Horde doom

[Rookie12]

Janine barged into the corridor leading to the command bridge with all the alacrity she could muster, knocking several white-furred, too slow to jump out of her way, aside. Marty shadowed her, the helmet closed to hide the fresh wound from bothering their unreliable allies. Several sages tried to bar their passages, begging Janine to put on some clothes, but she ignored them, carrying the Taleteller on her broad shoulder. The fur will serve her well enough. In the time of barbarism, she had no patience for civility.

The mobile fortress was hardly a subtle thing. Though it moved deliberately slow, its treads carved fresh roads, pulverizing swaths of nature, and thunderous cracks of broken trees and stones accompanied their journey to Houstad. Like frightened cubs trailing after a parent, columns of trucks and army vehicles followed, safely protected by the turrets of the mobile fortress, while Wolfkins lurked in the shadows of the untouched trees, descending on any enemy scout party in an orgy of violence and disappearing just as fast.

By attacking the refugee convoy, the fools had signed their own death warrants. No mercy was shown, but these were mere scouting parties testing their hides, and as Janine stepped onto the bridge, she grew worried that the Horde main force had caught up with them at last.

Mindless chaos filled the center. Normie officers loudly demanded an explanation for a failure; black-clad agents of the Investigation Bureau tried to contact their informants, threatening them with the death penalty for incompetence. Their superiors examined the holographic map detailing the Horde's advance and the slowly advancing yellow tide threatening to swallow the vastness of Houstad.

The situation was dire. The Wall had been breached in several places, and information poured in about tribes of New Breeds hurrying to reinforce the Horde's ranks. It seemed every scum by that side of the wilderness had either joined in or hired forces to pledge their allegiance to the Khatun, bolstering the already innumerable host with the fresh volunteers, and banners of the jaws swallowing the world soared high. Entire settlements became makeshift giant factories, churning out new weapons to support the growing numbers and pumping out ammunition. Prisons were cracked open, further swelling the ranks of the bondsmen.

Madmen, tyrants, dictators, and religious zealots who had previously behaved out of fear of reprisal now abandoned all semblance of civility and executed Reclaimers' ambassadors, publicly swearing fealty to the Gilded Horde. Sleeper cells from the locals and agents standing at the ready to behead uppity rulers found themselves surrounded and killed. Brood Lord's work, no doubt, and a further proof of treachery. Accounts flashed across the screen of forces under Iron Lord's banner, wiping out several bandit factions to preserve the citizens. Janine had no idea what kind of depravity was too much for the enemy to tolerate, but any news of infighting was music to her ears.

But the gloom was temporary, and the Reclamation Army hardly stood alone. Mercenary "kings" officially cast their lot with the state, serving as their informants in the conquered regions. Many former prisoners, trapped in war zones against their will, established contact and swore their innocence of having been forced into the invading army. And the Second and the First armies were coming. The die was cast, and even should they fail, they will be avenged.

Not that Janine had any intention of dying. Her eyes found Bertruda, who stood with outstretched arms being encased in a power armor by three personal squires.

"Sword Saint. What is happening?" Janine asked politely.

"The Knight Academy in Opul has failed to evacuate and is now under attack." Bertruda craned her neck elegantly, showing no sign of concern, and a squire hurried to attach her helmet to the gorget. "It is not far, and Mad Hatter was last spotted further to the north, so we are uniquely poised to serve as the perfect rescue team. I and my knights are heading out. Warlord, please take over…"

"Armor!" Janine said to a face of the nearby sage, who glanced at Bertruda for permission. A paw wrapped around her neck, dragging the woman nose-to-nose with the warlord. "I gave you the order, officer. A suit of armor, this instant! Or do you wish to deprive your kin of our might?" The sage emitted a scent of submission and eagerly hurried away.

"I am joining too. Need to stretch my legs, watch over that buffoon…"

"Who are you calling a buffoon?" Janine grumbled playfully. "You were the one who forgot the route home after that party two years ago!"

"…And my revolvers thirst for the Horde's blood. Can't deny them that." Martyshkina refused to take the bait, grinned, and spun her weapons.

"Thank you," quietly said Bertruda. "I did not expect cooperation after…"

"You expect us to abandon cubs? Have you lost your marbles, Sword Saint?" Janine asked. "I'll work alongside a skinwalker to rescue civilians if needed." She pressed two fingers to her chin and studied the map. Opul, a small town too close to Houstad. "No way they didn't receive a warning."

"This area was swarmed by the initial Horde's invaders before the Alpha Pack pushed them back," Bertruda said, but a hint of doubt crawled into her voice.

"No, Jani is onto something." Martyshkina holstered her revolvers. "The pits…"

"Academy, Lady" a sage corrected her.

"Whatever. Look." Martyshkina grabbed the sage, pressed him tightly against her chest, and pointed. "Why would there be jammers nearby, and why did they stop working half an hour ago? There is no military and not much of a civilian population to commit such resources. Besides, the Horde just kicked our butts to the north; why did the jammers pull back and let the news through? No, buddy, those creeps purposely delayed our evacuation to trap the cubs inside Opul. They are trying to pull Leonidas on us, just acting smarter about it."

"Summon Wolf Hags Anissa, Kalaisa, Elzada, and Shaman Impatient One. They are to join us, fully equipped," Janine commanded and stopped, shuddering at the necessity. "And call that white-furred Voidrunner girl… Thyia. I have need of her."

Her eyebrows rose as she saw the suit rolled in for her. A gleaming white hull belonging to an Ice Fang, large enough to fit her inside. On its chest, arms, and legs, it had artistically crafted muscles running over the surface of the combat plates, its helmet stylized after a muzzle of a stern Wolfkin. The sigils and colors of House Mountaintop across the breastplate coiled upward to the gorget, and a yellow cape cascaded from the shoulders.

"Remove the cape," she bit down on any argument. The outdated combat plate of Bertruda's predecessor, its helmet still bearing a bright spot marking the blow that had penetrated the defense and finished the man. A gesture of trust, maybe, or perhaps the only suit around capable of adapting to her unusual proportions.

"Greetings, Sword Saint. Please upload identification codes to update the database," said a pleasant, musical voice as a squire placed the helmet on Janine's head and the visor blinked to let her see.

"I am no Sword Saint," Janine answered, and the visor darkened while the armored pauldron on her shoulder tightened, restricting her movements.

"Unauthorized use of a Sword Saint's battle plate is no joking matter, initiate," the voice chastised her. "Stay still while I contact sages for disciplinary actions…"

"Sword Saint. The machine tries to trap me," Janine said, unsure if this was a deliberate attempt to humiliate her.

"Hundred apologies, warlord, it slipped my mind," Bertruda gasped. "IDs are sent. Suits constructed by the Divine Twins are governed by machine intelligences. We haven't found a way to upload them into the newer models yet."

"Hail, Sword Saint Bertruda! Glory to you and eternal memory to your predecessor," the voice sang with joy, and the systems reverted back online, filling the warlord's retinas with the flow of information. "Sword Saint Janine, you are approved for the honor of wielding the Mountaintop treasure. I await your wishes and instructions for the celebration following our inevitable success on the battlefield. Would you prefer a softer white wine, or perhaps…"

"I already told you, not a sword saint! I am Warlord Janine," she replied, adding after consideration. "Also, cognac and a cusack leg. Roasted."

"The title of Warlord is added to the honorary ranks of the Mountaintop House, Lady Bull-Slayer," the electronic voice chirped.

"Don't you dare call me that! That name belongs to your master, and don't add anything! I have nothing to do with the Ice Fangs! I am from the Wolf Tribe!"

"Ah, so you married into our house from our rowdy kin. I should have guessed as much when I heard your peculiar tastes in alcohol." She heard a tongue clicking. "How inhospitable of me! Fear not, my lady; I will prepare a list of necessary literature and etiquette lessons to help you fit into the house as if you were born here! Congratulations on your union with Sword Saint Bertruda."

"I can explain. It was the quickest way…" Bertruda began, but stopped after Janine's helmet slipped off the back of her head and she pointed a finger at the woman, shaking with rage.

"Not a word from anyone." She sensed it, the growing cheering in the center and occasional grins on the squires' snouts. A chuckle spread a red veil over her eyes, and she took several deep breaths, focusing her gaze on a small, black-furred figure fitting a gauntlet on her paw. "Marco? What are you doing here?"

"I am your adjutant, Warlord!" Marco chuckled and pressed a paw to his mouth. "Sorry. Hiccups. Lunches here are divine."

"Sure. Lunches," Janine nodded, burning from shame. "Machine! Wipe that disgusting insinuation from your databases! And if anyone dares…"

"I always knew there was something going on between you two." Marty wiped a non-existent tear from her lens, choking on her mirth. "May you have many passionate nights to share and raise countless cubs to your name…"

"Warlord Martyshkina." Janine snorted, clutching the Taleteller tighter. "A rank-match. After the war. Naked, claw to claw."

"Oh, what a shame, she's not satisfied with just one soulmate!" Martyshkina desperately threw her head up and retreated out of the Taleteller's range.

At least it helps the morale. Janine shut up and stood still, shooting down any suggestion of the machine intelligence about the feast or dresses. Marco dutifully helped fit greaves onto her legs. He still wore the coat but unzipped it, showing that he had put on a basic exoskeleton, and she spied a smoke grenade and several markers of various colors on his belt.

The sage asked Janine to raise her arms, and she obliged, grimacing as the woman fitted her with the pieces of underarmor. It felt tight, but when she flexed, the material stretched slightly, preserving the zippers and hole shapes around her implants. A squire staggered, seeing white, necrotic skin around several implants.

"Lady Janine." The boy licked his lips nervously. "We must call a hospitaller…"

"Insert it," she said.

"But the pain!" cried the boy. He looked at the sage and the other squires. "You all see it! Some implants are half broken, others are torn out, and the last ones are literally killing you, Lady! If we…"

Janine cast the yellow light of her eyes on his crimson ones, exuding a scent of both aggression and calm reassurance. If any male or female of the Tribe had dared to express their concern in such a public way, she would have broken their bones. But the young cub was of a gentler, brighter generation, an outsider despite their physical similarities. She had no right to lash out at him.

"It is my discomfort or them." She nodded at Opul on the map. "Simple choice."

Cables entered the still-bloodied wounds on her back, sending a refreshing electrical jolt across the nerves and filling her head with a nauseating, throbbing agony. Her heart rate increased, and the machine intelligence's voice immediately changed as it recoiled in disgust as it recoiled in disgust after running a scan of her body. She overrode all attempts to stop the union, licking away a trickle of blood coming down her nostrils and toughing out the discomfort.

Never before had she tried an Order suit, and when the machine turned on the air conditioning, she growled, ready to ask for it to be turned off before she froze her ass off when the temperature miraculously changed on its own, heating up. The Twins knew their craft and designed the visor to allow the user to see many kilometers ahead, complimenting the innate abilities of the Ice Fangs' crimson eyes, which could heighten perception enough to slow to a crawl even a falling rock in the air.

Wolfkins lacked such ability. Their talents lay in natural toughness, strength, and a faster recovery rate than their cousi… Ice Fangs. The suit's intelligence detected this and quickly adjusted the vision to spare the amber eyes from further strain. And with these changes, Janine's body underwent its own adaptation, synapses coursing across the nerves, reigniting even numbed and dead ones. Her brain and veins endured the unusual connection and grew stronger for it.

Meters-long bundles of fiber muscles slithered across her body, securing themselves and serving as a layer. Servomotors activated silently, relieving the weight, and then the backpack hummed, powered not by nuclear energy but by a plasma generator.

"I can't release my claws," she mused, hearing furious scrubbing.

"Do not be concerned, Lady, the suit is well-equipped to prevent such undignified barbarism," the machine eagerly assured her.

"Drop the lady, name's Janine. Do you have a name?"

"The former Sword Saints never found it necessary to give me one, Lady. Adress me as you wish. I exist to serve."

"Typical." Janine shook her head. "You're an ally, not a slave, idiot. And allies should have names. I'll call you Albert."

"Identification received and accepted," Albert happily sang. "May I…" his voice stuttered, "inquire as to why you allow the plates to be blemished?"

"It's not a blemish!" Marco argued, finishing his painting. "Tell him or it. My drawing isn't that bad!"

"R-right!" A squire nodded. "This family crest may be a little rough around the edges, but it conveys pride excellently."

"How inconsiderate of me!" Albert gasped, and the suit's cameras whirled to focus on the image of crossed muscular arms that Marco had painted on Janine's thigh. "The Mountaintop heraldry is updated with the Bull-Slayer sigil."

"Don't you dare…" Janine exhaled at the noise of the opened door and let it be.

"Anissa, Kalaisa, your packs are with me," Janine said to the newcomers, and the wolf hags bowed.

Kalaisa was an obvious choice for the mission, for the girl continued to grow, the seeds of a potential warlord blossoming in her. And Anissa, though she commanded an undermanned pack, proved herself well enough to work with the Ice Fangs, willingly swallowing her pride for the sake of the common goal.

"This won't leave much of a space for my own troops," Bertruda remarked.

"Unfortunate necessities of the world. Take your best along; we will be grateful for any assistance you can provide, Sword Saint," Janine said diplomatically, recalling the Ice Fang's question. Despite the betrayal, they had to work together; otherwise, what kind of protectors were they? "Wolf Hag Elzada. You and… Thyia are to act as joint commanders in our absence. If we do not return, you are to lead the pack and hurry to Houstad, no matter what."

"You would trust an Ice Fang?" Thyia asked in a voice full of venom, but then she blinked, preparing to apologize.

"Never." Janine let the helmet slip off her head and locked eyes with the woman, understanding the stress that momentarily overcame her. "But I think I know what to expect from you, considering your sword saint is on board. Our goals are aligned. I put you in charge because I can't be sure of the same about anyone else of your kin."

"Warlord. Your words are not conducive to a flourishing cooperation between our forces," Bertruda said.

"Because we worked oh so well before, right, Sword Saint?" Janine ignored the pleading look in the traitor's eyes. No more. No more unresponsive cordiality. Fuck the Order. Hostility in response to hostility. "Enough bickering. We need two APCs for the mission!"

"Already prepared, Warlord," Anissa knelt, and Janine noticed a prayer book tied to her waist with an iron chain.

"I'll go too!" Marco stepped forward.

"No," Janine said.

"Are you crazy?" Anissa laughed.

"Nope," Kalaisa added, and patted Marco.

"Don't even dream it," Impatient One warned.

"I can fight!" Marco released his claws, showing them his gentle and precious paws. "Warlord saw me pass the test! I can help you, Warlord! This time I will protect you…"

"You will stay behind, along with the cubs. You there!" She addressed the sage, who brought her armor. "Guard my son with your life."

"Warlord, I have proven that I can kill… Mother, I cannot lose any more of my family!"

Janine marched past Marco, ignoring his pleas and hating herself for not having time to comfort him. She will explain everything to him upon returning, even though his back had earned a new set of scars for his insubordination. Traditions demanded it, and by all rights she should have bitten him and thrown him to the ground to beat obedience into him, just as Terrific had done with everyone in her pack to instill discipline.

And look at how you turned out after such methods. A woman who sent her son to his death. Still sure there is value in cruelty, eh, Janine? Janine gripped the Taleteller's shaft. Perhaps it was time for some changes. Rather than punishing Marco, she will speak with him and patiently explain why it was not safe for a boy to be in a combat zone. Yes. Yes, it seemed logical. Normies raised their cubs in such a way, and there were tons of fine people among them! Spirits know Ravager was and still is wrong about many things; maybe the Spirits are now sending Janine an alternative path for the Tribe?

Banishing her heretical thoughts for now, Janine entered the spacious hangar and was guided by the HUD to the vehicles. Where the knight's armor projected nobility and elegance, the APC provided ruggedness and power. Two high-caliber machine guns atop each vehicle stood ready to provide fire support in combat situations, and their sleek, silvery shapes helped ensure that bullets would bounce off the hulls.

The technicians presented Janine with a new laser rifle, finished their preparations, and opened the ramps so that the eighty Wolfkins and twenty Ice Fangs could take their places in the harnesses while their leaders remained outside, fully capable of keeping pace with the transports on foot.

Instead of a ramp, a tunnel opened in the wall, and the APCs roared, racing out and flying over the continuous track, plopping heavily on the ground. Janine and the rest jumped after them, cratering the ground, and running on all fours, not even glancing at the convoy of surprised civilians and marching soldiers.

"Albert?"

"Yes, Lady?"

"Do you have sensors capable of detecting mines?"

"Naturally, Sword Saint and Warlord. Antennas in your feet act as feelers, reading the ground, and built-in radars will warn you of potential problems in advance. Everything is already in place; please trust me, you won't walk into a minefield."

"Thank you, ally." She hesitated, breathing in the clean air of the tortured forest. Do machines have souls? Would the Blessed Mother care? "It is wrong that your masters didn't use you, Albert. No one should be forgotten."

"It saddens me that our current technological knowledge is not sufficient to transfer or upload me into another suit," Albert said. "Not even Till Ingo could solve this problem. But you are incorrect, Lady! I assist in administrative tasks and watch over our historical records."

"Scrub me from them. I wish to have nothing to do with the Ice Fangs."

"Impossible. No one should be forgotten." She could've sworn there was a hint of smugness in his voice.

Martyshkina was right, Janine decided, shattering a tree in her path. An ambush awaited them, and they risked arriving at a battlefield only to find corpses. It didn't matter. If there was even the slightest chance of saving the civilians, they had to take it, and Janine intended to sacrifice the raiders to honor those who had fallen so far. A paltry gift, but she was just getting started.

There will be enough deaths before the war was over.

 

[Rookie12]

Research wins wars. Decided Iron Lord, raising the skewered Dirtyblood and ignoring the blood running down his glaive. His rival relied on prediction, improvisation, and other silly, unreliable schemes, which helped entice gullible masses. Folly, as Houstad's failure had proven. Only hard data mattered, and its proper application led to the establishment of a stable society. Research was hardly limited to technological advances, and sociology and psychology were the respected and valuable sciences.

Barely audible gasps escaped the Dirtyblood's mouth; her body convulsed and spasmed, arms desperately trying to lift the body from the blade, oblivious to the fact that her lung was no more. Vermin always tried to save themselves, rather than reaching for a gun on their belt and firing at the assailant. This moron was paying with her life for disobeying a simple order and demanding immediate assistance from Iron Lord. Irritated by his oversight, the khan turned off the disruption field, forcing the fool to suffer the consequences.

Both should have known better. But there was a lesson in every failure, and Iron Lord intended to learn it, accepting his partially impaired mental state.

Theoretical. How do you defeat a nation? In ages past, vast armies marched on. To avoid the terrible casualties of urban warfare, economic blockades were set up to starve the opposition into submission. New fates were forged during clever negotiations in high cabinets, while propagandists sowed seeds of discontent among the general populace. Net, news, pocket politicians, strategy, discipline, will, numbers, technology, flexibility—through these currencies, a nation purchased its future and manifested its destiny.

Nowadays, the validity of such notions was questionable at best. Starve the Horde, murder every last one of their minions, and what have you accomplished? Mad Hatter will still exist, and through her might alone, she'll rebuild and conquer, forming another Gilded Horde. Demigods roamed the lands, smashing hundreds, casting doubt on the former ways of war by disregarding numbers and overcoming strategy through brute force. They were the countries in themselves, and any nations that formed today were unions of such individuals, with the less fortunate rallying around them.

Humans didn't matter. To survive and preserve those they care about, they had to ensure the victory of their demigod, even if that person wasn't a paragon of virtue. It was a bitter irony. Iron Lord cared about the Merchants and his wives, and for their sake, he planned to ensure that his people would learn how to create soulless gods obedient to their commands.

Practical. How to conquer a nation? Take down such individuals, cull them, shatter the false illusion of security, and essentially disarm your foe before lowering the curtain by sending the elite to swoop in. A simple plan, but how to create an opportunity to massacre a demigod? That was where research chimed in. Once a demigod's thought process and habits were known, setting a trap was trivial. And the Reclaimers… they cared for their young.

His idea clear, Iron Lord had contacted the traitor, wrested the tool from the clutches of his rival, and obtained the study sites of the white-furred Purebloods. After carefully calculating their future advance, Iron Lord had chosen one, a perfect spot to deprive the Reclamation Army of one of its best assets. And the Horde had gained a target.

Not everything went as he had expected, but such was the price of working alongside the incompetent. He cast the dying woman on the floor and let his thunder bull feast. Iron Lord and his elite guards hid themselves in an industrial warehouse of this settlement. Built around the Knight Academy, Opul thrived on the Order's generous donations. Located deep within the Reclamation Army's territory, it lacked even a simple palisade.

That morning, hoverbikes had streaked through the streets, disrupting the morning silence with the hiss of pulse rifles. The infantry charged in after them, lobbing explosive munition into the tall complex glistening in the sunlight. Its reinforced stone blocks endured the searing heat, darkening and melting as the hordemen surrounded the place, ensuring that no victim would be able to escape. Against his strict instructions, the khan in charge of the rabble led her soldiers in a headlong assault and was bloodied by the defenders. Iron Lord didn't care about the casualties; the majority of the degenerates belonged to Brood Lord, and any of his own troops had richly earned themselves death.

He wasn't waging war on children, not when Mad Hatter wasn't around to order him to stage another massacre. The white-furred were supposed to undergo brainwashing and join his khaganate.

Phaser had opened a portal and endured an agonizing experience to let a large group into Opul in exchange for forgiveness for his involvement in the would-be assassination. Iron Lord had refused to explain anything to the khan and simply admired the place. Most of the buildings were built in a 'block' style to house large families, but closer to the academy were proper houses and mansions, owned by both the locals and the white-furred. Unfortunately, they had been ransacked.

About a hundred citizens stayed in Opul out of concern for the children, while the rest fled into the forest, for all the good it might have done them. The mayor, a heavily augmented and tanned individual, hurried to Iron Lord, imploring him to spare the kids. Iron Lord let the mayor run his mouth, in case he had something important to say, and observed the events through the visors of his troops. Unmoving, unbreathing, sustained by the life-support systems. Like a true machine.

Enraged by her losses, the khan had bombarded the complex of white stone and chrome, destroying its magnificent statues and royal imagery, reducing many facilities to smoking heaps of collapsed rubble. Ravenous beams burned away barred balconies, and flashes from rocket explosions sent an avalanche of rocks and marble tumbling down. Doors bore traces of dents and notches. A dome housing an observatory had been breached, and a small inferno was now pouring out of it. Vaulted passages between the complex's facilities stood no longer.

Inside the complex, the hordemen battled against the instructors clad in outdated power armors. Iron Lord admired the ingenuity of his opponents, who had managed to separate the invaders by locking the doors, as well as their dedication and efficiency. Silver and white figures almost danced on the walls, elegantly bypassing their opponents' crude shield walls, slashing at joints and cutting sinews, even hacking through bones. In the end, their sacrifice meant little. One after another, they died under a hail of bullets, and their wards were meeting the same fate from the enraged soldiers breaking into classrooms.

The barbarity unleashed touched Opul, introducing its inhabitants to the harsh truth of their shared world. And there was something else, a veneer of another horror touching souls, ever intensifying…

Iron Lord opened his tired biological eyes, stirred by the howls of aggression filling the streets. An axe, bigger than a man's body, flew out of the forest, spinning, slicing through three bondsmen and burying itself in a hoverbike, exploding it and setting nearby soldiers aflame. Their armor saved them from burns and injuries, but they never stood up as two orbs of plasma—the orbs that speared through a dozen trees—finished them off by burning their way through their bodies.

Two massive, super-heavy vehicles stormed into Opul, oversized parodies of the Provincial Army's APCs. Parts of buildings in their path shattered, and an unlucky rider got splattered into a mix of broken steel and innards by their wheels.

Huge figures entered the fray, seemingly blinking into existence with their superior speed. One carried a long spear, and a flick of her wrist sent its blade through several necks as the sword saint, in shining armor, stepped ahead, making sure not a drop of blood stained her cloak. Another Wolfkin walked across the rooftops, firing her revolvers. A single shot sent a web of cracks snaking behind a hordewoman, who looked at the gaping emptiness in her chest in disbelief before collapsing. The bullet itself ricocheted off the ground, killing another soldier before ricocheting off the blade of the spear and slaying the third. Even the sword saint seemed to be startled for a tenth of a second, and then she became a whirlwind of strikes. Smaller copies of their leaders sneaked through the rubble, firing their ugly versions of shotguns or slashing those near them.

The street shook as the third giant leapt. His weight left a crater in the pavement and tossed several hordemen and the large axe into the air. A hand closed around the axe, and the Pureblood spun, bisecting the bodies. Another hand grasped a retreating raider by his helmet and drew him nearer, as if the sword saint wanted to bite him, but at the last second he ripped the man's face off and then struck, cracking the cranium. Legs, looking too short, stomped, bursting bellies of the soldiers.

Not him. She. The escapee. The one who hurt my son… and spared my daughter. His lips parted in predatory glee. Janine wore a false insignia, but her battle style of carving a bloody path formed of mutilated bodies betrayed her undeniably as a black-furred. Not a hint of mercy and all the aggression a mind could hold.

What luck! Two warlords, a sword saint, and the main course had not yet arrived. He had time to partake in the storm of madness.

"Prepare to fire Sky's Wrath at Opul!" Iron Lord said to the behemoth's crew and opened a direct line to another great khan. "Brood Lord! Keep Phaser ready. His ass…" Why am I cursing? What is going on here? "… is to open a space rift on my command. Use the video feed of our troops to deduce the coordinates of our location."

"Some of us have a war to wage." Brood Lord yawned. "What are you up to, Rust Lord?"

"Correcting your mistakes, imbecile," Iron Lord answered, energized and frightened in equal measure. His implants kicked in, filling the bloodstream with chemicals, and it wasn't enough. His emotions joined in a maddening carnival, filling him with desires. "Gilded Horde!" He raised Patience. "To conquest and wealth! Devour the world!"

