Iron Lord calmly observed the debacle unfold in the settlement, unmoving and unbreathing like a statue. Were it not for the occasional snort of his steed, he could easily be mistaken for an automaton. His personal guard formed a semicircle around their leader, clad in the finest combat plates that the Merchants’ arsenals and his own mind could provide. Rivers of gold formed the shapes of a hand breaking an arrow and a cruel jaw, devouring the world on their chests; their shoulders and vambraces glittered, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and gems. Some wore cloaks, more painted parts of their armor to stand out.
In comparison, he was a beggar against them. Complete grayness covered every millimeter of his gigantic power armor. The lenses of his bucket helmet were gray, and so was his glaive. Even the field of distortion around its blade shared this color. There was no trace of soot or dirt on the smooth curves of long cannons mounted upon his shoulders, and the generator at his back worked silently. A simple and somewhat shy yellow symbol on his shoulder, scrawled by children’s hands, spoiled the ideal gray image. Nevertheless, no sane hordeman would have dared to mistake him for anyone but the Grand Commander of Mad Hatter, the Subjugator of the Nations, and a great khan. There were many more titles the priests, sycophants, and khans had lavished upon him, but he didn’t deem it worthwhile to remember them. The three were enough.
Wires connected directly to his brain carried data feeds from the battlefield. Human, ordinary eyes of Iron Lord had long since proven their inadequacy. They were slow, quickly tired, and unperceptive. Pure information streaming into his cerebral cortex allowed Iron Lord to see through his own lenses and the visors of his troops.
He was with a hordeman who brawled against a doggy in the ruins as the two exchanged brutal punches and lacerations before the pureblood had snapped the doggie’s neck. His triumph was short-lived; a shadow reached out of the smoke, and the connection was severed. Dead. He had been there when the artillery had gone up in a series of blasts, their crews caught unaware. He saw Camelia survive as Widowmaker’s blade missed her heart by a hair. His eyes watched and directed the main advance, patiently accepting the folly of Brood Lord’s minions and adjusting his plans.
Mungke had been told not to attack recklessly, but, as expected, the fool had utterly disregarded his advice. Fair enough. A lone missile left the walls, fired by a surviving group of defenders. Iron Lord’s thunder bull barely batted an eye when the missile exploded against the repulsion field surrounding the Khan. An ion cannon on his shoulder moved to aim at the tracked target and barked orbs of energy. Upon hitting the section of the walls, these orbs expanded into large bubbles, trapping the soldiers inside. The bodies were lit for a millisecond and burned away entirely.
There was grumbling of his warriors guarding the artillery cannons. They too had caught the urgent requests for aid and were impatient to plunder the hospital, confident in their ability to disable the minefield. Short-sighted idiots. It was true, doctors were valued more than gold, more than technicians even. But they failed to understand why Iron Lord had forbidden any approach to the building and why he was biding his time.
Patience was Iron Lord’s credo and the name of his glaive. Reclaimers weren’t that incompetent, he had concluded from their resistance. Where were the guards of the hospital? Why were their fortifications silent when the Horde pulverized them to dust? Negligence happened in war; he had seen it numerous times, but a complete lack of response suggested a trap. Mungke had already flattened himself with his daring charge, and Iron Lord was willing to bet his own life that this juicy target had been left exposed on purpose. It would be child’s play to demine the area and send a team to investigate, but Iron Lord chose a different path, one that involved exploiting the eagerness and mistrust of his current enemies.
Every land they conquered, he, Mad Hatter, and Brood Lord meticulously studied beforehand. Whether it was another pathetic faith, culture, or technology, they tried to account for every scrap of knowledge. The Reclamation Army was an enigma; their traders and travelers rarely visited the far west. Sky Lord’s demise and early losses were both infuriating and enlightening, shedding light on the Wolf Tribe’s tactics. Like the Horde, they favored speed and were capable of similar cruelty. Unlike the Horde, however, their true potential was shackled by a silly notion of honor that belonged on a stage play, not in war.
