The Wolfkin’s body thrashed, and Janine mercilessly kicked the woman in the chest, beating the air out of her and sending the scout to the floor. She felt the smaller body twitching and contorting beneath her mighty paw as she was pushing the woman into the stone ground, and not all of this was because of her kick.
“Marty,” Janine said, feeling her foot moving. “We don’t have much time.”
“I know,” Martyshkina, the only warlord out of the four present who still wore her full gear, lowered herself on one knee and took the scout’s head into her paws, singing a bedtime song for cubs. The first rays of sunlight came from the thick clouds above, allowing the warlord’s shadow to fall on the scout.
The smaller Wolfkin looked at the warlord, looking almost like a minuscule copy. Janine could see their similarity despite the scout’s profuse sweating and contorting features. Where Martyshkina’s amber eyes burned like lamps, the Wolfkin’s eyes had a smoldering light in them, ready to burn in full strength if only they were provided the fuel. And that light shone brighter and brighter by the minute.
Martyshkina ignored the danger, forcing the other woman to look at her and keep singing. For someone as huge as her, her voice sounded really gentle and soft; usually the cheerful song meant to inspire a cub about days to come now sounded solemn, more like one last sad tune to encourage a mortally wounded comrade.
Which, Janine decided, feeling how the scout’s arms were prying her toe up, wasn’t that much off the mark. The Wolfkin was getting bigger and bigger; a moan of pain left her lips when the spine shattered, protruding itself to accommodate a new, gigantic body. Gorgeous fur started falling off the body, and the woman cried again, looking at the ruination of her body.
“What is the meaning of this?” Janine heard the voice of Lacerated One behind herself and the steps of Marco and Impatient One.
“What do you think it looks like?” Janine asked calmly.
Lacerated One tried to charge Janine to throw her off the future divine beast. Eled and Predaig slammed their weapons before the supreme shaman in a silent threat. Eled, a Wolfkin of the second generation, had half of her snout missing, showing her nostril’s channel and fangs in an ever-ugly smirk. Her mighty paws gripped the cruel scythe, barring the shaman’s passing. Many Wolfkins in the tribe called Eled weird, but none dared say it to her face. In a war, she would come down on her foes like a raging fury, harvesting the lives of everyone before her, ending up soaked wet with blood and guts, her bombastic laughter reaching everything across the battlefield. In peace, she took great care to remove parasites and dirt from her fur, dressing herself in silk and doing her best to learn music, trying her paw at the harp. The Tribe viewed this behavior as a weakness, but the last shaman who dared to chastise the warlord ended up having her legs broken before Eled plucked the woman’s fangs, one after another, and wore them as a necklace for a year before Zero convinced her to make peace with shamans. Eled dragged the shaman to the doctor and paid to return what she took. Out of all the warlords, her eyes were the dimmest, barely producing any light.
Predaig, a sister of the first generation, once had a gorgeous mane around her neck, a sign of some mutation. This mane had now turned gray, and countless wrinkles decorated the warlord’s snout. Willingly, she defied Ravager’s order of taking rejuvenation shots meant to always keep warlords in the prime of their youth. Wolfkins of the first generation were weird; they had only one soulmate and took their deaths excruciatingly hard. Legends tell that Predaig went berserk after a marauder killed her soulmate, ordering her pack to stand back and ending ten thousand enemies in a single night on her own. If there was any grain of truth to it, Janine had no idea, but while Predaig’s movements lost their former grace, her precision remained unmatched. With her immense double-bladed curved sword, she once cleaved a slaver, who had a gun pressed to a normie cub’s head, in two without harming the cub. Those who witnessed this feat swore they had seen the blur slashing through both the cub and the foe, but only one fell apart. Her loyalty to the cause had earned her the right to die of old age. Her eyes shone like suns, matching Ravager’s eyes in intensity despite her age. Like Ygrite, Zero, Alpha, Lacerated One, and Dragena, Predaig was privy to being on Ravager’s personal council.
And these two always had good relationships with Janine and Martyshkina, accepting them as sisters right after Alpha. Their packs took after them, always supporting each other and sharing supplies in times of need.
