Gosha staggered drunkenly out of the training bay. Veins throbbed beneath his bony growths, his stomach churned, and he wanted to puke, even though he hadn’t yet taken the vile anti-radiation pills or even tried the vile green leaves served with the divine meat.

  The nearest restrooms were located on the level above, but he ignored the stairs and continued down the spacious, bright corridor, growling in response to the greetings of the smoothskins of his herd. Not having to gather these idiots into groups, force them to work, and slap them to stop their senseless sobbing was a pleasant change. Gosha hated himself for such sentimentality, but he enjoyed the atmosphere of happiness that reigned among the other cubs. They had a future.

  And that became a problem. He slapped himself across the face, driving away the ache in his knees caused by temptation. Start all over again... Let them, and best of luck with that, but he’s not worthy; he doesn’t deserve it. Gosha wiped away the drool that oozed with fear, continuing to walk past the engines toward the armory.

  He can’t get to the leader. He doesn’t have the access he needs, and the smoothskins will immediately call for Ney or Ruda. Gosha remembered the crusaders in action. Their ruthlessness, aggression, and skill at killing fascinated him. Five. Five steel-clad killers had cut a path through hundreds of squealing, shouting conflicting orders packs of mongrels. Mace strikes sent bloody chunks flying into the walls, gunshots tore holes in skulls, and electrical discharges made bodies twitch, clenching their teeth so hard that they bit off lips and crumbled. A pressing wall of fog partially obscured the attackers, making them appear far more terrifying and majestic than they actually were.

  Back then he struck Unni on the top of the head, knocking the girl unconscious, and ordered the others to surrender in the hopes of saving them. Thereafter, Gosha had pounced on the fleeing overseer, ripping her mouth open and pulling out her still-warm tongue, greedily devouring the bitch responsible for the deaths of his herd subordinates and for starving him. It was a perfect situation. When the crusaders approached, they saw not a human, but a blood-stained creature nestled on the dying woman’s chest, spitting fragments of her crushed bones into the pleading, pain-filled eyes.

  But the boot had stepped on the wrong head. A hand grabbed Gosha by the neck. The damned Insectone glanced at him, sparing him, and hurled him into the fog, admonishing him not to eat garbage. Later, the Malformed awoke in his new lair.

  Never again! I’ll atone. Gosha had his reasons for avoiding the instructors. As he’d discovered after long service in a unit, a sense of camaraderie emerged among the men. Obvious flaws no longer irritated them as they once did, and they began to care for the useless weaklings, surprisingly discovering the feeling was reciprocated. Loyalty bred unjustified pity, leading to even more exciting feelings.

  He didn’t dare let them take root in his carcass. So, Ney and Ruda wouldn’t punish him. He needed sober justice from a leader of sufficient rank. Based on the passion with which Yeshua told tales about him, Chernogor was just such a killer. Gosha paused, scratching his temple with a claw, helplessly examining the daubed symbols.

  Ney had taught them the basic tricks of how to recognize what level they were on, and Gosha had secretly left scent marks leading to the most important places: the fighting hall, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the restrooms.

  Reading remained beyond his abilities, and figuring out the location of the cursed armory the leader was inspecting was impossible. Deciding not to arouse suspicion with questions, Gosha stubbornly headed for the nearest door, surprised to find that it opened readily.

  Inside, darkness reigned, broken only by the bluish glow of the monitors on the opposite side and flashes of sparks from the depths of the room. A set of curved mechanical arms assembled an object on a nearly vertical examination slab. The stench of oil and the ozone-tinged burn of power cells reached the boy’s nose, and his ears heard the sound of hydraulics and screws being tightened. Not a single heartbeat or smell of sweat.

  Probably a storage room. Gosha turned, intending to leave.

  “Brought the report?”

  The voice almost sent him jumping.

  “Who?” Alerted by his inability to sense life, Gosha peered around the room, trying to find his interlocutor. “No. I don’t know anything about any report.”

  “Commander Eloise,” came a distorted, hissing voice from the slab. “I sent a youngster to get the report from security. Instead, you slipped in.”

  “Commander?” Gosha rejoiced. “You’re exactly who I need.” He stepped inside and dropped to his knees, his jaw flat on the floor in a gesture of submission. “They’re going to send us to the orphanage. I can’t go there! I shouldn’t have survived the assault. Sentence me and chop off my head, Commander.”

  “And why can’t you go to the orphanage?” Eloise whispered, not at all surprised by his request.

  “I’m a criminal. A freak. An abomination. A monster who has no place among people,” Gosha said, swallowing with worry. Just a little while, just a little bit more, and it will all be over. “And I... killed my Ma.”

