Janine marched her soldiers toward the city, following a single, towering figure of the Blessed Mother. As usual, the Wolfkins fell in line, awed by the divine presence of the one who gave life to the entire tribe. The progenitor. The first and only to reach the unimaginable heights of might. Even knowing the full truth behind their creation, Janine could not help but feel something stirring in her soul at Ravager’s passing. Her fur was so dark that even daylight struggled to escape its embrace, and at night she looked like a shard plucked from the void that nestled between the stars, carrying double, brightest yellow moons in her eyes.
She was a nexus, a source of their lives, the Spirits’ will given form. No matter the distance, her offspring were never free of her touch. It might have appeared in a sudden nightmare on a moonless night, or through a violent urge to spit at the odds and snatch victory from the grasp of defeat, but her presence lurked at the back of their minds, inspiring the Wolfkins and always calling the tribe to reach previously impossible heights. She had no need for speeches; her deeds and the sheer charisma, emanating from her movements, told everything.
A streak of blood ran down her nostrils, indicating an intense thought process that tensed Janine. The Blessed Mother carried no weapons or armor, no talismans, or communication devices. She had no need for such toys. Her paws alone had enough strength to rip the life out of a warlord, and if the bloodlust had gotten the better of her…
The two strongest members of the Wolf Tribe and the Ice Fang Order, Warlord Alpha and Sword Saint First Sunblade, flanked her as she stood on four limbs. They acted as her aides, trusted advisors, interpreters, and safeguards to protect others from her wrathful madness at the cost of their own hides.
Many in the tribe struggled to accept their white-furred cousins. They had the same long muzzles, but softer claws. The sword saints’ skills triumphed on most battlefields, yet they admitted both genders into the leadership, much to the tribe’s confusion. The similarity between the two groups was undeniable, but their differences necessitated constant probing for softness and domination duels in peacetime. At war, the warlords tried to accept their kin as brothers and sisters, demanding the same from their packs and ignoring the shamans’ warnings.
The locals called this region of the world the Wastes, and the name was apt! The capital’s kilometers-long steel pipes spilled toxic sludge into crevices, forming lakes. During the day, their fumes would rise, forming baleful clouds that would spell doom through gale force winds, clogging the surface, potentially creating storms and wiping out everything in their path. Normies, ordinary men and women working in the Reclamation Army, had to wear gas masks to avoid chemical burns to their lungs. When a storm came, people hid in armored vehicles to escape the irradiated air that could easily kill them.
The natives, from what Janine had seen, were a miserable bunch, surviving in spite of all odds rather than thriving. They grew food in underground caverns and farms, fought the insectoid invasion from below, and had to give most of their meager harvest to feed the capital of Techno-Queen. Their greatest dream was to be drafted into the army and finally gain a modicum of stability and hope for a better life.
Inside the capital’s thick metal walls was another world altogether. Techno-Queen’s soldiers patrolled the streets in hazmat suits and parodies of power armor, shielded from most known dangers. When faced with situations her grunts couldn’t handle, their mistress unleashed steel minions to eliminate any threat to her rule.
Life was cheap outside of the capital, as the anxious villagers explained to their scouts after the initial terror of the first meeting had passed, and both sides broke mushroom bread over dirty cups of water and sealed a pact of peace.
Villages and hamlets existed to feed the capital, not the other way around. Locals died in droves from radiation or disappeared, becoming food for the dangers lurking in the unpoisoned underground. They used outdated weapons instead of the top-of-the-line stuff available in the capital. Those lucky enough to live on the edge of their country enjoyed better health at the cost of having to endure raids by the cannibalistic tribes of Malformed, while those closer to the capital had relative safety and slowly choked on the toxic fumes, rarely living into their forties.
Elders regularly sacrificed themselves and begged their cruel and unhearing gods for the salvation of their people. If a village could not pay its tithe, it suffered decimation. When the villagers tried to flee, Techno-Queen’s steel minions hunted them down and paraded several insane escapees to the nearest villages as a lesson and warning.
