100 kilometers south of Houstad

  “We are too late,” said an officer of the provincial guard in a stern tone that left no room for argument.

  Jeanne sighed, keeping her head low. Ever since she had been forced to leave her church, she had chosen to enlist in the army. Her belief didn’t permit any violence, but there were ways to help, and she traversed the region, warning the stubborn farmers about the invasion, debating elders until they agreed to evacuate, and assisting the squads assigned to the task in any way she could. Inspired by her example, the ranks of the volunteers swelled, and they made good progress thanks to the brave sacrifices of their defenders.

  But their luck ran out today. Heavy long-range missile launchers drove into the farmlands. Oblivious to the panicked screams of the settlers, the hordemen secured their positions, and six farmers lay dead while the rest sought to escape. The officer was right; it was too late; if their group tried to get anyone out, they’d just add to the list of future victims.

  The abbess closed her eyes as the first missile took to the sky and smoke covered her people. Faithful or not, she prayed for the deliverance of their souls when she heard a gasp and broke off the prayer, worried that they had been found.

  Not a single enemy was left in sight. Battered remains of the missile launchers boomed at the horizons, callously flung away; the take-off missile was absent from the sky, and only a distant explosion high above the clouds lit up the surprised faces of the farmers. And Jeanne didn’t blame them. Five hundred enemy soldiers and six missile launchers vanished in an instant. With a creak, the intense wind that swept over the place carried large swaths of earth skyward.

  “How is that possible?” she whispered.

  “The Dynast watches, ma’am!” A soldier proudly admitted to committing the heresy; his hand reflexively formed a mace sign. “He is always around in one form or another, and his servants are mighty!”

  “Well, then, mighty servant.” The officer slapped the young man behind his ears. “Less yapping and more serving. Escort the farmers out of here. You saw nothing, ma’am.”

  “My hearing also grew worse with age.” Jeanne forced a smile.

  ****

  Accompanied by a crack of her neck, the khatun reached Eugenia, saying nothing and without so much as grasping her weapons. Nanomachines already covered the wounds, restoring the smooth surface of the Elite’s suit and repulsing the blood so that the surface shone a cheerful blue hue again. But Eugenia was breathing hard; her posture no longer betrayed certainty, and she threw her arms up.

  A blurred line connected with the tonfas. Mad Hatter’s punch, so terrible and powerful, hurled a tornado against Houstad’s shield, all concentrated on a single point, and Janine yelled for the troops to take cover. The wind burst in, blowing into the warlord’s face harder than most sandstorms she knew, but the dome restored itself, sparing the troops the worst.

  On the field, Eugenia reeled; Mad Hatter’s punch sent her own fist against her helmet hard enough to shatter a part of the faceplate and utterly flatten her nose. Janine didn’t need to guess to know that the Elite’s wounds reopened, but the worst sight was a shimmering line hovering before the perfectly calm khatun. She was baited into this rapid flickering punch and still struck far too fast for Eugenia to take advantage of this move.

  A hand caught the Elite by the collar of her suit, crumpling the alloy as if it were mere paper, and pulled Eugenia closer to Mad Hatter.

  “Tell me. Do you see him?” Mad Hatter asked. “Do you hear his words pouring poison into your ears, promising gifts in exchange for servitude?”

  “No… no idea what you are blabbering about,” Eugenia exhaled, panting heavily.

  “Hm. So he doesn’t call to you.” Mad Hatter looked up. “Curious. Is that because you were born before the Extinction? Or maybe you lack certain qualities…”

  The sizzling edge of the tonfa flew past Mad Hatter’s head, missing it entirely, and Eugenia gasped for air as a knee rammed into her solar plexus, hard enough to make the woman vomit blood. The grabbed ‘collar’ of her suit disconnected itself from the main mass, and a portal readily opened behind her. But an elbow in the back of the neck sent the Iternian away from the escape, and then a leg sweep finally landed on Eugenia’s right leg.

  A metallic pimple grew on Eugenia’s leg moments before the contact, as nanomachines reinforced the threatening area to cushion the blunt damage. And it exploded, scattering metal shards everywhere. The leg plunged into Eugenia’s flesh like a razor, breaking the kneecap and severing tendons. The tonfas dropped, lost from pain, but the blue fist swiped at Mad Hatter’s face, right at the regenerating, steaming flesh, bouncing off and grabbing the hair, ripping a chunk out.

  “That’s just childish.” Mad Hatter slapped Eugenia, sending her down. “All this effort just to ruin my haircut. What are we, concubines, squabbling over which of our children to prompt to authority?”

