The doors slammed behind them, cutting off the roaring shouts of the machine, and the elevator moved up. Vasily sat before the control panel, nervously tapping something on his own control gauntlet. Jumail broke through part of the floor, opening a wide gap in meters of thick steel, and looked down, clearly worried that the cyborg might follow them somehow. And truth be told, Ratcatcher didn’t blame him one bit.
“An alloy tough enough to withstand both sonic vibrations and heat. An ability to reverse the remote hacking. What doesn’t this bloody thing have?!” Vasily cursed.
“Well, apparently weapons and regeneration,” Rowen said, climbing closer to the rift.
“Osero.” Torosian sat close to his brother and snapped fingers before the man’s helmet. “Are you still alive?”
“Y-yeah.” The captain’s helmet moved. “The implants still work. But if you push the shard a bit deeper, you just might get rid of me.”
“Keep the jokes to yourself, Captain.” Tendrils of darkness left Torosian armor, sinking deep into the wound, and started carefully extracting the heated metal. At the same time, more tendrils slithered, rummaging through a small medical kit at Torosian’s belt. Using his own darkness in place of his arms, the headmaster started operating on his wounded brother.
Ratcatcher joined the headmaster, prying the edges of Osero’s armor to let the man do his job. The Reclaimer’s armor was surprisingly thicker than her own, but its steel felt a bit more... brittle, if such a word could be used to describe power armor. Undeniably, it could easily withstand explosions and gunfire, but to match the level of durability of a simple, outdated Iternian battleplate, the engineers of the Reclamation Army were forced to make their own combat suits bulkier.
“On a positive note, we just experienced the magnificence of the...” Ratcatcher started talking, gulping at the sight of the dark tendrils mending together a torn branch of Osero’s celiac trunk.
The captain’s body was a patchwork of augments interconnected with organs and bones. Part of the stomach had been replaced by a mixture of metal and plastic; both lungs were gone, and in their place, two artificial lungs filled the man’s body with oxygen, working steadily even now. A network of wires and tubes connected to his main arteries pushed the blood through a solid metal implant, serving the man as a heart. His liver was enlarged and pierced by a series of needles connected to a strange mechanical device that clung to the organ like a parasite. The girl grew worried upon noticing that the part of the mechanical heart got damaged by the steel spike and spat out hissing sparks of electricity, which left small burns on the meat. Even bones were reinforced, becoming bigger and thicker to support the enhanced body.
Torosian operated his darkness with the same ease a normal human would’ve used his hands. He alone replaced a small team of medics, deftly applying disinfectant solutions, using short-term regenerative injections on the most damaged areas, and calmly fixing the damaged augments. All the while barely looking at the patient!
“Magnificence?!” Carlos asked.
“…Old World’s technology and understood why Explorators jobs are important,” Ratcatcher continued. “See, if Iterna could build mechs like this, everyone would be safe! We’ve also lived to tell the tale. I view it as an absolute win. Plus, the prize is still with us!”
“Just throw the lamp away, please, Eliza.” Elina asked. “I doubt we need that thrash anymore, and its mere look is filling me with cringe and depression.”
“Nope! It might cost a few credits in a pawnshop!”
“I will pay you myself! Just throw it down!”
“Littering is bad!” Ratcatcher replied, and Elina groaned in frustration.
“Why do you need credits, trainee?” Torosian asked, keeping operating to prevent Osero from bleeding to death. His tendrils stopped a hissing heart-implant, re-routing the energy and returning it to full power. Osero gasped, breathing in a bit freely. The sparks also stopped, and Ratcatcher said a small prayer to herself, begging the Planet to give the man strength to endure and live.
Akebia fared much better, slipping into a self-sustaining coma thanks to the combination of her armor and the numerous biological enhancements all over her body. Elina barely had to do anything about the horrid wounds on the woman’s face; the armor itself spat out the medical gel, covering the damaged areas with a hardened foam and securing them from infections until the medics could begin working on her.
