The city was about to fall. Dokholkhu looked down at it with empty eyes, seeing the same picture that he had seen years after years after years. Conquerors had herded the locals into the main square, where clans’ chief overseers examined the frightened men and women, determining who would fetch a good price on a flesh market and who was too valuable to protect at any cost. The elderly and infirm weren’t cut down on the spot, for this was not a raid. Their value to the invaders was non-existent, so they would be free to live under the new rulers. Next came the monuments and historical records. There was no mercy here. Cattle had no need for such things. Cattle only had to work to pay tithes. That was the price of resisting the Gilded Horde.
It started like usual. Prior to the invasion, Brood Lord had sent his agents, entering into a conspiration involving one of the trading houses holding great authority in these lands. His father picked the most ambitious and the least influential house, the fools who would never have risen on their own. Then came Phaser, and portals opened in the streets. Assassins poured in, staging massacres, disrupting industry, eliminating key targets, often in daylight. The lord of this city was far too strong for Phaser to take on; a true and shining example of an Abnormal, his sword has cut down hundreds of fools who tried to encroach on his lands and ended many of their assassins. He was left untouched.
Once panic was sowed and sufficient information was gathered, the Horde arrived in force, seizing local farms and mines. There were deaths, but Iron Lord’s decree was clear: the people were to be sent back to work, providing food and metal for the Merchants and the clans. The Horde came to conquer, not to despoil. As the first hoverbikes neared the city’s outer walls, Iron Lord announced the terms of surrender: Lay down your weapons and swear fealty to the Horde. Your leader shall become a bondsman in Mad Hatter’s employ, a lucrative and generous offer that had often resulted in the creation of another great khan. The leader’s offspring will be divided equally to serve the great khans. Do so, and a paltry tribute will satiate the Horde, and your history and culture will be preserved. Any response short of immediate agreement was considered a refusal.
It was deliberately insulting, of course. The Gilded Horde grew fat and mighty, but without a constant abundance of fresh gifts and lands to share, its warriors grumbled. But the offer was sincere. A broken word cost far more in the long run, and Mad Hatter mercilessly flayed those who dared to break it. Several countries that accepted the offer enjoyed relatively safe and comfortable lives, often more secure from outside threats than before.
But not this one, unfortunately. A negotiator, a head of one of the noble houses, came to parley with Iron Lord. The poor man received a glaive to his belly; his shrieking screams filled the air when the great khan raised him high over himself, carefully avoiding rupturing the lungs. Before the defenders could unleash fire and brimstone on him, the Horde’s mobile artillery started speaking.
This city was a prosperous place. During the Extinction, its future citizens hid themselves in several bunkers scattered throughout these regions, and thousands of lives were saved. Upon leaving the safety, they used the precious wonders of the Old World to erect reinforced walls and construct massive guard towers manned by well-trained crews. The shells of their artillery pieces could hit over the horizon, and deadly and precise howitzers stood ready to flatten those who got close. No less than three ancient missiles slept hidden in the city’s missile silo. But all that was undone by the betrayal from within.
The firing patterns were well evaluated; fast-moving missile launchers zigzagged around the city, firing non-stop, silencing one defensive position after another. Mass-reactive projectiles pierced the outer shells of the protective bunkers, releasing poisonous gases inside to suffocate the defenders. Crimson flowers bloomed on the walls, with the heat of the flame being potent enough to melt both steel alloys and reinforced stone. A few unlucky fools firing from the hidden balconies in the wall died, boiled alive in the rolling down napalm.
Screams and curses filled the air, but the Horde kept their distance, sending forth snipers who began thinning those few defenders left. This was just the softening, and at Iron Lord’s gesture, soldiers marched on, digging trenches leading to the walls. Dokholkhu volunteered to join, fully expecting the rival of his father to send him to his death, but the great khan paid no attention to an additional toy in his arsenal, and his officers handed the young man a shovel.
Force generators hummed over their heads, partially shielding them from the intense shelling. Occasionally they were overwhelmed, and a landed shell cratered the ground, reaping a grievous toll of a dozen lives. Information gathered by Brood Lord also wasn’t wholly correct, and hidden passageways opened in the ground. The defenders rushed out in a counterattack, hoping to stem the tide.
