Families held the utmost importance in both the tribe and the state. The Dynast believed that a united society was less likely to succumb to tyranny, and propagandists worked tirelessly to create a positive image of the large family, even among same-sex couples. For them, it was the first link in a chain of unity. Couples found new meaning in life as they solved problems together and raised new lives, learning and befriending other parents. Some couples never wanted their children to experience the same hardships they had, while others simply learned or re-learned empathy and care for human life.
The Wolf Tribe fully embraced this ideology. They traced their lineage from a single mother, even though the first of their number had grown out of her cells. Because of this, the shamans evaluated siblings as a whole, rather than as individuals, when deciding which pack to assign them to. The weak joined the weak, and the strong flocked to the strong.
Janine intended to amend this rule. Even if she had to bend the shamans to her will. A family would remain a family, but it was undeniable that each individual possessed unique talents. No matter how much she loved Ignacy, her precious cub would probably be happier in the Onyxia or Ashbringer packs, since their warlords were less strict about permitting males to pursue their weird hobbies.
Their fight would be held outside the base to preserve the training grounds. Serious sparring between warlords tended to be overly destructive to the environment. Lacerated One did not hold the highest military rank, but she was equal to most of her named sisters.
They both stripped off their clothes, exposing their fur to the pleasant moonlight and the biting cold. The preparations for their battle attracted the people of Houstad, who hurried home after a busy day. Someone called for the press, and the Champion’s followers swarmed in, eager to see the martial prowess of the other lands. Defenders slammed their great shield into the ground, creating a protective wall to shield the gathering crowd. The sword saints and warlords arrived to witness their kin.
Janine ignored the murmurs among the Ice Fangs and Normies soldiers and reporters who planned to film the battle. They thought the fight would be one-sided; the warlord bullying a weak woman. Fools. Her sister had survived the fiercest wars and toughened through the harshest times.
Janine was a mountain of muscles, her arms longer than her short legs; the scars earned in battles were little more than pale lines lost in the thickest fur. Her hide could endure both gunfire and flames. Half-turning, she brought her left arm forward to take the brunt of the claws and prepared to wield her right as a precise hammer, shattering her opponent’s elongated muzzle and knocking her senseless. Her amber eyes watched the shaman, fishing for any sign of weakness. And by the Spirits, there were many.
Lacerated One shared the combined visage of a male serving as a female’s chew toy and a famine victim. The scar tissue, often reopened in several places and oozing red, covered her body, adjacent to enlarged, torn cuts that left pieces of wet flesh hanging. Her arms and legs were of proper length, but the skin clung tightly to the limbs and protruding ribs. She should have been dead, or at least in a healing coma, rather than walking bearing such wounds. Even her fur was sodden. But the woman stood strong, never fainting, breathing easily, and in her eyes blazed a flame of fury.
“Be careful, Jani!” Martyshkina yelled from the sidelines, flanked by the sword saints and warlords. “Lacy is tricky!”
Janine nodded in appreciation, silencing her friend. Martyshkina was a traditionalist who often committed devotional pilgrimages and saw the shaman fight in duels firsthand.
Her eyes widened as the shaman repeated her stance down to the smallest details, even maintaining the same breathing as Janine. Her muscles bulged, growing to mirror the warlord’s, and tendons and ligaments moved in the open wounds.
“Planning to beat me in my element?” Janine asked incredulously. “If it’s a joke, you won’t enjoy it, sister.”
“Begin!” Alpha roared, and the two closed the distance in a single leap.
Fist on fist. Their left arms moved, facing each other, and the wind blew into the faces of the shocked reporters and the cheering Wolfkins as they collided. The shaman’s arm shook; her paw was the first to retreat, sparing her knuckles, and Janine smiled savagely. She was stronger. She didn’t let the shaman escape unscathed; her arm was longer, and the warlord used it to the fullest, keeping up a hail of straight punches. Lacerated One dodged desperately, trying to return the favor, but soon found herself on the receiving end, as a first bludgeoned her on the cheek.
“It’s amazing!” A Houstad bystander clapped his hands as a gust of wind propelled by the blows hit him in the face. “It’s like standing up to an industrial fan! Can you all flicker so fast?” he asked the warlords.
“This piss is nothing.” Ashbringer waved her paw. “I’m faster.”
“The large lass makes a passable boxer.” An Orais took himself by the chin. “This fight is about to end. The differences in weight and size are far too great.”
“Moron,” Ygrite laughed. “Watch closely. It’s about to begin.”
Janine kicked to the boos of the onlookers, drawing a long, torn line across Lacerated One’s torso instead of disemboweling her as she had intended. Are they thinking this is a friendly spar? She ignored the distraction, focusing on the fact that her attack had done its job, forcing the shaman to step closer.
