Her axe came down, aimed at the nose of the vehicle. It moved backwards, spewing fire hot enough to melt the stones of the buildings hit by the fiery wave. Undaunted, Janine let her blow crack the ground and redirected it, sending chunks of pavement at Hawkhead as she reached for the clamped to the back energy rifle. Eled’s scythe had already moved for his head, the warlord herself jittered in eagerness for a fresh kill, and Predaig was advancing in their rear.
Hawkhead quickly grabbed his cloak and wrapped it around him. Its hem sliced against Eled’s head, cutting through the lenses and rupturing an eye beneath. The beam’s surge and the scythe’s blade harmlessly struck the cloak, failing to penetrate it, and then Hawkhead flung open his cloak, drawing sparks and cutting a line in the warlord’s armor with its sharp edge. His hand sent a long dagger at Janine’s head.
Predaig’s blade blocked the incoming dagger, and it stubbed itself up to the handle, surprising Janine. Her named sister did not wield a weapon of the Old World like Janine, but even crafted in the New World, it never lost its dullness or was damaged before. Predaig’s pack soldiers reverently referred to this twin-bladed tool of murder, believing the Spirits themselves had blessed it.
Dangerous. The bastard was dangerous and cunning, and as he maneuvered backwards on his monstrous hoverbike, he forced his opponents to pursue him, relentlessly pushing them to their limits. When his steed rammed through an apartment building, Hawkhead ignored the waves of molten stone and steel pouring at his back. He stood, covered in a superheated halo, and aimed his longbow at Janine.
She made no move to shield herself, and her named sisters’ weapons struck, facing the incoming arrow. The collision of weapons produced a sonic boom powerful enough to push the molten pool aside, and Wolf Hag Sarkeesian leapt at the hoverbike from behind, jaws wide open and a shardgun firing into the raider’s back.
The man spun, taking several shards to the chest. His cloak blocked another energy beam, overheating parts of his quiver. The wolf hag closed her fangs on the gilded gauntlet. A single, casual twist of the arm elicited a groan of pain as the bloodied and broken daggers—Sarkeesian fangs—sprinkled on the hoverbike.
“You scratched my gold, wench,” Hawkhead said calmly, catching an arm thrust at his neck by the wrist. It moved a few more centimeters; the wolf hag clearly surprised the raider with her resistance, but then the fingers started crumbling the vambrace, and the wolf hag pressed the shardgun’s barrel to his side, firing from point blank.
Shardguns unleashed a stream of armor-piercing projectiles, called shards, that reached maximum velocity in an instant after leaving the container that held them. Each magazine contained forty such containers, and the Wolf Tribe prized this weapon for its near-perfection in close-quarters combat. Once set to automatic, it unleashed all of its ammunition in one burst, and not even heavy tank armor could withstand it. The students of Till Ingo meticulously crafted these weapons according to the designs of the Blessed Mother, transforming them into precise instruments capable of defeating even warlords. Rumors circulated that Zero and Alpha had volunteered to test the piercing potential of the shardguns against their hides.
No tyrant, no matter how benevolent, could be tolerated, and the daughters of the Spirits had given their young the means to reclaim their freedom should the darkest hour come.
The drawback of shardguns was their limited accuracy at long range, and to conserve ammunition, the Wolfkins preferred not to use full-auto, as there were not many creatures capable of withstanding a shot from an anti-power armor weapon. But Sarkeesian didn’t need precision right now. She sought to interrupt Hawkhead’s hunt, and he grunted, surprised by a sting of pain in his side as the remaining eight containers exploded his armor and injured him.
“Who do you think you are, doggie?” He let go of her wrist and smashed her in the neck with the hand holding the longbow, slamming her against the hoverbike seat. If not for the gorget of her combat plate, the blow would’ve murdered the wolf hag in place, but even though it saved her, the metal deeply squeezed into her neck. The shardgun fell.
“An elite,” rasped Sarkeesian. Her paws closed on the grenades, and she grinned through the blood, setting them off.