“I am sorry,’ the scout whined, struggling to keep her sanity. “I failed…”
“Shhhh…” Martyshkina licked away the tears, showing her neck to the scout in a gesture of ultimate trust. “You have made no mistake. You, as ever, were splendid today, scout. I am proud of you.”
“I don’t want to lose myself,” the scout growled. “Please, m… warlord. In the old way.”
“Of course. We will go to the other side together.” Martyshkina reached for the revolver.
“Idiocy!” Lacerated One stomped on the ground. “She is to ascend, not to lose herself! Stop it! Don’t deprive our tribe of a sacred champion…”
“It’s not for you to decide, sister,” Janine told her, putting a paw on Marty’s shoulder and wishing deeply to have the ability to take away all the pain and sorrow.
The scout made one last violent twitch with her body; the sound of popping muscles and tendons in her body came off like a series of gunshots. Her eyes slowly started becoming filled with bloodthirst and aggression, and she threw her head up, showing two sets of fangs growing within her jaws. Martyshkina pushed the barrel into the scout’s mouth and fired once.
The woman’s top of the head simply disappeared, followed by the appearance of a large crater on the ground. Thrashing one more time, the woman went limp and Janine removed her leg, looking at the headless body. Before her eyes, the paws of a dead woman clenched, releasing the gruesome claws. Blood stopped pouring from the ruined lower jaws, thin vessels, like worms, poured out of the ruined flesh, followed by broken bones. New brain matter began forming before their very eyes, preparing to recreate the brain.
“Two out of eight.” Martyshkina closed her eyes for a moment, taking a breath to calm herself at the sight of a reanimated body. “Janny, what’cha think? Am I cursed?”
“This is no curse, moron!” Lacerated One lowered herself on a knee, folding her paws in divine reverence. “You are blessed. On your knees, everyone, welcome our new…”
“No Marty. It’s… it just happens.” Janine ignored Lacerated One, putting both paws on Martyshkina’s shoulders and ignoring her own wounds. “If you want to, I can…”
“No. Go on ahead; I need some time.” The Warlord’s jaws snapped, biting the newly formed brain. She tore and bit, devouring the body faster than it could regenerate itself, licking the blood off the toxic surface, and feasting on the remains of her cub.
Janine let her be. Soon enough, even the skinwalker’s regeneration would have to stop. She walked past the shocked Lacerated One, sparing her an encouraging pat. It must have been hard for her. In the past, many willingly embraced madness before fully realizing what it entailed. Nowadays, even the most devout refuse to become beasts. The Reclaimers were conquerors. But they also aimed to build a world worth living for, not another mad thunderdome. Marco made a step back, looking horrified at the bloody scene. A snap of Janine’s fingers sent him standing at attention, and the cub reached for a small terminal on his waist.
“Ma’am! I mean warlord.” She looked at him, calming him with a glance. Marco shouldn’t be here, true. But at the same time, the Wolfkins were agitated after the battle. Some female could’ve dominated him just for fun back in the camp. “Our… I mean yours! The pack lost twenty-four soldiers, eighteen brothers, and six sisters. And thirty-five are injured, but all of them will survive!” Marco saluted her.
“Don’t salute!” Impatient One hit him across the head—a mix between a pat and a light slap. “If you don’t have headgear, you must straighten up! If you have one, then you can salute.”
“I… I forgot! Sorry, si..” Impatient One growl made Marco silent. The shaman sighed and reached into a pocket of her armor, taking out a black beret.
“Here.” She put it on his head. “Now you can salute. And I am not your sister; I am a shaman! We have no family, save for the tribe; remember it once and for all!”
“So we are a family in the end! This means it is okay if I call you sister then!”
“You little smartass punk!” Impatient One grabbed Marco by the nape, raising him up in the air and snapping her jaws next to his ear.
Too many losses. Janine pondered what this meant for her pack. The fresh recruits will go to the stronger warlords first. She’ll be lucky if she gets at least one or two females with the next branch. And even if she gets them, they still need to be trained and raised properly to not be a waste.
