Ignacy dropped the injured Wolfkin. The tradition was clear on this: leave the crippled to live another day, and save lives where you could not. But the boy didn’t abandon the soldier for this reason. He rolled to the left, right into the middle of the road. The targeting system of his armor connected directly to his prosthetic arm, transferring control of the in-built flamethrower to a cold and rudimentary machine intelligence that operated on far higher levels of perception than a male Wolfkin could ever achieve. And thanks to the linked vision and IFF system, his arm stayed firmly pointed at the opponent, no matter the speed.
“Need cover!” Ignacy called, sealing his helmet, and Janine’s laughter echoed through the ruined streets of the settlement, quieting even the nearby bedlam.
Colt. What cubs have we given life to.
Ignacy aimed to save a life. But not at the cost of losing his own. He could never match the rider’s speed, but the clever boy had opened the direct channel to the Alpha Pack scout, and the female listened to him, tossing a grenade at Ignacy. It blossomed into a caustic cloud that hid Ignacy enough for the shots of the pulse rifle to miss him entirely. A shot landed in the scout’s stomach, buckling her knees as the rider panicked and fired madly.
But it was too late. In her eagerness to ram Ignacy, the invader accelerated her hoverbike too fast, driving the entire thing into the mist left by the grenade, and a new, crimson flower flickered into existence as the automatic system directed the limb and unleashed a stream of searing flame. Shrieking like a banshee, her legs merging with the melting parts of her metal steed, the rider left the cloud, engulfed in flames, and crashed into a distant ruined building.
“I can’t believe it worked!” Ignacy yelled as he rolled from the cloud. “I lived; thank you, Spirits; we lived, wo-hooo!”
“What… what else did you expect from an elite…” The scout vomited on the ground. “Damn it, my guts, not again… Stop fooling around!”
“Yes, scout!” Ignacy tried to salute, cursing the touch of acid on his exposed biological fingers. He shook them, rushing to help his comrades to safety.
Camelia faced the charging beast head-on, uncoiling and hardening her weapon. The tip of the weapon faced the massive forehead and sliced through the horns and unusually tough hide. Then it stopped, stuck in the outer layer of muscle and bone. The beast grumbled, as if in satisfaction of its victory, and pressed harder, cutting deep gashes in the pavement with the Ice Fang’s feet.
A smile touched the sword saint’s lips, and she let go of the shardgun, taking the spear in both paws. Bundles of artificial fiber muscles tightly clung to her body like a second skin. Servomotors on Ygrite’s battleplate roared, boosting the woman’s strength into an entirely new realm.
The spear moved in. There was no chance the beast didn’t notice it; had it been a normal animal, its instincts should’ve taken over and driven it to flee from a deadly confrontation. But it persisted, perhaps due to the training or perhaps because of the domestication that had dulled the instincts of its species. Whatever the reason, it certainly wasn’t intelligence. Even a cusack had enough wits to understand what would happen when the sharp point of an insectoid drone pierced its bone.
The blade plunged deep into the beast’s brain, and rivers of blood gushed from its nostrils, ears, mouth, and under its small eyes. In a single, swift motion, Camelia pulled the weapon free and spun the Moon in her arms, and a blinding arc cutting first the ground and then the massive head to the lower jaw. She bowed curtly to the dead and retreated to stand guard over Ignacy as he tended to the wounded, still cursing from the biting sensations on the exposed parts of his body.
Sarkeesian yanked a male out of the way of the hoverbike, and the soldier threw his grenades, covering the road in acid. The rider made a U-turn, skirting the cloud. Energy orbs flew into the mist, but the wolf hag and the soldier were already hiding in the ruined building. As the enemy ceased firing, looking for another victim, the wolf hag broke free of the building and cratered the ground, narrowly missing the raider’s vehicle. The rider turned and took a shot to the back from the ruins, knocking him off his seat and into the wolf hag’s claws.
The same picture repeated itself throughout the battlefield. The Wolfkins let go of their rage and let go of the usual direct approach, where males and warriors were expected to give their lives for their superiors to secure a kill. Wolf hags and scouts worked in coordination with the lower ranks, stalking the night and ambushing the opposition, shooting and tearing them apart.