Hawkhead was faster. His longbow moved, swatting them away to explode on the ground, and an armored boot lifted to trample the wolf hag when the hoverbike tilted under a sudden increase in weight.
“Magnificently done, wolf hag,” Janine said, rising to full height, her back to the controls. Her named sisters hurled her onto the escaping machine. “Dismissed.”
“Yes, Warlord,” Sarkeesian said, slipping from under her opponent and off the hoverbike.
Die. Janine brought the Taleteller down in an overheated arc, not caring if Hawkhead would try to dodge or block. Either way, she will ruin this flying horse of his and bring his limbless body back to hang from a crawler’ cannon.
Hawkhead grabbed an arrow from his quiver and used it to attempt to block the incoming attack. The blade sliced through the wooden shaft, tearing at his pauldron and forcing him to retreat a step. Before it could land on the seat, Hawkhead closed the distance and slammed a knee into her stomach, cracking the armor and kicking the air out of her. Hawkhead’s bow slashed at her rifle, knocking the weapon from her paw. Janine returned the favor by elbowing him in the helmet, breaking the steel lips, and disabling a single lens, leaving it dangling on wires coming out of the socket.
The eye looking at her from inside the helmet wasn’t agitated or relaying fury after getting injured. Hawkhead had the look of a killer—the calm and reserved demeanor of a man doing his job, no matter how horrible it was.
The raider immediately went on the offensive, using his own broken arrow like a short spear, hacking, slashing, and stabbing at the warlord. The metal of their weapons sang a song as they fought. With an almost unnatural agility, the rider kept his balance, advancing and retreating, using his longbow as a shield. Janine took her axe in both paws, shattered his spear, and he grabbed the edge of his cloak, slashing at her. She leaned aside, and Hawkhead leaped past her, pressing a button on the controls. Spinning in a blur, he took an incoming slash on the arrowheads, his longbow held by a string on his shoulder. He stabbed, driving Janine back to the roaring engine as the bike carried them higher and higher to the sky, tilting at irregular intervals.
Janine grunted, adjusting to the rapid shifts in the balance. Her opponent had skills and strength to match hers! A rare case indeed. In her long life, she had killed her share of teleporters, choked regenerators unconscious, and easily dispatched those who emitted energy or flames from their bare hands. Powers and unique abilities reigned in the New World, but they also threatened to become a kind of narcotic, luring their wielders into over-reliance. And therein lay the danger. When foes are unable to see your movements, victory was all but guaranteed, no matter a power.
This one could react to her. Hawkhead’s arrows aimed at her knees and shoulders, leaving gashes on steel plates and attempting to stab her eyes. Janine blocked the hits with the flat of her axe and counterattacked using the knob. The glancing blow tore a wing off his helmet, failing to distract the man even for a second. She didn’t like to admit it, but here and now she was facing someone who fought at the level of a warlord with ease.
At this realization, adrenaline kicked in. How long had it been since she had faced an opponent of equal skill without the need for mercy or restraint? What gifts will the Spirit bestow upon her after victory? An elongated finger, curled by rigor mortis, emerged from the darkness. It caressed the remaining wing, and the dim eyes floating behind Hawkhead demanded something from Janine.
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Restraint? Or perhaps a life for the life taken?
“To Abyss with it,” she said to the apparition, letting the rage and hatred engulf her, feeling that pillar of righteous fury spread within her, the wounded, the dead, and the dying below fueling it. Restraint? No. “You die tonight,” she promised the golden bastard.
“Ambitious,” he responded, driving her closer to the engine with precise stabs. “Let’s see you do it.”
Janine opened her jaws and bit down on both arrowheads, stopping the weapons in their tracks. Their tips scratched her palate, but she didn’t care. It was time to get close and dirty. She swung the Taleteller upward, cutting through the shafts and hacking off the man’s finger. Hawkhead tried to reach for his cloak, and she spat the arrowheads into his face, giving him no time to recover. A single slash drew a bloody path from his right shoulder to the left hip. Golden metal and crimson droplets rained and dripped onto the seat. Janine dropped a paw of her axe and clawed at the mask, receiving a counterattack to her lower jaw that shook her head.