The situation was getting worse by the day. Each warlord should have around eight shamans to safeguard her and help with spiritual and moral problems with the pack. Now, after years of wars? Janine was left with only Impatient One, and her daughter was still in training. Young shamans were supposed to spend time in the tribe, learning from their elders and maturing, becoming colder and more distant from their families, steeling their hearts, and helping with lifegivings to never forget that their existence is meant to serve the tribe. Impatient One helped Janine with the recent litter, so she passed some tests at least. But she was far from being a true shaman.
Martyshkina had no shamans left; all of them perished in one battle or another. Other warlords had one or two at best. And not only did they have trouble with priests, but also with lesser personnel! Janine herself had barely any true Wolf Hags left; instead of steel-eyed women, she now relied on greenhorn scouts, promoted by merit after their superiors had been killed rather than by right of dominance. This created a lack of experience in the pack. Even in the best of days, the Wolfkins were afraid of doctors because of Ravager and distrustful of technology. The Wolf Hags had to bully lesser ranks into accepting all the above, freeing the load off warlords. With so many veterans gone, new Wolf Hags shared stupid superstitions about losing their souls to power armor. And the few remaining shamans had little time left to explain how to avert their fears with soothing talks.
This led to Janine snapping and biting her way through the ranks, something that Anissa and others should have done themselves by now! Anissa and Impatient One helped, sure, but the girls could not be everywhere, and some wounds were too severe, and Janine refused to have any more dead on her watch, fear be damned. Thankfully, her boys were smart enough to visit the medics, but one of her scouts wished to die from an easily treatable injury! Janine tore off half of her snout for this insolence and kicked the scout to the medics, tearing the skin off the back of another warrior and thus finally restoring order in her pack. Janine wanted to show her own wound to the medics when Marty called for her help.
“Shaman, why did the warlords kill the sister?” Marco asked, oblivious to the fangs before his snout.
Impatient One put him down, giving him a light kick for speed that nearly sent him rolling. The shaman slowed herself, following the warlord to the main square.
“You remember the skinwalker’s visit a year ago?”
“Yep! Warlords sliced her arms after she ate three cubs and the beast ran away, Ye…” Janine stopped, knowing fully what would happen.
Marco never finished speaking; a clawed paw hit him across the left chin, slicing through it. The punishment did not end here; Impatient One’s paw closed around Marco’s head, sending him face-down into the stone ground, with enough force to crack his nose. Mercilessly, the shaman rammed her brother against the stone, before lifting him once more, holding his beret with one paw, and growling into the bloodied snout.
Janine had to force herself from cratering her daughter’s head into the street. Marco’s sufferings were not Impatient One’s fault. Janine was the one who failed him. To save his life, she took him out of the pit, but had she taught him about the tribe’s way properly? No, she coddled him again and again, and his brothers and sisters did the same. The moment will come when he’ll be on his own, in some pack. And what will happen to him then?
“Never. Never dare address me by this name, Marco.” The cub shuddered, throwing a worried glance at Janine. The warlord calmly waited, forcing the fear for her son’s safety down. Any other male acting so frivolously with any shaman would already have his neck broken. For his sake, Marco has to understand his place in the tribe. “Questions are fine. Fear is fine. Even doubts are fine, Marco. But never, ever use a name that a shaman discarded to address her. It’s true that some names are repeated in our tribe. So saying this name when addressing someone else is totally fine. But when we become shamans, we abandon our names, for our goal is to serve the tribe and not our blood. I am Impatient One, and I am not your sister anymore.” Impatient One grabbed her snout, preventing her jaws from biting the small neck. Calming down, she set her brother on the ground. “The lesson is over. As for your question, sometimes a sister can ascend.”
“Ascend?” Marco asked, touching his sliced chin. Blood had already started coloring his fangs dark. The bleeding did not last; even if he was a male, Marco was a full Wolfkin. Blood dried up across the wound’s edges, stopping the bleeding. Impatient One sliced away the blood and pressed the ruined chin together, showing Marco what he was supposed to do in this situation.