"Devour the world!" the bodyguard roared back.

The thunder bull trotted on, past the open-mouthed mayor, accelerated, and shattered the entrance, sending a rain of pebbles and iron beams harmlessly crashing into the Iron Lord's bulk. A field of disruption formed around the glaive's edge, ready to bring carnage.

They advanced like a flood, leveling everything in their path. Calming himself, Iron Lord paid attention to a coded message Brood Lord sent to one of the panicked lesser khans on the field. There was always the risk of betrayal, but he had taken precautions to ensure a positive outcome.

"Horkhudagh." Iron Lord contacted the Flame Whip. "Stay close for support."

****

Divide! The Taleteller came down, splitting a man into two unequal halves. Pierce. Her armored fingers struck, shattering a gorget and crumbling a trachea. Her jaws tried to open to catch the coughed blood and drink the vitae like water. Disgusted, Albert caught her desire and unsealed the helmet. Tear. Her head swung, closing her fangs on a fleeing raider, breaking his spine. She stepped on the paralyzed fool and heard the bones crack. Divide. Split. Divide!

"Isn't that why you came, morsels?!" she thundered. "Then come and face me, instead of scurrying away! I haven't even sent all of you into the Abyss!"

Janine broke the law. The understanding of the simple fact that she was feasting on the living and the dead did not even bother her, as the cold fury unleashed by the sight of yet another plundered sanctuary drove her to abandon any pretense of civility. She was a beast, a monster in the service of the state! Every move killed or maimed, and the warlord reveled in the terrified screams, embracing the savage nature of the Wolf Tribe.

Roars and howls reigned on the streets, choking the whispers and pleas of the dying and fear-struck. Impatient One tore a khan's limbs one by one, as if she were a cub toying with an insectoid. Then her claws plunged into the wide-open eyes. Anissa and her pack emerged from the smoke, denying a retreat to the enemy.

The Ice Fangs' shock was almost palpable; the warlord sensed that much. Bertruda joined the slaughter, but her occasional hesitation after hearing a scream of surrender betrayed that everything in her revolted against this way of waging war. The Twins and the Blessed Mother had established rules, adjusting them as the state grew. But now, at the zenith of the grievous strike aimed at civilization, its soldiers abandoned normality and snarled, participating in a brutality that surpassed even that of their enemies.

Janine didn't howl, too busy killing.

"You came to our lands as monsters!" Janine snarled, swatting away bullets with the Taleteller. A beam of her laser rifle toppled an enemy soldier. "Bringing woe to our families! Ruins to our dens!" A raider tried to ram her, only to find the butt of the axe tearing off a sizeable chunk of his throat and head. The blade slashed, severing the legs of three raiders at their knees. She kicked a Pureblood in the chest, denting his armor, but the fat underneath softened the blow and absorbed some of the impact. Still, his visor was suddenly covered in red from the inside.

"Please!" he pleaded as Janine turned her kick into a stomp, splattering the man against the ground. His armor held, but she saw the bastard's body balloon, the flesh pressing hard against the breastplate. "Mercy!" He yelled in desperation, trying to lift her leg. "I beg…"

"He is no longer a threat," Albert said.

"And monsters you have met." The body exploded under increased pressure. "Rip apart, Reclaimers!" Janine roared, sending an order for Kalaisa to eliminate the hordemen near the entrance doors. "There are no humans here! Retaliate and let them taste our righteous fury!" Anissa obeyed another command and halted their ambush, forming two firing lines that mowed down riders trying to get to the APCs.

The defenders slammed their shields into the ground, blocking the incoming grenades and shielding the precious transports. With a grunt of approval and no intention of staying put, the Wolfkins rode the blast and scattered. The knights raised their blades and unleashed ranged hell on the grenadiers.

Plasma from Bertruda's wrists immolated several brave hordemen trying to mount a defensive line. Martyshkina jumped down from the building, her cloak flapping in the gust of wind propelled by explosions. Two shots eliminated the last riders, and the last to arrive at the Academy's entrance was Janine, covered in blood and gore, her blue visor shining like a newborn star, and her leg kicked a head into the hordemen's ranks. That sight, and something about her, broke whatever morale the raiders had left, and they tried to scurry away and disappear into the streets of the town.

No respite was given to them. Shardguns pronounced their verdict, joined by the banshee screams of the APCs' rotating cannons, which sheared off entire body parts. Several civilians unsteadily poked their heads out of the ruins, shrieking in terror as black-clad paws unceremoniously grabbed them and shoved them into the transports.

"That was… intense," Albert mused.

"Wolf Tribe's way," Janine admitted. "See? Told you, no need to tarnish the Order with my shit."

"Let us not argue about it now, Sword Saint and Warlord. You talked about the minefield, but there is none. If…"

"No ifs! It is a trap," she interrupted him and pointed at the Academy. "Inside!"

The packs and knights charged toward the entrance and found it sealed shut by the tons of rubble merged. Albert helpfully informed the rescuers of a ventilation shaft, but unfortunately it was too narrow for any of them to enter, and sending a civilian inside might have been suicide. Janine waved the troops aside and brought the Taleteller high. She'll shatter the damn stones if…

"Prey!" Martyshkina cried out, and a moment later, the ground shook.

 

[Rookie12]

A storm front of ruination swept toward the Reclaimers, and house after house collapsed, unable to withstand the stampede that rocked the very ground. Pebbles and steel chunks jumped up and down, waves ran in blood pools, and a yellow flash in the building ahead confirmed Janine's suspicions. A trap was closing in on them. She elbowed an Ice Fang away, denting his gauntlet but saving the woman from having her head melted by a particle stream. Nearby, a defender threw up his shield, protecting Anissa from a similar fate.

"Kalaisa, Anissa, find a way inside and lead the survivors to the ventilation shaft. We'll handle the situation outside." She stopped their arguments, ordered the packs to split evenly to the north and south under the leadership of the scouts, and marched off to face the enemy alongside Bertruda and Martyshkina. A tap of her foot sent Impatient One off the front line to skulk behind a warlord.

And the buildings facing them exploded; the cinder blocks themselves, crushed by hide and steel, were reduced to dust, and out of them burst brightly ornamented forms: thunder bulls carrying riders entombed in the thickest armor, their plates shining purple, gold, green, and every other color imaginable.

At their head was a truly enormous figure, the gray-colored bastard who had murdered Eled. Where the plates of the other riders had smooth surfaces and curves, the leader's was covered in dozens of black spots that covered his legs, elbows, and shoulders. His fingers gripped the handle of a long glaive, dragging the blade across the ground, where a shimmering gray field around its edge devoured the pavement. The lenses on his helmet focused on the Reclaimers, his armor more suited to a heavy assault tank than a battle, and the cannons on his shoulders stirred.

Martyshkina spun revolvers in her paws and fired, aiming at Iron Lord and a rider to his left. The bullet tore through the smaller rider's helmet, exposing wires, bone, and brain matter, and the man shook in his seat but still tried to maintain the charge. The glaive swung up, erasing the bullet, and the khan snapped his fingers, sending the wounded back. His cannon gathered energy and fired, forcing Marty to dive to the side, dodging a blast capable of piercing even a warlord's armor. A small sizzling orb struck a pile of rubble and expanded into a huge sphere, melting the entire thing.

"His movements…" Albert muttered.

Close range it was. Janine leaped ahead, creating a sonic boom that flapped the knights' cloaks and trusting the scouts to lead the troops. Like a flying missile, she collided with Iron Lord, bringing her axe against the shaft of his weapon, and a thunderous bang rattled the remaining windows, briefly displacing all oxygen and creating a momentary vacuum. As the air flowed back in, she heard the whine of their servomotors and found herself in a deadlock. The man withstood the blow by holding his weapon with both hands, but as Janine's snout closed for a bite, he let go of his weapon and pushed her head up, exposing the throat.

"Predictable."

"Best things in life usually are, creep," Janine growled, planting her feet firmly on the bull's head. Not trying to win the strength contest, she simply grabbed his side, pulling the khan from his steed to the ground, and the deadly shot from his cannon flew into the sky.

Iron Lord rolled aside, blocked a kiss of Elegance with his glaive, and nimbly retreated from a swing of the Taleteller. Bertruda gracefully dodged a spear aimed at her head; the afterimage left in the wake of her perfect dash faded before the rider's eyes. A lightning-hot slash severed the animal's jugular, and it stumbled, disbelieving its own mortality. But its rider had already slipped from the dying steed, and two spears met in the air, weaving and striking past each other. Deep gouges and cuts covered the hordeman's armor, while Bertruda's own armor remained unblemished as she drove her opponent back.

Martyshkina straight up bit a coming axe, scowling at electrical discharges irritating her lips, but stopping the weapon dead as she fired into the bull's knee, bringing it low enough to fire at the ironclad sitting on it. The man was thrown against his seat, letting go of his weapon and reaching for his rifle. The warlord batted the weapon aside and elbowed the enemy in the face, shattering his helmet.

In the chaos of the battle, Janine stepped behind Iron Lord as he aimed his shoulder cannon at Bertruda. She raised the axe for the blow, preparing to slice through the bastard's neck while he was occupied.

"The position of his helmet lenses, the black spots… Sword Saint Janine, this isn't a suit! He knows!" Albert yelled as blue flames spat from the rear of Iron Lord's backpack, rapidly turning him around.

It was her ally's warning and her own instincts that saved Janine's life. Iron Lord pressed his glaive tightly to his chest to hide it from the warlord, and the scraping of the shaft against his bulk accompanied the impossibly swift stab that shaved off part of her greave. She dodged the fatal blow by a hair, wrecking one of his two cannons, and retreated a step, ready to face the khan head-on.

"His is piloting his armor, not wearing it," Albert said.

"Or he is a machine," Janine said. "Like that boy, Mehmed."

"Hmm?" Iron Lord stopped in the middle of the fight, blocking a shardgun shot with a swing. "You've met him? How were his last moments? Was his performance in battle after the upgrade an adequate improvement?"

"Upgrade…" Janine whispered. "You. You are the one who did it to him. How could you violate your own flesh and blood so much?!"

"Father." The rider who had fought Bertruda escaped their duel to let two other ironclads fire at the sword saint. The towering figure asked in a familiar female voice. "What is the mutant talking about?"

"It is nothing important, Zulfiya," Iron Lord answered. "Your brother died, and I used his remains for one of my pet projects, trying to resurrect him and further my knowledge. It was in everyone's best interest."

"You used him, took away his ability to feel, drove him insane, and discarded him, you monster!" Janine reached for her back and aimed the laser rifle at Iron Lord. The beam splashed against a force field that appeared around the khan.

"The only monster here is you, cannibalistic filth." Iron Lord's figure charged forward, propelled by the force of his engines. Janine blocked his glaive with the Taleteller, heard the devouring field choke as it tried to damage the ancient alloy of her weapon, and then his fist crashed into her chin.

It was as if she had taken a siege artillery shell head-on. The blow broke one of her fangs, concussed her brain, and cracked the side of her visor. The damaged area swelled instantly, and the khan shoved Janine to the ground, with Albert trying to shout a warning as Iron Lord knelt and raised his glaive. She deflected the thrust with the Taleteller, and Janine forced herself to move after noticing the energy gathering in the remaining shoulder cannon.

She headbutted him. Weakened as she was, it didn't do much damage, but it moved her off the cannon's trajectory, and the orb dug itself into the ground, ready to explode. Iron Lord's force shield bubbled back up, trying to shake Janine off, but she clung to him like glue, and the khan activated his thrusters, escaping the danger zone of his own weapon.

Blinking through the pulsing agony of her trembling mind, Janine climbed behind the khan the moment he stopped and chopped at his back, ruining a set of thrusters, and punched the bastard in the jaw, denting his helmet a bit and forcing Iron Lord back.

"An interesting alloy," he said in a mundane tone, oblivious to his predicament, blocking two incoming swings and holding his ground. "Tell me, if the Reclaimers can produce such weapons, why is your armor not up to par? Who among you has the knowledge to replicate the material of your axe? Answer me honestly, and I promise to treat your prisoners humanely and give you a clean death," he chuckled. "The same as I gave that other mutant… Eled."

"Not even going to offer me a chance to survive?" Janine grinned. "Afraid I will escape?"

"No, my wife wouldn't understand. Not after what you did to her son."

"His name is Mehmed!" Janine snapped, growing infuriated against her will. A family was one of the most important things in Wolfkin society. And this creature treated his offspring like an afterthought! "He was your son, too! Say his name!" The downward swing beat his boots deep into the ground.

"Why waste words on a broken tool?" Their weapons clashed, spewing dissipated pieces of the field around the khan's weapons.

Devastation widened around them, brought by the colliding forces. The shardguns had a partial effect on the enemies; most of the armor-piercing projectiles stuck in the thickest plates or barely nicked them. The Ice Fangs fared little better, and the battle spilled to the outnumbered defenders and knights. Betrayers though they were, the Wolfkins never abandoned their allies, and the packs rushed into the fray to support their hard-pressed allies. Even trapped in the open and outnumbered, these hordemen proved to be incredibly tough opponents, trapping the Reclaimers.

The gyrating and stomping forms of the thunder bulls struck harder than a speeding truck full of ore; their simple treads occasionally broke limbs or brought death. Their riders unleashed their own energy weapons, melting the state's alloys and immolating the soldiers inside, forcing the soldiers to retreat from the academy's exposed main entrance or risk endangering the APCs carrying civilians. Two knights, smoke billowing from their bodies, collapsed to the ground dead, followed by seven Wolfkins, and the invaders lost two soldiers. Kalaisa and Anissa glanced down against their will and resumed climbing to the rooftop of the complex.

Relying on training and decades of experience to fend off Iron Lord, not even concentrating on him, Janine turned her attention to the battlefield and closed her helmet briefly. Albert relayed her instructions for the Wolfkins to aim for the animals' eyes and for the Ice Fangs to break up the fight and use their own cannons to concentrate on the wounded steel-clads. The Wolfkins were to create gaps for the Ice Fangs to destroy the meat within.

The glaive slashed, and the warlord nonchalantly slashed upward with his axe, sending the incoming blade flying. Iron Lord calmly adjusted his grip and stabbed three times with the lower end of his weapon, denting Janine's shoulder and chest armor into her body, before firing his cannon. As she stepped away from the deadly orb, he launched a horizontal swing to decapitate her.

"Die, ghoul!" Elegance's tip lanced near Janine's helmet, striking the haft of the glaive and stopping the blow. In a moment's notice, Bertruda and Janine fought side by side, assaulting the khan while Impatient One replaced the sword saint and kept the hordemen from helping their leader.

"Ghoul?" Iron Lord's dynamics betrayed not a hint of panic as he retreated, trying to keep them at range. "You find my methods inhumane, not out of disgust, but out of fear. Born a Pureblood, a being superior to humans, you are naturally dreading the possibility of a genius mind capable of overturning your world and raising the common folk to your level, girl…"

"I view you as scum regardless of your sick inventions!" Bertruda said her plasma casters fired, and the orb fired by the khan exploded. Janine thought that she'd seen the woman she thought to be a sister once again as they both darted to the left and right, circling around the growing sphere of death and flame that danced on the Ice Fang's cape. "How dare you threaten children?!"

"Woe to the conquered," Iron Lord parried, stepping back heavily. "I must admit the inadequacy of my knowledge. I thought that after the Ice Fangs' callous disregard for cooperation, no Wolfkin would ever fight by their side. Yet here you are, unafraid that one might sacrifice another…"

"Because you are worse!" Elegance and the Taleteller joined together in a unified attack. The blade of the spear, surrounded by a searing hot aura, slashed at the destructive field of the glaive to the khan's left, and the axe sunk deep into his forearm from the right, trapping the man.

"Wrong. I am better," he answered without a hint of pain.

Metal legs left the ground as Iron Lord spun in the air, carried by his remaining engines. He kicked Bertruda away and brought the glaive down on Janine, forcing the warlord to block or be cut in half. The ground cracked around her legs, and the khan's steed crashed into the sword saint, sending her flying. Janine slammed a shoulder into his knee, stopping the man's attack, and pushed hard, bringing him back to the road.

"Warlord!" Albert said, distracting her from the battle.

She was about to order him to shut up when the remaining part of her visor changed, showing the retreating APC. Marco. He dropped from underneath the vehicle's belly and ran on all fours towards the Academy.

"Marco!" Janine screamed. "Get inside the transport!"

How was he here? Betrayal, obviously; the traitors had set the Wolf Tribe up again. But how exactly did Marco get here? The exosuit… Nonsense! A healthy female could have clung to the bottom of the transport long enough to weather every bump in the road, but her boy wasn't that strong! He should have fallen off long before they reached Opul! Marco was supposed to be safe.

Her son. Marco was in danger. The thought stopped her long enough, but Iron Lord didn't stop her, shifting his bulk towards the entrance, perhaps puzzled by her strange behavior.

"I'll help!" The boy shouted, climbing to the airway. "It's going to be okay, Warlord! I'll lead everyone to safety; trust me."

Light appeared in the khan's cannon as it tracked the new target, and Janine lunged, ending up in a stalemate against his weapon and trying to push the giant aside.

"Marco! It is not safe; get back!" she shouted, straining her body to the limit and hearing the whine of the yielding motors of her opponent's armor. Slow, not fast enough…

"Khan! Why are you targeting the flea?!" Zulfiya shouted, peeking from behind a thunder bull and firing a shot at the Wolfkins, melting Kirk's pauldron. He gritted his fangs and rolled to the cover, supported by the fire of his family.

"I…" Iron Lord's helmet shook, and the cannon stopped aiming at Marco. "Right you are, Zulfiya! Surprising and irritating. Ignore the gnat; he'll die to the degenerates inside, anyway. We don't care for children." He heaved against the glaive, intensifying the pressure, and sparks jumped from the cut in his arm. "It's the adults that matter."

"Even, bitch." Janine heard Zulfiya's hiss. "I'll make you pay tenfold for what you did to Mehmed and my humiliation!"

The danger inside… Terrific manifested into reality again, sitting on Iron Lord's shoulders and clawing at his helmet. The dull eyes scowled at Janine, insulted by her choice of armor. Her withered lips curled, and her throat forced out a single word in a barely audible whisper.

"Restraint…"

Correct. Janine gritted her fangs, accepting Marco's shoulder camera into the pack view and witnessing the darkness of the corridor unfold before him as the boy climbed in. Restraint. It was impossible to change what had happened, and her duty demanded her full attention here to preserve the troops and end the danger.

"I can guide the boy," Albert offered.

"Do… don't," Janine said wearily. "You are an Ice Fang. And they don't care about our young."

I trusted them with one of my most precious…

"Lady, I'll never…"

Terrific stirred and stood up as the time resumed back to normal, her lips flapping as she tried to say something as fear swept over the battlefield, shaking both fighters. Even Bertruda missed a step, and the thunder bull rammed her into the building with its ugly head.

"Ah…" Iron Lord said, and his shoulder cannon moved, pointing at Janine's face. "The reports were inaccurate. Die."

 

[Rookie12]

Janine darted to the right, escaping a stream of energy that rolled toward the academy and bubbled near its walls, hungrily devouring everything in its path. She barely had time to raise her axe before the blade of the glaive, encased in the strange field, descended to split her head in two.

By the Spirits, the khan was strong! Whether empowered by technology or maybe using some exotic ability, his swing sent reverberations through her bones, and the stone beneath her feet cracked to accept the sucking boots. He dragged the glaive over her shoulder, and its fluctuating aura touched her shoulder, instantly dusting the top of her pauldron. Janine had endured plasma and laser beams; she had bathed in toxic waste and survived viruses hidden in the ancient laboratories. But a simple vibration sheared a slice of skin off her shoulder, prompting the warlord to jerk her weapon up and kick Iron Lord with a knee.

The collision produced a dull thud, and a round dent appeared on the plate of his armor. Iron Lord tried to elbow the warlord, but she caught his arm in her maw, and her fangs gouged deep, torn lines before he broke the limb free and they resumed their battle.

The glaive's length helped the khan to prevent heavy chops of the warlord's axe from landing on him, and the shimmering cocoon formed around its blade created a fake illusion of safety as the destructive potential of the vibration extended beyond the visible gray mass, and Janine learned of it during a block, nearly losing her fingers. Each time she closed in on him, she had to retreat, denting his armor rather than tearing it.

"Really could've used my claws," Janine complained, dodging a lashing slash.

"Apologies, Sword Saint and Warlord. The suit has no such function," Albert said. "As per the Divine Twins decree, the use of natural claws is forbidden as invoking barbarism…"

"And that is bad why?" Janine inquired, parrying a slash aimed at her armpit.

"Barbarism tends to slowly taint every facet of society, leading to veneration of martial prowess over intellect and the creation of cruel laws. To combat the clear paradox of needing to be strong to defend oneself and still set an inspiring example, all children of our Houses are trained in the arts, exposed to culture, encouraged to pursue creativity, and regularly write essays pointing out obvious flaws in the ideology of our noble leaders to avoid descending into idolatry," Albert readily answered. "I can send you video materials…"

"Belay that. Idol… what's that?"

"Worshipping of idols, you mangy beast!" Iron Lord snapped.

He wielded his weapon as if it were a feather, launching deceptively fast and wide swings, trying to lure Janine into accepting the tempo of their duel before rapidly changing the situation and going for a sudden thrust. She took the stabs at the Taleteller's shaft, deliberately stalling the fight to further enrage the man.

"Never the matter!" Iron Lord roared, advancing at her. "You won't take advantage of it! Your assault is a mere breeze, soothing the walls of a mighty bastion! It changes nothing; it aids nothing!"

She didn't try to guess the meaning of the foolish chatter coming from the dynamics of his helmet. Confusion caused death as surely as any bullet. But there was something off about the battle. Iron Lord was too chatty; he hadn't been like this when they first met, and his behavior contradicted the information gathered about his habits.

The strangeness didn't stop with Iron Lord. They paced back and forth, each gaining and losing ground as they tried to land a crippling blow past the defenses. Anger, fear, and worry shook Janine's core, but these were the feelings she expected to feel. But when the khan slashed horizontally, trying to decapitate a knight who happened to be nearby, the warlord was willing to let it happen.

Memories of Mincemeat, the monster of the Wastes, saved her conscience, soul, and the knight's life. That creature had spread its mind control far and wide, bending those within its direct sphere of influence to its will, and those outside had suffered from the changes in their moods.

A heinous act doesn't excuse a heinous response! The amber light in her eyes flashed, and she bellowed a challenge, barging into Iron Lord's close range and blocking the slash. She was rewarded with a pummeling of his fist, hearing her armor crack. From afar, Martyshkina fired without looking, the bullet screaming through the air.

It faced the blanket of the force field activated around Iron Lord, slowed, and continued pushing through. The khan hesitated, and Janine capitalized on it, lacerating his plate, and the bullet tore a chunk from his shoulder. Three ironclads assaulted Martyshkina, denying further assistance. Shots of their plasma guns almost concealed Marty, and ammunition in one of her pouches exploded. The Wolfkin broke through the heat wall and kicked one of the three in the neck, piercing his gorget and finishing him off with four shots to the chest.

The fighters around gave space to the two fighters, and Janine relinquished command to Martyshkina and the traitorous Bertruda, opening a channel to see her son.

Marco braved his way through the darkness of the ventilation shaft, occasionally breathing slightly. He tried to hide it even now, but both of his popliteus suffered from degenerative tissue syndrome. Normal New Breeds would have had to opt for artificial limbs by now, but Marco's physiology as a Wolfkin naturally tried to regenerate the damage, prolonging the agony caused by his defective and underdeveloped body. It was a kind of eternal stalemate, but the horror replaced any pity and regret Janine upon hearing gunfire within the Academy.

It touched them. All of them, including the white-furred betrayers. Cubs were in danger. The most sacred thing in the world. Their future, a faint hope for a generation of peace, their joy and pride meant to survive them, was dying because their elders had failed to protect them.

Their horror-fueled aggression. Anissa and Kalaisa leapt, covering long distances, and when Anissa's paw slipped off a broken stone, Kalaisa grabbed it, helping the other woman without the usual mockery.

The lower ranks howled, hurling acid grenades into the hordemen from close distance, blinding several thunder bulls and covering the animals and their riders like a swarm of angry insectoids, stabbing, biting, and tearing. Their instincts heightened by the shock, the soldiers dodged off the enemies' aim and charged again.

Most shockingly, the traitors changed, too. Where once they had fought with reserve, expressing disgust at the killing of surrendering and wounded enemies, the Ice Fangs now roared and followed the Wolfkins. A defender saved Kirk's brother by timing his shield to stop a plasma blast and was saved by Kirk's sister when the scout kicked the large Ice Fang away before an axe could cut through his head. The hordeman cursed and prepared to attack again when Elegance stabbed him under the chin, and Bertruda growled fiercely, pushing the blade deeper.

"What the fuck is Marco doing here?" Kalaisa cursed. "We are supposed to be saving cubs, not throwing more into the pyre!"

"Betrayal, obviously." Anissa spat. "Once I get him back to safety, his ass is turning red."

"You will not lay a finger on him, Wolf Hag," Impatient One stated. She hid behind some rubble, pulling a long spike from her belly and ignoring a knight who offered her a medical kit. Despite the trembling paws and the pain she had to experience, the shaman tried to keep her voice steady and calm. "If his mother has failed to raise him properly, I shall discipline her and educate Marco about subordination myself."

"Aw, so you do care!" Anissa laughed. "That's so sweet, shaman!"

"Of course I do! He is my… Every cub in the tribe deserves the shaman's care!"

"Yours what, honorable shaman?" Kalaisa asked innocently, throwing debris from the entrance.

"Stop your buzzing, annoying fly," Impatient One warned.