None of it mattered to Iron Lord. The battlefield was a horrible orchestra of the dead and dying, of explosives and ever furthering siege warfare, of moving vehicles heading to positions, and sonic cannons firing to disable minefields. And Iron Lord was the conductor. Nothing was left to chance. When a soldier, whose eyes were wide from fear or excitement, rose from the ground to shoot Dokholkhu, he was immediately cut down by a fire from a well-placed automatic turret. Dokholkhu spared a single minute to the dead, wondering what he had lived for, whether he had loved or been loved.
An officer’s snap brought him back to the world, and the young man kept digging, doing his part to bring the conquest to its appointed conclusion. Iron Lord command was so widely different from anything he had experienced under his father. There were no killings to inspire the rest; when a soldier slumped, holding hands over her ears, an officer closed in and lifted her chin, expecting the Pureblood’s eyes. He gave her water and sent her to the rear to recuperate. Purebloods, Dirtybloods, and even bondsmen toiled equally in a well-organized machine directed by Iron Lord, their differences forgotten. Do your part. Bring about the victory. Trust in protection.
It was almost divine in its simplicity.
Seven hours later, the preparations were complete and the outer resistance had collapsed. Brood Lord raised a hand, announcing his own advance, and fear gripped Dokholkhu’s heart. He didn’t want to go against dilapidated, but still steady defenses; he didn’t want to see more of his brothers and sisters die.
“Devour the world!” came the terrible, terrible war cry ushered first by Mad Hatter and echoed by every soldier.
There was no choice. Serve or be culled. Their father left them with no other option, ruthlessly hunting down any escapees and brutally torturing them before the eyes of his other children. His father’s soldiers surged on, and there was gunfire. The front wave was made up of what the great khan called rabble. Their job was to soak up the bullets and detect any last surprises at the cost of their lives. Those who dared to turn back as the shells fell upon them after exiting the cover of the shields’ protective perimeter faced death as the elite force followed in their wake. Brood Lord’s host lacked uniformity; every khan was permitted to use what they wanted if they got the job done.
The invincible son of Mungke’s khan rushed to the gates, laughing as laser beams, bullets, and fire harmlessly slipped off his body. Portals opened on the walls, spewing out soldiers whose purpose was to die and buy time for the Horde to close in. Dokholkhu gritted his teeth, enduring a surge of artificial aggression tugging at his brain. It resulted in further chaos among the defenders and a series of fights amidst his father’s forces. Monsters of all kinds used their abilities freely, disregarding the safety of their allies.
By comparison, Iron Lord’s progress was more orderly. The Brood had converged on Dokholkhu’s location, joining him in advancing on the right flank, away from their father. Explosions erupted above their heads, expanding into bubbles of hot plasma that engulfed parts of the incoming projectiles. Iron Lord tolerated no challengers. Those who joined the accepted superiority of his khaganate kept their heads down and strictly obeyed the laws, or his glaive collected the head of an upstart.
A flaming dragon soared above the advancing ranks, landing on the battlements and curling its tail around itself. It exploded, incinerating those in its path and deftly dodged aside as a slice of water, traversing fast enough to slit the stone, nearly touched its edge. The fiery mass gathered, still little more than a living flame, but its shape changed to a more humanoid form, and the richly blessed Pureblood faced an Abnormal opponent. Flame and water collided, and steam obscured part of the wall.
Iron Lord advanced at the head of his forces, riding the largest thunder bull Dokholkhu had ever seen. Surrounded by his iron-clad bodyguards, the indomitable cavalry was heading for the main gates when suddenly a section of the wall fell and the khan redirected his forces in one smooth motion. Not to be outdone, Brood Lord raced to his portion of the wall; his six legs easily scaled up the ruined surface. He didn’t pay attention to his children’s sufferings and struggled. Buyantu, a seven-year-old boy, had died when a soldier shot him from an opening in the wall. Dokholkhu cherished his brother, educated him, tried to protect him, and he was gone in a flash. A hail of armor-piercing bullets struck the boy in the head, and his massive body slammed down. Lifeless. Broken. Dokholkhu roared and skewered the soldier who did it, sending him down after his brother.