“Your kind can fight,” Hawkhead begrudgingly said, extending his mangled hand to her. “How about it? Join me, and I will protect you from Brood Lord’s vengeance and elevate you to become a khan of your people. The weak must follow the strong, and there are few people stronger than us. It is your obligation to realize your potential and take the rightful place among the…”
Janine ignored the heresy, using the pause to gather her strength. Unsteadily, she reached for his hand, as if to accept his offer, and lunged at him. They were both ready for anything. Hawkhead buried a dagger in her side, using her own momentum to impale her. She blinked through the red dots in her vision, ignoring the scraping of the dagger’s edge against her ribs. The warlord bit into his shoulder, right in the crack in the pauldron made by her axe, and sunk her claws into his suit, ripping cords and tearing skin. She scented him, chewed through the metal, reached for the flesh, tried to bite through the arteries and bones.
Suddenly, the bike turned in midair, and Janine’s head faced the settlement below. Hawkhead pulled her off himself, leaving a sizeable chunk of flesh from his shoulder in her jaws. The warlord understood she was falling and flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to hold on to something. His cloak sliced through her fingers, cutting to the bone despite the armor. The familiar double-bladed sword and scythe flew past her, facing a fired arrow. The air pushed by the collision blew into Janine’s face, catching her despite her fall.
She tore the dagger from her rips, curled into a fetal position, and fell a kilometer. Her armor protected her from the worst of this landing; the deep wound barely showed a hint of irritation, and the warlord stepped from the crater her body had created, nodding to her named sisters in gratitude for the rescue. She had a multitude of tasks to accomplish: help the civilians, make sure her soldiers got medical attention before the precious cretins worked themselves to death, check on Eled’s eye, and locate the missing weapons, including her rifle, or else Chak will kill her for losing it.
But there was one deed left to be done. Above, a flaming comet streaked across the sky, followed by a bombastic, mocking laugh as it flew away from the settlement.
Janine calmly waited until Hawkhead left the walls and called the Inevitable.
“Blessed Mother.” She smiled. “A prey worthy of your presence seeks to escape the battlefield. Marked. Rapidly escapes to the southwest….
A howl tore through the night, and the ground shook before Janine could finish. Ravager came.
Wolfkins’ markings were wonderful things. The scent they left lingered for weeks or months, and she left some of her spittle on his skin and exposed wounds. Even should he escape to the end of the world, the Blessed Mother’s nose will never lose his scent.
And when the commander reaches him... Well, Janine promised he would die.
****
Sky Lord continued to laugh, touching the wound on his shoulder. What a night! His heart hadn’t beaten this fast in a year, not since he was hunting the Malformed. But back then, he had to handicap himself by going naked on a hunt. He picked up bones from the dead mutants and fashioned knives out of their ribs. As amusing as it was to hear the yelping cries of their kits as he stomped them into mush, it was hardly a true test of his limits.
But these mutants! They sure knew how to put up a fight. A loss of a finger was a small price to pay for the information gathered tonight. The Merchants had tinkered with both his dragon and armor, equipping them with various sensors and recording devices. Everything, from the rate of fire of their rifles to the explosive range of their grenades to the speed of the missiles, the durability of their battle plates, and the approximate calculation for the size of the machine that fired them, was carefully stored in databanks for future review by the Merchants and Iron Lord. Their fondness for new toys ensured a suitable replacement for his finger, and most importantly, it was Brood Lord’s minions who met their demise tonight. This should put him in good graces with Iron Lord and earn his protection for the time being.
Sky Lord had distanced himself from the political life of the Gilded Horde, ignoring the offers of the two khans to join them. The Horde’s nature required constant testing by rivals, and if you faltered, a stronger khan would absorb your khaganate. Thanks to this, they never stagnated; the innovation brought by their leaders and wars between their offspring kept the people of the steppes strong.