This was not done for the sake of efficiency alone. Every girl and boy of their tribe deeply ingrained the rule that a warlord knows best, to the extent that cubs would obediently sacrifice their lives for the benefit of many. When Janine rescued a male, she took a different approach, and the pack followed suit, protecting the lower-ranking members from the pulse rifle shots and cooperating like Normies.
“An unknown object is approaching the battlefield. Altitude ten thousand meters, rapidly descending, no visual on target,” said a dispassionate operator back in the crawler.
“No chances. Shoot it down.” Cristobo joined the communication.
“This could be a rare archeotech piece, Captain,” argued Till Ingo. “Its speed and size are…”
“Correction. It might have been a potential archeotech piece,” Cristobo interrupted in a firm tone while warnings flashed on Janine’s HUD, signaling the start of surface-to-air missiles preparation. “Whatever it is, it is about to become ashes. Operator! Clear the Reclamation Army’s aerospace!”
“Long live the nation! Long live the Dynast!” the operator responded, and unleashed a salvo of missiles directed at the target.
Crawlers bore every conceivable weapon. From the absolute death that were heat ray cannons to the impressive array of artillery, rockets, and missiles. Equipped with chemical, ballistic, and energy weapons to turn even the most unfavorable situations around, these machines were the lynchpins of any war. They were designed to have no weaknesses to exploit, and they could find and destroy any soul that resisted the noble goal of global reunification.
But there was one weapon, one type of ammunition, that had not been used in over fifty years, not since the Great War of Carnage when Ravager led her forces against the Iternian bastions. This was not due to a lack of restraint or humanity, unlike chemical warfare, which was limited to use against mindless bioweapons and insectoids after the Great Nations signed a preservation treaty banning MAD and cruel weaponry. Its disuse was because of a lack of suitable targets. Tonight, that changed, and missiles took to the skies, aimed at the flying target.
On the ground, the racing hoverbikes began grating at Janine’s nerves. Their weapons posed a threat to even the thickest armor plates, and she and Predaig had to block the incoming shots, acting in a manner unbecoming of a warlord, while their own swings and shots missed as the riders spread out in a wide circle, avoiding passing near dwellings and no longer taking chances near a possible ambush plate while firing shots at the Reclaimers from a distance.
“I have an idea. Warlord Predaig, could you play along?” Impatient One inquired over a secure channel.
The shaman’s howl shook a few surviving windows, and she leapt into the last remaining retreating raider group, ripping the head off the nearest raider. A hoverbike raced past her, its blade cutting a sizeable chunk of metal from the shaman’s back. She roared in rage and chased after it, abandoning the ranks.
“Wait! Shaman, return at once!” Predaig yelled worriedly.
From the intersection, another rider piloted his flying vehicle, aiming the front blade at the shaman’s back and showering Predaig with pulsating orbs that hissed against her raised blade. The intruders also cooperated, though to a lesser degree, and the one being pursued informed his comrade of the potential kill opportunity.
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The bike’s blade almost touched the seemingly maddened shaman’s back when she slipped a paw under her armpit and grabbed under the sharp edge. All ostentatious fury vanished, and Impatient One flipped the hoverbike’s nose skyward, spinning herself along with it. She stabbed into the center of the vehicle as it passed over the falling shaman, and Janine heard Ignacy’s groan, followed by a bop against his head by the laughing and coughing scout.
Impatient One’s arm passed through the hoverbike, breaking its engine, and her paws grabbed the raider by his groin, squeezing with all their might. It wasn’t a pretty way to go, but it was a swift one, as the shaman pulled the desperately shrieking man through the entire hoverbike and cast his broken form to the ground, flattening his head.
A horizontal swing above her head drew sparks from the helmet and blocked the incoming pulse energy orbs. Predaig, content to appear slow until this point, disappeared from view, crossing the distance to the shaman in the blink of an eye as the second rider attempted to avenge his companion’s death. The warlord’s blade cut his head clean off, and the explosion of the first hoverbike bathed both women in flame, burning away the blood and dirt of the night off their plates.
