Ibrahim reached the enemy, pinning the roaring bike to the ground with an outstretched leg. The clawed foot encased in an armored boot had not even halfway passed through the vehicle before the hackbut had already sheared off the terrified bandit’s head. The knight-captain’s wrist-mounted rapid-fire autocannons spun up, showering the opponents with a deadly hail.

  The Gilded Horde had caught up with the Volnitsa rabble while they awaited the opening of emergency ramps in the sides of their fallen behemoth, intending to use the obstacle blocking the canyon as an unconventional crossing. Their rearguard spotted the approaching army, alerting the main forces in time; the trapped bandits turned around, preparing a defense.

  Not that they could hope to keep the steppe warriors at bay.

  The abscess of anger, resentment, and mutual hostility, accumulated for over a century, had burst today. The Volnitsa bastards regularly raided the northern Steppe, dragging thousands into slavery and leaving burning ruins in their wake. Brave souls of the minor clans unsuccessfully besieged the southern bastion, while Guild Rangers explored the hidden mountain paths, perishing in desperate skirmishes during ambushes in the gorges. Decades of strife, of losing kin and friends, had finally culminated in the Gilded Horde’s greatest expedition since Mad Hatter.

  Ibrahim was unsure how to feel about it. He fought shoulder to shoulder with the descendants of those who had brought grief to Houstad, killed his father, and subjected many nations to monstrous torment. But it was not hatred that drove the knight-captain. He felt pride.

  The Horde’s riders closed in on the gun-bristling raiders, showering them with pulse cannon fire. To the opponents, the riders—the most desperate, daring, and confident warriors—seemed little more than shadows. Racing at breakneck speed, their hoverbikes soared up the melted slope, leaping over fragments of the shattered road, while caustic energy clots punched holes even through power armor.

  Intense return fire cut down dozens of the brave. Some crashed, vanishing in bright red flashes as they collided with the cliffs. Many more fell, wounded, unable to rise. But they had done their main job: diverted the attention of Paikan’s scum from the vulnerable allies onto the advancing force.

  The Horde wanted all the attention for itself.

  Heavy armored vehicles disembarked infantry, among them Ibrahim and Cordelia. A pang of pity, at the inability to fight alongside the vanished Davinia, touched the Ice Fang. It seemed fate itself was driving stakes, preventing a bridge from being built across the chasm of ancient enmity between their peoples. The beautiful Wolfkin appealed to Ibrahim, and if his comrade’s guess was correct, she belonged to a lineage even more worthy than his own house. But judging by the confidence with which she seduced people on missions while remaining chaste outside them, Davinia had long since found a betrothed, and he dared not court her.

  Then he plunged into the fury of battle, not as the leader of an elite combat unit, but as a single grain of sand amidst the roaring steppe warriors. The peculiarities of their biology made representatives of this New Breed resemble barrels on legs.

  Ibrahim’s borrowed sword fluttered, swatting bullets right out of the air. He had had to leave the replica of Draz’s armor behind, lest his heated comrades mistake him for an enemy and justifiably stick a rocket up his ass in the chaos. Clad in ill-fitting Pureblood armor, he had lost his grace. Designed for the belly of a worthy cusack, the breastplate flopped, offering inadequate protection. His snout nose pressed against the overly rounded and narrow helmet. Nevertheless, he deftly leaped over the first wounded man, expecting him to be inevitably trampled.

  He was wrong. In the past, the Gilded Horde had waged war without mercy. Now, the infantry bypassed the fallen riders, and smaller Normals dragged people to safety. Smaller Purebloods and Dirtybloods crashed into the enemy ranks. Soldiers from nations once enslaved by Mad Hatter showed no disgust, supporting their fellow citizens with accurate fire. All worked together, as equals.

  Two waves—one a riot of all possible colors, the other gray with gold—clashed, raging for supremacy. The raiders’ light vehicles formed a barricade as their forces regrouped. Rockets flew over the fighters; explosions washed over Ibrahim in waves, constantly jostling those fighting nearby. The bandits’ armored vehicles and mobile arsenals deployed heavy forces.

  Shrouded in dark smoke, walkers rose above the raiders. The operators in their cockpits brought mechanical fists, larger than any New Breed, down upon the steppe warriors, crushing people like fruit. A weapon malfunction gave a bandit the chance to land a slashing blow on a Pureblood’s abdomen. The blade pierced the breastplate and lodged in a fat layer. Immediately, two enormous hands seized the hapless bandit by the neck, twisting his head the wrong way.