Iron Lord listened to the prisoners, gleaning clues and information even from their insults. He never tortured, seeing such depravity worthy of degenerates like Brood Lord, and seeking to eradicate such rot from the orderly forces of the khaganates who submitted to him. Drugs loosened tongues just as well, with no danger to the health of his future bondsmen and slaves. No soldier cooperated willingly, even when offered freedom, impressing and enlightening Iron Lord about the potential quality of the Reclaimers’ elites.
Mad Hatter was the one who, after interrogating three different prisoners, proclaimed that the Order and the Wolf Tribe would never work together. Iron Lord didn’t follow her reasoning and continued the war assuming she was wrong, but events had proven her right. He still had no idea how she had come to that conclusion. The khatun’s brain worked very differently.
The spy’s information was the last part of the puzzle. Ice Fangs and Wolfkins. Two sibling breeds of Purebloods. It didn’t matter if they competed among themselves out of rivalry or mistrust. What mattered was the white-furred’s brief visit to the hospital and their swift retreat. His troops had failed to make visual contact, but that fact alone cemented Iron Lord’s conviction of the trap.
Then the unexpected charge toward the hospital puzzled him. He thought he had given the enemy too much credit, but then it dawned on Iron Lord that he had ordered his engines to disrupt communications at all costs.
They didn’t know. These valuable targets, these warlords, had no idea of the true purpose of the location. The extent of mistrust between the two groups was far greater than he could have ever hoped for. Even he occasionally assisted Brood Lord’s troops, coordinating their joint advances. How amusing. Usually it was Brood Lord’s influence that caused the rot. Here, it was good old-fashioned pride. To further entice them, a light artillery barrage was unleashed on the hospital.
The hour to reap the rewards drew nearer. His oculars pierced the distance of several kilometers, showing him figures of the warlords plowing their way through Mungke’s troops.
Good. Three valuable targets. Irreplaceable in the short term, unlike Mungke.
The sensors of his armor detected a familiar stride behind. Iron Lord refused to turn around, calmly observing the battlefield and reading through reports. Positions of his part of the Horde were reinforced by automatic turret emplacements, which had already thwarted one attempt on his life by the white-furred. Any imitation would meet the same fate. His loyal sons and daughters stood ready to guard his back.
“Where is Dalantai?” he asked at last. The priest insisted on visiting the place to persecute the unbelievers. He had become overly eager for his duties after Mad Hatter had spared the surviving clerics in the last realm.
“Got himself killed by a warlord, Khan,” came the answer of the cursing soldier. The man had been in charge of ten men and now ended up leading two thousand. “That idiot didn’t even wear a helmet.”
Iron Lord decided he liked this individual.
“That won’t keep him down.”
“Khan?” The warrior hesitated. “Dalantai is dead.”
Brave enough to speak his mind. It would be a shame to let him die under Brood Lord.
“You’ll see,” Iron Lord promised. “Where is the warlord?”
“She joined a sword saint who murdered Amal, and the bitches are on their way to the southern bridge.”
“Acknowledged,” the khan responded. “Do not pursue them. Form your ranks and secure the place. If any of Mungke’s sons try to be uppity, inform him that he is going against me. Don’t be rude so that I don’t have to kill them, for my wife loves her brothers, but don’t let them run roughshod over you either.”
How should he inform his precious about her father’s death? She hated the old fart, so maybe a basket of local wine and a moonlight dinner would do the trick? Hopefully she wouldn’t mind becoming a khatun. There was no reason not to have another khaganate under his rule.
“As you wish, Khan!” The man’s relief was audible.
The news about another warlord warranted his attention. A warlord working with a sword saint? He raised his fist and signaled the technicians to increase the output of the communications jammer, filling the settlement with white noise. The tremors that rippled across the ground announced the approach of the Sky’s Wrath.
“And here goes Mungke. How very sad,” said Brood Lord, standing beside Iron Lord.
The reports of his rival’s injuries were proven to be exaggerated. Brood Lord’s green power carapace had already been replaced; fresh protective plates covered the fiber muscles over his six legs. His blade rested on his shoulder, the visor glowed, showing the smirking face within, and the man himself moved nimbly, nearly prancing despite his impressive weight.