“Yes, ascend.” Impatient One pressed a claw to her lower jaw in thought. “You would be better off asking one of the shamans in charge of raising cubs than me… But in short. Spirit of Rage is coveting us all. When we fight too hard and win too much, the gaze is drawn to us. It is no shame; no one knows what exactly might attract this spirit. But after meeting it, a sister feels something wrong in her body, almost like… a premonition of the coming horror, getting stronger with each fight.” Impatient One picked up a stone and placed it in Marco’s paws, placing her own paws above him and squeezing it tighter and tighter, giving the boy just enough time to hear the cracks before breaking it. “Eventually a sister breaks like this stone, and something new, beautiful, and terrible comes out.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“A skinwalker,” Janine said, breaking her silence. “A skinwalker is a being that is born from a fallen sister. It can become a copy of you in both body and mind just by eating a scrap of your flesh. It is utterly mad and unpredictable, and worse, it kills civilians. No one in their sane mind wants to become it, Marco. And don’t look so scared; a male can never become a skinwalker. Is there anything else to report?”
“Um… Chak is really furious about the state of your power armor, warlord.”
“I’ll speak with him myself,” Janine sighed, hearing the sound of legs rushing toward them. “Shaman, could you…”
“Yes, warlord. Come, Marco, let’s visit a doctor and have your nose fixed. And watch out not to bleed over the terminal; things are expensive.” Impatient One seated the boy on her shoulder and jumped, disappearing on the nearby roof.
“Interesting!” screeched a voice from a nearby street. “So your misbegotten kind can understand the value of precious gear and the hardships it takes to replace it.”
A terrifying creature descended from above a nearby building with the loud tapping of fifteen pairs of legs. Covered by thick segmented chitin plates the size of a male wolfkin’s legs, chief-quartermaster Chak came from the malformed, a notorious group of people known for cannibalizing people and for horrible and unpredictable mutations that differentiated them one from another. Even among them, Chak ended up being special. His body reached six meters in length, covered by hair-like antennae that served as his ears by tracking shifts in the air and ‘decoding’ the sounds. His sunken, four-compound eyes looked at Janine with no readable expression. The toxicognaths, the fangs underneath his maw, clanked with annoyance. Looking almost indistinguishable from an insect, the chief quartermaster started coiling around Janine, barely reaching her ankles in height.
To her knowledge, Chak was never involved in any hunts on humans. When Wolfkins dominated his tribe, the malformed pondered if they should dispose of their strange offspring or not. All kids from that tribe ended up being sent to an orphanage, and after finishing school, Chak found and reconciled with his mother and joined the military, quickly getting a liking for maintaining logistics chains. After a decade of exemplary service, he ended up being promoted to the rank of chief quartermaster for the entire Wolf Tribe, much to the anguish of both himself and Wolfkins.
“The armor that was so graciously given to you, Warlord Janine, costs more than three battle tanks.” Chak raised the upper part of his body in the air, stopping unmoving before her eye level. “And do you know in which condition you return the poor thing to me?”
“Thrashed.” Janine shrugged.
“How apt the word! Thrashed!” Chak leaned straight to her face, nervously clanking with toxicognaths. Some normies and even some new breeds felt nervous upon speaking with Wolfkins, but not the logistic officer. Be it a warrior, a male, or even a warlord, he demanded, often getting in their faces, respect for the precious things provided by the state. A few scouts and one wolf hag even challenged him for the supposed insubordination… His coils introduced them to a world of pain. “One hundred man hours just to fix it! You think I have time to spare personnel for it? Our factories are overwhelmed; we have literally hundreds of tons of equipment in need of repair; the work crews suffer from a lack of sleep…” He stopped, listening to some report from a communicator device installed on an antenna. A long sigh left his jaw. “And one of my workers just broke a leg carrying supplies from the local factory.”
“I understand your frustration, Chak.” Janine told him honestly. They could not stay here. In order to save their lives, the entire population of this city and the nearby villagers were to be relocated deeper into the Core Lands while terraforming machines attempted to repair the harm the Techno-Queen had caused. In a generation or less, the people would be able to come back.
