Mungke spread his arms wide, feeling really good as his thunder bull rammed a building. The defenders, this worthless and unskilled garbage the locals called the Provincial Army, drummed against his armor and his steed, falling alongside a shower of stone. He swung his axe, killing them by score, their blood and guts sanctifying his new domain. Warriors of his tumens streamed after him, wiping out anyone who dared raise a gun against their khan and taking a bountiful harvest of captives. Mungke himself kept charging, bringing ruin to the weak and the broken.
Iron Lord had warned him against attacking strongly, but what was there to fear here? The locals in this town were worse than slaves; they were, may the Sky forgive him, cattle. Livestock. Even slaves resisted when it was the bleeding season and the younger warriors tested their blades on their babies.
Mad Hatter forbade that practice as wasteful, but Mungke vividly remembered the second person he had killed, a fierce enslaved woman, her body covered in scars, holding a crying baby to her chest and a sharp rock in her hand. His brother had spared her and received an axe, parting his head from his body in a show of weakness.
Thousands of screaming fools tried to escape them, and not a single one thought about picking up the weapons of the dead defenders. If that was how much they valued their freedom, then the Horde was doing them a favor by chaining them to serve a higher purpose.
Struggle! This was the Gilded Horde’s way. Rather than lying and dying during famines and droughts, faithful sons and daughters of the Sky gathered into a raiding clan and invaded their neighbors, taking by force what the land denied them by right. Mungke himself had eradicated ten rival khans, dragging their useless offspring to burning pyres and offering the Sky the life essence of youth. Every victory brought spoils. Purebloods, Mungke among them, ate their fill and decorated their swollen bodies in gold, silver, and jewelry to show off their status and danger.
Big was his own clan. Forty sons, not counting the perpetually stupid dog spawn Amal, subdued the outside lands. Thousands of pureblooded and dirtyblooded sons and daughters of the Sky served him, and their numbers grew with each victory, offsetting any losses as volunteers poured in from the steppe! Over forty thousand bondsmen had joined his clan, but truth be told, no one counted them. Sky riders, sky strikers, thunder bulls, siege engines… He had it all now.
Mad Hatter was a cruel mistress. She had announced her bid for superiority in the steppes one day, mercilessly slaughtering any khan stupid enough to resist her and uniting the rest. Ancient forges and long-forgotten factories were reopened and gifted to the Merchants at her command. Any resistance soon found themselves burned alive to furnaces; their flesh and bones forever merged with newly produced weapons, and their screaming souls fed the unsatiated Sky.
But she was also generous to those in her service. Sure, a sudden word might spell your doom, and Mungke still owed his salvation to Brood Lord. But at the same time, the woman cared nothing for personal glory; her own clan was a tiny thing, governed by the elderly rather than strong-willed champions. Meanwhile, lands, slaves, food, drinks, authority… everything went straight to the lesser khans. His own lands overflowed with riches, hunger and thirst disappeared, and fresh wives brought much-needed vitality to the steppes.
Ah… He smiled and split a whimpering body in half. There will be much slaughter once I die. There will be much slaughter when I die. A most glorious war that will see his true heir emerge victorious. Such was the Gilded Horde’s way. Future through competition. Those who didn’t want to spill the blood of their kin had to go into exile, never to return.
The ground shuddered and cracked beneath the hooves of his thunder bull, and nearby cars shook in tune with the tremors. His eyes caught sight of a towering building at the end of the plaza. The high walls surrounding it had survived the energy waves of his heavy laser cannons. Mere scorch marks soiled their pristine surfaces even after artillery bombardment, and the most damage the attackers had done to them was occasional cracks.
His warriors lay dead outside the main entrance. Shot or cut to pieces. More bondsmen and purebloods advanced and were swiftly mowed down by a counterattack of blindingly fast white shadows. The famous doggies! Only these weren’t like their brethren the Horde had disposed of during the initial storming of this building. These doggies were clad in armor and wielded swords, pistols, shields, and proper ranged weapons. The bastards danced among his bondsmen, professionally drawing the purebloods into close quarters where a missed shot inevitably wounded a bondsman, while swords repeatedly thrust into less protected joints, injuring his elites.