Ratcatcher’s own bleeding had stopped. The blood vessels were still torn, and her nose swelled considerably. Each movement with the head created a nasty tearing sensation when the exoskeleton bone threatened to tear more of her skin. But the blood itself had coagulated, letting the girl breathe through her mouth as the armor was busy injecting her with minor painkillers and antibiotics. And finally, the annoying tinnitus tormenting her ears has stopped! Yay, for being alive! Now to keep everyone else alive too! She darkened at the memory of leaving Augustus behind. The instructor had always been good to them. But another explorator went to get him, and truth be told, it is better to leave a rescue to the professionals. Osero was a perfect proof of it; for all her first aid training, Ratcatcher had no idea how to treat someone with such extensive augmentation. But she decided to learn.
The sound of tearing metal prevented the trainee from needing an answer. The cyborg kicked the elevator doors below and entered the shaft. It had sunk its claws into the walls and leaped upward like an animal, rapidly closing the distance to the elevator with each leap.
“Will nothing get this bastard away from us?!” Vasily howled in despair. Exhaling, he stood up and tore off his gauntlet. “He’s after three of us, right? I am going to stall it; please tell my family…”
“Shut it; we are all getting out alive. Rowen, Headmaster, can you use your power to move the elevator up?” Ratcatcher asked.
“Yes, but it will damage the elevator…” Rowen said.
“We are not going to use it again, trainee,” Torosian cut him off, and spheres of darkness once more showed around him, gathering the black.
“Elina, remember how your shockwaves moved you?” Ratcatcher looked at the leader, and the girl nodded. “Capital! Do the strongest of your farts through the gap! It will both knock the baddie down and help us toward the surface!”
“My power is not farts!” Elina stood up, clenching her hands against one another. She glanced toward Vasily and Carlos, who were rolling on their backs, laughing at this gallows humor. “It is not farts! It works by releasing the kinetic…”
“Trainee Elina,” Torosian cut off the frantic explanations. “Make a fart.”
Elina threw a burning glare at Ratcatcher, who quickly gave a thumbs up in support. Maybe calling her power a fart wasn’t the nicest thing in retrospect. She and Elina had their differences on a day-to-day basis; well, mostly because Elina caused trouble and Ratcatcher had no idea what her deal was. But here and now, the trainee has truly lived up to her role as a leader, doing her best to keep everyone safe. She owed her some respect. With a sigh, Ratcatcher made a mental note to apologize for the rudeness later.
The girl leaned into the open gap, popping all the way to the waist out of it. She waited until the moment when the cyborg jumped and released the concentrated shockwave between her palms straight into the jumping body. It hit the moving target with the force of an artillery shot, forcing the cyborg to use all of his talons to keep itself from falling down the shaft. Elina herself ended up being thrown in the air by the recoil of her fully released kinetic blast, and Vasily caught her before the girl could fall into the gap.
Darkness enveloped the platform, shielding it against the pressure of Rowen’s power and Elina’s shockwave. Combined with the trainees’ efforts, the headmaster forced the elevator to move up at seven times its normal speed, engulfing the ceiling above the trainees with another blanket of darkness. And not a moment too soon, the elevator didn’t stop at the surface; it burst through the ceiling of the shaft, taking the platform out of the tunnel and straight into the howling madness of the raging sandstorm. Ratcatcher wrapped her arms around Osero, trying to keep the man stable in the wake of the cruel landing, and Carlos joined her, while Jumail picked up Akebia with his long legs.
Torosian used his power to move the platform aside, while Rowen created a perfect sphere of safety around the group, pushing the sand away. They landed with enough force to send a splash of rock and sand upward, and Torosian was immediately at his legs, shouting at the trainees to get away. His darkness left the platform, forming a protective layer around the teens.
The tunnel behind him exploded, and the cyborg emerged far sooner than expected. Ratcatcher felt the growing desperation witnessing the pristine armor and the sheer might of the artificial limbs, which left the machine a dozen meters in the air. Any moment now, it will land and come after them. And this time, it won’t stop until it pummels them to death. She prepared to face it mid-flight, planning to lead the bastard away, when a comet of flame crashed into the robot.
What? A comet? Ratcatcher’s chaotic thoughts got interrupted when she got grabbed by several hands and dragged away like a doll. She tried to break free, screaming and kicking from unexpectancy, but the unknown assailants manhandled her like a doll.
