Draz reacted instantly. He rushed to the edge of the bridge, deflecting Ney’s mace with a swing and swatting the knight straight into Ruda.

  “Hess! You’re in charge!” the tyrant roared.

  He grabbed a handful of ropes, leaped far forward, and turned as the ropes swung him under the bridge. El Satanini, Ney, and Ruda hurried after him, trusting the surviving crusaders to control the battle. Despite the casualties, the bandits couldn’t be allowed to mine the bridge over the pit.

  Ruda wrapped the rope around her wrist and plummeted, hearing the furious roar of gunfire. Carde’s squad used grappling hooks to reach the saboteurs planting dark packets of explosives on the bridge supports.

  The ambush from below caught them off guard. The bandits, scattered across the latticed platforms used for maintenance, were completely unprepared to encounter heavily armed knights. Platforms buckled under the sudden weight, and several bandits fell screaming, while the crusaders moved along the long beams, breaking the bones of the more savvy.

  Ruda flew into the chaos, kicking a careless raider in the back with her hooves. His power pack sank deep, breaking the man’s spine, and she ended his ordeal with a shot. From the opposite side of the bridge, Carde advanced through the gunfire toward the officer giving the commands. He traced patterns with his mace in front of him, parrying some shots.

  “Take cover behind the supports, get away from the edge of the platforms. If you fall, don’t panic; the armor will hold... Son of a bitch!” The officer in gray armor, with a red visor on her faceplate, emptied her heavy machine gun in the commander’s direction.

  Half of her burst sheared off the beam behind Carde; the other half directly in front of him. Unfazed, he kicked off with his feet, launching himself into the air. The gifts bestowed upon him by nature, augmented by the servo-muscles of his armor, gave the commander sufficient momentum to outpace the raider’s attempt to retreat. His mace struck the raised rifle, piercing it, and the officer rolled back with a crack in her breastplate. The next swing broke the arm of a nearby raider, and Carde stepped forward to finish the first enemy.

  Ruda spotted a raider to her left, poking out from the relative safety of the bridge support and aiming for Carde’s back. She raised her cannon, but a sudden flurry of shards ricocheting off her bracer threw off her aim, and the shell merely scratched the bandit’s helmet.

  “For every death you will answer to me tenfold!”

  Draz was at the foot of the bridge, bracing himself against the fall by driving his feet ankle-deep into the metal. His shot staggered Ruda, then he freed his legs, swinging on the cables toward the officer. Carde’s blow clanged off the giant’s outstretched forearm as he landed with a crash. The officer leaped to her feet, drawing her saber, deflecting Ney’s lunge as he swung over the unusual battlefield.

  Ney coughed, struck in the chest by a whirling in which Draz had transformed. Not even attempting to hold on to the platform, he swung on the cable over the gap, releasing his mace so it would remain suspended by its magnetic clamp, and seizing his flamethrower, intending to roast the nearest mercenaries.

  “Down!” Draz shouted. Without asking questions, his minions jumped below. “Everyone down!” The tyrant’s cannons roared, snapping the cable and covering Ney’s armor in a web of cracks.

  The knight miraculously landed on the platform, rolling toward the edge before Ruda could catch him and drag him behind a beam, thinning under the fire.

  “But our orders…”

  “Souzan, we’re losing the advantage! I’ll collapse the bridge myself if Paikan wants it that much!”

  Ruda heard the ringing sound that came a moment after the shelling ended. Rolling to the side, she shot twice into Draz’s back while he was busy fending off El Satanini and Carde, who pressed at him from both sides. Balancing precariously on the narrow beam running beneath the platform, the governor was frantically firing at the crusaders threatening his soldiers and parrying mace blows.

  Souzan remained by his side, deftly ducking under the giant’s hands and the thrusts of her long blade, deflecting the commanders’ blows away from her leader. Draz paused, firing three bursts at Carde’s crusader.

  The Troll was thrown to the edge of the platform, buckling under his weight, and he grabbed the central section with his long arm, bleeding from his punctured breastplate. Among the sharp fragments of the shattered diamondoid plating protruding, shreds of torn skin were visible, fluttering in the wind. A raider began to approach the struggling crusader.

  “Ney, help our brother,” Ruda asked, estimating the length of the cable and the distance to Draz. So far, the cable hadn’t torn. “I have an idea.”

  “Suicidal?” Ney asked.

  “For now, just insane.” She smirked, activating the moisture release from the vessels inside her armor.