Brood Lord never looked back. He reached the top of the wall, filling everything with his deep, elegant laughter. His sword moved up and down, doing butcher’s work and weaving arcs of blur before him. The khan fired his pistol; his pincers closed on the retreating soldiers, tearing them apart. Dokholkhu shouted at the top of his lungs, hating that the enemies refused to surrender, hating being here, despising the sound of bullets drumming against his chitin plates, and went on killing, firing his pulse rifle at the defenders.
“Turn them back!” A voice cut through the chaos of battle, and a shot knocked the rifle from Dokholkhu’s hand.
There was a new fighter on the wall. Dressed in a rugged black and green robe, the man wielded a pistol and a mace. A battle plate was visible in the wide gashes of his clothes, his face hidden by an old visor. He whirled, fitting into an open breach in a defensive line, and fired a Pureblood into his stomach. Then he brought down his mace, smashing the man’s head.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Soldiers of the Kingdom!” The man continued, still fighting. “Your homeland faces twilight! But dawn comes! Sunlight banishes even the thickest darkness! For those who can’t protect themselves, for those whom you love, and for those you protect, cast them off the walls! Fight! Fight until your bodies can no longer support you! Kill to save the living! For the future!”
“Listen to the reverend ordinand!” An enemy officer roared, and a hundred voices joined his. “Ancestors! Watch over us in our hour of need! Send the bastards to hell!”
There weren’t many soldiers on the wall yet. Cold sweat covered Dokholkhu as he realized that the Brood were still climbing up. Opened balconies halted them, and only he and several Purebloods had reached the top. Swallowing his fear, he charged at the enemy, his sword in a double grip. Together with the two Purebloods, they faced the brazen ordinand. The man’s mace was seemingly everywhere; it blocked a Pureblood’s dagger, and the pistol shot him in the eye. Then its knob struck the other Pureblood in the throat as the ordinand took Dokholkhu’s blade on his pistol.
They were left alone. The soldiers closed in, brandishing their bayonets and firing at close range, denying them from climbing up. The ordinand mace crashed at Dokholkhu’s curved sword, and the man pulled it down, trying to break the Brood’s fingers. Dokholkhu headbutted him, but it only cracked his own chitin plate and sent the man back a step. Not even a dent appeared on his visor, and the young man dove to the side to avoid a shot.
“Father! Brood Lord Khan!” he said into the communicator, panting heavily and trying to block the rain of blows. Heavy. He was an Abnormal, his body enhanced by the protective exoskeleton he wore. The molecular blade in his arms was designed to cleave through the regular steel. Yet this dusty, old-fashioned mace endured, and the man’s strength overpowered him. “I need help! Right now!”
“Noted, but I have a situation.” Brood Lord replied, not even looking at his son. The HUD showed the khan advancing toward the stairs leading down; his shot speared through two Dirtybloods serving Iron Lord and tore an enemy officer in two. “Gotta secure the gold in the banks.”
“Father, please.” Dokholkhu licked his lips. Another heavy blow of the mace tore at his cheek, sending his helmet flying. “I’ll die!”
“Sad, but such is the fate of children to sacrifice themselves to ensure their father’s goals. Do make it count; I’ll promise to mourn you later.” Brood Lord’s voice came from the gorget of the Brood’s armor.
Heavy swings rained on Dokholkhu as he tried his best to survive. Fear, not for himself but for his brothers and sisters, gave him strength. He gritted his teeth and tried to kick the bastard back, using his front legs, but the ordinand pushed ahead, his gun blasting fist-sized holes in the climbing up soldiers. The man’s situational awareness and skill made all the difference. Even using a single arm, he was overwhelming Dokholkhu.
“Sinner,” Dokholkhu froze, hearing the screech behind him. A weight, part of the torn wall, flew past him, beating away the mace directed at his exposed head, and the young man exhaled a sigh of relief.
Not at him. The sentence wasn’t directed at him.