  She took Eugenia by the ankle, jerked the woman over her head, and whipped her, using a living body as a whip. A loud crack of dislocated bones reached Janine’s ears; the Elite arched her body, still holding the torn hair, her mouth open in a wordless scream. Mad Hatter purposely let everyone see that weakness and then slammed her fist into the helmet, breaking half of it and crushing Eugenia into the ground with enough force to send a torrent of ground into the air.

  I never imagined it would be this one-sided. Janine clenched the Taleteller. How long had it been since Redeemer and Ravager first clashed head-on? The two had evolved together, one through the genius of bioengineering, the other through the reward of her power. They grew; their potential seemed limitless, and even if that traitorous butcher had been forced to throw their fights first, the Tribe at large came to consider the two as equals.

  If one was dominated so…

  “Listen to me, hero.” Mad Hatter’s knuckles pressed hard into Eugenia’s cheek. “You got your consolation prize. Now it’s my turn to have fun. Yes,” she chuckled to something, “I know you can hear me, and I have figured out the reason why you are here truly, imitation. I am going to increase the pressure against your cheekbone, slowly. First it’ll crack. Then it’ll shatter.” Spurts of red colored Eugenia’s pale cheeks as the woman struggled to breathe. She elbowed Mad Hatter in the ribs, to no avail. “Eventually, the pressure will reach your ears, and if you’re lucky, they’ll burst. Or not, and they’ll be sent flying, dangling on the optical nerves, further confusing you. You have options, though. Feel free to complete your mission and escape through a portal, but then I swear I’ll eat those near the gates alive. If you stay, you’ll fail your wimpy country, and I’ll have your flesh for a midday snack, but on the other hand, my mood will improve, and I promise to spare... I don’t know. Hey, Ismaeel, how many doggies have your brats collected?”

  Mad Hatter positioned herself above her victim. Her toes dug into the ground, left arm behind her back, the right hand kept digging into Eugenia’s face as the woman lay on her side, elbowing the tormentor. They both tensed, straining their muscles, but one pushed herself to the limit, and the other easily countered any attempts at resistance.

  A prong formed on Eugenia’s elbow, and it briefly pierced Mad Hatter’s skin, drawing blood. A casual blow broke it, bruising the elbow. Electricity erupted from Eugenia’s suit, brightly illuminating both women, and sparks danced in the khatun’s ears. Yellow arcs licked the unprotected body, melting the surrounding ground, but whatever the armor’s generator was, it couldn’t match the tonfas’ discharges, and the taller woman didn’t so much as bat an eye.

  “Five hundred and six, Khatun!” Iron Lord responded, paying no attention to the light show. “Four more in critical condition. The healers are unsure if they’d survive; they refused augmetics.”

  “Five hundred and ten it is. That many of the defenders I’ll spare.” Mad Hatter snorted. “A good number. For five hundred days, the Sky tested our ancestors with constant hurricanes before deeming them worthy to worship him and leading them to the Steppe. It is a sign of my true father’s favor. So what will it be, fake? Duty and self-preservation? Or lives?” Eugenia opened her mouth to answer, and the khatun shoved her fist harder into the other woman’s head, dusting four teeth of Eugenia right inside their gums. The pale skin reddened, slowly swelling under the merciless pressure. “No more speeches. No glorious end. It’ll be cowardly or ugly, and whichever you choose, someone is going to die.”

  ****

  50 kilometers northwest of Houstad:

  To be aware of how to do a thing and be utterly incapable of performing the feat was torture. Second’s eyes, misshapen as they were, picked up the smallest particles; the gifts bestowed upon him by his parents helped him see the bullets in slow motion, and he could do little but slash at them, far too late to save his plate from being besmirched.

  He had arrived at the zone of the failed evacuation, quickly evaluating the siege camp set up by the hordemen. They had bombarded the troops sheltering in the food processing plant and were making steady progress, already breaching the walls. With their khan murdered in the north, that gang exhibited cautiousness, never taking risks, using long-range ordinance to drive the defenders away from the gaps, while widening and then sending in multiple assault teams, sticking to ranged combat and using their naturally superior biology and better armor to overwhelm any resistance. Once taken down, they’ll chase after other escapees.

