Janine’s ears perked upon hearing the low, guttural howl spreading across the camp, akin to a shockwave. A broad grin spread across her lips. At last!

  The warlord stormed out of her tent, greeted by the orderly chaos of her pack assembling itself for war. Shamans walked among snarling Wolfkins, chanting prayers. Mechanics from the Normies’ ranks smacked the overly eager women on the back, forcing them to stand still while they strapped power armor onto their bodies. Those who failed to comply with the men’s demands found their generators deactivated and themselves turned into statues as the Normies slowly finished outfitting the seething warriors to the jeers and laughter of their packmates. Her wolf hags howled in response to Alpha’s call, rousing the males from inactivity and stopping every domination duel. Throughout the siege camp, the same scene repeated itself.

  War! The Wolf Tribe was called to war! Janine walked to the center of her camp, ignoring the Wolfkins’ bare throats. She spread her arms wide, and three males—her own blood, the pride and joy of her litters—rushed to encase her in the thick plates of armor.

  Marco, her youngest son, was a three-year-old cub. She had taken him from the pits as her adjutant after a girl had nearly strangled him. A pang of pity stung her at the sight of his pale black form, ribs pressed against his fur coat. He was the only cub in his litter to survive to this day. The rest were stillborn. A bad litter, a weak one, and it’s all Janine’s fault. Her soulmate had repeatedly asked her to relax and rest, but she soldiered on, marching from battle to battle, eager to prove her recent appointment to the rank of warlord. This was the result. Never again.

  The gruesome wounds on Marco’s body had long since healed and thick, black fur swallowed the scars. Janine knew that his knees sometimes hurt; the boy was too close to being named a Crippled for her liking. She bent her legs slightly, a small gesture of mercy for her hardworking cub.

  The other two looked like twins. Black hides with mottled brown markings, long regal snouts, and muscles dancing beneath their skins. Both bore their share of scars, but where Bogdan had grown into a well-adjusted male whose soulmate had already given life to two whole litters with a total of four surviving cubs, Ignacy worried Janine. At his age, he should have found a proper mate by now.

  Her sons lifted the heavy plates of the power armor. Piece by piece, they brought them to her oversized body, connecting the cables to the implants’ sockets across her torso to establish the link. She exhaled slightly, feeling how Marco made a misstep and connected one cable too slowly, resulting in a jolt of electricity surging up her knee. Janine smiled encouragingly at him, inviting the boy to keep going and learning. These armor plates were too heavy for him yet, but she’ll never give him up to become a Crippled. Her fault. Her responsibility.

  Ignacy spread the bundles of fiber muscles, not trusting them to fit in place on their own. They tightened around her limbs, similar to a second skin. He slipped under Janine’s arm, took a generator, and positioned it directly behind her spine. Where Ignacy moved in no hurry, Bogdan slapped the pauldrons on Janine’s shoulders, trusting his mother to endure any discomfort with ease.

  After the plates came the sleeves, much heavier pieces of power armor that protected her limbs. Her sons worked together, lifting each sleeve and securing it in place. At a familiar rumble of the generator, she stretched her arms and legs, testing them and feeling the artificial muscles move in tandem with her own, empowering her to limits far beyond those of a mortal woman. She bowed her head and accepted a helmet, its crimson lenses flashing at her command, bringing a flood of information to her retinas. The life signs of her pack were projected in a wall of symbols, and her fangs gritted as she noticed a wounded one. Not her fault; the girl was a scout, and ambitions were pounding in their young heads. Wolf hags slacked.

  She checked the ammunition count, receiving reports on the wolf hags’ packs’ readiness. At her snarl, four armored figures broke from their preparations and darted to her on all fours.

  “The force shields are online,” Ignacy whispered happily, noticing how his mother’s lenses whirled, focusing on the front line. “Warlord, the technicians showed me how to properly calibrate them and adjust the energy flow. These honeys can even absorb the blast of a bunker bomb…”

  “This wasn’t your duty.” She turned to him in a burst of movement, pressing a claw under his lower jaw.