Well, that just won’t do. Mungke’s eyes narrowed; he had given Amal a direct order to crush the resistance in this fort, to capture the doggies’ children alive and unharmed, to introduce them into his clan as purebloods, so that they would grow even stronger together. Clearly, the dumbass had run off hunting for something else.
“Call a sky striker,” Mungke said calmly when he noticed the fire coming from the high towers and roof of the fort. His fingers clenched the axe.
“I am sorry, my khan,” a warrior replied, exposing his neck in shame. “Amal has just summoned the last sky striker available to…”
“Son of a whore!” The thunder bull rose, responding to his rage. “I will drown him once the battle is won! Sky strikers are mine to command! Mine! Don’t stand shaking, fool, to battle!”
Mungke Khan lightly slammed the axe lightly against the thunder bull’s neck, sending it into an unrestrained, maddening stampede. Manholes sprang into the air. Cars toppled to the side. Bondsmen stumbled and cheered, welcoming their leader. His warriors cleared the way for Mungke’s apocalyptic passage. No more. He will tolerate this useless spawn of his no more! He had gifted him command, artillery, and soldiers, and this bastard dared to steal more precious assets and break Mungke’s leisurely conquest? Fine, he will fix Amal’s shit again, but it will be the last time!
Mungke reached the stairs leading to the grandiose building, catching a doggie upon his axe. The creature whined in agony as its body was risen into the air. Its hand moved, firing a pistol at the khan’s head. The bullet ricocheted off his helmet, and the Khan slammed the body into the ground. Two more were trampled by his trusty thunder bull, and Mungke laughed gleefully as the immense weight of his steed reduced them into pools of wreckage. His personal guard raced into the opening created by their leader, facing the defenders on a more equal footing.
The khan’s blood ran hot after a shot tore a chunk of flesh from his precious thunder bull. Several more projectiles pierced his armor, forcing the khan to wince in pain, feeling the bullets lodge in his fat. He threw his head high, and the display of his helmet marked several snipers on the roof. The generator at his back roared, fueling the visor of his helmet until its faceplate shone.
A ball of energy left his head and exploded above, dousing the camouflaged fools in a heat superior to any napalm. Edges of the building reddened and melted; corpses rolled down as the khan tapped his steed, sending it into a wild dance, while he himself spun the long axe around, cleaving through neck guards.
This place should have been his by now! Every second he and his people were busy fighting was a second Brood Lord was getting closer. Once his troops joined the fray, they could demand a share of the captured supplies and slaves, depriving Mungke’s clan of their rightful spoils! The things the inhuman degenerate did to women... Dead, tortured, or wounded slaves brought no profit!
But the damned fools fought too well! Even with their backs against the walls, the doggies still managed to form ranks and push his soldiers back here and there. Individually, they were slightly stronger than his purebloods, and combined with the fact that this fort provided them with cover and the doggies’ iron discipline, the situation simply didn’t allow him to bring forth the entire might of his clan upon the enemies.
The Horde excelled at fighting in open spaces. They would strike quickly and with little regard for casualties, testing the enemy’s defenses in one area, falling back in a fake retreat, and reducing the enemy to ashes with long-range weapons while the riders circled around the drawn-in enemies and struck from a weaker angle. Here in this kingdom of stone and steel, his troops felt suffocated.
Maybe it is best to wait for reinforcements. Mungke pondered, breaking through a pathetic excuse for an obstacle formed by three doggies wielding round shields. Their rotary cannons were nothing compared to the annoying stingers of the snipers, and the bullets bounced off his faithful beast and his armor. He had lost a number of his soldiers and knew nothing of the whereabouts of his useless son.
Perhaps Amal had joined forces with Iron Lord to usurp his father? Alas, this place was like an unguarded hawk’s egg. Too tasty to let go, even despite the threat of a giant bird ready to return and devour the intruder. Unless this thorn was removed, his men were in danger.
