Janine’s ears perked upon hearing the low, guttural howl spreading across the camp, akin to a shockwave. A broad grin spread across her lips. At last!
The warlord stormed out of her tent, greeted by the orderly chaos of her pack assembling itself for war. The shamans walked among snarling Wolfkins, saying prayers. Mechanics from the Normies’ ranks smacked the overly eager women on the back, forcing them to stand still while they strapped power armor onto their bodies. Those who failed to comply with the men’s demands found their generators deactivated and themselves turned into statues as the Normies slowly finished outfitting the seething warriors while their fellows jeered and laughed. Her wolf hags howled in response to Alpha’s howl, spurring males from inactivity and stopping every domination duel. Everywhere in the siege camp, the same scene repeated itself.
War! The Wolf Tribe was called to the war! Janine walked to the center of her camp, ignoring the Wolfkins’ bare throats. She spread her arms wide, and three males—her own blood, the pride and joy of her litters—rushed to encase her in the thick plates of armor.
Marco, her youngest son, was a three-year-old cub. She had taken him from the pits as her adjutant after a girl had nearly strangled him. A pang of pity stung her at the sight of his pale black form, ribs pressed against his fur coat. He was the only cub in his litter who had survived to this day. Two beautiful girls were stillborn. Another girl met her demise when a claw struck her in the eye during a struggle for food in the pits, and her brother suffered a broken neck. Bad litter, weak one, and it’s all Janine’s fault. Her soulmate had repeatedly asked her to relax and rest, but she soldiered on, marching from battle to battle, eager to prove her recent appointment to the rank of warlord. This was the result. Never again.
The gruesome wounds on Marco’s body had long since healed, leaving only scarred flesh. Janine knew that his knees sometimes hurt; the boy was too close to being named a Crippled for her liking. She slightly bent her legs, a light gesture of mercy for her hardworking cub.
The two others looked like twins. Black hides with mottled brown markings, long regal snouts, and muscles dancing beneath the skins. Both bore 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. At his age, he should have found a proper mate by now.
Her sons lifted the heavy plates of the power armor. Piece by piece, they brought them to her oversized body, connecting the cables of the protective armor to the implants’ sockets across her torso. She exhaled slightly, feeling how Marco made a misstep and connected one cable too slowly, resulting in a jolt of electricity surging up her knee. Janine just smiled at him, allowing the boy to keep going. These armor plates were too heavy for him yet, but she’ll never give him up to become a Crippled. Her fault. Her responsibility.
Ignacy spread the fiber muscles, not trusting them to fit in place on their own. They tightened around the limbs, akin to a second skin. He slipped under Janine’s arm, lifted a generator, and positioned it directly on the plate covering her spine. Where Ignacy’s moved in no hurry, Bogdan slapped the pauldrons on Janine’s shoulders, trusting his mother’s skin to endure any potential discomfort.
After the plates came the sleeves, much heavier parts of the power armor that protected her limbs. All three of her sons lifted each piece, locking them onto her arms and legs. The warlord tested her limbs with a rumble of the generator, feeling the fiber-muscles shift in tandem with her own, empowering her to greater limits than those of a mortal woman. She bowed her head, accepting a helmet, and its crimson lenses flashed at her command, bringing a flood of information to her retinas. The life signs of her pack were projected in a wall of symbols, and her fangs gritted, noticing a wounded one. Not her fault; the girl was a scout, and ambitions are pounding in their young heads. Wolf hags slacked.
She surveyed the ammunition, receiving reports on the wolf hags' packs’ readiness. At her snarl, four armored figures broke from their preparations and darted to her on all fours.
“The energy shields are online,” Ignacy whispered happily, noticing how his mother’s lenses whirled, focusing on the front line. “Warlord, the technicians showed me how to properly calibrate them and adjust the energy flow. These honeys can even absorb the blast of a bunker bomb…”
“This wasn’t your duty.” She turned to him in a burst of movement, pressing a claw beneath his lower jaw.
The siege camp was a wild hodgepodge of discipline and chaos. The positions of the Wolf Tribe lacked any field kitchens or medic tents; a thin layer of mines ensured protection from an attack from the fortress. The purpose of these mines was to slow and alert; the tribe adored a good brawl. Janine offered the help of her scouts to both the regulars and the Ice Fangs as a gesture of goodwill. Anything to keep the wild girls busy. Alpha approved her initiative, and Janine’s pelt was spared of bites.
Their cousins, the Ice Fang Order, took a different approach. Their camp was set up in an orderly fashion, and elite soldiers guarded the perimeter. Flags upon flags fluttered on the harsh winds, while the knights prepared in vain for positional warfare. As always, First offered to share food with his kin, and they accepted his offer. No need to miss out on perfectly fine rations and drinks.
The regulars of the Third dug ground around the army’s position, creating trenches, placing pillboxes, and burying energy generators to shield the camp in case of a sudden shelling. Janine assigned some of the hotheads to help with this noble task, but Ignacy sure as Abyss wasn’t assigned to it.
