The teeth of the siege saws grated, slowing down and breaking in the thick layer of metal covering the command tower. The red-hot flames erupting from the nozzles splashed harmlessly across the gray surface, unable to melt it. A siren wailed inside the assault capsule, warning of a targeting cannon. The harnesses unbuckled, releasing soldiers, a single medic, and a tall figure clad to the chin in black power armor.
Szarel el-Farah lifted a hand, and the artillery piece on the deck crumpled into a pancake. Invisible streaks of force created by his telekinesis struck the stubborn surface of the tower, creating a crack no wider than a finger. Szarel’s will formed hooks, driving them into the breach, widening it enough for the nose of the pod to squeeze through with a deafening screech.
“Magister, let us be first,” asked Butylin, the support platoon leader.
Dressed in the colors of the Order from head to toe and wearing body exoskeletons, they resembled animated shadows that slithered out from behind people’s backs. With a soft click, the lenses of their helmets activated, acquiring a slight purple tint, and blue numbers appeared on the displays of their rifles and grenade launchers, indicating their current ammunition load.
“We are all expected home, Sergeant,” Szarel replied, sensing the medic’s gaze boring into the back of his head.
With a soft rustle of his tabard and the hum of the generator, the magister stepped inside the corridor of the command tower, accompanying each step by a loud thump of his sharp staff. Exquisite fabrics covered the floor, and gaudily placed statues of precious metals lined the length of the corridor.
A silver-framed mirror reflected Szarel, his skin stretched taut over his skull, his sunken nose, deep-set brown eyes, and holes instead of ears. The cameras on the ceiling focused on the outsiders and shuddered, disintegrating into pieces, destroyed by the will of the magister. A lone prisoner holding a tray of roughly chopped meat tried to shrink into the wall, trying to hide from the incoming boarders.
Szarel did not even look at the unfortunate child. The alluring and sweet scent of a suppression veil billowed from the capsule, filling the nostrils of a pale and badly scarred teenager, drawing him into the soothing world of dreams. The medic steadied the falling body, turning the boy's head to the side, though there was no need. Szarel found the result satisfactory. He couldn’t calm the wounded soul with words.
Retribution was his profession.
Inhaling narcotic clouds of smoke without harm or loss of concentration, the magister pressed a button on his belt, and a cold spread throughout his entire body. The footsteps, the sound of his staff cutting through fabric, the movement of the servomotors—everything slowed, stretching out in time as the armor emptied the contents of the ampoule into Szarel’s neck, to the displeasure of the field medic.
Thick, dark blood flowed from his nose, caressing the gray flesh with the delicacy of a silk handkerchief, and the touch of air imitated the pricks of daggers. He licked off the blood, seeing the glow in the corridor's distance. Crackling arcs of electricity whipped towards the group, incandescent statues in their path. The attack shattered into a stream of sparks, hitting the solidified air.
Among the Blessed, the people changed by the Extinction, Trolls possessed neither the supernatural speed nor the extraordinary strength that distinguished them from the Normies. To achieve the coveted heights, they used the gifts of technology. Or the gifts of medicine.
Szarel extended his hand, and to his perception, accelerated by the potion, the limb barely crawled. It did not matter; his mind controlled God’s gift. The movements were mere habit. The five raiders at the end of the corridor were still reloading their large energy cannons when the first one screamed. Several tons of weight crashed down on her legs, breaking them instantly. Her armor had saved her from the worst, but Szarel interrupted her scream by crushing the bandit’s trachea.
The pressure flattened the other two bandits against the wall, their visors cracking, and wires and bundles of muscle fiber sprouted from the joints of their hodgepodge of ill-fitting armor. Their ribcages crushed inward with a loud crunch. One of the untouched guards dropped his weapon, and flames appeared above his hands.
A Blessed. Szarel thought with disgust. To waste his gift on senseless cruelty. His invisible grip grabbed the fifth raider by the leg, stopping her attempt to escape. The woman was thrown into the forming plasma ball in her comrade’s arms, and the all-consuming heat overloaded her generator, detonating it. Szarel stopped the shockwave before it reached his men and heard torn-off legs falling.
The squad reached a fork in the road, with corridors leading to the bridge, recreation areas, and elevators to the lower decks. Szarel had no idea what the degenerates had turned the recreation areas into and raised his hand, ordering Butylin to form a defense.
Without waiting for any further instructions, the sergeant promptly ordered the soldiers to take up positions behind the statues, tucking the medic into a small alcove. The veil had already reached them, bringing dope into the open rooms, neutralizing opponents who lacked air filtration systems.
