She came to the Ice Fangs camp, surrounded by an honor guard of their knights. Every tent was cared for by initiates, young Wolfkins in training to become foot soldiers and later squires and knights. They kept the place clean, polished the power armor, cooked food, and followed their assigned liege, writing down his or her deeds to later hand them over to sages. Even here, in this dump of a city, the camp was orderly, with a secure perimeter around it and patrols assigned to their duties. The camp itself was separated into several sections, with First Sunblade claiming the very center of the camp for himself and his royal troops.
Janine had walked straight to this place, the axe on her shoulder and the oversized coat on her body. Two sages, the order analog of shamans, stepped forward. Both of them were encased in an elegant-looking power armor, white in color, with red lines running down on the outer sides of their arms and legs. Impressive-looking gunhalberds rested in maglocks behind their backs, along with tower shields.
“Halt!” one sage spoke in a gentle and melodic voice. The male took off his helmet, showing a scarless snout. “Honored lady, please state the reason for your…”
Janine caught him by the torso with her paw, raising the surprised sage in the air and hearing the whine of his armor beneath her fingers. The other sage’s halberd has immediately ended up in her paw; the gunhalberd’s barrel, located above the curved blade, aiming at Janine’s arm. Nearby knights responded in kind, taking out their swords and spears and surrounding the warlord, shielding the initiates with their bodies.
She ignored all the commotion, pulling the sage closer to her snout.
“I came here on the demands of Sword Saint Bertruda.” Her pupils dilated in response to the anger boiling down with her, and she felt a trickle of blood pouring from the wound. A male dares to bar her passing? Dares to question her? Everything within her screamed for a blood price for such arrogance; she wanted, nay, needed to bite his neck to tear off that insubordination face and remind the male of his place in the hierarchy. It took all her self-control to calm down and only snap her fangs before his nose. “My soldiers are bloodied and hurt after the fight, and the Sword Saint’s bother keeps me away from them. Lead me to her, shiny boy, before I accidentally break this camp.” She released the hold, allowing the sage to land.
“My apologies, lady,” the impudent little male dared to bow to her! “But I do not have the honor of serving the illustrious Lady Bertruda. My liege and master are First Sunblade, the greatest among our living kin. Please follow me, if you will.”
So much for Ravager being your Blessed Mother, huh? Janine rolled her eyes, following the sage across the richly adorned tents. On her way, she saw some knights training their initiates, battling with them with wooden weapons and pointing out flaws in their forms, or overseeing the youths at a shooting range. Judging by their size and looks, most young cubs were around ten to fifteen years old at best. Then again, Janine always had trouble deducing the age of the ice boys. For all their similarity with the Wolf Tribe, at the age of seven, a Wolfkin of the tribe would’ve already killed their first insectoid, knew how to take apart and assemble a shardgun, got their share of scars, and would’ve joined a military pack for the first time. Their counterparts from the order would still be hidden away behind the safety of the walls, groomed and taught by sages, never seeing any actual danger.
This happened because of one core difference between the two groups of Wolfkins. Cubs of the Wolf Tribe grew fast, maturing to become smart enough to talk in mere months, instincts to dominate and kill came to them along with a mother’s milk. And cubs of the Ice Fang order grew up at the same speed as normies, staying frail and weak for years before catching up to their cousins. While this difference was a cause for much disgust from one tribe to another, Janine sometimes envied this difference. All her cubs grew up way too fast; she barely had time to hold them in her paws before they, seemingly overnight, jumped and were herded to the pits.
Passing by one of the training arenas, Janine grimaced, hearing the words of encouragement given by a trainer to a cub who lost a sparring match in just free moves. Her opponent didn’t even do anything impressive, he started with a straight overhead thrust aimed at the cub’s forehead, blocked the incoming thrust with a guard of his wooden sword, and finally turned his thrust into a mere one-handed swing that touched the cub’s nose. In her tribe, the fight would’ve never been stopped at such an early stage, for no enemy in the wild would stop if you merely “cut” him.