  With a whirring sound, the mechanical arms folded, disappearing into the ceiling. Broad shadows moved along the sides of the slab, revealing themselves to be dark plates covered in barely visible stars. Gosha heard them slam shut, producing not a loud thud but a deep suction. Gauntleted hands grasped the edges of the table, lifting the prone body. When he saw the woman at full height, his glands released a scent mingling trepidation and submission.

  The top of Eloise’s head almost touched the ceiling, a circlet encircling her brown hair, tied in a bun. A compact black carapace covered her entire torso, up to her neck; her arms had six joints, with motor components visible in each of them. The woman wore the armor not as clothing or protection. It was too small for the latter, Gosha estimated, comparing the size of her steel gloves with the rest of the dark metal, studded with sockets. A scarlet cloth flowing from her broad waist concealed her legs. Around the woman’s neck hung an amulet consisting of a collection of bird bones arranged in a vortex and bound with a gilded alloy.

  The pale, lifeless color of her skin unnerved the Malformed. Every living creature smelled, often revealing its intentions through subtle movements of the face or subcutaneous veins. Even the clever Decimus wasn’t as emotionless as he pretended. His scent, changes in blood pressure expressed in the gentle pulsation of his vessels, and eye movements hinted at the Troll’s mood. However, this woman had no odor. She didn’t exist at all, appearing as some kind of animated thing.

  Her hand reached out and rested on the unusual spear standing beside her. The tip of the weapon flowed smoothly into a wide steel shaft, and the hilt was protected by a domed protrusion.

  No blow followed, and Gosha glanced up quickly.

  “Do it already.”

  “Why did you stop?” Eloise asked. A seam ran down the center of her chest. “If you want my judgment, then give me your sincere repentance, child.”

  “Not a child. A hideous creature.” Gosha bared his teeth. The woman didn’t move. “You know about the Malformed?” She nodded. “Then I’ll skip the backstory. The leader dragged Ma back from a raid. I have no idea who conceived me, but the first thing I remember is her crying and the crunching of my brother’s or sister’s sinews in my jaw. The leader crushed the small one for flickering underfoot and tossed the corpse to the cubs.”

  “Cannibalism is a crime among the Oathtakers,” Eloise remarked. “Yet I fail to see how one can blame a soul that has known nothing else. Innocent.”

  “How dare you!” His claws scraped.

  “You have come for my judgment.” Her head bowed, making the first truly human movement. “So accept the verdict.”

  “I enjoyed it! I reveled in the blood given to us and savored the meat!” Gosha roared, rising to his feet. His muscles bulged.

  With a light, almost imperceptible movement, Eloise thrust her spear. The massive weapon flew past his delighted face, stabbing the panel behind him and closing the door. The light came on. Gosha exhaled.

  “And now you regret it. Your shame, your human shame, is visible to all. Innocent.”

  A small cloud of steam escaped Gosha’s mouth, momentarily blurring his vision. Not right, everything wasn’t going as planned. The throbbing in his head reached its peak, threatening to explode, and rage outweighed his fear.

  “Ma taught us speech. Stopped fights, insisting on friendly relationships between the cubs. She gave us names, good, proper names. Saved us. Taught us not to be cruel.” Gosha flinched, chasing away the ghosts of the past. “Only the Malformed don’t do that. The leader bit off body parts from the resisting and disobedient females.” His breathing quickened. “My little brother tried to resist and was killed. With a swing. Ma had it harder than the others, but she never gave up and talked us out of stupidity. I wanted to protect her, I really did...”

  He paced back and forth across the suddenly too-small space, clutching his head in his paws. Eloise watched him with eyes dancing with violet-blue flashes.

  “The tribe lived by raiding, killing, enslaving, and looting. Several of my brothers escaped, taking the youngest with them. I hope they managed to find... something. I always told myself I’d escape too as soon as I was old enough to free Ma. Then Latif found us.” Gosha snorted. “Justice has a sense of humor. His gang had never lost so many before. The Malformed don’t fight fairly. But the bombing cleared a path to our lairs. The leader went to kill the females, intending to leave nothing for the winners. I slipped in after him. And stabbed a spike under the bastard’s snout the whole length!”

  The sight of angry disbelief, followed by the mindless, glassy stare of a corpse, as his brains flowed along with blood onto the strained wrist, was one of the most precious memories of his life. He’d done it. He’d settled accounts with that bastard in full.

  “Ma couldn’t run. She had no legs. And an arm,” Gosha continued quickly, trying to skip over that disgusting, painful part. “I knocked the shackles off the others, sent the sisters with them, and stayed with the crippled ones. It was all clear; they asked...” The words refused to come. He bit his lip until it bled, forcing himself to confess. “One slavery is no better than another.” Stop whining! “I killed them. A stab, a stab, and it’s all over, got it?! And then I devoured Ma, preventing the slavers from defiling her!”

