Chapter 21: Chapter 14: Can’t Tolerate Each Other

Janine arrived at the largest Ice Fangs camp, flanked by the Mountaintop household’s honor guard. Bertruda may be a scheming whore, but she provided an escort worthy of a warlord, and six heavy veterans, clad in their heaviest suits, led her to the gates, where knights of the Sunblade household saluted and let her in.

Initiates, the youngest of the Ice Fangs, tended to the tents, rushing to either clean their masters’ armor and weapons, cook food, or scurry around the camp delivering messages. These youngsters worked hard, practicing obedience and honing their fighting skills to become first foot soldiers and later squires.

The camp was divided into several sections. First Sunblade and his troops occupied the central section, but his hunters and defenders spread out evenly throughout the camp, patrolling and bolstering the defenses. Every sword saint’s tall sages filmed the distant city, preserving its history for the national chronicle.

Janine, the axe resting on her shoulder and the high collar of the oversized coat hiding the neck wounds, marched straight to the Sunblade tent, assuming it to be a place where her rival awaited. Two sages, the order analog of shamans, met her halfway. Both wore highly advanced types of white power armor, with colored red lines running on the outer sides of their arms and legs. Their lenses shone blue, and the heavy steel plates did little to impede their movements in any way. Impressive-looking gunhalberds rested in maglocks behind their backs, next to the tower shields.

“Halt!” a sage spoke in a gentle and melodic voice. The male removed his helmet, showing a scarless snout. “Honored lady, please state the reason for your…”

Janine’s paw caught him by the torso’s joint, raising the surprised sage in the air and hearing the whine of his armor beneath her fingers. The other sage’s halberd was already in her paw; the gunhalberd’s barrel, located below the curved blade, was aimed at the warlord’s arm. Nearby knights responded in kind, reaching for their swords and spears and forming a shield wall to protect the curious initiates.

She ignored the commotion and pulled the sage closer.

“I came here at the demand of Sword Saint Bertruda.” Her pupils dilated in response to the anger boiling in her veins. A male dares to block her passage? Dares questioning her? Something inside her demanded that she remind him of his place in the hierarchy and dominate him. But self-control prevailed. “The interference of this irritant is keeping me from the needs of my pack, and I wish to settle our grievances as soon as possible. Take me to her, shiny boy, before I accidentally break this nice camp.” She released the hold, and the sage landed nimbly.

“My deepest apologies for the disrespect, lady.” The impudent little male dared to bow to her! “But I do not have the honor of serving the illustrious Lady Bertruda. My liege is First Sunblade, the greatest Wolfkin alive. Please follow me if you will.”

Greatest? So much for the Blessed Mother, huh? Janine rolled her eyes at the impertinence and accepted the offer, grinning at the initiates’ disappointed snouts. Cubs are cubs everywhere; she remembered herself betting her first hard-earned tokens on who Terrific could beat.

Along the way, she observed some knights training their initiates, using wooden weapons to battle several at a time, pointing out flaws in their form, or supervising the youngsters at a shooting range. Based on the initiates size, their age was somewhat between ten and fifteen years old. Janine always had trouble determining the age of the ice boys.

The two groups were wildly different. By the age of three, a Wolfkin of the tribe would have killed his first insectoid, known how to take apart and reassemble a shardgun, and had his share of scars. The shamans examined seven-year-old girls and eight-year-old boys before sending them off to their first packs, prepared to face any hardships that came their way. Their counterparts from the Order would still be hidden in the safety of the cities, nurtured and educated by sages, and would never see any real danger. It was not until the age of ten that an Ice Fang left home to join the army.

This was due to a fundamental difference between the two groups of Wolfkins. Cubs of the Wolf Tribe grew fast, acquiring basic language within months of birth. They inherited instincts and a desire to dominate, along with mother’s milk, and worked in the villages, herding cusacks and performing basic repairs. Cubs of the Ice Fang Order matured at the rate of Normies, remaining frail and weak for years before catching up to their cousins. While this difference caused much disgust among the tribe, who saw it as a weakness, Janine envied it. What mother wouldn’t want to hold her precious cubs in her paws for longer, instead of sending them off to train in the pits and lick their wounds afterwards?

As they passed a training arena, Janine grimaced, hearing the words of encouragement given by a trainer to a cub who had lost a sparring match in three moves. Her opponent didn’t even do anything impressive, starting with a straight overhead thrust aimed at the cub’s forehead, using the hand guard of his wooden sword to block the counterthrust, and turning his attack into a slice that touched the other cub’s nose. In the Wolf Tribe, the fight would never have been stopped at such an early stage, because no enemy in the wild would stop if you just “cut” him.