  The siege camp was a wild hodgepodge of discipline and chaos. The positions of the Wolf Tribe lacked any field kitchens or medical tents; a thin layer of mines ensured protection against an attack from the fortress. The purpose of these mines was to slow and alert; the tribe adored a good brawl. Janine offered the help of her scouts to both the regulars and the Ice Fangs as a gesture of goodwill. Anything to keep the wild girls occupied. Alpha later approved her initiative, and Janine’s nape was spared of bites.

  Their cousins, the Ice Fang Order, took a different approach. Their camp was set up in an orderly fashion, and elite soldiers guarded the perimeter. Flags upon flags fluttered on the harsh winds while the knights prepared in vain for positional warfare. As always, First offered to share food with his kin, and they accepted his offer. No need to miss out on perfectly delicious rations and drinks.

  The regulars of the Third dug ground around the army’s perimeter, creating trenches, placing pillboxes, and burying energy generators to shield the camp in case of a sudden shelling. Janine assigned some of the hotheads to help with this noble task, but Ignacy sure as Abyss wasn’t part of that rabble.

  “The scout told me we were finished searching through the eastern lands.” Ignacy craned his neck to dodge the sharp tip that threatened to cut his throat. “Techno-Queen has laid her lands bare. There is nothing left to devour, and after the Blessing Mother’s hunt, there is no foe left to fight, either. So, with free time on my paws…”

  “You decided to meddle with technology instead of looking for a soulmate?” Janine sighed. The boy spoke the truth: Ravager had to use some of her forces to provide food and water for the locals after their leader tried to starve out the invaders by taking away everything edible. “Ignacy, the shamans have made their will clear.”

  “Soundly spoken, Warlord.” Bogdan bared his neck for speaking out of turn. “In times of need, every member of the tribe must seek a way to make themselves useful. Ravager’s own wisdom had spurred Ignacy into action, setting an inspiring example for us to follow.”

  For the insolence of speaking out of turn, Janine lovingly struck Bogdan against the cheek, more of a supportive pat than a bruising blow. In truth, she didn’t feel anger toward Ignacy for failing to produce an offspring. The boy was good-looking and healthy. Several warriors fawned all over him, showing their claws in an attempt to entice him to mate. Even if Ignacy would decide to remain single or, Spirits’ forbid, to choose a male, she’ll, of course, disapprove but will accept his decision.

  It was his persistent meddling in forbidden matters that worried the warlord. The memory of her firstborn’s fate—his desperate yelping when all his trust in mechanical devices had finally failed him—burned brightly in her eyes to this day. She clenched her paw. She needed a shaman’s wisdom and guidance to set the boy straight.

  Her sons stepped back, dropped to their knees, and she lightly bit their necks, scolding them for Marco’s failure and their audacity in speaking out of turn. The older brothers bowed and jumped to help their comrades prepare for battle, and Marco stood, dusting off his jacket.

  “Sorry,” the little one whispered, touching the wound on his neck.

  Janine wanted to grab him, press Marco against her chest plate, and promise him that everything would be alright. To hug, care for, and protect him from everything and everyone. But this wasn’t meant to be. In the Wolf Tribe, the males were subservient to the females. If anyone saw her cuddling Marco, his life would become the Abyss of teasing and ridicule.

  “Be better next time,” Janine said calmly, straightening up and scratching him behind the ear. “And don’t sweat over mistakes.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Warlord,” Wolf Hag Anissa bared her neck, coming closer and carrying Janine’s axe and rifle on her paws.

  Her daughter had already prepared for battle, her shardgun strapped to her back. Anissa left the helmet open, showing an eyepatch over her right eye, the result of a scuffle between her and another girl in the pits. A network of scars covered the woman’s entire scalp, disappearing beneath the gorget. Standing on one knee, the wolf hag handed Janine the weapons.

  “You have failed.” Janine swung the Taleteller, an axe she had found in the ancient ruins, through the air, sending a wave of wind across her camp. The weapon had a single blade that remained unbroken and required no sharpening. What it bit, it cut clean. She nodded in thanks and accepted the high-powered laser rifle.

  “Yes, Mother,” Anissa scratched Marco’s behind the ear before reaching into a pocket and placing a medical patch over the bite mark.