Their fists were about to connect again, perplexing Janine as to why her named sister hadn’t used her wonderful claws yet. Irrelevant. She decided, and adjusted her punch, planning to break Lacerated One’s pinky and ring fingers. Her opponent spotted this and moved her arm to avoid the blow. As Janine’s punch flew under the shaman’s, Lacerated One suddenly elbowed her wrist.
Here it is. The turning point. Janine got excited. She shaped her style around defense, using it to learn about her opponent, to bait them into an inevitable mistake, or to grind them down with sheer endurance. Lacerated One made such a mistake. By using her elbow to throw Janine off-balance, the shaman set her up for a powerful punch. And opened herself in turn, as Janine didn’t miss this opportunity and brought down her own hammer, intending to shatter the jaw of her dear named sister.
She frowned, experiencing pain in her eye. A spit. Lacerated One spat something into her eye. Janine’s vision dimmed, and the shaman fell onto her back, surprising the warlord. Lacerated One landed on a paw, and her other paw whipped, almost landing a heavy blow against Janine’s ankle joint.
What is going on? The rivalry with Martyshkina saved Janine’s butt. She lifted her leg in time to stomp on the shaman’s arm, but her claws only cut the skin as Lacerated One jerked her paw back. This is Marty’s style!
In their many play fights and actual sparring sessions, Janine frequently dominated over her smaller friend. Her fingers were beams of unyielding iron, choking the light from Martyshkina’s eyes; her skin was too rough to be torn by the desperate clawing. Marty fumed and raged, but giving up was not in her nature. She studied physiology under Dragena and Terrific and even helped loosen the tongues of most hardened criminals.
From studying the workings of the human body, she learned the workings of her own, mastering the art of a highly mobile technique in which each move could flow smoothly into an unpredictable attack on an opponent’s vitals or important joints. Her improvised, unexpected, and often barely possible whipping strikes brought many girls to their knees, opening them up for her arms to wrap around their necks and strangle them into submission. But it happened in their youth! Marty rarely participated in domination matches!
There was no denying it. Lacerated One swung her whole body on the ground, her free paw pointing a non-existent revolver at Janine’s muzzle. Then she sprang to her feet, releasing her claws for the first time.
The shaman’s claws were unusual; tiny veins of crimson covered them, but it wasn’t what confused her opponent. A double upward thrust. Alpha’s technique. Simple in its inevitability, when done by the shaman, the technique lacked in speed and strength. Janine grabbed the woman’s wrists, stopping the stabs dead in their tracks.
Pain engulfed her vision as the Lacerated One headbutted her, flowing elegantly from Alpha’s style to Ashbringer’s, never once losing momentum or hesitating, choosing the right technique at the right time. Janine’s nose broke, and the trapped arms slipped from the not-quite-closed grip thanks to the wetness of the fur.
“Soft. Amateur,” Ashbringer grumbled, and Janine understood at last.
The elbow strike. It wasn’t a simple move; Fatima enjoyed using her elbows in combat, wielding them with the same effectiveness as claws. The spit of something resembling sharp hair or a needle was straight from Ygrite’s dishonorable arsenal. Lacerated One switched warlord styles without lag, wielding them at her will!
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Lacerated One stood on all fours, her fists buried in the ground. Her muscles tensed and blood spurted from open wounds as she prepared to lunge.
“Hey, that’s my technique!” Kalaisa laughed from among the ranks of wolf hags near the base. “Does that mean she thinks I’m a warlord? Anji, Lacerated One chose my move over yours!”
The shaman disappeared, exploding the concrete and flying towards Janine at utmost speed. She had planned to ram the warlord in the exposed belly, wrap her arms around Janine’s body, and hook the shoulder blades with her claws. A knee met her jaw, stopping the blindingly fast movement. Lacerated One threw her head up, spurting blood, but Janine wasn’t finished. Her fists came down on the shaman’s shoulders, slamming her deep into the concrete. But as she tried to grab the woman by the neck, the shaman slipped back, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Janine took the opportunity to set her broken nose and blow it clear.
“And it failed immediately.” Anji shook her shoulders.
“That… she didn’t do it right!” Kalaisa complained.
“And who did?” Ashbringer inquired, and a booming laughter erupted around the wolf hag.
“You are fighting against a mere shaman, Janine!” Alpha thundered. “Crush her underfoot.”
“There is nothing mere about our sister!” Martyshkina argued. “Go Jani! Break her snout, rip her claws out! Lacerated One, don’t give up!”
“Whose side are you on?” Predaig asked.
“Both!”
