Janine’s ears perked at the sound of a howl. A wide grin spread across her lips. At last!
Storming out from her tent, the warlord was greeted with the orderly chaos of her pack assembling itself for war. The shamans were walking between snarling Wolfkins, saying prayers. The technicians from the ranks of normies slapped the overly eager Wolfkins behind their backs, making them stand still while they mounted power armor on their bodies. Her wolf hags howled in response to Alpha’s howl, demanding the members of their packs to assemble at once. And the same picture was repeated everywhere in the siege camp.
War! The Wolf Tribe was called to the war! Janine walked to the center of her camp, ignoring the bared throats of her wolfkins. She spread her arms wide, and three males—her own sons and the pride and joy of her litters—rushed to encase her in the power armor.
Marco was her youngest, still a cub of three years old. She had picked him from the pits as her adjutant after a girl nearly choked him to death. Seeing his thin black form, with ribs pushing against his fur coat, she felt a tingle of pity. Out of his litter, he was the only cub who has survived to this day. Two beautiful girls were stillborn. One more died from a claw hitting her in the eye during a struggle to get to the food in the pits. And another male had his neck snapped. Bad litter, weak one, and it’s all Janine’s fault. Her soulmate has asked her repeatedly to relax and rest, but she has soldiered on, marching from battle to battle, eager to prove her recent appointment to the rank of a warlord.
Gruesome wounds on Marco’s body had long since healed, leaving just scarred flesh with no fur on his neck, around his shoulders, and on his knees. Janine knew his knees would sometimes hurt, the boy was too close to being named a Crippled for her liking. She slightly bent her legs, a slight gesture of mercy for her cub.
The two others looked like twins. Black hides, with spotted brown marks, long regal snouts, and muscles dancing beneath the hides. Both bear their share of scars, but where Bogdan was a good-natured boy, whose soulmate had already given life to two whole litters of four surviving cubs total, Ignacy worried Janine.
Her sons lifted the heavy plates of the power armor. Piece by piece, they brought them to her oversized body, connecting cables of the protective armor with the implants’ sockets across her body. She breathed out slightly, feeling how Marco made a misstep and connected one cable too slowly, resulting in a jolt of pain spreading from her knee. Janine only smiled to him, allowing the boy to keep going. These armor plates were too heavy for him yet, but she’ll never give him up to be a Crippled. Her fault. Her responsibility.
After the plates came sleeves, much heavier parts of the power armor that protected her limbs. All three of her sons lifted each piece, locking it on her arms and legs, and the warlord smiled, feeling the fiber-muscles move in tandem with her own, empowering her even further. An energy generator on her back came to life at her command, activating the power armor systems.
“The energy shields were activated just fine,” Ignacy whispered happily. “Warlord, the technicians have shown me how to calibrate our shields properly and adjust energy flows. These magnificent tools can absorb even MOAB’s explosion…”
“This wasn’t your duty.” She turned to him in a burst of movement, pressing a claw against his lower jaw.
The siege camp looked wildly different. The positions of the Wolf Tribe were made in a seemingly chaotic order, tents were placed based on the ground each warlord claimed for herself, a thin circle of minefield surrounding their position, and regular soldiers of the state behind them. There weren’t any kitchens or medic tents. Wolfkins were fed in the crawler and would need to endure the rest of the siege without receiving any new nourishment or medical aid.
Their cousins, the Ice Fang order, looked utterly different. Their camp was assembled in an orderly fashion, with elite soldiers guarding the outer perimeter. Flags upon flags, marking the location of each sword saint, proudly flew on the harsh wind, while the knights themselves were busy digging trenches, preparing in vain for a positional warfare. Like always, First had offered to share food and medicine with his kin, and like always, his offer was rejected.
The regulars were busy digging ground in the Wolf Tribe camp, placing energy generators to shield the camp from any shelling. Janine assigned some wolfkins to help with this noble task, but Ignacy sure as Abyss wasn’t assigned to it.