Janine no longer felt any surprise at the scope of Techno-Queen’s area of operation. Some people in the New World were born with enhanced physical abilities; many more had a mutated appearance; the state called such people New Breeds. Or a normal person could be born with a special power. On rare occasions, a blessing would occur and a newborn would possess all three of the outstanding traits. The bitch queen ruling these lands had the power to instinctively understand how to create and assemble complicated mechanical devices. Her genius didn’t stop there. It extended to her knowledge of intricate programming, giving her steel minions a degree of self-awareness as they chose not to engage the state forces alone, but rather gathered in the capital.
The sheer potential of such power was hard to undersell. A person capable of solving complicated mathematical equations and capable of creating tools to build automated factories that churned out robotic workers. The Dynast wanted this power for the state. Or, failing that, he wanted to end this power’s reign and return these lands to humanity. And whatever the big boss wanted, he got. Commander Ravager and Commander Devourer had been given the order to carry out the reclamation. Not surprisingly, Ravager soon left the Second Army behind, forcing her Third Army to march directly toward the enemy capital.
“Commander, the frontal assault will result in catastrophic losses for our forces…” First, the magnificent-looking and muscular Ice Fang in white and purple power armor bowed his head respectfully, his long hair tied at the waist, and his eyes glowing crimson. The surrounding sclera had a golden hue. True to his name, he was the first biological offspring of the Twins, the solidified perfection of mind and body.
“Be silent, male,” Janine told him, both to keep him safe and to try to spark a domination duel later. Even a loss would bring her glory in the match of her axe against the searing kiss of his sun blade. The warlord dropped to her knees, baring her neck to the silent Ravager.
“Filthy wildling. How dare you address His Excellency like that?!” Bertruda Mountaintop, a sword saint of the Mountaintop household, stepped forward and was stopped by a raised arm of Sword Saint Camelia Wintersong.
The Blessed Mother’s scent betrayed no anger or demand for submission, and Janine stood, moving deliberately slowly. She met her rival’s gaze, noting the sword saint’s slender arms and legs, limbs more worthy of a wolf hag than an officer of her rank. The woman buried herself in a suit of power armor, dyed in the white and yellow of her clan, a house, as the ice girls called it. It’s how they differentiated. The Sunblade household owned purple color; the Voidrunners colored their property black; and the Wintersongs boasted sea blue.
Bertruda’s paw gripped the shaft of a thin spear, her crimson eyes staring at the warlord with barely suppressed disgust. Bertruda’s power armor had a similar design to that of her fellow sword saints—not oversized, full of smooth curves, and features designed to deflect an incoming blow with a well-executed, elegant dodge. It sealed them completely in battle, leaving no exposed parts. Gold and yellow paint, signs of her household, adorned both her breastplate and her helmet. A long silken cape flowed from her shoulders, its hem soiled on the ground. Her vambraces concealed deadly plasma cannons, complementing the sword saint’s primary weapon of choice.
Janine’s own armor was the complete opposite. Thick enough to swallow a bullet if it broke the outer shell. The vambraces and elbow joints were sharpened for hand-to-hand combat, where each blow would kill or maim the opponent. Her armor increased the warlord’s weight sixfold, turning her into a stomping cannonball shattering the enemy lines for her soldiers to rush into the opening, and she used her energy rifle to hunt officers at long range. Above her chest plate, Marco painted the current symbol of her pack, a pair of muscular paws.
I want to drop her. Janine’s mouth watered at the thought of bringing honor to the tribe by pushing this arrogant, white-furred cousin face down. She wanted to face her. A freshly promoted sword saint, eager to prove herself to the same degree as Janine? What’s not to love here? A fair bout would make them sisters; the mixing of their blood would bridge an understanding better than any words could. And yet she couldn’t.
A bout had to be fair.
Bertruda hated her; there was no denying it. It was an honest feeling, worthy of respect, written across her snout. Her knights carried this feeling, demonstrating to the tribe that the Ice Boys deserved recognition by participating in duels and experiencing both losses and victories. Bertruda was a younger woman, yet to give birth to her second cub, and Janine had her fun, provoking the woman and enjoying bringing out the similarities to a Wolfkin in the Ice Fang, who desperately tried to live up to the standards of the other sword saints.