No. This place will be mine. At first, Mungke was opposed to Mad Hatter’s plans for further expansion. But upon stepping into these lands teeming with life, touching sumptuous plains, drinking an abundance of water, and encountering deep forests, he changed his mind. His clan will settle here, and centuries from now his descendants will sing throat songs honoring his wisdom. From the natives they will learn how to craft engines of war and no longer be dependent on the Merchants. Perhaps they should try farming and raising thunder cows! This ridiculously silly, yet very cute, thought brought a smile to Mungke’s lips, and he ignored the sound of broken bones as his thunder bull advanced.
Something to tip the scales… The khan laughed, full of confidence, and patiently surveyed the battlefield.
Another doggie entered the fray, or rather, appeared. This one was taller than his brethren and dressed in a dark battle suit, towering over the battlefield like a pillar of black void. Lenses of his armor shone bright blue; a heavy cloak flowed from his pauldrons, threaded with gold. Every part of the doggie’s battle plate was artistically detailed, from the elegant, overlapping segmented protection over his fingers to the long crest of his helmet and the silently working engine.
The mutant wielded a sword that matched the color of his armor. Blows from its deadly edge sliced through entire bodies of bondsmen and purebloods alike. There was no mercy or hesitation in his movements; without even seeing foes converging on his back, the warrior dodged bullets, slashed once, and stole three lives from the khan. Not a single projectile even touched the fabric of his cloak.
Most of the following shots flew harmlessly past the armor plates, and the few that hit them rebounded harmlessly off the dark surfaces. The warrior came to a halt, cutting nothing in the air, and a dark line remained. He danced away from it, careful not to step on his fallen troops but trampling Mungke’s wounded soldiers with ease. The enemy leader—Mungke was sure of his rank now—moved through the pureblood ranks, carving himself a path of bodies.
The black knight reached for grenades on his belt and tossed them around. Not hurrying in the slightest, the doggie beheaded a soldier, creating another black line, this time horizontal. And then he jumped into it.
“Fools! Back away!” Mungke yelled to his warriors, who were hacking at the empty space. He kicked his beast, steering it toward the first line.
Superiors, as the priests called them, were people blessed by the Sky with unnatural gifts. Whether it was the ability to travel through space like Phaser or to cause rage like Drozna, they were generally above the Purebloods. ‘Generally’ was the key world here.
Mungke had killed Superiors before. How could he not, when the glowing poison had polluted the steppes and warped every living thing in those lands? Whether it was an arrogant youngster from his own clan, a rival leader, or an arrogant offspring who dreamed of usurping his rule prematurely, Mungke had ended them all. Dangerous as they were, once their trick was discovered, they became manageable.
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There were few reasons for this individual to enter the fray so boldly, and Mungke quickly discarded the bloodlust. Too professional, too classy. At first, he had assumed that the first tear was some kind of time bomb, but the bastard’s entrance into his own darkness had cleared things up.
I figured you out. Mungke smiled.
Explosions threw his soldiers into the air and tore their limbs off. These were no ordinary grenades. Acid waves rolled after the initial shockwaves, eating through the steel and flesh of his loyal troops. Veterans of dozens of conquests recoiled, retreating from the rapidly hissing pool of destruction, exposing their allies and showing their backs to the rotating cannons.
Mungke swung his axe, ramming the blade into the black knight as he leapt from the first window of darkness. His first strike cracked the pauldron, and the mutant rolled noiselessly aside, sparing himself the brunt of the impact. The knight took the blows that followed on his feet, skillfully regaining his footing and matching the khan’s speed.
“Enough of this,” Mungke said calmly in Common, bottling his rage. “You have cost me lives. I challenge you to a duel. Name and rank?”
“I am Macarius Voidrunner, Sword Saint of House Voidrunner,” the doggie replied, slashing the axe from his body. He saluted, touching his helmet with the flat of his sword. “Challenge accepted. You are?”
“Your end.” Mungke kicked, and his thunder bull vomited at the enemy.
