Janine barged into the corridor leading to the command bridge with all the alacrity she could muster, knocking several white-furred, too slow to jump out of her way, aside. Marty shadowed her, the helmet closed to hide the fresh wound from bothering their unreliable allies. Several sages tried to bar their passages, begging Janine to put on some clothes, but she ignored them, carrying the Taleteller on her broad shoulder. The fur will serve her well enough. In the time of barbarism, she had no patience for civility.
The mobile fortress was hardly a subtle thing. Though it moved deliberately slow, its treads carved fresh roads, pulverizing swaths of nature, and thunderous cracks of broken trees and stones accompanied their journey to Houstad. Like frightened cubs trailing after a parent, columns of trucks and army vehicles followed, safely protected by the turrets of the mobile fortress, while Wolfkins lurked in the shadows of the untouched trees, descending on any enemy scout party in an orgy of violence and disappearing just as fast.
By attacking the refugee convoy, the fools had signed their own death warrants. No mercy was shown, but these were mere scouting parties testing their hides, and as Janine stepped onto the bridge, she grew worried that the Horde main force had caught up with them at last.
Mindless chaos filled the center. Normie officers loudly demanded an explanation for a failure; black-clad agents of the Investigation Bureau tried to contact their informants, threatening them with the death penalty for incompetence. Their superiors examined the holographic map detailing the Horde’s advance and the slowly advancing yellow tide threatening to swallow the vastness of Houstad.
The situation was dire. The Wall had been breached in several places, and information poured in about tribes of New Breeds hurrying to reinforce the Horde’s ranks. It seemed every scum by that side of the wilderness had either joined in or hired forces to pledge their allegiance to the Khatun, bolstering the already innumerable host with the fresh volunteers, and banners of the jaws swallowing the world soared high. Entire settlements became makeshift giant factories, churning out new weapons to support the growing numbers and pumping out ammunition. Prisons were cracked open, further swelling the ranks of the bondsmen.
Madmen, tyrants, dictators, and religious zealots who had previously behaved out of fear of reprisal now abandoned all semblance of civility and executed Reclaimers’ ambassadors, publicly swearing fealty to the Gilded Horde. Sleeper cells from the locals and agents standing at the ready to behead uppity rulers found themselves surrounded and killed. Brood Lord’s work, no doubt, and a further proof of treachery. Accounts flashed across the screen of forces under Iron Lord’s banner, wiping out several bandit factions to preserve the citizens. Janine had no idea what kind of depravity was too much for the enemy to tolerate, but any news of infighting was music to her ears.
But the gloom was temporary, and the Reclamation Army hardly stood alone. Mercenary “kings” officially cast their lot with the state, serving as their informants in the conquered regions. Many former prisoners, trapped in war zones against their will, established contact and swore their innocence of having been forced into the invading army. And the Second and the First armies were coming. The die was cast, and even should they fail, they will be avenged.
Not that Janine had any intention of dying. Her eyes found Bertruda, who stood with outstretched arms being encased in a power armor by three personal squires.
“Sword Saint. What is happening?” Janine asked politely.
“The Knight Academy in Opul has failed to evacuate and is now under attack.” Bertruda craned her neck elegantly, showing no sign of concern, and a squire hurried to attach her helmet to the gorget. “It is not far, and Mad Hatter was last spotted further to the north, so we are uniquely poised to serve as the perfect rescue team. I and my knights are heading out. Warlord, please take over…”
“Armor!” Janine said to a face of the nearby sage, who glanced at Bertruda for permission. A paw wrapped around her neck, dragging the woman nose-to-nose with the warlord. “I gave you the order, officer. A suit of armor, this instant! Or do you wish to deprive your kin of our might?” The sage emitted a scent of submission and eagerly hurried away.
“I am joining too. Need to stretch my legs, watch over that buffoon…”
“Who are you calling a buffoon?” Janine grumbled playfully. “You were the one who forgot the route home after that party two years ago!”
“…And my revolvers thirst for the Horde’s blood. Can’t deny them that.” Martyshkina refused to take the bait, grinned, and spun her weapons.
“Thank you,” quietly said Bertruda. “I did not expect cooperation after…”
“You expect us to abandon cubs? Have you lost your marbles, Sword Saint?” Janine asked. “I’ll work alongside a skinwalker to rescue civilians if needed.” She pressed two fingers to her chin and studied the map. Opul, a small town too close to Houstad. “No way they didn’t receive a warning.”
“This area was swarmed by the initial Horde’s invaders before the Alpha Pack pushed them back,” Bertruda said, but a hint of doubt crawled into her voice.
