Caikhatu considered himself a simple man. He ruled over a small clan, and the prospect of earning a bountiful patch of land outside of the resource-scarce Steppes interested him. Bondsmen, flesh markets, and such interested him even less than they had his father, may the Sky bless his soul. He knew his limits and avoided attracting the ravenous eyes of the larger vultures, sticking to sure winners to stay alive. When the Khatun sounded her call, he wisely entered Iron Lord’s shadow, believing it to be the safest place where he could avoid politics.
But sometimes being a simple man no longer sufficed, and a spark of long-quenched ambition raged anew in his broad chest. To survive, he needed to win, and to win, he had to play, putting those of his clan in the camp at risk. And that thrilled him.
Iron Lord rested in his private train, being repaired and refitted, as his dear ally reported. His future wife had proven herself rather resourceful, fueling Zulfiya’s worries of meeting the same fate as Mehmed. Not to be outdone, Caikhatu soared off on his own hunt.
Brood Lord, paranoid and cunning as ever, used his sycophants, of whom Caikhatu was a member, to spy on each other, but with his surgical augmentation, he summoned the strongest of them, creating a balance where none could betray him without exposing their backs to their rivals. Phaser pined over his wealth, secretly offering his services to the lesser minions, and a wave of assassinations swept over the khan’s positions. And Drozna fell out of favor, but the man was too wicked and loyal for Caikhatu to draw him into his growing circle.
Hm… Who is left, then? Whose interests coincide with survival? The lesser khan mused, playfully getting irritated. The Khatun took over the Horde, leading it directly like in the first days of conquest. No traps hindered them; her raiding parties expertly turned any Reclaimers’ ambushes right back on them, culling any resistance. The mindless marauding among Brood Lord’s forces had ceased after the third flaying, and the Horde advanced in a single, unified front, pausing for their last rest before the siege.
Glorious demise played a huge role in the Horde’s everyday life, carefully fostered by the priesthood. Musicians and drunken soldiers sang legends of the past khans, and many yearned to achieve similar immortality. But the recent losses stirred a dissent of sorts. Here and there, words were hushed about pointless deaths and grumbling over the lost rivals, family, or loved ones.
After them, Caikhatu hunted and strengthened his ranks. Most believed that he intended to betray Brood Lord and joined him in a desire to avenge their leader’s wastefulness. In a way, they were right. No one sane would’ve challenged Mad Hatter. Not unless they had a demigod of their own.
He smiled, satisfied with his new khatun. Ashbringer wasn’t bad, a bit too trusting, but well, that’s what a head of chancery was supposed to compensate for. He briefly considered addressing Slavetaker. The man sulked and drank wine while the healers attended to his burns and arm.
Even sitting, he towered over many of the visitors to his vast flesh market, his eyes hawkishly tracing every deal. Born a simple bondsman, this man had murdered his owner, ripped out her guts, and taken over her clan, building a reputation as a crazed beast who would never forgive a single slight, no matter who did it. His bloodline was of the dirtiest and lowest quality, but after sticking to his principles for so long, even the Purebloods respected him.
That is why he wasn’t viable. Not unless Iron Lord betrayed him. Widowmaker rested in an orange palanquin with yellow dots, surrounded by her clan of liberated slaves and former bondsmen. They chilled peacefully in the festival area, their patrolling duties done. They welcomed the Purebloods and even the lowliest bondsmen equally, and cheerful songs rang out from their direction from their encampment.
But occasionally the ornate door of the palanquin opened, and Widowmaker sprang before drunken fools claiming their superiority over the bondsmen. Then a challenge was issued, and if the ambushed party was unwilling to grovel at Widowmaker’s feet, her sword slashed out, creating a corpse.
Widowmaker, a slave freed at Mad Hatter’s whim, displayed none of the cruelty common to most khans, openly expressing her disgust with slavery and her desire to murder Slavetaker. She was also Sky-kissed in the head and unreliable. The woman had numerous opportunities to take revenge on the one who sold her family by joining one of the many plots against Slavetaker, but she never did, blindly obeying the Khatun until her debt was repaid.
Too risky, Caikhatu decided. He wouldn’t get involved with someone whose motives he couldn’t understand. His eyes spied out his target. A lithe figure in a bright crimson bodysuit, with a chest painted in domino’s colors. Heika, the remaining assassin of Brood Lord. She weaved around tents, often avoiding patrols, wandering through the camp as if at random, but never escaping his sight.
He wasn’t that stupid to assume it was thanks to his skills.
They came to a row of storage crates in the south of the camp, not far from the circle of a defensive line. Skewered on spikes, the dead eyes of the Reclaimers saboteurs silently warned Caikhatu of the price of failure. He walked under them, exchanged a few jokes with a patrol, and squeezed into a space between two crates, watching the bright crimson disappear ahead.
The tunnel led him to a small clearing ahead. A weary band of leaderless misfits gathered there, warming their palms over a small fire and sharing bowls of arkhi, while a carcass of a horned animal turned over the flames, spreading its delicious aroma.