There was a real fighter deep beneath the clean white fur, perfume, and jewelry. Restraint was necessary in both battle and family situations. There was no benefit to be gained in humiliating Bertrude through a defeat, nor was there honor to be won in fighting against unripe kin. In a year or three, her skills would match or eclipse those of the warlord; the Ice Fang would earn the undying loyalty of her troops, and then they’d clash. You do not cripple a family out of fear of losing.
But irritate and tease? Oh, you do it in full. It’s just a matter of sisters being sisters.
“The male started it.” Janine took off her helmet, locking eyes with Bertruda. “Alpha’s howl was clear. The city is to fall before sunrise. Show respect to your superiors and stay quiet.”
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“Dearest kin, no one holds you in higher esteem than I do.” Bertruda smiled, bowed gracefully, and spread the side of her yellow cloak with one arm, pointing the tip of her spear skyward. “And I believe you to be a rude, smelly barbarian who insults her allies when they point out obvious flaws in our strategy.”
“Takes one to know one,” Janine replied, breaking eye contact.
“Hey, hey, what’s the matter, starting a rumble without us?!” Warlord Martyshkina shouted, coming from the camp, accompanied by Lacerated One and Dragena.
Janine simply smiled, grasping her best friend’s paw. She and Martyshkina were born in the same month, attended the same pits, and bonded over the blood of all those who tried to steal their food. Assigned to the same pack, the duo competed desperately, scarring their hides, enduring Terrific’s tortures, until one day they simply threw a bone and decided who would be reassigned, as neither wanted to keep another as a mere subordinate. Marty lost; they made and upheld a promise to become warlords, keeping the relationships friendly between their packs.
Where Janine bulged from might and suffered minor physical deformities that left her legs a little shorter than usual, Martyshkina rightfully earned the lustful gaze of every male in the tribe Her glossy black fur, a long fur cape taken from various predators the warlord hunted, twin orbs of bright, pure amber for eyes, and finally a pair of heavily modified revolvers at her belt made her look amazing, and she loved to show it off, shying away from a rank match against other warlords to spare herself scars.
Dragena stood calm and collected, unlike most of the Wolf Tribe, her eyes scanning the walls, searching even now for any overlooked weakness, barely paying attention to her sister. Janine had never seen her dominating another member of her pack or raising her voice. Some wicked tongues whispered that the warlord never felt even a sliver of emotion. She was of the first generation, one of the few still-living Wolfkins who were present when the Dynast took the oath of fealty from Ravager. She carried six short knives in scabbards on her thighs and a laser rifle slung behind her back. The woman’s custom-made power armor was dangerously similar to that of an Ice Fang in its sleek form, but the sheer mass of steel secured her from further gossip.
Lacerated One, the supreme shaman, was a being of horror unmatched even by Alpha. Dressed in an archaic battleplate, a bulky design from the first days of the Reclamation Army, the shaman bled from fresh self-inflicted cuts all over her body. Crimson streaks ran beneath the joints of her power armor; she peeled off her own lips to keep her fangs always exposed, and the cruel claws never gave the wounds on her head time to heal, much to the chagrin of the field medics. The acrid air caused the shaman no discomfort, despite her bare wounds.
A flick of a wrist sent droplets of blood into Janine’s and Martyshkina’s eyes, invigorating them and sending their hearts drumming. There was something fishy about Lacerated One’s blood. The Spirits blessed her in such a way that a drink of her blood could sustain a mortally wounded person until the medics could save them, and with unparalleled devotion, she endured the self-inflicted flagellation, spreading her gift.
Alpha, a figure nearly matching Ravager’s height, nodded to her sisters. Her white and rough skin created the impression that her features had been carved from slabs of stone rather than the result of her birth. The longest claws in the entire tribe protruded from the warlord’s three-fingered paws and feet, each spanning the length of an elbow. Even if her body had such a function, Alpha could not physically retract her claws. There was no room in her arms to conceal these murder weapons. The sclera of her eyes was a royal purple, and she had short, square ears. Bedecked in the most advanced suit of armor available to the tribe, Alpha matched First’s performance on any battlefield, surpassed only by the commander herself.