“Werewolves…” She heard Edward utter the word.
And he was right. Figures clad in the pitch-black power armor were among them. Slightly hunched forward, the lenses of these people burned with crimson light. The barbed edges of their armor bore impaled pieces of torn insectoid bodies, and bone talismans were carelessly hung from the necks of the largest of their kind. Their helmets jutted forward, hinting at the canine heads. The metal of their thick armor left their fingertips open, revealing the dark or sometimes spotted fur within. Each helmet had an open mouth, letting the soldiers growl and bare their fangs.
Wolfkins. Here, among them. Abnormals, who fought tooth and nail against Iterna, turning impossible situations around and breaking through the most defensive lines. Shock troopers like a few others, the fanatical blades of the Reclamation Army had been dragging the group further into the sandstorm.
“Strong!” One of the largest of their kind said it in a deep, gravelly voice, keeping a hold on all of Jumail’s legs. He alone out of them had managed to pry open the arms of his captor a little, making her armor give out a whine. “Want to challenge me, cub? Wait until the battle is done and you and I can play to our hearts’ content, little big one.”
Ratcatcher found herself at a loss for words at this sight. She had only briefly skimmed information about the Wolf Tribe, but their average soldiers were standing a little over two meters tall. All of them shared the same superpower, known as the “Descender of Ravager”. This was a physical-based power that granted its user a slight muscle boost upon defeating a stronger enemy. As Iternian scientists had proven, such a gain occurred only once for an individual Wolfkin per enemy, making it harder to properly utilize the power to its maximum. In addition to it, each Wolfkin had his or her limit, with the males being the smallest and most fragile out of their bunch, forcing the poor souls to stay at the bottom of the Tribe.
One of the most curious things about them was the bodily transformation that took place when a certain female grew large enough. Autopsy reports found fused rib cages, an exoskeleton that grew to protect the muscles, a larger heart that gained new chambers and became more resistant to rupture, and finally, the female would gain an additional set of lungs, allowing a Wolfkin to operate even in a vacuum for extended periods of time.
The female, and it couldn’t possibly be a male, who held Jumail, had stood almost five meters tall! Even thanks to the height granted to her by a power armor, the woman’s legs and arms were too long and massive; her breathing showed no signs of difficulty in restraining the larger Jumail. Ratcatcher quickly made use of her remaining lens to record this information, for the usual height of the Wolfkins was about three meters, with the warlords growing to five or six meters in height, rarely taller.
Just how outdated is our information? The girl marveled, feeling calm all of a sudden. The Wolf Tribe lived a reclusive, almost hermit life, unlike the majority of abnormals, only leaving their villages when a war or duty called. This made it somewhat problematic for Iternian intelligence to gather accurate information about these people. The lack of bone fetishes on the woman’s armor proved that she wasn’t a shaman, not a member of the strongest ruling caste after warlords. It was unheard of for an ordinary officer to be this tall.
Others—Carlos, Elina, Vasily, Rowen—all freaked out; even Torosian strained in the embrace, but she noticed how relaxed Edward and Esmeralda were and followed suit. The Wolfkins were filled with aggression, but it wasn’t pointed at them. Years in Scrapyard had taught her this much. These soldiers were… excited.
“Bogumila! These cubs are under Warlord Ashbringer protection!” A larger Wolfkin snapped, closing on Bogumila.
“I wouldn’t dare harm an outsider’s cub, shaman!” Bogumila gave out a whine, filling the air with a strange scent, and lifted her head high, exposing her throat. “I just wanted to test my might against an Iternian, that’s all! She would’ve been perfectly safe!”
“It’s he, ya dolt! Can’t ya see that I am a man?!” Jumail clicked his mandibles in panic, straining his muscles to break free of the bone-crushing embrace.
“To be honest, you look like a spider, big cub,” the Wolfkin groaned approvingly at the show of force, tightening her grasp. “And if your resistance was an invitation to copulate, I have no interest in either Iternian or Insectoid degeneration. Stop fooling around and let us get you out of harm’s way.”