“No, Jani is onto something.” Martyshkina holstered her revolvers. “The pits…”
“Academy, Lady” a sage corrected her.
“Whatever. Look.” Martyshkina grabbed the sage, pressed him tightly against her chest, and pointed. “Why would there be jammers nearby, and why did they stop working half an hour ago? There is no military and not much of a civilian population to commit such resources. Besides, the Horde just kicked our butts to the north; why did the jammers pull back and let the news through? No, buddy, those creeps purposely delayed our evacuation to trap the cubs inside Opul. They are trying to pull Leonidas on us, just acting smarter about it.”
“Summon Wolf Hags Anissa, Kalaisa, Elzada, and Shaman Impatient One. They are to join us, fully equipped,” Janine commanded and stopped, shuddering at the necessity. “And call that white-furred Voidrunner girl… Thyia. I have need of her.”
Her eyebrows rose as she saw the suit rolled in for her. A gleaming white hull belonging to an Ice Fang, large enough to fit her inside. On its chest, arms, and legs, it had artistically crafted muscles running over the surface of the combat plates, its helmet stylized after a muzzle of a stern Wolfkin. The sigils and colors of House Mountaintop across the breastplate coiled upward to the gorget, and a yellow cape cascaded from the shoulders.
“Remove the cape,” she bit down on any argument. The outdated combat plate of Bertruda’s predecessor, its helmet still bearing a bright spot marking the blow that had penetrated the defense and finished the man. A gesture of trust, maybe, or perhaps the only suit around capable of adapting to her unusual proportions.
“Greetings, Sword Saint. Please upload identification codes to update the database,” said a pleasant, musical voice as a squire placed the helmet on Janine’s head and the visor blinked to let her see.
“I am no Sword Saint,” Janine answered, and the visor darkened while the armored pauldron on her shoulder tightened, restricting her movements.
“Unauthorized use of a Sword Saint’s battle plate is no joking matter, initiate,” the voice chastised her. “Stay still while I contact sages for disciplinary actions…”
“Sword Saint. The machine tries to trap me,” Janine said, unsure if this was a deliberate attempt to humiliate her.
“Hundred apologies, warlord, it slipped my mind,” Bertruda gasped. “IDs are sent. Suits constructed by the Divine Twins are governed by machine intelligences. We haven’t found a way to upload them into the newer models yet.”
“Hail, Sword Saint Bertruda! Glory to you and eternal memory to your predecessor,” the voice sang with joy, and the systems reverted back online, filling the warlord’s retinas with the flow of information. “Sword Saint Janine, you are approved for the honor of wielding the Mountaintop treasure. I await your wishes and instructions for the celebration following our inevitable success on the battlefield. Would you prefer a softer white wine, or perhaps…”
“I already told you, not a sword saint! I am Warlord Janine,” she replied, adding after consideration. “Also, cognac and a cusack leg. Roasted.”
“The title of Warlord is added to the honorary ranks of the Mountaintop House, Lady Bull-Slayer,” the electronic voice chirped.
“Don’t you dare call me that! That name belongs to your master, and don’t add anything! I have nothing to do with the Ice Fangs! I am from the Wolf Tribe!”
“Ah, so you married into our house from our rowdy kin. I should have guessed as much when I heard your peculiar tastes in alcohol.” She heard a tongue clicking. “How inhospitable of me! Fear not, my lady; I will prepare a list of necessary literature and etiquette lessons to help you fit into the house as if you were born here! Congratulations on your union with Sword Saint Bertruda.”
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“I can explain. It was the quickest way…” Bertruda began, but stopped after Janine’s helmet slipped off the back of her head and she pointed a finger at the woman, shaking with rage.
“Not a word from anyone.” She sensed it, the growing cheering in the center and occasional grins on the squires’ snouts. A chuckle spread a red veil over her eyes, and she took several deep breaths, focusing her gaze on a small, black-furred figure fitting a gauntlet on her paw. “Marco? What are you doing here?”
“I am your adjutant, Warlord!” Marco chuckled and pressed a paw to his mouth. “Sorry. Hiccups. Lunches here are divine.”
“Sure. Lunches,” Janine nodded, burning from shame. “Machine! Wipe that disgusting insinuation from your databases! And if anyone dares…”
“I always knew there was something going on between you two.” Marty wiped a non-existent tear from her lens, choking on her mirth. “May you have many passionate nights to share and raise countless cubs to your name…”
“Warlord Martyshkina.” Janine snorted, clutching the Taleteller tighter. “A rank-match. After the war. Naked, claw to claw.”