  On jetpacks, raiders ascended the cliffs, firing directly into the Horde’s formation. Their surprise maneuver brought no lasting benefit. Guild Rangers and the hired rabble from the joined Itil, traveling the upper path, attacked the “smart ones” from behind, joining the fray.

  A walker, its parts clanking, traced a line with a circular saw across the ground, splitting open the side and head of a Dirtyblood, and clashed with Cordelia’s long spear. The sage growled with effort, holding the four-meter machine at bay with a true Order weapon, buying the precious seconds needed to save an ally. Then the operator turned the walker’s fist, sending Sunblade-Wintersong tumbling head over heels into the legs of a Pureblood. A burst from a shoulder-mounted automatic rifle tore ragged wounds in both fighters.

  Ibrahim’s eyes flashed red. “Overclocking,” as the state he had now entered was called, enhanced the Ice Fangs’ already impressive reaction and perception. The projectiles leaving the automatic rifle appeared to him as lazily moving objects, spinning slightly on their axes.

  Slipping under a frozen-in-his-perception axe blow, piercing the raider before him with his hackbut—a rectangular sword with a sharpened hook on the pommel—Ibrahim reached his target, arriving at the column-like leg of the walker. For him, his own body’s movements had become unbearably slow, as if he were moving through viscous sludge, and the ballad of battle merged into a single, indistinguishable rumble. Sword Saints could distinguish each sound individually, but the knight-captain had not yet mastered this skill.

  Ibrahim grabbed the rising leg, cutting wires and breaking components. The Ice Fangs did not possess the excessive physical strength of their cousins, but the Ironwills had always trained muscle and endurance above all else. He pulled the machine back, extinguishing the light in his eyes and returning to his normal state. The armor protested with creaks as the walker, its operator panicking, tilted back and finally crashed down with a roar.

  The operator had not yet left the cabin when Ibrahim was already standing on it. The worthless thug raised his hands, whimpering in terror, and the Ice Fang tore off the top of the cabin, knocking him out with a blow to the neck.

  “Down!”

  Ibrahim obeyed, nearly embracing the unconscious man. A shot screeched past his generator, pierced the laser rifle aimed at him, and blew off half the skull of a raider.

  “My thanks.” Ibrahim rose, clutching the limp body of the prisoner in his paw, and tossed the catch to a Normal.

  “Now these are the kind of tasks I love!” Cordelia held the sage’s spear in her paws. A chain connected both parts; smoke rose from the armor-piercing gun by the blade.

  Guarding a wounded steppe warrior, the Ice Fang spun, splashing scarlet drops of her own blood, and drove the end of the spear’s lower half into the narrow gap of a raider charging at her. With a lightning-fast blade movement, she gutted the wheezing woman from navel to jaw. The Pureblood rose, slapped her on the back, and limped to the rear, awkwardly dragging his broken leg.

  “We need to work with the Omega Pack more often!” Cordelia chimed, throwing glances at the downed transport. “They lead us to the most magnificent finds!”

  Ibrahim smiled thinly, joining her, his head slightly empty after the “overclocking.” Already forgotten her hated duty in Rabor. Sages couldn’t help themselves; upon spotting a new piece of unknown technology, they became obsessed.

  Together, they fought back-to-back, applying the Order’s teachings in a sea of allies, cutting down advancing raiders.

  Accustomed to a two-handed sword or a glaive with a shield, Ibrahim used the conservative techniques of his house: splitting power armor with mighty swings, thrusting the blade into exposed parts of exoskeletons, parrying shots, and liberally expending ammunition.

  Cordelia adhered to the Wintersong and Sunblade styles: everything was used. A dropped grenade—she’d pull the pin with her toe and kick it at the enemy; a discarded blade became a thrown projectile; deliberate non-lethal but agonizing wounds sowed panic. The sage dodged shots, answered with rare shots from her own spear, and relied more on hyper-fast thrusts of its point.

  Part of her muzzle was visible through a crack in her helmet; her upper lip had been torn by walker fire, and Ibrahim increasingly flinched, feeling blades and bullets reach his body, passing through the thinning plates. No one offered to retreat. Retrieved allies confirmed the children were in danger, and Ice Fangs never left the weak alone.