Trainings were always bloody in the Wolf Tribe. Two, three, or more would crash into each other, biting and slashing, tearing at the skin with no end. No fight would stop until either the winner showed mercy or the shamans stepped up. Teachings were simple: you need to dominate; the initial wounds meant nothing; a losing party could prowl at the edge of a struggle, waiting until a winning side bleeds long enough to weaken or until someone gets distracted before charging in and trying to claw the win from the jaws of victory. Even males tried this, only to get slapped by the females. Janine failed to see how the Ice Fangs’ codling could produce effective fighters.
“Lady, are you Warlord Alpha?!” The cub who won the fight turned to look at her before making a low bow. Without exposing his neck. He and his partner were dressed in similar-looking skintight bodysuits, known as underarmor sometimes, meant to be worn underneath actual power armor. Each underarmor had countless zippers on it, meant to be opened when one is putting on the armor to allow cables of the armor to connect with the body’s implants and allow the armor to monitor the body’s condition.
“Stupid, this is Warlord Janine,” the second cub said quickly, repeating the bow. “Greetings, honored cousin.”
“But she wears the marks of the Alpha Pack! And the scent.” The boy sniffed the air and frowned. “It’s… both.”
“See!? I saw her in the news, this is warlord Janine, I tell you!”
“Name’s Janine. Greetings… little ones.” Janine stumbled for a second, unsure how to address them. Judging by the tags on their shoulders, they were ten years old. Seeing a supposed adult act so… childish puzzled her.
“Have you come to pay your respects to the Sword Saints, warlord?” the male cub asked, earning a worried look from the sage and the trainer.
“Something like that, yes. Have fun with your trainings.” Janine smirked cheerfully, gave them a quick nod, and walked away, laughing boastfully.
The sage led her to the tent of First Sunblade, a true marvel of artistry, adorned with the finest finery. Proud purple and gold flags beat on the wind; the ground within the tent was covered by soft rugs and rich carpets; a few stands placed within carried the remains of arms, picked from the foes that First deemed worthy, and regalia of long defeated tyrants and kingdoms. The Sword Saints sat on richly upholstered chairs inside—six out of the ones present in the camp, with the rest leaving to escort the refugees.
Noticing Janine, First came out of the tent, accompanied by his peers. He alone wore white robes with yellow embroidery in the form of swords. A purple sash wrapped the robes around his waist, and a song of golden rings woven in his long hair accompanied each soft step. For all the claims of the Wolf Tribe that their cousins were pussies and fragile fools, she had to admit one thing. First was bigger than her; his arms and legs bulged with rope-like muscles beneath the skin, and unlike her, he had no genetic defects. Blessed by the Twins’ blood, no scar ever stayed on the pink skin beneath his magnificent white fur; no burn could damage his body beyond recovery. He, like Alpha and Zero, was prime in strength, charisma, and vitality.
Bertruda came behind him, still fully clad in her armor, aside from the helmet. Her long hair was tied in a tight knot on the tip of her scalp. Fuming with barely hidden rage, she looked at Janine, and the warlord gladly matched her gaze. Good. She may despise this thin idiot, but the rage in her is real. Janine wanted her fangs to feel Bertruda’s neck, and Bertruda wanted to see Janine’s bleeding. Sisters in spirit. A shame that Bertruda chose this moment; otherwise, Janine might’ve spared her ribs.
Camelia Wintersong came next, dressed in a doublet and leather pants, with a simple blue scarf around her neck and a glass of wine in her paw. All signs of battle had already disappeared from the icy woman; a welcome smile danced on her lips, unmatched by the calculated looks in her crimson eyes. A special salve and three onyx pins straightened her long saber hair, creating a gleaming topknot above her head.
“No armor? What, did your junk get broken or something?” Bertruda bared her fangs, letting out a low growl. Camelia blinked once and put a paw on the woman’s pauldron, stopping her from advancing. “Do you not have an entourage or honor guards? Where are the fellow warlords? Are you this scared of losing? Well, if so, then at least you aren’t delusional about your chances. If, Planet forbid, I’d been you, I’d have come alone too, unwilling to allow anyone to see my future humiliation."
“I came to honor you with my presence, and this is how you greet me? Ha! I have no need for either armor or cheer team to see you bite the dust, ice girl,” Janine smiled broadly, putting the Taleteller’s head on the ground and folding paws on its butt. “Although I might just start calling you a flame girl. That’s some nice anger in your eyes. I like it, Bertruda! Step to me and let me taste what passes for rage among your cold kind.”
