twain. A shriek from their throat.

Another group, miners or masks, he didn’t even care to recognize. They hit the ground in the blink of an eye. Then another.

And so he moved. A wave of blood and death made of claw and blade. Deeper towards the battle of the two Blazes in the heart of the mountain. That fight had grown into a crescendo, sending shockwaves and wails through the dizzying net of tunnels.

The true names of the underlords quivered the very air.

Duri the Shifting Stone and Kalina, the Hunger of Yore.

The two underlords had felt each other out, and the true test of understanding one's own Blessings had begun. A hollow orb had formed from their conflict, reducing the other tunnels to hollow openings. Duri Geld conjured pillars of stone from the surroundings, while the Widow threw poisoned needles and disintegrated each attack into piles of dust, floating in the air like a drowned maiden. Her dress bobbed and flowed as if stuck in a mellow current.

Duri gritted his teeth and looked at his hand. A needle coated in green poked from the skin. “You skittish wench, not one for a fair fight, are you?”

The Widow let out a soft laugh and raised her monocle to gaze down at her counterpart. “Be still now, let this happen! I'll be gentle to my cute little rival.”

Duri spat and ripped the needle out, a grin growing on his lips. “You can’t poison rock. Now let me get a good crack in return,” he said, fingers tightening around his pickaxe.

The Widow pursed her lips playfully to respond, but a scream cut her off. Both turned. In the low light of discarded oil lamps, a figure stumbled forward into view. Bloodied, dressed in black, with their mask ripped off. Something caught him from the dark. And he disappeared.

The two Blazes stared. “Is that one of yours?” the Widow asked.

“No,” Duri responded coldly.

Wretch walked into the light. A harness strapped to his bare chest and marked in red from head to toe. A sword in each hand, and bulging veins on his forehead. His eyes caught the two as they spoke in unison. “Vasili, the Wolf of the Mountain.”

“So it has come to this,” Duri said with a snicker. “The three of us duke it out outside the view of the Father, and the winner controls the Fumes and the Cold-Circle for the rest of eternity?”

The Widow smiled and raised her monocle. “Oh, you are just saying that because you’re losing, I think…” She grew quiet, the monocle over the mask’s eye.

“Duri,” she said slowly.

“What is it, blood-sucker, another lie, another trick like you pulled on my brother?” said the bearded man.

The mask did not reveal her emotion. But her voice was more than enough. She felt fear. “That thing… is not Vasili.”

“What?” Duri said, eyes growing to slits.

Wretch did not answer. For he did not need to. His plan for tonight was to be the last underlord in the city and rouse the things dwelling beneath. The latter was no doubt already done. Now he would end these two out of view from prying eyes, and if they bested him, well, so be it. His claws needed sharpening, and these two would do.

He drew the blades against one another, sending a flash of sparks into the air. His skin bubbled and churned. And so he released it for the first time in too long. His true name. For would not hold back this night.

Wretch, Omen of Misfortune.

His killing intent made the shadows shudder, and Duri took a step back.

“Who are you?” the Widow murmured.

Who was he? He was certainly not some lost child named Kiprian. Nor an underlord drunk on overconfidence and grandeur. Under all these layers of stolen skin was someone called Wretch. The heart of the swarm, the last of the General’s dogs, the Richter’s scout. Though now, none of that mattered.

He was here to hunt the Pyre that killed his captain, for he had decided to do so. And these two were in the way.

A twisted creature crawled from the dark behind him. A thing with far too many eyes and a split maw. A skitter from each tunnel entrance. A few dozen rats, staring at the other two Blazes with beady eyes.

Then he shot forward in a blur of bloodlust and churning skin.