Janine barged into the corridor leading to the command bridge with all the alacrity she could muster, knocking several white-furred, too slow to jump out of her way, aside. Marty shadowed her, the helmet closed to hide the fresh wound from bothering their unreliable allies. Several sages tried to bar their passages, begging Janine to put on some clothes, but she ignored them, carrying the Taleteller on her broad shoulder. The fur will serve her well enough. In the time of barbarism, she had no patience for civility.
The mobile fortress was hardly a subtle thing. Though it moved deliberately slow, its treads carved fresh roads, pulverizing swaths of nature, and thunderous cracks of broken trees and stones accompanied their journey to Houstad. Like frightened cubs trailing after a parent, columns of trucks and army vehicles followed, safely protected by the turrets of the mobile fortress, while Wolfkins lurked in the shadows of the untouched trees, descending on any enemy scout party in an orgy of violence and disappearing just as fast.
By attacking the refugee convoy, the fools had signed their own death warrants. No mercy was shown, but these were mere scouting parties testing their hides, and as Janine stepped onto the bridge, she grew worried that the Horde main force had caught up with them at last.
Mindless chaos filled the center. Normie officers loudly demanded an explanation for a failure; black-clad agents of the Investigation Bureau tried to contact their informants, threatening them with the death penalty for incompetence. Their superiors examined the holographic map detailing the Horde's advance and the slowly advancing yellow tide threatening to swallow the vastness of Houstad.
The situation was dire. The Wall had been breached in several places, and information poured in about tribes of New Breeds hurrying to reinforce the Horde's ranks. It seemed every scum by that side of the wilderness had either joined in or hired forces to pledge their allegiance to the Khatun, bolstering the already innumerable host with the fresh volunteers, and banners of the jaws swallowing the world soared high. Entire settlements became makeshift giant factories, churning out new weapons to support the growing numbers and pumping out ammunition. Prisons were cracked open, further swelling the ranks of the bondsmen.
Madmen, tyrants, dictators, and religious zealots who had previously behaved out of fear of reprisal now abandoned all semblance of civility and executed Reclaimers' ambassadors, publicly swearing fealty to the Gilded Horde. Sleeper cells from the locals and agents standing at the ready to behead uppity rulers found themselves surrounded and killed. Brood Lord's work, no doubt, and a further proof of treachery. Accounts flashed across the screen of forces under Iron Lord's banner, wiping out several bandit factions to preserve the citizens. Janine had no idea what kind of depravity was too much for the enemy to tolerate, but any news of infighting was music to her ears.
But the gloom was temporary, and the Reclamation Army hardly stood alone. Mercenary "kings" officially cast their lot with the state, serving as their informants in the conquered regions. Many former prisoners, trapped in war zones against their will, established contact and swore their innocence of having been forced into the invading army. And the Second and the First armies were coming. The die was cast, and even should they fail, they will be avenged.
Not that Janine had any intention of dying. Her eyes found Bertruda, who stood with outstretched arms being encased in a power armor by three personal squires.
"Sword Saint. What is happening?" Janine asked politely.
"The Knight Academy in Opul has failed to evacuate and is now under attack." Bertruda craned her neck elegantly, showing no sign of concern, and a squire hurried to attach her helmet to the gorget. "It is not far, and Mad Hatter was last spotted further to the north, so we are uniquely poised to serve as the perfect rescue team. I and my knights are heading out. Warlord, please take over…"
"Armor!" Janine said to a face of the nearby sage, who glanced at Bertruda for permission. A paw wrapped around her neck, dragging the woman nose-to-nose with the warlord. "I gave you the order, officer. A suit of armor, this instant! Or do you wish to deprive your kin of our might?" The sage emitted a scent of submission and eagerly hurried away.
"I am joining too. Need to stretch my legs, watch over that buffoon…"
"Who are you calling a buffoon?" Janine grumbled playfully. "You were the one who forgot the route home after that party two years ago!"
"…And my revolvers thirst for the Horde's blood. Can't deny them that." Martyshkina refused to take the bait, grinned, and spun her weapons.