The rest got acquainted with the bullets flying through the veil. Butylin did not give the order to use grenade launchers, and the first mutant to stick his head out was riddled with concentrated bursts from several soldiers.
“Report,” Szarel said into his gorget. The bullet ricocheted off the hemisphere of solidified air around the magister.
“Storm A, we’ve taken the prison hold!” Chernogor’s trembling voice reported. Despite his age, the crusader’s speech was clear, but because of the potion, his words sounded drawn out, each syllable hanging in the air, caressing the magister’s eardrums, and forcing him to assemble the pieces of this unusual puzzle into a single whole. “There are about four hundred here… Copy that, Sergeant. Four hundred and nineteen prisoners of various ages. But ours are few. The medic woke up an adult. He said Latif had already sold some people.”
So that’s how it is. “Do we know who the buyer is? Or the location where the sale took place?”
“Negative. The kidnappers didn’t tell the poor guys anything.”
“Expected. Storms C, B, G, I?”
“The treasury has been taken,” said Commander Carde von Bülow. “The savages nearly smashed a priceless tablet from the Old World....”
“We have seized the elevators!” Jake el-Farah, the leader of Storm G, reported cheerfully. “Our forces met and destroyed the reinforcements heading for the magister.”
“We've encountered heavy resistance at the armory!” said the voice of Eloise de Menhir, accompanied by the scraping of maces on armor and the barking of shotguns. “Eight Blessed with forces and several dozen without them.”
“Storms C and G provide support to Storm I,” Szarel ordered.
“We are making our way to the engine room, pursuing the enemy,” El Satanini announced.
“Watch the Sariants, brothers and sister,” Szarel said. “Their inexperience and zeal are a dangerous combination.”
“I’ve noticed, Magister,” El Satanini said.
“Ruda?”
“Ruda. A sinner scratched her when she was saving a child. Don’t worry, I won’t let her soul fade away prematurely.”
Ringing his staff on the floor, Szarel left the ranks of soldiers, heading for the tall steel doors at the end of the corridor. The new owners had scrawled their gang’s badge on the undimmed surface, but under the grinning three-eyed skull spitting flames at the small black figures, the star of an unknown division of the past was still visible.
A pair of guards took aim at the approaching Szarel, glancing nervously at the entrance to the bridge. Without stopping, the magister snapped their necks and unleashed his power on the locked doors, tearing the vile symbol from them and yanking them open. A roar of pure hatred came from within.
“Why didn’t you warn me?! Answer me! Why did you...”
Inside was a long, narrow bridge leading to a gaudy throne, cobbled together from precious metals and stones, looming over the entire chamber. Just below the throne hung a metal sphere, held in place by cables. On either side of the bridge were recesses for operators. A motley crew sat in the chairs meant for true defenders, trying to coordinate the defense of their lair, while their displays went dark as the attackers blew up the cameras one by one. Several guards stood in the corners of the room, and turrets appeared in their hidden compartments on the ceiling, deploying with clicks.
A long bulk rose from the throne. Latif resembled a humanoid centipede, his segmented body with a series of sharp legs crowned by the upper part of the human torso. The flesh flowed smoothly into the hairy chitin, and sloppy, greenish, thick armor covered every part of the body. With a series of dry pops, the column twisted around, pointing the three-eyed face at the magister. In one hand, Latif held a shield, covering his human part of the body, and the other hand closed on a flamethrower.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“Lost?” Latif asked in a calm voice. Insect mandibles grew from his cheekbones, contracting in time with the words spoken.
Good thing Jake is not here. Shame, such a shame. Such venerable people, and this creature dares to disgrace them with his deeds. Szarel silently gripped the shaft of his staff, parting the stream of flame raining down on him from the flamethrower. He redirected the heat into the operators’ pits and tore the pins out of the grenades on the guards’ belts with his mind.
****
The battle raged in the corridor leading to the engine room. The raiders had piled up empty barrels and crates in an attempt to create a makeshift barricade. El Satanini kicked through it, bringing his mace down on the mutated machine gunner’s head. He fired a hand cannon, hitting a grenadier in the chest. The woman fell back, and a grenade without a pin rolled out of her limp hand. The commander stepped into an explosion that scattered the rabble in his path. He caught a flying-by bandit on his wrist and crushed his head against the wall.
Ruda squeezed past the knight, reaching Ney, and together they impaled the necks of the Blessed aimed at the commander’s back. Satanini resembled a live firework; bullets bounced off the plates of his armor, his tabard caught fire, and a spear scraped across his chest, drawing a jagged line.