“Everyone is in place, Blessed Mother,” Alpha growled, showing two sets of dangerous fangs within her maw. One to grip and tear, and another to chew on the unfortunate fool who tried to stop her coming.
Ravager inhaled, almost as if awakening from a deep slumber. She turned around, sniffing the air with enough force to flap capes, and blinked once, shrouding the world in darkness, before basking it in amber once again.
“Your concerns are not unheard, Sword Saint First.” She smiled, speaking melodically and clearly, suppressing the urge to dominate. “I bear the noble First no ill will, but a piece of the puzzle has eluded him. Our quarry hopes for a methodical approach. We will not play her games. For too long, the people here had suffered under the rule of the vainglorious hypocrite. For too long, justice had been denied to the weak. The Ice Fangs shall hold the rear. You are to advance after us as we swarm the outer defenses.”
“Blessed Mother, we meant no disrespect, nor are we cowards.” Bertruda knelt, bowing her head in submission. “I despise Barbarian Janine, but my heart aches at the thought of her or her warriors falling in battle, which, judging by their incompetence and lack of strategic knowledge and common sense, they might. If speed is an issue, then please allow my troops to accompany the front lines to protect our allies. Should I or my knights fall behind, should we burden our allies, my head is yours to take, Blessed Mother.”
“I am not your mother, Sword Saint. I am no one’s mother.” They ignored the blasphemy. Ravager was an incarnation of the Spirits and some of them tested the faithful by slipping falsehoods into the Blessed Mother’s mouth. Just as the Blessed Mother fought against external and internal madness, her descendants also had to fight both physical and spiritual battles. “The Wolf Tribe will secure this future. The Ice Fangs’ duty is to help the weak live and thrive in it. Should an ally fall, help them back to their feet.”
Ravager walked forward, leaving her soldiers behind, and Janine howled, ordering her pack to get ready. She heard hundreds of paws pounding the rocky ground and gathering behind her. First nodded to her. Janine ignored the male, earning a hateful glare from Bertruda.
“This isn’t over,” the sword saint hissed, passing by her. “Don’t you dare die out there, you stinking moron. You owe me a dance.”
“I am a bad dancer, might accidentally crush a leg or two.” The warlord grabbed the passing woman by the shoulder, feeling the movement of metal beneath her cape. “Even our endurance has its limits. I’ll be much obliged if you’d kept our wounded safe.”
“Of course we will, thug!” Bertruda broke free.
“Are you two mating or something?” Martyshkina joked, stepping closer and leaning her head toward hers. “Forbidden lovers or...”
“What? No! How could you even imply that I would ever lower myself…”
“More like preliminary fondling, Marty,” Janine frowned before breaking into a smirk. “Not that an ice girl could ever hope to bear my weight on her bones, anyway.”
“We’ll see about that,” Bertruda hissed into her face. “You and me, soon. No, this is not what you think it is, Warlord Martyshkina! I demand that you wipe that stupid grin off your face and abandon those foul thoughts.”
“Not aiming to steal your place, don’t worry.” The other warlord bowed, mirroring the sword saint gesture with her own cape. “But my heart sings with joy for both of you.”
Bertruda groaned in a mixture of pain and embarrassment and turned away with such speed that part of her cape whipped the laughing warlords against their snouts.
“She’s far too easy to rile up.” Dragena noticed. “Don’t break her.”
“Well, I’ll try, but what can…”
Her feet left the ground. First Sunblade hugged her from under the armpit, raising Janine and Martyshkina into the air, easily overpowering and restraining both women without bending their armor or going too far to initiate the challenge. Fast. Janine never even heard him move or close in; his form simply vanished in the air, reappearing at her back.
