Dokholkhu hardly remembered what happened next. When he glanced back, he saw Jaliqai next to himself. The girl’s arm went limp; one of her four legs had snapped, but her rifle had killed a soldier aiming at his back. Out of the brood, sixty-eight died, leaving just forty alive despite Dalantai’s assistance. But they were at the main keep’s walls, a proud towering building that oversaw the city below!

Thanks to Iron Lord’s preparation, the losses from the bombardment were limited. Shells that tore through the shield found troops hidden in the trenches and vehicles protected by the earthen walls. Armor carriers delivered their packages to the breaches; soldiers used siege equipment to scale the captured walls, and the enemy arsenals had already fallen.

And the lord of the city was below, blocking shots of the buzzing raiders with his weapon while his elite guard fired back, killing the riders.

“Face me!” shouted the magnificent warrior in golden power armor and raised his sword high in the air. “If you are half the man you claim to be, Iron Lord, come and face me!”

The claymore in the man’s hand exploded into a rainbow of light, blinding the raiders. This unnatural light, a miracle of the Old World, had pierced through the lenses, and the hordemen veered off course and smashed against the stone. The lord’s legs carried him on, making almost impossibly elegant moves for a gigantic three-meter-tall body. In three mighty swings, he ended eight lives, and the bikes exploded in his wake as the man marched on, intending to either push the foes out of his city or die trying. There were traces of battle on his armor; a pauldron was missing, his visor was cracked, blood spurted from cracks in his armor, and he probably battled against exhaustion by overdosing on drugs. This king wasn’t a coward.

His guard followed him, loyal to the fault, aiming to face the towering figure that rode inside the courtyard. Iron Lord. He came to collect the prize, holding his position behind the troops, the grisly remains of the defenders dangling from his glaive, while the conquerors scoured the streets behind him, gathering the population.

The rest of the leaders came to join Iron Lord. Impossibly thin Phaser caused reality itself to shatter around his claws, and small passages leading to the realms unknown lingered in the air at the touch of his fingers. Drozna, a beast of hardened muscles and ferocity, approached Iron Lord from behind. His oversized hands carried no weapons; gore and crimson belonging to the defenders covered his body. Slavetaker, a man of similar stature, shoved Brood Lord’s bodyguard away from Iron Lord and slammed his machete into the ground, his cloak of flayed skin billowing in the air. Widowmaker, a tall and utterly rabid woman, still laughing from the thrill of the battle, flanked Iron Lord from the other side, hungrily eyeing the twins, killers in Brood Lord’s employ. The brother and sister, dressed in matching domino suits, lurked in the background; a mask of one of them had a laughing face painted on it, while the second had a mask of a grief-stricken man. They bowed gracefully, responding to the minor khatun’s attention. And others came too—the strongest and most merciless fighters of the horde, Abnormals and Purebloods with few equals.

For a second, it looked as if two groups would collide: a man in golden armor facing a man in steel armor, sword against glaive, for the best man to win. Dokholkhu knew why the enemy leader had rushed out, abandoning safe positions in the courtyard. Civilians were rushing toward the castle, and their noble leader was prepared to give his life to buy them time.

Alas, it was not to be. Dokholkhu learned and learned well, that there was no justice in this world. Drozna stomped, and a wave of rage emanated from him, forcing the most weak-willed of the defenders to turn their weapons on each other in confusion. The king turned back, stunned by a sudden call to mindless violence that had sparked in his mind. Every single grievance and frustration he had ever experienced in his life came back to him, turned up to eleven. His discipline held, his people’s did not. Civilians and soldiers alike clawed and tore at their friends, and gunfire speared those who tried to escape.

And in the midst of it all, Brood Lord leapt from the castle, and with horror, Dokholkhu saw a screaming infant in his pincer hand. Striding proudly, Brood Lord approached to the frozen-in-fear ruler, dangling his crying son before his very eyes.