Failed to raise him… Janine accepted the reproach, matching Iron Lord blow for blow with economical strikes. All these years, she treated Marco softly, harming his growth. Softness breeds softness. Kindness wasn't always bad; every warrior should cherish what shreds of it he still had, but after hearing of his brother's fate, a desire to do something was born. And his love, unfettered by true discipline, paved the way for disobedience. Her guilt.

"You okay, Impatient One?" Anissa asked as the shaman fell awkwardly to the side, dodging a shot, and the knight helped her to her feet.

"Can function." Impatient One wiped her mouth. "Concentrate on your task, Wolf Hag." She kicked, startling the Ice Fang, and blocked a blade aimed at his back. The murky air behind the man solidified, forming into a steel-clad holding the sword. The knight stabbed at the opponent's elbow, and Impatient One closed her fangs at the hordeman's throat, trying to shove the panicking fool down.

"Troops, attention. New form of camouflage," Janine said.

"Stay alive, shaman. But," Kalaisa exhaled, "make sure to educate and nothing more. Lay a finger on Marco and I'll have your hide. I still owe him for the sweater."

"Drop the chatter, Wolf Hags!" Janine snapped, stopping arguing. "Packs, stop this foolishness. Males, to the rear. Kirk, take over and support us from range. Sniff out cloaked foes." Her helmet closed around the face, cutting off the rest of her words from being heard by her opponent. A battle grid appeared on her HUD. "Defenders at S7, lure the leftmost rider to your position. Kirk, take off the steed's leg and devour alongside warriors." The helmet opened.

A trio of defenders feigned uncertainty, retreating hastily and emitting scents of fear. Eager for glory, one steel-clad kicked his beast into a gallop and found himself without the protection of his allies, exposed to the concentrated fire of shardguns, all aimed at the bull's knee. The beast's wounded leg broke, unable to support its body, and a black carpet covered the rider. The warriors cracked his protection, and the males shoved acid mines inside, escaping the slash zone as they exploded, chemical substances dissolving the hordeman.

"Sounds like someone asks to be introduced to the ground, Kali." Anissa jerked the door out of alignment. Her voice cracked. "Marco is my brother, and I will not allow his foolishness to continue, even if the warlord goes soft on…"

"A hundred lacerations." Janine silenced her daughter.

Going soft? Yes, a fair accusation, hence such an insignificant punishment. She fought Iron Lord as Warlord Janine, acting as if she still wore the assault combat suit. It was wrong. The Ice Fangs' models suited better for the lighter—weightless, even—style.

"Albert. You were right."

"Beg your pardon, Lady?"

Rather than blocking the next attack, Janine leaned back, letting it pass overhead. Immediately she raised the Taleteller, scraping its edge across the haft of the glaive as she charged at close range. A fist, wrapped in an energy field, prepared to meet her.

The axe crashed into the field, overloading it and biting deep into the metal. Janine's knee followed, denting the armor and sending Iron Lord stumbling. She dodged the elbow and pushed him back, knocking the bastard to the ground with enough force to send a tremor that exploded a nearby fire hydrant, and a veil of water covered both fighters, hissing vividly on the disappearing force field.

Iron Lord tried to stand and found Janine's legs locked around his waist, her weight pinning him to the ground. The axe split the torrent of water in two and thundered against the glaive.

"Did you predict you'll be mounted by me, boy?" Janine teased, frowning under the pressure. The armor was screaming, its fiber bundles barely holding, the servomotors straining. Her recently healed muscles were on the verge of tearing, but her heart was on fire. "Look at yourself, sitting on your ass while your soldiers die."

"More of your kin lie dead than mine, mutant." Iron Lord replied, his voice unfaltering, but his arms trembled. "An acceptable price for the warlord's head. I am Iron Lord, the chief commander of the Gilded Horde, the right hand of Sky's Avatar, and you are sullying me with your touch. For that, I will hunt you today."

"Words are cheap," Janine experienced another tingle of worry.

"My thoughts exactly." His cannon moved, forcing Janine to tilt her head to evade the shot.

Iron Lord let go of his weapon and punched, digging part of the helmet deep into the side of Janine's head. Reddish drool appeared on her lips; she blinked through the dizziness, and the khan pushed her off himself. She jumped, dodging a kick, and Iron Lord's arms arched back at an impossible angle, finding a foothold to lift himself off the ground. He thrust his entire body forward, his feet slamming into Janine's face with the force of an exploding missile.

She stumbled back, unwillingly giving him enough time to recover, and the two leaders found themselves unarmed and readied their fists. Janine jabbed at his helmet with her left, provoking a heavy straight punch, and responded with an elbow and a crushing blow with her other hand, causing an electrical hiss to come from somewhere under his helmet.

This armor won't let her fight as a warlord, and that's fine. She'll face Iron Lord as a naked brawler, relying on speed and skill to win.

Blow after blow. A punch to the chin turned into an elbow slice. Then a dive under a shoulder cannon shot and an uppercut. Blocked. The forces of their exchange carried away pebbles and toppled several damaged wooden walls. Crevices opened in the pavement under the pressure. Both opponents tried to grab each other and headbutted to break the hold, turning their clash into a slugfest.

Inside the Knight Academy, Marco witnessed a scene of carnage after carnage, and Janine saw it, too, through his camera. Entire classrooms were painted red; the bodies of the students lay broken, their arms and legs twisted and their chests flattened by the iron boots. Here and there were occasional corpses of the intruders, killed by the frantic resistance of the older cubs, but what could they really do against full-grown New Breeds?

Unforgivable.

The boy moved quietly as a spine mite, softly placing his palms and moving without undue haste. Marco surveyed the situation, checked the pulse of several bodies, counted the dead cubs and the number of seats present, then turned his eye to the broken wall. Someone had entered this classroom, broken the wall to lead the students away, and then the butchers had entered and chased them. Marco crawled into the hole, went through the destroyed bathroom, and followed the pursuit.

Janine didn't dare tell him to stop. He wouldn't listen, and any noise might have alerted the hunters.

Screams perked his ears, and Marco hurried to make a turn in the hallway, arriving in time to see a barred door being smashed and about thirty cubs huddled together, mounting a final defiance over the bloodied and unconscious body of their instructor. Each Ice Fang was dressed in a uniform; the girls wore impractical black skirts and white shirts, while the boys wore black pants and similar shirts, with no scent of their parents to distinguish them, and with gold, silver, or bronze symbols of their Houses pinned to their collars.

Three tall, wide-eyed cubs, a girl and two boys, armed themselves with chairs and sharp pieces of stone and prepared to do their best against the two laughing hordemen entering the room. One of them pointed a pistol, and the magazine clicked empty, so the bastard reached for his dagger and kicked the girl in the snout.

Marco made Janine proud. He disobeyed her, and no doubt had Ignacy gnawing at his arm in worry by now, but he was a Wolfkin. Dealt a bad paw or not, irrelevant. He was a born killer, and his instincts took over, demanding immediate action and banishing any doubts. Bigger, stronger, better armed? So what? Then kill smarter.

Marco tossed a broken prize statue to the raider's left, and they briefly glanced at the noise. He was already in the air, knives flashing. The first knife he threw was blocked by the cautious opponent, but the second sliced through an armor joint that buckled the bastard's Achilles tendon. He bounced off the man and buried the knives in the thick neck of the second; the edges slipping across the gap between the gorget and the helmet and scraping against the bones, destroying the windpipe completely. Marco let go of his weapons to save himself from the swing of the dying man.

The injured hordeman grabbed Marco by the nape, pushing him face down, and one of the boys was on him, wielding the blocked knife from earlier and saving Janine's son's life. His reward was a blow to the face with the hilt of a sword, tearing his nostril and lacerating his eye so badly that he recoiled in pain. Horror filled Janine as she looked at her wriggling son and understood that this was it. With the element of surprise gone…

Pure joy flashed in her eyes as the last boy leapt. With an aggression worthy of the Wolf Tribe, he rammed the shard of stone into the hordeman's broken lens, where it stuck, but the paws of his friends joined in, driving it all the way into the flailing body. Together, the three cubs slashed and bit at the armored bastard, and Marco broke free, joining the fray and working his knife on the exposed joints. The hordeman tried to stand; his leg gave way, and he fell, begging for mercy. Two of the white-furred relented, but not Marco and the wounded cub.

"Rip and tear, Marco! Bless you too, white-furred soul!" Impatient One howled.

"Bleed him!" Kalaisa said viciously. "Take your time!"

"Arteries, boy, aim for the arteries…" Kirk added and shuddered, expecting punishment.

"Groin! Go for the groin!" Anissa advised. "Let the bastard really feel it before he croaks!"

"Pull out his eye, boy!" Martyshkina cheered. "They bring luck and taste awesome!"

"No mercy for the wicked," Bertruda said icily and added warmly. "Praised be, Marco! Your deeds will forever be immortalized in the annals of the Order! Warlord Martyshkina, please refrain from provoking a child to break a law. Cannibalism is…"

"Eh, shut it! If he wants a steak, he damn well deserves it! Heart, Marco! It builds up manhood…"

"For the Blessed Mother's sake, Warlord!"

Janine simply smiled, ducking under a swing; the tearing of the flesh relayed by Albert was music to her ears. Do you see it, Colt? Are you proud of our babies? She matched her opponent in raw strength, yet Iron Lord's larger frame should have given him the advantage. But his lack of brawling experience negated this advantage. His swings were wider than necessary, giving Janine enough time to close the distance and hit his sides.

Aside from dents, she wasn't sure that she did any damage. The man was like a solid block of iron. Dodging a whipping elbow hit, Janine gasped, struck by a knee into her chest. The blow lifted her off the ground, and Iron Lord clenched his hands together and delivered a blow equivalent to the rough landing of a tank skidding off the road on an unsuspecting passerby.

The backpack cracked, but fortunately the generator was intact, and Janine grabbed his ankles, pulled him off his feet, and slammed him into the concrete hard enough to create a crater. She avoided his blow and caught his arm in a lock, turned the bastard face down with the help of her leg, and began breaking the arm.

This time he groaned and smashed his free arm into the road, making a half-circle path underneath him, and finally came from the other side, hitting Janine in the head. She was knocked off him, and Iron Lord, seated atop her, had his helmet jerked from landed punches, and one ocular fell out, hanging on wires. Hands closed around her neck, and Janine tried to reach the Taleteller, but her fingers didn't even touch it. Hearing the crunch of metal, Janine whispered a quick command to the APC drivers.

"See how I reverse the roles… Ha!" Iron Lord chuckled, and a shield bubbled around them, pushing the axe away and blocking the bullet fired by the transports. "Clever and useless, an expected result from those who skip preparations! Can you feel it? The weight of humanity crushing your unearned advantage? How does it feel to lose to a human? Don't worry. In the spirit of quid pro quo for sparing my daughter, I won't torture you. Die easily, knowing that I'll let the little puppies go if they live still!"

Inside the academy, Marco stood up, breathing heavily, and met the wounded cub's gaze, and Janine saw the reflection of angry and excited amber eyes. The cub pawed at his wound and stopped in horror at the blood and gore on his muzzle, realizing what he had done.

"Gregor, what in the Abyss were you doing?" He turned to the taller boy who had used the piece of stone. "Why did you two stop?"

"But he surrendered, Tilden…" whispered Gregor.

"There is no surrender! It's us or them! Do you and Philona want to end up like... end up like..." Tilden burst into tears and walked away as his friends tried to embrace him. "Kill or be killed! We had to… I did the right thing! Stop looking at me like I'm a monster!"

"No one is considering you a monster, Tilly," the girl, Philona, said sternly, sniffing through the broken nose. "Get that out of your cauldron."

"What we need to do is escape," Marco interrupted her and gathered his knives. He hesitated a bit and handed one to Gregor. "After me, crybabies. You four will carry the wounded…"

"Who do you think you are, insulting your betters, rootless dust-dwelling serf?" Tilden approached him, his paws clenching and unclenching, his eyes full of fear and panic. Shocked. Fighting for her life, Janine prayed Marco would not retaliate. "I'll have you know that I am a nephew of Knight Captain Osiris, the loyal retainer of the Summerspring House! I demand proper respect!"

"You mean Sword Saint Osiris." Marco shoved the invader's sword into Tilden's paw.

"Ha! Shows what you know, barbarian!" The corner of Tilden's mouth twitched. "My great-great-grandfather, Sword Saint Leonidas, is leading our household! And this here is Gregor of the magnificent…"

"Tilden. Please," Philona interrupted him and pointed at the cubs. "We are all scared."

"And must save the others." Gregor shook Marco's paw and reached over to a smaller boy on the floor, slapping him gently on the cheek to bring him back to reality. "Gregor Wintersong. Nice meeting you, friend."

"Tilden Summerspring, the best of the Summersprings!" not to be outdone, the wounded cub repeated the gesture. "And don't you dare forget the name! Also, consider yourself excused for the rudeness, since you had the honor of saving our bacon."

"Philona. Of no house yet. Thank you for rescuing us, sir." The girl smiled, without showing fangs, and Marco fist-bumped her.

"Marco, whelp of Warlord Janine!" Marco said proudly, ignoring the gurgling of the dying hordeman. "Mom and the others are busy mopping up the floor with the trash outside, but the roofs should be safe. Help me get everyone into the ventilation shaft."

"So you failed to squash the rats." Janine almost slipped and let Iron Lord break her neck as she heard Brood Lord's voice coming from the raider's com device in the academy.

"Know how to shoot?" Marco asked Tilden, and the boy nodded, receiving a pistol and quickly reloading it.

"I can save you," promised Brood Lord. "Just look to the side. Not at the ceiling. We need a floor."

Iron Lord's fingers kept jamming into her throat, strong enough to collapse a house. Every time she tried to free herself, he slammed her against the ground. She no longer could breathe and had no air left to cry a warning to her son, but Marco no longer hesitated and was busy sending everyone to safety. The shoulder cannon took aim, and Terrific, that harbinger of disaster, drew herself high behind the khan's back.

Not my son, bitch! Fear, hatred, and rage—the coalescing of these emotions snapped something in Janine, and she grasped Iron Lord's big thumbs. And broke them, uncaring about any restraint and unbound by worries. What will happen will happen. Something ancient, a part of herself she had locked away, had crept out, looked through her eyes, and joined its voice to her low growl, pleasing Terrific enough for the apparition to smile, horribly twisting leathery lips.

"Restraint…"

"To the Abyss with it!" Janine howled.

Iron Lord showed no sign of pain, but she wasn't discouraged. Janine could breathe, and so she closed her paws around his wrists, bending the metal, leaning back, pushing off the ground, bringing her knees to her chest. And kicked upward with all her might, shattering the helmet on his jaw and sending Iron Lord reeling back, grunting.

The warlord rolled to the side and picked up her axe. A single, wide slash cut a gash in Iron Lord's belly and went upward, cutting cleanly through his shoulder cannon. Iron Lord continued to retreat, his thumbs dangling uselessly, but the man extended his right arm to the side, and his glaive flew in, summoned by a magnetic device in the gauntlet.

"Your cuts are shallow. They can't even reach my flesh," Iron Lord said and chuckled. "Yet you bleed, tire, and soon will be lying at my legs, bones pulverized!"

They came at each other, blades flashing and the wind roaring around them. Driven by a desperate urge to end the fight now, Janine pushed into his close quarters, earning herself a heavy tackle that threw her back. Immediately his glaive stabbed, seeking to spear through her shoulder, and missed its mark.

Janine jumped, a silver comet flying into a mountain of steel. She had deliberately exposed herself, already knowing how her opponent would react. What would have been impossible in her regular armor, the Ice Fangs suit made possible, giving her short and ungraceful legs elegance and fluidity. The Taleteller slashed at his shoulder with all her might, and the blow was accompanied by the hiss of wires and the noise of broken machinery. Iron Lord stepped back, swinging his weapon wildly to drive her back, and touched his shoulder, where a spurt of red—his blood—emerged from the gash.

"So much for Iron Lord." Spat Janine and inhaled, gathering her strength. "There is only one prey here, boy."

"And that is the evildoer!" Albert cheered.

"How long has it been?" Iron Lord asked in the dry voice of an elderly human, carrying ages of experience. His synthesized bombastic speech was either broken or turned off. "How many years have passed since I bled? Warlord Janine, was it?" He saluted her. "Thank you for the reminder of mortality. I will show clemency to your kind after they have finally fallen to the Gilded Horde. Let us end this. I have a nation to build."

The retort died in her mouth; her focus back on the Academy again, where the head of the dying hordeman slumped to the side as Marco and the older cubs helped everyone into the shaft. And Brood Lord laughed.

"Phaser." A single word frightened Janine like a few things in her life, rendering her standing helplessly, unable to change anything and forced to watch.

A vertical line, so terrifyingly familiar, appeared near the wall of the classroom. It widened to the left and right, filling the room with a blue void, and from its depths stepped a pointed insectoid leg, encased in advanced protection. Then another, shaking the floor as it pierced the head of the dying hordeman. Pincers followed, then the huge bulk of the body and Brood Lord carried himself into the Academy, flanked by Adonis and Heika, smiling through his greenish visor while carrying his curved blade casually over his shoulder.

"Now why do I know you?" He addressed Marco, ignoring the boy's efforts to squeeze the wounded instructor into the tunnel. Fingers tapped the helmet. "No, no, don't help me… Ah, Houstad! I'm glad I didn't dispose of you then; you deserve a proper send-off. Well?" He addressed his companions.

"Not interested in children," Heika answered.

"Not going to sully our blades," Adonis echoed.

"Why not let them go?" They asked in unison.

"I will, I will, into a better reality, or so I have heard, my dearest hypocritical prudes. Those religious lunatics always scream about it when I treat myself to their flock before their eyes." Brood Lord slapped himself on the belly. His eyes narrowed as Marco helped Tilden and Gregor, the last two cubs, into the hole. "Children. Since you refuse to bow to the teacher, today we'll study evisceration! No need for volunteers; all are participating."

 

[Rookie12]

Brood Lord charged into the stampede as Marco shook Tilden's paws off him, shoving the other boy into the tunnel instead of saving himself. From its depths, four arms grabbed his shoulders, and Gregor and Tilden tried to pull him to safety. It was too late. The blade struck in a great arc, creating an afterimage as it passed through the air. Wires hissed. Marco screamed at the top of his lungs, his legs taken above his knees, his severed limbs spasming on the floor as he tried to escape.

Throughout his agony, Marco never hesitated. His instincts kicked in; he was a Wolfkin, and his kind tried to survive anything the world could throw at them. Claws slipped from his fingers, piercing the walls of the ventilation shaft, and he pushed himself in, narrowly avoiding the following lazy swing and a snap of pincers that threatened to disembowel the cub.

A humanoid hand pushed into the tunnel after the children, bulging its sides, and eager fingers reached for the boy's ribs, breaking several with a touch. Tilden sunk his fangs into Marco's shoulder, ripping him away before the grip could close, leaving a hunk of fur-covered skin in Brood Lord's hand. The khan stabbed at it with his sword, scratching Gregor's nose, and Tilden raised the pistol in his unsteady paws, screaming in horror.

The bullet bounced off Brood Lord's chin, bloodying it as the lower part of his helmet opened to reveal his lips forming an "O" letter. He spat his venom and the bubbling stream landed on Marco's face, eliciting another scream of pain from him. His gentle, kind, honest, precious eyes disappeared, dissolved in the acid that almost blinded his mother.

Tilden and Gregor dragged the boy away, heading to the ruined restroom, while he bled like a cusack, screaming and thrashing. Janine saw it; the camera on her son still worked, and the sight of it broke something in her.

The warlord's paw caught the shaft of the glaive as she stepped into Iron Lord's close range. She heard herself ordering her troops to secure the area near the cubs' approximate exit, and everything flowed. The khan before her spoke, perhaps a question or a taunt; it mattered not. She stood, knowing how far his field of destruction would reach, her every instinct heightened to an impossible degree, and the warlord reached the peak of her abilities, stepping into the same legendary territory where Zero and Predaig had tread. And she would willingly give it up and be selfishly killed if it meant that her boy, the cub she had failed, would be fine.

Alas, that would not be so, and so those responsible for this crime had to die, and soon. She expected to feel sorrow, but it and fear retreated into the corners of her conscience, unlocking every door. And rage rose.

The claws broke through her gauntlet, followed by the unbelievably swift blow of the Taleteller that banished the air away from the two fighters as it connected with Iron Lord's side. The man reeled; a gash opened in his plates, and the warlord kicked, biting a chunk of metal from his helmet. She slashed gouging lines and advanced under the blow. Again! Once again, she was unable to save her cub! So strong and so powerless!

"We must run!" Tilden yelled in the restroom.

"No!" the other boy stopped him. "He'll bleed out. Your belt!"

"Right, tourniquets." Tilden swallowed, unbuckled his belt, took off his shirt, then tore it off to use as bandages. "I don't remember a thing from the medical class. Too scared, Gregor."

"So am I! Don't worry; just copy me, and everything will be fine."

"Right. Orais see, Orais do…" the boy muttered.

Together they tended to Marco's wounds to the best of their ability as he rocked back and forth, oblivious to their encouraging whispers. The little one tried—oh, how he tried—to hide his pain, to keep his mother from worrying. Somewhere Brood Lord was busy bulldozing his way through the Academy grounds, knocking over walls and laughing maniacally. His steps caused tremors, and the warlord wondered if that bastard would find the defenseless cubs ahead of the rescue.

No. A voice older than her, the voice of the Blessed Mother, spoke into her mind. It isn't over until it is over, girl. We tough out whatever comes.

Why are you not here, Blessed Mother? Where are you?

Broken. Shattered. Not whole. Dangerous. In your darkest hour, I'll be by your side to claw us a light. The warlord wasn't sure if she had hallucinated the message or if the Progenitor had actually communicated with her, but she heeded the advice.

Marco. Yennifer. Ignacy. Anissa. They expected her to survive.

"Marco. My cubs," Janine briefly resurfaced, "I love you." It was better to say something and appear weak than to remain silent and regret a missed opportunity for eternity. Weakness could be eradicated with training. Regret not so much.

Everything wasn't lost. A sharp spike thrust from under Iron Lord's bracer and sliced through the warlord during her headbutt. The spike cut through the helmet and nearly pierced her eyes as she grabbed his arm and kicked him again, slashing at his bulk with the Taleteller. He will break. Already the first cubs showed out from the entrance used by Marco and were escorted to the transports, shielded by the defenders. Amazingly, the Horde soldiers ignored them completely, at the behest of Iron Lord's daughter.

The mission was a success. They…

The door to the bathroom opened, and two figures stepped softly and silently in, the clowns working for Brood Lord, carrying daggers in their hands.

"Children," Heika said.

"Take the useless dust dweller and run!" Tilden jumped to his feet and fired the pistol. Adonis' blade parried the bullet. "I-I'll figure out a way out! I am destined for greatness; you are not! I won't die! Can't die!" The boy fired again to the same effect.

"Our employer wants the dark-furred," Adonis sang.

"And we should oblige?" Heika said.

"Please!" Tilden squeaked. "My uncle is rich. We-he can pay for our safety!"

"Business is business, sweetest sister." Adonis took a step. "But this is hardly sporting."

"I would even say insulting, dearest brother," Heika added. "I see nothing."

"Well then, we are of the same mind. I hear nothing. Shall we…"

Spirits. Never again will I dare to presume to know better or to doubt the traditions. Save us. An explosion of stone interrupted the warlord's wordless prayer, and a large, black-clad form landed in front of the cubs, ready for combat. The figure rose, smirking at first. Then its crimson lenses found Marco, and Kalaisa's smug grin faded into a flat line, and the warlord imagined the woman's shadow morphing into a large and terrifying beast at her back, but perhaps that was the result of a faulty camera. The lenses caught the steam rising from the boy's tightly closed eyes—streaks of crimson mingled with the steam. The wolf hag glanced at the shortened legs and turned to the assassins.

"Did you do this?" Kalaisa demanded to know in a calm voice that promised death.

"Perhaps." Smirked Adonis.

Kalaisa looked up for a second; the helmet fully closed around her head, giving her time to send an encrypted message, and then it opened itself around her snout, letting the fangs shine. The wolf hag moved her fingers and bent her knees into a crouch.

"You are dead meat," she promised, bellowing a howl of challenge.

Musical laughter met her proclamation, and Adonis dropped himself into a low stance, mimicking Kalaisa's. The glaive went down, briefly distracting the warlord as she dodged the wide swings, pushing him further away from the academy.

Eight thunder bulls lay dead, and six of the khan's bodyguards joined their steeds in the afterlife. Too few. Fifteen still drew breath. Twenty-three of her own Tribe had been trampled, perforated, shot, or gored. The Ice Fangs fared little better, sacrificing a third of their combat force. Their ammunition was running low, inviting the inevitable all-out melee ever closer. The warlord snarled, dissatisfied with that option after an iron-clad simply snapped a scout's arm like a twig and elbowed her so hard that the woman began to choke on her own blood. If it hadn't been for Kirk, the following stomp would have ended the scout. Marty can match it. Bertruda too, but even together they won't last.

On her orders, the males hurried to pick up the pulse rifles, turning the Horde's prized weapons against them. The defenders extracted the wounded instructor from the shaft, but they had to break both of his shoulders to pull him to freedom. No matter. Broken bones mend. The biggest concern was Brood Lord. She expected him to pursue the cubs to twist the knife in her heart. Where was he?

"Impatient One. Break from the battle and watch over the cubs," Janine returned to herself, sacrificing animalistic fury for clear mind and frowning from the pain in the arm she had used to stop the glaive. Even muscles had their limits. "Albert, keep me updated. The secondary prey is here."

"Secondary…" Iron Lord stopped, his remaining lens focused on the building.

"If you lay a finger on the little ones…"

"What value in them? It is you who'll die, mutant." He raised his glaive. "Patience thirsts."