Taloned hands lifted the climbing figure. The head priest was completely naked, except for bone necklaces wrapped around his body and sharp fetishes in his long hair. Pitch-black feathers grew down the length of his limbs; despite the climb, he breathed easily, his bird-like, round eyes locked at the ordinand.
“Sinner?” the ordinand asked, raising the hand above his head and holding his gun close to his body. “Why are you calling me so? Have I sinned against you in the past?”
“You stand in our path,” the priest stated. His talons moved, and Dokholkhu obeyed and stepped away.
“There is many a sin I have committed, and my penance is long. But by the Planet’s holy name and spirit, it is no sin to stand against you,” the ordinand said. “It is right to stand against the merciless invaders, who bring woe where peace reigns, and tears to the eyes of children.”
“Right?” Dalantai screeched so loudly that a prickle of pain touched Dokholkhu’s eardrums. “You dare persist in your blasphemy? How can you be right when I am stronger?”
“You judge rightness by mere strength?” the ordinand inquired.
“What else is there to judge by?” The priest gestured at the dead around. “The strong desire, the weak give in or suffer. That is the part of the natural order set by the Sky. Your false sermons have led these poor souls astray, shaman. Their children will weep because of you.” The talons beckoned the man in the dark robe. “Let us dispel these inflicted delusions. Play the part.”
Another gun slipped into the ordinand’s free arm, and he fired. The bullets flew past Dokholkhu, one aimed between the priest’s eyes and another at his heart. Both projectiles stopped in midair, several centimeters from their targets.
“They’ll never reach me,” Dalantai said, stepping past them. His opponent fired again. “These were never fired.” Twin booms exploded the guns before the priest had finished speaking. The weapons weren’t damaged; they slipped from the ordinand’s hands, disassembling into their natural components. Dalantai closed the distance in a single step and grabbed the enemy priest by the neck. “Tell me. Have you ever heard of a creature calling itself God…” he hesitated, closing his face to the helmet. “Or of the White Raven?”
“What are you talking about?” the man whispered, struggling to speak as the talons crumpled his gorget. He grabbed Dalantai’s wrist, but the priest ignored feeble attempts to break his bones.
“One is a blasphemer, a self-proclaimed deity who torments God’s child. And the vision of another intrudes on my dreams. I see a great bird, its wings of the brightest white, its head black, closing in on me, its talons ready to shred me apart.” A crooked laugh left his lips. “Let the apparition try! I will not run from my fate! I will strike it down and grind its bones to dust!”
“I have no idea of whom you speak,” the ordinand squeezed out the words. “My deity is the Planet.”
“Is that so?” Dalantai tilted his head, forgetting about the battle raging around. “Let us test your devotion. A thousand years of punishment shall suffice.”
His talons released the man, and Dokholkhu heard a low whine as a cage of blurred air closed around the ordinand. The man’s body twisted and jerked, performing hundreds of movements in a single second as every ounce of pain he had ever known in his life was returned to him. But there was no relief. When one injury was over, another would appear, and the agony of the previous one still lingered. Death was denied to the person trapped in the stasis of time; each injury was healed the instant it appeared, just to reappear again, but the brain experienced the pain in full, adapted to a different time-stream by Dalantai’s power.
This was the true terror of Mad Hatter’s chief adviser and the Horde’s spiritual leader. Ancient he was, born long before the great khatun, and he still looked young. His gifts allowed him to stretch space itself and manipulate time. His visions located the unborn Mad Hatter after the fiercest glowing storm that spawned countless mutants. So many have tried to usurp him, and all have failed.
To anger him was worse than death. Back in the steppes, in the Sacred Mountain, there was a gallery. It was a showcase of human bodies in unimaginable agony.
A snap of the fingers freed the man from the cage, and the ordinand splattered on the ground before the shocked eyes of the defenders. Not a shred of self-control or intellect remained in the man as he screamed, rolling around, foaming from the mouth. The scream paused only to suck in more air and then immediately resumed. It wasn’t a man’s scream; it was the desperate cry of a collapsed mind, begging for resolution, unable to go on.