“Please…” the man whispered before Brood Lord spat acid. The cracked lenses of the helmet did a poor job of holding it back, and the man screamed, reaching for his eyes as his vision was obscured. Immediately, the twins were on him, hacking at his sides.

The lord swung blindly, driving them back, and Phaser stepped out of an opened portal behind him. His claws passed through the king’s swordarm with disgusting ease, taking it away. Drozna charged in next, kicking the man through the fountain in the center of the courtyard with enough force to shatter the golden breastplate. Brood Lord tossed the infant aside and hacked away at the man’s knees, not allowing him the dignity of facing the end standing.

Finally, Iron Lord closed in; the tread of his thundering bull flattened the few remaining loyal defenders. His steel mask’s white lenses dispassionately examined the writhing in pain man, and the golden glaive struck. The disruption field formed around the edge, breaking the molecular bonds of the gorget and sending the head flying.

“The Gilded Horde has conquered!” Iron Lord’s augmented voice boomed loud enough to shake the windows. He thrust his weapon skyward, and the surrounding khans roared in support, ignoring the dead and dying around them.

Hundreds stormed into the palace, ending the last few pockets of resistance and dragging away precious paintings, artwork, and historical records. Simple things were flung into flames; precious metalwork was melted down as weeping servants watched the rich history of the royal house reduced to ashes. The Gilded Horde will spare nothing; no statue will be left untouched, and no artistically crafted staircase will be permitted to stay.

“Greetings, my dear friends!” Brood Lord spread his mighty shoulders, his voice sounding surprisingly soft for his enormous bulk, and the countless golden amulets around his neck chattered in rhythm with his many steps as he advanced toward the traitors who gave the information to the horde. Only they, the doctors and scientists, will be protected. Dalantai joined him, silently watching for Mad Hatter. “We will now discuss how this place will be run.”

Dokholkhu jumped off the wall, relieved that the fighting was over. He knew what would happen next. The traitors will be celebrated before the entire city and put in charge. Naturally, no one will trust the bastards, and this will spark rebellions in the horde’s absence. But therein lay his father’s cruel plan. The Gilded Horde did not care for cities; they lived on the distant steppes, where the only buildings were the weapons factories. Cities led to false security, to a desire to settle down, and in turn to weakening and decline. Khans coveted farms and mines to feed their khaganates and pay the Merchants. Their minions held cities and towns, but a careful stroking of hatred ensured constant infighting so that none would ever be strong enough to break free from the oppressors.

In the corner lay the forgotten infant, screaming at the top of his lungs because of his broken arm. Dokholkhu picked the child up as gently as he could with his pincer arm and headed into the palace. He knew what his father would do later. Brood Lord will taste women, and in a week their wombs will explode, sending forth a new and for a time mindless brood. Dokholkhu could not save them.

But he could save someone.

****

Dokholkhu came upon two soldiers standing guard nervously before the inner chambers of the ruler’s family. The men clearly wanted to be with the others, to pillage and loot, and Dokholkhu took advantage of this.

“Leave,” he told them, striding forward.

“But our orders,” one of them tried to say, and the boy grabbed the fool by the neck, silencing him.

“My prize.” His eyes glowed in the corridor's darkness as his fingers bent the metal gorget. “Leave and find something else to amuse yourself.”

Dokholkhu’s body ached; several of his chitin plates were missing, his armor was in tatters, and one finger on his human hand was broken. But something in his eyes had convinced the guards to quickly nod and walk away, allowing him to enter the vandalized room. He handed the child to a weeping woman in a crimson gown and looked down at the frail woman and several servants, including a few older people who bore a resemblance to the dead ruler, but were smaller.

The place itself was a mess. The once rich bed had been torn to shreds when Brood Lord came through the ceiling earlier. One of the three infant cribs was smashed, and something red within it twisted the young man’s stomach in disgust. The other kid was alive; thank the Sky.