“I warned him against the headstrong charge. His idiocy is not my bother,” Iron Lord replied in a bored tone, the dynamics of his helmet synthesizing the speech into bombastic mockery.
“To think that he and I had such great plans… Eh, things of the past.” Brood Lord shook one shoulder. “You know, Iron Lord, there is a thing that keeps bothering me. Mungke and his troops were always a bit reckless. Kind of strange sending this rowdy bunch in the first wave against an experienced opponent, doesn’t it? I know that some of your clan also went missing, but by the Sky, some might say that you are declawing me while sacrificing the dregs to maintain an illusion of innocence…”
“Illusion? Let’s talk about delusions. Your senseless escapade was supposed to scare the Third into staying in Houstad. But here we are, and the black-furred had prevented my troops from claiming the life of a sword saint. Their auxiliary units are on the horizon, raining hell on the crucial bridge. If you have failed to achieve this much, if your hounds are so undisciplined as to ignore valuable advice, then the fault lies with their immediate master. I am not their wet nurse.” Iron Lord traced the prize’s movements. They reached the edge of the minefield and ventured in unopposed. Curious. Their armor must have emitted an identification signal that his jammers couldn’t stop.
“I would’ve never dared to imply that your leadership or skills in any area are so impressive…” Iron Lord briefly activated cameras on his arm and spotted a sly smile on Brood Lord’s face. “Say, with Mungke’s demise, his alliance between you and him is moot, right? Do you still have any use for his daughter? Because if not, I heard she’s quite a…”
Patience’s scream rang through the air, the quivering disruption field of its edge stopping just short of Brood Lord’s neck. Iron Lord sensed the rising tension in the troops accompanying the bastard and a surge of rage streaked from Drozna, threatening to disrupt his concentration. The implants in his brain kicked in, lessening the effects of the emotional manipulation to a manageable level. Priests and Brood Lord’s minions shouted loudly, demanding Iron Lord to stand down. Phaser dropped into a crouch, preparing to open portals; the clowns near him brandished their daggers, and Iron Lord’s personal guard closed in, eager to put an end to the dispute between the khans.
Purebloods waited. Those of them who had sided with Brood Lord approached hesitantly, ready to support their leader. But most of them shared the same sentiment. How dare he!? It was fine. This was the era when monsters ruled the world. Gifted with unparalleled abilities by biology itself, these Purebloods considered themselves above normal humans. Such as Iron Lord.
He wasn’t of their kind, a Dirtyblood, or even a Malformed like Brood Lord. He was a Normie, a Merchant, a human of the caste that produced weapons and vehicles for the Gilded Horde. Mad Hatter snared him when the Merchants tried to resist her rule. She asked him then—a living god standing over the lowliest of humans—if he was ready to admit defeat. He spat in her face and said he wasn’t.
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The Khatun laughed away the insult and released him under the condition that he would join her army, as she was curious to see how far his stubbornness would carry him. Iron Lord burst into the Merchants’ Council chambers, posing as a messenger from Mad Hatter to gain access to the secret chambers containing his people’s most prized technological secrets. It was a risk, but he was done losing. There he had assembled his first suit from the ancient schematics and had been updating it ever since.
Many were awed by the size of his armor, but few noticed how close his oculars were on the helmet. Beneath his steel was a human body, whose longevity was extended far beyond natural limits thanks to the implants and artificial organs.
Amusement brought a smile to his hardened lips after he remembered the surprised faces of his wives when he revealed his true body to them. Political marriages were a tradition among the khaganates, and Iron Lord was married to sixty beautiful women whose devotion and acceptance of him had earned them his undying loyalty.
Iron Lord didn’t particularly care for his offspring. If they ignored his teachings, fooled around, and died, it was on them. But their frailty was his responsibility. A union between a Pureblood and a Normie gave birth to a Dirtyblood, and a Dirtyblood and a Normie in turn produced a Normie. Weakness begat weakness; hence, in nature, the strongest beasts claimed a right to bred. And knowing of his inferior pedigree, khans offered him their Dirtyblood daughters. Only the smallest were willing to part with their Pureblood children.