Thunder bulls were highly prized animals in his homeland. Sturdy, loyal, and easily trained, they served as excellent cavalry when clans fell on difficult times and lacked access to weaponry. Prime stock bulls, like the one that belonged to Iron Lord and, to a lesser extent, the one Mungke was riding atop, exceeded their natural level of toughness after surviving severe wounds and rarely panicked anymore. When it was necessary to move goods or tear up the ground to reach the precious water, traders were always nearby, eager to sell their beasts.
But there was one thing that truly elevated thunder bulls above other animals. They were omnivores, capable of surviving on corpses as well as plants. Toxic waste, wood, bones… Acidic fluids in their stomachs digested everything, making them almost impervious to hunger. The slightest rumor of a thunder bull or cow dying of starvation was enough to summon priests to investigate, who in turn rallied the closest clans and plunged them into a righteous fury to launch a punitive raid and exterminate the clan responsible for such heinous acts. For thunder cows were another blessing of the Sky, and to misuse and abuse them despite the abundance of precious milk they gave was the height of incompetence.
And now the contents of Mungke’s thunder bull were emptied on Macarius, drenching him in caustic waters. Holes grew in the black cloak, and with a hiss it came apart, its shreds quickly disappearing in the hiss of the strongest acid known to the Horde. The doggies lenses blinked and dimmed, going offline as the perilous waters poured into the rift, frying the mechanisms inside. Mungke struck in that split second of distraction; his axe painted the figure of an eight. The first cut was blocked; even blinded, the sword saint had the instinct to save his hide. The second cut penetrated the defense, shearing off part of a vambrace.
Simple. So simple. Mungke hummed, driving his beast forward. Lost eyesight was no problem when there were ears. But the combination of hissing and the din of battle had confused Macarius’ perception. Skills? Fairness? Who needs them? Only victory matters. The bull’s head knocked the mutant, and he allowed himself to be propelled backward.
Mungke snatched his rifle from a seat and leveled it at his target. In the past, one of his stupid daughters tried to shoot him with it when he gave her hand to Iron Lord. The foolish girl had snapped her wrist after the first bullet left the barrel, unable to handle the recoil despite being a dirtyblood. When Mungke fired the weapon, he hardly felt any inconvenience.
The ground around Macarius erupted, riddled by the mass-reactive rounds. The knight’s armor shook, and fist-sized dents appeared on it. Mungke swung his axe again, intending to end the battle, and the doggie dove to the left, as nimble as a raptor heading skyward. His paw ripped the helmet from his head, and he stood tall, hissing drops falling from his joints; his armor cracked, but the sword in his paws sang its tune like a legendary bard, parrying each of Mungke’s decapitation attempts. Bullets were deflected, and the khan experienced a tingle of unease as nerves visibly tensed in long knotted ropes that stretched away from preternaturally glowing crimson eyes.
“You came to our lands,” Macarius said, his clear voice reaching through the cacophony of war like a blade cutting through flesh. “Brought death and destruction where peace reigned. For that, I, Macarius Voidrunner, condemn you.”
“Piece of shit,” Mungke cursed, hearing the empty click of his rifle.
He directed his thunder bull to the left as Macarius came upon them. The rough hide of his current steed parted like a water surface under a single touch of the black edge, and the creature grunted, more annoyed than afraid, as the blade severed muscles and left a crack in the bone of its leg. Thunder bulls were many things, but they were no cowards. Self-preservation instincts were almost nonexistent in their skulls. Fortunately for his steed, Mungke had no intention of letting such a prized specimen disappear.
At a snap of his fingers, his warriors opened fire at the knight’s back, throwing explosives to keep the moron pinned down and stumbling. Mungke laughed, swinging his axe heavily with both arms as Macarius tried to create another of his silly portals. Here. It was the turning point. The ambush of his soldiers threw the white-furred bastards into a stupor of disbelief and then into a mad rage. They charged forward, trying to save their leader.