“Do you have a way out? A secret tunnel, anything?” Dokholkhu asked, and the woman stopped crying and retreated, worried. He grimaced, clenched his fist in anger, and tried to speak more clearly. Common was a difficult language. “I am not joking. They will kill you. Listen to me, and your two remaining children will live.”

“There is a tunnel, but…” The woman’s eyes flashed with concern, and Dokholkhu turned around. The same two guards from before had returned.

They said nothing, seeing their fate in his eyes. Their hands reached for weapons, but before either could pull the trigger, Dokholkhu’s pincer hand closed around the neck of one, ripping the man’s head from his body. The second guard gasped for air as a stinger emerged from his chest.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“What are you doing?” Jaliqai dropped the dead man. The older girl closed her face to his, nearly head-butting him. “The father is going to murder us for this!”

“And yet you decided to help. Thank you, sister.” Dokholkhu grinned back, turning his head toward the people. “He can’t kill us if he never learns of it. Accidents happen.”

“I can’t believe I am helping with this madness,” his sister said. “And for whom? Normies! They would’ve left us to rot at the first opportunity! Nobody cares about the Brood but the Brood.”

“Oh, don’t say such harsh words!” They whirled at the sound of laughter. Ulagchi, the Cupbearer and their father’s current favorite sycophant, clapped his hands in the corridor, and a stinky line joined his palms. Three more Purebloods raised their weapons. “I’d be delighted to see you burn…” Hearing heavy stomping footsteps, his pale-lipped grin widened. “And it seems we are not a…”

A line appeared across his lower jaw, on the necks and shoulders of the Purebloods. None of the warriors had managed to so much as gasp as their heads left their bodies and pieces of stone fell from the cut corridor, leaving a single figure standing against the Brood siblings.

He was entombed into a heavy suit of metal, devoid of gold jewelry and amulets. A shoulder cannon moved, taking aim at the young people. His lenses were illuminated by a pale light like his master’s, but instead of a glaive, the member of Iron Lord’s elite guard wielded a large axe with which he decapitated four people at once. Were it not for his generator, he could easily be mistaken for a metal statue.

“Dokholkhu, son of Brood Lord.” The boy slapped himself over the chest. “Have you come to kill us?”

“Mehmed, son of Iron Lord,” in the warrior introduced himself. There was no static to disturb his worn tone. “Brood Lord looked funny at my father. He sent me to slap the bitch. It is done. Had I wanted to kill you, I’d already done so.”

The siblings said nothing. They wanted their potential opponent to think they were vulnerable or weak. The hulking behemoths in Iron Lord’s employ often overestimated the thickness of their plates and underestimated the resilience of a human body. Dokholkhu raised a hand and stopped Jaliqai. Perhaps there is no need for a fight?

“What are you doing?” Mehmed asked, and his lenses flickered, zooming in on the room. “I see. Might as well help. I have a map for planned external raids.”

“And how do we know you won’t betray us?” Jaliqai asked calmly.

“Do you enjoy murdering children?” Mehmed asked her, and the girl shrugged and accepted his reasoning.

In the end, everything was easier than they had expected. There was a tunnel that led straight out of the chambers to a small underground river. Dokholkhu helped the Normies get there by removing the debris left by his father and giving them the weapons of the dead guards. Even now, their chances of survival were slim, for the raiders would be plundering the area for weeks to come. But at least he had done something.

Together, the three traitors set the room ablaze, feeding corpses to the flames and hiding every sign of their involvement. The legend was simple: Ulagchi’s group got into an argument over women and riches and got themselves killed after a lamp fell over while they fought.

“Not sure I like it.” Mehmed scratched his chin. “Father hoped to leave a message.”

“Then you’d be the target,” Dokholkhu told him. “Brood Lord doesn’t forgive insults…”

“You give that whore too much credit.” The iron warrior hoisted his axe over his shoulder. “If you ever need help pulling off a stunt like that, call me; I don’t mind helping. And I saw you leading the Brood. When the time comes, stand aside. Iron Lord’s beef with Brood Lord, not with the Brood.”