“I’ll make you feel the displeasure you caused my kind, barbarian. But I will not give you an excuse for blaming your inevitable defeat on the lack of gear. No, my skills will forever be burned into your very brain, along with the order’s martial superiority. Guards!” Bertruda shouted, calling her people to her. Spreading her arms, she allowed them to start removing the power armor from her, piece by piece.
“Please, kin of mine, there is no need for such heated words.” First raised his paws, stepping between two women. “We just came from the hard-won battle, and I assure you, Lady Bertruda, that the words of Lady Janine caused me no discomfort. Won’t you two make peace for the future’s sake?”
“I am sorry, Grandmaster,” Bertruda answered, left standing only in a yellow underarmor that left her paws and feet open. One of her sages brought Bertruda’s spear, and the Sword Saint grabbed it, pointing its tips at Janine. “The indignity caused by this miserable sand dweller is far too much for me to overcome or forgive. I will see her on the ground and hear her bones snapping; on this I give my oath as a Sword Saint!”
“Fool,” Janine smiled back, relaxing her posture a bit. “Why give up your pride so easily?”
“Sages,” First sighed, calling a row of tall warriors closer. “Prepare to treat the wounds of both noble warriors. Lady Bertruda, Lady Janine, would you follow me to the arena so you could settle your di…”
“We will do it here. Enough chit-chat, let the blades talk!” Janine roared, charging forth and bringing down her axe with one arm.
Bertruda met the incoming attack with a straight thrust of her spear, taking blade on blade. The clash of their weapons sent a shockwave across the camp, making First’s tent shudder for a moment. The fierce air wave pushed back several knights. First himself and the other Sword Saints jumped in front of initiates who served refreshments to their masters.
And Janine found herself pushed back, unable to bend Bertruda’s golden-coated spear. The alloy hidden beneath the golden surface matched Taleteller’s durability perfectly; muscles in both white-furred arms bulged, nearly tearing through the tight underarmor, and had sent Janine back. The wound in her body opened, sending a stream of blood down her leg. The healed cuts on her neck, hidden by the collar of Alpha’s coat, once more started seeping blood when her own muscles ruptured the dried-up blood.
Bertruda advanced, nimble as a dancer; the flurry of her thrusts made Janine lift the blade of her axe, using it like a shield. A smug smile danced on the Sword Saint’s lips as she moved around the warlord, her footwork carrying her like a feather while she tried to find an opening in Janine’s defense.
Janine beamed, forgetting the worry about her son, the weight of deaths, the lack of supplies, and all the injuries that she had to deal with tonight. The woman was strong. Bertruda had a nasty temper, but by the Spirits, does she have such worthwhile skills to back it up! Unlike the stupid machine before or the helpless guards, here was the opponent who could make Janine bleed, and this made her blood boil in anticipation, driving her into her pure condition.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Fight. She could not stay on the defense, bleeding like a cusack. Janine came upon the Sword Saint, taking a thrust on her axe before taking it in both paws and bringing the blade down in a lightning-fast movement, forcing Bertruda to take the incoming attack on the shaft of her spear. The Sword Saint’s feet got buried in the ground, her paws trembled from the massive impact, and a few drops of blood showed from underneath her fingers.
Janine let out a roar of pure rage into the woman’s face, propelling the air hard enough to imitate a hit from a wolf hag across the pretty snout of her opponent. Seeing Bertruda’s eyes narrow, Janine kicked with her right leg, aiming to disembowel the foe with her claws while their weapons were locked in a brutal struggle.
Bertruda’s lips formed an “O,” and a spit, flying at the speed of a bullet, landed at Janine’s left eye, forcing a blink. Like a piece of cloth, the Sword Saint weaved away from the direction of the kick, the fabric of her underarmor lightly touching the flesh of Janine’s toes. The warlord brought the butt of her axe to the left, acting a moment too late and earning herself a hit against her left leg with the lower end of Bertruda’s spear, sending reverberating pain all across the leg and causing the limb to shiver. Janine didn’t try to resist the impact, allowing it to send her into a spin and utilizing the momentum to leave a bloody, shallow cut below Bertruda’s breasts.
