Janine marched her soldiers toward the city, following a single, towering figure of the Blessed Mother. For once, the Wolfkins fell in line, awed by the divine presence of the one who gave life to the entire tribe. The progenitor. The first and only to reach the unimaginable heights of might. Even knowing the full truth of their creation, Janine could not help but feel something stirring in her soul at Ravager’s passing. Her fur was so dark that even daylight struggled to leave its embrace, and during nights she looked like the void, carrying twin brightest yellow moons in her eyes.
She was a nexus, a source of their lives, the Spirits’ will given form. No matter the distance, her offspring were never alone. It could’ve shown up in a sudden nightmare on a moonless night or through a violent urge to spit at the odds and snatch a victory from the grasp of defeat, but her presence was there, ever sustaining them, always calling the tribe to greater and greater heights. She had no need for speeches; her deeds and the sheer charisma, emanating from her movements, said everything.
A streak of blood ran down her nostrils, indicating an intense thought process that tensed Janine. The Blessed Mother carried no weapons or armor, no talismans, or communication devices. There was no need for such toys. Her paws alone can pop a life from a warlord, and if bloodlust had descended upon her…
The two strongest members of the Wolf Tribe and their relatives, the Ice Fang Order, Warlord Alpha and Sword Saint First Sunblade, flanked her as she stood on four limbs. They acted as her adjutants and safeguards to protect others from her wrathful madness.
Many in the tribe struggled to accept their white-furred cousins. They had the same longer muzzles, but worse claws. Their sword saints were a blast to challenge, yet they admitted both genders into the leadership, much to the tribe’s confusion. The similarity between the two groups was undeniable, but their differences necessitated constant probing for softness and domination duels in peacetime. At war, they were all brothers and sisters in the field.
The locals called this region of the world the Wastes, and the name was apt! The capital’s kilometers-long steel pipes spilled toxic sludge into crevices, forming lakes. During the day, their fumes would rise, forming baleful clouds, spelling doom through gale force winds, clogging the surface, potentially creating storms, and eradicating anything in their path. Normies, normal men and women working in the Reclamation Army, had to wear gas masks to prevent their lungs from receiving a chemical burn. When a storm descended, people hid in armored vehicles, avoiding the irradiated air that could easily kill them.
The natives, from what Janine saw, were a miserable bunch, surviving in spite of all odds rather than thriving. They grew food in underground caverns and farms, fighting non-stop against the invasion of insectoids from below, only to have most of their crops taken by Techno-Queen. Their greatest dream was to be drafted into the capital’s army and get a modicum of stability and hope in their lives. Inside the capital’s thick metal walls was another world altogether. Techno-Queen’s soldiers wore hazmat gear and steel armor that shielded them from most dangers and had steel minions to dispose of the threats they couldn’t handle.
Life was cheap outside of the capital walls if the villagers spoke true to her scouts. Villages and hamlets existed to feed the capital, not the other way around. Locals died in droves from radiation and struggles against the dangers lurking in the unpoisoned undergrounds, using outdated weapons instead of the top-of-the-line stuff available in the capital. Those who lucked out to live at the edge of the Wastes enjoyed better health at the cost of suffering raids from the cannibalistic tribes of Malformed, while those closer to the capital had safety at the cost of slowly being choked by the toxic fumes coming from the pipes in the ground. Elders regularly sacrificed themselves, begging their cruel and unhearing gods for their people’s salvation. If a village could not pay its tithe, it suffered decimation. When the villagers tried to flee, Techno-Queen’s steel minions would hunt them down.
Janine no longer felt any surprise at the scope of Techno-Queen’s area of operation. Some people in the New World were born with enhanced physical abilities, others had a mutated appearance; the state called such people New Breeds, or a normal person could be born with a special power. On rare occasions, a blessing would occur and a newborn would possess all three great traits. The bitch queen ruling these lands had the power to instinctively understand how to create and assemble complicated mechanical devices. Her genius didn’t stop there. It extended to her knowledge of intricate programming, giving her steel minions a degree of self-determination as they chose not to engage the state forces alone, but rather gathered in the capital.
The sheer potential of such power was hard to undersell. A person capable of solving complicated mathematical equations who could create tools to build the tools she needed to, in turn, build automatic factories that churned out automatic workers. The Dynast wanted this power for the state. Or, failing that, he wanted to end this power’s reign and return these lands to humanity. And whatever the big boss wants, he gets. Commander Ravager and Commander Devourer received the order to carry out the reclamation. As usual, Ravager soon left the Second Army behind, forcing her Third Army to march straight at the enemy’s capital.
“Commander, the frontal assault will result in catastrophic losses for our forces…” First, the magnificent-looking Wolfkin in white and purple power armor bowed his head respectfully. His eyes burned crimson. The sclera was golden. True to his name, he was the first biological offspring of the Twins, the solidified perfection of mind and body.