“What makes you think he can win?” Jaliqai inquired.

“In the war between the conventional and the unconventional, the conventional always prevails!” Mehmed laughed. “Come to my tent later. Father gives us good and kind healers.”

****

They found the khans feasting before the titanic statue of the former king. It stood taller than most buildings, sword to the sky, its hand outstretched toward the people below. In the days before the conquest, the people must have used this place for prayers or ceremonies. Now the conquerors were celebrating here, and someone had already shot out the eyes of the statue.

Wooden planks were laid all around the square, and underneath them were the city’s defenders—those soldiers who refused to bend the knee to the new rulers—groaning and screaming. And the khans and their closest subordinates sat on these planks, laughing and drinking, shifting their bodies slightly when a bone or an organ of mutilated people below them burst or cracked. The stone statue watched them, its inspiring smile turning more and more into a horrified scowl formed by the shadows cast by the dancing fires.

Brood Lord surrounded himself with the ring of his champions and supplicants; the mercenaries from outside the Horde had formed a protective circle around their employer, knowing full well what awaited them should he die. Iron Lord sat surrounded by his children, their helmetless heads far too small for their massive armor. This surprised Dokholkhu.

In the Horde, children served as a continuation of the bloodline. Each parent knew their offspring might one day overtake them, and kept them at arm’s length, elevating the weakest to foster competition and divert the attention of the strongest. To die in one’s bed, surrounded by a family too frightened to end you, was considered the pinnacle of a successful life, and any life-prolonging medicine was frowned upon. You came into the world when Heaven ordained, and you went out at the end of your natural lifespan.

Iron Lord seemingly ignored these rules, boosting himself through the science. Rumor had it that he treated his wife and concubines kindly, and rarely used a whip to discipline his children, instead enlisting them in his personal guard and transplanting his mechanical knowledge upon them when they reached adulthood, elevating them above Dirtybloods and close to Purebloods. Several of his guards kept vigil even now, standing silently alongside automatic turrets.

“Dokholkhu, Jaliqai!” Their father called them, spreading his arms. His nose was red from the alcohol he had consumed. “Come, sit by me. Let us drink and sing before the next conquest!”

“Why should we continue?” The grey-haired Mungke Khan grumbled. He was an old ruler who had pledged ten thousand people to the horde when he overthrew his father as a sixteen-year-old. Today, he had over thirty thousand warriors guarding his domain and more in the army. “We have conquered enough land to feed us for millennia to come. Why should we bother with these desolate lands any longer?”

“Are you challenging my rule, Mungke?” A single voice cut through all the celebration, turning the blood of every member of the horde into ice. Only the tortured soldiers continued to groan, begging for a quick release from death.

Jaliqai wept and prostrated herself, her body shaking, and Dokholkhu followed her example, casting a glance at the statue’s head. Mad Hatter. She came in person. The woman was head and shoulders taller than the tallest khan; her body, covered in exquisite furs, had a chubby appearance, but Dokholkhu knew how deceptive looks could be. Incomparable muscles and unbreakable bones were hidden under a protective layer of fat. Her legendary fury had united the Gilded Horde into a unified force that had devoured entire countries. She wore a simple leather cap that covered her head like a suction cup, and a long feather swayed in the wind. A golden half-mask covered the woman’s upper face, revealing her bloodshot eyes and two trickles of blood running down her chin.

“Mungke Khan meant no disrespect, Khan of Khans.” Brood Lord folded all six of his insectoid legs and bowed to the supreme rider of the skies. “Arkhi simply got to his head, that’s all.”

“Yes,” the elderly Khan said quickly. “Pray forgive my impertinence, oh peerless ruler.”

Mad Hatter jumped off the statue, landing on the wooden planks. The wood splintered, unable to endure her weight, and small torrents of blood splashed upward, forming a brief crimson halo around the woman. She ignored it and walked toward the khans, killing a soldier with every step. Servants gave her a wooden cup of buttered milk tea as an appetizer.

