Chương 100: May the Sinner be Forgotten

In the haze of the roaring battlefield, a confrontation grew to its final act. But one actor had not played their part as ordained. A violent shudder took over the Gulschak who had committed the Flame's only sin. Broken its only commandment. Snuffing out his own flame. Asked for more power than what had been bestowed and killed the divinity within.

"Will he die?" Fingers called from where the tiny Blessed dangled in his grip.

"I don't know," Wretch whispered, trailing his eyes over the burning grounds. He considered pouncing on the man, killing him in one fell swoop before reinforcements arrived. But something within him warned him not to step closer.

"I…"

"I see it now," mumbled the once-Blessed Gulschak through the filter of his gas mask. A cold wind emanated from the man, ruffling what remained of the General's dogs' attire. No, Wretch realized, the very heat of the world was fleeing.

"Waddles," Wretch roared to the brute. The hulking man had overpowered an opponent his own size and now feasted on the corpse without a care in the world.

"Back up from… that man." In that brief moment, he realized he'd forgotten the name of the previous Blessed, as if he'd been erased. A crack came from the Gulschak, cutting into Wretch's own mind like a nail rasping against his consciousness. The trio winced. The Gulschak, on the other hand, was uncaring. Pulling off his gas mask with trembling fingers. The digits were turning black. A gasp escaped him as he drew in the thick smoke lingering in the air.

"It's… all around us," he whispered. The man was young, barely a stubble on his chin as he trailed his gaze over the battlefield, eyes in the distance as if he saw something else.

"Crawling in your skin, filling your gut, writhing worms of fire. In the earth, in the air." He looked at his hands. The nails crumbled like burned soot, fluttering to the ground.

"No," the man continued.

"That's not it… We are the maggots… In the festering corpse, dead divinity, threaded with fire. But not me…"

"Not anymore." A gasp of revelation escaped him, and in one fell movement he plunged his fingers into his own eye sockets, ripping both eyeballs out in a burst of blood.

"There… I see no longer. Fluttering fires to become your lords." The man stumbled to his feet as the trio stood frozen in shock. The man's hands were turning to ash.

"Forgive me," the man said as an arm fell off his shoulder, hitting the ground in a cloud of soot.

"I failed your childish trial. You hateful parent. You—" The forgotten man reached for Wretch as shades of black caught up to his eyes. Turning his features into a mask. With one final step, he collapsed, bursting into wisps of black flakes. And the man was gone. Forgotten by the world.

"Boss, I'm still bleeding," Fingers groaned from Wretch's grip—a puncture wound from a crossbow bolt in their stomach.

"Damn," Wretch whispered, eyes glued to the place a Blessed man had disappeared, leaving nothing behind but clothes and a cracked black rock, devoid of any light or power. With a shake of his head, Wretch moved forward, pulling up the weapon their opposition had used. A brass contraption with a barrel that barely fit in his oversized claws. The information of the Blessed weapon flooded his mind, but he ignored it. From the north came sounds of stomping feet. They'd done their part.

Each army had sent forward Blessed to break the other's formation. And this was their win.

"Waddles," Wretch said, lumbering past the man as he sat crouched over their fallen enemy.

"We move, give me the coal." The giant looked up at him, the black veil having fallen away from his face, revealing a conjoined mess of different creatures. Blood dripped down his one tusk and his oversized hands were clutching a glowing rock. Waddles rose to tower over Wretch, Fingers still dangling in Wretch's claw. The two monsters sized each other up.

"You's take from me?" the giant said with a frown. Wretch shook his head.

"No, you'll give it to me, and I'll lead you to another thing to eat." The tiny Blessed groaned as Waddles squinted at Wretch, neither looking away. With a final mumble, the giant handed over the precious stones that quickly disappeared into Wretch's pocket. A few moments later, the trio walked away from the battlefield strewn with corpses. All along the front, similar scenes were happening, the lines of war ebbing back and forth as each side had deployed their most expendable Blessed.

Embers and Firelings dying by the dozen. The trio moved back into the trenches of Nov Yanosk, the area they had lost quickly being reinforced by more of the regular soldiers. All stared at them as they passed, burned and bleeding. An hour later, Wretch pushed past a set of guards in a low-lit hall far beneath the sunken bridge that made up Nov Yanosk's headquarters, Waddles in tow. On his shoulder lay Fingers, pale and no longer cursing at his every movement. Preferable.

If it wasn't for the little one's imminent death. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. To say the infirmary was chaotic was not only an understatement but an outright lie. The hall stretched four hundred yards in each direction, all filled with beds where the dying lay screaming from wounds that ranged from burns to amputations. Between the beds moved figures in white, though most of their clothes were stained red.

Others were hauling those deemed too far gone into wheelbarrows and pushing them down a doorway at the far end, making room for the steady stream of wounded that flooded through the gate. Curses and screams for help rang through the air in a chorus. Most common among them were prayers. Some to the Saint herself, but mostly, they were for another.

"Lord Gustavius, let me live again," wheezed a man lowly, audible only to Wretch's sensitive ears as he lay dying and forgotten, a hastily applied bandage coiled around his chest.

"Let me fight for you… again… please." With a cough, the man drew one final raspy breath, thoughts no doubt filled with their commander. Word must have spread of Gustavius power to raise the dead of those he deemed worthy, though this one did not seem to be one of them. Wretch frowned and turned his eyes back to the guard.

"You're Blessed," said one. His skin was pale, and Wretch could smell the vomit wiped from his chin. The first days of the war were taking their toll on everyone, it seemed.