The shaman bit Bogumila; her fangs pierced through the neck’s protection as easily as if this were butter. The larger wolfkin held her jaws at the woman’s throat for a few moments before letting go of her and pointing at Jumail.
“The cub reeks of blood, wolf hag, or whatever it is that courses through his unclean Iternian veins. Your idiocy threatens his well-being. If you can’t handle a little one, step aside and let me do it.”
“Of course, I know how to handle cubs; I am firstborn,” Bogumila argued. “Do you have any idea what kind of bother it is to help raise and clean nine brothers and six sisters? One would think that Mom would slow down after the grays, but no, she carries another litter next to her heart.”
“Bless her holy womb; the woman is doing her part for the tribe.” The shaman put two paws together. “You should speak about your parents with reverence, wolf hag, and follow her example rather than berate her with your wicked words.”
“Oh, I love Ma and Da with my whole soul, Shaman, but the nightmare just never ends! You finish cleaning and slapping one squeaking party of cubs and send them off to the pits, only to have another litter crawling around the tent. It’s why I started lifting in the first place; I needed an out of this misery. Anyway, a little scratch or two ain’t nothing to fuss about.” She nodded at Jumail. “See, the cub has already calmed down.”
“No, no, please continue; don’t stop your bickering and biting on my behalf or because there is a bloody battle next to us, you crazy bints!” Jumail nervously clacked his mandibles.
“Be silent, male!” The shaman bared her fangs, and claws showed out of her fingers. “Ally you may be, but Warlord Ashbringer has claimed this battle! Don’t even dare think about intervening, or I will personally teach you discipline!”
“He is not, fool!” Torosian’s darkness swirled around his body, breaking the headmaster free of the two Wolfkins who carried him away. The tendrils of darkness wrapped around the Wolfkins, lifting them up like babies and brutally tossing them away into the sandstorm. He walked closer, looking up into the lenses of the angered shaman. “Threaten any of my students again, and I will skin you alive, animal.”
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“Headmaster!” Ratcatcher cried out.
The shaman got transfixed by anger. She could almost taste the cocktail of emotions boiling inside the woman. Not only a male dared to raise his voice against her, but a citizen of a rival nation as well. Worse, the dark tendrils crept up her body, touching her neck. Is he unaware? How could he not know what he was doing? He is an Explorator! She had only seen it on the Discovery Channel herself, but for Wolfkins, enduring a touch on their neck from an outsider was akin to groping. Letting other members of the tribe taste a throat meant an ultimate submission, and submission to an outsider invited a loss of honor. Only iron discipline has restrained the woman from letting her claws talk, but the girl wasn’t intent on taking any chance. What would make an adult behave? Ah!
“Please think about what kind of example you are setting for us!”
“Trainee, these are just dust-dwelling barbarians,” Torosian responded, but his darkness moved away from the shaman. “The only language they understand is the language of force.”
“That is why I hate outsiders.” Bogumila spat at Torosian, her spittle carried away by the storm. “All of you are a bunch of ungrateful bastards, wallowing in your supposed superiority. If you are so much more enlightened than us, how come we are saving your asses?”
“Enough, Wolf Hag! You will not shame the warlord any longer!” The slash of the shaman’s claws ripped open Bogumila’s helmet, exposing hissing wires and lacerated flesh to the sandstorm. Ratcatcher gulped nervously at the sight of a lidless amber eye and part of the exposed skull on the forehead. Bogumila only shrugged, ignoring the lacerated wound.
“My apologies for the fright, honored guest. Your safety is our duty today.” The shaman spread her arms wide, turning toward the raging flame. “Feel the divine, Iternian, and be honored! You are standing in the presence of one of the Anointed by the Spirits themselves! On this night, Warlord Ashbringer is your sword! Feast your eyes on her might and be in awe!”
A warlord. Ratcatcher moved her head to look at the series of explosions lining the ground before the elevator shaft. The strongest of the strong among the Wolf Tribe; the primary targets for elimination in any war between Iterna and the Reclamation Army. Unrivaled in their aggression, on their own, they were like weapons of mass destruction, often turning the tide of battle. Whether a unit or a whole army, with a warlord backing the opposition force, no victory was guaranteed, for in the past, these women have walked unharmed out of nuclear explosions straight back into the combat.