  Or would they? What was the reason the hordemen sought to capture this place? The convoy had transported family relics and gathered resources from a Sunblade gold mine. Perhaps this rabble would indulge in pointless competition…

  A knight had to know when to run to fight another day, for a knight’s duty lay not to the individuals, but to the state. Second had already strained the limits of this rule by arriving here, driven by the Ice Fangs’ values. The moral reasoning for him being here was that he refused to abandon those in need. The practical reason was simpler; tying up an enemy force here reduced the threat to Houstad and spared other escapees, as emboldened by the glint of gold, the scoundrels would doubtlessly pursue them, hoping to double or triple their ill-gotten gains. Or so he lied to himself.

  The Ice Fang leaped, landing on the mortars in the enemy’s rear; a single swing of his arm cleaved through the four bodies. He didn’t pause, charging toward the walls, aware of his limitations. In a contest of physical prowess, not even First or Alpha could stop his blows, but he lacked their overall quality. His unevenly sized limbs forced him into the impractical quadruped stance, and without his sword as a cane, the Ice Fang could barely traverse around fast. His organs swayed inside his body, saliva choked his lungs, denying him the stamina to perform feats of speed, and occasional confusion played tricks on his mind. He lacked speed, agility, endurance, and even health. When he fought the enemy, his body fought him.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  But a true nobleman never lamented what he couldn’t do. Second’s plate was a marvel, equipped with several ranged turrets, which he used to scatter the unworthy from his path. Those who remained, the bigger imbeciles wielding pathetic excuses for swords and cracking with energy hammers, became his targets.

  Foolishness had no place in war. Even a child would have understood that his rapid advance would not give the turrets enough time to score enough kills, and the mere fact that plates cracked under his projectiles should have convinced the foes to form a line and face him, trusting in their ability to survive long enough. Upon contact, they should have flanked him and later surrounded him, striking at the joints and denying him the answer to who their champions were.

  That was what he would have done had he commanded a unit facing such an unexpected and brazen assault. Fortuitously, his opponents lacked the sophisticated and superior faculties of Ice Fangs or the brilliant combat instinct of his black-furred kin. And so grenade launchers mounted above his protected shoulder blades fired smoke grenades, enveloping the group, and holographic projectors in his limbs activated, surrounding Second with copies of his finest students. The first brute was baited into attacking a lithe, spear-armed Ice Fang, and his hammer flew through her ethereal head instead of blocking the incoming doom.

  Second’s swing was akin to a wrecking ball, lacking any innate elegance, yet precise enough to land under the hordeman’s armpit. His sword plunged full length, slicing through the reinforced plates as if they were little more than freshly toasted bread. The man’s torso slipped from his body, and the slash continued, one of the many prongs of his serrated blade slamming into another’s helmet and lodging in the woman’s head.

  The body went limp and was dragged from her feet as the second-born of the Twins rose on two feet. It was an ugly sight; his purple cape swiped the dirt, one leg was a column, and another immediately buckled to stand on a knee as ragged breath and drool spilled through the half-open mouthguard of his helmet. Second pummeled two nearest foes into piles of broken bones using the very body of their comrade.

  Such a display of savagery had several objectives. First, to lure them into a foolish belief in his poor thinking habits, falsely warning them of his armor rather than his intellect. Second, to partially evade the maddening shooting of the lesser threats. Durable as it was, his protection wouldn’t last forever, and already notches and cracks were beginning to cover it. He needed to preserve the holograms as long as possible. Finally, Second had to cough the fluid that was clogging his airways through his swollen gums, and he found that standing upright helped.

  His larger hand caught a panicked hordeman and slammed the hapless fool to the ground. Such uncivilized fighting might be worthy of a defender, but it was beneath a knight. Second hated every second of seeing the viscera on his armored fingers. What would First think of him now... He jumped into the fray and joined the soldiers.

  “Sir!” the wounded retainer of the Sunblade House, a Normie, had saluted him then. His mouth barely twitched, but the rest of his unit recoiled, half-disgusted, half-terrified by the drooling, crawling creature. The lenses of various sizes on his head and the elaborate silver and gold combat plate only added to the ridiculous sight. “Has there been a change of plans?” asked the man with a hint of hope.

  “Negative, officer.” Second shook his head. “I am all the help we’ll have.”

  Inspired troops fought harder, but a deceived unit was a source of future insubordination. On the slim chance that any of the present would survive, the Sunblade decided to stick to honesty, unwilling to participate in a deception that widened the rift between the Order and the Tribe.

  “Shit. We have children here,” the retainer cursed. “There aren’t enough of us to guard every entrance, and I am worried that the fatties are about to level us off the face of the planet.”