And became target practice for the hordemen. Pureblood veterans flanked the counterattack, cutting the doggies off from the fort. Their cannons worked, taking a heavy toll; hulking carriers finally arrived, their massive legs shattering the stairs, and their laser cannons opened fire, mowing down the exposed opposition. Like thousands of angry bees, hoverbikes roared up the walls and reached the rooftops. Their riders flew past the surviving snipers, the spiked blades of their hoverbikes maiming and killing, reaping a bountiful harvest worthy of the Sky’s attention.
The thunder bull reared on its hind legs. Mungke’s single swing staggered the so-called sword saint, lacerating his chest plate. Dozens of shots sent the fool further off balance, and with a very satisfying crunching sound of twisted metal, the thunder bull brought its healthy leg down. The impact cratered the fool, exposing his head just enough for Mungke to hack away an ear and bury his axe deep into the shoulder.
This! This was the horde’s way of fighting! Duels, honor, mercy—outlanders held these silly notions dear, but the Horde knew better. From the lowest bondsman to the highest pureblood, they were aware of a simple fact of nature. If you lose, you perish. Either you die on the battlefield, enslaved, or you flee and grow weak enough to be unable to protect your lands when they are raided. Failure invited the end of dreams, the disappearance of hopes, as your clan faded from starvation and thirst.
To live was to win. To thrive was to subjugate and expand. To stay free was to ride forward. These were the simple rules of the steppe. Everything else was delusion. Show hesitation, indulge in procrastination, and nature won’t forgive such weakness. Love, mercy, trust were privileges of subordinates and the weak to give meaning to their lives. A khan must never lose. This was the lesson Mungke intended to teach this fool before he offered his burning remains to the Sky.
Mungke took the axe in both hands, chuckling darkly at the sword saint’s futile attempts to cut himself free from underneath the hoof. The downward arc came down with enough force to topple a building. Macarius tried to block it with his sword, and the axe buried his weapon in the concrete up to the hilt, lacerating his cheek. With an almost inhuman effort that strained his armor to the breaking point, the doggie lifted the hoof and was immediately headbutted by the bull into the wall of the fort, where he collapsed unconscious, his head leaving a red stain on the stones.
“His head is mine!” The khan laughed, unburned by the prolonged combat. “I claim his armor, his bones, his weapon, and his wives…”
A howl silenced his jubilation. Something heavy landed on the concrete grounds, sending a web of fissures in every direction. An energy beam shot out of the rising pall of smoke, emptying the thunder bull’s eye socket, and it rose in anguish. Mungke barely had time to get out of his seat before his steed was tackled back.
The animal, heavier than most battle tanks, roared a challenge and spat a lump of acid and blood from its mouth. Its body convulsed, trying desperately to free itself from the cruel axe buried in the flesh above its groin. The guttural roar morphed into a shriek of pain as the figure in the dark power armor thrust the weapon deeper, ripping through the guts and sending the mangled beast crashing to its back.
Mungke landed beside the corpse, axe in hand. He initially assumed that Macarius had returned to the fight, but upon closer inspection, this was a new foe. She hacked her way through the side of the deceased thunder bull; the blackness of her brutal and sharpened armor was wet with blood and tangled in entrails. The newcomer’s black fur showed in the open maw of her helmet, and the axe in her oversized paw rivaled his own in size.
A warlord. Here? Brood Lord told them that these fools were stuck in Houstad! That was part of the reason he had assaulted the place—to divert the Reclamation Army’s defenses and let Iron Lord… Iron Lord…
Damn, he was right. I chose the wrong side.
Wasting no more time panicking, the khan ordered his troops to form up and down the newcomer. More meat for the grinder, who cares? I do. I liked that beast, you damn savage. Mungke strode forward, intent on adding another leader’s head to his tally, and nearly lost his life.
This doggie was fast! Brood Lord had told him that the fundamental difference between black-furred and white-furred mutants was that white-furred mutants were faster but had a harder time recovering from wounds, while black-furred doggies were tough and slow barbarians who fought with little skill. Yet here it was: this creature lunged at him with enough force to send rippling circles across the concrete, riddling his nearby soldiers with shrapnel that flew out of the road. Bullets and impulses pierced the space she had just occupied, while the warlord was already slashing her axe at the khan.