“The scout told me we are finished searching through the eastern lands.” Ignacy strained his neck, trying to evade the pushing claw that threatened to slice his neck without retreating. “Techno-Queen has laid her lands bare, there is nothing to devour for the locals. So, with free time on my paws…”
“You decide to meddle with technology rather than looking for a soulmate?” Janine sighed. The boy spoke the truth: Ravager had to assign several warlords and sword saints just to provide food for the locals after their leader tried to starve out the invaders by taking away everything edible. “Ignacy, the shamans made their will clear.”
“You speak truth, warlord.” Bogdan bared his neck for speaking out of turn. “In times of need, each tribe member must seek a way to make herself or himself useful. Ravager’s own word spurred Ignacy into action, inspiring us all with his noble example.”
Janine struck Bogdan lovingly against the cheek for the insolence, more as an encouraging pat than a hit meant to leave a bruise. In truth, she didn’t feel anger toward Ignacy for failing to produce an offspring. The boy was good-looking and healthy. Several warriors fawned all over him, showing their claws to try to attract him for mating. Even if Ignacy chooses to stay single, she’ll disapprove, of course, but will support his decision.
No, it was his insistent meddling with forbidden matters that was bothering the warlord. Janine remembered, oh, how she remembered her firstborn and his desperate yelping when all his trust in mechanical devices had finally failed him and left him for death. Her paw clenched. She’ll speak with Ignacy one day.
Her sons stepped away, dropping to one knee, and she lightly bit their necks, both in admonishment for Marco’s failure and for their boldness in speaking out of turn. Bowing in thanks, they jumped to the other males to suit up before the battle, leaving only Marco at her side.
“Sorry,” the little one whispered, touching the wound on his neck.
Janine wanted to grab him, press Marco against her chest plate, and promise him that everything would be alright. To hug and care for him and protect him from everything and everyone. But this wasn’t meant to be. In the Wolf Tribe, the males are subservient to the females. Should anyone see her cuddling Marco, his life would turn into the Abyss.
“Be better next time,” Janine said calmly, straightening up and scratching him behind the ear.
“Warlord,” Wolf Hag Anissa bared her neck, coming closer and carrying her axe, rifle, and helmet on her paws.
Her daughter had already geared up for battle, with her shardgun locked to her back. Anissa’s helmet was open, showing an eyepatch over her right eye, a result of a scuffle between her and another girl in the pits. A network of scars covered the woman’s entire scalp, disappearing beneath the gorget. Standing on one knee, the wolf hag presented Janine with the weapon.
“You failed.” Janine swung her Taleteller in the air, sending a wind wave across her camp. Nodding in thanks, she accepted the high-powered laser rifle next.
“Yes, mother,” Anissa scratched Marco’s behind his ear before reaching into a pocket and placing a medical patch over the bite mark.
Janine’s growl made her daughter bare her neck in submission. Like her mother, Anissa’s sole remaining eye burned with yellow light, a sign of Ravager’s favor. Unfortunately, the girl wasn’t strong enough to one day usurp Janine’s position. The shamans checked Anissa and confirmed that she was nearing her prime. Where Janine’s arms looked like tree trunks, Anissa’s own limbs were much more slender and thinner.
Not having time for a proper punishment, Janine simply smacked her daughter across the forehead with two fingers, sending Anissa’s head back and leaving a bloody bruise. Tough. Easily tougher and stronger than any other wolf hags in Janine’s pack. But also reckless. She warned Anissa not to be cordial with her brothers in front of everyone. Not unless she can protect them at all times. Marco has enough problems as it is.
Why can’t you be more like your sister? Janine wondered, stomping the butt of her axe into the ground with enough force to create a crevice. Impatient One came closer, the only one of her daughters so far to become a shaman. Every single inch of her power armor got covered in words of prayer, scratched onto the surfaces by the shaman’s claws. Bone talismans hung loosely from the shoulders, and the prayer book was sealed with bronze chains around her waist. Tall as Anissa, Impatient One’s snout was somewhat shorter but far sturdier. The last time the two fought, the shaman choked her younger sister into submission.
