A heavy slap. Ashbringer scoffed at the sensation of fangs running through her fur. Another heavy slap. And the feeling repeated itself. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her own tent, seething at the mundanity of this inane ritual. Four wolf hags were clinging to her, their long fingers rifling through her fur, searching for lice and mites. The parasites of the Ravaged Lands, and the Wastes, posed a serious enough threat for Normies; a single spinal mite could paralyze an adult Normie for life. Its sharp nose could reach down to the spinal cord, and a careless attempt to remove it often resulted in fatal injury. Lice could crawl into cubs’ ears and lay eggs in the ear canals. When they hatched, the larvae feasted on the flesh, leaving the young ones deaf.
But Wolfkins were built differently. A cracked spine would heal up in no time, becoming tougher than before. A damaged ear would heal. In the few years after birth, most cubs never blinked at the host of chittering parasites crawling all over their bodies. Nor did the adults. Unfortunately, certain rituals demanded the purity of both body and soul, and so the warlord had to endure this indignity.
She hated to let others touch her body. Her fur was too silky, which often led to gossip and surprised questions from her subordinates. As if it was her fault! She tempered her body with fire and steel, but the stupid fur refused to harden. As a young warrior, Ashbringer overheard the scouts’ gossip about an ancient ritual, and she followed this advice, drenching herself in sulfuric acid. All it did was make her vision blurry for a week. Her warlord would spend the next month kicking Ashbringer around and parading her on the leash in front of the pack so that everyone could laugh at her foolishness. The large Wolfkin breathed in irritation, annoyed at the memory of her humiliation. At least her cubs liked the softness of her fur.
Her little wretches should have been the ones to groom her right now. But all four of her petulant girls asked to be transferred to the weaker warlords and were now serving in the Wastes, courting males for their first copulation. Courting. The very thought of it soured Ashbringer even more. In her day, a female would simply come and choose a male to mate with, and that was the way it was. It was the males who tried to get the females’ attention with songs and gifts. How times have changed. Nowadays, both sides show their claws, and shamans forbid forced mating. What’s next, they’ll declare males equal to females? Madness! Ravager would never have allowed this heresy to pass.
The next best choice would be the other warlords. But because of the Bitch Prince’s invasion into the Oathtakers’ lands, most of her sisters were hard pressed to guard the refugee centers and guide the fleeing people safely to them. The local lands were hardly a welcoming place, and thousands of refugees had been horribly burned, with hundreds dying from sunstroke, dehydration, and local wildlife. The fact that the Oathtakers fled here at all is a testament to how bad things were during the invasion.
The venerable Ashbringer Pack had long since been assigned to guard the border. Forged in fire, their experienced warriors were second only to the Alpha Pack, no matter what lies Dragena tried to claim. Ashbringer expected to be unleashed on the Bitch Prince and his ilk, waging war through the thick clouds of poison, tearing his minions limb from limb, and finally ending the bastard himself. Instead, they were tasked with protecting the refugees and later helping the Iternians with their stupid excavation game.
Boiling with rage, Ashbringer actually sat down and wrote several petitions, demanding to be allowed to join the action. Yes, the Oathtakers were the enemy; she had lost three daughters and eight sons to them. But they were honorable foes, the ones who avoided hitting the civilians, took prisoners, and released or exchanged them after a war. The Chosen Bitch and his merry band of maniacs were a little better than the Gilded Horde. No, they were even worse. The bastards slaughtered their way through the invasion, young and old alike. Wolfkins were made for war; they should have been there to save these worthless Normies! Every Normie cub that died in the meantime weighed on her conscience.
The captains responded to her petitions. Ivar basically told her to go fuck herself, and Scorpio explained at length why the diplomatic situation did not allow for direct intervention. Different words, same results. Cubs kept dying.
And thus, here she was. The only sisters she could have called for aid were Dragena, Martyshkina, and Alpha. Dragena was a rival, and Martyshkina was about to lose someone because of her. This left Alpha. And calling Alpha was… Well, Ashbringer still wanted to have cubs. The last sister asking the walking pillar of might for aid in grooming had her back snapped. It healed, sure, but Onyxia had to postpone the soul mating ritual.
“Have you found who killed my soldiers?” Ashbringer demanded to know.
“The state’s soldiers, Ashbringer. All in due time,” answered the person from the sizeable terminal placed on the floor of her den. Its cooling system hummed slightly, filling the air with an annoying cold. “It is personal for me, too. Whoever is responsible for this will be destroyed by the Third; that’s a promise. But that is not important right now.”
“Do I have to talk to him?” Ashbringer asked, struggling to keep herself from reaching out and grabbing Bogumila’s throat after the woman had slapped her with all her might. Slaps were necessary; they forced the parasites out of their pores and hiding places in the fur. But to allow a lowly wolf hag to touch a warlord? She clenched her fists as Bogumila sank her fangs into the fur of her neck, biting off mites.