  But every minute, things got worse. The surprise onslaught had not sown panic among the slavers. The enemy’s heavy transports rained torrential fire upon the Horde’s ranks, claiming dozens of victims, while their own counterparts to the walkers had not yet arrived. Another square loader abomination straightened up, accurately identifying the knights as the key element in this sector. The operator stomped toward them, sweeping aside a group of Dirtybloods along the way.

  A broad hand rose, blocking Ibrahim’s burst; Cordelia’s shot failed to reach the operator’s dangling legs, stuck in the thickness of a second hand. Shoulder mounts opened, revealing automatic rifle barrels, and the knight-captain prepared to push his comrade to safety.

  Suddenly, the walker stopped. A curved sword pierced clean through the cabin. Four chitinous legs braced against the machine’s back, toppling it onto the thugs. Ibrahim’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even centuries later, he still struggled to remain calm around this type of Malformed.

  Saved by the Wolf Tribe’s mercy, some of them had returned to the Order. The legs of members of this group had thickened, losing the elasticity characteristic of their urban kin. After living in the land of strong winds, their skin had coarsened, toughened, and many shaved their heads, following local fashion. Together with the protruding underdeveloped pincer, their helper’s appearance was very reminiscent of the vile progenitor of their kind.

  Children are not responsible for their parents. Cordelia, who had lost a lung and friends in childhood, and Ibrahim immediately found themselves next to a descendant of the one who had brought so much grief to people. Their ally looked as if someone had grafted a human torso onto a four-legged insect; he wore heavy armor over the human-like parts of his body and a wolf-head amulet around his neck.

  The three of them rushed to the faltering front line. The raiders rolled a gigantic turret out of the cargo bay and were connecting it to the generators of roaring trucks, clearly intending to punch a breach in the steppe warriors’ ranks. A voice over the comms, belonging to Horkhudagh’s blood-brother, coldly ordered grenadiers to concentrate fire on the turret. But the first mortar shell burst against the wavering screen of a force shield, which then absorbed two streaking rockets.

  Swords would reach the heavy emplacement.

  Ibrahim entered “overclocking” again, slitting the throats of two raiders in exoskeletons. Before him stood a girl, no older than sixteen, clad in light body armor, shoved forward by a giant in black bearing the golden serpent emblem. Eyes wide with terror looked at the Ice Fang.

  She expected no mercy. But he was not stingy.

  A punch knocked the teenager out, breaking her jaw; he tossed her over himself and instantly ordered the Normals behind him, who caught her. Children, any children, must not die. Driven by righteous wrath, his blade met the double-bladed axe of a champion in black.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He parried the blow; blue sparks running along the axe blade ate into the sword, deflecting it. The champion raised a shotgun in his other hand, fired point-blank, and Ibrahim clenched his teeth, feeling the buckshot pierce the breastplate, tearing his hide. Not fatal; harsh training and trials had made his muscles like steel.

  Out of the corner of his eye, assuring himself that Cordelia and the unexpected ally were holding off the others, he accepted the duel. An orange glow illuminated everything around, but the fighters did not look up. The champion didn’t fall for the feint and blocked a thrust aimed at his leg, shearing off the hook from the hackbut. Ibrahim slammed into him with his shoulder, denting the plates and pushing the shotgun’s aim aside. Separating faster than a breath, they resumed the exchange of blows.

  By the Trinity, his opponent was good! The bandit made no reckless moves, focusing on defense, having guessed from the protruding pieces of white hide in the cracks who he was fighting. The way he had shoved the teenager forward clearly showed an intent to enrage the Ice Fang, and had Ibrahim been younger, he might have fallen for it. Now, he calmly tried to grapple the axe in a brief clinch, aiming to land a bone-shattering kick and finish him.

  The champion understood this and retreated, taunting the knight-captain with the possibility of breaking through to the turret. Finally, an axe swing sheared off the damaged sword at the hilt.

  “Catch!” a guttural voice cried out.

  Ibrahim raised his paws above his head, receiving a video file from the Malformed, grabbing the curved blade—an exact copy of the one that had beheaded his father. What is the Ironwill house motto? Tancred’s voice rang in the knight-captain’s mind as if real. Never yielding, never losing composure! He brought down the heavy blade, liberally expending the remaining ammunition of his autocannons on the champion.