But Anissa, too, nearly tore one of her sister’s breasts in their brutal struggle. For this reason, Janine pushed the stubborn girl toward the shaman path, a logical end for someone incapable of being a warlord. The girl had potential, and Janine would be damned if she let her stay a simple wolf hag. Unfortunately, Anissa has been failing recently, earning scars but failing to prove her devotion.
Bowing her neck, Janine allowed Impatient One to paint a ritual mask on her face with the insectoid blood. Shamans were the spiritual and civil rulers of the Tribe, the ones who maintained the traditions and interpreted the will of the Blessed Mother. In Janine’s youth, the state was still in its infancy, weak and frail. Shamans had to ensure some strict rationing, which led to some Crippled and cubs dying, but the tribe endured and grew stronger out of it.
“Blessed be,” Impatient One intoned, bowing to Janine before looking at Marco. The warlord could have sworn that she saw the corner of her lips move up as she blessed the little one, patting him on the shoulder before moving on.
They’ll spoil him. Janine contemplated, putting on her heavy helmet and seeing how her lenses turned crimson. A HUD projected itself on her retinas, notifying the warlord about the health and numbers of her pack, along with a system that linked the cameras of all armor in the camp, allowing the warlord to see through the lenses of other soldiers.
The preparation was finished, nearly six hundred black forms were assembled before Janine. Ideally, each warlord had at least two paws, made of five wolf hags each, under her command. Each wolf hag had her own two paws made of scouts, and each scout had her own two paws made of warriors and males. But the war and heavy losses took their toll on Janine's Pack, leaving her short on soldiers. They left friends and relatives in the wake of each conquest and each battle, slowly bleeding out.
This was the price of a better world. Raising her axe, Janine turned and marched her soldiers toward the city, following a single, towering figure of the blessed mother. For once, the Wolfkins fell in line, feeling the almost divine presence of the one who gave birth to the entire Tribe. The progenitor. The first and only to reach the unimaginable heights of might. Even knowing the full truth of their creation, Janine could not help but feel something stirring in her soul at Ravager’s passing. Ravager’s fur was so dark that even daylight struggled to leave its embrace, and during the night she looked like the void, carrying twin brightest stars of yellow colors for eyes.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The Blessed Mother carried no weapons or armor, no talismans or communication devices. The two strongest members of the Wolf Tribe and their relatives, the Ice Fang order, Warlord Alpha and Sword Saint First Sunblade, joined her as she stood on all fours. Their white-furred cousins looked like the spitting image of the Wolf Tribe’s wolfkins, with the same long snouts, the same thick fur coat that covered their bodies. Only their fur was white, and where the Wolf Tribe grew stronger in combat, their cousins had to train long and hard to reach their level of mastery. Males and females stood equal in the Ice Fang order, much to the Wolf Tribe’s annoyance. The claws and fangs of their blood kin were also of lesser quality, barely enough to render flesh and bone. They were a different, unwelcome mass that clung to the Blessed Mother like parasites. In peacetime, this led to bloodshed. In times of war, all were brothers and sisters in the field.
This region was named Wastes by the locals, and how apt the name was! Toxic sludge gathered in numerous crevices across the lands and spilled from miles-long steel pipes coming from the capital. During the day, the toxic waste would dry up, changing form to a toxic cloud that was spread across the lands by massive storm winds, clotting the surface and eradicating anything in their path. Normies, normal men and women working in the Reclamation Army, had to wear gas masks just to prevent their lungs from receiving a chemical burn. When the storm descended, people hid in their vehicles, avoiding the irradiated air that could easily doom.