“Yes, Warlord,” the unblinking image of Ivar responded. “I understand the frustration, truly. I had hoped this matter would be over by now. Unfortunately, Iternian incompetence has presented us with an opportunity that we simply must take advantage of.”
“You sound displeased with it.” Her eyes twitched as the claws had probed the skin on her back, searching for lice. To leave one’s back open, even to her own soldiers…
The warlord focused on her den to distract herself from a burning desire to cave the woman’s face in. The den was mostly bereft of items. A single chest stored all her belongings; the second most precious item of all, a set of genuine silverware she had bought on a hunch in Houstad, rested in it, safely secured in the armored case to endure any sandstorm. She had lost it and found it time and time again, always wondering why she bothered to keep it clean. She never ate from any of its plates, not daring to dirty such pretty things with rough cusack meat. But taking the plates out, looking at them, and cleaning them slowly helped her focus her thoughts.
A table held the most precious object. A family stone bearing the names of all her children and their offspring, along with their scents. She had photos, of course, but nothing compared to the rush of remembrance when she sniffed the scent of her long-lost cubs. Finally, the iron wardrobe stored her official clothes and an officer’s coat of leather and crimson. The Tribe neither had no washing machines nor did Ashbringer know how to use one. When she needed her clothes cleaned, she traveled to the nearest Normie settlement.
The wardrobe also contained her power armor and a t-shirt emblazoned with the image of a ferret, specially tailored to her size by the clothiers of Houstad. She wore it only once and took it off after the little wretches started comparing the images on the t-shirt to her snout.
“Should I feel otherwise? It distracts us from our duties,” Ivar sighed. “Dragena and her pack will officially receive commendation from Iterna. Due to her condition,” a hint of venom appeared in his voice, “the warlord greased out of a mandatory ceremony. Your pack is in no such luck.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Ashbringer whispered.
“Not my choice, commander’s. Your pack is to travel to Howe. It is a small Iterna’s border town north of Balach, with a population of around…”
“I know the place, sir.” A vein popped in her eye. “I lost a son to the division stationed there a hundred years ago.”
“You will arrive for the award ceremony and show solidarity with civilization,” Ivar said in an indifferent tone. “Naturally, I will take care of the villages’ defenses. On this, I stake my life. I have also prepared proper clothes for your pack, and you are to take showers upon arrival…”
“I will not!” Ashbringer rose to her full height, her muscles bulging. The wolf hags stood up, continuing the grooming in total silence, knowing better than to make a joke or say a word. Horror gripped her heart as she reviewed at the clothes they were supposed to be wearing. “Ivar, you owe me for the last mission. The Iternians are our mortal enemies. They forced Dragena to bow. I... Never mind me, my soldiers will be a laughingstock for years!”
“I owe you nothing, Warlord. This is an order, and you will do as told.” Ivar closed in, and his eye filled the entire screen. “You are bleeding like a cusack in heat. See that the wound is healed before your journey to Iterna. Oh, and my congratulations on your soulmate. May you both know only happiness and joy. Be sure to warn me before the time comes; we have to prepare a celebration. We wouldn’t want to repeat Dragena’s insubordination, do we, warlord?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded and made one last attempt. “Captain, please. Make your brother reconsider. You are sending the second strongest pack…”
“Largest,” Ivar corrected her. “And at ease, Ashbringer.”
“If you say so, Ivar. You are sending a large portion of the Wolf Tribe away. Consider this. We have a refugee situation; someone has dared to kill the state’s soldiers and attack our guests; the Cartel is making a push into our lands; minions of the Chosen Bitch are trying to spread disease among our lands…” Ashbringer took a moment. “Ivar, my packs are to escort food supplies to the mountain range to the west. The Normies won’t cut it. I do not imply that our troops are weak; I have seen them in action myself. But the pass is treacherous, and my soldiers traverse along the convoy by walking on the walls. If the soldiers are not evenly distributed, the Malformed in the area will attack. We have also been ordered to protect Tinkov’s scientists and pilgrims. Our regular troops are capable of doing this, but unless you want to send an entire crawler just to keep the sand reapers out of the area, we are bound to lose some Normies. They can’t move across the desert as fast as Wolfkins. All I am saying, Ivar, is that now is a bad time to send an elite part of our force away. Buy us a few months. Iterna may forget us, and if not, at least the Holy Season will be over.”