“Have you found any mention of him?” Mad Hatter asked Dalantai.

“No. We have tortured the shamans, but they know of no god fitting your description,” the priest replied.

“A pity. What land is next?”

“The Reclamation Army.” Iron Lord reported. He was the only one who hadn’t removed his helmet. He used an analyzer to check his food and drinks before taking any. “Their lands are just to the northeast of us. We will be ready to leave in a few weeks after we receive supplies. I caution against advancing sooner. Our new booty is quite large; it would be disastrous if we ran out of ammunition in the middle of the conquest.”

“In the meantime, we have learned something,” Brood Lord eagerly interjected. “My agents have already found us moles in Houstad, one of their richest capitals. Our mole has revealed that the Reclaimers are responsible for wiping out the raiding party led by Sky Lord and my dearest son... What was his name again?”

“Chimbai,” Dokholkhu said. Chimbai is dead? Sure, he was insane as a rat, but among the brood, he survived the longest, enduring sixteen winters, the father’s tortures, and countless raids. How did he die? Wait, Sky Lord was with him; does that mean…

“Ah, yes, him. How sad. These Reclaimers also butchered Sky Lord Khan,” Brood Lord continued. At this revelation, the Khans murmured, plotting to take his lands and worrying over whoever was strong enough to match him in combat. “So I plan to return the favor. While we are waiting, me and the others will pay a visit to this Houstad, stir up things a bit, and help our mole get into a more advantageous position to aid with the coming conquest.”

“You plan to wage war against the Reclamation Army?” The new city’s ruler paled, grasping his thin white beard. “I have heard that their champions are unrivaled in might and…”

“Brood Lord Khan, did this place share a border with the Reclaimers?” Mad Hatter asked deceptively calmly.

“It did, yes. Now we share that border. We also found some of their diplomats, as they called themselves, in an embassy nearby.” Brood Lord flashed a smile. “They weren’t much of a bother to crack.”

Mad Hatter’s scimitar struck. Dokholkhu never saw the woman place her hand on the hilt or draw the blade, but what he did see was the statue behind her crack. A single line split the stone in two, and the shockwave that followed soon reduced the statue to countless pieces of stone that fell on the houses behind. The arc of air unleashed by Mad Hatter did not stop there. It cleaved through the wall and raced across the land, tearing up swaths of ground before coming to a slow halt far from the city.

The Khans fell silent. Worried about drawing Mad Hatter’s wrath upon themselves. She could have easily finished off a number of their own troops and citizens, but perhaps as part of the challenge, her cataclysmic swing was aimed for devastation, and even the guards at the wall froze, silently thanking the heavens for their salvation. The khatun had found her blades in an ancient bunker and coated them in gold to celebrate her regal blood and savage soul. Besides their incredible toughness, they had no secret technology or trick.

“I alone could have taken this city in less than an hour, but that would have decimated my future servants. If you have been free all this time, it makes the Reclaimers weak.” She returned her scimitar to its sheath. “Sky Lord’s lands are my lands. Any threatening his family is my snack. Brood Lord. They have killed a khan. Proceed as you wish, but I want the head of someone equally valuable before the fun begins.”

“As you wish.” Brood Lord bowed back. “I will see to it myself once my concubines amuse me enough.”

“The horde shall conquer all. Including false gods,” Mad Hatter told the elder, frozen with horror, and sat down, laughing and feasting beside her khans.

Dokholkhu wept, pressing his face against the wood. The khan of khans spoke true. Nothing in the entire world could escape her power. Nothing at all. He and his siblings were stuck with the father, who valued them less than bullets, and with an insatiable ruler, who would eventually see them dead in one conquest or another. They may hate, fear, loathe her, but it mattered not, for she commanded their very existence, and there was no place to run or hide. And no one could stop her.

There truly is no peace left in this world.