Chương 94: The General's Dogs

The stronghold of Voska was a secured clearing among massive trees, each standing two hundred feet high. In the center of the mud-filled area, a ruined bridge of epic proportions lay half-sunken into the earth, telling stories of a river that would never return and the glory of ages past. Beneath its arch stood the stronghold, a jumbled and unsophisticated mass of sawmills and defenses. Several tracks had been hastily added to its station, yet all were occupied.

A thousand workers in blue overalls labored without pause to unload goods and weaponry. From one of the armored trains came a line of officers and two dozen figures with strange proportions, their features obscured by funeral veils. The workers spared the group curious glances. That was no surprise, as the group not only looked strange in their concealment but also carried themselves in unusual ways.

Some sniffed the air, others hissed, and one individual with thin spikes piercing through the cloth of his back stuffed his pockets with dirt. Wretch walked among them, his claws nearly long enough to drag along the ground. Running on all fours would likely have been faster in his current, wolf-like form. He glanced at the surroundings. The stronghold had changed since he last passed through. The mud-filled perimeter, now cleared of trees, had been widened by several miles of fresh trenches and bunkers.

Pipes and steam cannons were being assembled at intersections, and freshly cut wood—still leaking sap—had been constructed into defenses along the outer area. At least the heart of the stronghold that nestled under the stone bridge had proper walls of stone, though it was a pale comparison to the mighty battlements of Nov Yanosk. The group of bestial Blessed passed along the cobblestone roads. More than a few made outbursts or shouted at passersby.

That continued until an officer sternly ordered them to be quiet, which only made some howl louder until they too were silenced by a binding vow. After a short walk through the busy streets, they arrived at the base of the broken bridge, its remains stretching toward the sky. The structure seemed carved from a single block of stone. Now, however, dwellings had been cut into the material, and elevators ran up its slopes to watchtowers above.

After being delayed for a moment by Waddles barely squeezing through the entrance, they entered the complex built within the rock. It was vast and hollow, a chamber large enough to hold a thousand people with ease. No doubt the structure contained many rooms, with more being built, as shown by the steady flow of rubble-filled wheelbarrows passing by. In the distance, a group of white-clothed individuals marked by red crosses unloaded goods from a cart in the low light.

The medical team appeared to be stationed below. Wretch spotted a blond, green-eyed girl with a pair of spectacles. She was shorter than most, with a frame not built for war. A figure he knew as well as anything. Astrid. As if he had spoken her name aloud, she turned her head. Her gaze passed over the line of veiled Blessed. Memories flashed through his mind.

Her bloodied form in a ruined church, the soft notes of her lute, the warmth of her Blessings, and finally her fair features barely visible through a black veil much like his own. She looked past him without recognition. Why are you here, Wretch thought, relieved that his transformation had made him unrecognizable. It was clear to him now. People like him, like the rest of the monsters in that line, were never meant to have a home. Still, it troubled him that she was here.

Then again, nothing would reach the infirmary below as long as he stood. With one last glance, he took in her form and moved on. Some time later, the two dozen Beast Flames stood in a line, held in place only by sharp reprimands from the officers.

"You bunch of animals," one hissed.

"Do you have any idea what that damage to the train cabins will cost? Learn to use a toilet, you imbeciles." Fingers, the Blessed beside him, chimed in immediately.

"You have nice hands, William. Were you a carpenter before joining the army?"

"Yes... how the hell did you even guess that?" the officer replied.

"No matter, veils on and backs straight. Your superior is on her way."

"He tastes like chicken, me thinks," Waddles murmured under his breath. Strangely, Wretch felt he could not speak at all. He had vowed to follow orders and had taken the officer's command as such. Waddles must not have. So it only works if I believe it? After a few more reprimands, the General's dogs stood in a line that was as straight as it would ever be. The officer before them stood with impeccable posture, staring ahead. Only then did footsteps approach from a dark corridor.

A figure stepped forward with light strides, back straight and hands clasped behind her. Dark cropped hair framed a face twisted into a confident sneer. Half a dozen weapons strapped across her back. Kattla of the Hunter's Corps, the one who had set in motion the ruin of his former life. A twitch ran through Wretch's claws, and his muscles tightened beneath the veil. Casually, she walked up to the officer, and after a sharp salute, he spoke.

"Ma'am, the General's dogs are present and ready for handover."

"At ease," Kattla said.

"I will take charge. Thank you, First Lieutenant." The other personnel quickly left, leaving her alone with the silent group. Slowly, she walked along the line, glaring at each of them. Her steps echoed through the stone chamber. When she passed Wretch, the corner of her mouth curled into a faint smile. After another silent pass, she stopped.

"Do you know why penal battalions wear veils?" she asked in a tone suited for a lecture hall. No one answered. They had been ordered not to. Even trying to speak caused a tightness in the chest. Still, Kattla nodded as if satisfied.

"That's because you're already dead in the eyes of the world. Failures to the city that raised you. Failures in the eyes of the Flame. Failures to yourselves." Stolen novel; please report. She shook her head.

"But the Saint is merciful. She still has use for you, no matter your crimes. To fight her enemies until death will be your final act of repentance." Her smile widened.