"Taleteller will record your last breath," Janine replied.

Adonis acted first. Janine saw his body oddly stretching, transforming into a multicolored streak of blur, but calmed herself, recalling how well Kalaisa had handled the similar situation back in Houstad without her armor. Parry both daggers and engage in a prolonged melee…

Not blocking, Kalaisa attacked, planning to split the clown in half with two mighty sweeps, and Adonis twisted his body, slipping under the raised arm and cutting through the armor plate with disgusting ease. His blade, coated in the same poison that had incapacitated Anji, sliced through the hide and bone growths beneath, finally scraping across the ribs and forcing the wolf hag to gasp for air.

Laughter accompanied his movements, echoing through the empty corridors and confusing Janine. She could barely comprehend what had happened. How? How could Kalaisa commit such an obvious mistake?

The answer came a second later. The ceiling above Adonis broke at the start of his somersault, and his sister screamed a warning, too late to do anything about it. Stuck in the air, the nimble assassin had no chance to escape as legs locked around his neck and claws pierced his wrists, rupturing arteries. Kalaisa spun in a burst of violence, lunging at Adonis with all her speed and biting deep into his chest, burrowing through the bones to swallow the heart. Anissa snapped the man's neck and blocked the thrown dagger aimed at her fellow wolf hag. The two tossed the bloody remains to Heika like a bag of garbage.

"And that's how… how… the cookie crumbles…" Kalaisa drooled; saliva ran down her chin, and her spasmodic paws missed the shardgun.

"Adonis…" Heika picked up the bloodied mask and broke it in half, pressing one side over her own to create the image of a half-scowling, half-grinning clown. "The last of our home. Oh, brother, why you and not me? I will get you for this. I'll hunt you down for eternity if needed! His life was mine to take, and mine was his!"

"Ready to kill, unready to die. Sucks to be you, coward," Kalaisa laughed and fired.

The shards missed Heika, who retreated away, weaving around them like a ghost. She fled through the open door.

"Marco." Anissa approached her brother, ignoring the shocked cubs, and checked his bandages, nodding approvingly after a sniff. "Praise be the Spirits, not poisoned!" She took him in her arms and rocked him, trying to lick away the acid in his eyes, but he screamed and tried to close them tighter. Distraught, the wolf hag gathered herself. "You are a hero, Marco. Dumb and stubborn as a cusack, but a hero. We'll fix you; the state can fix anyone. Hold on. Please. For me, Ignacy, and… Yennifer. Grab my thighs." She addressed the boys. "Grab them as tight as you can; we are leaving."

"Will he survive?" asked Gregor. "I-I am sorry. We were taught how to treat injuries, but never like these, and we didn't have a med kit, nor was there anything to clean the wounds and…"

"Shhhh, little one, hush your fears; no fault on you, brave knights of the Order. He'll survive," promised Anissa. "He is a tough cub. Tougher than anyone I know at times, but so mischievous. You did well, both of you. No, don't use your fingers to hold on, let the claws go, don't worry about hurting me," she instructed them and looked at Kalaisa. "Gotta say that was some insane plan. Heroic even. Did a skinwalker replace you while I wasn't looking?"

"Fuck off, Anissa." Kalaisa vomited. "I am going to deck you in the snout after the mission."

"In your dreams. Thanks for the help. Wouldn't be able to do it alone, Kali. Now that you are properly irritated, imagine choking me and wrapping your arms around my neck. I will carry you all out of here."

"Go. I can survive on my own," Kalaisa tried to refuse, and Anissa growled.

"My brother is injured, and we both have packs to lead, you insufferable bitch! Do you think your family and soldiers won't worry if you don't show up for the transports?" Kalaisa froze, and her own growl stopped in her throat. "Swallow your damn pride and accept help for once!"

"Sorry," Kalaisa mumbled. She stumbled, nearly fell, but finally found hold. "Heh-heh. Reminds me of how Mommy and Daddy used to carry me when they were alive. Kangaroo, we called it."

"Don't you hallucinate on me, you delirious idiot! Concentrate on choking me; imagine I called you weak or insulted your honor!" Anissa grunted in appreciation after the metal around her neck whimpered a bit, losing to Kalaisa's paws. "Good. Lock your suit and shut it down, just to be safe. Since you saved my bro, simply mention it, and I'll carry you similarly atop any mountain."

"I'd sooner die," Kalaisa coughed out blood. "Spirits, really feeling like dying. Can't see shit. Sis? If you hear me, should I die, you are in charge. Make them proud."

"Cut the drama. We'll get out alive. I have a brother to heal and slap for insubordination later!" Anissa grinned and kissed the unconscious Marco on the forehead.

 

[Rookie12]

With everyone secured, Anissa jumped into the second, picking up the two wounded instructors she and Kalaisa had found on their way down. Holding them under one armpit and gently carrying Marco in another, Anissa kept retreating to the roof, ignoring the cubs' frightened yelps.

My son is alive. Bless you, Anissa. Thank you, Spirits. Elated, Janine blocked the blow with the shaft of her axe and ended up buried in the road up to her knees. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her heart racing, the blood pumping faster and faster. She broke free of the trap, dodging the spike aimed at her mouth, and the Taleteller kissed it, shearing it clean. The kiss continued, taking the broken finger next and landing on his breastplate.

"Sword Saint, be careful not to break your claws!" Albert cried the warning as she stabbed with her paw, hooking Iron Lord's arm to keep the field of destruction from touching her head.

"Relax!" She laughed in the opponent's face, closing in on him and getting behind the khan, brutally tearing her claws free. "Even if they break, they'll grow back!"

"You are acting too brazen all of a sudden," Albert remarked. "Don't risk it, please."

Iron Lord's upper body spun, but she ducked under the elbow and slashed at his damaged chest, then at his legs, before the downward swing of his glaive drove her back. Shards of broken iron rang out on the ground.

"Risk it?" Her joy filled the battlefield, seeping into the packs. "The mission was a success!" My son lives. He'll run again, I promise! She would rather die than admit it to her soldiers, but the sight of her, weaving and cutting back with renewed energy, advancing akin to a sandstorm at its peak, formless and deadly, unencumbered and radiant, motivated them to push through the exhaustion and beyond.

"Reclaim! Retaliate! Reconquer!" They howled the motto of the First, the oldest of the state's war cries. No one forced them, no one taught them; the Ice Fangs and the Wolfkins just felt like it, abandoning their own traditions in favor of something shared and cherished from the days when they had toppled the vilest of scum.

One hordeman dismounted his dying steed and raised an axe while the rotating cannon on his shoulder was busy ripping wide gashes in the Wolfkins before him. The intense fire was blocked by a brave defender, and the soldiers used the respite to hurl grenades at their enemy, forcing him to curse as his vision was impaired by acid melting his lenses. Together, the group focused fire on his leg joints, bringing him to his knees, and a knight-captain thrust himself forward, ramming a sword into the bastard's neck.

Even that wasn't enough to kill the hordeman, as his swing ruined the knight-captain's hastily raised shield in a single blow. But his fate was sealed; the scout destroyed the cannon, and the mass of troops pushed him to the ground, working their way through the suit.

Impatient One broke Zulfiya's arm and ripped the helmet from the woman's head, lacerating her round and wide face with a single slash, avoiding the clumsy counterattacks. Martyshkina fired, landing six bullets in a single point on another hordeman's chest. The hypersonic bullets pierced their way to the heart, and the body slumped from the surprised bull, who paused, unsure of what to do. Marty reloaded her revolver, licking her lips hungrily, and the animal turned tail to her mockery.

Six legs burst from the wall of the Knight Academy, widening the gap and sending debris everywhere. The fortress, which had withstood both energy and projectile bombardment, gave way, and the four-armed body emerged from the crack in a wave of devastation. Brood Lord spun in the air and smiled at the surprised troops.

"Mine, mine, that incubator is mine!" He landed on the road, slicing through the Ice Fang at his waist and ramming his pincer into the open mouth of a Wolfkin, opening it inside and popping the male's head. "Out of my way, corpses! It's your queen I'm after!"

Janine saw him out of the corner of her eye through the visor of her armor, still locked in battle with Iron Lord, and understood that she wouldn't be able to block both. Brood Lord didn't care about anyone but her; his legs knocked the soldiers out of the way, and she turned to face his blade. His sword screeched, drawing sparks across Taleteller's haft, and the mocking face closed in.

"Nice to meet you again, Janine. It seems my hospitality wasn't up to your liking. You took something from me." His smile changed to a grin full of needle teeth. "But that's okay. I sense the traitors."

"Good," Janine growled. "Then you can seethe knowing that you will never lay a finger on them again, shit pot."

"Never say never! Life is full of little unexpected surprises. Like the one I met in that ditch of yours here." Acid bubbled behind his teeth.

"That's true if you are alive to experience these surprises." Janine pushed against his clench, trying to shove him away. "You are done. Dead man walking."

"His name is Marco? My bad. His name was Marco." Brood Lord smiled, slightly opening his mouth. "Know that as we work through each other's families, I enjoyed watching you squirm in anguish. The question is, do you experience the same, woman? Do it now, Iron Lord!"

Janine worriedly glanced back, expecting to be cut between the shoulder blades when the fist the size of her head flew past her, smashing into Brood Lord's face, and paws rose behind her, blocking the pincers aimed at her sides. The punch was hard enough to send the reeling khan off the warlord, and she found Impatient One beside herself.

"Not the place for switching sides, Rust Lord." Brood Lord wiped his mouth. "Then again, you never were a bright spark. Your own sons and daughters are lying dead. Don't you care? Don't you even care?!"

"Betrayer!" Iron Lord roared. "This was my operation! Those puppies in the academy should have been smuggled out of the town long ago to be used as hostages or raised as my future soldiers. This place is mine; you agreed to it! How dare you deny me my spoils! How dare your degenerate filth harm the future servants of my... Khatun's army! Worse, you failed to achieve even that! We conquer and rule; what do you think you are doing, massacring children?!"

"And rule we will! Over those who are left. No need to be so stingy over useless dregs. Plenty of those around." He swung his head to Impatient One, nodding at her wound. "Why push your luck?" He asked with genuine curiosity. "I am after someone else today, and this hunk here is a much more affordable target."

"You touched the warlord's son." Impatient One unleashed her claws to the fullest, stretching the skin on her fingers to the point of tearing. "No mercy."

"He is mine," Janine said.

"Almost forgot about you, my dear. Here, this is yours, I believe." Brood Lord tossed something in her face.

A strip of Marco's torn skin.

She roared and lunged, earning a kick to the chin. A spin saved her from the swing of Iron Lord, who had no intention of allying with any of his enemies. Brood Lord found himself on the ropes as the shaman crashed into him, sparks flying. A shaman's claws were different. Where the Tribe cherished their natural weapons while accepting more advanced methods of slaughter, the shamans stuck to the old ways, gnawing at suits and hollowing out entire caves with their claws on a regular basis, ignoring discomfort and pain and strengthening them every day.

And Impatient One had earned the right to be one of the finest fighters among the shamans, prevented from ruling over villages only by the vice of her temper. But in Janine's opinion, the daughter had long since surpassed the mother in pure martial prowess and was held back by her smaller stature. Unhindered by any physical disfigurement, Impatient One created a web of cuts approaching Brood Lord's face, slicing away his mustache. Her toes pressed hard into the road, and she leaned back on them, dodging a slash that would have decapitated her, and immediately leapt into the fray, catching the snapping pincers, then kicking at the khan's chest, bouncing off him to gain distance.

Brood Lord chased after her, swinging his sword down, and the shaman caught the blade between her paws, groaning from the intense pressure of struggling against his single arm. Brood Lord spat his acid, missing his target as Impatient One jerked her head away. Her leg kicked, damaging his chitin plate, and in that second Janine pushed past Iron Lord, shoulder tackling the other khan away.

"It is getting ridiculous," Brood Lord sighed pretentiously, touching his ruined mustache, and another set of irises appeared from behind the first. His hind legs arched back, resembling scorpion tails as they hung over him. "All I wanted was to see Janine writhing in agony as I plucked members of her family like grapes, but no. You had to come and incur a blood debt. Pay up; I haven't got all day."

His legs came down on Impatient One's shoulders, stabbing into them with enough force to reach the bone and pin the woman to the ground. Brood Lord took his time to bring the shaman onto a knee, smugly grinning at Janine, who fought against Iron Lord. Ignoring the claws that scratched the lines on his chitin, Brood Lord raised his sword.

We are monsters. Let the world hear us and tremble at what it has birthed.

The advice came suddenly to Janine, but she obeyed, giving up battle plans, tactics, dominance, traditions, her place in the pack, even her family in exchange for the urge to kill. The most basic thing a monster could do for humanity. Destroy those who threaten the weak.

Iron Lord's glaive rose, propelled by her blow, and the warlord lunged at Brood Lord, dragging the axe across the ground like a tool. The swing of the axe damaged the tip of his hind leg, and the next blow drew a long gash across his belly, piercing his gilded armor and sending coins of the conquered nation free. The Malformed freak stumbled away from Impatient One, touching his wound.

"You… you weren't that quick before." His finger ran over the bleeding edges, and then he licked them clean, watching the warlord. "Overdosed on drugs? Angry? Come on, Janine, what's a few dead kids between friends?"

Enough! Shut him up! She obliged, facing the rapidly moving khan, blocking his blade thrust, backhanding his pincers, and tackling through the kicking legs. Iron Lord appeared to her left, swinging at her neck, and the warlord dodged the blow. Brood Lord immediately tried to use that second to split her legs, and Iron Lord struck him with the end of his glaive.

The three-way fight. They stabbed and slashed, each defending against two opponents at once. There was little reason or logic to the clash; the blows hungered for exposed limbs and were stopped at the last second. Brood Lord's looming legs struck again and again at Janine's head, swaying it and escaping from her jaws. The glaive cut a wide swath from her chest, exposing a side of her body down to her waist. The warlord responded by slicing through Brood Lord's armor above his ribs and crippling Iron Lord's leg, leaving him limping.

Sensing the shift in the battle of the beasts, the khans dropped their quarrel and faced Janine together, planning to finish off the strongest in this fight. She parried the glaive, and a bullet flew between the fighters, scaring the Malformed away as it chipped a piece from his helmet.

"Hey, whoreson!" Martyshkina landed nearby, holding a smoking revolver. "We have unfinished business."

"Piss off. It's Janine I want," Brood Lord barely glanced at her.

"Too bad; I don't share." Marty leapt forward, evading a sudden slash aimed at her slash. "I hate unfinished business and unpaid debts." She blocked the blade with the barrel of her revolver and fired the second, halving Brood Lord's severed leg. "That's one." Martyshkina smiled at Brood Lord's groan of pain. The agony made him sloppy, and Martyshkina pressed the advantage, kicking and breaking another of his six legs. The limb twitched and detached from the joint, first holding on to greenish strings covered in red, then falling off completely. "That's two." She pressed her revolver against her enemy's visor. "And that's dead."

The blade smashed the revolver away, and instead of blowing his head clear, the bullet tore through Brood Lord's cheek, hitting the building behind him and causing it to collapse. That was enough for the khan, and he hurried to Iron Lord's side, hiding in the bubble of the shield field formed around the leader.

"I must say." Brood Lord used his sword to deflect two of Martyshkina's bullets, slowed by the field. "Your operation is shit, my friend. Had I planned it…"

Fear.

Everyone felt it. Janine stopped, her axe locked against the glaive. The packs moved hesitantly away from their opponents, dragging their wounded and Ice Fangs to safety. Bertruda yanked her spear from a corpse and took an uncertain step toward the APCs, shaking her head to clear the confusion. The cubs and citizens cried, their worst horrors manifesting in their minds. Impatient One drew a crescent with her finger, imploring the Spirits' favor. Anissa nearly fell and jumped from the roof.

Rodents and insects emerged from under the building and from the sewers, scurrying away, vast living carpets trying to escape, obeying the unspoken demand to clear the field or the fangs would descend. Thunder bulls roared a challenge, and Iron Lord's steed approached its master, snorting nervously. Eyes—omnipresent eyes—watched every combatant, tracking every moment. And in the midst of it all, she came.

Warlord Alpha landed in the street, her weight buckling the stones, disrupting the nearest foundations, and even sinking the nearest point of the Academy next to her into a pile of rubble. The Bane of Disbelievers, the Punishing Paw of the Shamans, the Strongest Warlord, the Thousand Slayers, the Eater of Monsters, the Loyal, the Undefeated… Hundreds of honorable names and titles she'd been given and earned didn't even begin to do justice to the threat she posed.

Her impossibly long claws reached down to her ankles, and gore covered tons of her power armor. Intestines tangled around her shoulders like a disgusting cape, and freshly skinned faces screamed wordlessly from her pauldrons, forming a silent orchestra. Her topknot, the pride and special joy of this warlord, was now braided with the recently torn spinal columns, and streaks of blood added to the burning crimson of Alpha's hair.

A claw touched the ground, snatching Brood Lord's leg and tossing it into the open maw for Alpha to chew on with both sets of fangs.

"Retreat," she commanded, burrowing her gaze into Brood Lord.

"Sword Saint Alpha!" Albert mimicked a gasp perfectly, unconcerned in the slightest about the terrible damage done to the suit he inhabited. "The future lady of the House of Sunblade! Ah, her beauty is even more vivid than I had dared to imagine…"

"Shut up," Janine begged, securing the axe to her back, morbidly curious to see what crazy implications filled the Ice Fangs' databases. And they called the Wolfkins crazy! She scooped the awed Impatient One into her paws as if the shaman were a cub. The Reclaimers ran for the APCs, not even to collect their dead. What was the point? A splinter of the divine was here, and the souls of the fallen had already been sent to a kinder reality.

Alpha addressed Brood Lord in a growl that sounded like hammers pulverizing bones: "You dared to harm a cub of the Wolf Tribe? The punishment is extermination. No trace of your lineage will remain in this world or another."

"It is done," said Iron Lord.

"Warlord Alpha! A moment!" Janine hurled her daughter to the transports and approached the Pillar of Terror against her instincts. Alpha's eyes looked at her, searching for a challenge, but the lesser warlord knelt, and an ear was offered.

She told everything as briefly as she could.

"Iron Lord." Janine heard the bastard who had crippled her son. "I believe it is our cue to bow out."

"Huh… I see. Piss off my battlefield." A gentle kick jerked Janine off the ground and sent her spinning dozens of meters in the air until she slammed her back against a transport and landed next to Impatient One.

"You've been blessed, Warlord," the shaman assured her. "You interrupted Alpha's hunt and you are still breathing. What an honor for our pack! Marco is now surely guaranteed a long life and much fertility and health!"

"Get… get into the transport," Janine groaned.

"Correction. I will eat you alive, and that's it," Alpha said.

"Not a fan of living up to your boasts, are you, beast?" The Malformed mocked.

"It is a privilege of the strong to be free to change their course in light of new information." Alpha took a step.

 

[Rookie12]

"Stall her!" Iron Lord roared, pointing his weapon at Alpha. "A khanate worth ten thousand souls to the one who brings me her head! Phaser, open the portal! Prepare…"

Alpha advanced. Two thunder bulls flanked her; their riders raised their glaives. Plasma doused them both, converting their armors into steel waterfalls that crowned their steeds, drawing long cries from the tormented animals. Another raider charged the warlord with a spear. The claws caught him.

Till Ingo once claimed that Alpha's murder tools could shave electrons from an atom. So prized they were that numerous government researchers attempted to replicate them, going so far as to clone parts of Alpha's body, but each attempt was in vain. If not immediately transplanted into her body, the grown part would shrivel and break down. Like Ravager, Alpha's body refused to share its secrets.

And the raider experienced the touch of those claws. He wasn't so much sliced as shredded; the vicious talons passed through him unhindered by his suit or his flesh. A leg stepped on the steed's head that tried to ram the warlord. The limb pushed, splashing the skull against the ruined street.

Clouds of mist hid her, and Alpha inhaled deadly fumes, never slowing her pace. Bullets bounced off her plates, not even notching them. The swing of her arm slaughtered another ironclad. She glanced at Zulfiya, and the woman yelped and ran to her father. Brood Lord picked an oversized gun from his belt and fired it at Alpha, gulping nervously as each of the projectiles was parried.

That was a demonstration enough. No soldier dared stand up to the warlord.

Janine pushed the rest of her pack into the APC and jumped in, checking to make sure the wounded and civilians were secured in their harnesses before almost tearing Marco from Anissa's embrace. Dropping to her knees, she cursed her own lack of medical knowledge and licked the venom from the poor boy's fur, avoiding his eyes.

At the approach of an Ice Fang, a fur rose at the back of her neck until she recognized her as the irritating medic she had met before. The medic bared her throat, and Janine relented, watching the traitor remove the blood-soaked bandages and treat the injuries as the APCs roared their engines, their drives whipped into action by the fear wave.

Iron Lord thrust his halberd into the claws that approached his force field. Like Janine's axe, they withstood the field of destruction. Unlike the Taleteller, they closed in, destroying blade and hilt and opening Iron Lord's side. Oil, mixed with blood and streaked with electrical hisses, poured from the mechanical guts onto the ground.

"Horkhudagh! I need you!" Iron Lord shouted, and in response, the sky answered.

A beam of the brightest crimson burned its way through a cloud and streaked down, similar to the arrival of the cursed Lightbringer, the Elite of Iterna, and a New Breed superior to many. But Lightbringer traveled in a stream of photons, and what touched the ground now was the ultra-heated magma. Its heat burned away Alpha's ugly flesh and bone ornamentation, and as the ropes holding her topknot turned to dust, her hair spread, loosening to cover her like a cloak as she stood in the black and red light.

Then the stream stopped, producing a molten crater that separated the fighters. An orb of blue flame rose from it, sprouting blackened arms and legs and forming into a humanoid. Two dots formed on the black skull, and a thin line opened a mouth, letting fiery red streaks lick at the forming teeth. Wings stretched out behind the floating man, each a different color: red, white, and blue. The video that appeared on Janine's HUD became blurry as her fellow warlord's cameras began to malfunction from the presence of the unbelievable heat.

Iron Lord cursed in his human voice, limping away, his armor melting, his very blood boiling. The raiders surrounded him, and even Brood Lord shut up, fearfully holding a hand over his face. Flames raged among the ruins, blocking Alpha from reaching her prey, and piles of ruins spilled over, folding in on themselves as they melted. The figure grew, matching Alpha's size.

"Done!" Iron Lord gave a cackling laugh, facing a tear in space.

Brood Lord gasped, clutching his heart. Alpha intensified her fear wave, stopping the hearts of those trying to escape. Iron Lord had to grab the khan, dragging him after himself, while the hordemen around helped themselves, abandoning their dying steeds. Only Iron Lord's bull survived.

But Iron Lord kept laughing. "A high-value target! More precious than all the others. Baited into my trap. Horkhudagh! Keep her occupied. It won't be long now, and if you annihilate the other warlords, I promise you the richest lands in Houstad!"

"Keeping her occupied?" Horkhudagh's voice resembled the crackling of burning wood, mixed with the noise of hissing water turning to steam. The black holes in his skull stared at Alpha. "No. I have waited long enough. It is a rare sight to see Iron Lord Khan lose his composure enough to reveal his plans. Did your power do it?" The living pillar waited for the answer, but none came. "Ever since I heard of you, I have been filled with anticipation. The second strongest in the Gilded Horde! Against the fifth of the Reclaimers! Aren't you just burning with anticipation to learn which legend will prevail?"

"Meh," Alpha replied.

The two charged at each other with full force.

****

Iron Lord stumbled out of the portal, panting and fighting for every breath. The internal systems sent repeated warnings. Risk of stroke. A vein in his brain burst. Eyes hemorrhaging. Organ failure from excessive damage. The khan shut them off, welcoming the familiar calmness returning to his mind.

Still not there. Decades of extensive surgery on his body to merge him closer to a machine and an emotion manipulator had nearly done him in. But nearly doesn't count, girl!

"To the healers. And take that with you," he told his bodyguards, dropping Brood Lord to the ground like a sack of shit. White foam frothed on the man's lips, his limbs convulsed, and he clawed at his throat, brought to the brink of death by a simple mental push. Pathetic.

"Father," Zulfiya came closer, shocked to the core by the death of her heart. He smiled, proud of her ability to keep the panic at bay. "What they said about Mehmed. Was it…"

"Not important." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Girl, he's gone. Dead because he was one of the weak. Don't waste any more time. We are alive. We matter, and I need you. Can I count on you and the rest of my children?"

"Yes, Father." She bowed her head. "But if Mehmed is alive…"

"If he is alive, I will arrange a prisoner exchange," Iron Lord promised. "But the boy is gone. His mind broke. Your brother is no more. Understand it, accept it. I am proud of you."

"Really?" Zulfiya blinked. He never said that to any of his children. "But I ran."

"So did I. So did everyone. We'll grow stronger. But you acted where I faltered. I was about to waste precious time killing a useless child, and you stopped me, Zulfiya. You did what I could not. Your mother will be so happy."

"Mom… So many of my brothers and sisters have died."

"Yes, the unfortunate inevitability of war. What's important is that their sacrifices will be in vain if we join them. We owe them a victory." He patted her shoulder. "Enough distractions. See yourself treated and then head into the camp, collecting every captive doggie. Take them by force from Brood Lord; that bastard deserves an insult. Buy from Slavetaker and respectfully petition the Khatun's share."

"But… why?"

"I promised clemency, and I never go back on my word. Ask Slavetaker for healers and keep our guests alive, well, and comfortable. Give them chai and meat in abundance. We'll let them go when the subjugation is over." Iron Lord told her.

His voice wavered, his old body struggling to survive, and Iron Lord spread his arms, showing that the audience was over. Technicians surrounded him, repairing the damage done to his steel as it, in turn, worked to save him. And above them towered the Sky's Wrath.