No longer scarless, cousin! The thought barely lasted a second before Bertruda spun her spear in her paws, dancing back to a safe distance, and made a thrust aimed at Janine’s shoulder. The warlord has blocked the incoming strike, only for the Sword Saint to send the tip of her spear forward, above the axe’s blade. Grasping the shaft with both paws, Bertruda pushed the axe down, causing a grimace of pain to appear on Janine’s face as the wound in her side came aflame, pushing a whole surge of blood out. Not stopping her attack, Bertruda pushed the spear black across the axe’s edge, sending out a host of sparks and allowing her blade to tear across Janine’s shoulder and leave behind a lacerated wound.
“Even,” Bertruda hissed, panting heavily and stepping back out of reach of Janine’s axe. “But not for long, dust dweller. Learn your place and bow to your betters!”
Janine barely had time to block the first strike, for Bertruda created an entire wall made of thrusts before herself. The Taleteller ringed in Janine’s paws, withstanding strike after strike from the sharp strike. The sparks created from each encounter created a small dome of flares around both fighters. Bertruda didn’t just let all her thrusts connect; amidst the countless afterimages created in the air by the spear’s movements, the majority were feints, meant to fool Janine into making a false block and open up for a true attack. The Sword Saint went all out, pushing her body to its limits. Her own underarmor started cracking around her shoulders and tights, revealing the fur beneath. Sweat ran down her head, wetting the fur.
And Janine endured, acting more on instinct and getting to know her opponent better. In all her life, she has never been the fastest, and her strength, however impressive it was, could only take her so far. She had built her entire style around defense; each time the warlord could not overcome the enemy head-on, she would outlast them, taking advantage of their irritation or loss of stamina to deliver a fatal blow. For ten minutes, they fought, neither allowing the other to gain ground, and both being too stubborn to step back to regain their breath.
First shouted something, but his words were deafened by the sound of steel crashing against each other. The wound in Janine’s side had made the Warlord experience fever; Ravager’s claws cut way too deep and too strongly, leaving even the tip of her lung damaged, messing with Janine’s breathing. And Bertruda took advantage of it, slipping one thrust past Janine’s defense and coloring her side red. The side of her coat got torn, along with the skin above her ribs.
Superb combat sense! Janine smiled, feeling blood appear on her lips. I’d be honored to see you in the tribe, Flame Girl! But I too have a duty to win.
Dominate. Janine let go of holding back her rage, allowing its fire to supplant her weakened and strained body, to set her lungs aflame as she inhaled air along with blood, and to send a surge of adrenaline through her body. She treated Bertruda like a challenger, as someone whose life she needed to preserve for the future’s sake. No more. She’ll treat her like a warlord, matching cruelty and brutality blow for blow.
The warlord advanced, earning a slashed ear as she dodged a thrust that would’ve left a hole between her eyes. Before the spear could move back, she beat it aside with the axe, using just her right arm, and lunged at the retreating Bertruda. The claws on her left paw struck at the Sword Saint’s shoulder, tearing away meat. Striking with her knee, Janine felt pain as her opponent shielded herself with the shaft of her spear, trying to let the kick’s momentum carry her to safety.
Bertruda groaned in pain, feeling the claws closing on her shoulder, their sharp hooks grabbing the edges of her bones to hold the Sword Saint in place. Opening her jaws, Janine moved to bite away the opponent’s eyes, blinding her and…
“Restraint… Sister…” said a gurgling voice, struggling for each breath of air.
She saw her. Terrific. The ruined and dead warlord stood behind the circle of warriors, hunching down and glancing at Janine with a dim amber eye through the edge between the vambraces of two sages. All the fire had been gone from the eye; the fur around the eye had long since started to fall out, and necrosis around the eye socket threatened to allow the eye to fall out on the ground. And still, this was her. Dead and yet existing.
Janine’s worst crime against the tribe. She stole such an asset, valuable beyond all worth, someone who could’ve saved hundreds of lives, all because she let the rage go into her head.
Never again. Janine closed her jaws, headbutting Bertruda with enough force to shatter her nose. Still pushing the spear’s tip away with the Taleteller, Janine let go of the wounded shoulder, wrapping her arm around the Sword Saint. And lifted her in the air, tightly pressing the woman to her chest, ensuring that Bertruda couldn’t use her weapon at such close range.