"And I, Kattla, volunteered to ensure that you do. Any objections?" The Beast Flames remained silent. Though Wretch could hear claws scraping and spikes shifting, none spoke.

"Oh, my mistake," Kattla said lightly.

"I release you from the previous commands." The pressure in Wretch's chest eased. He briefly considered stepping toward the exit, but the pressure returned at once. Not even Kattla could release them from the four core vows: Do your utmost in the war effort. Retreat only when instructed, or when facing a Blessed of higher rank. Follow the orders of any Nov Yanosk officer. Do not lie. The others shifted uneasily beneath their veils as the gas lamps flickered. At last, one spoke.

"If you think I will be a martyr for your Saint, you are as dumb as you look," said a broad-shouldered man who smelled of saltwater. Kattla tilted her head.

"You. Punch yourself in the face as hard as you can. That is an order." The group froze. All eyes turned to the speaker. He stepped back in shock. A tremor ran through him, and his hand clutched his chest. Then, he slammed his fist into his own nose with a crack. His own punch held enough power to make him collapse. Laughter and howls erupted from the others. The man's form was now revealed as the veil fluttered away. Warped, one arm a writhing tentacle, scales glinting across his skin. His face, oddly flattened.

Kattla's grin widened.

"The General was right, this will be entertaining! Now cover your face." The scent of blood stirred the group. Their composure began to break as they gathered around the fallen man. Wretch did not move. He simply watched.

"At attention," Kattla commanded.

"Quiet." The group froze instantly, held in place by the pressure around their hearts.

"Good," she said with a nod.

"I'll meet you again at dawn. Until then, you may take rooms along this corridor. You may not leave or kill each other." No one responded. She smiled.

"You may move and speak." A chorus of growls followed.

"Except for one thing," she added.

"Which one of you is Wretch?" The room fell silent again. Damn, he thought, letting the silence linger for a moment.

"I am." All eyes turned to him. Kattla stepped forward and stared.

"Lift your veil." He obeyed. There was no choice. His claws dragged the fabric aside, and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him. At their last meeting, he had been a changed youngling. Now he was a monster marked by fangs and fur.

"That new face suits you," she said.

"But you did hurt one of my colleagues, and I take that personally." She turned away.

"The rest of you are dismissed. Wretch will stay here until he has counted each person he had ever killed. I will return at dawn." With that, she left. Moments later, a heavy door slammed shut, followed by the sound of chains and a locking mechanism. Looks like we are trapped in here, Wretch thought as the pressure tightened around his ribs, forcing him to comply, and he broke into a silent count.

"Akim, the crime lord and his crew."

"The death Flame under the city, Datlovich." The minutes that followed descended into chaos. The General's dogs scattered through the halls, searching for food and snarling at one another. Wretch remained where he stood, quietly recounting as best he could remember. Kattla knew what they were. Locking them together with only one restriction meant something. A test, perhaps. And she had given them a head start over him. It took only fifteen minutes before the first fight broke out.

Shouts echoed, followed by the sound of fists striking flesh. Soon, more violence followed, and the hall descended into madness. As expected, someone came for him. A large man with two pairs of arms stepped forward, each hand lined with teeth like two pairs of gruesome gloves.

"Funny name you got," he said.

"Nice teeth too. Shame the boss doesn't like you." Wretch glanced at him and continued counting. The man stepped closer.

"I think she will like me more if I leave you bleeding on the floor when she returns." Wretch chuckled softly.

"And I will take those sharp teeth for myself," the man continued, "They'd make a fine addition to my knuckles."

"You look like a beetle," a voice called from down the corridor. Fingers approached casually, hands in their pockets.

"Sit down, little thing. You do not want to be second," the four-armed man said, slamming two fists into his palms. Killing intent filled the room as the two faced each other. Fingers, the Discarded and Yuri the Broken Smile. Other dogs gathered to watch.

"You are that underground fighter, are you not?" Fingers said. Yuri lunged, not even offering the courtesy of answering. Teeth burst from what remained of his natural skin as he attacked, crawling up from his elbows to his neck. Fingers dodged and struck back, human digits grew from Finger's skin and tore at Yuri's flesh. It was far from a practiced strike. And Wretch couldn't help but wince at the display. Yuri countered, landing a crushing blow that sent Fingers tumbling across the floor.

The smaller Blessed struggled to rise, but a boot pressed them down.

"So what are you?" Yuri asked.

"Man or woman?"

"I am me," Fingers spat. The pressure of the boot increased.

"You took the same oath as the rest of us," Yuri said, gesturing to Wretch.

"Why protect that thing?" Fingers grimaced.

"I felt his intent. He is the strongest here. I would rather be on his side." Yuri laughed.

"He won't be once I am done with him." A low voice cut through the noise.

"The clerk at the Bureau of the Hunt." Yuri turned, and Wretch tilted his head back, breathing in the scent of blood.

"You are weak," Wretch said.

"You sharpen your claws only on those below you." Yuri smirked.

"I have broken a hundred men. You think I cannot break you?"

"No," Wretch replied.

"You cannot."

"I am Yuri, the Broken Smile. I have never lost a fight."

"I am Wretch… and I've lost many." A claw pulled away the veil, revealing his face once more. Twisted lips barely hiding his fangs. His eyes burned in the dim light, and a wave of intent rolled through the room.