"Thank you," quietly said Bertruda. "I did not expect cooperation after…"
"You expect us to abandon cubs? Have you lost your marbles, Sword Saint?" Janine asked. "I'll work alongside a skinwalker to rescue civilians if needed." She pressed two fingers to her chin and studied the map. Opul, a small town too close to Houstad. "No way they didn't receive a warning."
"This area was swarmed by the initial Horde's invaders before the Alpha Pack pushed them back," Bertruda said, but a hint of doubt crawled into her voice.
"No, Jani is onto something." Martyshkina holstered her revolvers. "The pits…"
"Academy, Lady" a sage corrected her.
"Whatever. Look." Martyshkina grabbed the sage, pressed him tightly against her chest, and pointed. "Why would there be jammers nearby, and why did they stop working half an hour ago? There is no military and not much of a civilian population to commit such resources. Besides, the Horde just kicked our butts to the north; why did the jammers pull back and let the news through? No, buddy, those creeps purposely delayed our evacuation to trap the cubs inside Opul. They are trying to pull Leonidas on us, just acting smarter about it."
"Summon Wolf Hags Anissa, Kalaisa, Elzada, and Shaman Impatient One. They are to join us, fully equipped," Janine commanded and stopped, shuddering at the necessity. "And call that white-furred Voidrunner girl… Thyia. I have need of her."
Her eyebrows rose as she saw the suit rolled in for her. A gleaming white hull belonging to an Ice Fang, large enough to fit her inside. On its chest, arms, and legs, it had artistically crafted muscles running over the surface of the combat plates, its helmet stylized after a muzzle of a stern Wolfkin. The sigils and colors of House Mountaintop across the breastplate coiled upward to the gorget, and a yellow cape cascaded from the shoulders.
"Remove the cape," she bit down on any argument. The outdated combat plate of Bertruda's predecessor, its helmet still bearing a bright spot marking the blow that had penetrated the defense and finished the man. A gesture of trust, maybe, or perhaps the only suit around capable of adapting to her unusual proportions.
"Greetings, Sword Saint. Please upload identification codes to update the database," said a pleasant, musical voice as a squire placed the helmet on Janine's head and the visor blinked to let her see.
"I am no Sword Saint," Janine answered, and the visor darkened while the armored pauldron on her shoulder tightened, restricting her movements.
"Unauthorized use of a Sword Saint's battle plate is no joking matter, initiate," the voice chastised her. "Stay still while I contact sages for disciplinary actions…"
"Sword Saint. The machine tries to trap me," Janine said, unsure if this was a deliberate attempt to humiliate her.
"Hundred apologies, warlord, it slipped my mind," Bertruda gasped. "IDs are sent. Suits constructed by the Divine Twins are governed by machine intelligences. We haven't found a way to upload them into the newer models yet."
"Hail, Sword Saint Bertruda! Glory to you and eternal memory to your predecessor," the voice sang with joy, and the systems reverted back online, filling the warlord's retinas with the flow of information. "Sword Saint Janine, you are approved for the honor of wielding the Mountaintop treasure. I await your wishes and instructions for the celebration following our inevitable success on the battlefield. Would you prefer a softer white wine, or perhaps…"
"I already told you, not a sword saint! I am Warlord Janine," she replied, adding after consideration. "Also, cognac and a cusack leg. Roasted."
"The title of Warlord is added to the honorary ranks of the Mountaintop House, Lady Bull-Slayer," the electronic voice chirped.
"Don't you dare call me that! That name belongs to your master, and don't add anything! I have nothing to do with the Ice Fangs! I am from the Wolf Tribe!"
"Ah, so you married into our house from our rowdy kin. I should have guessed as much when I heard your peculiar tastes in alcohol." She heard a tongue clicking. "How inhospitable of me! Fear not, my lady; I will prepare a list of necessary literature and etiquette lessons to help you fit into the house as if you were born here! Congratulations on your union with Sword Saint Bertruda."