Locals, from what Janine saw, were a miserable bunch, surviving in spite of all odds, rather than thriving. They grew food in underground caverns and farms, fighting non-stop against the invasion of insectoids, only to have most their harvest taken by the Techno-Queen. Their greatest dream was to be drafted into the capital’s army and get a modicum of stability in their lives. Behind the capital’s thick metal walls was another world altogether. The soldiers within were given hazmat gear and steel armor, protecting them from most dangers, as well as steel minions to protect them.
Outside of the capital’s walls, life was cheap. The villages and hamlets existed to feed the capital, not the other way around. Locals died from radiation, became victims of ravaging insectoids or cannibalistic tribes of the malformed, choked on the toxic fumes coming from the pipes in the ground, or simply sacrificed themselves, begging their alien and cruel gods for deliverance. When a village could not meet its tithe, it suffered decimation. When the villagers tried to run, the Techno-Queen’s steel minions would hunt them down.
Janine no longer felt any surprise at the scope of the Techno-Queen’s operation. In the New World, some people were born with either enhanced physical abilities, the state called them new breeds, or with a special power, or all three. The bitch queen that governed these lands had the power of assembling complicated mechanical devices almost on instinct, knowing how to program the most complicated commands for her minions, making them fully automatic.
The Dynast wanted this power for the state. Or failing that, he wanted to end the reign of this power and restore these lands to humanity. And what the big boss wants, he gets. Commander Ravager and Commander Devourer were tasked with carrying out the reclamation efforts. As usual, Ravager soon left the Second Army behind, forcing her Third Army to march straight at the enemy’s capital.
“Commander, the frontal assault will result in catastrophic losses for our forces…” First, the magnificent-looking wolfkin in white and gold power armor bowed his head respectfully.
“Be silent, male,” Janine told him, coming closer. She dropped to her knees, baring her neck to the silent Ravager.
“How dare you speak to his excellency like that, dirty wildling!?” Bertruda Mountaintop, a Sword Saint of the Mountaintop household, stepped forward, stopped only by Sword Saint Camelia Wintersong.
Feeling no rage or demand for submission from Ravager, Janine stood up, moving deliberately slowly. Casting a glance at the rival, she noticed her almost cub-like thin arms and legs, despite the white power armor that covered the Ice Fang’s body. Bertruda’s paw gripped the shaft of a thin spear, and the sword saint looked at the warlord with barely held back disgust. Bertruda’s power armor looked similar to that of her fellow Sword Saints—not oversized, full of smooth curves and features meant to throw off an incoming blow with a well-made, elegant dodge. Gold and yellow paint, signs of her household, adorned both her breastplate and her helmet. A long silken cape flowed from her shoulders, dirtying itself at the ground.
I want to drop her. Janine’s mouth watered at the thought of bringing honor to the tribe by pushing this arrogant, white-furred cousin face down. She wanted to face her. No, she needed to fight her. The sheer, utter wrongness between both tribes drove them to rage. So similar, yet so different. She saw it in the Sword Saint’s face too. Bertruda hated her, too. For the past few days, her knights have bothered Janine’s warriors. Just like her, the Sword Saint was new to her role, her mentor died in the past war. Bertruda was a youngster too, she hasn’t even reached fifty years old yet and is yet to have her second cub. Each of them wanted to prove themselves at the expense of the other. But in the battle's wake, restraint was in order. And as a warlord, she must set an example.
“The male started it first.” Janine took off her helmet, locking eyes with Bertruda. “Alpha’s howl was clear. The city is to fall before sunrise. Show respect to your superiors and stay quiet.”
“Dearest kin, no one holds you in higher regard than I do.” Bertruda smiled, bowing slightly and spreading the side of her yellow cloak with an arm. “And I believe you to be a rude, stinky barbarian who insults her allies when they are pointing out obvious flaws in our strategy.”
“Takes one to know one.” Janine replied, breaking eye contact.
“Hey, hey, what’s the matter, starting a rumble without us?!” Warlord Martyshkina shouted, coming from the camp, accompanied by Lacerated One and Dragena.