  Bullets ricocheted, scratching the dark surface; the man recoiled, dodging a slashing blow to the shoulder. “Overclocking” gave the Ice Fang enough time to gauge the distance; he stopped the strike, turned the blade upward, and delivered a horizontal sweep, cutting through the shotgun along with the fingers holding it. The axe and sword clashed, but the new weapon calmly withstood the flashes of blue energy. The claws on Ibrahim’s foot dug into the man’s leg above the knee.

  Suddenly, the turret fired. The shockwave threw Cordelia off balance, toppling the sage. Even the Malformed staggered, losing a pincer to a shell that rent the air with a piercing shriek. The ground shuddered; mangled bodies flew upward. For the siege artillery, power armor was no more a barrier than a sheet of paper.

  The champion laughed and jabbed his maimed hand into the Ice Fang’s face, piercing the faceplate and wounding his eyelid. Behind them, new turrets were being dragged from the ship’s belly.

  “Fall back,” ordered Baidu, Horkhudagh’s blood-brother. “Disperse to both sides of the canyon.”

  “Retreat?” Cordelia exclaimed. “We’ll lose our advantage.”

  “We can’t let them organize a defense,” Ibrahim exhaled, stepping back. “We could reach the artillery…”

  “Challenge my order again, honored guests, and I will subject you to eight days in the cangue,” Baidu rustled over a private channel. “Chagagan!”

  “Yes, father!” Two chitinous legs wrapped around the Ice Fangs.

  With incredible strength, the Malformed yanked them back, leaping left on his two other limbs. Ibrahim expected betrayal, but Chagagan only bashfully asked them to look behind.

  The center of the Horde parted, carrying away the wounded and those most engrossed in battle, and Baidu’s strategy finally became clear. The first attack had been nothing less than a reconnaissance in force. A rectangle bristling with turrets, cannons, missile launchers, and emitters approached the battlefield. On the siege platform sat the descendants of Iron Lord, Normals and Dirtybloods, encased in giant power armor almost worthy of being called robots. While the vanguard fought, they had assembled their “homunculus” from specialized modular transports.

  The entire Order’s doctrine was built on speed and improvisation. Sometimes he forgot how dangerous such an art could be.

  Pure devastation rolled from one end of the battlefield to the other. Heavy shells slammed into the raiders’ force shields, overloading generators and piercing barriers. Within ten seconds of the cannonade, the enemy’s previously stable center had been reduced to smoking ruins.

  The orange glow flooded the battlefield again; Ibrahim looked up from the ground. Hovering over the giant raider transport was Horkhudagh, magnified dozens, if not hundreds, of times by the blazing flames that had taken his shape. The titan was visible to the waist; his hands were compressing a small point between his palms.

  Suddenly, a white beam pierced the khan’s arm, severing it at the wrist. Fire instantly turned to a rain of ash. The next beam decapitated Horkhudagh, licking the slope and covering it with a thick layer of instantly cracked ice. A cold avalanche tumbled down onto the fighters.

  “I am Phoenix!” the khan’s enemy roared. A bizarre mixture of pulsing flesh and mechanics spread its wings. “The herald of a better world!”

  “How wonderful…” the khagan’s high priest sobbed over the comms.

  A dark figure left the sea of falling fire, approached, and drove a clawed paw into the chest of the mechanical monster. Steel feathers veined with flesh surrounded Phoenix, aiming at the khan. Right out of thin air appeared elongated arms and needles—constructs created by Horkhudagh’s power—protecting him, while four additional arms grew on his resilient body.

  “Just like in his duel with Warlord Alpha…” the priest whispered over the comms. “Warriors! Your khan is happy! His lost daughter has been found! The sinner who stole the title of Ashbringer will be plucked before our very eyes! Will we turn coward now?!”

  “No!” hundreds of throats roared.

  “Are they completely insane?” Cordelia looked around. “This is war! People are dying! No offense, Chagagan.”

  “My new family is a bit peculiar, but their intentions are good,” the Malformed assured.

  “And now… Trample them!” Baidu commanded.

  The siege platform moved forward on its numerous treads. The shelling continued, but the wild roar almost drowned it out. Thunder bulls, the enormous riding animals of the Gilded Horde, had finally reached the battle. Enraged by the long journey and the absence of enemies, the snorting, muscle-bound hills charged forward. In the past, they had overturned entire tanks, withstanding heavy artillery fire, and Ibrahim had no illusions about the rabble’s chances of surviving such an onslaught.