"This one is almost dead…" Wretch said unceremoniously, holding up Fingers' limp form.

"Where are the Blessed healers?"

"Down that hall, this place is only for kindling," stammered the man, looking over Wretch and Waddles. One, marred by burns, and the other covered in coagulated red, both completely inhuman. The roar of a man having a hooked arrow ripped from his legs made a headache settle in, and Wretch gave a nod, pushing past the pair of guards. Waddles walked behind him through the endless rows of the wounded, then finally down a corridor that only made the screams and prayers reverberate in a ghostly echo.

Another room cut from the stone opened up before them, this one far smaller and with only some sparse bloodstains. Six private booths made up the entirety of the Blessed healers' quarters. At the time, only two seemed occupied, judging from the groans emanating inside. A man seated in a chair by the entrance looked up as they entered. Well dressed, clean, a weapon hidden under his coat. A Blessed, Wretch thought. The man gave the trio a quick look with a frown.

"General's dogs…" he said. Wretch nodded.

"Us two are stable. This one is dying," Wretch said, nodding toward Fingers.

"Take the second booth, a healer will be with you shortly." They did as instructed, walking toward the wooden door, but a scratch and a furious meow came from another.

"What is it, Whisky?" a voice said, smooth as silk, a voice that was made for a time of peace and music. Far beneath the shell within him, a string of feelings grew taut. Memories of another life trying to push through to the surface. He met them hard, pushing them down, wringing their life away as he would a man. To his dismay, the door opened, and a face framed with golden hair peeked out, green eyes behind a pair of spectacles perched neatly on a delicate nose. Something slunk out of the door in a flash.

An orange cat, its fur marred by burns, much like he was. Wretch had planned to ignore her, just walk to the next healer over. Besides, even now with the missing veil, she might not recognize him. A towering beast with a face suited for a monster. Strangely, he found his feet were glued to the floor.

"Wretchy…" Astrid said, having laid her eyes on him only for a moment. A gulp came from his throat as the orange creature circled his feet. He couldn't lie thanks to the vows made, but he could keep quiet. Yet he found himself answering. A deep growl came from his throat.

"Yes." Astrid trailed her gaze to the dying figure in his arms, the giant walking behind him, and the Blessed by the entrance. No doubt, it took her only a moment to piece it all together.

"I got this one," she said simply and opened the door wide.

"Alright, second lieutenant," the man by the entrance said with a nod. Wretch didn't protest and walked inside. Waddles squeezed through the entrance, eyes trained on the cat. The door closed with a thud. A simple room stacked with medical supplies and an examining table of hard wood in the center.

"What happened to the wounded?" Astrid said and gestured with an open hand to the table.

"A crossbow bolt to the gut," Wretch answered just as simply, hauling the wounded Fingers onto the wood. A quiet groan escaped their throat. The dying Blessed was bloodied and pale. Quickly, Astrid's hands exposed the wound, a puncture in the lower abdomen. Waddles, standing in the back, looked at the cat purring by Wretch's paw-like feet.

"Come kitty, Waddles like fur." In a blink, both Wretch and Astrid pivoted their heads toward him, one stern, the other a bestial hiss.

"Don't touch him." They both growled in unison. The display made Waddles take a step back, probably more from Astrid's visage than Wretch's. The giant pressed himself into a corner, mumbling sullen words. Astrid cleared her throat and rummaged through a box of tools.

"The bolt is lodged deep beneath the skin, no point in healing it without retrieving it first." Wretch nodded.

"Take this," Astrid continued, pushing metal pliers into his clawed hands. With swift movement she retrieved a needle of white bone from her white coat. A soft jab and she skewered it into Fingers' sternum. An exhale of relaxation escaped the figure.

"A Blessed weapon?" Wretch asked.

"It stores and amplifies blessings, it was given to me, good for sedation." With a whip of her hand, she produced a scalpel and drew an incision along the wound.

"I'm a Fireling by the way." Wretch nodded, standing there with the cat circling his feet. His thoughts turned to the red-haired warrior, the only one who had matched him in both bloodlust and trajectory.

"And Elenya?"

"She's still in Nov Yanosk, last I heard. They placed her as captain of some green hunters."

"Pliers," the tiny healer said with an outstretched hand. He placed the tool in her delicate hands, and she jammed it into the wound, reaching deeper. With a forceful pull, she ripped the bolt from deep within, spraying a smattering of red on her white clothes. Blood pulsed out of the wound, but a gentle hand was placed on Fingers' forehead. Astrid's eyes lit with fire and the wound healed in seconds. The blood coagulated, new tissue reached forward and settled into a fine scar.

The natural regeneration of months happened in moments. The Blessed's pallor returned to a healthy pink.

"Thank you," Wretch said.

"Waddles, carry Fingers, we're leaving. Our own injuries are nothing special." Waddles looked anxiously between the two, the same way a child turned between parents having a disagreement. Finally, he lumbered forward and picked up the unconscious Blessed, placing them over a shoulder as broad as the table itself. The duo turned to the door.

"Stop," Astrid said in a tone that was nothing short of a command.

"That's an order." The duo froze, forced by the vows made by dogs like them.

"You, the big one. Take the wounded to your quarters without delay." Waddles made a squeak and pushed through the doorway, almost breaking the frame in the process of fleeing. That left Wretch to stand with his back toward his former Squadmate. They were silent, but in the air reverberated the distant noise of dying men and the low purr of a content cat.