He rectified the crime of failing his children by grafting strength onto their bodies. Their bones were melted and replaced by sturdier analogs. Implants accelerated their reactions and perceptions. Artificial organs and medical injectors stood ready to save them from near death. Technology elevated them far above a common Pureblood.
Iron Lord intended to show Mad Hatter just how strong the normal humans could be.
Brood Lord rolled his eyes, mockingly trying to push away Patience’s edge with a single finger. The fool knew of its sharpness when the portable generator was active, and he still dared to try to irk him even now.
“It is pleasing to see a spark of emotions in that coffin of yours,” remarked Brood Lord. “With all that beeping and peeping, wires and oil, I was wondering if there was a Normie there still, or if that is all metal now.”
“Of course you wouldn’t dare to imply anything,” Iron Lord mundanely continued the earlier conversation, ignoring the insult. “Because, unlike you, I never slip up. The only reason you and I haven’t met in a circle is because your ambitions serve as an amusing diversion from the daily routine of inevitable victories. But I grow tired of jokes. It is time to end this foolish charade of resistance. Brood Lord Khan, do the honors, since your troops are so incapable.”
Iron Lord removed Patience away from Brood Lord’s neck and smacked him lightly on the back with the glaive’s shaft.
“Sending me headfirst into a battle, eh?” Brood Lord grinned, running a finger over the edge of his curved blade.
Iron Lord glared at him.
“Fine, fine, here I go again, claiming lives for our glorious Khatun and fixing the mess of the incompetent and the cowardly. But do hurry to join the fray, will you, Iron Lord Khan? Otherwise, people might mistake you for a rust-lord Khan.” Brood Lord laughed and gestured for his crew to follow him.
Phaser, always eager to please, jumped forward, tearing the space before Blood Lord. The twins joined their master, while Drozna stomped right up to Iron Lord, leaning closer and sniffing the steel. Drozna growled at the thunder bull’s grunt, and in response, the shoulder cannon shifted, its barrel trained on the monstrous mug.
“While you were hiding in the rear, Brood Lord Khan collected the head of a sword saint and trampled two warlords into the dirt. Show my master due respect, Khan.” Drozna clenched his fists, filling the air with wet pops of his joints. “Or someone might just crumple that pretty helmet of yours while beating it into you.”
Is this your game? Iron Lord wondered calmly. He wasn’t of the Horde. He didn’t share their values or ideals, and the priests knew it. Mad Hatter didn’t care, but with Dalantai indisposed, they might act. Not alone, but Brood Lord’s personal guard was here; his troops were drawing near, while Slavetaker and Widowmaker, the champions of Iron Lord, were far away. His forces were committed, while his rival’s were conveniently converging on this location. Angered by his treatment of a khan of his rank, a hand would strike and…
It wasn’t a big deal. Even alone, he would struggle, fighting to the last alongside his children. But he wasn’t foolish either. While Brood Lord was away, the negotiations were completed and the pacts were made. Iron Lord left nothing to chance.
A light shone down upon them, and Drozna looked into the sky, shielding his eyes with an arm. A figure descended from above, wreathed in a cloak of flames and smoke, easily matching Drozna in both height and stature. He landed softly, immediately setting the grass around Iron Lord ablaze and heating the Khan’s chain mail cape. An intense heat emanating from the fiendish figure drove Drozna back, even melting a few coins from Brood Lord’s armor.
Crimson claws of pure blaze slipped from the newcomer’s fingers. His body had a humanoid shape; stripes of red and dark equally separated his body parts, running from his legs to his skeletal head. White eyes, burning as brightly as the dawn, looked at Drozna, and as the jaws opened, the burning man spoke in a voice that resembled a crackling magma pouring from an erupting volcano.
“Scurry away, Drozna, lest you want to be reminded of your place in the pecking order.” Blue fire flashed from Horkhudagh’s eyes, changing the very ground around him into glass. “By Khatun’s command, Iron Lord was elevated above us. To disobey him is to disobey her. Serve or pay the price of disrespecting the Sky’s daughter.”
