Our honor is lost. Bertruda thought, deflecting an incoming shot with her spear.

Around her, the defenders formed a circle, guarding the civilians inside. Shields vibrated, withstanding the never-ending onslaught of exploding grenades and fired weapons. It seemed like an eternity since Bertruda and her troops had arrived at Quatindor to expedite the evacuation of the Order’s assets and personnel. What they found there exceeded their worst fears.

Quatindor was burning.

The Gilded Horde’s advance was like a roaring sandstorm, its soldiers a living multicolored wall that swept away any defense. With communications disrupted, warnings from the Provincial Army were of little use. Dozens of heavily armored vehicles had been captured by the invaders in the hangars; hundreds more exploded into pieces as the mechanics activated self-destruct systems, denying the Horde any gains. Not lacking in dedication, but hopelessly outmatched in firepower, the state’s soldiers were cut down in the streets or pummeled by artillery fire, unable to hold the line until the Ice Fangs arrived.

Villages and hamlets on the outskirts of the town were already subjugated, unable to so much as phone the capital. Precision artillery had rained down a powerful barrage of shells on the city, leveling army bases and causing crippled men to die under tons of rubble. Siege weapons had spoken next, eliminating bunkers containing anti-infantry missiles before they could fire, then punching holes in the walls for the Horde to pour in unopposed.

There could be only one answer for the cause of such chaos. Betrayal. Bertruda was not as effective a leader as Camelia, First, or Leonidas. But she was the first to voice her fears over the comms, and the sword saints had agreed with her assessment. The Gilded Horde had moved too fast and struck too well to attribute this success to mere coincidence. First had given his order. Preserve the future at all costs.

Quatindor’s Knight Academy, a place for their children to study the arts of politics and war in secret from the lower classes, came under fire. Praise be the Spirits, its walls had endured that hellish hail where a random ricocheting shell collapsed nearby apartments, but soon after units of the Provincial Army were overwhelmed, the infantry closed in, believing this place to be a military installation. Instructors, hired mercenaries, and teachers had fought bravely, building a barricade of corpses large enough to hide the entrance gate, but the advance of the elites had pushed them back.

It was then that Bertruda, Leonidas, and Macarius arrived, bringing righteous fury of vengeance upon the misbegotten curs. They divided their forces and confronted the invaders in several districts, while the sages prepared the grand trap envisioned by Leonidas. Though Bertruda had originally intended to save just her own kind, she and her knights had ended up taking everyone along with them, retreating in an orderly fashion to the north. Whether Normie, Mutant, Orais, or even a disgusting, unworthy of life, Malformed, all were taken. The survivors of the Provincial Army filled their ranks, adding their shots to even the insurmountable odds.

Defenders moved down the main street, wielding their round shields with both paws. These men and women were among the largest of the Ice Fangs, several of them approaching Bertruda’s own height. Intense training had cracked and reforged their bones; their muscles were ropes of steel that matched the calmness of their nerves. A downpour of rockets, grenades, gunfire, and even the occasional shell rained down upon them. Linked together, the force fields of their shields held up, cracking slightly as an occasional shot passed through the defenses, damaging the armor.

Reloaded by servants and assisting soldiers, rotary turrets mounted on the defenders’ shoulders whirled, singing their fatal song. Guided by data from the shared visual feed, their shots vaporized three raiders down to their ankles and forced the rest to duck into the cover of their heavy mobile armor.

Foot soldiers lurked in the buildings, finding the confused civilians and guiding them to safety. In the narrow alleys, Mountaintop Knights waited, ready to spring into action at the first sign of an overconfident foe. Not nearly as fabled as their comrades of more prestigious houses, they stabbed the hordemen into the joints of their armor, pinning them to the ground and brutally stomping on the helmets, offering no clemency and asking for none. The knights fired their handguns sparingly, conserving ammunition.

Hunters traversed across the rooftops; their sniper rifles soundlessly firing bullets traveling at a thousand meters per second. Whatever they hit, they penetrated, ending lives or claiming limbs. Watching through the lenses of their comrades, the hunters gracefully adjusted their hunting grounds, dodging counterattacks, ducking from explosions, and peering out just in time to land a single shot through a hordeman’s visor.