“Good job.” Janine smiled. She spotted the retreating hoverbikes slowing down a bit, inviting the chase. “Let’s do it again. Sarkeesian, gather a group at the turn, but be careful. We have an uninvited guest.” Her eyes narrowed at the sight of a stone falling off a ruined building, and she sent this image to the soldiers, warning them of the danger.
In battle, there are a few reasons to retreat. One was to save your life, naturally. Another is to feign weakness to lure a hunter into a well-placed ambush so you can finish them off.
Dropping to all fours, the shaman charged after the bikers, howling at the top of her lungs. Her chilling howl didn’t fool the raiders this time, and they sped off, leaving her in their wake as she leapt into the air, grasping the empty space where the laughing raider was a moment ago…
And in this span of a second, the pile of rubble to her left exploded, and pebbles drummed against the diamodite alloy. A familiar shadow rose and propelled itself on all four limbs, wielding a long, curved blade, masterfully utilizing this brief distraction. The blow would have sliced through the exposed rubberized protection, but it struck Janine’s axe instead as the warlord closed the distance to her daughter.
The impact of the clashing blades shook the nearby windows, and the attacker cursed as the reverberation ran up his arm. Janine shoved her daughter aside just in time for the ambush team to open fire on the hoverbikes, riddling their bodies with armor-piercing shards. One of them even managed to make a full turn to escape, coming right into Predaig’s culling zone. The warlord ignored the screams of the dying foes and focused on her opponent.
He looked unique for a new breed. He stood on four long, needle-like legs. A hooked pincer was at the end of each leg. Up to the waist, the man was undeniably closer to an insect than a human, but above the waist was a very human body, giving the false impression of an overweight balloon. But there was a real power behind the centaur’s strike, and she remembered how fast he had scuttled away after killing Dragena’s scout. There were impressive muscles hidden by the folds of flesh and occasional chitin plates growing over patches of skin. His head was shaved, he had a long mustache, and one pupil was rectangular while the other was normal.
A Malformed.
“Are you the leader of this rabble?” Janine asked, noticing a hint of understanding in the oriental eyes. The new breed tried to make room for another slash, and Janine brought the axe down, easily overpowering his resistance and cutting through his right shoulder and two legs at their joints. Grunting in pain, the man spat blood against her helmet, and Janine licked it, tasting the usual human flavor, and bared her fangs. “Answer me. Or I shall devour your brain.”
“I almost feel sorry for you,” the raider laughed. His two remaining legs smashed into Janine’s side as she grabbed him by the neck. He kicked again and again, breaking his pincers. “We only came here for a minor raid. To receive a tribute and sniff out if you know anything about him.”
“Him?” Janine asked.
“But you have dared to raise a hand against us,” the Malformed continued, breathing hard and half-delirious from his wounds. “For this crime, it shall be cut off. You shall weep in unending misery as my father takes you apart! For this insult, Mad Hatter will see your kind conquered and turned into a cannon fodder for our conquest, and your lands turned into another feeding ground for the Horde! Rejoice! You are about to witness a living god in action. I should laugh…”
“All you should do is fear.” Janine tightened the grip around his neck, examining the gasping face, ignoring the nails that broke against her vambrace. “A night is not enough to list your crimes or to explain how big of a blood debt was incurred for despoiling dens of our citizens. I will see your horde broken at our feet and your leaders gutted.” She grimaced as Kit approached her. “Is this their boss?”
“No!” the girl gulped. “There was another…”
“Janine, incoming from the south!” shouted the crawler’s operator.
An artificial sun briefly shone on the settlement, banishing the darkness of the night and casting a long shadow from beneath her legs. The anti-air missiles. They found their target, chasing it around the settlement. The target skillfully guided two missiles into each other, and the shock wave knocked another missile off course. But three remained, and the object suddenly halted in midair. Cameras installed in the missiles transmitted an image of a giant bow singing as it released three arrows that struck and exploded the missiles. A large hand grasped a metal cloak and wrapped it around the body to withstand the fiery explosion, and an arrow flew from hell in the sky, heading straight for Janine, followed by a deafening roar.