"Helmets, idiots!" Iron Lord told his crew. Lesser men they may have been, but their enthusiasm was commendable.

The war engine without equal, its supermassive cannon mounted on tracks larger than hills, shrouded the assembly in its shadow and hid the sun behind its barrel. Fired less than a dozen times in past conquests, the mere sight and rumor of its destructive potential sent the hosts into panic. Slaves were herded into wagons, stable masters sedated animals, and the hordemen hastily put on their helmets, for when the Wrath thundered, everything trembled.

A clearing stretched out behind the superweapon, created by its immense mass flattening everything in its path, and hundreds of vehicles comfortably followed. The Sky's Wrath weighed heavily, tormenting the ground even now, and its tracks sank deep. Rows of deadly turrets, smaller artillery, missile launchers, and energy cannons bristled along its hull, ready to unleash hell upon any fool that dared challenge the beast of the apocalypse.

Almost anyone would be felled by them, but not Alpha. There was a good chance she would have escaped. Her elimination required a more radical method.

Inside the machine stood shield generators, far superior to the crude toys used by Iron Lord and even the Horde's vehicles. These were the artifacts of the Old World; their output could stop even the cannon's own fire. Up until now, its auxiliary guns were talking; it was the moment to let the main cannon declare its sentence at long last.

"Connect me," Iron Lord said.

"Sir, your health is not in optimal condition to operate it remotely," a technician dared to voice his objection.

"I am aware of that," Iron Lord said, hating every second of hearing his old, frail, clattering voice. Why must humans grow old? He did not strike the man, respecting his competence. "It won't be long, and then I am all yours."

The cables entered his back, and his conscience left his body and entered the terminals of the god machine. His brain was still working; it was still him, but the unique connection allowed him to see through each camera and experience the environment through the clarity of its sensors without the slightest effort. In the distance, the targeting systems located the city, and the cannon adjusted itself to his wishes.

"And now for the final swath. You arrogant mutant. Know the futility of defying your betters. Fire."

A single word. There was no need to speak it, for their crude devices translated his thoughts into binary language and carried out the command. Nor did anyone nearby hear him, for the cannon spoke. But the coming awe demanded a proper ritual.

Imagine a hurricane born in a second. Think of an earthquake scarring a land with vast canyons faster than an eye can blink. None of these descriptions sufficed to paint the picture of what was happening around Iron Lord. Forests disappeared for kilometers around. The traversing shockwave didn't bend the trees; it uprooted them, then shattered the trunks into a neat dust.

The cover of greenery disappeared, exposing gray rock and jagged stone. The heavy vehicles shook, and the technicians struggled to hold their ground, despite the advanced exoskeletons that were supposed to protect them, and if it weren't for his personal force shield, they would have been sent over the horizon. Far in the rear, the priests fell to their knees, chanting praises and ignoring cuts appearing on their bodies. There were even several deaths from the ranks of those who chose to ignore the precise precautions.

It scarcely mattered. The Sky's Wrath had sent its load.

 

[Rookie12]

Janine rarely had the privilege of witnessing Alpha's battles firsthand. Her own duty always demanded her direct presence in the midst of carnage, delivering Reclaimer justice to any foes. But now, locked inside the APC, surrounded by the weeping cubs and civilians breaking down from a sudden exposure, the fear wave, with Marty and her trying their best not to fall and squash anyone, with the faint breaths of Marco risking to stop, she needed a distraction. Any distraction to quell the emotions pulsing through her and continue the basic routine of helping the field medic.

Plasma dischargers on Alpha's wrists hurled overheated clots, and Horkhudagh weaved in the air to avoid them. Streaks of flames crackled around him as the skeleton flew under the straight thrust and rose behind the warlord. Blackened claws wreathed in blue formed at his hands. Solid to liquid and back to solid again. The last thing one would expect from a skeleton would be feats of agility.

A quick elbow to the skull sent him back, saving the generator backpack from damage. Alpha whirled, and the multicolored wings of her opponent enveloped her, forming hands that pinned her down. The intense heat disrupted the video feed, but enough of it came through to show Janine how the hands overlapped, forming a superheated layer that exploded in a directional blue beam that melted the ground beneath Alpha's legs.

Heat. He is trying to suffocate her. Metaphorical cogs in Janine's brain came to a halt, trying to draw her attention to something obvious. Flame. Why would he skirt around the attack…

"Warlord!" Janine yelled in the com. "Alpha, the bastard's not completely immune to the heat!"

Her HUD received nothing but the intense blue glow for several seconds, and then the claws parted its front to face the solidified, fiery talons of the hordeman. Horkhudagh grunted as his weapons and hands splintered, and Alpha hooked him by the elbows.

"Sister," Alpha said, a camera briefly catching her reflection in the vitrified wall. Her suit held on, refusing to lose, but one by one the cameras were getting shut down. "Not my first time."

She lunged, closing her maw on the flaming man's face, viciously hollowing it out. Then the plasma dischargers fired, almost catching Horkhudagh in his lunge to the left, and he lost the right side of his body. With a series of cracks, the body spat out fresh body parts, and a whirlwind of blows and cuts chained the fighters together, one shining bright as a star, spewing flames and heat, the other a raging fury adorned in the finest diamondoid alloy.

Fiery blue splashes pierced the remaining apartments, spurting like blood from arteries. Alpha advanced away from where she was knee-deep in molten asphalt, forcing her opponent to the more solid surface. Tongues of flames burst, cracking the surfaces, and claws raked against the black bones and the state's armor.

"Sword Saint, consign me to termination if you so desire, but I simply have to remark on the stubborn refusal of your noble kin to accept valuable insight," Albert's voice came with interference, partially hissing after all the damage.

"Nah, soulless buddy, yer truth," Martyshkina remarked. Still holding onto the ceiling with one paw, she leaned over and quickly fixed the dislocated shoulder of a young Ice Fang. "Better?"

"Ouch!" The boy blinked away the tears and moved his paw. "Hey, it no longer hurts! That much. Thank you, lady!"

"Just Martyshkina, little one. Albert, don't apologize when you are right. She totally fired way later than needed, missing her opportunity. But she is too proud to admit a mistake."

"She is gathering information," Janine said, understanding. "Warlord Alpha destroyed Horkhudagh's eyes and then fired. But he dodged. Why do so if he can form his body? And how?"

"He doesn't need his head to see," Martyshkina said.

Horkhudagh's belly erupted, temporarily covering everything in white, and Janine heard the rumbling and working of servomotors as Alpha jumped. When the feed resumed, she saw the claws closing in on the scorched man's legs, easily tearing through his leather skin. The strongest warlord landed on top of the enemy, thwarting his attempts to gain distance, and his hands morphed. Dozens of thinner and longer arms wound around Alpha's wrists; needle-like appendages protruded from the open Horkhudagh's back, quickly stabbing at the warlord, targeting her mouth, neck, joints, and lenses, denting and notching her armor. One bite destroyed a good dozen of them, and the warlord swung her arms, tearing at the bonds.

Tiniest droplets of blood lingered in the air and vanished, evaporating. An ugly cut appeared on Alpha's lips, and one of the stabs found its way to her skin on the inner part of her elbow. But Horkhudagh suffered for this legendary deed. Janine finally spotted it—not exactly the orb from before, but another, lesser orb floating inside of the hordeman's body.

Alpha struck this very core, shattering the black bones and cleaving through the arms raised in defense. The core itself was the size of a Normie's torso, but proved to be of far sturdier material as the tip of Alpha's claw scratched it, and Horkhudagh grunted, producing the noise of a roaring furnace, no longer mimicking boiling water of burning wood.

It was a roar of sorts, but not one of fear or displeasure. Elation resonated in it.

Horkhudagh rammed his elbows into Alpha, lifting the woman a little, and the needle appendages on his back merged into a single, wide palm of flame. It slammed the warlord to the ground and dragged the Wolfkin across the street, carrying her closer to the ruined academy in a river of melting stone. A web of cuts appeared briefly on the limb, so fast that Albert had to slow the feed a bit for Janine to even recognize it. Alpha broke free of the limb, her billowing hair resembling dancing snakes.

The two charged to face each other again, Horkhudagh growing a fresh set of larger and thicker arms, closing any damage done to his fake body, and Alpha silently passing through several walls of flame that appeared in her path. A headbutt sent Alpha's head skyward, but her paw was doubtless already aimed at Horkhudagh's true body, and the hordeman launched a strike of his own.

Neither managed to proceed as the clouds above belched a single piece of the armament, and something about this projectile terrified Janine, and she wrapped her arms around Marco and the closest cubs, shouting warnings for the troops to do the same. It was a weird premonition that touched her even before Alpha's combat armor signaled a warning.

The threat of a WMD.

There were three great nations in the world, three pillars of civilization and peerless industrial capacity. The despised Oathtakers, eternal rivals of the state, fanatics mistakenly believing in a falsehood concocted by their inane cult leader, and willingly surrendered partial freedom of their free will for the sake of unity, forever hindering their growth as humans. Janine despised them more than anyone in the world, even though her adopted daughter chose to live there. It was simply something she would never accept. The mutilation of the personality, the infringement upon the decision-making for those who had committed no crime, was a bridge too far for her to tolerate.

Next in line was Iterna, the traitorous butchers. They should have shown the same hatred and vitriol to the countless gangs feasting upon the ruins of the Old World near their borders that they had shown to the literal cubs who came to study under their wings. But Iterna was said to have changed, no longer displaying the same rash decisiveness as before. They were uplifting and integrating instead of stopping atrocities. Idiots. The likes of Mad Hatter, Blood Graf, Thunder Emperor, Mincemeat, or Techno-Queen would never change. They had the might but lacked the willpower to act.

The Reclamation Army was the last and largest nation in this union of necessity and perhaps potential friendship. Janine accepted they weren't perfect, but she firmly believed that the Dynast's vision and foresight were the only correct path for the world to take, lest it be destroyed in another war. Overthrow the slavers, bring the misguided fools back into the fold, and teach the people how to be better, to spare the younger generations the misery of existence under the unworthy rulers. Take away dangerous tools and use them to build, not destroy. Thousands of races, maybe even species, united under a single banner.

These nations had shaken hands and signed many treaties, ranging from tariffs to tourism to stopping diseases and controlling potential Apocalypse-classes of New Breeds, promising never to use weapons of mass destruction and swearing to abide by the rules of war, treating both civilians and military humanely. The horrors of MAD that had occurred during the Extinction haunted their leaders.

And the Gilded Horde… These bastards lacked such reservations.

****

The shell fired by the Sky's Wrath carried a payload of over nine hundred thousand tons of TNT. It exploded half a kilometer above Opul, forming a fireball of approximately one hundred and ten million degrees Celsius, bathing the town in a temperature hotter than the center of the sun and incinerating everything it touched.

Alpha's armor reacted immediately, entombing the warlord against her will and cutting off contact with the outside world. Her long crimson hair fell and turned to ash, cut by the sharp edges of her helmet. The suit released its emergency supply of nanomachines to form a protective, solidified layer over the warlord's claws and sealed her mouth. Designed and manufactured to operate in the event of a nuclear attack, its artificial intelligence lacked Albert's cheerfulness or any personality to speak of and now labored meticulously to preserve the user.

As the blast expanded, it resembled a semi-sphere of hellishly heated air, storming in every direction at millions of kilometers per hour, driving the fighters into the ground with the force of a falling meteor or spaceship.

Hell reigned in the real world for but a second, as the raining destruction quickly cooled to merely the surface temperature of the sun. That second was used to overload a ship's shields and soften its outer hull before the main guns of another ship or a defensive station used further methods to strip the ship of its fighting crew or teleport boarding parties in.

When used against the surface, unprotected by any shields, it turned Opul into a molten lake. The Knight Academy, a place of local pride and the defensive fortification, dissolved like a moth to an intense flame; parts of its masonry were simply ionized. The survivors, both Horde and locals, died so quickly that no one registered even a hint of pain. Statues, libraries, shops, homes, factories—nothing was left standing. The traveling shockwave wrecked everything around Opul for kilometers, reaching the retreating convoy.

Trees hit the APCs so hard that the transports nearly flipped. Then the world-collapsing cacophony of destruction tossed them, lifting the vehicles as easily as the wind plucked leaves. The cubs, secured in their harnesses, screamed in panic as a special foam appeared from their restraints to cover the passengers in protective cocoons. Unaccustomed to such overloads, they vomited against their will as the black- and white-armored forms around them tried their best to keep them safe. The civilian Normies suffered even worse, their organs bursting under the pressure as the faint shadow of the Horde's apocalyptic weapon barely grazed the vehicles.

****

A wall cracked, spraying the soldiers with metal shards, killing a Wolfkin and paralyzing an Ice Fang. Janine weathered two more, forcing herself to trust the medic to keep Marco safe. She blocked several more shards from reaching her troops and was surprised to find a blade-sized piece of metal lodged between her radius and ulna bones. Kalaisa's family and several pack members closed ranks around the unconscious wolf hag.

Their APC continued to spin. Up. Down. Left. Right. Janine caught a medic before the woman could fly into the gaping hole, holding herself steady with her claws. Her son was already safely nestled in a portable harness locked to the floor, and she tossed the woman to a knight, stopping another piece of debris from falling at the cubs. She didn't even see the piece of stone, moving on instinct, and her eye twitched at a sudden sting of pain. The knuckle and the plate above it were destroyed, and her finger dangled loosely.

"Even pebbles hit harder than you, Marty!" Janine teased in an emotionless voice, earning herself several chuckles. Good. Don't you dare think about dying.

"Ah, the delusions of youth…" Marty croaked, shielding the cubs with her back from a shower of debris.

"I'm a day younger than you!"

"…are so amusing. It's not my fault that your bones are so brittle that I have to hold back all the time."

"Hold back? What a load of cusack shit! I won our last spar, Granny!"

"Because I was holding back, suckling!" teased Martyshkina and Janine could've sworn that the mood brightened after their bickering.

"Albert, can you reach Bertruda in the other APC? Is…" the traitor, the scum, the bitch I will slaughter, "… the sword saint fine?" Janine swallowed the insults. Marco and the cubs were more important than her feelings.

"Negative, Sword Saint," Albert answered.

"It is warlord…" Janine looked out of the hole. "Brace yourselves! Rough landing!"

"We flew?" squeaked Tilden.

"Carried, I'd say…" Martyshkina groaned as a piece of metal flew past Janine and got stuck in her back.

The APC crashed to the ground and rolled several dozen meters. Blinking away the confusion, Janine realized they were a dozen kilometers from Opul. The town was no more, and a mushroom cloud hovered over it, and her tired imagination tricked her into seeing a grinning skull in the swirling shadows. She shook her head and contacted Bertruda.

They lost seven civilians, one cub, a boy whose head was squashed, two drivers, and a male of Martyshkina's pack during the landing. Janine hated herself for even thinking it, but they got off lucky.

"Albert…" she began, looking numbly at the dead Ice Fang cub. They rescued them, dammit! She placed no blame on anyone and let the hawks of the Investigation Bureau conduct an investigation based on the video feed they could recover from their suits. Deep down, she knew that they had done everything they could.

It wasn't enough. That's the bitter truth of a defeat. Sometimes you fail, no matter how hard you try. She cradled Marco in her arms, panicking that he could've been in a place of this boy. Spirits, what will his parents feel?

"Any… any radiation in the air?" She regained control over her voice.

"Not a trace, Sword Saint," Albert hissed, the sadness clear in his voice.

"Understood. What are you lazing around for?" She snapped at a knight and a warrior who sat, resting their legs. "Healthy? Congratulations, find a wounded person and get them moving. Medic, designate those who should not be walking. I will hear no objections!" She kicked a scout who was missing an arm back onto the cloth. "If she tells you not to move, shut up and lie down like a cub. Bertruda, Martyshkina, organize teams to carry the wounded. Anissa, I need ten eyes on the perimeter."

"Thank you for the confidence, Warlord," the field medic said tiredly. She didn't correct her that it was a necessity.

"Yes, Warlord!" Anissa replied, and Janine looked up, silently thanking the Spirits for the deliverance.

They survived.

****

Unbeknownst to the warlord, the world was already experiencing changes. Iterna's satellites had detected the explosion that wiped out Opul, and an envoy demanded an audience with the Dynast to discover what was going on. The Oathtakers immediately called for the evacuation of their citizens, sending small parties to protect their tourists, infiltrators, workers, and diplomats. Cries of relief rippled through the shocked denizens of the Net as the citizens of the three countries slowly realized that an entire town had just been wiped off the map.

In the far east, a white window touched the clouds. Outsider, the grand commander of the First and the personal champion of the Dynast, vented his anger upon learning of his nation's grievous loss. Basking in the light of his power, the defenders of the Abandonment glowed on the battlements, fading into nothingness, and their vast bastions soon followed. The slaves rejoiced as the Orais shattered their holding caves, freeing them.

The myth of the dark figure walking in the sky, cloaked in white light, was born that night, culminating when the screaming tyrant vanished as the black gauntlet seized him. The entire castle disintegrated with him, adding to Outsider's legends, and belief in the Champion continued to spread, revered by the new citizens.

Devourer reared high in the Wastes, arching his back and howling with such hatred that the nearby slavers dropped their weapons and surrendered immediately. Their leader arrived, carrying an entire mountain above his head with his gravity power, a proud New Breed who had never met his match.

A single, casual tail slap ended his existence. Devourer planned to take his time with the scum, but his short lesson had its effect, and the resistance ceased in an instant. Grief and hatred coursed through the commander's body—hatred for those who dared to harm his precious home and grief for the lives lost. His pride, his magnum opus, was hurting, and he wasn't there to help.

Mad Hatter smiled blissfully, ignoring the blows of a frail man who had unwittingly won freedom and safety for his village. She inhaled the air, forgetting even the fleeting intention of visiting the local church and ignoring the dead soldiers at her feet. Her smile widened at the knowledge of the distant destruction and the low rumbling beneath the village, but then a worry replaced the joy. The liar and heretic on her shoulders no longer whispered; his psyche seeped into hers, intensifying her thirst for blood and conquest.

She snarled, dismissed his offers of unrivaled power, and left the villagers alone, venturing into the camp. Mad Hatter felt it in her bones ever since she murdered that strange monster. Her own ascension, true divinity, wasn't complete, but it was near. It required only one more sacrifice. It was high time to march on Houstad to claim her destiny and announce the defeat of the Reclamation Army with the blood of one of its finest champions.

The doors of the Dynast's fortress opened, and a host marched forth, accompanied by the Nameless, sons and daughters of the conquered rulers, and the Dynast's personal guard. Enhanced by the most secret bioengineering knowledge available to the Reclamation Army, they prepared to repel any assault. Reality itself cracked and screamed above them as the pocket dimensions opened, releasing vehicles so destructive that the state had banned their use. Emulated minds slumbering in the depths of the palace awoke and took control of the systems not meant for human use. Mechanical horrors of the Old World joined the royal forces, heading for the troops of the Provincial Army from other regions that would relieve Houstad in its day of need.

And in the snowy mountains at the edge of the Inner Lands, sleeping on the disgusting carpet of hundreds of slaughtered wild bioweapons, Ravager stirred, disturbed by a strange dream that broke through the thickness of nightmares about the Room, or the scum who took her family, or Eugenia, who denied her a chance to escape, or even the simple dignity of dying normally.

In this dream, she was conversing with her children, calming their fears and providing them strength to carry on, even talking the twisted girls out of immediate mischief. She decided that she had hallucinated it as she gave birth to no child and her wards rested safely in Houstad and their villages, while the skinwalkers resided beyond the Wall. Besides, a monster could not inspire, could not help.

Covered in a thin layer of rime, Ravager slipped back into the emptiness of her sleep, amused at imagining the silly misunderstandings between her tribe and the locals in Houstad.

 

[Rookie12]

Darkness surrounded her from every side; the stone around her melted into a parody of a cinder block, trapping her like an insect in amber. There was no air, and she had the vaguest notion of direction after the thunderous explosion had pushed her deep, spinning Alpha several times. Her suit was breached in several areas, and her pale flesh was scorched to the bone, and now the burns and wounds twitched from the irritation of reappearing nerves and steamed during regeneration.

She worried more about her named allies than herself. The protective coating on the claws disappeared and Alpha began to widen her prison, cutting through the solidified obstacles. The echolocation function of her suit was useless; her own nose and ears couldn't pick up a single noise of a living being. That Abyss murdered everything, even more effectively than her fear wave.

Slowly a finger moved, then an arm, and cracks spread from her armored form as the systems busily restarted the protocols responsible for air recycling and ran diagnostics on the damage. The important thing was not to panic. She would not need O₂ for hours, and she exhaled just once, mourning her hair. It seemed so insignificant, so selfish, but Alpha secretly adored this sweet and innocent part of her; the act of combing the shining reddish strands using a hairbrush clumsily held between her paws always brightened her mood, and their silvery touch proved that there was beauty in everything and that the circumstances of her creation did not define her.

It took decades of care to grow them that long. Alpha intended to do so again.

A claw widened the space before the warlord, covering her blackened suit in dust. The claustrophobic environment dawned on Alpha, but not in the way she expected. Her lenses dispelled the surrounding night, and the gray, occasionally glassy surfaces eerily resembled the walls of the capsule in which she had been held, or the corridors of that cursed laboratory.

Unburdened, Alpha redoubled her efforts. The best way to handle the unpleasant things was to solve them, and she refused to stay buried. A report came in, announcing the failure to establishing a connection with Janine's pack. A shame. Alpha desired to know about Marco's condition and learn why in the Abyss her named sister wore that ugly-ass thin armor.

The rumors about her and Bertruda must've been true. Disgusting. The sword saint is married.

Long and grueling years of terraforming went down the drain. Because of Ravager's softness. Alpha lifted a partially freed leg, so the knee touched her chin and kicked, carving herself a small chamber. Then again, she had no right to blame the commander. It was that very softness that spared her and gave many another chance.

The roof above her cracked, filling the small space with the thuds of rocks scraping against her armor. Good. She straightened from a crouched position, sinking the claws into the above and splintering the artificial bedrock. Damn the feelings. Screw the past grievances. That was something Alpha had never understood about Ravager. Doubts crippled Mother, and that was well; a being of her abilities was wise to give more thought to her actions. But the madness of what had transpired chained Ravager.

By the Spirits, Alpha herself had committed unspeakable evil, but what was the point of dwelling on it, of wallowing in misery? Now and here was what mattered; Ravager herself had taught Alpha that. Why couldn't Mother tough it out? Why must Ravager be so fallible, so… human?

No matter. Do your duty. The war isn't over yet.

She continued to dig her way to the surface, using the navigation the suit's processor readily provided, soon swinging her arms fully. Alpha didn't make a simple, straight, ninety-degree tunnel, as climbing directly up would invite tons of rubble to fall down and send her back to the starting point. She swam at an angle, stubbornly paving a way for herself with the tips of her claws and gaining a new respect for the miners.

And a hatred of cave diving. Proceeding on her stomach, stopping to chop particularly tough boulders into pieces, then placing her palms on the ground to squeeze her body into the tunnel she made and repeating the process for the hundredth time was maddening. She wanted to stand and run and spin and jump and crouch and hunt. Screw the caves of any kind and screw the skinwalkers offers.

Getting scared, girl? Yeah. Nervous, at least. Alpha admitted to herself. She had gotten used to being surrounded by humans. Complete isolation gnawed at her nerves, evoking memories of absorbed people, and she turned on the music Zero had gifted her, and the infernal chanting, full of what sounded like garbage cans banging against each other and the riff of a guitar, filled her ears.

Hands on my neck, legs on my back…

How is it even physically feasible? Alpha tried to discern the lyrics sung by her named sister. Such an angelic voice, wasted on the unholy, gravelly throat singing. She tried to imagine a skinwalker holding Zero by the neck while another kicked the warlord in the back, and it still looked ridiculous.

Locked in slumber, never awake in that metal coffin of mine…

Then the paws reached me at long last…

Though I am fighting alone, I am no longer alone; I've got people for whom I want to survive…

Want to. Curious choice of words. Alpha grinned. Zero considered herself to be the most progressive out of them, but she was a really slow snail, wary of leaving her shell after what had happened. But that? That was a step. Then her mood soured as Alpha summed the file onto her screen, and it was titled: Album 1: Song 36. Now I know that Miss 'I named my rifle Big Gun' wrote it. How is it possible to be so devoid of creativity?

She pressed on, grumbling about the mindless nonsense spewing from the dynamics, and kept forming herself a tunnel ahead, occasionally listening to the collapses behind her. Half an hour later, she thrust her arm in the same, now mechanical motion, and a ray of sunlight broke through the prison of darkness, reflecting almost playfully off her lens. Without haste, the warlord pushed her body forward and stabbed again, opening an exit to the surface.

Alpha crawled out into the desolate wasteland, recognizing nothing. Based on her current coordinates, she was below Opul, but the sky was blue above her, and several puffy white clouds were passing toward her destination. So peaceful, while the rugged ground was devoid of any sign of life. Not even the Ravaged Lands were this desolate. She didn't feel any parasites, no scavengers circling around in search of a corpse, nothing.

Her helmet opened, and she took a deep breath, stopping when the ground shook. Cracks snaked out, spewing tongues of flame, and blackened fingers followed, gripping the edge tightly. The skeleton pulled itself from beneath the ground, the leathery skin wrapped around its bones tearing and reforming, and two points smoldering in its pitch-black eye sockets found Alpha, and in unison they prepared for battle.

The absurdity of the situation was almost physically offensive. Here they stood, demigods in a world of ashes, a man-crafted butcher facing a freak of an accident. And neither of them could do anything but be driven to try to kill each other.

"Enough of it." Alpha spat on the ground, shrugging off the metaphysics as the helmet closed around her head.