“My sister died earlier today,” a Pureblood said bitterly, tearing a leg from a prepared animal, and to Caikhatu’s surprise, a bondsman sitting nearby put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Their cannons fired and fired, and Brood Lord kept throwing us after that freak Drozna. She was injured and suffocated on those damned fumes.”
“And Mad Hatter was nowhere to be seen,” another bondsman hiccuped, spitting out her broken tooth. “What’s the point of getting riches if we die before we can even spend it?”
“Don’t utter her name! It’s the khatun for the likes of us!” the Pureblood gasped, looking anxiously at the most unusual members of this dissatisfied gathering.
Priests. Hidden by the shadows, Caikhatu experienced a small shock. A woman and two men, dressed in gray robes and gold chains, shared the fire with the soldiers. The fair-skinned woman’s legs resembled avian feet, stout and strong, black and ending in talons. Sharp feathers covered the arms of her companions, and beaks served as mouths.
“Or what?” The bondsman wiped her dirty mouth, twitching as she touched a pus-covered boil growing on a poorly treated cut on her lip. “She’ll kill me? We’ll die either way in constant wars of this crazy bitch, and her lapdogs and fresh fools are ready to replace us. Don’t look at me like that! When was the last time you woke up without an ache in yer bones or free of fever?”
“That’s…” The Pureblood stopped, casting a pleading look at the priests. “She didn’t mean anything disrespectful. We understand that…”
“Dalantai may have been wrong to anoint her,” the priestess spoke with a voice of a raven’s cry mingled with perfect human speech. “Mad Hatter claims to serve the Sky, yet she lets the disbelievers prosecute her conquests and disappears when the faithful need her most. The blessing, if there was any to begin with, is wasted on her, and Dalantai trails after her like a chick, worshiping her instead of setting her straight.”
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“Much good these lands have brought us,” said her companion, picking a handful of soil with a bandaged, three-fingered hand. “Ground to bury our best.”
“Even that is uncertain.” The third priest tried to lift his left arm, gave up, and reached for a bowl with his right. “If Iron Lord keeps having his way, we won’t even have ruins. Glass underfoot, what a reward!”
“Destroying an entire settlement. Insanity,” the Pureblood nodded, growing braver. “Dalantai should’ve ended him for such heresy.”
“If corpses you want, then it isn’t evening yet,” a cold voice brought pale color to the Pureblood’s skin.
Heika jumped from a container and landed directly on the animal carcass, smashing it and spraying flames at the gathering. A priest raised her hand, redirecting floating fiery surge and pieces of wood back at the assassin, but a shimmering, blurry wall of swift dagger strikes hid her briefly, shielding her from damage.
“Dissent,” Heika accused, stepping over the meat and advancing at the limping Pureblood. “Disloyalty. Disrespect. Calls for the death of your superior. I wonder, how far are you from the open rebellion, curs? Or is hoping that your betters will do the dirty deed for you, all you are good for?”
“Their deaths won’t bring your brother back!” Caikhatu called, daring to step into the open before the group reached for their weapons.
Now he understood why Heika had led him here. She had assumed that Brood Lord didn’t trust her and had assigned him to watch over her. To prove her loyalty, she brought him to a group of potential rebels to soak her weapons in their blood.
A good plan, and perhaps it was wise to sit this one out, cutting costs, but Caikhatu sensed a resentment in Heika’s last sentence. There was a tiny chance here, and he decided to gamble.
The crimson-clad figure crashed into him, beating him off his footing and slamming Caikhatu into the crate with an unexpected strength, pressing a dagger coated in poison, designed to kill even the finest purebloods, to his neck. Hateful eyes looked at him from behind the split mask.
“Mind repeating what you said, lackey?” Heika asked in a honeyed tone, unsheathing the second dagger.
“My death also won’t bring you peace,” Caikhatu said, gulping against his will. Sweat rolled down his forehead under his collar; he leaned back, desiring to merge with the slightly rusty crate. Anything to escape the death hidden in her weapon.
The dagger didn’t move.
“He… he brought you into that place alone and sicced you on unworthy targets, as if you were mere watchdogs.” Caikhatu licked his lips, trying not to squeal. “Then you had to escape the place on your own. Did you even know about the coming explosion? Did any of our leaders bother to tell you of the danger? Is this any way to treat a loyal blade? The Reclaimers killed your brother, but who was it that put you in harm’s way without support or cover?”
For a long time, he thought himself dead. There was little beside hatred in Heika’s eyes; the assassin desired, almost needed, to kill. She took several rasping breaths; waves passed across the fabric of her costume from shuddering and spasming; the poisoned edge danced and danced near his neck, preparing to bite.
Then Heika released him and stepped back, not bothering to look at the crowd. He quickly gestured for the priests to relax and for the Pureblood to lower his gun.
“You have five minutes. If I won’t like what you say, you are dead. If anyone tries to escape, they’ll share my brother’s fate.”