Janine only smiled, grasping the paw of her best friend. She and Martyshkina were born in the same month, attended the same pits, and bonded over the blood of all those who tried to steal their food. Assigned to the same pack, two of them rivaled desperately, leaving a whole tapestry of scars on each other’s bodies, until one day they simply threw a bone and decided who would be reassigned. Janine lost, and, in a few decades, both became warlords, keeping the relationships friendly between the two packs.
Where Janine bulged with might and suffered from minor body disfiguration, leaving her legs slightly shorter than usual, Martyshkina rightfully earned the lustful gaze of every male in the Tribe. Her gleaming black fur, a long cape made from the wool of various predators hunted down by the warlord, twin orbs of bright, pure amber for eyes, and finally, a pair of heavily modified revolvers at her belt. Martyshkina looked amazing and loved showing it.
Dragena was calm and collected, so unlike most of the Wolf Tribe. Janine had never seen her dominating another member of her pack or raising her voice. Some wicked tongues even said that Dragena couldn’t feel anything. She was of the first generation, one of the few still living Wolfkins who saw how the Dynast took the oath of fealty from Ravager. Six short knives adorned her legs, and a single laser rifle was locked behind her back.
Lacerated One, the supreme shaman, was a being of horror unmatched even by Alpha. Dressed in archaic power armor, a bulky design from the first days of the Reclamation Army, the shaman bled all over her body. Streaks of crimson were running from underneath the joints of her power armor, her lips were peeled away by her own claws, and fresh wounds on her head were kept open by the cruel claws. The toxic, acrid air caused the shaman no discomfort, despite her naked wounds.
Alpha nodded to her sisters, a figure nearly matching Ravager in height. Her white and rough skin created the impression that her features were cut off from the stone rather than being a result of her birth. Alpha’s arms and legs ended up with the longest claws in the entire tribe, each spanning a length from an elbow to a three fingered paw. Even if she wanted to, Alpha could not physically retract her claws. There was no space in her arms to conceal these murder weapons.
“Everyone is in place, Blessed Mother,” Alpha growled, showing two sets of dangerous fangs within her maw. One to grip and tear and another to chew upon the unhappy fool who tried to stop her coming.
Ravager breathed in, almost as if awakening from the slumber. She turned around, sniffing the air with force enough to make capes move toward her nose. She blinked once, covering the world in darkness, before basking it in amber once again and spoke:
“Your worries are noted, Sword Saint First.” The corners of her mouth twitched to mimic a smile. “But bleeding for the state is our due. For too long, the people here had suffered under the rule of the strong. For too long, justice had been denied to the weak. The Ice Fang are to keep rearguard. You are to follow us the moment we swarm the outer defenses.”
“Blessed Mother, we meant no disrespect, and neither are we cowards.” Bertruda fell to one knee, bowing her head in submission. “I despise Barbarian Janine, but my heart will bleed should she or her warriors fall in vain. Please allow my troops to accompany the front forces.”
“I am not your mother, Sword Saint. I am no one’s mother,” a hint of steel appeared in Ravager’s voice. “You must look after your own kind. Our duty is to pave the way for a better tomorrow, it will fall to the survivors like you to build a world worth living in... I bear none of you ill will, yet my decision is final.”
Ravager walked forward, leaving her soldiers behind, and Janine howled, ordering her pack to get ready. She heard hundreds of paws stomping across the rocky ground assembling behind her. First nodded to her before leaving. Janine ignored the male, earning a hateful look from Bertruda.
“This isn’t over,” the Sword Saint hissed, passing by her. “Don’t you dare die out there, barbarian. You owe me a dance after the victory.”
“I am a bad dancer, might accidentally crush you a leg or two.” The warlord grabbed the passing woman by the shoulder, feeling the movement of metal beneath her cape. “Even our endurance has limits. I’ll be much obliged if you kept our wounded safe.”
“Of course we will, barbarian!” Bertruda broke free.
“You two are mating or something?” Martyshkina joked, coming closer.