The tribe taught its cubs well. Two, three, or more cubs would crash into each other, biting and slashing, tearing at skin, and seeking to tackle the opponent. No fight would end until either the winner showed mercy or a shaman intervened. The rules were simple: dominate at any cost; initial wounds meant nothing; a losing party could lurk on the fringes of a struggle, waiting for the winning side to weaken and tire, or for the strongest to face off in what seemed to be a final bout. The smart ones would often charge at such moments, even males, though they often lacked the strength to overcome females, who simply swatted them away. Still, the shamans kept a close eye on the young, instructing the males in using ranged weapons and guiding the females to become scouts. Most prized, however, were the females who trained the less intelligent cubs and formed gangs to dominate the pits, for such girls were potential future wolf hags.

“Lady, are you Warlord Alpha?!” The cub who had won the fight bowed low. Without baring his neck. He and his partner wore paired bulletproof skintight bodysuits, sometimes called underarmor. Each underarmor had many zippers, designed to be open so that the battle plate’s cables could be connected to the body’s implants for smoother operation and to monitor the body’s functions.

“Stupid. This is Warlord Janine,” the second cub said quickly, repeating the bow. “Greetings, honored cousin. May the Spirits bless you.”

“But she bears the marks of the Alpha Pack! And the scent...” The boy frowned and sniffed the air. “It’s... both.”

“See? I saw her on the news; this is Warlord Janine, I tell you!” the girl argued.

“Name’s Janine, indeed. Greetings… little ones.” Janine stumbled for a second, unsure how to address them. Tags on their shoulders told her they were ten-year-old noncombatants. She was confused to see supposed adults acting so childishly.

“Have you come to pay your respects to the sword saints, Warlord?” the male cub asked, earning himself worried looks from the sage and trainer.

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“Something like that, yes,” Janine laughed, not offended in the slightest. Curiosity was a wonderful trait, and the cubs were respectful enough. “Are you Sunblades?”

“I am,” the girl said.

“I do not have this honor. My parents are from the household of Ironwill,” the boy told her. He hesitated and asked, “Is it true that your axe comes from the Old World, Lady Janine?”

“Just Janine.” She put the Taleteller’s head on the ground, aiming its blade at herself. “It is true. I found it on a joint operation where we had to team up with the Oathtakers against the maddened soulless mechanisms and weird biological creatures. Its edge saved the lives of my allies, and Warlord Terrific herself gifted it to me afterwards.”

“Cool!” The boy clapped, and suddenly they did not differ from the tribe’s cubs. “Can we take a photo next to it… Better yet, can we take a picture with you?”

“Please, please!” the girl begged. “Our group will be so enviou…. I mean, it’ll look awesome for our chronicles!” She blushed, hastily correcting herself, and Janine nodded, inviting them to stand beside her. She dropped to one knee and let the trainer take a picture with his portable terminal.

“Enjoy your training.” Janine smirked cheerfully.

“Tell Marco to drop by again, lady Janine!” The girl called behind her. “We still have some pizza left!”

“Sure thing…” Wait, what?! What did the little squirt forget here?! Janine almost tripped and laughed bombastically, happy about her son’s initiative. There was nothing wrong with visiting her cousins; a family was a family. It might even help her achieve her goal…

The sage led her to the tent of First Sunblade, a true marvel of artistry, adorned by the finest finery. A tapestry recounted the twins’ first meeting and Ravager’s acceptance of them as kin. Proud purple and gold flags fluttered in the breeze; soft rugs and carpets covered the dead earth around the tent; and trophy racks stood in the open, holding weapons and equipment collected from those First deemed worthy. Four sword saints—Bertruda, Camelia, Tancred, and First himself—sat inside the tent, sipping wine from the golden cups and discussing something over a holographic map.

First left his seat and tent in a flash, noticing Janine. He was dressed in simple robes of yellow and white, decorated by swords’ embroidery. A purple sash wrapped the robes around his waist. He let his long hair loose, and musical notes produced by dozens of golden and platinum rings woven into his hair accompanied his steps. Similar to Alpha, First stood out among his kind, possessing more muscle than most warlords, and his sclera boasted a golden hue, a characteristic that his direct offspring shared, albeit in somewhat diminished form. Blessed by the Twins’ divine blood, no scar stayed long on his skin.

“Warlord Janine! What a pleasant surprise!” First offered her a cup. He sniffed the air, and a worried look appeared in his sharp, crimson eyes. “Come, sit and feast with your brothers and sisters, and permit us to soothe your…”

“Thank you for the sustenance,” Janine answered curtly and snatched the cup, drinking the soft wine and enjoying every second of it. “The day is short, and my temper is even shorter. Let us end it.”

First’s eyes glanced to the side as Bertruda left the tent, still clad in her armor like the rest of the sword saints. She tied her long hair into a knot and fumed with barely contained rage, meeting Janine’s stony gaze. The rage pleased Janine. The traitor may be a coward, a schemer, and a trickster, but the anger was real and worthy of Ravager’s approval. Instinct ruled Bertruda, urging her to dominate Janine.

A shame she chose to do it in this way. Otherwise, Janine might have spared her ribs.