Caikhatu smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. Miracles I perform for you, Khatun Ashbringer, lesser Khatun Janine…
“We all know who is the source of our woes.” He walked to the center, picked up one bowl still containing a little arkhi, and offered it to Heika. The woman took it. “Liar and betrayer leads us. Why should we serve him? You spoke of fate, but what destiny other than destruction waits for us under his leadership? Brood Lord will never value anyone other than himself. My friends, I offer you another path, not of death, but of revenge and survival…”
****
Stupid Normies. Bothersome, meddling Troll. Impatient One frowned, examining the chocolate bars on a tray next to vegetables and two steaks. The doctor had given her a simple choice after she had donated her blood. Either she would eat this “balanced diet”, or he would remove her from the front due to her injuries. She tore a wrapper and watched the recording for the tenth time, praying to the Spirits that she was wrong.
She had visited Soulless One in Houstad, admitting her inadequacy in setting Janine straight and her hubris in visiting Camelia, intending to create a true alliance between their groups. The older shaman gave her a simple penance, a hundred days without tasting sugar, wine, or other sweets. Only water and simple food. And she had already broken that oath she had sworn to her wise mentor.
Impatient One commandeered a small room with a small terminal and turned on the records of the latest battles, diligently writing the last seconds of the fallen Wolfkins. No kinsman could remain unaccounted for. Later, other shamans would pass these records on to the orphaned cubs and offer them guidance. After completing her chronicle, she returned to a single moment that had haunted her, and a shiver ran down her spine.
The floor shook, and Impatient One, distracted from watching, turned the armchair to the entrance. A pale snout showed from the darkness of the room; a little crimson fluff covered the white scalp, and a half-grown eyelid tried to close around the eye. Alpha, the strongest warlord, bowed, wearing a patchwork mesh of several coats sewn together to accommodate a Wolfkin of her size. Several of her injuries still steamed through bandages.
Alpha had appeared half an hour ago, passing through the ranks of the soldiers unseen and unannounced, leaping high into the air as she approached the fortress and landing with a thunderous crash atop it. The sour warlord gave the guards a few pointers on how to improve the perimeter, then went to talk to her named sisters. Impatient One knew little of what they were talking about, but since Martyshkina and Janine remained unharmed, the three parted on friendly terms.
“You called, Shaman.” It wasn’t a question. More indignation at having to answer the summoning of an unproven junior like Impatient One.
She slipped off the armchair and knelt, praising the superiority of her sister and establishing the hierarchy. Alpha straightened and pointed at the food with her jaw. Impatient One scowled but resumed eating.
“Shamans of the Martyshkina’s pack are overworked. Lacerated One assigned me to the memorial task, and I need an experienced opinion,” the shaman said bluntly, eating a crunchy nut nougat bar.
“Spiritual matters are not my forte,” Alpha answered and came closer.
“But this is.” She stopped the frame where Anissa stood over the dead clown in Opul, with the cubs and Kalaisa near her. A trembling claw tapped on the screen, drawing Alpha’s attention to the important part. Plates bulged. Hard. And then the bulge receded, disappearing faster than the eye could follow. “Is it the result of the reward? They defeated a mighty enemy.”
“It may as well be,” Alpha said slowly, watching the screen without blinking. “I didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary when I got on board.”
“Thank the Spirits!” Impatient One clenched her paws together. “Oh, thank you for your mercy! The Supreme Shaman must be informed.”
“Obviously. If there is even a sliver of a chance that… Shouldn’t the shamans be happy about it?” Alpha asked, keeping her eyes on the image.
“Well, maybe I am a shitty shaman who doesn’t want to lose any more kin even to divinity!” Impatient One shot back, frustrated by the situation.
Lacerated One often began to call her for various odd duties after Impatient One delivered news about the incompetence of their sister tasked with raising Kalaisa. The inspection of various establishments in Houstad to form a verdict on whether or not they were a dangerously decadent influence. Direct involvement with tokens. Was she being shunned for ratting out on a fellow shaman? Was that a sort of humiliation tactic?
A call from the warlord demanded her immediate attention, and Impatient One excused herself, quickly finishing food, gathering the letters she had prepared, and heading for the exit.
“Impatient One, was it?” Alpha called her. “You would care for any sister?”
“And brother. I’ll shield the good, guide the lost, and direct the bad,” Impatient One answered, reciting the vow of the first shaman.
“And if you ever make a mistake?” the warlord asked, staring at the screen.
“Then I’ll own it and apologize.”
“Even if it hurts your pride or goes against your ideals?”
“My pride is not an injury to kill me,” laughed Impatient One, genuinely amused at the question. As if Alpha or Janine would do anything less! “And the truth doesn’t give a damn about personal prejudices. Only the Tribe’s well-being and our obligations to the state matter.”
Alpha grumbled and said: “Then perhaps you are not a shitty shaman, girl. Call me a Normie or an Ice Fang. I’ll need paws here.”
“Why?” Impatient One turned near the doors, her heart pounding. “I thought we agreed that this wasn’t it.”
“Humor me.” Alpha shook her shoulders, standing with her back to the shaman. “In my condition, I am not fit to command yet, but I must review certain actions on the battlefield. Rest, sister.”