“How frail you are, how pitiful your god is. Fall to it and bother me not,” Dalantai sang. The man’s torn robes turned into rolls of cloth, his armor separated into ingots, microchips, wires, shining generators, and other stuff. The naked person shrank, rapidly becoming younger; scars disappeared from his body, but the madness in his eyes persisted. The man de-aged into a teen, the teen into a kid, and the child was reduced to a fetus. Dalantai stomped, reducing the writhing mass into a blood smear.
Silence descended upon this section of the wall. Both the invaders and the defenders were horrified in equal measure. The roar from the palace distracted everyone as the surface-to-surface missiles were launched to wreak untold havoc. They soared high, and then something thundered as cuts split them apart. Mad Hatter had deemed it important to intervene in person.
People on the streets, civilians, defenders, and invaders alike, yelled in panic as the burning rubble began to fall. Dalantai waved his arm, and the debris changed direction, rolling down an unseen chute and then exploding into bright domes on the horizon.
“Have your eyes opened at last?” Dalantai spread his arms. “Your gods are mere idols, unworthy of notice. Your toys won’t help you. The Sky is real. His gifts are real. Bow and…” His talon moved, stopping a bullet fired at him. “Yield, I say!” roared the chief priest and swung his arm, locking dozens of soldiers into stasis of pain. “Yield and serve! Bow to the Sky’s Daughter!”
“Bow to the Khatun!” The Horde’s warriors chanted and charged ahead, cutting down the last remnants of the feeble resistance.
More screeching filled the walls, and the Raptor Unit swooped in, unleashed at last. These Purebloods were blessed; streaks of flames, acid, warping of reality itself came from their hands as they assailed the defenders, enjoying the total air superiority after the defenders’ guns had ceased firing.
“Devotion is rewarded, Dokholkhu,” Dalantai said to him after the struggle was over and the soldiers began to descend. “Sky’s servants are never alone. Something is on your mind. Speak.”
Dokholkhu wanted to keep his mouth shut, but the priest’s black eyes were on him, digging into his temple in anticipation of an answer. To lie was unthinkable, inconceivable, unless he wanted to experience the same agony as the priest’s victims.
“I… was scared,” Dokholkhu said, and the priest moved. He embraced the warrior, gently pressing the young man’s head against his chest.
“It is understandable,” Dalantai said softly, speaking in a human voice. The screeching was gone. “Only demigods and madmen are not afraid of battle or getting hurt.”
“I hate war,” Dokholkhu admitted.
“Of course you do,” Dalantai drew back and nodded. “Who in their right mind loves it? But there will always be war. Be it for authority or riches or respect, people will keep killing each other over nothing till the end of time. It is naive to think otherwise. Violence courses in our veins. But!” The shaman raised a finger and smiled. “We’ll hurt war. One of the causes of deaths is faith. Differences in it have led to total exterminations in the past. But as we tear falsehoods away and unite the entire world under a single religion, this reason for war will disappear. Is this not the greatest act of pacifism? Let it sustain you, child, for we will strike a blow against war itself!” Dalantai stood and faced the city. Behind him, the stasis cages exploded, releasing gasping people, who spasmed and soon went limp as the shock stopped their hearts. “Tell me, Dokholkhu. Have you ever heard of the White Raven?”
“Until today, never,” Dokholkhu put a hand over his heart. “Who is it, holy father?”
The priest gave him a long look and breathed. Dokholkhu was simply happy to be here. He did not believe in Dalantai’s reasoning; the life taught him that nothing lasted, and no place remained empty. But his daring charge somehow ended with him leading the Brood today, and his kin waited away from the slaughterhouse.
“Many visions have I seen. Not all are meant to be, for I carefully sift through them to aid the Gilded Horde navigate the myriad paths that lead to the future,” Dalantai said slowly. “But in every single variation of what is to come, I see the same thing. The White Raven challenges me. Where and when? What’s the outcome? Never have I faced difficulty divining the exact time. Before, if I pushed myself, I could predict entire lives, down to their hair and where they would lose it. Now everything is muddy. I had heard that the Reclamation Army has minions capable of disrupting gifts such as mine… But it does not worry me. What is meant to happen will happen.” He shrugged. “Come, young warrior. Let us attend to the inevitable.”