“What? No! How could you even imply…”
“More like preliminary caresses, Marty,” Janine frowned before breaking into a smirk. “Not that an ice girl could ever hope to endure my weight on her bones, anyway.”
“We’ll see about that,” Bertruda hissed into her face. “You and me, after the battle. No, this is not what you think it is, Warlord Martyshkina! I demand you drop the stupid grin!”
“I didn’t say a thing.” The other warlord bowed, mirroring the Sword Saint movement with a cape. “But my heart sings in joy for both of you.”
Bertruda groaned in a mix of pain and embarrassment and turned away with such speed that part of her cape whipped the laughing warlords against their snouts.
“She is way too easy to rile up.” Dragena noticed.
“Tell me about that…”
A stomp on the ground ate the rest of Janine’s words. Ravager had stopped fifty meters from the towering walls, basking in the lights of projectors that turned the guards on the wall into dark shapes. With a single stomp, the Blessed Mother has bulged the ground in with such force that two slabs of stone rose by her side. Ravager looked up, ignoring cannon after cannon that moved to aim at her.
A body was strung before the gates, suspended with chains. The man’s skin was torn off his body, leaving just gleaming meat and blood flowing down the gates made of bronze and steel. Stylized after human eyes with eyelids made of steel, several dozens of cameras on the main gates moved, looking almost gleefully at Ravager.
“We gave you an offer of peaceful reunification,” Ravager said, loud enough to be heard all the way from the main gates. Her feminine voice bore neither hate nor rage, just the deep exhaustion of a person who was doing the same thing over and over again. “Your leader spat in our faces and killed our envoy. She will be judged. But you don’t have to suffer or die. Surrender now, cast down the weapons, and only the guilty will be punished. There is no glory in death. Live. For your friends and families, make the right choice. You have nothing to fear from us yet.”
Flashes of gunfire were all the response that she got. The defenders figures became lit with crimson and yellow, several hundred laser beams and numerous bullets were unleashed in unison, their fury joined with the defensive installation that lobbed shell after shell into Ravager. Missiles flew up from the massive defensive towers behind the main wall, falling on the Blessed Mother.
A mushroom of smoke and fire rose from the ground, throwing some defenders off their feet. The shockwave splashed the dead body against the city’s wall, leaving not even a bloody smear. Every single bit of the envoy’s remains evaporated in the dancing, flaming fury. Janine calmly weathered the shockwaves against her snout. She ignored the hellish sounds of explosions booming from before the gates and put Martyshkina’s helmet on her head, allowing her fellow warlord to do the same with her.
A single beam of darkness shot from the crawler, a massive super vehicle that served both as Ravager’s mobile throne and mobile factory, a place to commit repairs on the broken power armor and resupply regular troops. The Wolfkins let out a cheer, seeing how ammunition in one tower exploded, creating a fiery blast above a section of the wall. Another shot followed immediately, piercing a hole through another turret and killing its operation. Warlord Zero has claimed the first blood on this night.
The flames and explosions subsided, and with a fearful whisper, the defenders saw Ravager, standing still in the middle of a newly made crater, with streaks of molten metal entangled in her fur. A few drops of blood from her nose marked all the damage the defenders had achieved against the Blessed Mother. Ravager wiped her nose, licking her own blood.
“You have everything to fear from us now. Those who want to live drop your weapons. Those in search of a pointless death, TRY TO BAR MY PASSING!”
She roared. A single line of destruction passed from her toward the gates, created by the sound of her roar, bulging the metal in, and setting off the minefield that encircled the capital. Ravaged dove low and the Wolf Tribe roared, charging forward in the maddening fury, each pack following their own warlord. Behind them, the crawler’s main guns fired. Two heavy, armor-piercing shells hit the top of the wall, sending cartwheeling forms of the defenders down.
And Ravaged lunged forward, leaving a gaping hole in the place where the mighty gates once stood. The reclamation has begun. Only woe awaited any fool who tried to stop the Reclaimers.