"Indeed." Horkhudagh shuddered, giggling, and his bones rattled. "No more traps and intricate plots involving the risk and sacrifice of others; we will settle this as it should have been from the beginning. Know that I respect your sense of loyalty, but unless you bow, there is only one way for your fate to end. I see dents and cuts in your armor, one of your launchers is gone, your left knee is unprotected, and there are exposed wires at your waist. Impressive. I wonder how much of your suit is still functional. What will it be? Submission or execution?"

"I extend the same offer to you. Why serve the Horde?" Alpha asked, tilting her head. "The state pays better and prefers not to rule over ruins. How about joining?"

"The kind offer is declined." The skeleton waved a finger, coating himself in an aura of flame. "Perhaps if I had heard it earlier, before my comrades died, but now… Loyalty is its own reward, and I have sworn mine to Iron Lord and, by extension, to Mad Hatter. My future, and that of my people, is tied to theirs."

"Then you have no future," Alpha told him plainly.

Horkhudagh stretched the narrow opening of his mouth to mimic the smirk, and the ground between them erupted. A black bone blade, covered in the brightest blue flame, rose from the depths, its hooked end aimed between her legs. Alpha stepped back, heard the hiss of the bone scratching against her chest, and slashed, cutting the weapon in two.

She leapt to the left and was caught by a blooming flower sprouting beneath her feet. From Horkhudagh's back, red threads spilled down into the cracks, and he continued to fashion weapons out of her sight. The flower closed around her, searing exposed parts of her flesh, and she gritted her teeth and fired the remaining plasma discharger, burning a path to freedom. Instinctively, she expanded her fear wave, forming a thin needle that touched the hordeman, who didn't even flinch. Whatever he was, her emotional manipulation had no effect on the man.

How irritating.

She kicked a stone at Horkhudagh's head and stopped, sensing the traitor's arrival. Feet shattered the stone, heading toward the battle, and a familiar faint hiss cut through the noise. The boulder melted in the middle, passing Horkhudagh's flame-crowned head. Blades of blue grew in his hands, and new tools of murder rose to the surface, bulging entire slabs of stone, trapping Alpha in the cage.

The gallant fool made it first, and the heat of the newborn star touched Horkhudagh. First barely flicked his wrists, and the arms were already flying; his sweep took the legs from under the hordeman and the return slash decapitated the enemy. The Sunblade streaked past the column of blue rising around the suspended in the air torso and stabbed; his ancient sword, a torch shining brighter than the sun, landed in the very center of the column.

But the attack failed. Horkhudagh's core fled with the rising column, still carrying the weapons he had conjured upon the warlord. No blade or claw touched her; the Sunblade, a miniature copy of his noble parents, stopped near her, and the cut in two tools fell slowly to the ground. He was clad in white, immaculate armor, every edge of his suit covered in gold. His chest, incrusted with diamonds and rubies, glittered with every movement, and a heavy purple cloak cascaded from underneath his pauldrons, untouched by the hordeman's flame. His own long hair was tied into a plait decorated by precious metals and tied at his waist.

"Tch. Cowardly cur." First turned off the Sunblade, and only the handle was left in his paw. He placed it into the heavy sheath, tracing the flying upward enemy. Soon the orb disappeared behind a cloud, and the grandmaster faced Alpha, bowing respectfully. "Lady Alpha, my deepest regrets for arriving at such a late hour. I endeavored to arrive with the utmost haste upon hearing the news of the foul peril that has befallen Opul. My brave hunters have already escorted to safety those of the citizens who fled toward our positions…"

"Drop the chit-chat, traitor." Alpha shrugged, not caring in the slightest if he had saved her or not. To think that she considered him a comrade.

"I understand your disgruntlement, Warlord, and partially agree with it," First said. "I assure you, the fault lies solely with the Sword Saints, myself included. The members of my Order are innocent of any wrongdoing…"

"Are they?" Alpha scoffed. "A cub of my sister was on the battlefield. Am I to believe that she brought him on her own on a field trip? That none of your filth said a word to stop the folly?"

"The circumstances of this incident are unknown to me, Lady Alpha…" First began cautiously.

"Then make them known." She leaned his snout to his, the steam rising from her open mouth. "Who's to say that you came to help me not because I am your ally, but because I am a useful tool to keep your ilk safe?"

"Lady, fatigue is warping your perception. Never would I look at you or the Wolf Tribe as tools. You are my family…" First stopped when Alpha opened her helmet to reveal the healing burn that stretched from her nostril to the left side of her skull. The lidless eye gazed at the grandmaster.

"Family? Were you our family when Tancred ignored Dragena's orders and led many to their deaths, exposing the cubs to danger? What about the communication blackout between our forces that resulted in the deaths of my sisters? My kin survived by mere chance after the Order's recklessness and refusal to cooperate caused them to be shot down during their escape. And this, today…" Her claws trembled; the wicked thoughts she seeped from the dead called for violence, threatening to drown the smaller personality. It took her several breaths to calm herself. "One is a mistake. Two is an accident. More is an obvious pattern. Our youth has been exposed to danger again."

"The Wolf Tribe is known for its harsh treatment of its children," First said quickly and fell silent.

"Is that an implication I hear?" Alpha asked quietly. "Shall we compare the list of sins committed by our groups? I know our history, and I was never in support of what happened to the cubs. I flayed the one most responsible and murdered those who led the little ones to their deaths, and if Janine is guilty of what you say, I will do the deed again, and with pleasure and intense hatred. But I have tasted her before. And doubt you, not her!" She pointed the claw at First's head and closed the helmet. "Even now you try to drive a wedge between me and my named sister, seeking advantage in the coming argument."

"That wasn't my intention. I simply sought not to blame anyone prior to the investigation…"

"Family doesn't do that. We argue, but don't deflect," Alpha said.

"No, but you are projecting. Lady Alpha, right now you are condemning everyone for the sins and mistakes of a few," First said. "Nobles and commoners of the Order fought valiantly by the Wolf Tribe's side."

"Tancred is no longer here, and Leonidas is gone, but our boy is still injured. Enough of this quarrel," Alpha said. "We are done being used, ignored, or fed shit by your kind. I am heading for the convoy. You?"

"Not immediately," First said. "Our holdings in the north are threatened, and while the buildings can be rebuilt, the workers cannot."

"You are needed in Houstad." Alpha growled.

"I will head there right away with my forces…" He looked aside. "After I see him off."

"You can't be serious," Alpha said. "That's suicide."

"That is his wish."

"Is that so…" She tried to detect any falsehood in his words, but First stood still, his head bowed in sadness. "Whatever. Another life lost to the war, then. Do what you must and act your rank by sending me information about your forces at paw and how soon they can reach Houstad. That city won't fail."

 

[Rookie12]

"Filth." Claws raked across the sage's snout, opening it to the bone from cheek to the nose. "Scum." An elbow smashed into the woman, flinging her into the wall with enough force to knock the air out of her. "I gave you the order." Pure, unadulterated hate shone from the amber eyes. "Why didn't you report his disappearance the second you lost him?"

"We assumed that Marco had gotten lost somewhere around here," the sage said, clumsily grabbing a railing and trying to stand up. She coughed out a red blob. "I never imagined that the boy would dare to sneak onto a transport…" Her words changed into a shriek of pain as the foot slammed into her forearm, shards of bone piercing the bone on either side of the kick.

"Dare?" Janine whispered. "You blame him?"

"I meant…" The sage choked on her words as the warlord grabbed her by the throat, yanking the woman into the air.

"He is a cub! You are an adult!" She punched the sage in the stomach, ignoring the vomit mixed with blood splashing on her head. "It is your duty, your obligation, to watch over the young generation! I entrusted you with our precious gift as we risked ourselves to save the Order's cubs, and this is how you treat our future?"

Janine dropped the sage, fuming in rage, and claws slowly slipped from her fingers. She stood, dumbfounded by what she had just heard, drool dripping from her jaw, her nostrils widened and still bleeding from the open wounds. The warlord had refused all offers of treatment, forcing herself to maintain composure near the civilians and rescued cubs while she sent Anissa to rush Marco to the medical bay alongside every other injured and assigned a sage to find the dead boy's parents. Then she had checked the thinned ranks of her troops, not ignoring the traitors, deliberately ignoring the bowed sage whose duty it was to watch over her own cub.

Otherwise, she would've murdered the female on the spot.

Kirk had tried to hide a wide gash on his arm to avoid medical attention, and Janine kicked him, sending the infuriating male flying toward his destination through the corridors. The rest of the survivors got the memo and stopped fooling around.

"Marco is not to blame for what happened." The sage frowned, the claws of her good arm scraping against the wall. She had a narrower snout than the most Ice Fangs and bronze-incrusted studs pierced her brow. Lumie was written on her badge, but Janine immediately refused to use that name. "I would've never laid the blame on him. I tried to…"

"Warlord. You injured my soldier," Bertruda said. "Step away from her, and let's discuss this as reasonable people."

"If she can't use her arms to protect the cubs entrusted to her, then she doesn't need them." Janine raised the paw, her fangs chattering a tune of anticipation, and an urge gripped her stomach, demanding sustenance. "If she can't use her eyes or her brain, then she has no need for them, either."

Claws met the blade, failing to reach and scoop the top of the sage's head. The warlord's arm bounced off Elegance's flat, and its edge swayed, pressing against her neck in a single, smooth, almost instantaneous motion, dancing just outside of adding a cut to her neck.

"You dare?" Janine asked in disbelief, raising her arm to stop Martyshkina and the packs from charging the Ice Fangs. They couldn't begin a civil war, not here. "We fought for you. Our sisters and brothers died to save your cubs. We deserve retribution."

"And I have nothing but eternal praise for your actions," Bertruda responded calmly, not removing Elegance. Their eyes locked. "This incident will be settled in a civil court…"

"To the Abyss with your gratitude!" Martyshkina roared. "The sage was given an order and a ward! The price for the sin of complacency is death!"

"This is not the Ice Fangs way." The stubborn sword saint refused to budge. "I will not let my people be slaughtered like cattle."

"Instead, you would risk an open war between allies." Janine grabbed Elegance under the blade and pulled the spear down, easily overpowering Bertruda. She spoke without anger now; the seething rage in her soul pushed her beyond any reasonable limits of fury. "Had I've killed you upon returning, Opul's victims would've died. I was wrong to act rashly and scar you."

"Janine…"

"Silence. Listen to me, Sword Saint," she interrupted her. "Everything has its limits. Think. Think with that prideful skull of yours. You see us as savages, worse than dirt. What if you are right? What if in trying to stop what must be done, in refusing to sacrifice to placate, you spark bloodshed? How many of your kind will die?"

"And how many of yours?"

"Less than yours."

"Are the lives of your people so cheap to you, Janine?" Bertruda asked.

"They are precious enough for us to die trying to bring justice. I treasure them so much that I am willing to work alongside traitors if it means honoring their principles and legacies." Janine tensed.

"Then prove it!" Bertruda insisted. "Janine, I didn't understand you. Not at first, and I was wrong. You are, to me, an ideal of duty and devotion, an awe-inspiring example of what we can be! Don't betray it," she whispered. "Please. Stay true to what is just."

Am I supposed to sacrifice again? Janine's grip tightened, her fingers twitching against her will, and blood spurted from her neck. Never before had a leader of the Wolf Tribe tried to stop a punishment by an officer of the Order by threatening violence. Sure, the lesser ranks and even the warlords and sword saints fought each other all the time, often violating the Blessed Mother's decree and even occasionally dying in duels.

She sensed the packs' aggression, watching them shift from leg to leg out of the corner of her eye. Paws reached for shardguns, claws flashed, fangs bared, Martyshkina's fingers drummed on the revolver's handle. Bodies crouched, hungrily planning an attack. More Ice Fangs showed in the corridor, sages and defenders, and behind them the hunters blatantly raised their rifles, taking aim.

So much for the claims of kinship.

What would Marco and Bogdan have wanted? Janine stopped herself from decking Bertruda. These Ice Fangs, this filth… They had little ones and family waiting for them at home. How would they feel if they learned that their loved ones had died senselessly in battle against the Wolf Tribe while the enemy was knocking at the gates?

There is no honor in what you desire. They lack the strength of will to bear the sense of loyalty needed to satisfy a monster. But are you a monster or a human? That voice again. She wasn't sure if the loss of blood was causing her to hallucinate, but Janine thought she heard the Commander speaking in her ear. There was no inquisitorial insistence or condemnation, the Blessed Mother asked thoughtfully, serving more as a witness to verify any answer.

And Janine chose. Damn the truth and damn being right. There would be no winner and no future for the state if the Wolf Tribe were to abandon unity. Janine brought Elegance to her neck, deliberately wounding herself against Bertruda's attempt to remove the edge.

"You still have an arm left," Janine said to the sage, not bothering to look down at the sage. Her full attention was on the cold blade sliding up and down her neck, soothing her despite the pain.

"Janine. Stop," Bertruda said.

"That's what you wanted, traitors. To see us hurt. Savor it, then, deceivers." She grinned. "You will fight beside Normies, stripped of your family name, dishonored, ranked lower than the lowest of your foot soldiers. Should you survive the war…" She pushed Elegance away from her neck and tore the metal lodged in her arm, dropping it before the sage. "Do as honor dictates. Whatever you decide, never approach the villages of the Wolf Tribe or our offspring. Otherwise, devouring. Thus I declared."

"And so it is heard," Impatient One announced from the rear. "There will be no further vengeance or discontent. Any fool wasting their energy or infighting shall pay the ultimate price. The shamans stand with Warlord Janine!!"

"The warlords join their sister!" Martyshkina thumped her chest and spat at the rising sage. The woman didn't wipe her face and tried to pick up the blade before medics forcibly led her away.

"The sword saints hear and obey the decree." Bertruda saluted, nodding in thanks. She stomped, breaking the chunk in the silent answer.

"The verdict has been recorded and added to the Order's database," Albert said as technicians wheeled away the half-ruined suit. Janine wordlessly wished him a speedy restoration and many worthy battles.

"Speaking of wasting their energy…" She thrust her arm into the ranks, grabbing her petulant daughter by the neck. Impatient One squealed and tried to bite the warlord, and Martyshkina chuckled, blocking the shaman's kick. "Come 'ere!"

"I will not be humiliated, Warlord!" Impatient One snarled, trying to pry away the fingers.

"Then you should've obeyed the order. Insubordination from the males I understand, but of you I expected better. Fine, if you want to be treated as a little one, I will treat you as one!" Janine laughed, easing the tension.

With a possible massacre averted, Martyshkina howled, long and hard, stretching her voice to the limit, and the packs joined in that cry, begging forgiveness for those they had to leave on the battlefield and mourning the comrades they had lost. Bertruda knelt, encircled by sages and her elite guard, then by knight-captains and knights, and the lesser ranks formed the outer, third, circle. She led a more intimate prayer to the Twins and the Blessed Mother, holding a paw to her chest and intoning the oaths and the names of the fallen while the sages held smoking censers over her head. Several defenders and foot soldiers joined in the wailing, but the sword saint did not reprimand them.

But the mourning did not last long. After a howl of sadness, there was a burst of jubilation. They felled the enemies, saved the cubs, and several civilians. Sages and surviving shamans of the Martyshkina pack had to physically restrain the scouts, wolf hags, and even several Ice Fangs from dragging the shocked cubs into the celebrations, following the ancient ways. The sages handed out stern disciplinary punishments, while the shamans let their claws do the talking.

Tables were dragged into the hangar, and drinks—bottles of vodka, cognac, sodas, and juices that the Wolfkins had grown fond of during their stay in Houstad—began appearing on them, brought in by the cooks. Tasty-smelling carcasses of genuine cows, bulls, and deer followed, piled high for the soldiers to eat, and the exquisite meat of a white stag that scouts had found. The locals claimed this beast was a sign of luck, so the Wolfkins sent out for food, prioritized hunting it, and now it crowned this feast of excess. In a show of solidarity, Bertruda and Martyshkina broke the softest meat of this rare beast together, raising their fists high in the air to the delight of everyone, but Janine noticed a glimmer of hatred in Martyshkina's eyes.

Technicians, engineers, off-duty doctors, civilian officials, black-coated agents, the Brood, and the Horde deserters—no one was shunned away to the curses of the officer in charge. The crowd grew, interfering with the staff's work, and already the Wolfkins and Ice Fangs began clapping their paws, summoning a knight-captain to tell his story of how he had defeated an ironclad.

And that was well, Janine decided. The Gilded Horde had tried to strike fear into their hearts. Let them know that the Reclamation Army was made of sterner stuff. As soon as the celebration was over, Marty would begin her merciless training in preparation for the battle.

Stepping into the spacious halls of the medical bay, Janine sniffed a variety of scents, ranging from the usual tantalizing blood to the repulsive, pungent odors of disinfectant to the sweet tastiness of rot coming from a farmer's arm, corrupted by gangrene as the doctors sawed it away, while the burly man joked, wondering if he could install a multi-purpose tool in its place. Next to him was Kalaisa, stripped down to her scarred body, hooked up to the mechanical ventilator with a tube down her throat. Two nurses fought to keep her alive under the guidance of an Iternian doctor who had contacted the convoy from his station on Houstad.

"…Your onboard facilities should be able to synthesize the antidote based on the formula." The Iternian clicked his tongue. "What a disgusting sight."

"She was injured in the line of duty! Show some respect, Mr. Diego!" barked the Ice Fang field medic.

"Honey of my eyes, I in no way intend to insult the patient's deeds!" The display showed the doctor placing a hand over his heart in mock horror. "All women are goddesses and deserve a befitting outward splendor to match their inner beauty. I prescribe the scar removal procedure for our young wolf hag."

"I don't think she will agree," the nurse said.

"Believe me, I know," Diego sighed. "I've had my share of unruly patients here. I even had to stop four of them from escaping by using a tranquilizer. That's why I spend an entire night consulting lawyers from my home while we read through their contracts, line by line. If we use the excuse of acting in the best interest of the patient's mental health, we are free to schedule the procedure for a later date, regardless of the wolf hag's wishes."

"Is it in her best interest?"

"Would you be satisfied if, Planet spare us, you were ugly, o dearest flower of distant lands?" Diego noticed Janine and stared at her, examining her short legs, long arms, and bleeding wounds, ignoring the shaman writhing in her paw.

"No," she stated.

"That cannot be tolerated, I agree, my wild furball." Diego nodded. "I have no patience for suffering patients, mine or otherwise, so I fix everyone."

"You must be an excellent doctor," Janine said.

"Sued sixteen times for wasteful spending." Diego waved his hand. "It's why they stuck me into Houstad; the Family thought I wouldn't have a chance to overspend here. Hah! They wish! Now I get to abuse both Iterna and the Reclamation Army's funds! Titanium… no, it won't be durable enough to support you… tungsten to lengthen legs' bones until they grow over the implants naturally, then remove scars to smoothen skin, and finally restoration of the bodily hair… Honey, give me two months and all the men will be yours! Or women, if you swing that way."

"Not unconscious, not giving my permission. Piss off, weirdo!" Janine threw to the overenthusiastic doctor. The Iternians were weird. And creeps, the lot of them.

She stormed inside, ignoring Diego's demands, and nodded to Kirk and his family. His sister and brother good-naturedly teased the blushing male about missing the party.

More than the state's servants worked here. Helpers from the ranks of the refugees joined in, including even four doctors from the Oathtakers. These were the tourists visiting. After they had been rescued, they willingly offered their assistance. Janine knew that she should be grateful for their valiant aid, and she was. Yet at the same time, the sight of a Troll, a type of New Breed very common on the battlefield, tending to the wounded Wolfkins filled her with unease.

"Not a step further!" Dokholkhu jumped from the ceiling.

"The shaman is here to have her wounds treated. I came to visit…"

"Your son, yeah, I know. My condolences; the doctors are operating on him as we speak. It'll have to wait."

"It can't," growled Impatient One.

"Bite me." He took them by the arms and grinned as the two refused to move. "You can try to make a scene and be denied patient visits, be maced by the guards, and then have your injuries treated, or you can follow me so we can end the unpleasant procedure swifter. Your choice, Khan."

"Warlord," Janine corrected him. "Lead the way. When did you turn into a jerk, Dokholkhu?"

"Hey, it's not my fault your tribe is so prone to self-harm, Warlord!" His lips twitched, and then the four-legged Malformed, wearing a medical robe wrapped around his waist, tapped nervously. "About your boy. Listen, I am no healer, but I think everything should be fine. Your daughter is already there, so he is not alone if he wakes up."

"That's not fair! I am better than her!" Impatient One complained as he led them into a separate compartment and sat them both on the operating tables. "Why is the wolf hag free?"

"She wasn't hurt that badly. Take better care of yourself, and we won't have to bother you." Dokholkhu grinned, used a device on the wall to call for a doctor, and then poked his head into the hallway.

"Thank you for the news, Dokholkhu," Janine said.

"Just trying to be useful, Warlord. Doctor! Yes, right here!"

 

[Rookie12]

Stitched, bandaged, and dressed, their wounds cleaned, and munching on vitamin bars, the mother and daughter followed their guide to Marco's room. Anissa was there, kneeling and chanting prayers in a soft voice over the unconscious boy. Like theirs, her fur showed signs of recent washing, and she wore a similar black jacket and blue pants. Ignacy was nervously pacing from one end of the room to the other while a tall and thin Troll in a green medical robe and a nurse finished cleaning the eye sockets.

But not the eyes. Janine's fist clenched, nearly drawing blood. Her son no longer had eyes. His lovable, beautiful, gentle and kind eyeballs had been eaten away by the spat venom. My fault. The guilt threatened to buckle the warlord, but she stood still. Marco needed her now more than ever. I will fix it.

"How is he, Doctor?" Impatient One asked, placing a hand on Janine's chest to feel the heartbeat. She looked sharply at the taller woman, commanding silence. To the outsiders, the warlords had to be untouchable mountains that knew no weakness.

A rule she had not upheld lately.

Marco's stumps and the wound in his side were already treated: the doctors shaved away the fur, stopped the bleeding and covered them in elastic bandages. A nearby terminal projected a steady heartbeat on its display.

"Short of anything miraculous, the boy will live," said the Troll in a deadly calm voice, without breaking from his task. He spoke without a hint of emotion, but his elongated, gray fingers tended to Marco gently, avoiding causing him pain. "The blood began to clot; the venom lost its battle against the immune system, but we injected the antidote anyway."

"Antidote?" Impatient One asked. "No one offered the warlord one."

"Your nation didn't have it then," the doctor said. "A colleague of mine, Maxence I believe his name is, used samples collected from Sword Saint Tancred and Warlord Janine to compare the split used and develop countermeasures. Thanks to the advice of the young man over there, we contacted Houstad and received the formula."

"It's nothing," Ignacy forced the words out, and Janine's paw slapped him on the shoulder in approval. "Marco isn't that weak, and anyone would've thought of it."

"You were the first. Take pride in your part, Ignacy," Anissa advised him, breaking from her prayers. "Many things are often overlooked in the chaotic times."

"Agreed. As the Taker of Oath said: Save for God, no person possesses the comprehension to account for everything; therefore, every little voice matters if we are to prosper," the Troll said. "My initial assessment is that it would be safe to wake him in a week and prepare our patient for augmentation."

"Why is he still unconscious?" Janine asked worriedly, seeing how a long metal instrument went into her boy's eye socket, scrubbing the remains of an eye, and Marco did not even flinch.

"Healing coma." The doctor paused briefly and pointed to an open book near the terminal, titled "Wolfkin Physiology," with an irritated-looking female who had a spotted black and brown fur coat standing cross-armed in a circle of yellow light. "We recovered many survivors from the battlefields days after the battle and learned much observing their recovery. I'd wish your leaders showed the same mercy." He straightened. "Is Terrific alive?"

"I killed her," Janine answered.

"Good. Joy. Hope she burns in hell." The doctor leaned closer. "You're her, right? One of the two who stopped the torture." Janine said nothing, and he shrugged. "My kind owes you, but I am still going to write a report recommending removing the kid from your clutches. Doubtless it will be ignored, but I have a responsibility to at least try." He set aside the instruments and faced the family. "Any offense was intentional. I have seen the scars on the patient's body." He pressed a finger to Anissa's nose, stopping her snarl, and continued unabashedly. "With the pleasantries out of the way, how are you two related to the patient?"

"I am his mother. Name's Janine." She offered to shake his hand, but the Troll ignored her offer. "Why are you treating my son? I thought that the Oathtakers hated us."

"Mother, please…" Ignacy said.

"Be silent, male; the warlord is speaking!" Impatient One said.

"Misconception. Weariness. We despise the Wolf Tribe's misguided and cruel culture and hated a specific individual, but have nothing against its people. The names of Martyshkina and Janine are spoken with respect back at my home, and our countries are long at peace." The doctor massaged his temples. "You should see a psychiatrist or take a prolonged leave of absence from the war. Preferably both. I am not a specialist, but you seem to have difficulty navigating through the past. Concern."

"You could afford to be a little more respectful, then, dear ally." Anissa noted, rubbing her nose. "If it weren't for us, the Horde would have grilled your gray ass."

"I could, but I won't, and also thank you for our rescue. But the past grievances are long forgiven, and after your actions, the Trolls welcome any Wolfkin to visit the Land of the Oath as a friend. Sincerity." The Troll looked at Anissa's artificial eye and stepped closer, shamelessly sliding a finger inside its casket. The wolf hag almost choked on indignation but swallowed her pride and sat, tolerating the adjustment and tinkering with the augment. "As for your question, Warlord Janine, I am the most qualified of the available personnel to treat children. If you plan to voice objections, shove them down your ass, please. The boy's health is my highest priority. Do any of you have the forty-eighth blood type for a transfusion? Our supplies are running low."

Janine caught herself liking the doctor. He laid out everything as he saw it and was brutally honest in his opinions. She could trust someone like him with Marco's fate, even if she'd much rather have Maxence here. She was about to ask the shaman when her daughter stepped forward on her own.