“Be silent, male,” Janine told him, both to keep him safe and in an attempt to ignite a domination duel later. Even if she loses, a match against his sun blade’s searing kiss could bring great glory. She dropped to her knees, baring her neck to the silent Ravager.
“Filthy wildling. How dare you address His Excellency like that?!” Bertruda Mountaintop, a sword saint of the Mountaintop household, stepped forward and was stopped by an arm of Sword Saint Camelia Wintersong.
The Blessed Mother’s scent betrayed no anger or demand for submission, and Janine stood, moving deliberately slowly. She met her rival’s gaze, noting the thin arms and legs of the sword saint, the limbs more worthy of a wolf hag than an officer of her rank. A suit of power armor entombed the woman, dyed in the white and yellow of her clan, a household, as the ice girls called it. It’s how they differentiated. The Sunblade household had purple; the Voidrunners owned black; and the Wintersongs were sea blue.
Bertruda’s paw gripped the shaft of a thin spear, and the sword saint looked at the warlord with barely suppressed disgust. Bertruda’s power armor looked similar to that of her fellow sword saints—not oversized, full of smooth curves and features designed to deflect an incoming blow with a well-executed, elegant dodge. It sealed them fully in combat, leaving no exposed parts. Gold and yellow paint, signs of her household, adorned both her breastplate and her helmet. A long silken cape flowed from her shoulders, its hem soiled on the ground. Her vambraces concealed deadly plasma cannons, complementing the sword saint’s primary choice of weapon.
Janine’s own armor was the complete opposite. Thick enough to swallow a shot should it break the outer shell. The vambraces and elbow joints were sharpened for the close brawl, where each blow should kill or maim the opponent. Her armor increased the warlord’s weight sixfold, turning her into a cannonball meant to shatter the enemy lines, and she used her energy rifle to hunt officers at long range. Over her chest plate, Marco painted a symbol of her pack, a pair of muscular paws.
I want to drop her. Janine’s mouth watered at the thought of bringing honor to the tribe by pushing this arrogant, white-furred cousin face down. She wanted to face her. A freshly promoted sword saint, eager to prove herself to the same degree as Janine? What’s not to love here? A brawl would make them sisters; the mixing of their blood would bridge an understanding better than any words could. And yet she couldn’t.
Bertruda hated her; there was no denying it. It was an honest feeling, worthy of respect, written across her snout. Her knights carried this feeling, demonstrating to the tribe that the Ice Boys were worthy of their respect by participating in duels and experiencing both losses and victories. Bertruda was a younger woman, yet to give birth to her second cub, and Janine had her fun, provoking the woman, enjoying surfacing the similarities to a Wolfkin in the Ice Fang, who desperately tried to live up to the standards of the other sword saints. There was a real fighter deep beneath the clean white fur, perfume, and jewelry. Restraint was necessary in both battle and family situations. There was no benefit in humiliating Bertrude through a defeat, nor was there honor to be won in fighting against unripe kin. In a year or three, her skills would match or eclipse those of the warlord’s; the Ice Fang would earn the undying loyalty of her troops, and then they’d clash. You do not cripple a family out of fear of losing.
But irritate and tease? Oh, you do it in full. It’s just a matter of sisters being sisters.
“The male started it.” Janine took off her helmet, locking eyes with Bertruda. “Alpha’s howl was clear. The city is to fall before sunrise. Show respect to your superiors and stay quiet.”
“Dearest kin, no one holds you in higher esteem than I do.” Bertruda smiled, bowed gracefully, and spread the side of her yellow cloak with one arm, pointing the tip of her spear skyward. “And I believe you to be a rude, smelly barbarian who insults her allies when they point out obvious flaws in our strategy.”
“It takes one to know one,” Janine replied, breaking eye contact.
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“Hey, hey, what’s the matter, starting a rumble without us?!” Warlord Martyshkina shouted, coming from the camp, accompanied by Lacerated One and Dragena.
Janine simply smiled, grasping her best friend’s paw. She and Martyshkina were born in the same month, attended the same pits, and bonded over the blood of all those who tried to steal their food. Assigned to the same pack, the duo competed desperately, scarring their pelts, enduring Terrific’s tortures, until one day they simply threw a bone and decided who would be reassigned, as neither wanted to keep another as a mere subordinate. Marty lost; they made and upheld a promise of becoming a warlord, keeping the relationships friendly between their packs.
Where Janine bulged from might and suffered minor physical deformities that left her legs a little shorter than usual, Martyshkina rightfully earned the lustful gaze of every male in the tribe. Her gleaming black fur, a long cape made from the wool of various predators hunted down by the warlord, twin orbs of bright, pure amber for eyes, and finally, a pair of heavily modified revolvers on her belt made her look amazing, and she loved showing it, shying away from a rank battle against other warlords to preserve her hide.