Her Mountain Guard—an elite group of eighteen bodyguards who handled their enormous tower shields with the same ease as if they were mere buckets of water—supported Bertruda at the front. Their double-edged axes rose and fell in an arc of deadly force, severing away the arms and legs of the assailants. Automatic cannons installed in their right wrists spat out bursts of bullets, shredding the enemy ranks.

And still on and on they came, a sea of golden and steel enemies. They advanced not as maddened raiders but as cautious fighters, with heavy assault teams firing rocket launchers to set rooftops ablaze and drive away the lightly protected hunters. Next rushed in their version of regulars, ordinary humans in exoskeleton armor, best fit to blunt the blades of Ice Fangs on a better day. But their numbers were many, and the knights had to guard their allies, limiting their ability to maneuver gracefully across the battlefield. Bullets rattled against the battleplates, denting and cracking them, softening the Ice Fangs.

Troop carriers accompanied this rabble, driving in to permit the regulars to retreat. Engineers swiftly replaced damaged protection on the regulars’ exosuits, and field medics injected the survivors with adrenaline, motivating them to continue the assault, backed by the transports’ heavy cannons. Behind the regulars advanced the killing force, the New Breeds of the Horde, each wielding a sharp sword and firing from an oversized rifle.

The two sides met in battle more than once, and so far, the Ice Fangs have beaten back every attempt to disrupt their ranks. Their foes weren’t stupid and aimed to reach the civilians, judging rightly that the Mountaintops’ defenses would be crippled if they were threatened. So far, every attempt had been repelled, and several troop carriers were reduced to smoldering piles of smoke.

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Bertruda anguished, seeing her knights dying, their bodies trampled. Even her Mountain Guard, the pride and joy of the Mountaintops Household, struggled, numerous cracks covering their no longer shining armor, their cloaks reduced to tatters. It wasn’t how the Ice Fangs fought. The Ice Fangs were blades, capable of breaching the fortified position to swiftly reach the neck. They poured in like a flood and retreated like a low tide under the supporting fire of their artillery. Positional warfare had negated most of the advantages given to them by the unique blend of their biology, technology given to them by the state, and training bestowed upon them by the Twins and the Blessed Mother.

Sworn never to cede even a centimeter of their homeland, to never abandon an ally, they were fleeing, dishonored.

Knight Captain Fabian fell this day, his body torn to shreds, his unit eliminated to the last man. His squire did her best to retrieve her master’s body, only to have a merciless metal greave break her gentle neck. Escaria, Scothia, and Mourntul, the venerable members of the Mountain Guard who had witnessed the founding of House Mountaintop, had lost their lives to give several families a chance to reach the defenders. Even in death, the cruelty did not end. Bertruda’s eyes glowed with rage as the barbarians began to strip the noble knights of their armor, hacking at their limbs and laughing in guttural voices.

Enough.

Bertruda abandoned her usual restrained and composed self, embracing the raging beast that had met Warlord Janine. That rage had surprised her then—never before had the young sword saint been so hard pressed. That rage had surprised her then. Today, she willingly called upon that flawed part of herself and used her spear as a pole, leaping over her guard and landing on several attackers. The weight of her armor alone broke them, but she wasn’t done yet. A stab from her spear left a hole in a New Breed’s head, murdering the hordeman. Before his body understood its death, streams of energy were spat from under her vambraces, setting five hordemen alight.

Taking advantage of the confusion, she used the suddenly freed space to spin her spear, cleaving through bodies. The sword saint advanced in a crimson mist as the defenders opened fire, annihilating the surrounding enemies.

Too slow. Droplets of blood that looked like rose petals, pieces of flesh, and even bullets slowed to a crawl. She danced forward, evading bullets, swinging and stabbing with Elegance, reaping lives. A flick of her wrist took away a raider’s hands. A simple kick left another headless. Plasma dischargers spat heat again, exploding the generators of the fallen Mountain Guard and sending them on their last journey in dignified pillars of flame that engulfed the nearby hordemen.

Bertruda’s eyes caught a fast-moving target, and she stepped aside to catch a hoverbike on her spear. The sword saint’s lips parted in a cold smile as she heard the rider’s gasp. Because of her sheer speed, Elegance ran full length through the crude metal toy, impaling the woman. The bike exploded, sending Bertruda back to the ranks of her troops.