  “Oh, child.” Eloise let go of the spear, which remained standing, and sank to her knees, rustling the fabric. Her arms, suddenly warm and not at all rough, embraced Gosha, pressing him to her chest. He couldn’t hear his heartbeat, only a strange clicking and beeping from where her lungs ought to be. “I absolve you of all sins.”

  “How dare you?!” He burst into tears. For the second time in his meaningless, insignificant life. “I am a Malformed. The spawn of a monster and accomplice of murderers!”

  “A lie. Captain Mikhas gave me your file. By keeping the rest in line, you saved them from the slavers’ hatred.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Nonsense. If I had known you would save us, I... I wouldn’t have killed anyone! I would have found a way to keep Ma enslaved, but I gave up; I did nothing...

  “No,” Eloise said calmly and tenderly. “You didn’t give up. You cared for the weak. But now you’re surrendering, denying yourself the right to be happy and simply live. Is that what your mother would have wanted? As a human, I can say with certainty that she would not. As the spiritual guide of the Order, my wrath is directed at the oppressors. You were a victim. You will become something much greater, thus bringing joy to the departed and finding your way.”

  “I’m afraid,” Gosha admitted. “A few nights ago, disgusting thoughts crept into my sleep. Of an endless feast of human flesh, of the screams of those I played cards with, and of the indescribable horror I became, brazenly deciding who would live another day while my fingers pulled the guts out of the losers. I don’t want this! Don’t let this happen!”

  “There’s nothing to stop here.” The knight stroked his head. “The Sky allows its offspring to choose. That dream proved vile, unable to seduce you, strong enough to subdue any instinct. Never doubt. If you need help or advice, the caregivers are always there. Live...” She pulled away, smiling, confusing Gosha. How could he have considered this woman inhuman? She was so full of life.

  A fist pounded on the door, making Gosha flinch. Eloise stood up, pressed the button, and a flushed Tsereg stumbled in, holding a hand to her cheek. For a second, he saw a flash from her fingertip, a tiny beam of light illuminating the slap mark, but it quickly vanished, making him doubt whether it had just been his imagination.

  “There you are, bastard.” Tsereg grabbed his hand, not at all afraid of the thorns. Her grip was warm. “Ney said you were lost. Come on, I’ll take your slow-witted ass to the restroom, and then we’ll go beat up Yeshua. And no arguments!”

  “Who appointed you leader, Lard-on-Legs?” Gosha blurted out, but then he smirked. “I agree, in exchange for joining us in defeating Ney.”

  “Naturally.” The girl nodded. “I’ll punish him for daring to think me a braggart.”

  “It looks like you’ve made your choice.” Eloise smiled thinly. “Follow it. Good luck on your journey.”

  “Thank you for looking after my friend...” Tsereg suddenly paused, staring at the bone talisman hanging from the crusader’s neck. “Hm.” I didn’t know anyone outside the Steppe worshiped the Sky.”

  “Then you’re very ignorant, girl,” Eloise replied. “After the Mad Hatter’s death and the reformation of the priesthood, the Gilded Horde has been quite aggressive in exporting its culture, despite its vassal status. Nice to meet a fellow sister in the faith. Eloise.”

  “Recognize ours,” the girl laughed. “Never miss an opportunity to expand your influence. Tsereg.”

  “They named you a soldier?” the woman asked, surprised.

  “My father is a most unusual man. Never mind, we’re training. Let’s roll, Gosh, before you wet the floor.”

  Patience, only patience. Gosh gnashed his teeth, allowing himself to be pulled by the hand and following up the stairs. He’d gotten himself into this situation, and since fate had decided to give him another chance, he intended to prove to Tsereg once and for all which of them was the stronger. As soon as they arrived at the orphanage. Surely there wouldn’t be the same constant surveillance there as here.

  Eloise’s words about wrath stuck in his head. Channel his wrath. Kill to save. If that were possible, then even a monstrous abomination such as him had a place in society. It was worth considering.

  ****

  Almost clinging to the stone slopes, the Shroud of Darkness entered unhindered into the inner lands of Draz, the most influential servant of the ruler of Volnitsa. The identification codes taken from the slain raiders granted them passage through the fortification’s lonely gate guarding the valley, while the small garrison sat inside, feigning fear of the storm and counting the bribe received from Itil’s friend.

  Corruption permeated the entire government of this wild country, and Szarel had no doubts about the loyalty of the rabble who had abandoned their posts in exchange for shiny objects. Their duty was to guard the gate, as the leader of the small tribe explained. Therefore, if the passage opened automatically, allowing undeclared cargo in, they would prefer to look the other way, trusting the capital’s security to deal with any troubles, rather than going out onto the parapets in a storm and risking being swept away by the raging elements. A small gift served as an incentive, inspiring behavior.