And one of them, Ashbringer, as the shaman called her, was here. The woman broke out the veil of flame, backing away from the cruel talons that left wide furrows on the ground. Standing every bit as tall as her opponent, the warlord beamed with strength. Twin massive flamethrowers on her wrists disgorged wave after wave of searing flame, turning the very sand into glass and melting the ruins of the elevator. Armor plates, thicker than the plating of a combat tank, contained mighty-servo bundles of artificial fibers, granting the warlord truly incredible speed. Like a comet made of flame, the woman punched, kicked, headbutted, kneed, and even elbowed her enemy, driving the machine back to the open chasm one step at a time. Each of the woman’s movements was an explosion of violence, throwing up ground and stone alike.
The cyborg replied with clumsy swings. Ashbringer calmly allowed the robot to make a strike, utilizing the momentum that carried it forth, and responded with a series of deadly attacks, filling the air with booming sounds loud enough to dwarf even the cracking flame and movement of a sandstorm. After missing thrice, the cyborg gave out a mindless roar, bringing down both of his arms. The warlord dodged with cruelty mixed with otherworldly agility, but the hit wasn’t aimed at her. It landed on the ground, gouging wide swaths of stone and metal structures and sending ripples of destruction across the glass and sand.
Ashbringer never hesitated. Without so much as turning her head, the woman bisected a ten-meter-tall piece of stone behind her with the barbed edge of her elbow, creating an opening wide enough to jump out of the range of the enraged machine. Rather than grabbing the warlord, the cyborg was greeted with the fallen stone. The flame seemingly did little to impede its movements, but Ratcatcher had noticed an effect, regardless.
The cyborg swung almost blindly. Either something happened to its sensors or the mind operating the machine had relied only on optics, visuals, and sound to locate its enemy. And Ashbringer immediately picked up on this, creating a greater and greater flaming shroud to hide herself in, almost swimming in liquid napalm around her enemy, and delivering the brutal attacks against its corpus. Her helmet was wide open around the jaws, showing a set of fangs. Compared to the fangs of either the shaman or Bogumila, the woman had positively tiny chompers for someone of her rank.
She wasn’t alone. Wolfkins, several with the markings of Wolf Hags, were rushing at the edge of the flame, firing their barking armor-piercing, large-barreled weapons into the machine back. Something akin to spikes harmlessly bounced off the robot’s alloy, but these attacks distracted the machine, opening it for the taloned claws of the warlord. Where their leader was unharmed by the flames, the armor of these warriors had started overheating, cooking the soldiers within, and a few of their number retreated at the nod of the gigantic Wolfkin.
The machine made one desperate thrust, spearing Ashbringer’s afterimage and propelling the air with enough force to sever the flame and leave a crack in the building. The warlord counterattacked. Three strikes. Two brutal cleaving slashes of her claws left deep gouges on the previously invincible machine. And a single headbutt left a deep dent in the corpus, sending the machine five steps closer to falling back into the hole.
“She is actually doing it…” Carlos whispered.
“I bet Eugenia or Artificer would’ve already restrained this bot,” Ratcatcher said quickly, shutting her mouth.
Such a show of envy was unworthy before the allies who risked their very lives to save them. Iterna should be better. She must be better if she is to become an explorator in the future. Who would be more likely to rally allies under the Iternian banner, assholes like Elina and Torosian, or inspirational figures like Eugenia and Argus? And above all, Ashbringer was a mere pale imitation of Ravager, Ratcatcher reminded herself. The same Ravager who matched Eugenia blow for blow.
“Detecting damage to the outer hull. Initiating the self-repair protocols,” the familiar machine voice said, and Ratcatcher felt her heart sink.
The robot’s alloy started melting; its broken edges joined together like clay, closing the opened gaps. The dent shuddered and smoothed up, removing all signs of the recent damage all together. Ashbringer dropped low, gesturing her soldiers to stay away.
“Jinxed it, ya bastard!” Jumail howled, trying to break free and kick Rowen.