Without a hint of mercy, she had cast her down, coming crashing like a comet, breaking the ground beneath them with the Sword Saint’s back, and adding even more pressure by slamming her own body from above. The slam was powerful enough to beat the air out of Bertruda’s lungs and push the shaft of her own spear into her body, leaving a long line of bulging flesh.
Standing up, Janine prepared to repeat the attack. In a grappling match, her superior physical strength came out on top against her opponent’s might. Bertruda got way too overconfident, aiming to finish off Janine with the previous attack, and forgot just how hardy the Wolfkins of the Wolf Tribe were. The crimson eyes of the Ice Fang order could see the tiniest particles in the air, slowing down even bullets passing, which allowed them to weave and move around the incoming fire with ease, dodging even the most mortal attacks. But this gift came at a cost of lower stamina, and now the Sword Saint had expended most of her limits, and Janine had not a single intention of letting her catch her breath. No, she’ll slam her again and again, until the fool loses her consciousness…
A groan left Janine’s lips. Bertruda reached out for the tip of her spear with both paws, and it came off, connected to the shaft with just a chain. Using it like a dagger, she buried the weapon in Janine’s arm, kicking the warlord. A stroke of bad luck or well-placed attack had sent this kick into the wound left by Ravager, coloring the entire world red and sending Janine into a pain-inducing rage. She let go of her axe entirely, grabbing Bertruda’s by the ankle and feeling her claws piercing through the skin and scratching against the bone.
Without a hint of mercy, she lifted the Sword Saint above herself, almost as if preparing to throw her. Instead of a throw, she used Bertruda like a whip, hitting against the air, arresting her movements at the last moment, and creating a crack in the air. The living whip’s crap made a sound that drowned out the initiates’ startled and shocked gasps. The sages lifted their arms, preventing the knights from rushing in to try and stop the cruel battle. Bertruda shouted, this time from genuine pain, spilling blood from her mouth. The shock lasted for but a fraction of a second, and she curled into a ball, striking at Janine’s arm with her improvised dagger and forcing the warlord to let her go.
Bertruda landed on both feet, jumping five steps away and reassembling her spear, while Janine picked up the Taleteller. Each breath teared at her lungs; the blood was pouring out from the wounds, turning her fur wet. She hated to admit it, but Bertruda was sturdy; even now she only lowered herself on one paw, breathing frantically and struggling to stop the blood flow from her mouth, using each second of Janine’s hesitation to recuperate her own strength. Even on the best of days, Janine would be hard-pressed to win. Right now, she has no idea how to end this fight without killing the Sword Saint. Worse still, she saw pure hatred in Bertruda’s eyes. Her age was playing tricks on her; no doubt the woman had never been so pressed in her entire life. She won’t hold back; she had already tried to kill Janine once in their combat. As the elder of the two, it now became Janine’s duty to end the fight in such a way that would preserve both their lives for the state.
So, what can I work with? Bertruda’s nose has been shattered, messing up her breathing. This will ensure that the Sword Saint cannot endure the prolonged fight. Next, her ankle has already gotten swollen, dislocated, no doubt, but still, it should stop her annoying graceful strode around. Next, the damage left by the slam and the wound on her shoulder… Not enough. Not enough to win solidly and clearly. Janine’s exposed lung has been threatening to rupture at any moment now; the wound left by Bertruda on her arm kept on bleeding. Somehow… she can’t attribute this skillful strike to mere luck. Bertruda’s dagger landed clearly on her basilic vein, and then she twisted it, increasing the damage area even further. Even cornered like an insectoid, the Sword Saint had prepared a strike that would ensure her potential victory later.
Should I… Give up? The mere idea of this has caused Janine almost physical pain. She could win, she knew it! Everything is possible in combat, but she knew enough of Bertruda’s style to weather her down, carefully opening the woman for one final cut of her axe. And who will win from it? Who but the state’s enemies would win from me cutting away another important servant of a state? How many people would still be alive today if I had just kept my restraint and kept Terrific al…
A hit across the face has sent her backward. Janine had never even seen her attacker at first; she only felt how the skin on the right side of her snout was about to get torn. The impact from the unexpected attack has sent her rolling against the ground, stopping right at First’s legs. Coughing and gasping, her snout in the dirt, she looked up.