“Your concerns are noted, Ashbringer. But they are unfounded.” Ivar moved away from the screen, and she saw a holographic map of operations behind him. Several packs and army units were moving out of the Wastes to Fort Uglo, to be spread out across the Ravaged Lands later. “I’ve already taken all complications into account. Chosen Prince’s agents will burn; the packs are unleashed. Warlords Valerye, Janine, and Dragena will see to it. Be honored. Forces of three packs will be replacing your own pack while you are away. As for the distant settlements…” The map changed view, and Ashbringer saw the plans for relocation. “We’re done with this nonsense. The Commander has convinced the Dynast to increase funding for our regions. The people will be moved to the south of the Ravaged Lands or outright into the Wastes.”
“The elders won’t like it,” Ashbringer said.
“Irrelevant. In time, their people and their people’s children will thank me, Ashbringer. No longer will they be cut off from civilization, living in constant fear of raids or sudden starvation. Let the old farts grumble; we must tend to the future. Homes are being built, and new, safer, more profitable and easier to learn jobs are being created as we speak. In the end, everyone will be better off,” Ivar said. The map behind him changed, showing new locations. “The Commander has graciously accepted the aid from Commanders Outsider and Devourer. Already, Commander Outsider has taken to the field, removing a possessed sand reaper and saving our troops. We are no longer dealing with the refugee situation alone.” Ivar’s eyes glittered with hidden anger. But not one directed at her; otherwise, he would’ve never let Ashbringer see it. Like her, he was frustrated but dared not to show it. “Be silent and do your duty, Warlord. And be at ease. We may yet turn the situation to our advantage.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” The warlord banished the image with a push of a button. At least the Ashbringer Pack won’t betray their duties to the locals. Her sisters were softies, all of them aside from Alpha, but they were a competent bunch. Ironjaw and Valerye together in the field… There was no reason to worry.
Ashbringer breathed out her frustrations and sat, touching the wound on her belly. The damned machine had impaled her, ruptured her stomach, and forced her to live on milk alone for an entire week. Parasites wriggled around the edges of the wound, slowly being crushed to death by the closing flesh. The captain had recommended a visit to the medics, but she ignored the offer. The wound will heal itself. It always has before. The visit to the medics for the rejuvenation injections was enough; she had had enough of their bitching about the supposed brutality in the Wolf Tribe’s packs.
My cubs. Her paw spasmed in pain after Bogumila pushed her paw inside the open wound on her back, grabbing several flesh-eating worms and pulling them away along with a strand of flesh. Because of a stupid rule invented by the locals, the birth of a warlord’s cubs is celebrated throughout the Wastes and controlled regions of the Ravaged Lands. Traders sell items at a discount, parades are held, people crowd the squares, laughing and congratulating each other, and priests hold services…
For the life of her, Ashbringer could not understand why. Normies would do anything for a celebration; they surpassed even Wolfkin in laziness, and that was something in her book. But what kind of silly reasoning would make them celebrate a mere lifegiving? Worst of all, a warlord was expected to tour around the land, showing off her cubs in a show of unity and solidarity. Dragena did the wise thing and carried her cubs in secret, only recently revealing her secret and driving Ivar into a mad rage. The blue wyrm struggled to prepare a proper celebration in the few weeks remaining before the birth.
Iterna and the Reclaimers were slowly ceasing their hostilities. She should be happy, right? Three of her granddaughters had died to Iternian gravity cannons; the poor girls collapsed into pools of red under the weight of their exponentially increased mass. Her son and grandson had been eaten alive by the nano swarm, back when such weapons were still allowed. Wars between the two peers had brought nothing but misery to both sides. Why is she hesitating, then?
Was it revenge? Ashbringer searched her feelings, forced herself to be brutally honest, and found that she didn’t care. None of her cubs would have wanted to see their mother betray her duties and become a crazed berserker like the Blessed Mother. Her pack, the people under her protection, and the state itself deserved the best she could offer. Even if that meant accepting peace with Iterna.
It has to be because of a shower. She decided and reached for a bottle of milk, waiting for the Iternian envoy to contact her.
Captain Ivar kept his word and flooded their village with milk. Convoys of trucks went in and out, filling the cold storage with real white milk. Of course, not all of it went to the soldiers. The shamans made them to give up the larger portion of the milk, spreading it around all the Tribe’s villages in equal measure. Or so they tried. After catching a whiff of Captain Ivar’s doing, Captain Scorpio outdid him and bought milk for the rest of the villages. For the first time in their existence, the Wolf Tribe had access to white milk in abundance.
A few wolf hags and several shamans had refused the white milk for fear of losing access to it again. They even demanded the warlord show an example and refuse the sudden excess, sending the milk back. Fools! She challenged them, shamans and wolf hags alike, introduced all dissenters to her claws, spilled their guts and blood on the sand, and only stopped when the women fell in line and accepted her decision. What were they thinking? Day in and day out, the village had nothing but green milk, the flesh of cusacks, wolfkins, and insectoids, and the occasional human meat taken from the dead raiders when the shamans and the high command weren’t looking.
