The city was about to fall. Dokholkhu looked down with empty eyes, seeing the same picture that he had seen years after years after years. The locals were herding onto a main square, where clan chieftains were hungrily examining scared-looking men and women, determining who would fetch a good price on a flesh market. The elderly and infirm were cut down on the spot; their value was almost zero. Next came the monuments and historical records. Cattle had no need for such things. Cattle only needed to work to pay tithes to sustain the horde. Such was the price of resisting the Gilded Horde.

It started like usual. Prior to the invasion, Brood Lord had sent his agents to conspire with one of the four trading houses ruling the city. With their help and thanks to Phaser, most key figures responsible for the defense were eliminated, slaughtered in open daylight. The lord of this city was far too strong for Phaser to take on; a true and shining example of an abnormal, his sword has cut down hundreds of fools who tried to encroach on his lands. So they left him alone.

Once information was gathered, the Horde came in strength, capturing local farms and mines but slaughtering only the elderly and sick, sending the rest back to work. They came as conquerors, not as despoilers this time. As their hoverbikes reached the city’s walls, Iron Lord shouted the terms of surrender. Lay down your weapon and join the horde. Your leader must become a bondsman, a champion of the horde. His offspring must become servants. Then only a paltry tithe will be taken, and your history will be preserved.

It was purposely insulting, of course. The Gilded Horde grew fat and mighty, but without a constant abundance of fresh gifts, the warriors were grumbling. But the offer was honest. A broken word costs far more in the long run, after all. A few cities that accepted them enjoyed relatively safe and happy lives.

Not this one, sadly. A negotiator, the head of one of the noble houses, came to parley with Iron Lord. The poor man received a glaive to his belly; his shrieking screams filled the air when Iron Lord lifted him above himself, carefully avoiding damaging the lungs. Before the defenders could pour fire and brimstone at him, the horde’s mobile artillery started speaking.

This city was a prosperous place. During the Extinction, people hid in several bunkers around these areas, saving thousands of lives. Upon leaving the safety, they used the precious wonders of the Old World to create reinforced walls and construct massive guard towers manned by well-trained crews. The shells of their artillery pieces could hit over the horizon, with deadly and precise howitzers ready to support them and no less than three ballistic missiles hidden in the city’s missile silo. But all that came to naught with the betrayal from within.

The shooting patterns were evaluated well; fast-moving missile launchers darted around the city, firing non-stop, taking one defensive position after another. Special projectiles pierced the protective bunkers, unleashing poisonous gas inside and suffocating the defenders. Flowers of crimson spread across the walls, with the heat of the flame becoming potent enough to melt the reinforced walls. A few unlucky fools who fired from the opening in the walls were boiled over by the searing napalm.

Screams and curses filled the air, but the horde kept their distance, sending forth snipers who began thinning those few defenders left. Forced out of their hideouts, they have become easy prey for the ruthless murderers. Seeing this, Brood Lord lifted his hand, announcing his own advance, and Dokholkhu’s heart became filled with terror. He didn’t want to go there; he didn’t want to see more of his brothers and sisters die.

But there was no choice. Serve or be culled. Their father left them with no other option, ruthlessly finding any escapees and brutally torturing them before the eyes of his other children. Brood Lord was the first to reach the wall; his six legs carried him up with ease, leaving his children to struggle and keep up. Buyantu, a seven-year-old bondsman, had died when a soldier shot him from an opening in the wall. Dokholkhu cheered his brother, protected him, and kept him safe, and he was gone in a flash. A hail of armor-piercing bullets struck the boy in the head, and his massive body slammed down. Lifeless. Broken.

And Brood Lord didn’t even look back, reaching the top of the wall and letting out an elegant laughter, grabbing people with his oversized pincers and slicing them with strikes of his sword that looked more like streaks of lighting to Dokholkhu’s eyes. So it fell to him. He shouted at the top of his lungs, forgetting about his fear and pain when bullets drummed against his chitin plates, and moved on with the killing, shooting his pulse rifle at the defenders.

He hardly remembered what happened next; only when he looked back did he see Jaliqai next to himself. The girl’s arm went limp; one of her four legs snapped, but her rifle shot a soldier who aimed at his back. Out of the brood, sixty-eight died, leaving just forty alive. But they were at the main keep, a proud towering building that oversaw the city below!

And the lord of the city was below, blocking shots at the buzzing raiders with his weapon and allowing his elite troops to take shots at them.

“Face me!” The magnificent-looking warrior, clad in golden power armor, shouted, raising his sword high in the air. “If you are half the man you claim you are, Iron Lord, come and face me!”