  Janine’s growl caused her daughter to bare her neck in submission. Like her mother, Anissa’s sole remaining eye burned yellow, a sign of Ravager’s favor. Unfortunately, the girl wasn’t strong enough to one day usurp Janine’s position. The shamans examined Anissa and confirmed that she was nearing her prime. Where Janine’s limbs resembled tree trunks, Anissa’s had a slender and leaner build. By the Wolf Tribe’s standards.

  Not having time for a proper punishment, Janine simply smacked her daughter across the forehead with two fingers, sending Anissa’s head back and leaving a bloody bruise. Tough. Easily tougher and stronger than any other wolf hags in Janine’s pack. But also, reckless. She warned Anissa not to be cordial with her brothers in front of everyone. Not unless she could protect them at all times. Marco had enough problems as it was.

  Why can’t you be more like your sister? Janine wondered as she rammed the butt of her axe into the rocky ground, opening a crevice. Impatient One approached, the only one of her daughters so far to become a shaman, even if her rank hadn’t yet allowed her to lead a village. Words of prayer covered every millimeter of her battle armor, scratched into the surface by the shaman’s claws. Bronze chains sealed a prayer book around her waist, and bone talismans hung loosely from her shoulders. As tall as Anissa, Impatient One had a somewhat shorter but much sturdier snout. The last time the two had fought, the shaman’s jaws had closed on her sister’s neck, choking the wolf hag into submission and denying Anissa the privilege of tasting Impatient One’s claws.

  But Anissa put up a valiant resistance, nearly tearing one of her sister’s breasts in their brutal struggle. For this reason, Janine pushed the stubborn girl toward the shamanic path, a logical end for someone incapable of becoming a warlord. The girl had potential and brains, and Janine would be damned if she let her stay a simple wolf hag. Unfortunately, Anissa had failed recently, earning scars but not proving her devotion.

  A problem of memory, nothing serious. None of her daughters shared Janine’s disfigurement; their legs were of normal size. So what if Anissa stumbled a couple of times? Failure was a good teacher, for it revealed the most unexpected areas for improvement.

  Janine kneeled, drinking the bowl full of insectoid blood from Impatient One’s paws, letting her bless the warlord’s armor. Shamans served as the spiritual and civil rulers of the Tribe, responsible for upholding the traditions and interpreting the will of the Blessed Mother. In Janine’s youth, the state was still in its infancy, weak and fragile. The shamans had to enforce strict rationing, resulting in the deaths of the Crippled and cubs, but the tribe endured, grew stronger from it, and honored the fallen.

  “Blessed be,” Impatient One intoned, bowing to Janine before looking at Marco. The warlord could have sworn that she saw the corner of her lips move up as the shaman blessed her brother, patting him on the shoulder before moving on.

  They’ll spoil him. Janine contemplated. “What do we know about the enemy?”

  “Thousands of them, Warlord,” said Wolf Hag Melina, standing on a knee. “Normies mostly, but the locals spoke of constructed technological horrors, capable of wiping out entire villages for disobedience or failure to produce a quota.”

  “Have we spotted any of them?” Her helmet zoomed in so she could see the terrified people on the wall. She pitied them but also took note of the impressive cannons. Not tools of the Old World, but something Techno-Queen had invented herself. Tin cans of the ancient era lacked the speed and agility to match a Wolfkin, even if their armor was almost indestructible. She wondered how these toys would fare against them.

  “No. Nor do we know their numbers, appearance, or arsenal.” Melina let the bitterness creep into her voice.

  “You disagree,” Janine stated.

  “Terrific would never have handed over the prisoners without interrogating them first. Had she been here…”

  The Taleteller’s upward swing silenced the woman, its force spraying dust and stone against her muzzle. Janine stopped the blade a millimeter away from the wolf hag’s jaw.

  “Janine’s pack. Not Terrific’s,” she reminded her officer. Several days ago, she caught a group of enemy soldiers in the middle of extorting the locals. The warlord captured them in the open, letting their ammunition hiss and drum harmlessly against her armor to test the potential of their weapons. After a few slashed arms, the group surrendered, and she turned them over to the Ashbringer for delivery to the Blessed Mother. The old guard in her pack grumbled at such a light punishment. Terrific had… her own view of the law. “You gored a scout.” Based on the video provided by the HUD, the wolf hag had stuck an arm into the scout’s body and pulled out her intestines.

  “In a rank challenge,” Melina did not deny the accusation.