“Target possesses prime-class speed and physical strength. Access to genocide-class weapons is authorized. All personnel, please evacuate the vicinity for your safety,” the cyborg said. Parts of his armor opened with a clapping sound, revealing emptiness before quickly closing shut. “Error, failure, unable to locate the armaments. Initiating adaptation protocols and pilot’s assisting combat subroutines.”
Ashbringer attacked, and this time the robot matched her speed, narrowly missing the warlord’s head and leaving a slash against the metal of her helmet. Where before it had been swinging wildly, now it stood in a proper stance, raising hands to the level of its non-existent head and clenching the fists. Two blindingly quick slashes tore open parts of the robot’s armor, but the third one never reached its mark. The robot stepped closer, swatting the blow aimed at his side with one hand and immediately countering with his right. Ashbringer took the incoming punch on her left shoulder, turning around to let the punch slide away freely. And struck from a close range with her own right.
The robot mimicked her, taking the blow on his left shoulder and perfectly replicating the dodge. The warlord started dodging, planting her feet in the steel midsection to bounce away. She was a moment too late, and the cruel punch reached her face, sending the woman away, rolling across the sand, breaking one of her lenses, and drawing blood out of her mouth. Ashbringer stood up, grinning in delight.
“So much for a sword,” Torosian intoned. “Shouldn’t have expected much from the savages.”
“Time to work.” Bogumila handed Jumail to the shaman and tried to step forward when the shaman grabbed her by the throat with one hand, easily lifting the woman in the air.
“The warlord has given her orders. Know your place, Wolf Hag, or challenge her later, but for now, obey,” the shaman hissed.
“Interesting prey,” Ashbringer spoke for the first time, her voice soft and almost musical, sounding so out of place when she said the next words. “Wolf Hag Bogumila. Protect the guests. A single cut, a single hair lost, and I will eat your eyes.”
“FREAKS!” the machine roared, once more shifting between a cold and calculating voice and the maddening shout.
It came at the warlord in full force—the skills and speed of the previous voice and the hatred and desperation belonging to the male’s voice. Where before the warlord had almost danced around her opponent, now it was she who ended up being at the defense. The cyborg no longer took the full brunt of the attack. Instead, it used his smooth limbs to let the claws slide off him and responded with a brutal and quick counterattack, forcing Ashbringer to dodge to evade his talons. When bone and steel came against each other, the speed of both opponents turned them into a blur, pushing aside even the flames spat out by the flamethrowers.
The stalemate was broken as quickly as it had begun. Ashbringer attempted to attack and received an elbow hit in her midsection when her opponent ducked and delivered an elbow blow. Like a skilled martial artist, the machine placed two hands on the ground and made a full sweep with both legs, toppling the warlord.
“FREAK! MUTANT! MONSTER! DESTROY AND MURDER! ANNIHILATE!” the cyborg roared, delivering stomp after stomp on the warlord, beating the woman deeper and deeper into the ground, creating a crater with her body. Ashbringer took the brunt of the damage to her forearms, and Ratcatcher found herself amazed at how calm and collected the woman was in the wake of this titanic onslaught. Without making a single mistake, Ashbringer kicked at just the right time, bouncing off the machine and leaving it standing with two broken fingers. “SLAUGHTER YOU ALL!”
It didn’t follow the woman. The cyborg jumped away from her, racing toward the trainees, aiming one of his arms at Jumail and another at Vasily. Bogumila reached for the shaman’s hand, and Ratcatcher blinked, hearing the crunching sound and whine of metal. Even the shaman looked startled. With an almost careless twist, the wolf hag utterly broke the fist, leaving the larger woman marveling at her ruined fist and blood pouring out of the armor’s cracks. Bogumila lunged at the robot, her arms becoming wreathed in the darkness of Torosian power as the headmaster followed, shouting to get everyone clear.
Wolf hags were nothing compared to warlords. It wasn’t an insult, merely a statement of fact. Warlords were strong enough to bully everyone in her unit into submission, and wolf hags repeated the same process in their own units. At least, this is what the history book stated. When a wolf hag grew strong and big enough, she would immediately challenge a warlord and either end up being grievously maimed, win or lose, or a warlord would split the unit, unwilling to lose a potential asset for the tribe. Nowhere in the “Cultural History of New World Societies” was it mentioned that a potential warlord could serve under a warlord.