  “Devour the world!” the officers shouted.

  Ibrahim spotted the champion he had fought. The man broke a frightened youth’s neck with a palm strike, ordering a retreat to the cargo bay entrance and to take up defense there. He was surrounded by both adults and very young bandits. The Ice Fang released his grip, positioning the sword at his waist as if it were sheathed.

  This was no katana, convenient for a quick draw. Scimitars were better suited for agile exchanges, though his model clearly weighed far more than optimal. But the curved shape offered a better chance of not getting stuck during a chopping blow. Ibrahim shot like an arrow towards the distracted opponent.

  “Perfection…”

  A swift, one-handed rising blow struck the champion’s breastplate. His wounded leg slowed him, but the armor held. The blade slid up from the resulting crack.

  “I surrender…” the bandit rasped.

  For dishonorable conduct, ruthless treatment! Bloodlust surged through the knight-captain. He gripped the hilt with both paws.

  “In everything!”

  The scimitar’s tip plunged into the crack, sank into the chest, and reached the spine. The helmet’s speakers transmitted the fading rattle of the dying man. Ibrahim tore the axe from the weakening hand and pressed it to the nearest youth’s neck.

  “Do you surrender to House Ironwill?” he asked coldly.

  The terrified teenager nodded frantically.

  “Accepted. The adults will face a fair trial; the minors will enter service as infantry and servants to our house, until full atonement and rehabilitation.”

  “Ibrahim, don’t you dare claim spoils ahead of the allies!” Cordelia howled. “I fought too!”

  ****

  “No, we do not recognize your assertion of a decisive contribution to the fate of Volnitsa,” Ruda said wearily, her whole body trembling.

  Her muscles ached, shrinking back to their usual size. The scales were turning back into smooth black skin; her toes were fusing into hooves, and with this came mounting pain. Every cracked bone, torn muscle, ruptured nerve, and scratch seemed to have conspired to drive her mad. The endurance granted by the transformation was gone; she was becoming a weak Abnormal again, clad in baggy black cloth, from beneath which came the clicks of her shrinking limbs.

  Those gathered studiously pretended not to notice this nightmare.

  After the battle, it was discovered: Commander Satanini was seriously wounded. Captain Mikhas had lost consciousness; a beam had crushed his skull. The brave Troll had continued to command the crew and only allowed himself to pass out after the allies had surrounded the cruiser. Cenfus was performing emergency surgery, saving Magister Szarel’s life. Commander Carde was desperately arguing with Sage Cordelia over valuable finds inside Paikan’s transport. Eloise was dead, Ney needed help, and even the returned Chernogor could not attend due to exhaustion.

  All this had placed at the head of the Order… her.

  Representatives of the Gilded Horde and the Reclamation Army gathered in the ruins of the Shroud of Darkness bridge. In the corner, Davinia was telling stories to the children, treating Rustam’s wounds.

  “I’m not afraid of you, you know,” he said defiantly to the Wolfkin.

  “And you shouldn’t be.” The woman’s helmet flowed directly into her gorget. Nanotechnology. Ruda didn’t know the Reclamation Army possessed such tech. “There was a misunderstanding between us. Think, how can I make amends…”

  “Money!” Sylvie immediately interjected.

  Outside, surviving crusaders and steppe warriors were gathering weapons and armor from the surrendered bandits. Bahran was embracing Farrin, loudly announcing his desire to marry her; priests, together with Delacroix, began ceremonies, commemorating the fallen and blessing new unions. The cruiser’s head chaplain politely exchanged contacts with the Sky’s high priest for future discussions on theological differences.

  Khan Horkhudagh was not present on the bridge. Together with twenty of his offspring, he and Tsereg… Boragchin, Ruda reminded herself, were celebrating outside, tossing her, Duval, and Decimus high into the air, rejoicing at the return of the lost one.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Boragchin cried. “I didn’t mean to make you worry…”

  A sharp slap from Horkhudagh sent her sprawling.

  “Hey! What was that for?!”

  “For every day you made your mothers worry, you’ll get a slap. Maybe then you’ll learn to think about your family’s feelings.” The faintly glowing skeleton raised his hand.

  “Boragchin is my future wife. Any punishment of hers, I will share…” A slap sent Duval to his knees, but he stubbornly rose, shielding the girl.