  “She shall sit this one out.”

  “Zolushka won’t like it. We pushed everything back and bandaged…” the wolf hag started.

  Janine’s jaws closed on her neck, biting through the rubberized neck guard and gorget to reach the woman and bleed her. She raised her off the ground, thrashing her head once to widen the wounds, then spat the wolf hag on the rocks as a punishment for the insubordination. This will leave a bloody wound, but the warlord avoided the arteries. Melina will experience some discomfort, but it won’t affect her combat effectiveness. Terrific often left them in worse shape.

  Janine was a simple person. She hated having her skin peeled off and her bones distorted. She assumed that others also hated it. As a warlord, she toned down the cruelty, applying just enough force to make her rough girls submit. Initially, they took her clemency for weakness. A few months in the crawler’s hospital bays changed this view.

  “There will be no death in my pack, save by my will or that of the Spirits. She is staying. Break her legs if you are unable to command your pack,” Janine snapped. “And have the technicians fix your armor.”

  “Yes, Warlord,” Melina jumped to her feet, bowed, and raced to her troops.

  “Keep treating disobedience softly, and it’ll spread like rot,” Soulless One whispered. Her lenses moved, tracking Janine’s sons and the wolf hag.

  There were no words of prayer on the woman’s body; the skulls of fallen foes dangled at every movement, many of them reduced to little more than broken shards on a series of chains. Soulless One’s skin bulged around her artificial cheek, creating the unsightly impression of a festering pimple. In her youth, as a wolf hag, she stepped on a mine that reduced her to a mangled body. Doctors chose for the unconscious woman, and implants replaced lost organs and bones, forever dimming the amber glow and damaging the connection to the divine. She reeked of oil, and her fur was always dry.

  A lesser female would’ve joined the Crippled. Soulless One persevered, gained a shaman rank, and now oversaw Impatient One’s transition into a full shaman. Her helmet’s silver lenses recorded everything; she was the one who sent the scout incident to Janine.

  “My pack. My rules. Don’t like them? Challenge me,” Janine bristled. The shaman exposed her throat. “Is the pack ready?”

  “Jawohl, mein kriegsherren.” Janine arched her brow at the unknown words, and the shaman explained. “It supposedly means: yes, warlord.”

  “Studying dead languages makes for a poor hobby,” Janine chastised her.

  “The language isn’t dead!” A hint of passion snaked into the woman’s voice. “Iternian prisoners taught it to me. They use it as one of their official languages.”

  “And they also culled our kin. It is never wrong to improve oneself, but be wary of the source of the knowledge, lest it taint you,” the warlord warned her. “Answer me in Common, shaman. Is it done?”

  “Life bearers are separated,” Soulless One replied, letting the wolf hags do the rest of the reporting.

  Pack Janine, six hundred black-clad bodies, answered the warlord’s call, slamming a paw over their chests. There should have been more; her rank granted her a rule over a full two ‘paws’, but wars and heavy losses bled her pack. Six hundred Wolfkins, a force enough to conquer a nation alone. Two dozen more were separated to spare their lives, either due to injuries or because of the lives they carried under their hearts.

  The warlord raised the Taleteller, greeting her troops and bellowing an ear-piercing roar, answering Alpha that they were ready for combat. Every single one of her soldiers was clad in power armor; they carried acid grenades on their belts, and magnetic locks held shardguns at their backs, freeing their paws for melee.

  Normies needed special protection and regular medicine to survive the pollution that had wiped out all life in the capital’s environs. No insectoid drones lurked in ambush. No bloodthirsty Malformed gang prowled in search of an unguarded village. Bare stone and star-hiding smoke ruled this part of the Wastes, bleaching the skeletons of those unfortunate enough to be caught in the toxic storms.

  Wolfkins shared no weaknesses of their fellow humans. As New Breeds, their bodies adapted to the dangers of the New World. They breathed the clammy, toxin-ridden local air and didn’t get sick. Traces of radiation in the soil did no lasting damage. Their blood coagulated fast enough to give them a chance of survival, even in the direst situations. And yet they died too, leaving their friends and relatives in the wake of every conquest, facing other New Breeds and forcing them to bare their throats in submission to the Dynast, the man who will reunite the world.

  Such was the cost of a better world.