Dragena was calm and collected, unlike most of the Wolf Tribe. Janine had never seen her dominating another member of her pack or raising her voice. Some wicked tongues whispered that the warlords couldn’t feel anything. She was of the first generation, one of the few still-living Wolfkins who saw how the Dynast took the oath of fealty from Ravager. She carried six short knives in sheaths on her thighs and had a laser rifle secured behind her back. The woman’s custom-tailored power armor dangerously resembled that of an Ice Fang in its smooth form, but the sheer mass of steel secured her from further gossip.
Lacerated One, the supreme shaman, was a being of horror unmatched even by Alpha. Dressed in an archaic battleplate, a bulky design from the first days of the Reclamation Army, the shaman bled from fresh cuts all over her body. Crimson streaks ran beneath the joints of her power armor; she peeled away her own lips to reveal fangs, and the cruel claws kept fresh wounds on her head open. The acrid air caused the shaman no discomfort, despite her naked wounds.
A flick of a wrist sent droplets of blood into Janine’s and Martyshkina’s eyes, enlivening them and sending their hearts drumming. There was something fishy about Lacerated One’s blood. The Spirits blessed her in such a way that a drink of her blood could sustain a mortally wounded person until the medics could save them, and with unparalleled devotion, she endured the self-inflicted flagellation, spreading her gift.
Alpha, a figure nearly matching Ravager’s height, nodded to her sisters. Her white and rough skin created the impression that her features had been carved from slabs of stone rather than the result of her birth. The longest claws in the entire tribe protruded from the warlord’s three-fingered paws and feet, each spanning the length of an elbow. Even if her body had such a function, Alpha could not physically retract her claws. There was no room in her arms to conceal these murder weapons. The sclera of her eyes was a royal purple, and she had short, square ears. Bedecked in the most advanced suit of armor available to the tribe, Alpha matched First’s performance on any battlefield, surpassed only by the commander herself.
“Everyone is in place, Blessed Mother,” Alpha growled, showing two sets of dangerous fangs within her maw. One to grip and tear, and another to chew on the unfortunate fool who tried to stop her coming.
Ravager inhaled, almost as if awakening from a slumber. She turned around, sniffing the air with enough force to flap capes. She blinked once, shrouding the world in darkness, before basking it in amber once again.
“Your concerns are not unheard, Sword Saint First.” She smiled, speaking melodically and clearly, forcing an urge for domination away. “I bear the noble First no ill will, but a piece of the puzzle has eluded him. Our quarry hopes for a methodical approach. We will not play her games. For too long, the people here had suffered under the rule of the vainglorious hypocrite. For too long, justice had been denied to the weak. The Ice Fangs are to keep rearguard. You are to advance after us as we swarm the outer defenses.”
“Blessed Mother, we meant no disrespect, nor are we cowards.” Bertruda fell to one knee, bowing her head in submission. “I despise Barbarian Janine, but my heart will bleed should she or her warriors fall in battle, which, due to their incompetence and lack of strategic knowledge, they might. If speed is an issue, then please allow my troops to accompany the front lines to keep our allies safe. Should I or my knights fall behind, should we burden our allies, my head is yours to take, Blessed Mother.”
“I am not your mother, Sword Saint. I am no one’s mother.” They ignored the blasphemy. Ravager was an incarnation of the Spirits and some of them tested the faithful by slipping falsehoods into the Blessed Mother’s mouth. Just as the Blessed Mother fought against external and internal madness, her descendants too had to wage both physical and mental fight. “The Wolf Tribe will secure this future. The Ice Fang’s duty is to help the weak live and thrive in it. Should an ally fall, help them back to their feet.”
Ravager walked forward, leaving her soldiers behind, and Janine howled, ordering her pack to get ready. She heard hundreds of paws pounding the rocky ground and gathering behind her. First nodded to her. Janine ignored the male, earning a hateful glare from Bertruda.
“This isn’t over,” the sword saint hissed, passing by her. “Don’t you dare die out there, you stinking moron. You owe me a dance.”
“I am a bad dancer, might accidentally crush you a leg or two.” The warlord grabbed the passing woman by the shoulder, feeling the movement of metal beneath her cape. “Even our endurance has its limits. I’ll be much obliged if you’d kept our wounded safe..”
“Of course we will, thug!” Bertruda broke free.
“Are you two mating or something?” Martyshkina joked as she stepped closer.
“What? No! How could you even imply that I would ever lower myself…”
“More like preliminary fondling, Marty,” Janine frowned before breaking into a smirk. “Not that an ice girl could ever hope to bear my weight on her bones, anyway.”
“We’ll see about that,” Bertruda hissed into her face. “You and me, soon. No, this is not what you think it is, Warlord Martyshkina! I demand that you wipe that stupid grin off your face and abandon those foul thoughts.”
