Chương 95: Lion's Arrival

A groan came from the gate that separated the General's dogs from the rest of the fortress. Light spilled through the gap as Kattla walked inside with echoing steps, flanked by two officers carrying boxes. Her feet tapped against the stone floor as they made their way into the dimly lit space the General's dogs called home.

"It stinks in here," one officer said.

"But what can you expect from the penal group?" Something crunched under Kattla's boot, and the trio stopped. As she looked down, a pearly white tooth smeared in red lay on the stone floor. Her gaze traveled upwards. A trail of pearly white teeth ran through the windowless hall that held all the simple rooms. In the center lay a heap, claw marks cutting into the rock around the fallen man. The officers paled at the sight.

"By the Saint," one whispered, reflexively clutching the sabre latched to his belt. Kattla produced a metal whistle from her pocket, and a moment later, a high-pitched ring echoed between the walls. Movement came from the abodes, and soon the General's hounds strode outwards to form something at least resembling a line. Those who came bearing exposed faces were sharply reprimanded to cover their features with the funeral veils. With her boot, Kattla flipped the man splayed on the ground.

One of her eyebrows rose slightly. The man was marred from head to toe with cuts and bruises, his eyes swollen shut. All four of his arms were crumpled and twisted like wet paper. Still, he was alive, taking shallow breaths. Not all of the dogs had been so fortunate as to survive the night. Two had fought over a particularly spacious room, and one had strangled the other with her living hair, taking the other's life.

The act broke the vow of following an officer's orders as they had promised not to kill one another, and the assailant's chest had promptly exploded. That had not stopped Waddles, the giant amalgamation, from chewing on both their remains. Even now, his teeth ground against a particularly tough bone. The sight turned the officers from pale to stark white.

"Well," Kattla said, "it seems you figured it out among yourselves." None of the General's dogs answered, only the occasional crunch coming from under Waddles' veil.

"You two," she continued, gesturing from the officer by her side to the broken man by her feet, "get this one to the infirmary." She lifted her eyes towards the strange, veiled figures before her and shook her head.

"Rations and new clothes are in the boxes. Be lined up in an hour. The Lion is arriving. Even you freaks are supposed to be there." Mutters and whispers came from the group, but no one moved. Previously twenty-five, now twenty-three, they all stood still. Seemed they truly had learnt their lesson. Kattla ignored them, and soon the broken man was hauled off with a groan. The stone doors shut once again, leaving the dogs alone.

"What's a Lion?" Waddles said, scratching the top of his head. The others looked at one another. Many gazes turned to Wretch. He was the first to move, lumbering forward and snagging a metal canister and a bundle of cloth from the containers. Fingers were right behind him, flashing a content smile at being second to rummage through the contents.

"It's Gustavius the Lion. The head of the military himself. The right hand of the Saint. I'm sure it will be quite the spectacle." As soon as Wretch, Fingers, and Waddles moved away from the supplies, the others descended like scavenging crows. Wretch moved deeper down the corridor toward the room he had claimed.

"Fingers," he said.

"Yes," the smaller Blessed chimed, barely a step behind him.

"I owe you for yesterday. Your Blessing needs fingers from people, doesn't it?" The smaller Blessed took a few quick strides to walk beside him.

"That's right. I collect them. Later I can grow them from my body, or burn them for physical strength." Wretch raised a clawed hand under his veil, followed by a crunch and the sound of shifting flesh. A moment later, his hand returned, now bloodied but otherwise unchanged. In his palm lay two severed claws.

"You…" Fingers said with a gasp.

"You can regenerate even lost limbs?"

"Take them," Wretch replied. Fingers snatched the bloodied claws." Then I could get an infinite amount from you. I could grow strong, we'd make a great team!" This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Wretch ignored the tiny Blessed, opening a wooden door and casting one final glance.

"See if it works first. Take one of the rooms next to mine, and get Waddles one nearby. If anyone gives you trouble, tell me." He stepped inside, the door groaning shut behind him. The room was simple. A mirror on a cupboard, a bed, and a portable pot in the corner. He had claimed it the night before, and despite its appearance, it was one of the few rooms with proper furniture. He moved to change into the new clothes, a black unmarked uniform with a veil that reached down his shoulders.

Then he opened the canister with a claw. The contents were a mix of meat and vegetables that mostly tasted of salt, though it carried a faint aroma of something akin to beef. He poured it down his throat and picked at the strands of meat. A voice spoke. Thick and inhumanly low.