“The scout told me we were finished searching through the eastern lands.” Ignacy craned his neck to dodge the sharp tip that threatened to cut his throat. “Techno-Queen has laid her lands bare. There is nothing left to devour, and after the Blessing Mother’s hunt, there is no foe left to fight, either. So, with free time on my paws…”
“You decided to meddle with technology instead of looking for a soulmate?” Janine sighed. The boy spoke the truth: Ravager had to use some of her forces to provide food and water for the locals after their leader tried to starve out the invaders by taking away everything edible. “Ignacy, the shamans have made their will clear.”
“Soundly spoken, warlord.” Bogdan bared his neck for speaking out of turn. “In times of need, every member of the tribe must seek a way to make themselves useful. Ravager’s own wisdom had spurred Ignacy into action, setting an inspiring example for us to follow.”
For the insolence of speaking out of turn, Janine lovingly struck Bogdan against the cheek, more of a supportive pat than a bruising blow. 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 in an attempt to entice him to mate. Even if Ignacy chooses to remain single or, Spirits’ forbid, chooses a male, she’ll, of course, disapprove but will accept his decision.
It was his persistent meddling in forbidden matters that worried the warlord. The memories of her firstborn’s fate—his desperate yelping when all his trust in mechanical devices had finally failed him—burned brightly in her eyes to this day. She clenched her paw. She needs a shaman’s wisdom to set the boy straight.
Her sons stepped away, dropping to one knee, and she lightly bit their necks, chiding them for Marco’s failure and their audacity in speaking out of turn. The elder brothers bowed and jumped to help the others gear up for 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. If anyone saw her cuddling Marco, his life would become the Abyss of teasing and ridicule.
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“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 Janine’s axe and rifle on her paws.
Her daughter had already prepared for battle, her shardgun locked to her back. Anissa left the helmet open, showing an eyepatch over her right eye, the 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 the weapons.
“You have failed.” Janine swung the Taleteller, an axe she had found in the ancient ruins, through the air, sending a wave of wind across her camp. The weapon had a single blade that remained unbroken and required no sharpening. What it bit, it cut clean. She nodded in thanks and accepted the high-powered energy rifle.
“Yes, mother,” Anissa scratched Marco’s behind the ear before reaching into a pocket and placing a medical patch over the bite mark.
Janine’s growl caused her daughter to bare her neck in submission. Like her mother, Anissa’s sole remaining eye burned yellow, a sign of Ravager’s favor. Unfortunately, the girl wasn’t strong enough to one day usurp Janine’s position. The shamans examined Anissa and confirmed that she was nearing her prime. Where Janine’s limbs looked like tree trunks, Anissa’s had a slender and leaner build. By the Wolf Tribe’s standards.
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 as she rammed the butt of her axe into the ground, creating a crevice. Impatient One approached, the only one of her daughters so far to become a shaman, even if her rank hasn’t yet allowed her to lead a village. Words of prayer covered every millimeter of her battle armor, scratched into the surface by the shaman’s claws. Bronze chains sealed a prayer book around her waist, and bone talismans hung loosely from her shoulders. As tall as Anissa, Impatient One had a somewhat shorter but far sturdier snout. The last time the two had fought, the shaman’s jaws had closed on her sister’s neck, choking the wolf hag into submission and denying Anissa the privilege of tasting Impatient One’s claws.
But Anissa put up a valiant resistance, nearly tearing one of her sister’s breasts in their brutal struggle. For this reason, Janine pushed the stubborn girl toward the shamanic 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 had failed recently, earning scars but not proving her devotion.
A problem of memory, nothing serious. None of her daughters shared Janine’s disfigurement; their legs were of normal size. So what if Anissa failed a couple of times? Failure is a good teacher, for it can reveal the most unexpected areas for improvement.
Janine kneeled, drinking the bowl full of insectoid blood from Impatient One’s paws, letting her bless the warlord’s armor. Shamans were the spiritual and civil rulers of the Tribe, the ones who upheld the traditions and interpreted the will of the Blessed Mother. In Janine’s youth, the state was still in its infancy, weak and fragile. The shamans had to enforce strict rationing, resulting in the deaths of the Crippled and cubs, but the tribe endured, grew stronger from it, and honored the fallen.
“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. “What do we know about the enemy?”
“Thousands of them, warlord,” said Wolf Hag Melina, standing on a knee. “Normies mostly, but the locals spoke of constructed technological horrors, capable of wiping out entire villages for disobedience or failure to produce a quota.”
“Have we spotted any of them?” Her helmet zoomed in, allowing her to see the terrified people on the wall. She pitied them but also took note of the impressive cannons. Not tools of the Old World, but something Techno-Queen had invented herself. Tin cans of ancient times lacked the speed and agility to match a wolfkin, even if their armor was almost indestructible. She wondered how these toys would fare against them.
“No. Nor do we know their numbers, appearance, or arsenal.” Melina let the bitterness slip into her voice.
“You disagree,” Janine stated.
