Chương 106: Oh Brother of mine.

The four-limbed abomination charged Wretch, each of its jutting and uneven limbs ending in a metal-encased club. A bucket-like helmet was bolted to its neck, and beneath a superficial wound, coiled cords of metal protected its vitals. Wretch, however, was unimpressed. All right, let's get serious. He pulled power from his flame. In times past, he had been reckless, spending his reservoir without remorse. Now, his regular body was weapon enough for almost every fight. But only almost.

For those battles that needed more, he had flame and forms aplenty, capable of growing whatever was required. And even then, if that wasn't enough, a hidden weapon holstered by his hip. His eyes lit with fire and the skin of his left arm bubbled and churned. With an echoing roar from its helmet, the creature launched into another string of bludgeoning strikes. Wretch dodged, stepping back into a half-fallen trench. The wood marked with his names shattered from strikes that pulverized the frozen logs.

But Wretch was quick, slithering between the strikes despite their speed and ferocity, even as chitinous plates burst from the skin. A steel club passed inches from his shoulder, sending a tremor through the ground. It had failed to stop him, and now the transformation was complete. His left arm had been fully turned into a massive claw, like that of a crab. The armor of interlocking shell continued up his elbow, stopping with a plate at his shoulder. Another slam.

Wretch brushed it aside with the newlyborn armor and struck. One pawed foot planted on the side of the trench and he rocketed upwards, straight for the creature's neck. The claw shot open, and his mass pummeled into the form. It didn't fall, but took a struggling step back. Then the claw clamped around its helmet.

"Wretch of many forms, perhaps" Wretch hissed.

"No, I've thought of that one already." A scream echoed from beneath the metal headwear, and one of the creature's club-like limbs shot towards him. He pivoted, deflecting it with the armored shoulder, and strained. His muscles contracted, and the claw screamed against the buckling metal. The creature's roar grew louder, then metal bent. The helmet collapsed with a wet crunch. The gruesome experiment collapsed in a heap onto the earth, its body destined to be food for the waiting rats. A glow formed in its chest.

Wretch spat, and his arm roiled. The plates and crab-claw retreated back into his skin in yet another grisly transformation. He peeked over the lip of the trench, or what remained of it. Fingers was zipping around a many-armed opponent, utilizing the blessing that burned collected digits for physical strength. Waddles, on the other hand, had never let his opponent off the ground after Wretch's strike against the knee. The joints and vitals of the opponent were protected, but that only lengthened the suffering.

Waddles twisted an arm with a crack, and a roar of pain echoed over no-man's-land. Only when Wretch had seen that victory had been won did he rip the glowing coal from the corpse of his former enemy. He pulled the flame greedily. Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight times had he kindled from battle and the remnants of the worthy. When the war had begun, that number had been just above a dozen, any more and he felt as if his very flame would crack at the seams, forcing a change within him.

Perhaps that was the only way forward for him, or perhaps he would simply die. He made his way over, keeping an eye on the Gulschak line in the distance. Oddly quiet, aren't we, Gulschaks? he thought. Is that truly all for today? In short order, Fingers and Waddles killed their opposition. Wretch ripped the coals from the enemies without even asking. Nor did the others offer any objection. After all, all three of them knew they were alive because of him. Thirty.

Fingers had a cut across his shoulder as he crawled from the ditch the final strike had landed the tiny Blessed in.

"I kindled," he groaned.

"Nine times. Impressive, ain't I?" Waddles seemed disinterested, hauling his victim towards the nearest hole to no doubt inspect the anatomy from within.

"Well done," Wretch said, wiping mud from his fur and trailing his eyes up towards the zeppelins.

"Waddles, I'm not sure that's all for today." Three Blessed looked to the sky, their faces covered in grime and dirt. Mist enveloped the flying contraptions, but flashes came from within. In a sudden streak of light, a line cut through the white fog. For a moment, the battlefield grew quiet. Then, one zeppelin exploded. The air rippled, and the scream of twisting metal echoed over the battlefield.

The entire war was lit in bright red light, every soldier casting a shadow as the zeppelin fell over the Nov Yanosk line. Fingers shot to his feet.

"By the Saint, the Lion, and whatever's in between!" Another zeppelin burst into flames, turning the crafts into falling infernos.

"Waddles!" Wretch roared.

"Get ready, they won't pass up on this opportunity!" He knew his enemy. The Gulschaks were coming. And he was right. From the other side of no-man's-land, a vehicle leaking steam laboriously pushed a cage forward. Bars of steel ground open. Something stepped out into the killing field. Something hungry and freshly made. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. A mass of moving limbs as large as a train. A masterwork of butchery.

Stray limbs of every sort conjoined into the shape of a caterpillar. Every joint and vital hidden behind metal plates. On its front, a tattoo revealed the project's number.

"50""What the hell is that!" Fingers called.

"It's strong. The lunatic outdid himself with that one," Wretch hissed, but something in the air caught his attention. The thing crawled towards them, but the orange light from above was growing stronger. Wretch grabbed Fingers and turned.

"Are we retreating?" Fingers squealed.