But he didn’t care for any of that, resigning himself to the role of a simple soldier. Rulership bored him, and so he secured his khaganate’s future by giving it to the leader.
The Horde grew too large and too powerful, overthrowing lands in a matter of weeks through sheer numbers. What joy could there be for a man like him? It was madness to rebel against Mad Hatter, and serving her led to simple, mundane soldier duties.
Until tonight. He itched for an opportunity to take on these doggies before they’d be made to join the Horde. Next time, he would take no chances, hunt them down properly, and let the strongest win and live. Sky Lord betted on himself, of course, but the possibility of uncertainty excited him.
The Reclamation Army seemed to be just a beast capable of producing an adequate supply of worthwhile fighters. If there was a place for the demon plaguing the Khan of Khans’ dreams to lurk, this nation just might be it. What a conquest it’ll be! As the wails of widows and the cries of youngsters beaten into shackles of servitude fill the fallen towns, he will stand, holding the heads of their champions overhead, shattering the pathetic lie of strength in peace! Burning cities, riches to be plundered, serfs to be sold at the market! Competition, excitement, opposition, rivalry, new vassals, war, where a single mistake can cost life, and the Sky’s worship spreading far and wide…
A rumble reached his ears, something akin to an avalanche, and a dot appeared on the radar of his HUD, rapidly approaching. Sky Lord initially mistook the dot for another missile, but it sped up rapidly, hurtling toward him on the ground. He glanced back, and at that moment, as if sensing his movement, the dot overtook the dragon. Nervous about the empty land and the huge footprints in the stone lit by the moonlight, he began to climb to gain altitude when it happened.
It rose, blocking the dragon’s path like a great storm cloud and as suddenly as a well-placed sniper’s shot. It was the stuff of nightmares—twin yellow orbs burning in the skull, white fangs gleaming in the night, and an utterly dark fur coat. Panic overcame him, and Sky Lord directed his dragon to the right, flying past the horrid thing. Whatever it was, it couldn’t fly, and gravity halted the monster’s movement, returning it to the ground.
The thing had its chance. He was not going to give it another.
“Freak,” Sky Lord spat, reaching for an arrow. Tried to.
There was no hand left to grab an arrow. His left arm was gone, missing at one shoulder, and blood poured from the open wound. When did it… His eyes widened, and an icy needle touched his heart as he heard another rumble. It wasn’t an avalanche. It was a howl, fierce, and hungry—the howl of an unleashed predator.
Frightened to the bone, Sky Lord concentrated on driving and accelerated the dragon to the maximum, flying toward the sky, rising above the clouds. Mach 9. There should’ve been nothing capable of keeping up with him, save for the Khan of Khans.
But the thing below could. A line of destruction snaked its way, as the air displaced by the supernatural movement flattened mounds and hills more surely than any explosion. Sky Lord’s surviving lens relayed the information captured by his dragon’s high-speed cameras. He moved up, feeling the predatory gaze on himself, certain that the monster had never lost track of him.
Ripples spread across the sand, like circles on the water after a stone has been thrown into a pool. The mighty legs speared the ground, creating vast, gaping canyons that stretched far and wide as the horror leapt, effortlessly covering kilometers in the air. Sky Lord chuckled, comprehending that this thing had timed its jump to coincide with his own trajectory, and that it was too late to dodge.
He thought the Incarnate would have murdered all the impostors by now! Yet here was another one walking on the planet! He regretted so much that he won’t be able to see the ascension of the Khan of Khans after she cuts down this Incarnate and grows ever stronger, the Sky itself empowering her for her honest dedication.
But there was a time to live and a time to die. Sky Lord grabbed an arrow and faced his fate, arching his remaining arm back to strike.
It never landed. The claw tore through first his jaw and then his spine, paralyzing him for the enormous maw to devour.