“Do you?” The malformed blinked, focusing on her face. Despite his compound eyes, his eyesight was poor. “I don’t think you do, Janine. My workers, admittedly with some help from Ignacy and other males, performed a pure miracle by fixing our equipment prior to this battle. Understand, we only have the resources of a single crawler to maintain equipment and ammo production for an entire army! Fifty thousand people! This can’t go on. Our Army is slowly grinding to a halt under the weight of our own demands. I had to confiscate rebreathers from the local factories, acting like a freaking raider! Speak with the commander. We must stop and recuperate, lest half of the Wolfkins have to use half-broken power armor in the next battle, leading to more deaths. Make her see reason! We must make camp, receive new supplies, replenish our stocks of medicaments, set up production, get proper food…”
“She won’t listen.” Janine said, stopping his rising body with a paw. Ravager refused to listen to anyone, forcing her armor to be constantly on the move, felling whole countries in weeks. Janine herself was too low on the totem pole of command and wasn’t even a first-generation Wolfkin, or a second-generation Wolfkin. She belonged to the eighth generation, strong enough to become a warlord, but not strong enough to earn Ravager’s ear. “We can stay and argue all day, but this won’t help anything. How can I help you?”
“I need more arms. Since we are abandoning the city, we have to take everything of value at once, before Ravager whips the army into another march. I can’t send normal soldiers into the factories; these places are literal hell pits of toxic hazards, the Ice Fang order is busy with the refugees, and the worker teams are tired to the point of making mistakes. Wolfkins are sturdy enough to gather the supplies without having their lungs burn out. But right now, I can’t get any help because your people are gathered on the main square for a mourning ceremony that refuses to end!”
“I’ll solve the problem,” Janine promised him.
Chak made a bow to her, rushing to climb on top of the building and shouting orders into the communicator. The warlord touched a bandage on her wound, feeling a few wet spots. Nothing to worry about; Ravager’s mercy has healed the immediate damage, and the rest will soon follow. Spreading her shoulders, she went to the mourning ceremony.
All around her, the city was filled with life. Soldiers were breaking into the houses and dragging the people out. A few locals lashed out, but what is a knife against a metal suit of armor? Soldiers simply ignored the outbursts, disarming people, putting rebreathers into their mouths, and harrying them out of the gates like a herd of cusacks. Crying children, despaired wives, shocked husbands… And wounded—so many wounded. The Tribe was through breaking their spirits, and here and there, Janine saw some former guards helping with evacuation.
Agents of the Investigation Bureau, who followed the Third Army like ominous shadows, rounded up some of the former officers along with the major and hanged them. Only those whose guilt was proven with both documents and witness statements have suffered from this faith. Unfortunately, with the full investigation, some of the former oppressors who willingly helped the Tecno-Queen throttle the life out of people would escape the righteous punishment, but such is life. If they turned a new leaf, Janine was willing to let bygones be bygones. If not, agents will root them out.
Not everything went smoothly. Some soldiers tried to partake in local women or men, claiming them to be ‘spoils of war’. These were mostly greenhorns, fools who joined recently. Dragena gave the order to hang them. Some tried to steal the locals belongings. These fools suffered fifty lashes in the open, toxic air, and were given the task of preserving the items they had stolen, sending them to the refugee camps at the first opportunity. Should any of the items go missing, so too would the hand of the one responsible for them. Janine viewed it as an overly lenient punishment. She would’ve skinned any of her own soldiers for even a thought of disobeying the laws of war, and had they acted on their impulse, she would have drowned them in the toxic waste. Order is best upheld through a combination of fear, example, and respect.
People were scared and desperate, and understandably so. No matter how harsh, home is home. But staying here wasn’t an option. The very air had become contaminated with poison, causing cancer to appear at a young age. Most of the people here would die rather soon either way, but their offspring will survive, carrying the legacy and traditions into a hopefully brighter future.
Janine stepped aside, allowing a family to be escorted past her. One of the cubs cried, dropping a wooden soldier toy, while his mother dragged him away. Janine picked up the toy, gave it back to the cub, and sent a calming bow to the terrified mother before stepping away and allowing the soldiers to move on. It was hard, speaking with normies. Wolfkins communicated through a mix of smells, shifts in posture, and words. Normies barely used smells and mostly shifted their bodies when they were anxious or fearful. While young Wolfkins loved toying with cubs of the other tribes, Janine herself tried to distance herself as far as possible from the normies, helping when she could but otherwise treating them as outsiders, an unknown factor in her life.