"Look up, dimwit. We're dodging!" A zeppelin was swerving towards them, the entire thing blazing like a falling sun. The caterpillar turned to flee but was hopelessly out of position. Wretch dove on top of Waddles, pressing himself, Fingers, and the oaf into the nearest pit of mud. Fire and metal screamed as it passed overhead. Then the air turned to fire and the ground sundered. It was warm, that tug to let it all go. To drift into nothingness and never collect another wound.

But he denied it without a second thought. He drew a breath filled with smoke so thick it burned. A rattling cough sent him awake, scrambling to make sense of what had happened. The flying machine fell from the sky. His eyes shot open. All around him, the world burned. Curved metal beams from the machine littered the grounds like the ribcage of some divine giant. The suns above were blocked by black smoke, and burning embers fell like snow. His back was against a metal pole, a spike poking through his gut.

"Tssk," he growled and crawled onto unsteady feet. The pole slipped from his stomach with a wet noise and revitalizing agony. Blood spurted from his midsection, and with gritted teeth he let flame run through his system, knitting together the burns and wounds in his gut. Reflexively, he touched the side of his belt, breathing a sigh of relief that his weapon, the hand-cannon stolen from the Gulschak, was still in its holster.

"Fingers!" Wretch roared into the hellscape. A blast shook the air from above. Wretch turned to see another zeppelin, burning like a torch, shine through the haze before plummeting in the distance. Another tremor shook the ground, a wave of heat ruffling what remained of his fur.

"Waddles!" he screamed, even as the thick smoke scratched against his throat. Nothing. Only the perpetual distant orchestra of a senseless war. He stilled his breath and listened. He wasn't leaving them here, he needed their strength. Their company. A groan brushed against his senses, and he shot forward across the burning earth. He stopped over a metal plate. His claws wrapped around it, the heated metal sizzling against his skin. With a flex of his muscles, he pushed it aside.

Beneath it, embers fell onto a large form. Waddles crouched in a hole from the earlier bombardment. A cut marked his temple, his left ear missing, but his uneven eyes of different colors turned to Wretch with a frown. A growl escaped the larger man as he held out a hand to shield himself from the light above.

"Waddles, it's me!" The giant blinked, wiping blood from his eyes.

"Boss?" Wretch sniffed the air." Where's Fingers?" Only then did the giant reveal what he had been holding pressed to his chest, shielding it from harm. An unscathed Fingers, pale but breathing.

"You didn't eat him!" Wretch said.

"Well done!" Waddles tilted his head with a questioning look. A cough escaped Wretch's throat as he spoke.

"Can you move? We can't stay here, our trench, I don't even know where it is anymore." Waddles struggled to his feet. Another few cuts bled lines of red down his form, but nothing serious.

"This way," Wretch said after checking that the unconscious Fingers had no hidden wounds. Hand over mouth, they moved through what looked to be a different world entirely, ash clouding the sky like a curtain. Another wail of twisting metal echoed out, and another zeppelin met a fiery death in the distance.

"One of the flying things crashed again," Wretch wheezed through a cloth over his mouth.

"Follow me!" The vows allowed him, he realized. He already knew these vows were flimsier than the General had made them out to be. Both he and Fingers had understood so long ago. They weren't based on some higher truth, but rather if you believed yourself to have broken them. That was why Waddles could do as he wished. And how could they protect a trench that no longer existed? The blast must have roused Fingers, because a groan came from the tiny Blessed hanging limp over Waddles' shoulder.

"I'm alive?" Fingers said, looking around.

"By the Lion. How are we alive?"

"Waddles, hold the little one tight," Waddles said, shielding his eyes from the falling ash. A cough sent the tiny Blessed squirming.

"What about the trench?" Wretch answered with a growl.

"There is no trench. Don't think, just move unless you wish to be cooked alive." The tiny Blessed was put down to walk on his own feet as the trio pushed through the inferno. Their footsteps left prints in the ash. They must have entered the previous defenses, for previously well-maintained trenches and burning corpses grew more common. Then, through the haze, a figure stumbled. Swaying as they walked through the ashen wasteland, leaning on the metal remains of once-proud war machines.

"I see someone," Wretch said, squinting in the bright light.

"Must be a survivor. They're walking from our defenses," Fingers said. A scent caressed Wretch's snout, one he would never forget. Burnt fur, b ut not from any old beast. He froze, the other two almost bumping into him.

"Boss?" Waddles said, licking soot and blood from his upper lip.

"You's don't—" A twitch ran through Wretch, a squirm that traveled from his claws, up his arms, and to his mane-adorned neck. His killing intent burst out in all directions, startling his two underlings. The death of his captain played before his eyes, a middle-aged man taking wounds to save those he held dear. He had come to realize that many had held a part in that man's death. But only one could truly be blamed. The figure stopped, two blue eyes turning upward to look upon the trio standing in his path.

A white-haired youth, covered in cuts, bruises, and burns. He could have been called beautiful if not for the layer of ash, but there was a shadow of something dangerous across his features. In his hand something round was clutched. A head. One all three dogs recognized. Sasha, the Blade-Tide, the South's Edge, the Behemoth's Bane. The youngest Pyre in Nov Yanosk, reduced to a severed head with a slack jaw. The figure squinted back at them, blue eyes flaming to life with an intent of his own.

Wretch, Collector of Wounds, and Grendel the White Death stared at each other in the flames of war.

"That new skin," Grendel said between heavy breaths.

"It suits you... brother."