The claymore in the man’s hand exploded into a rainbow of light, blinding the raiders and leading to some of them, ending up being smashed against the walls. The lord’s legs strode forward, making almost impossibly elegant moves for a gigantic five-meter-tall body. With three mighty cuts, he ended three lives, leaving explosions in his wake as he marched on, intending to push the foes out of his city by himself. And his guard followed him, loyal to the fault, aiming to face the towering figure that rode inside the courtyard. Iron Lord. He came, keeping his position behind the troops, the diplomat’s corpse still dangling at his glaive, while the city behind him was being extracted from all wealth.

And the rest of the leaders came to join Iron Lord. Impossibly thin Phaser, the reality itself breaking against his claws, leaving small passages leading to the realms unknown lingering in the air wherever he passed. Drozna, a beast of muscles and ferocity, approached him from behind. His enormous clawed hands held no weapons, and his naked body was unprotected by any armor. Twins dressed in matched domino suits lurked at the back; a mask of one of them had a laughing face painted on it, while the second had a mask of a grief-stricken man. And others came too—the strongest and most merciless fighters of the horde, abnormals with few equals.

For a second, it looked as if two groups would collide: a man in golden armor facing a man in steel armor, sword against glaive, and letting the best man win. Dokholkhu knew why the enemy leader charged forth, abandoning safe positions in the courtyard. Civilians were rushing toward the castle, and their noble leader had prepared to give his life to buy them time.

Alas, it was not to be. Dokholkhu learned, and learned well, that there was no justice in this world. Drozna made a stomp, and a surge of rage came from him, making the soldiers before him shout in rage and turn their weapons at each other. The city’s ruler turned back, dumbfounded by a sudden aggression sparked within his mind, when each and every grievance and frustration he ever experienced in his life came back to him, cranked at eleven. His discipline held up; his people’s did not. Civilians and soldiers alike clawed and tore at each other, and gunfire speared those trying to escape.

And amidst it all, Brood Lord jumped from the castle, and with horror, Dokholkhu saw a screaming infant in his pincer hand. Striding proudly, Brood Lord came closer to the frozen-in-fear ruler, dangling his son before his very eyes.

“Please…” the man whispered before Brood Lord spat acid in his eyes, making the man scream as his vision started disappearing. Immediately, the twins were at him, hacking at his sides.

The ruler made a blind swing, driving them back, and Phaser stepped from the nothingness behind him. His claws, which could shred reality itself, came through the swordarm with disgusting ease, taking it away and leaving behind just a bloody wound. Next came Drozna, kicking the man through the fountain in the middle of the courtyard with enough force to shatter the golden chest plate. Brood Lord threw the kid aside and sliced away the man’s legs, not allowing him the dignity of standing up.

And finally Iron Lord came closer, the steps of his thunder bull turning the few remaining soldiers in his path into bloody smears. The steel mask looked dispassionately at the writhing in pain man before the golden glaive struck forward. The disruption field around its blade cut the ruler’s head all the way to the lower jaw.

“The Gilded Horde has conquered!” Iron Lord shouted at the top of his lungs, thrusting his weapon to the skies, and the khans around him roared in support, ignoring the dead and dying around them.

Hundreds stormed into the palace, ending the last few pockets of resistance and dragging away precious pictures, arts, and historic records. All of this went into flame while weeping servants looked at how the rich history of the royal house was getting turned into ashes. The Gilded Horde spared nothing; no statue remained untouched, and no artistically made staircase was allowed to stay. Everything was reduced to rubble. The weak deserved no history, only to live as providers for the strong.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Greetings, my dear friends!” Brood Lord spread his mighty shoulders, his voice sounding surprisingly gentle for the enormous bulk, and countless golden amulets on his bulk were beating against each other in rhythm with his many steps as he advanced toward the traitors who gave the information to the horde. Only they will stay undespoiled. “We shall now discuss how this place will be running from now on.”

Dokholkhu jumped off the wall, relieved that the fighting was over. He knew what would happen next. The traitors will be celebrated before the entire city and will be put in charge. Naturally, no one will trust the bastards, and rebellions will spark in the horde’s absence. But in this lies the cruel plan of his father. The Gilded Horde gave no two shits about the lands; they lived in distant steppes, with the arms factories being the only buildings around. Their minions were allowed to keep their cities, but a careful stroking of hatred ensured that they would be too busy fighting among themselves, never growing strong enough to challenge their oppressors.