It wasn’t a random attack. The bastard had timed his shot, and if the operator hadn’t warned her, she would have missed the timing. Even alerted, it wasn’t her skills that saved her. The arm-wielding Taleteller rose on pure instinct, facing up against a projectile that hit harder than any artillery shell that she knew. It slammed into the axe’s flat with enough force to open a bunker, and despite Janine’s best efforts, if not for the aid of the arriving Predaig, who supported Janine’s blade arm, Kit would have died if not for the help of the arriving Predaig, who supported Janine’s blade arm. The ensuing blast of air threw the young girl away, splattering her against a wall before she collapsed, leaving a trail of blood on the stone.
Janine’s legs trembled, struggling to keep her standing, and the arrow splintered at last, its tip crumbling. A piece of wood flew to the side, spearing the Malformed through the nose and emerging from the back of his head, instantly killing him. An arrow. Someone had aimed an arrow directly at Kit. An arrow that traveled faster than a missile; an arrow that impaled a missile as if it were little more than quicksand.
This was something new.
“Pack, take cover!” she ordered too late.
Wreathed in flames and roaring like a dragon, a flying bike raced through the air toward the settlement, descending from the torn clouds and emerging from the swirling smoke. Its rider, a man in a golden segmented armor modeled after scale armor, held a long bow in one hand. He stood as tall as a warlord, the faceplate of his helmet stylized into a scowling human face. Vast, gilded wings spread to the sides of the helmet, bending slightly backwards; the unknown masters put their soul into them, artfully giving each feather a lively appearance, as if the bird was perched on a man’s shoulders.
Eled barely had time to scream the warning when the bike raced past her pack, ramming through two Wolfkins. This vehicle spared them its blades, and the sheer speed sent them flying. The raging inferno pouring from the roaring vehicle cooked both soldiers alive, burning them to a crisp before they could seal their armor or even squeal in pain.
The rider stopped, threw one side of his great steel-feathered cloak over his shoulders, and contemptuously examined the assembled warlords.
“Are you Mad Hatter?” Janine asked, keeping herself from lunging at the enemy. The souls of the soldiers who died under her command cried out for retribution. And so it shall be. But the posture didn’t fool her. His eyes, hidden behind pale lenses, scanned them for weakness. She growled, and Impatient One grabbed Kit and disappeared into the ruined building.
“I left to hunt the runaways, and Brood Lord’s whelp messed things up in my absence.” The rider said in a rough Common.
“You conquered this place.” Predaig nodded at the surroundings: at the ruined building, at the dead raiders and citizens, at the flames burning in the ruins, at the emptied stores, at the destroyed vehicles, and at the withering plants. “Was it worth it? To own a ruin?”
“Conquest implies a desire for rulership,” the rider corrected Predaig. “I desire only the resources of this stinking hole and some information. Whoever remains in this desolate asshole can govern themselves as they see fit, as long as they abide by the Horde’s rules and pay tithes.”
“Rules?” Eled asked quietly, jittering and drooling at an urge to draw blood.
“Laws for free folk. Rules for serfs,” the man explained. He refused to confirm himself to be Mad Hatter, so Janine named him Hawkhead.
“Serfs,” Janine tasted the world. Slaves are called differently in different parts of the world. This word didn’t give her any hints about the invader’s homeland. “Why kill the populace if you need tithes?”
“This tribute is one of flesh. Old and young are not strong enough to survive the journey to the market. Not important to be preserved either. Burden. We would’ve been kindlier had the populace not fought back. Servile people are highly valued. Regrettably, the locals are anything but obedient. Doubtfully regrettable is their inability to provide passing amusement. No matter. Women will breed new children, and the rotting carcasses of these ones will serve as a warning to the next batch of serfs. Irrelevant.” Hawkhead shrugged. “You stepped up to the Gilded Horde. There will be no mercy for this…”
“Heard that already, peacock,” Janine snapped, lunging and slashing at him.