“Terrific would never have handed over the prisoners without interrogating them first. Had she been here…”
The Taleteller’s upward swing silenced the woman, and its force spraying dust and stone against her muzzle. Janine stopped the blade a millimeter away from the wolf hag’s jaw.
“Janine’s pack. Not Terrific’s,” she reminded her. Several days ago, she caught a group of enemy soldiers in the middle of extorting the locals. She captured them in the open, letting their ammunition hiss and drum harmlessly against her armor to test the potential of their weapons. After a few slashed arms, the rest surrendered, and she turned them over to Ashbringer to deliver to the Blessed Mother. The old guard in her pack grumbled at such a light punishment. Terrific had… her own view of the law. “You gored a scout.” Based on the video provided by the HUD, the wolf hag had pushed an arm into the scout’s body, pulling out her intestines.
“In a rank challenge,” Melina did not deny the accusation.
“She shall sit this one out.”
“The girl won’t like it. We pushed everything back and bandaged…” the wolf hag started.
Janine’s jaws closed on her neck, biting through the rubberized neck guard and gorget to reach the woman and bleed her. She raised her off the ground, thrashing her head once to widen the wounds, then spat the wolf hag on the rocks as a punishment for the insubordination. This will leave a bloody wound, but the warlord has avoided the arteries. Melina will experience some discomfort, but it won’t hinder her combat effectiveness. Terrific often left them in worse shape.
Janine was a simple person. She hated having her skin peeled off and her bones distorted. She assumed that others also hated it. As a warlord, she toned down the cruelty, applying just enough force to make her rough girls submit. Initially, they took her clemency for weakness. A few months in the crawler’s hospital bays changed this view.
“There will be no death in my pack, save by my will or that of the Spirits. She is staying. Break her legs if you are unable to command your pack,” Janine snapped. “And have the technicians fix your armor.”
“Yes, warlord,” Melina jumped to her feet, bowed, and raced to her troops.
“Keep treating disobedience softly, and it’ll spread like rot,” Soulless One whispered. Her lenses moved, tracking Janine’s sons and the wolf hag.
There were no words of prayer on the woman’s body; only the skulls of fallen foes dangled at every moment, many of them reduced to little more than broken shards on a series of chains. Soulless One carved them into her own body, turning her flesh into a tapestry dedicated to the Spirits. In her youth, as a wolf hag, she stepped on a mine that reduced her to a mangled body. Doctors chose the unconscious woman, and implants replaced lost organs and bones, forever dimming the amber glow and damaging the connection to the divine. She reeked of oil, and her fur was always dry.
A lesser female would’ve joined the Crippled. Soulless One persevered, gained a shaman rank, and now watched Impatient One’s transition into a full shaman. Her helmet’s silver lenses recorded everything; she was the one who sent the scout incident to Janine.
“My pack. My rules. Don’t like them? Challenge me,” Janine bristled. The shaman bared her throat. “Is the pack ready?”
“Jawohl, mein kriegsherren.” Janine arched her brow at the unknown words, and the shaman explained. “It supposedly means: yes, warlord.”
“Studying dead languages makes for a poor hobby,” Janine chastised her.
“The language isn’t dead!” A hint of passion snaked into the woman’s voice. “Iternian prisoners taught it to me. They use it as one of their official languages.”
“And they also culled our kin. It is never wrong to improve oneself, but be wary of the source of the knowledge, lest it taint you,” the warlord warned her. “Answer me in Common, shaman. Is it done?”
“Life bearers are separated,” Soulless One replied, letting the wolf hags do the rest of the reporting.
Janine Pack, six hundred black-clad bodies, answered the warlord’s call, slamming a paw over their chests. There should have been more; her rank granted her a rule over a full two ‘paws’, but wars and heavy losses bled her pack. Six hundred Wolfkins, a force enough to conquer a nation alone. Two dozen more were separated to spare their lives, either due to wounds or because of the lives they carried under their hearts.
The warlord raised the Taleteller, greeting her troops and bellowing an ear-piercing roar, answering Alpha and letting her know they were ready. Every single one of her soldiers was clad in power armor; they carried acid grenades on their belts, and magnetic locks held shardguns at their backs, freeing their paws.
Normies had to use special protection because of the pollution that had wiped out every trace of life from the lands surrounding the capital. No insectoid drones lurked in ambush. There were no bloodthirsty Malformed prowling in search of an undefended village. Clean stone and the smog above ruled the Wastes, bleaching the skeletons of those unfortunate enough to be caught in the toxic storms.
Wolfkins shared no weakness of their fellow humans. As New Breeds, their bodies adapted to the dangers of the New World. They breathed the clammy, toxin-ridden local air and didn’t get sick. Traces of radiation in the soil did no lasting damage. Their blood coagulated fast enough to give them a chance of survival, even in the direst situations. And despite it, they died too, leaving their friends and relatives in the wake of every conquest, facing other New Breeds and forcing them to bare their throats to the Dynast, the man who will reunite the world.
Such was the cost of a better world.