Next, Camelia Wintersong stepped out, elegantly holding a cup in her paw. A welcoming smile danced on her lips, unmatched by the calculated look in her crimson eyes. The woman chose black for her hair today, and a special ointment and three onyx pins straightened her long saber hair, creating a raven wing behind her back. Tancred Ironwill stood and nodded to Janine from inside the tent, then returned to reading the reports.

“Pray, explain your reason for coming here, Janine,” Camelia asked, her free paw almost accidentally sliding closer to the handle of her sword. “You come uninvited, carrying a weapon and stirring ruckus in the camp, rudely treating fellow soldiers. One might think you seek to incur an insult.”

“Insult? There is no insult, implied or otherwise, Sword Saint Camelia,” Janine said. “I came to…”

“The barbarian skulked here, answering my call,” Bertruda interrupted. She looked over at Janine and wrinkled her nose. “No armor? Did you break your junk, or did you think I would show mercy at such a pitiful sight?” Bertruda bared her fangs and let out a low growl. Camelia blinked and put a paw on the woman’s pauldron, stopping her from advancing. “Where is your honor guard? Where is the rabble you call warlords? Are you this scared of losing in front of them? Is this it? Is this why you came alone—to spare yourself further humiliation? Well, if so, then at least you aren’t delusional about your chances, wildling. I almost want to take pity on you.” The crimson eyes narrowed. “You could’ve taken a shower, at least, before reporting to your betters. Your stench suits you, but it offends me.”

“Bertruda.” Tancred’s calm voice stopped her outburst. The sword saint never broke the line of sight from the map. “You will address our sisters with respect, or I shall discipline you myself.”

“Is this how the Ice Fangs honor a warrior answering a challenge? Ha! Appreciate the honesty. I don’t need armor or a cheerleading squad to see you bite the dust, Ice Girl,” Janine smiled broadly, putting the Taleteller’s head on the ground and resting her paws on the knob. “Although I might start calling you Flame Girl. Had I known you had such a storm in you, I would have offered you a place in the tribe. Step to me and give me a taste of what passes for rage among your cold kind.”

“I’ll give you more than a taste, barbarian; I will make you regret the words you hurled at the grandmaster. But I will not give you an excuse to blame your inevitable defeat on a lack of equipment. No, my skills will be burned into your brain forever, along with the Order’s martial superiority. Guards!” Bertruda shouted, calling her knights. She spread her arms, and they began removing her armor, piece by piece.

“Kins of mine, there is no need for such heated words.” First raised his paws and stepped between the women. “Are we not all brothers and sisters? Are we not servants to the Dynast and spiritual children of the Blessed Mother? Do we not seek the same future? Abandon the conflict and let us settle our differences peacefully.”

“It is most unwise to fight in your condition, Warlord Janine,” Camelia said in a more amicable tone, her eyes throwing daggers at Bertruda. “Perhaps we can postpone the duel?”

“Impossible,” Janine told them. “The flippant fool has challenged me in public. I will not stain the honor of my pack with refusal or retreat.”

“Bertruda. You incurred an insult on our allies without requesting our permission for the challenge. Please, lady, take your words back,” First addressed his fellow sword saint.

“I am sorry, Grandmaster,” Bertruda answered, standing only in a yellow underarmor that left her paws and feet bare. She took her spear from a sage and pointed its tip at Janine. “You are the shining light, an ideal worth striving for. To hear a barbarian, unworthy even to wash your feet, slander you, is an indignity too great for me to overcome or forgive. This misbegotten sand dweller shall be thrown to the ground, bones snapping. This I promise as a sword saint!”

“Foolish.” Janine smiled back and relaxed her posture. Her tiredness disappeared. Misbegotten. Unneeded. Reject. Could Bertruda know? No, she is grasping at straws; her mother died a long time ag. “Why lose your pride so easily?”

“Sages.” First sighed and called a line of warriors closer. “Prepare to treat the wounds of both noble fighters. Lady Bertruda, Lady Janine, would you please accompany me to the arena…”

“We will do it here. I don’t have all day,” Janine said.

“Agreed.” Bertruda took her spear in both hands, bending her legs slightly. “Take a stance!”

“Comfortable as it is.” Janine grinned.

Bertruda dashed from the spot, beating up the ground in her wake. The spear’s blade faced the Taleteller’s rising haft, and the impact of the two weapons created a shockwave that snapped one of the flag’s poles. First and Camelia were already in front of the initiates, serving refreshments, shielding the youth with their bodies, and the knights formed a shield wall, forming an arena.

Janine’s right paw released the grip on her weapon. With her left arm, she moved the blow to the left, drawing the sword saint closer, and rammed her right fist into the woman’s stomach, opening her own jaws. The bite closed in the empty air as Bertruda understood her intentions and kicked at Janine’s knee, regaining the distance right back.

Should’ve used the claws. Janine thought sourly, feeling her wounds reopen from the strain. A hail of feints concealing the true strike approached her, and Janine took the weapon in both paws.