And in the corner lay the forgotten infant, screaming at the top of his lungs because of his broken arm. Dokholkhu picked up the young one gently with his pincer arm and headed into the palace. He knew what his father would do later. Brood Lord will enjoy countless women in the city, and at dawn their wombs will explode, sending forth a new and for a while mindless brood. Dokholkhu could not save them.

But he could save someone.

****

Dokholkhu came upon two soldiers standing nervously before the chambers of the ruler’s family. The men clearly wanted to be with the others, pillaging and stealing, and Dokholkhu used this.

“Leave,” he threw to them, striding forward.

“But our orders,” one of them tried to say, and the boy grabbed the fool by the neck, making him choke on his words.

“My prize,” his eyes glowed in the corridor's darkness, while his fingers bent the metal of a gorget. “Leave and find something else to amuse yourself.”

Dokholkhu’s body hurt; several of his chitin plates were missing, and one of his fingers on his human hand was broken. But something in his eyes has made the guards nod quickly and charge away, allowing him to step inside the destroyed room. He gave the kid to a wailing woman in a crimson dress, looking down on the frail woman and several servants, including a few elderly people who looked a bit like the killed ruler, only far smaller.

The place itself was a mess. The once-rich bed was torn in tatters when Brood Lord came through the ceiling earlier. One of the three infant cribs was smashed, and something red within made Dokholkhu’s stomach twist in pain. The other kid was alive, thank the Sky.

“Do you have a way out? A secret tunnel, anything?” Dokholkhu asked, and the woman stopped crying, retreating in worry. He grimaced, clenching his fist in anger, and tried to speak more clearly. Common was a hard language. “I am not joking. They will kill you. Listen to me, and your two remaining children will live.”

“There is a tunnel, but…” The woman’s eyes flashed with worry, and Dokholkhu turned around. The same two guards from before have come back.

They said nothing, seeing their fate in his eyes. Their hands reached for the weapons, but before either of them could even press the trigger, Dokholkhu’s pincer hand closed on one neck, taking away a man’s head. The second guard gasped for air, seeing a stinger coming from his chest.

“What are you doing?” Jaliqai let the dead man fall. The older girl closed her face toward his, nearly headbutting him. “The father is going to kill us for this!”

“And yet you choose to help. Thank you, sister.” Dokholkhu grinned back, turning his head toward the people. “He can’t kill us if he never learns of it. Accidents happen.”

“I can’t believe I am helping with this madness,” his sister said. “And for who? Normies! They would’ve left us to rot at the first chance! No one cares about the brood but the brood.

In the end, everything was easier than they were expecting. There was a tunnel leading straight out of the chambers to a small underground river. Dokholkhu helped the people get into it by removing the rubble left by his father and giving them the weapons of the dead guards. Even now, the chances of their survival are slim, for the raiders will prey on the surrounding area for weeks ahead. But at least he has done something.

He and his sister set the room ablaze before leaving, allowing the flames to remove all traces of their crime, and hurried to join their father.

****

They found the khans assembled before the titanic statue of the former ruler. This object of art stood taller than most buildings, sword to the sky, hand extended toward people below. In the days before the conquest, the people must’ve used this square for praying or ceremonies. Now the conquerors were feasting.

Wooden planks were placed all around the square, and beneath them were moaning and screaming the tied-up defenders of the city—those soldiers who refused to bow the knee to the new rulers. And khans and their closest subordinates sat on these planks, laughing and drinking, shifting their bodies slightly when a bone or an organ of mutilated people below them popped. And the stone statue looked at it with the same inspiring smile that looked more like a grimace of horror because of the dancing flames.

“Dokholkhu, Jaliqai!” Their father called to them, arms spread and his nose red from all the wine he had consumed. “Come, sit by me. Let us drink and sing before the next conquest!”

“Why should we move further?” The gray-haired Mungke Khan grumbled. He was an elderly ruler who pledged ten thousand people to the horde as a child and now had over thirty thousand heads in his clan guarding his domain. “We have conquered enough land to feed us for millennia to come. Why should we bother with these desolate lands any longer?”

“Are you challenging my rule, Mungke?” A single voice cut through all the celebration, turning the blood of every member of the horde into ice. Only tortured soldiers kept groaning and begging for the swift release of death.