But each time his mace rose, breaking limbs and crushing heads, bringing retribution upon the villains for the crimes they had committed. Clad in the finest power armor available to the orders, the crusaders cut a wedge-like path towards an open bay further down the corridor. Sensors picked up energy spikes emanating from this location, confirming the intelligence gathered by the ‘lucky’ man who had been fortunate enough to be sold out of this place.
Suddenly, the pincer pierced through the bulkhead, bursting out in clouds of steam and plunging into the commander’s side. Its blades pierced the weakened diamondoid section, biting deep into the grey flesh before splitting open, cracking a rib, and drawing a grunt from El Satanini.
“Scum!” Ruda’s pauldron sent sparks flying off the wall as she leapt forward, closing her hand on the pincer and pushing her mentor aside.
Her mace hit the bulkhead, punching a vast gap in it and landing on the shoulder of the canker-covered fat asshole who had escaped from her earlier. Two shots struck her gut at close range, but Ruda, consumed by rage, barely noticed and slammed into him. Tangled, they fell into the engine room, where the raider knocked her off with a kick to the helmet.
She rolled away, noticing her surroundings for the first time. The oblong engine, once a proud work of art of the Old World, had undergone many mocking modifications, nearly tripling in size and resembling a swollen boil, entangled in a tangle of cables descending from the ceiling like parasitic worms. It occupied the entire center of the elongated compartment, producing such a loud noise that workers had to use straps to hold tools on tables. Plumes of acrid steam swirled around the room, biting at the exposed flesh of Ruda’s wound. Her armor issued a warning about the radioactive emissions emanating from the engine. A narrow walkway ran along the ceiling. Vats of boiling substance hung beneath it, tended by hunched slaves wrapped in thick rags and wearing collars.
Shots cut through the fog, pounding her armor, and her corpulent opponent jumped up and rushed towards the flight of stairs leading up.
“Daulet! Where are you going?!” a bandit shouted.
“I’ll fucking boil them!” the tumorous fatso barked. He swept the startled slave out of his way, and the man crashed into the red-hot hull of the engine, screaming in agony as the heat licked the skin of his back through the fabric. “Never! Never will any filth defeat us!”
“Stop! Planet damn you, we’re not done, coward!” Ruda bellowed.
She jumped to her feet, ignoring the burning sensation in the pierced part of her armor or the gunshots tearing at her garments. Ruda raced after Daulet as he scrambled up, trusting her fighting brothers and sisters to clear the room. She paused for no more than a breath to pull the wounded captive away from the engine and continued running. Her boots left prints in the stairwells, and her breath came in short, growling gasps.
Reaching the drawbridge, Daulet shoved the terrified prisoner out of the way, sending him plummeting into the boiling vat. Ruda let go of her gun and lunged upward with all her strength, grabbing the poor guy by the shoulder and preventing him from meeting a terrible fate.
He’s also important! She threw the man down the stairs.
A kick landed on her head. Daulet halted his escape and pounced on the staggering Ruda, slamming his machine gun into her helmet hard enough to send her crashing into the railing, buckling it. The mechanical pincer painfully jabbed her chest, pinning her to the bridge, and a heavy foot landed on her mace-wielding arm. Less than a hand’s breadth from her head, liquid was bubbling in a vat, and the muzzle of the raider’s weapon was pointed at her neck.
So soon? The thought flashed through her mind. Her helmet issued a notification, giving the rest of the crusaders access to her lenses.
“I’ll flood the decks and turn your buddies into soup, bastard,” Daulet croaked. “We’ve recovered from worse; the boss will understand. But you...” His yellow-drenched eye twitched nervously, trying to focus on the crusader. “I’ll boil you now, weakling. I’ve just about ripped enough holes in you...”
He raised his foot, intending to stomp.
“Hoof it!” Ney shouted from below.
Not today!
Ruda began moving before the mace reached them. She arched, feeling the pincer blades slice through her flesh. The shot struck the thicker armor on her upper chest instead of her neck, sparing her life. Her friend’s weapon crashed into Daulet’s pincer, right where the mechanism met the flesh, and tore off the limb.
The crusader’s hoof struck the overseer in the groin, her gun slid back into her hand, and she fired at the bastard. The bullet grazed his head, exposing part of his skull and throwing the overseer back against the creaking railings.
“Still... alive, you devil,” Daulet gurgled.
“Capital.” Ruda kicked him in the chest with both hooves. “Enjoy the dive.”
The railing cracked and broke under the onslaught. Daulet waved his hand in the hope of grabbing onto something and fell straight into the vat. He resurfaced once, emitting a barely audible, desperate hiss from his molten lips. Then his body disappeared beneath the boiling surface.
“For you and yours.” Ruda spat into the vat.
“Sariant!” El Satanini said, fighting with the remaining guards. “If you are done with reckless heroism, release the prisoners and ask if they know how to stop this unholy mess.”