  She neared the dangerous threshold, risking losing consciousness from the growing roar of the beast inside her mind. It was like a supernova exploding, painting the void of space in a jumble of colors. Fury—wild and unbridled—threatened to overwhelm her; a pulsing need to defeat the challenger and protect her chosen partner arose within.

  The armor obligingly made room for the swelling muscles. Her knees clicked, indicating thickening bones. Ruda’s neck stretched forward, gaining additional vertebrae. Her teeth pricked her tongue, nestling in the altered recess of her mouth. She breathed heavily, feeling her hooves about to burst, releasing their toes.

  The transformation stopped, obeying her will. Ruda smelled Draz: his sweat, his blood, the scent of cheap cologne oozing through the holes in his armor. His scent was forever etched in her memory.

  Ruda didn’t like it.

  She leaped, covering the entire width of the bridge. Ruda leaned to the right, flying past a support beam. The cable screeched, the rubber coating shearing, revealing a steel core, but it held, and Ruda circled around, slamming both hooves into Draz’s back while he was distracted by El Satanini. The governor’s generator spat sparks from the resulting dent, and the giant himself staggered. His foot missed the beam, immediately crumbling the mesh.

  “Draz!” Souzan pulled his arm, crying out as the mace’s spikes pierced the plate protecting her ribs.

  “Pests, brave enough to attack only when you have the numerical advantage,” Draz croaked. “You’re worse than ticks!”

  Swiftly, incredibly fast for such a massive frame, Draz regained his balance, attacking El Satanini. His fist bent the mace’s handle; his kick shattered the raised cannon, detonating the shell inside. With his full weight, he slammed the commander into a support beam, stabbing his elbows into the Troll’s chest twice. Turning, Draz parried Carde’s blow. The commander fired three shots into the governor’s helmet, dissuading him from attempting to belch flame.

  All of Von Bülow’s skill barely delayed his opponent for the moments Ruda needed to engage. When two evenly matched fighters clash, the more skilled inevitably prevails. Irritated, wounded, and burning with a thirst for vengeance, Draz turned into a feral beast, pouncing on the object of his wrath. He abandoned his efficient footwork, struggling to maintain his balance on the uneasy battlefield. His defense shouldn’t have been difficult to overcome.

  But in a clash of skill and strength, strength prevailed. Speed, physical strength, and endurance—these factors negated the effectiveness of skill. Exceptions did occur. A seasoned killer could dispatch a dozen berserkers, given the opportunity to choose the battlefield and methods.

  Carde was not granted such a privilege. Draz descended upon him like a hurricane. His armored knuckles slammed into the commander, tearing off his exquisitely crafted pauldrons, turning his heraldic emblem into a crumpled mess, and ripping apart his tabard and cloak. Nevertheless, Carde held on, preventing the governor from reaching Ruda. The newly minted knight ducked under the commander’s elbow, delivering a rising blow with her mace to Draz’s jaw, giving her comrade precious seconds to catch his breath.

  Draz leaned back. His hands clasped above his head, bringing the resulting hammer down on Ruda, instantly knocking her onto her back. The kinetic pulse penetrated all the dissipators, spreading painfully in a fiery wave from his shoulder. Ruda thought she heard the cracking of breaking scales and spurting of blood amid the roar of battle.

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  The grip disengaged. Draz swung his right hand, aiming for the crusader’s neck. Instinctively, she grabbed the limb with both hands, holding her fist above her.

  “How...” Draz’s arm trembled, overcoming the knight’s resistance. “How do you do that? Why are you getting stronger?”

  “Your stench inspires me to strive to be rid of you.” Ruda groaned from the strain. Her muscles were on the verge of breaking, her finger bones threatening to snap. “Tell me, do you feel it? The weight of your sins hanging on your shoulders? Every innocent killed, every enslaved person—a particle in a hurricane that will sweep you from the face of the earth. And you run into this hurricane.”

  “Hm.” Draz blocked Carde’s mace, continuing to press Ruda. “No gust of wind can blow me away. But if we’re talking about matters of death, then this is what I’ve learned, child. Only the weak, already defeated and incapable of resisting violence, threaten the victor with heavenly retribution. In truth, there is no god. A fool, giving her all for the sake of the insignificant rabble, will perish, and the beast will be left to feast. Where is the justice in that? No, revenge or justice is achieved through might. And yours is about to run out.”

  “By devouring carrion, you’ve forgotten the taste of real food,” Ruda croaked, arching her back and desperately trying to move her knees under Draz’s shoulder. Her greaves scraped helplessly against the gray surface. “I would pity you, but...” A bright light spilled onto the bridge from above, dispelling the dull orange color. “...I am not merciful.”