  “They won’t,” Second assured him. Fatties, eh? What does this make me, then? “Not unless they are willing to forgo their prize. Come, everyone. Civilians are owed our protection, and in my name, I swear to stand alongside you until my very last drop of blood.”

  It was a less-than-optimal strategy as the bombardment resumed. But faced with the choice of being withered down attempting to silence the mobile artillery or being chipped away inside, he had picked the latter option, intending to hold for long. Miracles, or rather happy accidents resulting from a change in morale, did happen in war. There was a tiny chance of survival. For four hours, Second traveled through the food production facility, confronting the invaders in the narrow corridors. His perception of time slowed, and he memorized the last moments of soldiers dying under his command.

  To be outside his capsule, to apply his theories to combat firsthand, was... exhilarating. For the first time in years, he tested his theories firsthand, organizing ambushes and retreats, taking into account the health of his precious allies. The turrets announced his arrival, lighting up the smoke-filled, partially ruined corridors with bursts of projectiles, and he followed, smashing, slicing, cutting, tearing, even biting. He had never even conceived himself capable of such fury, but as his weapon rendered the bodies, he accepted this part of himself as he accepted every flaw his fate had bestowed upon him.

  The end of the road. He kept thinking that thought, gathering the remaining retainers at the center of the facility, in a place the enemy would not dare bombard. Civilian workers hid behind containers filled with precious metals, artifacts, or simple diamonds and gems. They clutched a gift far more precious, their children, to their chests, trying to calm down the little ones.

  A meager dozen and a half combat-ready soldiers stood ready to protect them. The rest died; their commanding officer faced his doom after he was shot and then stomped by the hordemen, and Second assumed full command. He, a descendant of the Twins themselves, would die leading the Normies. Bereft of glory, denied a last charge unless he wished to abandon those he guarded.

  Gashes covered his plate, pools of torn flesh across his flesh spurted blood, his bones ached, his lips parched from a catastrophic lack of water. The holograms no longer surrounded him, and even the remaining turrets fell silent.

  “I have taken your every assault, your toughest blow, and I am still standing!” Second roared, rising to two legs. “Come! Is there no champion among you brave enough to collect my head or die a dog’s death? Am I facing a swarm of insects or warriors? Face me if you dare!”

  He frowned, confused at the sudden silence that had befallen the corridors. A mere second ago, he had heard laughter, curses, and the boasting of the foreign scum. They were taking up positions, fanning out, and surrounding the great hall with the intention of overwhelming the survivors in one fell swoop. Now there was nothing, not even the clicks of reloading machine guns.

  A giggle came from the corridor leading to the main entrance. Then another came from a breach in the wall, a wicked mocking noise mimicking Second’s sucking, watery speech. The giggle intensified, forming an orchestra of cruel mirth that echoed off the walls, frightening the children and their families and turning the soldiers’ faces pale. Second himself stiffened as he noticed a tall figure racing through the shadows of the corridor. The speed of the figure overwhelmed his cameras, but the pallor of its skin and its height brought him to a halt.

  “Took our toughest blow?” a high-pitched voice asked in a tone full of venom that made Second’s ears hurt.

  “Tease,” growled another voice, a sound of an animal imitating brass tonality through the grinding of fangs.

  “If face us thou wish…”

  “Then face us, you get!”

  A section of the wall leading into the hall erupted, briefly showing Second the standing hordemen. Covered in dust and debris, two figures burst in; one landed sprawled on the floor, and another pirouetted over the shocked defenders, landing with a clack of claws against the floor and wincing at the trembling children. Their bodies, naked except for their dangling, tangled, and dirty hair, bore no scars; their snouts stuck out a little farther than those of most Ice Fangs and Wolfkins. Tall as Sword Saints and Warlords, the newcomers possessed both the grace and might of the two groups, creating a perfect mockery of every shared virtue of both groups.

  Second didn’t waver. He did not wonder why the fallen had joined the Horde. They did not. Their goals were momentarily aligned to maximize monstrous amusement, and amusement meant one thing to the lost souls. These creatures were too dangerous to let them be.

  His sword slashed at the standing skinwalker’s head, but the woman shifted her body axis slightly, barely tilting her head, and the edge passed over her temple. She immediately returned to her standing position, fast enough that the humans might not even notice her movement. To the Normies, it looked as if the sword had phased through the skull. Then she kicked backward, sending Second rolling to the ground.

  Strong. The pain of a single blow, masterfully calculated to be delivered at the exact moment of his brief release of tension to combat the innate spasm, throbbed in his gut. His own intestines were now pressing against his liver. He grasped the dented plate, forcefully fixing it, and tried to stand up.