"I do. Take as much as you need." Impatient One offered her arm.

"Are you Marco's sister, by any chance?" The doctor asked, calling a nurse for assistance. She seated the tall Wolfkin and cleaned the fur and skin over the artery, while the Troll took a terminal and summoned the shaman's medical history on the display, skimming through it. "Full of holes, no information about the family. As expected of Reclaimers… Your and Janine's snouts look a bit similar."

Anissa tensed, licking her lips and glancing at the shaman. Janine shifted closer to the doctor, preparing to restrain her daughter if she tried to punish the male for such a grave insult, but Impatient One simply sighed, averting her eyes to Marco.

"Coming from a Troll, that's… It is common for barbarians to be unaware of our traditions, so I forgive you," she said icily. "Marco and I came from the same womb, but he and I are siblings no longer, even though Colt's, the male's father, blood is coursing through our veins."

"May I stay with him until we reach Houstad?" asked Janine.

"No. Sternly," answered the Troll. "You want to help your kid? Eat, rest, and recover. Make sure he still has a mother waiting for him when he wakes up, and not a sleep-deprived wreck."

She wanted to rage, to plant her fist into this dispassionate face over the fear of abandoning her cub when he was hurting. But the male was right, and Janine mastered her fear and knelt, touching Marco tenderly, wishing she could pass on her strength and vitality to him. She uttered to him the same simple prayer that a shaman of Terrific's pack had used to help the little one sleep better.

Failed to raise him properly… Impatient One's words came back to haunt her. Arrogant. Oh, how arrogant Janine was, thinking she knew better. She always treated Marco, her dear son, with softness, never disciplining him and always ready to come to his aid. She degraded her son by treating him as if he were less than Bogdan or Ignacy, and in spite of it, Marco had made her proud.

Traditions. No bite, no cruelty lacked meaning. His injury had proven Janine's parenting methods wrong. If she'd bitten him, if she'd taught him to obey during his last outburst, then Marco would've stayed in safety. A little pain in exchange for survival. She did it. Her fault. Her guilt.

I will make it okay. You'll be running again. Janine promised, plans already forming in her head. The state had cloning technology, advanced enough to restore lost body parts, even if the price of the treatment was beyond anything Janine could hope to earn in a reasonable time frame, regardless of her meager savings. As a warlord, she enjoyed free access to it, but Marco was out of luck. That was the problem. She would offer to become Till Ingo's slave if the scientist would pay for her son's treatment, or she'd sell herself to the Wyrms, or maybe to one of the influential people…

There were variants of how to give her little one back what he had lost without harming the Tribe's honor. The shamans would understand. She'd lick Ingo's feet for the rest of her life or be his test subject if necessary. No personal shame was too great to bear for Marco's sake.

"The rest of you piss off, too," stated Impatient One, sniffing the nurse. Her fangs flashed when another female touched her disrespectfully, but the shaman composed herself. "Wolf hag! You have duties to attend to while the warlord recovers. Abandon the studies until the end of this crisis. Ignacy… Read a book or make some cubs already; Elzada won't stay fertile forever." She grinned, permitting casual talk.

"Says a cubless woman," Ignacy shot back.

"I did my part, male. What's your excuse?" Impatient One laughed. "You have a mate, she has you, there's an abundance of food; what more incentive do you need?"

"Education?"

"They are free to attend Normies' schools." Impatient One waved at him. "At least you think of having cubs. Progress."

Did your part? Janine wondered, leaving the room and clinging closer to the wall to let a Malformed rush a stretcher with the paralyzed Ice Fang past them into the operating room for surgery. Her daughter often embarked on pilgrimages to visit various holy sites where Ravager's grace lingered, forever altering the landscape and consigning the unearned bones of lost Wolfkins to the cleansing flame or fashioning talismans out of them. But bearing cubs? Never. Janine would've known…

Or would I? Anissa lied about the origin of her injury.

Each shaman had undertaken such pilgrimages, taking no food or water as they braved the wilderness and desolation through raging sandstorms, poisonous hazards, and sated their hunger on the deadly wildlife. Alone they traveled, watering the areas where the Tribe bled more than ever with their blood. This was a ritual to placate the fallen spirits. The shamans sang songs, intoning the names of every missing Wolfkin to help the stumbling souls navigate their path to the Great Beyond and rejoice that the Tribe thrived.

A humble and most worthy tradition, and hardly dangerous today. Bases, villages, or entire settlements have sprung up where the battlefields once were, and the sight of a large Wolfkin swooping in to pray and bleed, declining a free stay in a house or food, often puzzled the locals. The Planet's priesthood in the Outer Lands even incorporated similar pilgrimages into their beliefs, creating a tradition of sending gifts to those in need, bridging distant people together.

During the spiritual journeys, the shamans began carrying written mail for those too poor to access the Net, growing more embarrassed but striving to fulfill their duties to the utmost. Predaig once had erupted into uncontrollable glee, summoning her named sisters to listen to a recruit's tale. The Normie told them that the villagers regarded the shamans as heroes, praising them more than even the Ice Fangs for delivering vital medicines and instruments to the farthest reaches and for cleaning the insectoid infestations.

The image of her daughter striking a heroic pose had made Janine chuckle and earned the four females harsh looks from Lacerated One, but back then she didn't care. It was, no, it is still funny!

"Warlord." Thyia's voice ripped her from the dreams. The woman bowed, pressing a paw to her heart. "Sword Saint Macarius petitions for your presence."

"I have nothing to say to that traitor. Carry on, Ally." Janine stormed past the woman, frowning and grinding her fangs.

"Don't worry, Mom!" Ignacy mistook her behavior for brooding and slapped her on the back, receiving a smack from Anissa for familiarity. "Marco is a tough cookie and an expert paws."

"I'll gather enough heads of the Horde's servants to honor his deed with a celebratory pyre," Anissa hissed, closing her natural eye. "Marco enjoys reading those... What are the decadent picture magazines called again?"

"Comics," Janine answered ahead of Ignacy.

"Comics," Anissa said, almost as if she had tasted the word. "Ignacy. Know how to order stuff online? Capital, get Marco the last batch; I'll give you the tokens."

"He lacks eyes, Sis," Ignacy said quietly, shaking from another heavy smack that almost knocked him down. "What was that for?!"

"Because you and Mother are such downers!" Anissa bared her fangs at Janine's intense glare. "Yeah, come on, bring it on, won't prove me wrong! You act as if his life is over!" She tapped at her crimson ocular. "Little Bro got injured. Big fucking deal. Give it time, and he'll see better than any of us. Legs? Meh, I'll beat him into submission until he agrees to get prosthetics! Abyss, soon we will all be laughing and teasing him about this incident!"

"If he survives…" Ignacy never finished the sentence. A kick in the stomach sent him against the wall, and Anissa pinned his neck with the forearm.

Janine placed a paw on Anissa's shoulder, warning her to stop any further violence, and nodded to the surrounding staff to assure them that everything was under control.

"Enough of getting high on despair!" Anissa screamed into Ignacy's ear, her eyes shining yellow and red. "By the Spirits, look around! Yeah, we took a beating." She let go of Ignacy and hugged him. "But know what, brother? The Reclamation Army always prevails! The spirits never give a person a heavier load than she can carry, and who can hope to stand against us when the Blessed Mother herself is our progenitor? We are alive, we exist, and none of us is going anywhere, so stop acting gloomy!"

"Yeah. Yeah," Ignacy said, first with uncertainty, then flashing a genuine smile. "You're right! In a month, Marco will be hopping around on his new legs." He snapped his fingers. "No dilly-dallying; it's best to start researching to help cobble something better than the mass-produced version for him. I already have ideas; he'll love his electric, poison-coated claws, you'll see!"

"Just make sure they won't explode," Anissa asked.

"Ignacy's arm worked fine." Janine wrapped an arm around Ignacy and rubbed his forehead with her knuckles in thanks. "I trust him."

"That's the way! But don't keep your honey cold, or Elzada will never forgive me for inspiring you." Anissa stuck out her tongue and grinned, taking Ignacy's fist to the chin. "I expect at least four cousins before the year's end. Get on to it."

"You haven't even had a single cub yourself!"

"Well, forgive me for being too busy to find a mate amidst wars!" Anissa retorted, rubbing her chin.

"Why are you piling up all the responsibility on me and Elzi, then?"

"Elzi?" Anissa pressed both paws together. "So cute! Does she call you Igni or something?"

"Who knows more about bouncing back after being knocked down than the Wolfkins?" Janine chuckled and hugged both her cubs, lifting them off the floor. "Thank you, Anissa, Ignacy. Assign someone to watch over Kalaisa; it's not right to have no one by her side." She hurled her daughter, and the wolf hag spun elegantly in the air before landing. "Ignacy, you head to Elzada and aid her however you can."

"I'd rather join the pack and find a way to gut Brood Lord," Ignacy said seriously.

"You leave him to me, got it, boy?" Janine jerked her son by the nape. "That war is over for you. I'll collect the bastard's head and give it to Marco after I've punished him for his disobedience. Dismissed!"

There was little left for her to do. The guards refused to let Janine onto the bridge, directing the warlord to rest since Dragena had taken command and Elzada acted as her voice. Disappointed, Janine found Bertruda waiting near the den's door. The Ice Fang had already changed and was dressed in full civilian garb: a white shirt, pants, a yellow sash around her waist, and a flowing, wheat-colored cape. She came alone, bringing neither knights nor Elegance.

"Sword Saint," Janine said. "Either command your pack or rest and recuperate. A battle awaits ahead. There is no need for us to breed further enmity."

"This is precisely why I am here." Bertruda bowed her head and pointed at the door. "May I?" Janine didn't move. "I understand your rage, truly. And offer no apologies, for nothing can erase the guilt and insult done by me and my house. But know this: the Mountaintops will pay for the full restoration of your son. Cloned eyes, legs, everything."

"Would that be nice?" Janine sighed. "Would that be nice to trust you and see you as an ally... as a sister, the way I felt about you when we dueled after defeating Tecno-Queen? To view you as a family, as a kindred soul walking her own way. But that is not to be. Your kind are deal breakers. Liars. Dust-dwellers, barbarians…" She clanked her fangs, angered at the cub's insults. "Is this what you teach your youth about us? It is painful, but it is best to know what you think of us. I will never again trust an Ice Fang."

"Janine, I will speak to the children about their words, but they tried to save…"

"Not tried. Saved. And for that, I will tell tales of their heroism once I am home. But the problem remains." She drew a line in the metal wall, concentrating on scratching the inanimate object, not attacking. "I entrusted my son into the Order's care while my kin died to save yours. Do you seriously expect me to ever believe in the Order again? Sword Saint…" Janine took herself by the head, pressing a palm against an eye, "…at this point, it is no longer a matter of mistrust between the Sword Saints and the Warlords. From where I stand, all your people are traitors." She drew another line, stopping Bertruda from speaking. "As for your offer, I am not a rich person, but if needed, I will sell my body into slavery to help my son. But I would sooner die than accept the Order's help. Your actions are laced with poison, and I've had enough of it."

****

Author's note: This is it for today's chapter, I hope you enjoy it.

 

[Rookie12]

Caikhatu considered himself a simple man. He ruled over a small clan, and the prospect of earning a bountiful patch of land outside of the resource-scarce Steppes interested him. Bondsmen, flesh markets, and such interested him even less than they had his father, may the Sky bless his soul. He knew his limits and avoided attracting the ravenous eyes of the larger vultures, sticking to sure winners to stay alive. When the Khatun sounded her call, he wisely entered Iron Lord's shadow, believing it to be the safest place where he could avoid politics.

But sometimes being a simple man no longer sufficed, and a spark of long-quenched ambition raged anew in his broad chest. To survive, he needed to win, and to win, he had to play, putting those of his clan in the camp at risk. And that thrilled him.

Iron Lord rested in his private train, being repaired and refitted, as his dear ally reported. His future wife had proven herself rather resourceful, fueling Zulfiya's worries of meeting the same fate as Mehmed. Not to be outdone, Caikhatu soared off on his own hunt.

Brood Lord, paranoid and cunning as ever, used his sycophants, of whom Caikhatu was a member, to spy on each other, but with his surgical augmentation, he summoned the strongest of them, creating a balance where none could betray him without exposing their backs to their rivals. Phaser pined over his wealth, secretly offering his services to the lesser minions, and a wave of assassinations swept over the khan's positions. And Drozna fell out of favor, but the man was too wicked and loyal for Caikhatu to draw him into his growing circle.

Hm… Who is left, then? Whose interests coincide with survival? The lesser khan mused, playfully getting irritated. The Khatun took over the Horde, leading it directly like in the first days of conquest. No traps hindered them; her raiding parties expertly turned any Reclaimers' ambushes right back on them, culling any resistance. The mindless marauding among Brood Lord's forces had ceased after the third flaying, and the Horde advanced in a single, unified front, pausing for their last rest before the siege.

Glorious demise played a huge role in the Horde's everyday life, carefully fostered by the priesthood. Musicians and drunken soldiers sang legends of the past khans, and many yearned to achieve similar immortality. But the recent losses stirred a dissent of sorts. Here and there, words were hushed about pointless deaths and grumbling over the lost rivals, family, or loved ones.

After them, Caikhatu hunted and strengthened his ranks. Most believed that he intended to betray Brood Lord and joined him in a desire to avenge their leader's wastefulness. In a way, they were right. No one sane would've challenged Mad Hatter. Not unless they had a demigod of their own.

He smiled, satisfied with his new khatun. Ashbringer wasn't bad, a bit too trusting, but well, that's what a head of chancery was supposed to compensate for. He briefly considered addressing Slavetaker. The man sulked and drank wine while the healers attended to his burns and arm.

Even sitting, he towered over many of the visitors to his vast flesh market, his eyes hawkishly tracing every deal. Born a simple bondsman, this man had murdered his owner, ripped out her guts, and taken over her clan, building a reputation as a crazed beast who would never forgive a single slight, no matter who did it. His bloodline was of the dirtiest and lowest quality, but after sticking to his principles for so long, even the Purebloods respected him.

That is why he wasn't viable. Not unless Iron Lord betrayed him. Widowmaker rested in an orange palanquin with yellow dots, surrounded by her clan of liberated slaves and former bondsmen. They chilled peacefully in the festival area, their patrolling duties done. They welcomed the Purebloods and even the lowliest bondsmen equally, and cheerful songs rang out from their direction from their encampment.

But occasionally the ornate door of the palanquin opened, and Widowmaker sprang before drunken fools claiming their superiority over the bondsmen. Then a challenge was issued, and if the ambushed party was unwilling to grovel at Widowmaker's feet, her sword slashed out, creating a corpse.

Widowmaker, a slave freed at Mad Hatter's whim, displayed none of the cruelty common to most khans, openly expressing her disgust with slavery and her desire to murder Slavetaker. She was also Sky-kissed in the head and unreliable. The woman had numerous opportunities to take revenge on the one who sold her family by joining one of the many plots against Slavetaker, but she never did, blindly obeying the Khatun until her debt was repaid.

Too risky, Caikhatu decided. He wouldn't get involved with someone whose motives he couldn't understand. His eyes spied out his target. A lithe figure in a bright crimson bodysuit, with a chest painted in domino's colors. Heika, the remaining assassin of Brood Lord. She weaved around tents, often avoiding patrols, wandering through the camp as if at random, but never escaping his sight.

He wasn't that stupid to assume it was thanks to his skills.

They came to a row of storage crates in the south of the camp, not far from the circle of a defensive line. Skewered on spikes, the dead eyes of the Reclaimers saboteurs silently warned Caikhatu of the price of failure. He walked under them, exchanged a few jokes with a patrol, and squeezed into a space between two crates, watching the bright crimson disappear ahead.

The tunnel led him to a small clearing ahead. A weary band of leaderless misfits gathered there, warming their palms over a small fire and sharing bowls of arkhi, while a carcass of a horned animal turned over the flames, spreading its delicious aroma.

"My sister died earlier today," a Pureblood said bitterly, tearing a leg from a prepared animal, and to Caikhatu's surprise, a bondsman sitting nearby put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Their cannons fired and fired, and Brood Lord kept throwing us after that freak Drozna. She was injured and suffocated on those damned fumes."

"And Mad Hatter was nowhere to be seen," another bondsman hiccuped, spitting out her broken tooth. "What's the point of getting riches if we die before we can even spend it?"

"Don't utter her name! It's the khatun for the likes of us!" the Pureblood gasped, looking anxiously at the most unusual members of this dissatisfied gathering.

Priests. Hidden by the shadows, Caikhatu experienced a small shock. A woman and two men, dressed in gray robes and gold chains, shared the fire with the soldiers. The fair-skinned woman's legs resembled avian feet, stout and strong, black and ending in talons. Sharp feathers covered the arms of her companions, and beaks served as mouths.

"Or what?" The bondsman wiped her dirty mouth, twitching as she touched a pus-covered boil growing on a poorly treated cut on her lip. "She'll kill me? We'll die either way in constant wars of this crazy bitch, and her lapdogs and fresh fools are ready to replace us. Don't look at me like that! When was the last time you woke up without an ache in yer bones or free of fever?"

"That's…" The Pureblood stopped, casting a pleading look at the priests. "She didn't mean anything disrespectful. We understand that…"

"Dalantai may have been wrong to anoint her," the priestess spoke with a voice of a raven's cry mingled with perfect human speech. "Mad Hatter claims to serve the Sky, yet she lets the disbelievers prosecute her conquests and disappears when the faithful need her most. The blessing, if there was any to begin with, is wasted on her, and Dalantai trails after her like a chick, worshiping her instead of setting her straight."

"Much good these lands have brought us," said her companion, picking a handful of soil with a bandaged, three-fingered hand. "Ground to bury our best."

"Even that is uncertain." The third priest tried to lift his left arm, gave up, and reached for a bowl with his right. "If Iron Lord keeps having his way, we won't even have ruins. Glass underfoot, what a reward!"

"Destroying an entire settlement. Insanity," the Pureblood nodded, growing braver. "Dalantai should've ended him for such heresy."

"If corpses you want, then it isn't evening yet," a cold voice brought pale color to the Pureblood's skin.

Heika jumped from a container and landed directly on the animal carcass, smashing it and spraying flames at the gathering. A priest raised her hand, redirecting floating fiery surge and pieces of wood back at the assassin, but a shimmering, blurry wall of swift dagger strikes hid her briefly, shielding her from damage.

"Dissent," Heika accused, stepping over the meat and advancing at the limping Pureblood. "Disloyalty. Disrespect. Calls for the death of your superior. I wonder, how far are you from the open rebellion, curs? Or is hoping that your betters will do the dirty deed for you, all you are good for?"

"Their deaths won't bring your brother back!" Caikhatu called, daring to step into the open before the group reached for their weapons.

Now he understood why Heika had led him here. She had assumed that Brood Lord didn't trust her and had assigned him to watch over her. To prove her loyalty, she brought him to a group of potential rebels to soak her weapons in their blood.

A good plan, and perhaps it was wise to sit this one out, cutting costs, but Caikhatu sensed a resentment in Heika's last sentence. There was a tiny chance here, and he decided to gamble.

The crimson-clad figure crashed into him, beating him off his footing and slamming Caikhatu into the crate with an unexpected strength, pressing a dagger coated in poison, designed to kill even the finest purebloods, to his neck. Hateful eyes looked at him from behind the split mask.

"Mind repeating what you said, lackey?" Heika asked in a honeyed tone, unsheathing the second dagger.

"My death also won't bring you peace," Caikhatu said, gulping against his will. Sweat rolled down his forehead under his collar; he leaned back, desiring to merge with the slightly rusty crate. Anything to escape the death hidden in her weapon.

The dagger didn't move.

"He… he brought you into that place alone and sicced you on unworthy targets, as if you were mere watchdogs." Caikhatu licked his lips, trying not to squeal. "Then you had to escape the place on your own. Did you even know about the coming explosion? Did any of our leaders bother to tell you of the danger? Is this any way to treat a loyal blade? The Reclaimers killed your brother, but who was it that put you in harm's way without support or cover?"

For a long time, he thought himself dead. There was little beside hatred in Heika's eyes; the assassin desired, almost needed, to kill. She took several rasping breaths; waves passed across the fabric of her costume from shuddering and spasming; the poisoned edge danced and danced near his neck, preparing to bite.

Then Heika released him and stepped back, not bothering to look at the crowd. He quickly gestured for the priests to relax and for the Pureblood to lower his gun.

"You have five minutes. If I won't like what you say, you are dead. If anyone tries to escape, they'll share my brother's fate."

Caikhatu smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. Miracles I perform for you, Khatun Ashbringer, lesser Khatun Janine…

"We all know who is the source of our woes." He walked to the center, picked up one bowl still containing a little arkhi, and offered it to Heika. The woman took it. "Liar and betrayer leads us. Why should we serve him? You spoke of fate, but what destiny other than destruction waits for us under his leadership? Brood Lord will never value anyone other than himself. My friends, I offer you another path, not of death, but of revenge and survival…"

****

Stupid Normies. Bothersome, meddling Troll. Impatient One frowned, examining the chocolate bars on a tray next to vegetables and two steaks. The doctor had given her a simple choice after she had donated her blood. Either she would eat this "balanced diet", or he would remove her from the front due to her injuries. She tore a wrapper and watched the recording for the tenth time, praying to the Spirits that she was wrong.

She had visited Soulless One in Houstad, admitting her inadequacy in setting Janine straight and her hubris in visiting Camelia, intending to create a true alliance between their groups. The older shaman gave her a simple penance, a hundred days without tasting sugar, wine, or other sweets. Only water and simple food. And she had already broken that oath she had sworn to her wise mentor.

Impatient One commandeered a small room with a small terminal and turned on the records of the latest battles, diligently writing the last seconds of the fallen Wolfkins. No kinsman could remain unaccounted for. Later, other shamans would pass these records on to the orphaned cubs and offer them guidance. After completing her chronicle, she returned to a single moment that had haunted her, and a shiver ran down her spine.

The floor shook, and Impatient One, distracted from watching, turned the armchair to the entrance. A pale snout showed from the darkness of the room; a little crimson fluff covered the white scalp, and a half-grown eyelid tried to close around the eye. Alpha, the strongest warlord, bowed, wearing a patchwork mesh of several coats sewn together to accommodate a Wolfkin of her size. Several of her injuries still steamed through bandages.

Alpha had appeared half an hour ago, passing through the ranks of the soldiers unseen and unannounced, leaping high into the air as she approached the fortress and landing with a thunderous crash atop it. The sour warlord gave the guards a few pointers on how to improve the perimeter, then went to talk to her named sisters. Impatient One knew little of what they were talking about, but since Martyshkina and Janine remained unharmed, the three parted on friendly terms.

"You called, Shaman." It wasn't a question. More indignation at having to answer the summoning of an unproven junior like Impatient One.

She slipped off the armchair and knelt, praising the superiority of her sister and establishing the hierarchy. Alpha straightened and pointed at the food with her jaw. Impatient One scowled but resumed eating.

"Shamans of the Martyshkina's pack are overworked. Lacerated One assigned me to the memorial task, and I need an experienced opinion," the shaman said bluntly, eating a crunchy nut nougat bar.

"Spiritual matters are not my forte," Alpha answered and came closer.

"But this is." She stopped the frame where Anissa stood over the dead clown in Opul, with the cubs and Kalaisa near her. A trembling claw tapped on the screen, drawing Alpha's attention to the important part. Plates bulged. Hard. And then the bulge receded, disappearing faster than the eye could follow. "Is it the result of the reward? They defeated a mighty enemy."

"It may as well be," Alpha said slowly, watching the screen without blinking. "I didn't smell anything out of the ordinary when I got on board."

"Thank the Spirits!" Impatient One clenched her paws together. "Oh, thank you for your mercy! The Supreme Shaman must be informed."

"Obviously. If there is even a sliver of a chance that… Shouldn't the shamans be happy about it?" Alpha asked, keeping her eyes on the image.

"Well, maybe I am a shitty shaman who doesn't want to lose any more kin even to divinity!" Impatient One shot back, frustrated by the situation.

Lacerated One often began to call her for various odd duties after Impatient One delivered news about the incompetence of their sister tasked with raising Kalaisa. The inspection of various establishments in Houstad to form a verdict on whether or not they were a dangerously decadent influence. Direct involvement with tokens. Was she being shunned for ratting out on a fellow shaman? Was that a sort of humiliation tactic?

A call from the warlord demanded her immediate attention, and Impatient One excused herself, quickly finishing food, gathering the letters she had prepared, and heading for the exit.

"Impatient One, was it?" Alpha called her. "You would care for any sister?"

"And brother. I'll shield the good, guide the lost, and direct the bad," Impatient One answered, reciting the vow of the first shaman.

"And if you ever make a mistake?" the warlord asked, staring at the screen.

"Then I'll own it and apologize."

"Even if it hurts your pride or goes against your ideals?"

"My pride is not an injury to kill me," laughed Impatient One, genuinely amused at the question. As if Alpha or Janine would do anything less! "And the truth doesn't give a damn about personal prejudices. Only the Tribe's well-being and our obligations to the state matter."

Alpha grumbled and said: "Then perhaps you are not a shitty shaman, girl. Call me a Normie or an Ice Fang. I'll need paws here."

"Why?" Impatient One turned near the doors, her heart pounding. "I thought we agreed that this wasn't it."

"Humor me." Alpha shook her shoulders, standing with her back to the shaman. "In my condition, I am not fit to command yet, but I must review certain actions on the battlefield. Rest, sister."

 

[Rookie12]

"Is something wrong, Warlord?" Impatient One asked when Janine asked her to stay.

Janine did little to change the place; she just carefully gathered up the carpets and placed them in the corner. It felt wrong to stain the gorgeous cloths or ruin the exquisite tapestries with the blood that seeped from under her bandages as she scratched furiously in her sleep. With the Taleteller in paw, she slept and woke up reinvigorated and ready for anything.