Janine briefly breathed through her nose, confirming it was still working. She blinked a sharp piece out of her eye, and an agony speared her side. Lacerated One had used the brief window of opportunity to race past her and tore at her side. Janine whirled around, taking relentless slashes at her claws.
“Was that a rapid motion just now?” Anji asked.
“The what?” Bogdan looked at her.
“Permit me,” said Sword Saint Leonidas. He was sitting in a comfy armchair, covered with a fur cloak, and swirling wine in a silver goblet. “Warlord Onyxia had mastered a style based around hounding an opponent during a distraction. Imagine blinking, sneezing, or simply having a distracting thought, only to find your arteries severed by claws. It sounds simple in theory; what soldier would not take advantage of such an opportunity? But Onyxia has taken it to a whole new level; her divine musculature allows her to reach top speed from a standing position, and she somehow knows in advance when her enemy will be distracted. Twins only know how she finds an opening for her attacks when facing an armored opponent, but it works every time.” His servant poured him more wine.
“Uncle, please set aside the refreshment,” hushed the metal-legged Ice Fang clad in full battle gear. “You are treating the sanctity of this duel too frivolously.”
“I am not the one rolling naked in the dirt and blood like a barbarian.” Leonidas sipped some wine. “Precious Malerata, I give this sparring match the exact respect it deserves. But you are correct; we are in Houstad, and I treat my family far too coldly. Drinks for everyone, servants!”
“That’s not what I…”
“Now you speak my language, cousin!” Martyshkina snatched a bottle from his squire.
“See? Everyone’s satisfied.” Leonidas flashed a smile to his niece and raised his goblet. “Four hundred dynasts on the brave Lacerated One! The holy sister is feisty tonight.”
“Your childish behavior shames us, Summerspring,” hissed Bertruda.
“Well, it’s about time someone else did it for a change,” Leonidas replied unabashedly.
“Thirty tokens on Mom,” Ignacy said.
“Seventy dynasts on Janine to win,” Alpha declared.
“Twelve dynasts on the warlord’s victory.” Bertruda rolled her eyes.
“Fifty tokens on Lacerated One!” Bogdan announced, picking up a glass. His sisters’ shadows fell on him, and he smiled shyly. “What?” He turned to Ignacy, who cracked the knuckles of his natural paw. “I’m just making sure we win one way or another. Ignacy, don’t pull out the flamethrower; that’s cheating!”
Slash at slash, cut at cut. Their claws woven the deadly patterns facing each other. The ground shook, the concrete cracking from the stomps and the force of their pushes. Neither agreed to retreat. In Janine’s mind, she was not facing a single opponent, but the entire swarm of her sisters, stepping in one by one to test her mettle. Here were Predaig’s calm and precise strikes, Eled’s brazen courage, Dragena’s careful cuts, Onyxia’s etherealness, Ashbringer’s ferocity, Martyshkina’s unorthodox movement, and many more. A martial arts chimera that incorporated the fighting styles of the living and the dead. A legacy of sorts.
Lacerated One was not without flaws. Her movements lacked finesse, as if she had learned a general idea but never really honed it. Her imitation of Janine’s punches, hooks, and swings felt more like pebbling than bouldering. She lacked the durability and power to match Alpha’s brutal attacks. Still, the shaman deserved praise for her dedication to mastering such skills, and Janine’s heart brimmed with happiness.
She knew it to be wrong. The last time she had let go, she had murdered one of her dearest people, robbed the tribe of a valuable soldier, and it endangered her own cubs by proxy. Her duties tonight were too important. But as their blows collided, creating waves of air that tore at the guards’ and civilians’ clothes, as her heart pounded with adrenaline, as streaks of blood ran down her legs, Janine could not help but enjoy every second of this deadly dance.
And dance it was! The shaman had reached her pure state, unleashing unparalleled aggression on Janine, aiming her blows not to maim but to slaughter. A cut nearly blinded Janine. The claw sliced through her ear, opening her cheek to the bone. Janine responded by kneeing her opponent in the stomach, and Lacerated One spewed blood into the warlord’s face, clouding her vision.
A blink left her growl in pain as her already slashed side exploded in fire anew. As Janine’s eyes opened, her opponent shifted into Eled’s feral style; fangs closing on Janine’s trapezius, claws sinking deep into the warlord’s arms, attempting to pin them to her torso. The warlord succumbed to her primal instincts and clamped her jaws on the shaman’s shoulder, causing the woman to jerk her neck away to avoid any potential harm.
The rich and supernatural blood of her sister sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Janine’s body; its taste was intoxicating, empowering, exquisite. She lived again. Her heart raced even faster, the entire life flashed before the amber eyes, and this saved Lacerated One’s shoulder for Janine to loosen her grip on it, too caught up in the strange sensations. She barely noticed that Lacerated One had torn away a piece of her own flesh.