The Ice Fang order, for all their arrogance, had a far easier time working with outsiders. For this reason, the Blessed Mother gave them the task of escorting the city’s population to safety.
“Spirits, show mercy to these souls,” Janine murmured, pressing her paws together and passing through the stream of people escorted out of the city. Half of her mind refused to believe that these young, malnourished, but otherwise sturdy-looking people would die from the poison that soaked every stone in this place. Wolfkins could shrug off radiation and most poisons rather easily; why can’t normies do the same? If Alpha is to be believed, they created the Wolf Tribe; how come their immune system is so miserably weak? The tyrant fell; why can’t they be happy now?
She came upon the farewell ceremony taking place in the middle of the city. Despite the morning lights coming from the thick clouds around the city, the square was shrouded in darkness by the communication tower. Shamans had gathered the dead wolfkins, stripping them of all armor and bringing them here on the orders of Lacerated One. Shamans tore down several buildings, creating crude slabs of stone to place the deceased upon and wrapping them in a cloth soaked in flammable liquid. Traces of this liquid led to a dais made of stone, hollowed a bit in the middle to keep a small pool containing the flammable liquid.
Wolfkins from all packs were present here, to the south of the square, each pack honoring and mourning the fallen in their own way. Alpha’s Pack and Dragena’s Pack stood unmoved like statues, holding one paw over their hearts. Ygritte’s Pack and Predaig’s Pack both took their place around the edges; their soldiers looked hungrily at the corpses, unsure why they didn’t honor the fallen by feasting on their remains. Janine’s own pack and Martyshkina’s Pack stood side by side, cracking jokes and offering words of encouragement to those who lost soulmates. Just like most warlords have their own differences in character, their own packs have their own quirks.
“From blood we come with scream and rage,” a shaman started intoning prayer, walking around the dead. “By honing our skills, we are leaving our marks upon this violent era. And in the end, we return back to nothing, knowing that we gave our all for the Tribe. From blood we are born with a shout. In death, we disappear in silence, watching over those who will come after us.”
The shaman looked around, waiting patiently for Alpha’s arrival. As per tradition, either Ravager or Alpha finished the ceremony by setting the flames and liberating the souls from their mortal shells. But the supreme warlord has yet to appear. The shaman gave a quick nod before starting the prayer anew, calling on a warlord to step forward and do what is right. Civilian rulers and war leaders united in body and soul to say their last farewells. Unity even in these somber moments. Such was the way of the Tribe. Together, they stand. Divided, they fall.
Janine moved through the ranks, coming to the dais. Stepping on it, she raised her axe to the skies, letting out a single howl to honor all who failed on this night. And behind her, the wolfkins joined their voices with hers, unleashing hundreds of howls, all merging into one containing pain, rage, despair, and cheerfulness. Janine stepped into the pool and brought the axe down, creating a spark that sent off a chain reaction, unleashing flames all around her.
Her jacket, pants, and bandages caught fire; the bare flesh of her wounds tingled, and she felt the unpleasant touch of flames licking her body. Janine spread her arms, feeling flame against her eyes, sensing the warmth on her fur. The flames spread from the center, engulfing the dead and filling the air with the smell of burned flesh. For several minutes, Janine allowed herself to become unmoved and enjoy the heat of the flames, allowing her mind to waver in memories of those whom she lost tonight. Howling furiously, she remembered the first mistakes of her warriors and their first victories, allowing these memories to forever burn into her soul as their bodies were slowly reduced to the bones, which would later be used for rituals. Finally, she raised the axe once more to silence everyone.
“There is no shame in dying, for this moment will come to us all one day,” Janine said the ritual words steadily, allowing herself genuine grief. So many talents, so many potential warlords and shamans died in the past wars… “You have given us your all, and that is all we could have ever asked from you. Be at peace at the start of your new journey. One day, we all will meet again.”