Ashbringer never missed an opportunity; even if she tasted the white milk just once, that one time would create precious memories worth living for. How long had it been since she last tasted a dish out of octopus—seventy, eighty years by now? It was during the Battle of Houstad, so long ago. And yet the memories of its exquisite taste burned brightly. Live here and now, to the best of your ability.
It was a dream come true. The Shamans Council had tried for years to solve this problem, ever since they had tried white milk in Houstad. But no cows could survive in the Ravaged Lands. Either heat or insectoid bites would kill them. Only one animal capable of producing white milk could live comfortably here. Thunder bulls.
Ever since the destruction of the Gilded Horde, the faction known as the Merchants took over their lands, swearing eternal fealty to the Dynast. Under their rule, the once empty steppes were covered with luxurious settlements, providing both soldiers and workers for the state. They became the fourth largest economic pillar of the state, competing with the wyrms, the ice boys, and the Oaksters. The Merchants and former khans were willing to sell a pregnant thunder bull broodmare for two thousand cusacks’ heads. The council rejected this offer, and Ashbringer understood their reasoning. Her home village, the second largest in the tribe, had only four hundred cusacks. Even if a broodmare reached the Ravaged Lands safe and sound, there was no telling if the animal would give birth to a litter of both female and male calves. Too great a risk.
Warlords and shamans discussed this situation at the previous Gathering. Warlord Martyshkina offered to ask Captain Ivar or Captain Scorpio for aid, but her offer was laughed off. It was one thing to accept gifts from a wyrm. Being indebted to one was quite another. Warlord Dragena suggested they ask the Ice Fang for help. It took all their restraint and Zero’s pleading to keep the women’s claws from tearing the fool apart. Ask the Ice Fangs after their treachery? After what they had done to Kalaisa? No, the Tribe had to solve the problem on its own, and negotiations were in order.
Impatient One, the highest-ranking shaman assigned to the Ashbringer Pack, was on her way to meet with the new leaders of the Gilded Horde. The woman’s honesty made Ashbringer feel uneasy about letting her go into the nest of these vipers. She had never trusted the Merchants, remembering well the mountain of corpses and the countless physical violations against the prisoners committed by the Gilded Horde.
But they surprised her. Weirdos claiming to belong to some organization approached them, asking the Merchants to capture Impatient One and hand her over to them. In exchange, they promised to provide the Gilded Horde aid in gaining independence. They even promised protection from Outsider. The Merchants responded by capturing these lunatics and calling in the Investigation Bureau. Sadly, as usual, the dreaded messengers of the Dynast were too late; the prisoners had managed to kill themselves, and their bodies decomposed, making it impossible to learn anything. But the gesture was there. Ashbringer was wrong. Impatient One was now traveling to the steppes once more, walking the same path the Tribe had taken on their way to Houstad. On her journey, she planned to visit the Black Gloom Forest, a sacred place for the Tribe.
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The Black Gloom Forest… Now here’s a name that brings back memories and sorrows. There lay the mortal remains of four of her named sisters: Predaig, Onyxia, Anji, and Eled. Three of them left a will, asking not to be eaten or burned, but to be buried. The Blessed Mother took it upon herself to find the remains of Predaig and Eled and to grant her daughters this modest wish. The fourth said nothing, but only a fool couldn’t see how much Anji missed her warlord. It was only proper to reunite the two in death, so that their souls could meet sooner.
Back when the Third was stationed in Houstad, this forest bore a normal name. It was dark, sure, and filled with corpses after Onyxia’s little massacre campaign against the Horde. But it was nothing compared to the anomaly it is now. The warlords were buried atop the corpses of Iron Lord, Mad Hatter, and Brood Lord, creating a spiritual seal that ensured that the souls of these wicked bastards wouldn’t escape back into the world to wreak havoc until the Spirits decided that their punishment was over.
In the years after the burial, the forest changed. Thick darkness, almost real to touch, spread all around it, creating a perfect circle of night. And something moved among the trees, patrolling its unnatural realm. A few decades ago, foolish boys, overcome by desire, had chased a girl into these woods. The girl returned, shaken but unharmed, claiming to be saved by a tree spirit. Of the men, there was no sight. Animals didn’t flee the area; birds still flew there, but when Ashbringer and the others took Anji there, they could barely hear a leaf fall. Back then, Alpha, Zero, Ygrite, Dragena, and Lacerated One shooed her off, claiming it was the matter of the First Generation.