Ravager. The Blessed Mother stood between her and Bertruda, the ground around her paws bulging down and the light of her eyes shining far brighter than the dim sunlight. At once, the rows of wolfkins fell on one knee, and the sages pressed the initiates heads deep to the ground in a gesture of submission before prostrating themselves too. Even First lowered himself to one knee before raising his head high and offering her neck to the Blessed Mother.
Janine understood their nervousness. Ravager only ever came to the order to challenge the Twins for another sparring contest. Ever since their demise, Ravager avoided their camps and fortresses, only ever visiting them just once, to allow First to compose a painting of her and the Twins, one last memento to the lost progenitors.
“All of you, stand. I warned you.” Ravager came upon Janine, slapping the Warlord down with the same ease a wolf hag would slap an unruly cub. “No challenges between Warlords and Sword Saints. None!” A paw came on Janine’s back, and she felt the ground beneath her bulging, along with her bones cracking. “We can’t lose the fu… We can’t lose allies or ourselves!”
“Blessed Mother!” Bertruda wanted to fall on one knee again, but the amber suns that turned to look at her made her keep standing. “There was no need for your intervention. I had the situation under control and was about to…”
“How oblivious can a person be? Are you truly blind, Bertruda, or is this a result of a concussion?” Camelia snapped, dropping her icy façade. First put a paw on her shoulder, silencing the fellow Sword Saint.
“Silence. Silence. Silence!” Ravager roared the third word, and all sounds died in the camp. The white-furred wolfkins became statues, breathing slowly so as not to incur the wrath of nature. Ravager grabbed Janine by the back of her head and lifted her up, butting foreheads with her lightly and basking the Warlord in the amber light. “Do you think me mad?”
“No,” Janine responded immediately, grimacing from the pressure that threatened to pop her head. “You have a reason to punish me, although I know not what wrong have I done, Blessed Mother. Warlords face each other all the time.”
“You… you speak true…” Ravager chuckled, lessening the hold. “But you are half-wrong. I am mad. And I do have a reason. If a Sword Saint makes a boast and fails to uphold it, she is a Sword Saint no longer. Tell me, what did Bertruda tell you before the bout?”
“She claimed to see me on the ground and hear my bones snapping.” Janine bit her lower lips, feeling Ravager’s finger loudly crack a hole in the back of her skull.
“Done. Anything else?” Ravager’s words demanded an answer, almost suffocating Janine’s will.
She wanted to lie. The Blessed Mother hated submission from Warlords. Often she and Alpha would snap at the others, provoking their sisters to stand up for themselves, and trust in their decisions above blind faith in the Blessed Mother. Dragena regularly called the newly promoted sisters, patiently explaining to them the value of utilizing tactics and putting their tempers in check by challenging a rival pack to a war game. Janine never had to suffer humiliation from either Alpha or Dragena, but Martyshkina’s cheeky tongue had cost her a total defeat at Dragena’s paws. Although this did little to hold the idiot down.
But at the same time, Janine refused to accept pity from anyone. She wronged, knowingly or unknowingly, and she’ll endure the punishment for it. Grow by toughing out the hardships; such was the way of the Wolf Tribe. Where others would break, they will prevail. An honor lost is merely an honor waiting to be reclaimed, and the road toward it is littered with opportunities and challenges to grow ever stronger.
“I was supposed to bow to my betters.” Janine smiled wildly and bowed. ‘Betters’ was the keyword. Once to Ravager, next to First, and finally to Camelia, earning herself a smirk and a bow from the latter. “You won. I am Bull-Slayer no more,” she threw to Bertruda, storming past her.
She ignored the sages’ offering to treat her wounds and the sudden change in the face of her opponent when First said something into the Sword Saint’s ear. All she could think of was her shame. Not at Ravager or her defeat, no. Even losing her honorable name, something she had earned for so long, did not bother her. Ravager was right, and fame comes and goes.
Janine hated herself. A Warlord has responsibilities. One of such things is to smooth things over between packs, preserving lives from being wasted in vain. Never again. Janine swore to herself, deciding to get better.