Mungke took the blow on the axe’s shaft, and the impact reverberated in his bones, passing through his armor as his legs sank ankle-deep into the ground. This creature… It wasn’t weaker than the sword saint he had fought a moment ago! No, it was even stronger! But how could that be? The spy told them about the inner structure of the Reclaimers, mentioning the five strongest warlords and sword saints. And this axe-wielding, mangy beast wasn’t among them!
“Botheration…” Mungke groaned, his weapon bending. The shockwave from their collision flapped the cloaks of several Purebloods. He headbutted a bite away. “What are you standing there for?! Disassemble the nuisance!”
Flame burst onto the rooftops, and one of his riders collapsed, screaming. Still battling this fiend, the khan summoned a display to see what was happening, and his blood turned to ice as he received the video feed. More black-furred. Quite a lot more. Dozens, if not hundreds, were here, the oculars of their helmets lit crimson. Almost as if responding to his gaze, they announced their arrival with disorganized, bone-chilling howls, raining down grenades.
Domes of acid appeared above his forces, separating the fighters and giving the damned black-furred a chance to recover. Not waiting for the deadly acid to dissipate, the howling packs crawled down in a stream of black bodies. They landed on the Purebloods, sinking their fangs deep into their necks or simply shooting their heads off. An explosion in the rear announced that something was happening to the artillery as well.
But he wasn’t scared. They outnumbered the foe ten to one. It was only a matter of time before they reduced the Reclaimers’ numbers to a manageable level. He just needed to hold out…
A long, double-bladed sword cleaved the laser carrier in two. From behind, a figure as large as the first warlord rose and tackled another carrier, easily knocking it off its six legs. Screams followed from inside the building, and his soldiers rushed out, surrounded by flames that spewed from the open arm of a smaller Wolfkin. Several soldiers turned to end the pest and were harvested by a third warlord, who emerged from the flames with a long scythe in her paws.
A single kick sent three terrified bondsmen into a line of her swing, and their bodies came apart at the ideal cut. She roared, growled, and barely howled, lashing out like a true beast, and even her comrades gave her a wide berth.
I am not facing a single warlord! Mungke panicked for real, trying to push the bitch away and retreat. There are three of them here!
All he succeeded in doing was to push back the small mound of muscles pressing on him one step. The warlord responded by slicing through his weapon, tearing off a piece of his armor along with his left nipple.
Mungke turned and ran, shouting orders for Amal to return immediately and calling for his sons to aid him. Several blasted Wolfkins jumped in his path; one unleashed a stream of fire into his eyes, and as Mungke swatted away the insignificant insect and was about to pierce his eyes with his fingers, a female jumped on his neck and bit through his armored collar.
Furious, Mungke grabbed the woman and felt an artificial leg inside one of her armored limbs. Ignoring the revelation, he nearly crumpled her gorget to break her neck, then let go of the mutant, screaming in agony. The flame-wielding doggie had jammed its flamethrower-turned-arm into the opening of his suit, blackening his flesh, while another hurled grenades at his back, damaging the generator.
Mungke’s fist slammed into the three biting fleas, sending them fleeing. He was reaching for his combat knives when the warlord’s shoulder shoved him off his feet.
They rolled on the ground, punching each other, and the creature mounted him, letting go of her axe. Mungke’s systems began powering up the sunbeam cannon in his helmet, but the process was cut short by the direct punch that completely shattered his faceplate. The Khan tried to scream as he heard his teeth crumble to dust, and the paw grabbed his upper jaw. Another massive gauntlet squeezed into his mouth and took hold of his lower jaw..
Mungke no longer felt good. His plans, goals, desires no longer mattered. Even anger abandoned him. He pissed and wet himself, breaking his knives against the impregnable plate of his opponent, horrified at the unspeakable agony of his palate being ruined and writhing in pain at the destruction of his gums. He died when the giant warlord tore his head in two, dragging a string of his flesh—on which his lower jaw dangled—across his throat and belly.