Light poured through a thick curtain into a narrow room. Six figures hunched around a table, blue overalls stained by oil, fingernails blackened by soot, and jaws marked by stubble. Next to a shuddering boiler, a clock ticked.

  On the table lay a crude drawing of a fortress, rings of walls around the center of the battlement. One of them tapped the second ring with a finger.

  “If we take out the outer wall, it will stop their charge. The fortress could hold,” a man said, his eyes flickering to his comrades. “But if we let Master Grendel’s horde take care of the first, and we take the second, the beating heart is laid bare.”

  “Does he really have those things under control?” another said with a shudder.

  The first man shook his head. “The intel only said one of the chieftains was raised by him. No doubt this plan has been in the works for years.”

  One of the men swallowed hard, a tremor in his hands. Another gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “It’s all right, Vlad,” he said. “We have kept up the act for long enough. Now our wait is over.”

  The clock chimed. Vlad jerked upright at the sound, licking his dry lips. He forced a smile.

  “I’m sorry. I just wish Victor were here to see it.”

  Another placed a hand on his free shoulder.

  “The true shame is that more hunters did not fall. Captain Edmund is dangerous, capable.”

  The broad man chuckled dryly. “We cannot leave them too weak. They still need to do their part against the rest of the tribes,” he said, looking up at the clock.

  A third clasped his hands in prayer, eyes closed. “We will join Victor soon enough. Release your tether to the flesh. Embrace the unceasing gears of the machine.”

  The broad figure lifted a battered barrel onto the table.

  “It’s time,” he said, and the room grew tense. Hands moved in silence. Personal luggage was ripped open, revealing army uniforms. The overalls were discarded, new boots pulled on, and wrinkled fabric straightened.

  “And the explosives?” another said, fastening buttons up to his neck.

  The broad figure slapped the barrel on the table with a lopsided smile. Undoing the lid, he held up an intricate orb of gears and inscriptions, catching the light with a golden shine.

  “From the best Gearmakers the Deep Furnace has to offer. It has been waiting here for months, hidden in a cellar. But the real problem was getting us and the fuel here.”

  “Fuel?” another asked.

  “This was outside my door this morning.” The broad man revealed a bag dripping with a viscous fluid. He pulled a glowing stone from within, throwing it to his comrade.

  “A coal, the same thing used by the Blessed machines of the Gearmakers.”

  Vlad stared at it with wide eyes. “To think I, lowly kindling, would get the chance to wield such power.”

  “Who smuggled these? You would think the church would sniff it out,” another asked, catching a coal thrown his way. “And why are they covered in… saliva?”

  The broad man shook his head. “It is not our role to know.”

  The man with clasped hands breathed out and opened his eyes.

  “Pray with me one last time, brothers,” he said. “Tonight we become ghosts in the Father’s machine. A roaring fire from the Scar Spines to the peak of Saints Summit. Let our meager flesh be the spark to ignite it.”

  A violent regurgitation echoed through the thin wooden walls, followed by a tap turning and running water. The men looked at each other with questioning expressions.

  Blood gushed from between his teeth, spiraling down the running drain. Still, he refused to let his concentration slip, sifting out the sounds and sensation of vomiting blood.

  In his mind’s eye, the squat houndlike monster Dagdag the Acid Cut bowed before his flame. He had examined it thoroughly. Its tongue had a muscular gland at its base that secreted acidic saliva, and its mouth and esophagus produced a neutralizing agent. To use it, he would have to change it all.

  Another burst of blood mixed with thin shreds of tissue assaulted the sink, and he drew a raspy breath.

  There we are.

  He gave a final red-tinted spit and looked into the mirror.

  Outwards, he looked much the same, but the sensation of his tongue was vastly different. It was pressed further back in his mouth, and he could sense a gland under his command. A constant lump in his throat.

  He stuck his tongue out between his teeth. It was longer and thinner, easily allowing him to lick his nose. He held out his hand and tried to squeeze the acid gland at the back of his throat.

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  Only a few drops had yet been produced, but perhaps that was fortunate. His throat spasmed and viscous spit shot from his mouth into his palm. It burned his skin like pressing it against a stove. He rubbed his hands together. The texture was oily and slick. It hurt, of course, but that was not much of a bother.

  Carefully, he examined the state of his palms.

  The skin was red and blistered with a lingering feeling of tightness. The reflection was likewise examining its hands. The strange creature in the reflection looked satisfied.

  Another tool, he thought, pushing his hands under the running water.

  A while later, the Richters walked through Sternthal’s narrow roads, stone passages without businesses, every building serving the military garrison, belching foundries and stuttering engine halls. All were packed closely together under sprawling battlements that segmented the city into squares at different heights.

  The hues were bleak, reduced to gray stone, soot, and brown brick. Atop the remnants of an ancient tower, now refurbished into a stack of chimneys, a handful of banners snapped in the wind, depicting the Saint in the same mellow palette. A wagon creaked by, pulled by children in wool coats, their breaths like steam in the cold air.

  Even the children work here, Wretch thought.

  Freezing winds rolled down from the Scar Spines above, and he pulled his coat tight.

  “Where are all the people?” Wretch asked.

  “This is a stronghold,” Edmund replied, one hand resting on his sword hilt. “And the easternmost to boot. The soldiers here keep an eye on the Spines. It is more watchtower than city.”

  Astrid turned to him, squinting through her glasses.

  “Is your voice a little deeper?”

  Wretch shrugged.

  “I got a new tongue. It can spit an acidic substance, but I had to change my mouth and throat too. It's a side effect.”