  “Why?” The skinwalker’s head turned to face him, breaking her own neck in the process, and the families screamed at the gleaming bone piercing her skin. “Because the inside mirrors the outside.”

  He stopped, confused at the accusation, and the second skinwalker bounced off the floor, delivering a punch to the joint of his armor and numbing Second’s larger arm. She held back the claws, but he heard the crack of bone.

  “How could you be beautiful?” growled the second skinwalker, dancing away from his stab. “The Horde came for the riches. There they are.” She motioned at the containers.

  “And these are whom you swore to protect,” said the first skinwalker, her claws closing around the head of a terrified girl. “Tasty, sweet… morsels.”

  “Begone!” Second swung overhead, and the skinwalker dodged the blow, jumping away from her prey.

  She and her sister flashed around the Sunblade, laughing, giggling, and pointing fingers, inviting his aggression and skirting around his sword. Their counterattacks followed, aimed squarely at his joints. Both monsters growled with pleasure, enjoying the fire of the retainers, not even bothering to dodge the bullets as their bodies healed the damage in seconds.

  “Calls himself a knight…”

  “Yet he refuses to surrender goods to save his subjects!”

  “Selfish! Greedy! Cries about his appearance!”

  “And always hides in the bathtub!”

  “How many of your students have died without your assistance!” Their accusations heaped on Second, bringing more pain than any of their blows ever could. “Hypocrite! What sort of teacher refuses to practice what he preaches? Asks the universe why, when the answer is obvious! Rotten on the inside, corrupt on the outside! An eternal disgrace to his parents!”

  Their bobbing, blurry forms weaved around Second, lobbing righteous accusations at him, pointing out every hypocrisy in his actions, and tearing down every delusion he had. He didn’t even ask how they knew about the exact deaths of his siblings. It was undeniable. Even monsters and lunatics acted, while he shut himself away in his shame, relying on the relief of the machines, providing words and expertise, as his siblings perished one by one, and their offspring shouldered the burden, braving the dangerous world. And he... what had he accomplished?

  He hadn’t even been able to save anyone. The battle for Houstad had undoubtedly already begun, and he wasn’t at his brother’s side.

  Second was kicked around; his slashes no longer carried any precision, and even desperation couldn’t fuel his weary limbs. He lost count of the shattered bones; the plate was pulled off him piece by piece, exposing his ugliness for all to see. A double kick to the stomach lifted him into the air, and another skinwalker elbowed him in the head, nearly popping his larger eye. He tried to bite her, but the creature laughed, stealing his front fangs as he was dropped on the containers, breaking them with his weight.

  He rolled off them, afraid to crush the families, and two feet pierced his sides, bringing him down on the hiding people by force. The skinwalkers stood on one leg, juggling his sword between them, and laughed, one happily, another gleefully.

  “You never acted! A dead weight for your sibling! And weights crush, hahahahahah! Look at you, an alcoholic sucking on a tit full of self-loathing and pity! And because of that, your appearance…” They stopped, and for a while the only sound in the hall was the gunfire. Then the dishes of their eyes widened, gaining something resembling focus, and Second himself heard it. A faint howl, a call of the person he thought to be a second mother. Ravager’s noble proclamation that all would be well, and in it he found the strength to push himself higher, using only three limbs, and tried to claw at the thoughtful face with his dried-up appendage of an arm.

  “…Doesn’t matter.” The legs let him go, and the skinwalker pushed the sword into his hand. They took him by the head and whispered in his ears. “You think yourself ugly, cursed, and useless. Silly, silly boy. Haven’t you proven yourself wrong? Your teachings have helped the Order to shine. To them…” They gestured to the soldiers and civilians. “You are a savior. Your appearance no longer matters to them. Don’t waste time crying over missed opportunities. Ain’t worth your precious tears. Get what you can today. Become the pillar of the Order that you know you can be! Be a teacher, be a fighter, be a lord, but be, not hide! Carry on, and you’ll be surprised how many don’t give a shit how you look.” They trembled, glanced up, and streaked toward the hordemen. “We’re helping, Mom!” they cried, carving themselves a path through the escaping enemies. “We don’t do mischief, honest!”

  “What just happened, sir?” asked a young retainer, reloading her pistol.

  “Not a faintest idea,” Second answered, using his sword to stand. “But we can’t get complacent. This place is safe no longer. Leave the valuables, and let’s hurry north.”