“Oh, what a shame, she’s not satisfied with just one soulmate!” Martyshkina desperately threw her head up and retreated out of the Taleteller’s range.
At least it helps the morale. Janine shut up and stood still, shooting down any suggestion of the machine intelligence about the feast or dresses. Marco dutifully helped fit greaves onto her legs. He still wore the coat but unzipped it, showing that he had put on a basic exoskeleton, and she spied a smoke grenade and several markers of various colors on his belt.
The sage asked Janine to raise her arms, and she obliged, grimacing as the woman fitted her with the pieces of underarmor. It felt tight, but when she flexed, the material stretched slightly, preserving the zippers and hole shapes around her implants. A squire staggered, seeing white, necrotic skin around several implants.
“Lady Janine.” The boy licked his lips nervously. “We must call a hospitaller…”
“Insert it,” she said.
“But the pain!” cried the boy. He looked at the sage and the other squires. “You all see it! Some implants are half broken, others are torn out, and the last ones are literally killing you, Lady! If we…”
Janine cast the yellow light of her eyes on his crimson ones, exuding a scent of both aggression and calm reassurance. If any male or female of the Tribe had dared to express their concern in such a public way, she would have broken their bones. But the young cub was of a gentler, brighter generation, an outsider despite their physical similarities. She had no right to lash out at him.
“It is my discomfort or them.” She nodded at Opul on the map. “Simple choice.”
Cables entered the still-bloodied wounds on her back, sending a refreshing electrical jolt across the nerves and filling her head with a nauseating, throbbing agony. Her heart rate increased, and the machine intelligence’s voice immediately changed as it recoiled in disgust as it recoiled in disgust after running a scan of her body. She overrode all attempts to stop the union, licking away a trickle of blood coming down her nostrils and toughing out the discomfort.
Never before had she tried an Order suit, and when the machine turned on the air conditioning, she growled, ready to ask for it to be turned off before she froze her ass off when the temperature miraculously changed on its own, heating up. The Twins knew their craft and designed the visor to allow the user to see many kilometers ahead, complimenting the innate abilities of the Ice Fangs’ crimson eyes, which could heighten perception enough to slow to a crawl even a falling rock in the air.
Wolfkins lacked such ability. Their talents lay in natural toughness, strength, and a faster recovery rate than their cousi… Ice Fangs. The suit’s intelligence detected this and quickly adjusted the vision to spare the amber eyes from further strain. And with these changes, Janine’s body underwent its own adaptation, synapses coursing across the nerves, reigniting even numbed and dead ones. Her brain and veins endured the unusual connection and grew stronger for it.
Meters-long bundles of fiber muscles slithered across her body, securing themselves and serving as a layer. Servomotors activated silently, relieving the weight, and then the backpack hummed, powered not by nuclear energy but by a plasma generator.
“I can’t release my claws,” she mused, hearing furious scrubbing.
“Do not be concerned, Lady, the suit is well-equipped to prevent such undignified barbarism,” the machine eagerly assured her.
“Drop the lady, name’s Janine. Do you have a name?”
“The former Sword Saints never found it necessary to give me one, Lady. Adress me as you wish. I exist to serve.”
“Typical.” Janine shook her head. “You’re an ally, not a slave, idiot. And allies should have names. I’ll call you Albert.”
“Identification received and accepted,” Albert happily sang. “May I…” his voice stuttered, “inquire as to why you allow the plates to be blemished?”
“It’s not a blemish!” Marco argued, finishing his painting. “Tell him or it. My drawing isn’t that bad!”
“R-right!” A squire nodded. “This family crest may be a little rough around the edges, but it conveys pride excellently.”
“How inconsiderate of me!” Albert gasped, and the suit’s cameras whirled to focus on the image of crossed muscular arms that Marco had painted on Janine’s thigh. “The Mountaintop heraldry is updated with the Bull-Slayer sigil.”
“Don’t you dare…” Janine exhaled at the noise of the opened door and let it be.
“Anissa, Kalaisa, your packs are with me,” Janine said to the newcomers, and the wolf hags bowed.
Kalaisa was an obvious choice for the mission, for the girl continued to grow, the seeds of a potential warlord blossoming in her. And Anissa, though she commanded an undermanned pack, proved herself well enough to work with the Ice Fangs, willingly swallowing her pride for the sake of the common goal.
“This won’t leave much of a space for my own troops,” Bertruda remarked.
“Unfortunate necessities of the world. Take your best along; we will be grateful for any assistance you can provide, Sword Saint,” Janine said diplomatically, recalling the Ice Fang’s question. Despite the betrayal, they had to work together; otherwise, what kind of protectors were they? “Wolf Hag Elzada. You and… Thyia are to act as joint commanders in our absence. If we do not return, you are to lead the pack and hurry to Houstad, no matter what.”