"That girl, Kattla, we should kill her. She took the Captain from us." Wretch turned toward the speaker. It was his reflection in the mirror, the hideous beast within, staring back from under its veil, claws dripping with the thick stew.

"No," Wretch said, shaking his head.

"We are here to kill Gulschaks, maybe even Grendel and the Professor. That is all that matters." The creature in the mirror scoffed.

"And you think they will let us do as we want?" It growled, exposing sharp teeth in a wolfish grin.

"We should break the curse somehow. There are loopholes, we can figure it out. Then we can run free. Then our enemies will really suffer." Wretch threw the canister into the corner with a clang and stood up from the creaking bed.

"Quiet, or I will smash that mirror." An hour later, the hounds were led out in a long row behind Kattla, bound by a web of commands to act presentable. It was harder than they'd anticipated, and the orders included but were not limited to "Don't speak, don't howl, don't growl. Don't make any noise at all you dimwits and for the love of the Saint don't eat the dirt." Each of the dogs wore a veil that hid their identity, though some, like Waddles, were still unmistakable due to their size.

Fingers stayed close to Wretch from the moment he left his room. They exited the fortress carved into the massive sunken bridge that marked the heart of Voska. Already, the exit had been widened into the likeness of a true gate. The streets beyond were full of movement, and in the single day since their arrival, the sawmills had been repurposed into barracks, and steam cannons had been erected along the newly made stone wall.

As they made their way to the train station, banners of blue and gold swayed in the cold wind. The road had been cleared, and the mile from the stronghold to the station was lined with soldiers in formation. Clean-shaven faces, straight uniforms, and polished medals. Closest to the train stood the Blessed. Wretch spotted a familiar figure among the banners. Dark hair and a gold-trimmed uniform that caught the light. General Frederic of Many Oaths. The one to whom all the dogs around him were bound.

The General glanced at them and nodded toward Kattla, gesturing for them to stand furthest from the station among the Blessed. A subtle reminder of their place. Astrid was also there, standing among the medical team. Her eyes moved across the veiled figures, searching. The one she sought was not there. She was not the only one watching. Many glanced their way, some with fear, others with disgust or quiet approval. It did not matter to Wretch. The war could not start soon enough.

This was all a spectacle without purpose to one such as him. For an hour, they stood in silence as the last of the arrivals gathered. The first snow of winter began to fall, melting against their skin. Soon Fingers' teeth started to chatter. Then a distant rumble came, loud and unmistakable. Even from afar came the screech of brakes struggling to slow something immense. Wretch turned to see it approach. A colossal train adorned with golden filigree, lacking the brutal armor of the others.

It radiated excess and power. When it stopped, a choir began a deep hymn from the stronghold, their voices amplified by some Blessing. A door the size of a house opened. Two white-robed figures stepped out, pouring something red from golden chalices onto the stone. Wretch recognized the scent immediately. Blood mixed with something to keep it from clotting. Then came the beasts. At first, he thought them wolves, but they were larger, with golden coats and feline features.

"Lions," someone whispered. As the choir reached its peak, they suddenly fell silent. A moment of silence lingered. Then a roar erupted from within the train. A plated boot stepped onto the platform, and the ground trembled. The giant emerged, A man four times the height of even the tallest regular human. Clad in thick golden armor woven with blue silk, he stepped into the falling snow. His blond hair reached to his shoulders, and his hands rested on twin axes. The handful of felines moved ahead of him.

His gaze swept the army, eyes burning with visible flame. He did not look impressed. He descended the stairs, each step sending tremors through the ground. His presence carried a weight that demanded submission. It rivaled Maria the Impaler's intent, though it did not cut as deeply. A group followed behind him, mostly priests, though one young man with a massive curved sword stood out. Where was this man when Sternthal fell? Wretch wondered. Where was this man when our enemies gutted my captain?

At the bottom of the stairs, the giant bowed his head. The two priests stepped forward and poured the remaining blood over him. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the cold air. Snow swirled around him. As they'd been commanded to do at this display, the army bowed. Even Waddles' head was forced down. The giant spoke then, his voice deep and clear. It to amplified to carry far over the stronghold and the army this man commanded.

"I, the twelfth commander of Nov Yanosk's might, right hand of the Saint, Gustavius the Lion, have arrived. And so the war has been won."