His regeneration had already healed some of the damage, and the commander’s voice sounded clear and loud, without the slightest trace of hoarseness. No longer confined to the narrow corridor, the venerable knight turned into a deadly whirlwind, grabbing opponents with his long, flexible arm and yanking them off their feet for a cold-blooded finish, stopping any attempts by the bandits to form any semblance of a formation.
“And find my mace!” laughed Ney, firing from two hand cannons, his own and the commander’s. “Or I’ll take yours as compensation!”
“Yes, sir! Thanks, Ney, you’re the best!” Saluted Ruda.
“I know!”
“What will happen to us... mistress?” asked the prisoner she had saved earlier. The man prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the floor.
Ruda reached out and tore the slave collar off him, flinging it into the vat of dissolved Daulet. Then she raised her new acquaintance to his feet and flicked him on the chin.
“Nose up. There are no masters here,” she said softly. “Let's go gather the others. We need to stop the engine and...” She hesitated. “...if you can find a mace similar to mine, I’d be very grateful.”
****
Szarel hurled Latif past the hanging sphere and smashed him against the wall with such force that a crack appeared on it. The magister strode through the destroyed bridge, clearing fire, corpses, and fragments from his path. There was not a scratch on his suit, and if not for the red dripping from his nose, ears and flowing from under his watery eyes, he would have appeared completely unharmed.
Apart from the two of them, there were no more living soldiers or combat-ready personnel left in the room. Several captives fled in terror and were caught in the sleep-inducing embrace of the veil.
“You...” The magister interrupted Latif, increasing the pressure, and the carriage’s hull groaned, buckling outward. Several of the raider’s legs broke and fell off, but his body withstood and forced its way out, hanging a few meters away from the moving car. “Let me go.”
“Answer my questions and I’ll do so,” promised Szarel, approaching the breach. “The people you enslaved from our lands. Who did you sell them to?”
“Yours? Be more precise; which country or tribe are you talking about? I have been to many places; it’s hard to recall them all…” The pressure crushed Latif’s helmet, tearing a mandible from his face, and his sneer turned into a panicked cry. “Enough! Draz! I sold the first batch to him.”
“Draz. His lair is not that far,” said Szarel. The story seemed plausible.
“Then you know that he controls the road leading to Paikan’s domain.” Latif regained his composure, and he jerked in an invisible grip. A smile appeared on his lips when one of his legs moved. “You may be a fanatic, but you’re not stupid. Paikan will wipe out your gang with his pinky and won’t wince. Insult Draz—and you’ll have to do it regardless of your intentions; he won’t give up anything just like that—and you’ll slap Paikan, whether you want to or not. He will pursue you without rest!”
“So why hasn’t he cornered you yet?”
“Ah, the local squabbles don’t bother him. What does he care about them? Outsiders are fascinating to him; that’s why he always takes tribute in meat. Once you fall into his clutches, there’s no escape, no future. But there is another way. In exchange for safety, I can act as a go-between, buying the slaves.”
“An intriguing proposition. Unfortunately, I’ve already promised to let you go,” Szarel said.
The grip around the raider disappeared, and Latif fell. He twisted, silent and focused, his spiny legs reaching for the hull, but gravity pulled him down. He crashed near the base of the command tower and rolled off the wagon, landing on the sandy surface. For a Blessed such as himself, such a fall was nothing, but the crumbling depressions in the ground created by the wagon’s wheels acted as the slope of a pit full of quicksand. Latif roared, but despite his efforts, he slid down along with the sand, and first the end of his torso, then the rest of him, was caught and crushed by the wheel.
The raider who had slaughtered so many for his monstrous wagon had been killed by it. Szarel pushed the meaningless poetry from his mind and thought about the words he had heard. The Oathtakers had little information about Paikan. He had presumably retired several decades ago, yet no one in Volnitsa dared contradict him in anything. His unwritten laws were obeyed. So he was either strong or he had a powerful army. Perhaps both options were true.
Latif’s boldness after he jerked his leg hinted at Paikan’s physical attributes.…
A dull, barely audible gurgling distracted the magister. He turned towards the hanging sphere, sure that the sound came from it. Soot, rust, traces of blood, and jagged marks covered the brown surface. Szarel approached the object, touching it with his palm. His telekinesis penetrated inside without exerting significant pressure on anything, and tried to perceive the situation.
A sharp push. Another. Szarel stopped his power.
“Help...” The magister heard a weak sob filled with pain. “Dark. Hurts.”
“Everything will be fine, little one.” Szarel touched his gorget. “Escort the medic to me. Immediately.”