“No disrespect was implied!” Brood Lord said hastily, putting a hand over Drozna’s mouth. His smile never wavered, but a thoughtful and mischievous expression appeared in his eyes. “I’ll gladly clean up the mess created by another and claim myself a town if no one else is capable of such a feat. So, this is your answer, honorable Horkhudagh? I shall endeavor to remember it.”
“Answer?” The crackling of the volcano subsided as the khan tried to speak cheerfully. “But I don’t recall any questions. Either way, you have a job. Do it before I turn your minions into cinders to motivate your lazy ass.”
Horkhudagh leapt into the air, flaming wings sprouting from his back, and hovered above Iron Lord, spreading his wings far and wide in a silent threat. He lowered his heat so as not to burden his new master. The khan paid him no more mind than Brood Lord, and raised his hand, addressing the artillery crew.
He heard its movement even now. The thundering sounds of gigantic tracks dragging the mighty engine of war across the plains, the groan of the ground trying to bear the titanic weight, the spinning of its many large-caliber turrets. Forged in times before the Extinction, the main cannon of this behemoth was capable of sniping spaceships in low orbit. When used as a mundane artillery piece against land targets, its intricate guidance systems could lock on to even the smallest target within a hundred and fifty kilometers, delivering an apocalyptic charge with pristine accuracy, leaving massive craters in its wake. So far, no shield, wall, or bunker had ever withstood a shot. This was a city-killer, ruthless and merciless, flattening everything in its path.
“But my Khan!” A Pureblood in charge of the artillery rushed to him, falling on one knee. “Our forces are still in close proximity! And slaves! Once the Sky’s Wrath speaks, whom will we enslave?”
“That’s precisely why it won’t fire on the town.” Iron Lord fixed the man with a glare. He was disappointed. The fool had served under him for thirty years and still hadn’t learned to guess his khan’s intentions. “My rapacity drives me to a tastier meal.” He pointed at the hospital. “This is but a few drops of spilled milk compared to the main dish. Hardly worth mentioning, but the trio inside are valuable. Let the main cannon sleep and use the turrets to level the place.”
“No,” a voice said, and Iron Lord immediately dropped off his steed on one knee. Brood Lord bowed his head, and the priests prostrated themselves. The Iron Guard and Brood Lord’s mongrels fell silent, fists to their chests, and even Horkhudagh swooped down.
There was no command in this voice, merely a complete certainty that denied any other course of action than her own. Mad Hatter was here. The khatun stood on the Sky’s Wrath main cannon, her back to the rising sun, her nostrils inhaling the soothing breeze. Her hands toyed with a terminal; she plucked off a dead soldier, but even from afar and from that distance, there was no safety from her sheathed sabers.
“May I know the reason why, Khatun?” Iron Lord asked. The priests grumbled, angered by his impertinence, but a ringing laughter reached their ears and quieted the gathering. When the Sky’s daughter was happy, it was hard not to share her mirth.
“Oh, Ismaeel.” She alone dared to use the name he had discarded. “Ever thirsty for knowledge. Loosen up; there is more to life than gains and losses.”
“For pleasure's sake, then,” he clarified.
“So tense. It narrows your vision,” she chuckled, and Iron Lord relaxed, understanding that the Khatun was teasing him. “The lives of your soldiers are as valuable to me as they are to you. I won’t spend them in vain.”
“A bait,” Brood Lord raised his head and dared to turn. “Am I right? They are bait.”
“Though you didn’t bring me the head.” Mad Hatter’s voice changed to ice, and the khan crumpled in shame. Cameras of Iron Lord’s suit zoomed in how the corners of her lips went up. “I’ll answer. Your hunch is correct. Three is a nice number. But five is better. If the rescue is impossible, no one will come. If the situation is dire… Onward. Create the inevitable temptation for a situation worthy of my attention to occur.”
Against his will, Iron Lord’s heartbeat increased, infected by Mad Hatter’s eagerness. She hadn’t changed since the day he brought the Merchants into the fold, uniting them as she had united the Khans. Despite being robbed of her sleep, Mad Hatter’s clarity never wavered, her genius and dreams of conquest shining as brightly as ever.