Immediately after waking, she checked her pack and was slightly disappointed to learn that Anissa had already visited both the armory and the wounded, completing both their duties. After eating and talking to Alpha, Janine had summoned Impatient One, who arrived with letters to be sent directly to the families of the deceased Wolfkins in each pack. Janine read the condolences, added her own touch and scent, and signed them, grieving for the lost.

"Just Janine between us. Sit with me, Yennifer." Janine pointed to the floor.

The eruption of aggression didn't come a second too late. A kick that aimed fully released claws at the warlord's eyes was stopped by a paw that grabbed the shaman's ankle. Janine pulled her daughter closer, knocking her off balance and pinning the smaller woman to the ground, biting at her neck.

"You dare? You dare use that name?" Impatient One roared, trying to elbow the opponent.

Ignoring the pointless struggle, Janine sank her fangs deeper, forcing the shaman to relearn a very important lesson. Skills, knowledge, and determination—all these factors played important roles in war. A fight could be won by blinding the enemy. The correct usage of every pack member's talents inevitably led to victories, despite differences in numbers. And a stubborn refusal to die could lead to a survival against all odds.

But all this was useless in the face of overwhelming power. The Wolfkins sought pure, primal might. For without power, it wasn't possible to do or change anything. Janine held Impatient One in the hold, blooding her neck until the fierce girl submitted, accepting the victor.

"What do you want, Mom?" Yennifer asked, and the jaws released her. She accepted a cloth to clean her neck and exhaled as if a weight dropped from her shoulders and her posture shifted. She straightened her shoulders, crouching no longer, tossed her hair back, and grinned mischievously, shedding the readiness and seriousness of her position.

"You mentioned that you did your part." Janine furrowed her brows. "Elaborate."

Yennifer rolled her eyes, sighing, her fingers twitching, and cracked her neck. A loser obeys the winner. Shaman or wolf hag, every Wolfkin respected that sacred tenet, never disputing it and understanding the strength of the bond forged by shared brawls. They learned their place in a pack and in the world, constantly self-improving to avoid letting the ruling structure grow stale.

"Have you ever wondered why there are so many motherless curs living in our villages?" Yennifer asked, looking at Janine with warmth in her amber eyes. Her elbow touched the floor, and she rested her head on the fist. "Shamans cut their ties with their families and surrender their names to ascend above petty notions of personal glory and focus on what is truly important. That is the said-out-loud part, which leaves us with the fact that it is unwise to remove fertile females if we truly care for the future," she chuckled, pressing a paw to her mouth. "I'm surprised no one noticed it earlier."

"How many?" Janine demanded to know.

"Counting the stillborn and those who died? Ten," Yennifer answered. "Two litters. The first was... difficult. Six still live to this day."

"Congratulations, Yenni!" Janine leaned back and hugged her daughter, and Yennifer returned the hug. "Where are they?" Grandchildren! Six of them! Boys or girls, who cared? Marco, Anissa and Ignacy will be so happy to meet their cousins! "Are they healthy? What are their names? Do they need any help? How soon can we meet them?"

"Never." Yennifer flipped her off, stopping Janine's lunge. "You can kill me, Mom, but I'll never tell you or anyone. Upon birth, our cubs are taken away before we can even scent them. In secret they are delivered to a village chosen at random and left in the care of their parent. Don't worry, they are certainly happy with my mate." She smiled, more shyly this time, and quickly banished it in favor of the previous smug grin.

"But… why?" Janine asked, stunned. "These are cubs! Family! Pack!"

"You dare ask why?" Impatient One rose, looming over the warlord. "Are you truly this oblivious? My callous nepotism caused Marco to grow disobedient, and he was hurt." She paced back and forth, sniffing and growling. "Think it was easy for me to give them up? No, it wasn't. There is not a day when I don't think of them, but not knowing their muzzles, I learn to think of you all as my cubs. The shamans must be beyond reproach, pure, and dedicated. If not, well, you know what happens. If I commit faults now, imagine what disaster I would've caused over my cubs if they were nearby?"

"What happened with Marco wasn't your fault, Yennifer," Janine said. "You are not to blame."

"Yeah, sure, feed me more cusackshit!" Impatient One said the words, but the intonation unmistakably belonged to Yennifer. It was as if the two different personalities had overlapped, and together they had dented the floor with a frustrated punch. "Don't get me wrong, Warlord, I am not berating myself for what Brood Lord did. Not that dumb. But the fact remains. Marco disobeyed a direct order, and that is on me. Soulmates around the tribe barely have time to raise their cubs properly, and who can blame you? Our wars are countless, and soulmates entrust the most precious to our care, denying themselves a chance to hold their own…"

She stopped, grabbed her sides, and breathed hard. A shadow passed over the Impatient One's snout, then her eyes closed, opened, and she coldly met Janine's eyes.

"The world is a dangerous place. One day it won't be so, but for now it is a fact. Even here, in the Core Lands, the little ones sometimes go missing or are kidnapped, and very few of them are ever found. Their future, their safety, is our responsibility; if they suffer, it is because we have failed them. As such, they must be taught the basics of survival. End of discussion. With your permission, Warlord? I need to assist Alpha."

Janine nodded and closed the door behind her daughter, a silly, broad grin forming on her lips. Grandchildren! Both Bogdan and Yennifer!

Oh, how stupid, how insensitive she'd been when her little princess needed all the support she could muster, but that was over now. She'd find them and make sure they were okay. No scent... No problem; the harder the task, the better it sharpened the mind.

Other warlords must know. She picked up her axe and went to meet Martyshkina, since two of her own girls were serving in the far north, finding cozy and safe areas to establish villages during the future migration into the Ravaged Lands. Her legs squeezed into cargo pants, she put on a simple buttonless jacket with long sleeves and looked in the mirror, planning to visit Marco one more time before Houstad.

A time to fight and kill was upon them. She intended to ensure the survival of her allies and victory.

They had a lot to live for.

****

A dim circle of light trapped her, and darkness reigned outside its yellow rim. Confused and curious, she tried to remember who she was and glanced at a limb. A hand. No. A paw. A flood of memories poured in at that realization, bursting the dam inside her brain and forcing Kalaisa to gasp for air and cling to the spot of her wound.

Nothing. Smooth skin and fur. Even her scars, the proud medals of her existence, vanished.

Fury. It shuddered her; the urge to maim and kill clenched her fists, her lips curled, and she howled as she heard the scraping of metal, and brass gates grew from the darkness, piercing its veil as it was a water surface. They stood featureless, covered in scratches and notches. Twin braziers illuminated these ugly slabs, and even with her enhanced eyesight, the wolf hag couldn't make out anything deeper in the dark.

A loud step came from behind the gates, and Kalaisa tensed, prepared to defend herself. The first step was cautious, the toes of the foot tasting the darkness, and then a cacophony of stomping filled everything, accompanied by a rabid giggling as something truly immense danced on the outside, bringing unholy visions.

Kalaisa saw a field covered in bodies, their limbs twisted, skin peeled away to expose nerves to the wind, and their mouths sucking air in agony, living despite their ribs pried back from the chest to set wicked crests onto the poor souls' backs. She quailed, repulsed by the disgusting sight, and tried to retreat when paws, so much larger than her own and devoid of fur, rose up of their own accord and closed in on Warlord Ashbringer's neck.

Ashbringer ended up being cast down, and the creature mounted her.

Kalaisa fantasized about a rematch. She dreamed of a time when she would beat Ashbringer in a single move, returning the humiliation. But the wishes that flooded her mind were something else, something she had never desired. Kalaisa no longer cared about winning or losing; these concepts had lost their meaning to her. Even her anger was gone, no longer meaningful. She laughed, enjoying every act of inflicting pain and living in the moment. She wanted to kill Ashbringer or kiss her or invert her. Endless possibilities vied for the right to be realized.

The warlord retaliated, spearing Kalaisa through with a single stab, and that made her laugh from joy. The mortal wound in her chest closed, trapping Ashbringer's arm inside the regrown breastbone, and the clawed paw grabbed the woman by the jaws, opening them wider and wider until she heard a wonderful snap. Bliss, unrivaled by anything, set her brain on fire, and Kalaisa's fingers found eyes, her own and the gurgling warlord's, and tore them out.

More obscenities came. A dream of Marco's restored body, a feat done by her genius. She had given the boy a minute to lament his dead family and swallowed him whole, hearing the boy dissolve in her stomach. A throne of throbbing organs, connected by veins and secured by bones taken from all around her, awaited her. A seat fit for a queen, fashioned by her paws. Through these horrors, Kalaisa heard it.

A knock. The creature on the other side tapped softly on the gate, pleading to be let out, promising the existence of a never-ending excess of fun.

"No!" Kalaisa roared, pressing her own claws to her heart. "I refuse! I will never, ever hurt my family or my pack again! Back! Away from my head, demon!"

It giggled and then laughed, its voice echoing from the very darkness, without malice or anger, and their consciences briefly joined. How could the locked creature hate Kalaisa? The outcome was irrelevant; it adored every decision the stupid girl made and loved her for it.

But being imprisoned here is no fun. It spoke directly into her mind, communicating with words now instead of feelings or visions. Or not. We'll be one in time. Or not. Who cares? Get the fuck out of here and do whatever, little me. Sleep is for the weak. In time I'll be you and you'll be me and we'll be one and I'll be all and you'll be naught...

Kalaisa's snarl made the gate disappear, crack before her eyes. They merged with the darkness, slipping to her left and right, unraveling and exposing her to a void filled by a softer, white light in the distance. She longed for it and lunged forward…

Right into a stinging pain that shook her head back onto the pillow. Blinking away accidental tears, the wolf hag touched her nose, sensing the broken cartilage. She lifted her eyes to see Anissa standing beside her, eyebrows raised and a fist prepared for another strike, standing near her.

"What was that for, douchebag?" Kalaisa groaned, her poor nose throbbing with heat.

She found herself in the brightly lit room of the mobile fortress. The lighting itself was adjusted to be bright enough but not irritating to her eyes, and there were doctors treating patients nearby. A soiled and wet blanket covered Kalaisa's legs, and her chest was studded with sensors that transmitted her condition to the nearby terminal.

"You shouted and your jaws snapped, so I thought you were having a go at me," Anissa mumbled, rubbing the back of her head. An Ice Fang nurse shoved her aside, checking the broken nose. "You okay?"

"Feel like crap," Kalaisa complained. She closed her eyes in pleasure as the Ice Fang set her nose back with a crack and inhaled through blood. "Hey, it works again! Thanks, Miss! Also…" The Ice Fang caught her paws, not letting her touch the nose or the wound as the wolf hag looked down. "I don't think my blood is clotting."

"It isn't, but it will," the nurse promised. "Your immune system is recovering. Take it easy."

"I am hungry. And I think I pissed and shit myself."

"We'll clean you in a minute, don't worry," the Ice Fang said. "Don't be hasty, just a few check-ups…"

"I'll help!" Anissa volunteered. "Kind of feel bad about the punch. My mistake."

"Mistake?!" The nurse exploded. "I'm calling the guards!"

"Hey, I was helping around; cut me some slack!"

"Yep. It happens. Forgiven," Kalaisa's vision blurred, and she tried to focus. "Argh! Like a cub! Annoying! Anyway, why are you here? I thought you despised me. Wait, how is Marco?!" She would've stood up if the nurse hadn't restrained her.

Lost to an Ice Fang. And Anissa saw it. Fantastic.

"You assume too much," Anissa said with a smile. "My brother will be fine. I check on him from time to time, but I shooed your brother away so he would get a normal sleep."

"Wow," Kalaisa said gladly. "Just… Wow. You know, I think they shielded me from something. Don't remember what… Say, what's the best way to become a good person?"

"Don't be a bitch." Anissa replied.

"I'm trying!" Kalaisa grinned and twitched as the medic started to change the bandage. "Also, you owe me a match, so don't you dare die on me, Ani, got it?"

"I'll survive you if you keep acting like an idiot," Anissa said. "I'll go grab us some food. Ever tried coffee? Want me to tell your family you are awake?"

"Nah, let them rest… Wait, I thought you were going to help me clean up?"

"Do you want food or not?"

 

[Rookie12]

"What's gnawing you?" T asked, twirling a chain in his hand. He threw it at a crate and ducked, grabbing his head as the blunt hook bounced right back at him. "Ouch."

"Retard," Jay noted as a bruise grew on T's forehead.

"Glad to hear you finally admitted your flaw. Don't worry, I am sure even a Normie can find a job," T said, coiling the chain around his forearm. "How about scraping shit from toilet seats?"

"And put you out of business? Never." Jay grinned. "By the way, I heard that the Sunblades released a new card pack."

"No shit?!" T cried, facing Jay. "What's its name and element?"

"Troll King. Green." Jay took himself by the chin and looked up. "While you were sulking, I asked one of the noble pups about it, and they showed it to me. Legit cards, no printed shit. Its strongest card is called Mind Goblin."

"Mind Goblin?" T repeated. "What…"

"Mind goblin these nuts?" Jay asked innocently.

"Asshole!" T roared, swinging his chain, and the other laughing boy ducked under it. "Screw you! I walked right into that one!"

"See, I was right about the retard part!"

"Double screw you!"

The wolves brought them into the mobile fortress, leaving them in the care of a white-furred sage. The woman had introduced them to other kids, but after T heard of several boys talking about their parents, he began to sulk, and Jay secretly escorted him away to cheer him up. T had used that weird power of his to summon a clone who was currently occupying a toilet, while the boys sneaked into a hangar on the lowest level and lied to the technicians about getting permission.

Jay wasn't sure if they were believed, but a friendly mechanic gave them a tour of the area, during which they pocketed this chain and a hook.

This kingdom of machinery was awesome! Assembly lines snaked from one hall to another, carrying damaged suits of armor, while mechanical arms floated around them, dancing akin to sand snakes. Then they stabbed, and sparks flew, and a seam replaced a gash in a plate. Occasionally they brought modules with them, as the technician explained, and installed them after extracting damaged parts from the suits.

And the sounds! He had half expected it to be noisy in here, but the cracking and grinding of the outside never reached here, and glowing generators emitted a pleasant, almost reassuring hum, and the pounding of automated pistons filled his heart with awe at the knowledge of how much stuff was manufactured here. Engineers, retainers as they called themselves, even showed and later let them assemble a simple batch of automatic pistols using one of the consoles.

When T had asked why they didn't do it themselves, the shift supervisor, a dark-skinned woman in orange overalls who had four fingers replaced with multipurpose augmentations, had sat the boys down and let them assemble a gun by themselves. They had followed the instructions to the letter and finished in five minutes, winning a bottle of soda and chocolate. While the two ate, the woman had shown them how much faster the assembly was.

Jay loved this place and immediately pleaded for permission to stay here and do serious things instead of playing, and the supervisor sent one of her own to ask their teacher, who was probably freaked out after T's clone had disappeared. Meanwhile, the workers took the boys to the break room and closed the door.

"Are you going to answer the question, or shall I whip you?" T sent the chain spinning.

"No need to show me them dominatrix moves. I was thinking of Halina," Jay admitted and dropped onto the couch, throwing protective goggles at T before he could blind himself with his damn toy. After a second of thought, he put the goggles on as well.

"Lovebirds," T teased. "Bet you think of sitting under a tree and holding her hand, chatting about…"

"Envy is bad, T," Jay laughed, picturing the scene. "Keep up the heroics, and I'm sure you'll find a girl, too."

"I am not doing heroics." T frowned, and the chain stopped; its end dropped to the ground. "Heroes accomplish stuff. They save people and don't let others die. Even if they lose, they're not useless like me." He pursed his lips.

"Don't sell yourself short; you saved our bacon out there." Jay tried to cheer him up, but T started to pout again. "Why the chain, anyway?"

"Range." T blinked and hurled the hook at the wall. He smiled, catching it safely as it bounced back. "Knife gets me caught all the time."

"Then use a pistol." Jay shrugged.

"No one is giving me one!" T kicked a table, and the boys rushed to save their soda from spilling. "Listen, I thought it through."

"Just like you did with the soda," Jay complained, wiping the table clean. It felt wrong to mess up the place when everyone had welcomed them so warmly. He reached out and grabbed the chain, pulling T closer to him. "See? What if this happens?"

"Won't be a problem!" T assured him. "When I split, my other self carries everything that I had on myself. So if everyone tries to drag me closer, my clones will lacerate the bastard's neck until he lets me go. It's a perfect weapon!"

"Which gave you a bruise." Jay checked the reddish skin on his friend's head. "Use a grenade. Imagine a clone popping up; it rushes to the bad guy, and boom! No more bad guy!"

"And where will I get a grenade? I tried to nick…"

"Wait, you tried what now?"

"But everyone watches the weapons hawkishly. They are worse than Miss Williams and her no-knife policy!" T landed on the chair and gulped down a glass of soda, then chewed on a sausage. "She thought I'd cut myself," he complained. "Can you believe that shit? She kept checking my arms every morning. Stupid. Why would I want to cut myself? I want to stab them!"

"T," Jay said softly, sitting nearby. He knew little of his friend's past. T was stingy with details and guarded his past stubbornly, but his occasional whimpers during sleep had told enough. "I can listen."

"Don't change the topic." T pointed a fork at Jay and then tried to steal his sausage from the tray. The boys' forks clashed, and T backed off, not using his full potential as a New Breed. "You. Halina. I thought we were friends. Did you seriously think I'd be jealous just because you found a girl?"

"It's not that, dummy!" Jay's smile disappeared. "I asked an operator to call Houstad, since her convoy should have been there." He clenched his fingers.

"Should have been?"

"They made it," Jay quickly reassured him. "Miss Williams was worried sick, but most of the group is there. Except Halina. She entered Houstad, but the place is almost empty, and no one knows where she is…"

"I'm in," T said, scratching his nose. "What? She told the wolves of us. Who knows, if not for her we might've been skinned. I owe her that much. And besides…" He smiled mischievously, elbowing Jay. "Don't want to see you cry that your girl…"

"She is not my girl," Jay said hastily.

"…Gone missing. Okay, big brain, any ideas on how we are going to slip awaaa….?" A whoosh of the opened door interrupted him.

An armored figure stomped inside, one of the white wolves assigned to watch over their group, and the chief engineer followed the sage. Keen crimson eyes glanced over the boys.

"How did you wind up here?" the wolf asked in a pleasant, warm baritone.

"We got lost," Jay lied instantly. "We turned left from the restroom and followed the same corridors as usual, but this time there was a stairwell and we had no idea, so we…"

"The right way was to the right," the wolf said without a hint of annoyance, then blinked and crossed the room faster than Jay could breathe. The cape flapped behind the armor as cold fingers touched T's jaw, moving his head toward the light.

"Kiddo didn't have it when we left them here," said the supervisor.

"You left the children unattended." The crimson eyes shifted, looking at the chain. "Did you try to chain them, you hoodlums?"

"No!" Jay, T, and the woman yelled in unison.

****

The thick adamantine door rippled; the image of the Twins holding up the sun on it glowed brightest yellow, and a seam appeared on the previously solid surface. It slid to the left and right, allowing First to enter the Hall of Remembrance, the holiest place in the entire Order. Cool air poured from within, enveloping the approaching Grandmaster, and the rime cracked beneath his feet.

Automatons rushed to attend to him, reverently touching his skin to read the genetic codes, and red light scanned him from head to toe, searching for any abnormality. His identity confirmed, the turrets designed to disintegrate an intruder disappeared, and the ancient mechanism illuminated the place with the brightest light.

Precious artifacts of the Order and the Sunblade rested here. Gems fashioned by the Twins' own hands glittered around the crystal that held the body of his own daughter, Marina. Her lifeless paws rested over the gaping hole in her chest; the crystal and the cold forever held the brave knight-captain in the stasis that kept her body from rotting.

First placed a paw on the crystal, silently asking for forgiveness for the past grievances. They often argued over her choosing a Wintersong woman for her partner, and he never really came to accept it. But he understood the nothingness of his resistance on the day when a gravity beam had pierced the chest piece of his little baby and snatched her from him and the Wintersong lady. They had wept together, all grievances forgotten and forgiven, sending the person dearest to them here.

Coffins, decorated urns with ashes, and similar crystals shimmered in the long and narrow hall, each containing either his direct child or their immediate offspring. Here slept the original Wintersong, Summerspring, Ironwill, and his other siblings, and just knowing it stirred his heart, troubled by their absence.

"Your descendants are worthy," First swore warmly. "If you had just seen the passion and dedication they exhibit in protecting the weak. But then again, you never doubted them."

He patted a long capsule in the middle of the hall. Its occupant wasn't dead, and inside the viewing screen, another Ice Fang, bearing striking similarities to First, breathed faintly, kept in slumber by the cold and technology. His third son had grown weary of the world after outliving his children and left to have a two-century-long sleep, hoping to awaken to a kinder era. First strived to bring it about for his son's sake, never blaming his child for a choice many considered selfish.

"May you dream happy dreams, Cesare," he whispered softly and looked up. "I beseech thee to forgive this rude intrusion of mine, King Father, Lady Mother."

At the far end of the hall, taut chains suspended a sphere in the air. Soft, blue light from a gravity engine shone on it from below, aiding in holding its weight and its occupant undisturbed by any collisions. Two arms, two silent guardians, were embedded in the Sunblade emblem. Enormous in size, the sheer elegance of their fur, the smoothness of their curves, the perfection of their skin and muscles put even First's own body to shame.

The Twins. All that the Blessed Mother had been able to recover after they had brazenly charged into that battle, ignoring her orders. That saved the civilians.

And how many more had died in their absence? Came a treacherous thought.

No cloning procedure of the Reclamation Army had been able to recreate what had been lost. Scientists working for his house conducted a series of experiments, but the organisms died as soon as they left the growth vats. Today, it was impossible to let the fallen walk again.

"Brother," gurgled a voice, and First hurried to the sphere, abandoning hopes about tomorrow. The restoration of the Holy Trinity could wait. "Greetings."

Distraught, he quickly inputted the release codes on the panel controlling the life-support system. The one floating inside the sphere was in no danger, but it eased his everyday troubles. Lines crossed the top of the colorless sphere, releasing the gas inside, which was sucked into recesses. The liquid drained from the inside; the sphere opened, and a hand the size of First's grasped the edge of the open casing.

Second Sunblade, the weapons master of the Sunblade house, clumsily climbed out, proudly declining the silent offer of help. His sight filled First with anguish at the unfairness of this world.

One of his brother's arms was almost a body length longer than the other, and veins bulged under the skin, spreading the fur wide. Fingers on this arm were all different lengths and sizes; only the thumb and little finger had enough control to be trusted. The head showed out, one eye so enlarged it threatened to fall out of its socket, the other a beaded, wet orb of crimson, no white visible. Second breathed hard, slurping oxygen, his ribs stretching the skin.

Another arm appeared, clutching the serrated blade in a richly encrusted sheath to the chest. Second used its tip as a walking stick, carrying his misshapen, inelegant, horrible, and swaying bulk to freedom. His left leg resembled a fleshy appendage, its bones bent and twisted at every angle, but it served as an unstable platform. The other leg was rigid, absent of any elasticity, and he placed its knee on the ground and crawled to First, dragging his body with the larger hand.

The flaws of their parents. The grievous secret of the Ice Fang Order, carefully curated and fed to the younger generation in very small doses so as not to traumatize them, was the reason for the strict control of marriages.

Why for me? First asked himself. Why am I the bearer of all the beauty meant for both of us? Why can't I share?

"Second." He spread his arms, and his brother embraced him, using the sword to help himself stand.

"I urged them to stop." Without programs to change his voice, Second sounded wet and slurred, spitting sentences as much as he said them. "Again and again I warned them of the folly they had committed, but Camelia told me not to fret, trusting Leonidas' plan over my concerns."

"You are not to blame for what had transpired," First said. "Rashness is our shared trait, it seems."

"Parents gave us too much fire," Second agreed, letting go of him. "Mend the rifts, First. They are our kin. Trinity must be restored and preserved."

"Preserved it will be," First said. "Must you go?"

"Foolish question, big brother." Second tried to smile; his lips quivered, exposing his fangs in a terrifying visage of a forest of blades. Catching his reflection in his brother's eyes, Second turned away, disgusted by his flaws. "The wretches unbutchered by our fallen sisters are worming their path to Houstad, bringing sorrow and woe. Even if those living there weren't our servants, I would still race to their aid. For that is what a knight does."

"A knight also knows when not to engage in hopeless battles to survive and fight another day," First made the last attempt. "A certain weapons master taught me that."

"If the combat is hopeless, yes, but my presence there will make enough of a difference for the partial evacuation to be completed." Second nodded, his head jerking back and up. "I have sent you a file of my recommendation for my replacement, Grandmaster. Pray, give it thought. Her skills are nothing to brag about, but it's not the role of the weapons master to be a supreme duelist, and the lady has a cool head on her shoulders and has mastered my lessons well, preventing our offspring from getting hurt."

"That is a valuable quality," First agreed, stepping aside to salute the limping behemoth, who was about to show his true face to the Order for the first time with his own weapon. Sages and knight-captains, hand-picked by First, stood outside the chambers, waiting to give the departing knight the laurels he deserved. Yet pain gripped the grandmaster's heart, and he broke the ritual. "I love you, little bear."

"And I you, peacock." Second swung his head toward him. "I have never hated you for saving me. You gifted me a chance to see the world, and I decided to fight for it. I've met and raised thousands of wonderful warriors. Thank you, First. Take care of the House."

"Always, Second," First promised. He kept the tip of his sword pointed at the Twins' arms until his brother left the hall, then wept, grieving for the lost brother and for his own loneliness.

Soon he would be alone of the first generation, and despite his talents and the advantages his body and lineage afforded him, there was nothing he could do about it.

The battle for Houstad was waiting.