Our honor is lost. She landed on the shoulders of her guards, only to have sweet Tlan, a knight who had served her predecessor, die. An energy beam lanced through a gap between two APCs, melting its way through the man’s chest. Loyal to the last, Tlan somehow kept his body upright, refusing to let his liege fall. Only when Bertruda’s feet touched the ground did Tlan topple. Another pillar of House Mountaintop was lost.

Death awaited everyone, and though he died with honor, Bertruda caught him, grieving and blinking away tears. Tlan taught her how to wield Elegance. His strict and wise drills had guided the young knight-captain to fit into the boots of a sword saint when her former liege had perished in war. Gentle and stern, the man had never refused aid or any of her requests, and now he was dead. Torn from her life. By them.

So many. She had labored so hard, and under her leadership, the household had prospered. No longer were they the ones who had to prostrate themselves for profitable marriages with the First Houses, but the Wintersongs had sought her cousin out for a rich pact to supply the development of sonic weaponry. Bertruda had planned to put Tlan in charge of the project, both to honor his century of service and to enrich the House’s gene pool. That dream was gone. Her troops, the future of the Order, were dying!

“I’ll carry him, lass!” An Orais easily hoisted the three tons of steel over his shoulders. “Don’t you worry, I won’t let the bastards desecrate him,” he said with a groan.

Once again, Bertruda was humbled. In her arrogance, she viewed outsiders as lesser beings, not as sophisticated or strong. Allies, yes, but in general they were considered inferior. And look at them now! The Province Army troops formed a circle around them, firing their rifles to keep the enemy pinned down, while two Orais readied their rocket launchers and lobbed rocket after rocket into a crack in the APC, exploding its engine along with the driver. Their comrades threw incendiary grenades over them, setting much of the road ablaze. Everyone was risking their lives for the cause.

Nobility exists in everyone. She reminded herself of the Protector Oath, spinning back into the battle. Prejudice was as dangerous as isolation. It clouded a fighter’s focus and distracted him from making the right decisions.

“You wish to claim a sword saint’s life? Why throw your lives away so uselessly, you stinking pigs? You will not be able to afford the price of such a deed!” Bertruda laughed, the dynamics of her helmet amplifying her boast tenfold. “Run or perish! That’s the choice left for vultures!”

A wave of rage invigorated Bertruda, and her helmet responded to the command, slipping from her jaws. She didn’t care if her enemies understood her; she turned grief into strength, fueling the hatred that burned in her chest. Elegance’s swings lacked grace, but even those struck by her shaft were no longer able to stand. Bertruda welcomed with open arms a group of brave fools who charged at her, angered by the mockery in her tone. In unison, they struck, one aiming for her knee joint, another swinging at her gorget, the third launching an overhead slash aimed at her shoulder, and several more firing.

The sword saint exploded outward, ripping a hordeman’s throat with her claws. Her jaws snapped, a fang shattered, but the bite still went through the helmet of the assailant who was aiming for her neck. She caught his arms in a grip between her armpit and her arm and snapped them, biting away at his face, ignoring the rules and regulations of not exposing her open mouth to the air. A chunk of flesh slid down her throat and she swallowed, not even horrified at the blatant disregard of First’s teachings.

Was that how Janine perceived a battlefield? Was everything a weapon to her, a tool to be used to preserve life? The corpse was thrown into incoming bullets, and then Elegance skewered the woman who had tried to cut Bertruda’s knee. The sword saint’s burst of movement was so fast that the hordewoman didn’t even register her disappearance, and her blade had passed through empty air. A twist of Elegance ended this miserable life.

“Death to the dealers of death!” Bertruda roared a war cry of her cousins, a war cry of her divine aunt, surprised at how easily it came to her. She fired plasma again and stepped through the flames resulting from the exploded generators of the dead hordemen. Elegance tapped the stone in time with her step, her cloak resisting the fire, and her tongue licked blood from the cuts made on her lips by the propelled steel shards. “I carry a tittle of a sword saint,” Bertruda growled, decapitating an overly brave hordeman with a single swing. “But for you morsels, I am the devil incarnate. Step forth and die!”

The horde’s infantry recoiled, shocked at the calm ferocity, but then the ground shook in response to her challenge.