He sat in his seat, taking to the field himself. On his order, there was no more jamming to lure more lambs to the slaughter. His cannons spewed energy bursts ahead of the artillery, shaking the ground with explosions of detonated mines to create gaps in the minefield wide enough for the Horde to pass unopposed. Brood Lord galloped ahead of him, flanked by Drozna and the fastest of the hordemen.
It was within his calculations. Let them be the first to pay the price. His rival was also correct. The Horde valued results, and it was time to prove himself.
As Iron Lord charged, he felt pressure at the back of his mind. Mad Hatter, Khan of Khans, Slayer of Beasts and Humans, Ruler of a New World, and the Sky’s Avatar was coming. And no one could stand in her path. Not now, not ever.
****
He couldn’t see the future. It infuriated and frightened him more than the suffocating darkness that surrounded him, than the inability to draw a single breath or the complete numbness of his body. Emptiness. He drifted in emptiness, seeing a black firmament devoid of stars.
How could he explain in words what it meant to him to be unable to see the countless paths leading to the future? To be unable to understand how actions shaped them? It was worse than going blind; it was tantamount to losing part of his intellect, to losing something so integral to his personality that mere existence without it was maddening, unimaginable. He knew he could do it, so why was the sight closed to him now?
The future had first graced him in his mother’s womb. There he had seen the same thing repeating itself over and over: murder over religions and territories for centuries to come. It was pointless to watch, so he had fantasized about changing the events. Kill this rapist here; stop this priest from calling for genocide. To his surprise, his blessing obligingly showed him the changed paths and how the path of life would be shaped if he wiped away the troublesome figures.
It was the revelation, the greatest touch the Sky had bestowed upon him, and he had opened the womb, ignoring the screams of his mother, and stood at full height before the shocked priests. They were expecting an infant, but time was his plaything, and his God had already enlightened him about his role in the world. Sacrifices were needed. Not to please the Sky. Their God had no need for meaningless prostrations.
His goal was far nobler. His enemy was cruelty itself. Eliminating it was impossible, but he had to control it for future generations. As proof of concept, he had used his vision of the future to orchestrate the removal of false religions from the steppes, eliminating one of the reasons to wage war. Carefully sifting through countless futures, he had helped bring forth a daughter of his deity, weeping in happiness at her first cry. She was the answer to the problem of lessening the world’s cruelty.
The united world. A mere idea sounded ridiculous; even as he had watched in the past, it had never been implemented. But a servant of true God never feared hard work. He tried to guide the young demigod, subtly at first, then more openly. She pushed against him, easily guessing his plan and resisting even his divine gift. That was to be expected. What he hadn’t expected was that his vision would be blurred. Used to knowing exactly what his actions would change, the fear of uncertainty chained him as the same vision repeated itself in his dreams.
The strong rule, the weak obey. It was a simple rule, based on natural order, a system where everyone knew their place. In a way, it was kind to the weak, freeing them from foolish delusions. He was aware of Iron Lord’s hidden intentions of disobeying it and of inverting the Gilded Horde into another pathetic kingdom, but he didn’t dare act against him as Mad Hatter favored the fool. As cruel as he was, Brood Lord was on the right path and represented the ideal for the Horde to strive for.
Although the situation was untenable, he still had the upper hand over Iron Lord. Unlike the fool, he wasn’t mortal.
His remains flailed, unable to function as the muscles and even the bones were gone. He of today was dead. But the Dalantai of yesterday and the day before were still alive, and he reached into the past, pulling himself into the present. His flesh reappeared, popped, and bubbled as the acid cloud lifted from his body. Then the smoothness returned. The bones in his limbs shot toward each other, fixing themselves; his muscles reknitted under the restored skin, and nerves carried sensations back to the brain. Dalantai inhaled as his skull reformed and rose, banishing the renewed clouds of acid around him. A shard of stone slipped from his head as the last of his injuries disappeared.
The white, black-headed raven from his visions, the figure blocking his path, threatening him. I know who you are. Everything was clear at long last. He will face his destiny, and once she is destroyed, the gift of future vision will be returned to him, clear and unobstructed. Then he will correct every mistake.
Dalantai walked back to the camp. He must overcome fate and build a kinder world.