“One day we will meet again!” The Tribe repeated after her, and with it came fear.
Alpha stepped onto the dais, fully naked, a statue of white coming through the wall of fire, with only her eyes and the crimson topknot of her hair giving her the feeling of a living being. She came upon Janine, her body covered only with dozens of bone necklaces and talismans, all beating against each other in unison.
“Do you wish to usurp my position?” Alpha asked with barely restrained rage, her work hidden from the others by the crackling of flames.
“No,” Janine replied honestly, “not after the loss that I brought upon the Tribe.”
Alpha’s gaze burrowed into Janine’s eyes, demanding an explanation.
“The Blessed Mother is asleep, and we must use the time of peace wisely, Alpha. The ceremony must end; our forces are needed elsewhere.”
“Ever the coward, Janine. Let yourself fly already.” Alpha’s snout closed on her. “Submit.”
Janine threw her head up, and twin sets of fangs came upon her neck. Alpha was not gentle; her fangs pierced the skin, narrowly evading arteries, and scratched against bone. With a casual motion of her head, Alpha lifted Janine off the ground, holding her like a chew toy. Releasing a scent of submission, Janine went limp, submitting fully to the punishment.
It didn’t last long. With a violent motion, Alpha has sent Janine cartwheeling off the dais, throwing off the dais. Janine let out a laugh, feeling the blood running from her neck as she stood up. The strongest warlord showed mercy. Usually, she dominated with her oversized claws. Feeling relief, the warlord stood up, eager to check on her sons. Finally, the immediate duties were over.
“The farewell ceremony is over!” Alpha roared, looking at Janine with annoyance.
“All packs, go and help the engineer corps!” Janine snapped an order, guessing the hint. “Follow Chak’s command to the letter!”
The packs bowed to them before turning to the gigantic centipede figure of the chief quartermaster, who jumped off a building and immediately started assigning Wolfkins to replace his teams in the various factories and armories.
“And don’t dare to mess around, or your guts are mine!” added Alpha, noticing the disappointing sighs of some Wolfkins. Jumping off the dais, she came to Janine. “Ravager suffers from the worst headache yet and is not fully with us. Zero tried to calm her down, and I ended up offering her terms to the Dynast and Till Ingo.” Alpha looked at the tower. “Thankfully, your howl pierced the madness’ shroud, and I could slip away.”
“Does this mean we will leave soon?”
“Abyss, if I know. Right now, the Dynast whinges about the strain on the resources to save the cripples. And Ingo is his usual self: “Let’s turn them into cyborgs’. Fool,” Alpha spat, gesturing for her pack to bring her a large leather military coat, colored in crimson. “Not everyone…”
“Warlord Janine?” They both turned to look at the young knight from the Ice Fang order coming to them. A yellow cape flowed from the man’s shoulder, and with no hesitation, he fell on one knee before them. “Sword Saint Bertruda demands your presence to settle the matter of the rivalry.” His crimson eyes looked at the horrible wound on Janine’s body. “If you wish, lady, I can try and…”
“Don’t bother, cousin,” Janine growled.
A stream mixed with dried blood left her mouth, clouding her snout from pure rage, sending a fresh surge of adrenalin through her tired limbs. Her son suffered, and this whore dares to distract her with an insignificant duel? So much for the Ice Boys’ enlightenment. Fine, she’ll oblige this idiocy. The knight felt her rage, bowing his head in acceptance. She only gave him a knock on the pauldron, forcing herself to set an example.
“Alpha, can I borrow your coat?”
“Want to challenge me?”
“No, it’s just…” Janine pointed at her body. “I am a bit naked, and you know how our cousins are…”
Alpha let out a brutish laugh before throwing her oversized coat at Janine. She walked past the fellow warlord, intentionally showering her aside with a shoulder to provide an example of hierarchy for the lesser ranks.
“Go get her, Bull-Slayer. I expect nothing short of victory.” Alpha’s keen eyes stopped at Janine’s face, and a claw sliced against the lesser warlord’s jaw, drawing blood. “Make sure not to create any irreplaceable losses. We can’t afford to lose a Sword Saint or a Warlord.”