Ashbringer saw it on her way back. A great black shape, as tall as she was, stood in the darkness. All Wolfkins had a lesser or greater version of night vision, and Ashbringer’s pierced the veil, but she could not make out the features of this stranger. She knew two things for certain. This stranger revealed itself on purpose, and not even Zero or Ravager could sneak up on Ashbringer. Only one warlord could, and she lay dead in this very forest. And this stranger carried Anji’s corpse in arms made of solid darkness. A student and a master reunited at last, both in the same ranks. When the others returned, they brushed off Ashbringer’s concerns and proclaimed the Black Gloom Forest a domain of ghosts.
She had her doubts about it. Could Onyxia be still alive? She was of the First Generation, but even among them, the woman was not out of this world, freaking even Ravager sometimes. Onyxia’s body was almost ephemeral; when she was out of her armor, the wind sometimes passed through her body. Ashbringer saw the corpse after the Battle of Houstad; Onyxia had been dead to rights prior to burial! But if she is alive, then it is her duty to one day bring her back. Fire, the giver of light. And shadow, the bringer of rest. Ashbringer wasn’t of the First Generation, but she defeated her former warlord and later Dragena in battle, breaking the woman’s arms to make a point. It mattered little who was born first. What mattered was that Onyxia’s skills will serve the tribe more than ever now that they have lost Anji and Kalaisa. If Lacerated One won’t do what’s necessary, then perhaps she should, no matter what Onyxia’s descendants think.
But time and again, her duties demanded her attention. The current situation with the refugees. Dragena and Lacerated One were both playing politics in preparation for a future Gathering. And the souls of Ashbringer’s dead soldiers cried out for vengeance. She also had to look after their loved ones. And rule the village in Impatient One’s absence, tempering herself with flame to keep from becoming arrogant. So much to…
“Warlord,” the traitor Torosian appeared on the screen, bringing Ashbringer out of her trance. The man bowed his head in greeting and surveyed the scene. “Am I interrupting something…”
“I am preparing for the soul mating,” Ashbringer snapped. “You despise me, and I despise you. Let us drop the pretense.”
“I do not despise you, warlord. And please accept my deepest apologies for interrupting your wedding.” This surprised her. To his credit, the man knew the meaning behind the word; usually, Normies assumed a far dirtier meaning for the word. “Such hostility should be unbeckoned between…”
“Uh-huh. Undisciplined maniacs are not an insult among your kind? We are little more than animals for your kind, Iternian, so shut your trap.” Ashbringer dug her eyes into the man’s face. “Roll the tape.”
Torosian said nothing else and pressed a button on his own end, which resulted in splitting the screen in two. An image of the girl appeared on the screen. Pre-recorded. Half of her body was covered in rather impressive fur, along with a paw for a hand and massive chompers in her mouth. As the girl began to read her thanks in a trembling voice, Ashbringer put a jaw on her fists, wondering if the girl was a Malformed or not. No, the symmetry does not lie. A mutant, a New Breed, but not a Malformed…
She listened to the recording, enduring the indignity of having the fangs of a rival’s fangs running over her neck. Every inch of her body had to be clean before the blessed union before the Spirits. But she really should have asked her sons for help. Bogumila had all the trappings of becoming a warlord. Ashbringer asked for her help, hoping that the woman would challenge her here and now. A defeat would either help the weakened Ashbringer hone her skills or propel Bogumila to greater heights. Instead, the wolf hag approached the task with the utmost professionalism.
The wolf hag worried the warlord. Ashbringer did everything she could: she picked on Bogumila, scarred her, and beat her for her insubordination and the use of dangerous chemical elements to bolster muscle growth. Ashbringer broke her own warlord for less! And yet Bogumila calmly weathered it all, growing bigger and sturdier, her fur bearing the blessed color of darkness, amber ashes burning in her eyes almost as brightly as in Ashbringer’s. She should have issued the challenge right here and now!
What am I doing wrong? Ashbringer pondered. Everyone hated the previous warlord, wolf hags and scouts alike challenged her, until one day Ashbringer had enough, saw the bitch waste perfectly good males, and broke the woman in ritual combat to claim the rank. She expected the same, only to be met with “Yes, ma’am!” and “Right away, ma’am!” all the time. It had been eighty years since anyone had challenged her! She was failing her pack and had little idea how to fix it.
“Leave my ears alone! What are you looking for in them, a buried treasure?” The warlord growled through closed fangs, sucking in the air. Bogumila obeyed, without snapping back, and pulled her fingers out of Ashbringer’s ears. “Good cub. Planning to kill her anytime soon?”
“Iterna would never harm a ward in her care...” Torosian started to speak, and Ashbringer interrupted him again, enjoying at least this minor vengeance.
“Sure. I guess Zero and the others weren’t Iternian wards.” Ashbringer grinned through the pain.