  “Saint,” Astrid answered. “Someday I will not even recognize you anymore.”

  "Yeah, but check this out!" Wretch said.

  A sound echoed out his throat and he opened his jaws wide. A shot of saliva flew from between his teeth, splashing against the ground next to a bucket a few feet away. The surface fizzed and bubbled.

  "You missed?" Elenya said with a chuckle.

  Wretch grimaced.

  "It's way harder than it looks. Give me some time damn it!"

  They walked up a winding pair of stairs, the rock polished by countless feet from the present back to ages past. They ascended to the top of a wall, peeking over the stones onto a breathtaking view.

  A valley lay between the lonely fortress and the Scar Spines. Clouds billowed around the peaks, refusing to disperse under the rays of the suns. Groups of pines clung to the rocky crags, and snowstorms moved as if they cared nothing for how the wind blew.

  “A wicked land,” Wretch said. “But you cannot deny it's beautiful.”

  “No,” Astrid said, not breaking her gaze from the ominous mountain range. “You really cannot.”

  They walked along the wall, passing crude iron bands that held the fractured stone together. All along the defenses, pipes were bolted to the rock, twisting erratically along the battlements. Soldiers were evenly spaced in pairs, watching over the jagged slopes. Others manned massive steam cannons, all of them dressed in the mellow green tones of the army.

  Ahead, a group of figures stood beside such a cannon, a colorful bunch compared to the surroundings. The mismatched gear and dark coats of the hunters stood out against the iron and stone.

  “Best behavior, ladies and gentlemen,” Edmund ordered, and Wretch and Elenya scoffed in unison.

  Dalynja waved at them as they closed in. Her appearance, surprisingly composed after the loss of a teammate, contrasted sharply with that of her colleague, the fighter, whose eyes were bloodshot and glassy.

  A short man with a bald head and wild eyebrows stood beside them, his hands tucked behind the intricate uniform he was wearing. Flanking him were a dozen other uniformed men and women, nodding in approval at his every move.

  He turned as they approached, taking a quick step forward and extending a hand.

  “Captain Richter, welcome.”

  “Major,” Edmund said, giving a firm handshake.

  “Thank you for your work. Being cut off from the rail means isolation for us. No shipments of fuel, food, or necessities. You have earned Sternthal’s thanks.”

  “Sir, it was a mission,” Edmund said simply. “We merely did our duty.”

  “You did. And you fulfilled it despite a tribe of Slaughter hounds, only losing an Ember. Usually they send a Blaze like myself, but manpower is tight, and I cannot leave this place undefended, can I?” The major put a hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “Impressive work.”

  “Tell me, Captain. Have you considered leaving this hunting business behind? The army is much more suited for a man of your skill,” he continued with a smile that threatened to reach his eyebrows.

  Wretch peeked out from behind Elenya. “Slaughter hounds?”

  Edmund shot him a hard glance, but the major nodded. “The unholy offspring of war and ferocity from ages past. They live in tribes at the base of the Scar Spines, each led by a Blaze. Dangerous, but nothing compared to the things that walk the slopes above. Thankfully, they have their paws full tearing each other apart.”

  Blaze, just one step above myself, Wretch thought.

  Astrid peeked out from the other side of Elenya. “What about the mist, sir? There was a thing walking through it. Vamir, the Voice Forgotten?”

  The major spread his hands, shooting a look to his subordinates, who nodded like broken gears. “There are many such places beyond the walls. It has been decades since that stretch of the rail broke down, and the beasts come and go."

  “Why do the beasts not just break the rail?” Astrid continued, scribbling notes.

  “They are said to be enchanted by the Saint herself,” the major answered. “But not even I am privy to that secret.”

  Edmund rubbed his temple at the curiosity of his crew, but the major seemed more than happy to show off his knowledge.

  “My offer stands, Captain. To you and your crew. Pension at fifty-five. Real work for the future of Nov Yanosk. Dalynja has already accepted,” the major said with a perpetual wide grin.

  Something brushed against Wretch’s mind. A sound, faint but certain. He frowned, turning toward the mountains.

  “Uh… Cap…”

  “I will consider it,” Edmund answered the major, paying him no heed.

  “That is all I ask,” the major answered. “Now tell me, how do you find Sternthal?”

  “A fortress worthy of the name, sir,” Edmund said and the squat military man nodded.

  “Thirty cannons. Two hundred unblessed soldiers. Twenty Embers, three Firelings. And me, the only Blaze until the next stronghold over.” The major gestured broadly to the patchwork of ancient and new defenses. “Add to that another two hundred troops relocated in response to the Gulschak’s activity.”

  “Captain…” Wretch said.

  Edmund sighed.

  “What is it, son?”

  “Drums,” Wretch said.

  The group looked at him with blank stares.

  “What?” Edmund asked.

  “I hear drums from the mountains.”

  The group turned to gaze at the slopes of the Scar Spines.

  The major’s smile vanished. “Telescope,” he commanded.

  An aide pressed a brass cylinder into his hand, and he lifted it, scanning the pine-covered crags. The major’s frown deepened.

  Wretch's black eyes were not particularly sharp, but they could see in the dark. Still, they were close enough for anyone to notice. Movement in the treeline, a tide of gray swarming to the beat of drums. A faint cacophony of inhuman laughter.

  “Slaughter hounds. Thousands of them,” Wretch said, licking his teeth with the long tongue.

  The major lowered the contraption and spoke in a grave voice. “Raise the alarm. Lieutenant, send a telegram to central. Sternthal is under attack.”

  He turned to the Richters.

  “I am afraid your departure will be delayed, Captains.”