“You would trust an Ice Fang?” Thyia asked in a voice full of venom, but then she blinked, preparing to apologize.
“Never.” Janine let the helmet slip off her head and locked eyes with the woman, understanding the stress that momentarily overcame her. “But I think I know what to expect from you, considering your sword saint is on board. Our goals are aligned. I put you in charge because I can’t be sure of the same about anyone else of your kin.”
“Warlord. Your words are not conducive to a flourishing cooperation between our forces,” Bertruda said.
“Because we worked oh so well before, right, Sword Saint?” Janine ignored the pleading look in the traitor’s eyes. No more. No more unresponsive cordiality. Fuck the Order. Hostility in response to hostility. “Enough bickering. We need two APCs for the mission!”
“Already prepared, Warlord,” Anissa knelt, and Janine noticed a prayer book tied to her waist with an iron chain.
“I’ll go too!” Marco stepped forward.
“No,” Janine said.
“Are you crazy?” Anissa laughed.
“Nope,” Kalaisa added, and patted Marco.
“Don’t even dream it,” Impatient One warned.
“I can fight!” Marco released his claws, showing them his gentle and precious paws. “Warlord saw me pass the test! I can help you, Warlord! This time I will protect you…”
“You will stay behind, along with the cubs. You there!” She addressed the sage, who brought her armor. “Guard my son with your life.”
“Warlord, I have proven that I can kill… Mother, I cannot lose any more of my family!”
Janine marched past Marco, ignoring his pleas and hating herself for not having time to comfort him. She will explain everything to him upon returning, even though his back had earned a new set of scars for his insubordination. Traditions demanded it, and by all rights she should have bitten him and thrown him to the ground to beat obedience into him, just as Terrific had done with everyone in her pack to instill discipline.
And look at how you turned out after such methods. A woman who sent her son to his death. Still sure there is value in cruelty, eh, Janine? Janine gripped the Taleteller’s shaft. Perhaps it was time for some changes. Rather than punishing Marco, she will speak with him and patiently explain why it was not safe for a boy to be in a combat zone. Yes. Yes, it seemed logical. Normies raised their cubs in such a way, and there were tons of fine people among them! Spirits know Ravager was and still is wrong about many things; maybe the Spirits are now sending Janine an alternative path for the Tribe?
Banishing her heretical thoughts for now, Janine entered the spacious hangar and was guided by the HUD to the vehicles. Where the knight’s armor projected nobility and elegance, the APC provided ruggedness and power. Two high-caliber machine guns atop each vehicle stood ready to provide fire support in combat situations, and their sleek, silvery shapes helped ensure that bullets would bounce off the hulls.
The technicians presented Janine with a new laser rifle, finished their preparations, and opened the ramps so that the eighty Wolfkins and twenty Ice Fangs could take their places in the harnesses while their leaders remained outside, fully capable of keeping pace with the transports on foot.
Instead of a ramp, a tunnel opened in the wall, and the APCs roared, racing out and flying over the continuous track, plopping heavily on the ground. Janine and the rest jumped after them, cratering the ground, and running on all fours, not even glancing at the convoy of surprised civilians and marching soldiers.
“Albert?”
“Yes, Lady?”
“Do you have sensors capable of detecting mines?”
“Naturally, Sword Saint and Warlord. Antennas in your feet act as feelers, reading the ground, and built-in radars will warn you of potential problems in advance. Everything is already in place; please trust me, you won’t walk into a minefield.”
“Thank you, ally.” She hesitated, breathing in the clean air of the tortured forest. Do machines have souls? Would the Blessed Mother care? “It is wrong that your masters didn’t use you, Albert. No one should be forgotten.”
“It saddens me that our current technological knowledge is not sufficient to transfer or upload me into another suit,” Albert said. “Not even Till Ingo could solve this problem. But you are incorrect, Lady! I assist in administrative tasks and watch over our historical records.”
“Scrub me from them. I wish to have nothing to do with the Ice Fangs.”
“Impossible. No one should be forgotten.” She could’ve sworn there was a hint of smugness in his voice.
Martyshkina was right, Janine decided, shattering a tree in her path. An ambush awaited them, and they risked arriving at a battlefield only to find corpses. It didn’t matter. If there was even the slightest chance of saving the civilians, they had to take it, and Janine intended to sacrifice the raiders to honor those who had fallen so far. A paltry gift, but she was just getting started.
There will be enough deaths before the war was over.