  The slopes of the pit shook, sending down an avalanche of dirt and burning debris, interspersed with broken human bodies. The heat of the sudden bombardment ignited the sparse plant growths, stretching a whole chain of such torches to the pit’s bottom. Soon, the howl of landing artillery shells reached them, and panicked cries floated up from above. The sounds of battle subsided; dozens of armed men leaped from the bridge onto the cliff face, rushing toward the lowlands.

  Draz stepped aside away from Ruda, grabbed Souzan in his arms, interrupting her duel with El Satanini, and leaped over his opponents, landing on the platforms ahead.

  “Hess, report?” the governor shouted. “Already here? Yes, retreat. Everyone below and north. Hess. I mean everyone. You will share the fate of the wounded.”

  “What about the mines? And them?” Souzan asked, pointing at the crusaders. “They’re exhausted.”

  “To hell with it. I don’t know how many of them are inside this tin can, and I don’t intend to lose any more men. The trespassers can be dealt with using other means.” With a last glance at Ruda, Draz stepped into the gap, joining his retreating forces.

  Ruda resisted the urge to give chase, offering her shoulder to El Satanini. They needed to act as a unit. The infantry above would need their assistance.

  “Up, sir?” she asked.

  “First, we’ll drop the explosives. The bridge... must hold,” croaked El Satanini.

  ****

  “Acknowledged, Captain,” Szarel replied, receiving Mikhas’s message.

  Standing on the observation platform overlooking the road to the west, the magister watched the figures of his subordinates appear, hastening to retreat to the Shroud of Darkness. The need to accept close combat resulted in heavy losses. Three-quarters of the strike force’s infantry were laid to rest in this land. The crusaders had also lost brothers and sisters. With all his being, Szarel longed to be there, with his men, shattering any delusions about the possibility of blocking the Onyx Order’s path.

  But this was not to be. His responsibility as the most powerful Abnormal on the ship was to protect the defenseless. That was how their Order had existed in the past, how it had lost most of its personnel, and how it had been reborn, like a phoenix shedding the ashes from its renewed feathers.

  What were soldiers for, if not to protect children?

  However, the magister had no intention of standing idly. The cruiser was approaching, having finished destroying the heavy vehicles. Now the small-caliber cannons and laser turrets spoke, cutting down the fools and rare brave souls trapped and launching a last-ditch attack. Even so, Mikhas didn’t risk firing too close to the allied infantry and didn’t use chemical grenades.

  Szarel had no such restrictions. Invisible tendrils of telekinesis lashed out, thinning to the width of a stalk of wheat. Blood sprayed from the bandits’ punctured helmets and chest pieces.

  A barbarian, raising his axe over a one-armed soldier, was lifted into the air and straight into the laser rays. A retreating machine gunner pressed his hand to his neck, trying to stem the bleeding from his severed carotid artery. Next, a grenadier’s eyes burst inside his helmet, then the telekinetic ribbons penetrating his skull ground his brain to mush.

  The dispassionate eyes surveyed the battlefield, methodically extinguishing pockets of resistance to his returning kin. As a sworn doctor, such mundane cruelty disgusted Szarel. Any power was seductive, and he forced himself to remember that even the savages below were not insects. He restrained his telekinesis, not touching the ones retreating and those throwing aside their weapons. Let this memory, this survived horror, serve as their last chance to change for the better.

  The heavy ramp plate touched the road, accepting the soldiers. Captain Mikhas extended the force shield, enveloping the bridge entrance, correctly judging that after the failed attempt to mine it, the bandits might try to collapse the crossing with artillery fire.

  “Any contact from Commander Chernogor?” Szarel inquired into his gorget, lowering the pressure on the next raider. A red circle spread five hundred meters from the cruiser.

  “No, Magister,” an operator said.

  “They’ll have to return on foot.”

  Szarel raised his head, sensing the approach of his adopted son. A black dot streaked across the bridge so quickly it left a trail like a comet. Jake soared over the battlefield, slowing only as he passed through a section of the shield, and immediately dove to the upper level of the Shroud of Darkness, joining his father with a clang of his metal claws as he touched the floor.

  He had adopted Jake to continue the illustrious El-Farah line, which he had caused to be endangered. Szarel hadn’t expected filial devotion from a military academy graduate, and at first he was wary of Jake, instinctively distrusting the man’s resemblance to a dragonfly. It was unworthy, cowardly behavior, which left him completely ashamed when Jake seamlessly integrated into the family.

  The commander personally established contact with Fahim, encouraging his brother’s recovery in every way, never once worrying about risking losing the rich inheritance in the event of Fahim’s return. His brother became more valuable to him than material possessions, dispelling all of Szarel’s doubts.