I should read and learn more. By a lot, a lot. I wonder if the Reclaimers have their own version of the internet, because our books are clearly lacking some crucial information! Bogumila matched up the cyborg’s speed and crashed into it, ramming double thrusts in its legs with such a force that it split the ground between the fighters and brought the machine to its knees. Another pile-driving thrust had moved the cyborg even further from the students, and Ratcatcher saw the edges of Bogumila’s hands. Torosian’s darkness still swirled around them, but the initial impact was strong enough to break both it and the woman’s claws, leaving shattered stumps coming out of her fingers. The darkness immediately swirled over them. The wolf hag’s armor around the shoulders and forearms bulged, straining to contain the muscles within. Bogumila leapt after the machine, opening her jaws wide open.
It won’t be enough. Ratcatcher understood. Bogumila was strong—otherworldly so. But her opponent had greater precision; its claw had already been poised to strike at her neck, bypassing the wolf hag’s attempts to block. She wasn’t the only one to notice it. Ashbringer appeared between the fighters, taking the mortal blow aimed at her wolf hag. Two talons rammed the warlord’s armor, splintering it and reaching for the belly, tearing it inside out. Their edges emerged from Ashbringer’s back, spattering blood against Torosian’s and Bogumila’s faceplates. The warlord howled in pain, harnessing the power of her rage and pain to plunge her own claws deep into the robot’s shoulders.
Ignoring the grievous wound, the warlord marched on, pushing the machine forward, leaving deep furrows with its legs on the sand, and aiming to drop it along with herself into the shaft. Her claws moved back and forth within the gashes, widening the cracks at every moment. The cyborg hit her in the side several times, but her close proximity to the Wolfkin did not allow the machine to use its full strength. The armor got dented in several places, yet it held, and the warlord widened her green, overpowering her opponent slowly but surely.
She nearly reached the edge of the black hole when Ratcatcher understood something. First, she could no longer hear the sound of the sandstorm. Even Rowen, who kept using his power around Osero and Akebia, looked around in shock. Above them were still the heavy clouds, carrying sound and stone in equal measure. But all around them, the water circled a thick and large wall of liquid ten stories high, blocking the sandstorm’s path.
The storm front above them parted, spread wide under a single mighty flap of wings, and a dragon came through. Not a dragon, a wyrm. Ratcatcher corrected herself. A single flap of his gorgeous wings, slightly too big for such a slender body, had made an eye of the storm in the skies, pushing the sand away from the cleanest blue scales covering every inch of his body. Through the darkness of the night and the storm, they shone with an inner light, creating a radiance of faint lapis lazuli around the wyrm. Twin wet orbs glowed blue as the newcomer keenly and somewhat lazily observed the chaos below, descending lower and lower, casting his shadow on everyone, and Ratcatcher saw that his claws were carefully trimmed. The wyrm’s head was long, narrow, and flat. The eyes were set neatly in the middle of his skull. An elegant communicator encircled his head akin to a circlet, closing one ear, and exquisite, richly colored bracelets studded with red and blue gems adorned his hands and neck.
“Ivar Murzaliev,” Torosian said.
“Captain Murzaliev, Headmaster Torosian,” the wyrm corrected him in a cold voice. He barely opened his mouth, but his words rang in everyone’s ears. “I understand that Iterna’s views on the importance of civility are somewhat lacking, and considering your injuries, I am more than willing to show some leniency, but let us speak to each other with the respect befitting our status, shall we? This chaos has gone on long enough. Warlord! Excellent work, but enough is enough. Rest up.”
His wing moved, and a fountain of water appeared below Ashbringer and her opponent. Mere water struck them both with enough force to tear one opponent from the other, carrying Ashbringer almost gently into the ranks of her troops. And Ivar came almost to the ground, folding his hands on his chest and examining the cyborg as if it were a strange insect. A long tail with an impressive talon at the end wrapped around his legs.