“Not aiming to steal your place, don’t worry.” The other warlord bowed, mirroring the sword saint gesture with her own cape. “But my heart sings with joy for both of you.”
Bertruda groaned in a mixture of pain and embarrassment and turned away with such speed that part of her cape whipped the laughing warlords against their snouts.
“She’s far too easy to rile up.” Dragena noticed. “Don’t break her.”
“Well, I’ll try, but what can…”
Her feet left the ground. First Sunblade hugged her from under the armpit, raising Janine and Martyshkina into the air, easily overpowering and restraining both women without bending their armor or going too far to initiate the challenge. Fast. Janine never even heard him move or close in; his form simply vanished in the air, reappearing at her back.
“The most auspicious future awaits you yet, dearest Janine.” His muzzle rubbed against their necks, leaving his scent. “May no misstep ever ruin it.” He set them down, closed his helmet, and pressed two fingers against the metal forehead. “Ladies. It’s been a pleasure, truly.”
“Phew, a tough cookie!” Martyshkina chuckled, checking her weapons and ignoring the burning gaze of Lacerated One.
“I bet we could’ve taken him together,” Janine said. She also checked her rifle, just in case. Tricks were uncommon, but some ambitious fools earned themselves everlasting scorn by sabotaging equipment and leading their kin to their deaths. While Janine never doubted the Spirits ability to restore justice, she also enjoyed living.
“Sharing a male? Disgusting…”
A stomp on the ground ate up the rest of Martyshkina’s words. Ravager had stopped fifty meters from the towering walls, basking in the lights of projectors that turned the guards on the wall into dark shapes. The Blessed Mother pressed her paw into the ground, bulging it with such force that two slabs of stone rose at her sides. Ravager looked up, ignoring the cannons aimed at her.
Outside the gates, chains held a body in suspension. Someone had skinned the man alive, his glistening flesh and blood cascading down the bronze and steel gates. Several dozen cameras, stylized to resemble human eyes with steel eyelids, moved across the main gates, gleefully examining Ravager.
“We gave you an offer of peaceful reunification,” Ravager said, loud enough to be heard all the way from the main gates. Her feminine voice bore neither hate nor rage, just the deep exhaustion of someone who has done the same thing over and over again. “Your leader spat in our faces and killed our envoy. She will be judged. But you don’t have to suffer or die. Many of you think your leader denied you a choice by killing our envoy. This is false. There is always a choice. Surrender now. Cast down your weapons, and only the guilty will be punished. There is no glory in death. Live long and prosper; find happiness under better leadership. For your friends and families. Make the right choice. You have nothing to fear from us yet.”
Flashes of gunfire were all the response that she got. The defenders’ figures became lit with crimson and yellow; several hundred laser beams and scores of bullets were unleashed in unison; their fury joined with the defensive installations that lobbed shell after shell into Ravager. Missiles flew up from the massive defensive towers behind the main wall, raining down on the Blessed Mother.
A mushroom cloud of smoke and fire rose from the ground, knocking some defenders off their feet. The shockwave splashed the chained body against the city’s wall, leaving not even a bloody stain. Every last bit of the envoy’s remains vaporized in the dancing, flaming fury. Janine watched calmly as the shockwave died against the energy field surrounding their camp. She ignored the hellish sounds of explosions booming and placed Martyshkina’s helmet on her friend’s head, allowing her fellow warlord to do the same to her.
A lone beam of darkness shot from the top of the crawler. The Wolfkins let out a cheer, witnessing how an ammunition silo in a tower exploded, creating a fiery blast on a section of the wall that swept the defenders away. Another shot followed immediately, piercing a hole through another turret and killing its operator. That night, Warlord Zero drew the first blood.
The flames and explosions subsided, and with fearful whispers, the defenders saw Ravager, who stood still in the middle of a newly created crater, with streaks of molten metal tangled in her fur. A few drops of blood from her forearms marked the full extent of the damage the defenders had done to the Blessed Mother. As they closed, Ravager licked her wounds, surveying the city.
“You have everything to fear from us now. Those who wish to live should drop their weapons. Those who seek a meaningless death try to bar my passing!” she bellowed.
A single line of destruction passed from her to the gates, unleashed by the force of her roar. It bulged the metal in, setting off the minefield that encircled the capital. Ravager splattered against the ground, and the Wolf Tribe answered her will, surging ahead in maddening fury, each pack following their own warlord. Behind them, the crawler’s main guns thundered, creating ripples of energy in front of the capital as its own shields tried to withstand the barrage. Two heavy, armor-piercing shells had bypassed the protection and struck the top of the wall, sending the defenders tumbling.
Ravager lunged, disappearing from view and leaving a gaping hole in the place where the mighty gates once stood. The reclamation had begun. Only woe awaited any fool who tried to stop the Reclaimers.