  In a sense, Jake “adopted” him first. Szarel merely filled out the paperwork. But it was his son who always celebrated his birthdays, bringing the bustling activity of visitors back to the el-Farah mansion. The heavy, dusty curtains were washed by a freshly recruited staff, the mustiness of the self-imposed isolation faded, and the sun’s rays restored the proud appearance of the founders of their family. Dark rumors about their home dissipated, and steaks were once again grilled, and weddings were held on the green meadow surrounded by flowerbeds.

  It wasn’t Szarel who restored the family name. That was his son’s achievement. Szarel himself forgot the cardinal rule of his forefathers: “We rise.” Never give up. So he felt genuine pride when Jake expressed a desire to join the Order. Back then, the core of the crusaders consisted of Trolls, but the Onyx Order had already broken that pattern by making Cenfus an honorary member, and Szarel saw no reason not to give his son the same chance.

  Jake had breezed through the sariant ranks, becoming a knight in record time, flawlessly quoting sacred texts and military manuals with the same ease with which he secretly threw drinking parties for other sariants and accurately anticipated budding conflicts, smoothing over quarrels to forge friendships. Alas, it was precisely his friendliness that deprived him of the chance to become a magister.

  People of their rank were often forced to send comrades to their deaths.

  “Itil accepted our offer.” Jake’s mandibles were beating rhythmically from the strain, his wings fluttering, unable to hide beneath the chitin. He gratefully grabbed the flask full of ice-cold water Szarel had levitated to him. “I need a couple of minutes to catch my breath.” He glanced back at the battlefield. The smells of smoke, burning flesh and screams were no longer contained by the shield, reaching the observation deck. “I’m going to them.”

  “You’ve already done enough, Commander,” Szarel said. “The withdrawal is proceeding in an orderly manner.”

  “Then I won’t cause any confusion, Magister.” Jake bowed. “By your…”

  A warning sounded from the gorget. Jake’s squad responded immediately, beginning to move toward the magister. Activated emergency systems attempted to pull the observation platform inside the cruiser.

  They were all too late.

  Explosions blossomed across the cruiser’s shield layer. The contents of the unknown projectiles didn’t rush north in a whirlwind of destruction upon impact but instead streamed forward, burning their way through the fresh shield sections formed by particles, without losing their destructive power. In response to this unexpected behavior, the cruiser’s systems concentrated their shield at the optimal distance around the pyramid, allowing for a nanosecond error, resulting in the unknown opponent’s next salvo reaching the Shroud of Darkness, cratering the mighty hull with solid-state projectiles.

  Szarel shuddered, falling to one knee as he heard the report of explosions in the inner corridor. He tried to ask Mikhas for the enemy’s location but only grunted, realizing he had lost control of his telekinesis. Then pain surged. A relentless, furious agony, disrupting his thinking. The underside of his face throbbed, pleading for mercy.

  His boot slipped, and his tabard became wet. What? Szarel glanced down, seeing a piece of gray flesh, glistening white, lying in a pool of spreading red. A jaw? What is a jaw doing here? Is anyone hurt? His throat let out another moan, piercing the magister with a spear of agony. His unruly tongue fell to his chest.

  His jaw. Part of his face had been torn off.

  “My apologies for not demonstrating proper hospitality. Please do not consider yourself unwelcome,” came a gracious and confident voice, deep, belonging to a man accustomed to obedience.

  Szarel turned his head. A figure appeared before Jake, clad in elegant dark armor, devoid of sharp edges. Every part of this work of art adjusted to the wearer’s movements, ensuring that any blow would roll off the flawless surface. A heavy, ankle-length cloak flapped behind the man’s shoulders, held in place by diamond clasps fashioned after buttons. The stranger’s hand sank deep into the commander’s left chest, lifting the wheezing man. Jake jerked, vomiting a clot of blood, and grabbed his tormentor by the elbow, opening his shell and attacking the bare, smiling head with every limb. He even tried to slap his wings at the face.

  A black-gloved hand grabbed Jake’s limbs, twisting and tearing them off with a sickening series of crunching sounds. Szarel didn’t have time to rise to his feet, and the unknown man pulled his arm out, holding a thrashing organ. The mangled body fell to the deck.

  “All that’s mine is mine. All that’s yours is also mine. Welcome to Volnitsa.” The killer raised his hand above his light-brown face. His fingers unclenched, and the heart plopped into his waiting mouth, bursting amid a cage of snow-white teeth. “I, Paikan, greet you.”