“I understand that you are angry about the loss of your soldiers.” Torosian lifted his head, baring his throat. The bastard was mocking her. You can’t bite anyone through the screen; this mocking submission meant nothing. “I assure you, the names of Strelka, Maxim and Ebony will be immortalized for their sacrifice, and if you just give us the contacts with Strelka’s cubs, we can enroll them in the Academy with full…”
“Are you insane?!” Ashbringer roared, drowning out the message. “Am I to give more Iterna more of my brothers and sisters to be cruelly tortured? You said it yourself, Iternian; to you, we are animals. Behind all that honey and smiles and…” The pre-recorded message ended. “There. I listened to it. Like a good little Normie. Convey my thanks and best wishes to your cubs. Piss off now, Iternian.”
She turned off the terminal and allowed the wolf hags to finish their duty. Idiocy, all of it. The ritual of soul binding had been getting on her nerves. Once the wolf hags bowed, Ashbringer immediately stormed out, not bothering to put on a coat. Most females picked up after Normies, dressing themselves in pants, skirts, shirts, jackets, and other stupid things. Some even allowed ribbons to be woven into their hair and exchanged rings during soul mating.
Foolishness. The old ways were the best. When she needed to be present at Fort Uglo, Ashbringer wore her military coat. In battle, she wore a battleplate specially tailored to her needs. Apart from that, the fur alone covered her body well enough. To wear civilian clothes in the blessed scorching heat of the Ravaged Lands was pure inanity.
Her sharp eyes picked up the changes in the village. This place had the two most important places: the pits and the barns. The pits were dug out in the center of the village. Surrounded by the sturdy stone walls, it was here where the young cubs were thrown in to fight for food and struggled with each other for a position in the Tribe. The strong got the best milk, and the weak got nothing. At least in the past, it was so. Times had changed, and the shamans no longer allowed a single cub to go days without food or milk; dying of starvation was unthinkable. Only scars and proud flames in their eyes separated the winners from the losers.
And I am happy about it. Ashbringer decided, remembering his face.
The barns were a place to keep cusacks, the omnivorous livestock favored by all in the Ravaged Lands. Providing both calves and meat in abundance, the best breeds of these animals were highly sought. And to their pride, the Wolf Tribe owned the best of the best, never allowing incestuous mating between cusacks to spread out and always securing offspring only from the strongest, healthiest, and most fertile animals would procreate for generations to come. After fighting in the pits, the cubs worked in the fields, guarding livestock from the insectoids. It built up character and taught the little ones the basic skills of combat. Several warriors supervised the cubs, punishing complacency and saving lives when an insectoid got lucky.
The village also had a store, but Ashbringer averted her eyes from this heretical addition. The Blessed Mother and the Dynast had made a mistake paying the Wolfkins for the service. Fight, protect, and die—her people lived by these words! Ashbringer nearly burned from shame after her son had managed to beg her into buying him a chocolate bar for a good domination in the pits. Music songs! New terminals! Furniture! Heresy all! Luxury begets laxity, and laxity in turn invites weakness. She had no idea what the shamans were thinking when they allowed the stores to be open. At least now it sort of helped; its cold storage kept the white milk from spoiling.
With the end of the turbulent era of unbridled barbarism, the Wolf Tribe had undergone changes. Ashbringer remembered the good old days, when a row of spikes surrounded the villages, filling the air with the pleasant screams of impaled raiders and slavers. Nowadays, they have to accept surrenders, treat the wounded, and turn them over to the government for judgment. The state has even outlawed their rightful claim to devour the dead bandits.
In place of growing mushrooms to turn into bread, the state organized deliveries of actual bread. Rather than allowing Wolfkins to eat half-rotten cusack meat, a food worthy of the Spirits, the state decreed that all cusack meat must be kept in the store’s cold storage. These changes saddened Ashbringer. Hardships made them stronger. The Wolf Tribe’s role was to protect and die for the state, saving those who couldn’t save themselves. And not to be coddled by the people under their protection.
With the sandstorm finally ending, the packs burst out of the pits, pitched tents, and helped the unfortunate rebuild their lost dens. Cubs scurried back and forth, digging up buried items. Scouts visited the minefields and confirmed the defenses. But everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed to their tent as soon as Ashbringer stepped out.
The packs gathered, led by her named sister, Warlord Martyshkina, a rather unique sight. Normally, when a female and male from different warlords’ packs become soulmates, only family members accompany the male to meet his future wife. But the fellow warlord had always been an oddball. She showed up with a skeleton crew, brought enough booze to drown a herd of cusacks, and spent all her free time playing with cubs instead of helping around the village.
Martyshkina’s body was clad in the thick plates of her power armor; a long cloak flowed behind her back, held in place by pauldrons. She cheered, popping up a keg of pure brandy, and Ashbringer allowed herself this moment of indulgence, taking a mug and drinking it in one go. Drinking alcohol instead of using it to start a fire seemed like such a waste. Hundreds of Wolfkins assembled, howling and clapping their paws, struggling to contain their sheer joy and discipline. More and more kegs were opened, and all work had been abandoned as the tribe prepared to start the ritual and festivities.