Jaliqai wept and prostrated, trembling with all her body, and Dokholkhu followed her suit, throwing one glance at the head of the statue. Mad Hatter. She came in person. The woman was head and shoulders taller than the local ruler; her body, covered in exquisite furs, looked chubby, but Dokholkhu knew just how deceptive looks can be. Behind all the supposed fat were the unrivaled muscles and pure rage that bonded the Gilded Horde into one unifying force, threatening to swallow them whole. A single leather cap was on the woman’s head, covering her head like a suction cup, with a long feather coming from the tip of the hat. A golden half-mask hid the upper face, showing just bloodshot eyes and two trickles of blood running down her chin from underneath the mask.

“Mungke Khan meant no disrespect, Khan of Khans.” Brood Lord folded all six of his insectoid legs and bowed to the supreme rider of the skies. “Thunder bull’s milk simply got to his head, that’s all.”

“Yes,” the elderly Khan said quickly. “Please forgive my impudence, oh peerless ruler.”

Mad Hatter jumped off the statue, landing on the wooden planks. The wood cracked beneath her boots, allowing torrents of blood to pour up from the cracks and granting the woman a crimson halo around her body. She gave no thought to the blood dirtying her rich furs and came forward, each step killing some people below.

“Have you found any mention of him?” Mad Hatter asked Brood Lord.

“No. We have tortured the priests, but they know of no god fitting your description,” Brood Lord said.

“A pity. What country is next?”

“The Reclamation Army.” Iron Lord reported. He was the only one who hadn’t removed his helmet and had taken no food. “Their lands are just to the north of us. We will be ready to go in a few weeks after receiving supplies. Our new prey is quite vast; it would be bad if we ran out of ammo mid-conquest.”

“In the meantime, we have learned something,” Brood Lord eagerly interjected. “My agents have already found us a mole in Houstad, one of their richest capitals. You see, they are a bit like us and are trying to conquer all in their path. Alas for them, they are morons who employ some of their former foes. And I just found someone who hates their guts for what they did to one country. Our mole revealed they were behind wiping out the raiding party led by my dearest son… What was his name again?”

“Chimbai,” Dokholkhu said. Chimbai is dead? Sure, he was mad as a rat, but among the brood, he survived the longest, enduring sixteen winters and countless raids. How is he dead? Wait, Skymaster was with him; does that mean…

“Ah, yes, him. How sad. These Reclaimers also butchered Skymaster Khan,” Brood Lord continued. At the news of Skymaster’s demise, the Khans murmured, plotting to take his lands and worrying over whoever was strong enough to match him in combat. “So I plan to return the favor. While we are waiting, me and the others will pay a visit to this Houstad, stir up things a bit, and help our mole get into a more advantageous position to aid with the coming conquest.”

“You are planning to wage war against the Reclamation Army?” The new city’s ruler went pale, grasping his thin white beard. “I heard their champions are unrivaled in might and…”

“Brood Lord Khan, did this place share a border with the Reclaimers?” Mas Hatter asked deceptively calmly.

“It was, yes. Now we share this border. We also found some of their diplomats, as they called themselves, in an embassy nearby.” Brood Lord flashed a smile. “They weren’t much of a bother to crack.”

Mad Hatter’s scimitar struck. Dokholkhu never saw the woman putting her hand on the hilt or drawing the blade, but what he saw was the statue behind her cracking. A single line run separated the stone in two, and the shockwave that followed soon reduced the statue to countless stone pieces falling on the houses behind. And the arc of air unleashed by Mad Hatter did not stop there. It moved on and on, destroying houses and leaving devastation in its wake, before finally cleaving through the massive city’s wall. Two whole sections of the wall came down in an avalanche of destruction, ruining the nearby houses and flattening civilians.

The Khans fell silent. None dared say to Mad Hatter that there were most likely their own soldiers in the path of this arc. She found her blades in an ancient bunker and coated them in gold to celebrate her regal blood and savage soul. But aside from their incredible toughness, there was no secret technology or trick within them.

“I could’ve taken this city in under an hour. If you stood all this time, then it makes the Reclaimers weak.” She put her sword back into its hilt. “Brood Lord. They have killed a khan. Proceed as you wish, but I want the head of someone equally valuable before the fun begins.”

“Naturally.” Brood Lord bowed back. “I will see to it myself once my concubines amuse me enough.”

“The horde shall conquer all. Including false gods,” Mad Hatter told the frozen from horror elder and sat down, laughing and feasting along with her khans.

Dokholkhu wept, pressing his face against the wood. The khan of khans spoke true. Nothing in the entire world could escape her power. Nothing at all. He and his siblings were stuck with the father, who viewed them like bullets, and with an insatiable ruler, who would see them dead eventually, in one conquest or another.

There truly is no peace left in this world.