  She moved him aside, standing next to him.

  “Two down, two hundred and sixteen to go.”

  “We’re with Boragchin too!” her brothers, sisters, and Decimus yelled. “Give us her share!”

  “Be my guest.” With a crack, an entire semicircle of arms rose above the khan’s back. “I’ve got enough palms for everyone!”

  Ruda’s heart warmed. The parent wasn’t hitting full force. Each slap expressed his irritation and, perhaps, hidden fear, but so far, no one was bleeding. Family matters. The Oathtakers had their own rules for raising children, but Boragchin would hardly appreciate a mentor trying to impose them on Horkhudagh at the cost of suicide. She would have to accept these peculiarities.

  She returned her attention to those gathered. The khan’s blood-brother, several junior chieftains, and a pristine-white, already cleaned Ice Fang in a blue and gold doublet sat around the table. On the Magister’s throne sat Ruda, burning with shame for her appearance and for the audacity of defiling the honored seat.

  “No one disputes the Order’s bravery in protecting civilians,” Baidu said, bowing his head respectfully. “But it would be foolish to deny that the Gilded Horde’s intervention changed Volnitsa’s fate.”

  I know what you’re doing. You want confirmation from a frightened girl to use as an argument for concessions in further negotiations. Ruda narrowed her eyes, recalling interrogation experience from her time in the police. The scum of society hadn’t fooled her; the elite wouldn’t either.

  “The Gilded Horde invaded Volnitsa’s territory, violating signed agreements…”

  “They had a compelling reason,” Ibrahim interjected.

  “Undeniable.” Ruda looked past him at the smiling Davinia. A turning point. “No one will blame you for saving lives, honored Baidu. Please, convey my sincere admiration to the khan.”

  “At the earliest opportunity. Accept our gratitude as well. From now on, every one of those present is a welcome guest in the Steppe,” Baidu replied. “So, you agree…”

  “Alas, no. Although your intervention ended Volnitsa’s military power, without the Onyx Order’s actions, Draz’s and Paikan’s attention would not have been diverted from the southern border. We lured the bandits out, making them easy prey.”

  Davinia could easily dispute this. The Wolfkin grimaced, realizing that in this case, her mistaken torture of Rustam would become public knowledge, casting a shadow on the Dynast. Ruda smiled sweetly at the woman, savoring her first victory.

  “Furthermore, Paikan’s war machine, himself, and his governor could easily have turned your invasion into a catastrophe,” she continued. “The actions of the Magister, the captain, and Knight Ney turned the tide of battle, weakening our common enemy for the final victory.”

  “Also, Swift, the current head of Rabor, has made contact. He pledges loyalty to the Oathtakers,” said Itil.

  The support surprised Ruda. She had expected the woman to side with the Order. Baidu tensed, undoubtedly equally disappointed. He was probably already mentally dividing the vast territories.

  No matter. You’ll make do with the south. Ruda had no intention of confirming anything, merely maintaining courtesy with allies. The Oathtakers needed the region’s narrow passes—the perfect means of deterring any thoughts of invasion.

  “Your arguments are understood,” said Ibrahim. “I don’t think further negotiations about the size of your contribution to the victory are wise until you have properly recovered from your ordeal. But I consider it fair to allow a joint exploration of Paikan’s capital for the benefit of humanity. Especially considering how well our archaeologists worked together.”

  Ruda pondered, listening to Carde and Cordelia’s angry outbursts about how carelessly the technicians had extracted the black box. The Horde had reached the Old World transport first, staking a claim on the priceless engine. Undoubtedly, they coveted any knowledge stored in this corner untouched by the Extinction, and if she persisted, they would accuse the crusaders of intransigence, giving them a chance for a lightning strike through weakened Rabor.

  Technology cannot remain secret for long. Lives are more important.

  “A reasonable proposal,” she said diplomatically. “Undoubtedly, every house of your Order will provide its finest sages for the expedition.”

  Ibrahim smiled. Good, I’ve bought us some time.

  “We’d better hurry,” said Davinia, writing a check for Rustam. “I have a strange feeling…”

  “Commander!” an operator called from the upper level. Ruda didn’t correct her. “Oathtaker reinforcements are approaching. ETA twenty minutes.”

  Finally. Ruda closed her eyes, calming herself. Soon they’d be home. She wondered if applying for a month’s leave would be considered too bold.