“Soul mates!” the crowd chanted. “Soul mates!”
Her youngest son closed in, a nice cub twenty years old. With respect and dignity, he handed her the ritual dagger and stepped back into the crowd, embracing a girl from the Bogumila Pack. They didn’t kiss, but she knew the look they shared. Not a bad mate, all things considered, although the girl hasn’t even become a scout. Her son could’ve chosen someone of a higher rank. Bogumila, for example, their cubs could be so gorgeous. And this girl’s hide lacked proper scar coverage, hinting a reluctance to challenges. Also, the girl’s fur coat was spotted, rather than being a proper black like her son’s. Ashbringer moved on, accepting the son’s choice with a nod. His life. His choices. The warlord walked through the crowd, bottling down the urge to slash Wolfkins with her claws. Discipline! A pack must have discipline!
“Hello there, ferret.” The male in the center of a small circle stood up. “Why the frown?”
She beamed upon seeing him. Jordan. A handsome male of the Martyshkina Pack. Like all Wolfkins, his eyes were of noble amber, but there was a glimmer of blue at the edges of his orbs. It was just a faint reflection, a mutation of some sort, but it gave the man a stunning look. It attracted her to Jordan at first, and the two spent the next five years meeting on a hunt or patrol. The man’s body was covered with a thick layer of scars, barely concealed by his gorgeous fur. Quite a number of girls dominated him, attracted by his sturdy and tall build. And in the end, he chose to stay loyal to her. Adorable. And he genuinely found her protruding skull cute, rather than viewing her as a mutant like others.
She took him by the paws, ignoring the shaman’s words and the cheering of others. She heard it time and time again; here and now, only Jordan mattered. Still holding each other by the paws, they bowed, touching each other’s foreheads.
“Don’t ever call me a ferret in front of the others, Jordy,” Ashbringer whispered.
“Noted, Ashi.” Jordan grinned. Like hers, his fur was also cleaned of all parasites.
They knelt and embraced. Jordan’s movements were a bit uncertain; the man had seen the ritual several times, but it was always unsettling to do it for the first time. She knew it all well and guided him, being patient. He was a cub compared to her. Jordan’s head barely reached Ashbringer’s chest. A single, careless twitch could break his bones. The shaman anointed them with insectoid blood, and the Wolfkins’ jaws closed on each other’s necks. United in spirit. United in blood.
Ashbringer sensed Jordan’s hesitation. A male lifting a paw on a female? Inconceivable, they could have been maimed or killed for less. Instincts fought within him, and she gave her lover time, keeping her fangs from piercing his skin. A male’s role was at the bottom of the Tribe. Such is life. Even the weakest of females had sharper claws and far tougher muscles than the strongest among the males. The Spirits deemed it so; this is why they only gave the Tribe the Blessed Mother and not a father, as well. Jordan’s fangs struggled to pierce her hide, and Ashbringer reached for the dagger. And put it into his paw. What a good boy her son is. He knew exactly what would happen during the ceremony.
The shamans frowned, but the warlord ignored the woman and guided Jordan’s paw to her neck, burying the dagger all the way to its handle, right next to her carotid artery. One. Two. Three times she made him strike her, allowing the rich red blood to pour out freely and giving him three chances to twist the weapon if he had been forced into the union. Traditions were all new or old. At a ritual of soul mating, a male and a female hold each other’s lives in their paws. A female holds a male’s life in her grasp simply by existing. A male needs help with it. Before her blood could coagulate, Jordan closed in, drinking in full. And Ashbringer bit him, gently piercing the frail skin and drinking her fill.
“Mine until death!” the two roared to the sky and the Spirits above, breaking away from each other’s necks, and the packs howled.
“And now we s…” Her named sister came with drinks.
“Copulate!” Ashbringer cut off her sister. Martyshkina looked at her and burst into laughter.
She drew Jordan to her den. The packs around them had begun partying. Cubs were given treats bought from the store. Females locked into brutish competitions with each other, and blood spilled on the ground. Bogumila had lifted Wolf Hag Siri from the Martyshkina Pack over her head, intending to break her spine against the knee , but stopped at Ashbringer’s glance. Rather than crippling the woman for months, the wolf hag merely threw her on the ground to the chanting of nearby Wolfkins. The males told stories to the cubs and indulged in a generous supply of alcohol.
Two females sneaked up on the males and kicked them face down into the sand. They began to close in on their necks, and Ashbringer slashed across their mouths, closing the distance between them in a split second and returning to Jordan’s side in the next. The force behind her swipe sent the two foolish scouts crashing into the stone wall of the pit. They got up with torn cheeks, several missed fangs, and laughed, abandoning dominance and joining the men in fun.