“The most auspicious future awaits you yet, dearest Janine.” His muzzle rubbed against their necks, marking them with his scent. “May no misstep ever ruin it.” He set them down, closed his helmet, and pressed two fingers against the metal forehead. “Ladies. It’s been a pleasure, truly.”
“Phew, a tough cookie!” Martyshkina chuckled, checking her weapons and ignoring the burning gaze of Lacerated One.
“I bet we could take him on together,” Janine said. She checked her rifle as well, just in case. Trickery was rare, but some ambitious fools earned eternal scorn by sabotaging equipment and leading their kin to their deaths. While Janine never doubted the Spirits’ ability to restore justice, she also enjoyed living.
“Sharing a male? Disgusting…”
A stomp on the ground ate up the rest of Martyshkina’s words. Ravager had stopped fifty meters from the towering walls, basking in the lights of projectors that turned the guards on the wall into dark shapes. The Blessed Mother pressed her paw into the ground, bulging it with such force that two slabs of stone rose at her sides. Ravager looked up, ignoring the cannons aimed at her.
Outside the gates, chains held a body in suspension. Someone had skinned the man alive, his glistening flesh and blood cascading down the bronze and steel gates. Several dozen cameras, stylized to resemble human eyes with steel eyelids, moved across the main gates, gleefully examining Ravager.
“We gave you an offer of peaceful reunification,” Ravager said, loud enough to be heard all the way from the main gates. Her feminine voice bore no malice or anger, only the deep exhaustion of someone who had done the same thing over and over again. “Your leader spat in our faces and killed our envoy. She will be judged. But you don’t have to suffer or die. Many of you think that by this senseless and cowardly act, your leader has denied you a choice. This is false. There is always a choice. Surrender now. Cast down your weapons, and only the guilty will be punished. There is no glory in death. Live long and prosper; find happiness under better leadership. For your friends and families. Make the right choice. You have nothing to fear from us yet.”
Flashes of gunfire were all the response that she got. The defenders’ figures lit up in crimson and yellow; several hundred laser beams and scores of bullets were unleashed in unison, their fury combined with the defensive installations that lobbed shell after shell into Ravager. Missiles flew up from the massive defense towers behind the main wall and rained down on the Blessed Mother.
A mushroom cloud of smoke and fire rose from the ground, knocking some defenders off their feet. The shockwave splashed the chained body against the city’s wall, leaving not even a bloody stain. Every last bit of the envoy’s remains vaporized in the dancing, flaming fury. Janine watched calmly as the shockwave died against the energy field surrounding their camp. She ignored the hellish sounds of booming explosions and placed Martyshkina’s helmet on her friend’s head, allowing her fellow warlord to do the same to her.
A lone beam of darkness shot from the top of the crawler. The Wolfkins let out a cheer, witnessing how an ammunition silo in a tower exploded, creating a fiery blast on a section of the wall that swept the defenders away. Another shot followed immediately, piercing a hole through another turret and killing its operator. That night, Warlord Zero drew the first blood.
As the flames and explosions subsided, the defenders whispered in fear as they saw Ravager standing still in a newly created crater, streaks of molten metal tangled in her fur. A few drops of blood from her forearms marked the full extent of the damage the defenders had done to the Blessed Mother. As the tiny cuts closed, Ravager licked them, surveying the city.
“You have everything to fear from us now. Those who wish to live should drop their weapons. Those who seek a meaningless death try to bar my passing!” she bellowed.
A single line of destruction passed from her to the gates, unleashed by the force of her roar. It crumpled the metal in, setting off the minefield that encircled the capital. Ravager splattered against the ground, and the Wolf Tribe answered her will, surging ahead in maddening fury, each pack following its own warlord. Behind them, the crawler’s main guns thundered, creating ripples of energy in front of the capital as its own shields tried to withstand the barrage. Two heavy, armor-piercing shells had bypassed the protection and struck the top of the wall, sending the defenders tumbling.
Ravager lunged, disappearing from sight and leaving a gaping hole where the mighty gates had once stood. The reclamation had begun. Woe and destruction awaited any fool who tried to stop the Reclaimers.