Janine moved her right paw up slowly, as if in a dream, realizing too late that her sister had purposely let herself be bitten to gain an advantage through confusion. However, every dream had to end. The fingers locked around the tormented neck, choke-slamming the shaman into the concrete, cratering her so hard that jagged rocks rose around the fighters. Lacerated One gasped for air; her paws were already trying to close in on Janine’s arm, forcing the warlord to release the shaman, or the woman would have sliced open her veins. Still on her back, the shaman planted her palms on the ground and sprang away with the agility of a cockroach.
She came at her again, switching from Dragena to Ashbringer, then to Alpha, and finally to Martyshkina again to evade a swing of claws. The shaman’s feet swiftly maneuvered around Janine, while her fists flickered in an attempt to bypass the warlord’s calm defenses. They fought for the better part of an hour, painting the gray surface of the ground crimson. They bit and gnawed at each other’s flesh, exchanging lacerations and cuts, elbowing and punching at the first opportunity.
Years of restraint! Years of being afraid of killing another sister! Elated, Janine slammed her fist into Lacerated One’s shoulder, exploding the ground beneath her legs. The shaman tried to retreat, and Janine stomped, kicking out a boulder and elbowing it into Lacerated One’s face. But you can handle it, right, sister? She thought, she pleaded, as her own stab closed on the wide open chest.
“This was a passable warm-up,” Lacerated One said calmly, stone dust falling from her whiskers.
An agony paralyzed Janine’s body as Lacerated One’s claws pierced four of Janine’s teats. It was a dirty move, but an effective one, and many Ice Fangs and several Wolfkins shuddered and cringed at the thought of it happening to them. The excruciating pain had blinded Janine; she stood on her toes against her will, and Lacerated One gained the distance again, pulling the claw free. Her leg blurred, and the warlord gasped and vomited in equal measure.
She was kicked. It tossed her off her feet, sending the warlord flying like a cannonball over the defenders and splattering her against the base’s wall. The impact rocked her insides. She rolled off the wall like a ball, trembling from the reverberations in her bones. Her trembling fingers found the stone, and falling pieces of debris from above surprised her even further. The reinforced concrete of the base was supposed to withstand heavy artillery shells. Just how hard did the shaman launch Janine? She wobbled like a drunk and stood up, touching the pulsating hot spot on her side. Ribs cracked.
The supreme shaman stood on one leg, the other still in the air, her snout calm and focused. A kick. A single kick swatted Janine away like a parasite. Seeing that she was still conscious, Lacerated One began walking towards her.
You are joking, right? She just started using her kicks now? Janine grimaced at the thought.
“The rage behind your movements is genuine, sister.” Lacerated One tilted her head.
“You are too much…” Janine chuckled.
“Are you surrendering, Janine?” Lacerated One asked icily, all warmth gone from her voice.
“I like it! This is amazing! For the first time in years, I feel like I don’t have to hold anything back!” Janine’s laughter rose to the sky, and the shaman froze.
“Oh, sister.” Lacerated One touched her swollen lips. “I understand. If I had known of your fear and hunger earlier. Trust me, you never have to hold back anything against us. We are tough girls.” A cheeky smile, unbecoming of the high-ranking shaman, appeared on her lips. “But every match has a loser and a winner.”
“Right you are, sis,” Janine said, taking advantage of the time the defenders had to reposition themselves and form a semi-circle around them.
Her ribs were cracked but not broken. She could breathe fine. The pain in her poor teats subsided to a manageable level. The skin around the gushing wounds twitched, but it wasn’t fatal damage. Psychological warfare. A trick from Terrific’s playbook. Yes, Lacerated One’s kick was hard, but it was delivered when Janine was at her weakest, unable to block.
It went further than that. The ruptured teats were on the same side as the slashes. The shaman had sheared off skin and damaged the exoskeleton underneath before immobilizing her and landing this excellent blow. Her sister carefully guided her through the fight, step by step, instilling fear and uncertainty through the use of different styles, shackling her moves through the fear instilled by the spit and out of worry of missing another slash from Onyxia’s style. Everything to distract Janine from noticing the strategy. Even the exchange of bites worked to Lacerated One’s advantage.
The damage piled up, but the same was true for the shaman, and Janine saw the star of victory clearer than before. She persevered; she had studied her opponent. There would be no more mood swings or uncertainty for Lacerated One to capitalize on. Janine held her temper in an iron vise, embracing her inner beast to reach and accept her own pure state. There was one thing left in store: the ultimate dirty move, saved to the last to secure the victory. It should shock Janine to the core, but she was ready to face her past.
She blinked. It was time for her strategy.