“FREAK!” the cyborg yelled.
“Trash can.” Ivar scowled derisively, moving his wing.
Water appeared around the cyborg, engulfing it entirely, lifting the machine’s legs off the ground, and trapping it within a perfectly shaped cube.
“Oceandeep,” Torosian said. “The machine is done for.”
“Headmaster? I don’t understand, sir,” Ratcatcher dared to voice her doubts. After everything she had seen today, there was no way that mere water could defeat this walking calamity. “How can water possibly help?”
“Ivar Murzaliev has two powers.” Torosian started explaining as his void tendrils moved to the trainees, checking the integrity of their armor. Ratcatcher felt a chill as the darkness seeped through the damaged helmet and slithered across her nose, readjusting it with an ungentle twist. “First is his power over the mind, something common to all wyrms. The second is a mix of aquakinesis and creation, named absolutely not aptly Oceandeep. It is quite flexible, which allows him to create either potable water or seawater. The use of potable water is self-explanatory; it helps in the driest regions of the Ravaged Lands, though Ivar is seldom seen doing charity work.”
“This is a slander, trainee,” the wyrm said without turning his head, his scaled body held in the air by the lazy flaps of his wings. “In case of a sudden drought or a catastrophe, I am doing my duty. But I prefer to solve the situation at its core. If a settlement can’t survive without my aid, it is more beneficial to either hang its governor if he embezzles the funds allocated for purchasing water or to relocate people to a safer place. You do not build a society with pointless heroics, trainee. Society, a proper nation, must be able to function like a well-oiled machine without constant oversight from any individual. And again, Headmaster. Respect. You may continue.”
The robot confined within the water started twitching. It’s not fully healed; fingers broke, the breaches left by Ashbringer’s claws widened, and pieces of metal started breaking off, falling within the body rather than outside. It tried to swim to the edge, but some unseen force has kept the cyborg strictly in the center of the cube.
“And his second effect is encasing a victim within saltwater,” Torosian continued, gesturing for the Wolfkins to let go of the trainees. He checked the radar and nodded upon receiving the update that the Iternian military was closing in. “Once a target is fully or partially submerged, the captain can replicate the atmospheric pressure found only in the deepest ocean. Imagine an elephant standing on your big toe, trainees. And this is just the pressure of approximately two hundred and fifty atmospheres. The captain can exponentially increase the atmospheric pressure the longer his target stays trapped by his water. And the most insidious part of his power is that it affects every part of your insides individually; every cell suffers in equal measure. Where bones can survive for a little, organs are …” He faced the thrashing machine. It jerked once, twice, and then went still. “…liquidated.”
Ivar released the water, and the recently invisible foe fell to the ground, unmoving. The wyrm lowered himself, putting one leg on the downed foe, pushing the metal remains deeper and deeper into the ground.
“The Reclamation Army conquers.” His blue eyes scanned the group. “Secure the remains for research teams. With the trash out of the way, I demand an immediate debriefing. Captain Osero!” The man tried to stand, but the wyrm gestured with a finger the size of Ratcatcher. “No need, captain; rest a little. I can see you are showing the entire army an example with your selfless devotion to a duty. An inspiration, truly. Do not speak; I will receive an update straight out of your…”
“My soldiers!” Ashbringer roared, pushing toward the shaft and earning herself Ivar’s annoying look. “Strelka, Maxim, Ebony! None of them have reported in. There are also at least two Problemsuckers down there. Bogumila, take your pack and find them all. Medics!” The warlord ignored the wyrm’s looks and reached for the helmet as her pack surged forward in a black snarling tide, jumping down the elevator. “We have injured Reclaimers and Iternian both. Begin immediate evacuation and bring the crawler about. The rest of you, find some shelter for the wounded for the time being and form a defensive perimeter.”
“An adequate show of initiative, Warlord Ashbringer.” Ivar gracefully inclined his head. The light in his eyes grew brighter, illuminating Osero, and the wounded breathed a little easier. “There are two more groups of trainees and at least one wounded instructor,” Ivar continued as the light in his eyes dimmed. “Find them and bring them to safety, too. I will allow no further blunder on this mission.”