Martyshkina started a dance, placing two young cubs on her shoulders and singing some obscenities unworthy of her status. The shamans kept their distance, praising the spirits and asking them to guide the soul mates. None of it mattered. As of today, Jordan was officially transferred from the Martyshkina Pack to the Ashbringer Pack.
“So why the frown, ferret?” Jordan asked when they entered her den.
“Ivar,” she sighed, allowing him to bandage her neck and stomach to avoid soaking the bed. “The blue wyrm had set me up. I will have to attend some stupid award ceremony rather than hunting raiders.”
“Sounds boring,” he remarked, securing the bandage. “I can see why you’re upset.”
“Oh, you see, eh?” Ashbringer laughed bitterly.
She reached out and touched Jordan’s temples, feeling the tense muscles. There was no need to ask what had happened; the freshly cut scars told her everything. He got dominated. Again. Jordan was an excellent hunter and a soldier, but by the Spirits the man was so proud! He tried his best in an attempt to improve his ranking among the males, often ending up being beaten up. Her fingers, capable of breaking stones, gently massaged his muscles, easing the tension.
“We are ordered to wear clothes,” Ashbringer said quietly. “Fuck my life, why am I still a warlord? Janine, Martyshkina, Alpha, Ygrite, and the others could adapt to modern times, but I am a relic of the old.”
“Alpha is older than you.” Jordan grabbed her shoulders and reached out to kiss her. “And I seem to recall a story about someone being unorthodox by being the second person in the entire Tribe to ever use a power armor.”
“Yeah, but that was different; power armor helps us to kill and…” She sighed at his grin. “Listen here, you little shit; Ivar had business suits prepared for us! You know, jackets, shirts, and everything. He wants me to wear a business skirt! Me! A skirt!” Ashbringer roared in indignation, and her lover laughed at this imaginary image, holding his paws by her sides in order to not fall. “Sucks to suck, huh? But wipe that smirk off your mug, soldier, because you are going with me.” Ashbringer laid on the bed. “Ivar wants our entire pack to come. Can’t wait to see how you’ll enjoy being forced to wear a stupid suit.”
“But who will guard the villages?” His long ears twitched, and Ashbringer smiled. Even here, her beloved thinks of the duty.
“The Normies. It pains me to admit it, but the Third had gained some good fighters among our ranks,” Ashbringer grumbled. “They’ll probably spoil the cubs with constant treats. The war can’t come soon enough.”
“You really think there will be one?” Jordan laid on top of her and kissed her on the lips. His paws ran across her ribs, and the amber eyes frowned. “Surely King can’t be daft enough to think that he has a chance.”
“Surely? Jordan, the man’s a moron and a crook at best! Just because he somehow banded together this ‘Resistance’ of his doesn’t change this fact. You, Scorpio, Ivar, all of you treat the situation way more seriously than it is. King is a thug, a local war leader, and such people never learn until the moment you murk them with a claw through an eye.” She wrapped her arms around him and smiled. “But enough of this. I have to whip the rabble back into shape in half an hour. Let’s have some time for ourselves.”
“In body and soul, I am yours.” He kissed her again and started massaging her thick neck.
“And I am yours,” Ashbringer replied, enjoying the familiar warmth of the love that began in her heart. Warlords were meant to live for centuries. Sadly, this often meant that their soulmates would die. Other warlords, like Martyshkina or Janine, took a long ass time to find new soulmates out of a foolish sense of loyalty. Fools, all of them! Whose soulmates would be happy to see their honey brood alone? To honor them, you’ve got to love, you’ve got to live, you’ve got to care, and you’ve got to be happy! “By the way, you can call me a ferret again,” she said slyly.
“Will do. And I think I have an idea how to deal with your woe.” Jordan grinned.
“Do you now?” She let go of him and rested her head on a fist.
“Tell me about the exact order from Captain Ivar,” Jordan asked, and Ashbringer obliged. His grin grew wider. “Well, we are only ordered not to bring any weapons, to wear these clothes, and to leave the power armor behind, but not...” he began to explain his idea.
“I like it.” Ashbringer sat, her mood improved. “I like it a lot. The blue wyrm won’t be happy.”
“Should we care, ferret?”
“I meant it as a bonus.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “But where will we find tokens to buy…”
Jordan coughed and pointed at the wardrobe, making the warlord chuckle at the realization. They won’t have to spend even a single token to ruin the shame the Iternian and Ivar had planned to bring upon them!
“And we need to do something about the hole in your stomach,” Jordan said.
“I thought you liked my holes!” Ashbringer said. She took her arm and picked up the loose skin. “Your truth. Want to visit doctors with me?”