  All this sounded simultaneously logical and outrageous to Captain Mikhas, seething with rage at such incompetence. Szarel sensed unspoken doubts about the savages’ fickleness from the officer accustomed to tough battles in which victory was achieved through coordination between all branches of the armed forces, accurate fire that crippled the enemy from maximum range, and superior logistics and intelligence. Mikhas would’ve preferred a full-scale invasion to such a risky operation.

  Szarel shared this desire. Volnitsa would fall one day, and for the well-being of its inhabitants and the Oathtakers, it would be better for the region to fall to the Land of the Oath than to the rapacious, unscrupulous, and debauched Reclaimers. But occasionally the best victory was to achieve one’s goal with less bloodshed.

  Hidden by billowing storm clouds that swept across the entire valley, chasing huge boulders torn from the paved roads, the cruiser proceeded south, keeping its distance from the many peasant settlements built directly in the rock. Studying the data coming from the external cameras, Szarel saw the suspended bridges that normally connected the mountain villages retracted, the houses tightly sealed, and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from special vents.

  According to reports, the villagers adored Draz and Paikan. The brutal raiders brought stability to the valley, ending racism against mutants, creating a working code of laws, and stopping human sacrifices. Breweries brewed alcohol from mushrooms grown in underground farms, and herders raised plump herds of cusacks, feeding them the weeds growing thickly on the western side of the crescent-shaped valley, precisely where a spaceship that had fallen from the sky had spilled the contents of its colonization module.

  Draz’s domain had no single religion. Similar to his master, the bandit revered only strength, seeing no value in idle chatter. Still, among the deserted farms during the fury of nature, cultivating valuable wheat and breeding lizards, there were areas designated for fairs. Once every three months, the locals held a festival lasting three days.

  Weddings were celebrated there, and praises were offered to various deities. By Paikan’s will, no one dared raise a finger against the peasants providing the basic sustenance for the entire Volnitsa. As Itil recounted, the last idiot who dared let his gang have fun with local girls was forced to watch his family burn alive, and afterwards, Draz personally fed him his severed arms and legs, placing the stump of the man outside Rabor as a warning to other bandits. Draz often joined the festivities, playing a guitar, dancing with brides, and congratulating grooms.

  Itil said that in recent years, he rarely exercised his right of the first night, gradually reducing his wild manners.

  Both Paikan and Draz supplied the area with water and basic medicine, preventing epidemics. To the north of the valley lay Rabor, surrounded by a dense wall of bastions bristling with turrets and artillery. Chains hung from the battlements, clanking in the strong wind that swung them back and forth. Their hooks held the rotting remains of rebels, fleeing peasants, guilty raiders, and various monsters responsible for the region’s massacres, hunted down and slain by Draz himself.

  The dome of a force shield crackled over the city, preventing the storm from wreaking havoc on the streets and protecting the misshapen antennae. The city itself was divided in two; one incredibly long road led further north. To the west and east lay vast hangars, factories, and forges, capable of housing and supplying an entire army. The walls were protected by a moat filled with a constant stream of toxic sewage, which then disappeared into holes leading to special storage facilities emptied once a month by workers.

  No doubt, if not for the storm’s interference, the unexpected guests would have long since been spotted by one of the radars. The captain excused himself and left the bridge. Szarel’s gaze did not escape the sight of several ugly transports, studded with spikes and weapons, stationed in the shelter of awnings outside the city, and the absence of patrols outside.

  His guess turned out to be correct.

  An underground river provided this den of debauchery with water, and if Itil was right, the bastards used an ancient hydroelectric power station. Most of the civilians worked as mechanics in the arsenals or served as guards at the vast flesh market situated next to the main road. Looming over this dismal place was the administrative complex, where meticulous clerks, personally loyal to Paikan, vigilantly monitored the quality of the tribute and kept meticulous records, preventing incest between the families inhabiting the valley. Draz’s fortress stood near the eastern wall, next to a bastion inhabited by his personal guards, a hospital, and the so-called royal stables.

  Hundreds of businesses selling drugs, rare weaponry, or performing horrific modifications paid tribute to the local ruler. Establishments offering all manner of carnal pleasures stayed open at night, and if patrons paid well enough, the owners often sold the mangled, bloody remains to market, stocking up on fresh slaves for the next day.

  Despite this, the streets were said to be relatively safe. Itil insisted Draz hated sharing the right to violence and mercilessly punished any crime.

  A veritable mass of contradictions, Szarel thought. So close to building a decent society, and yet so far away. He nodded to the operator after listening to the group’s readiness report.

  The Shroud of Darkness retreated from Rabor, proceeding through a relatively narrow passage. The personnel reduced the force shield’s coverage, avoiding any scraping against the narrowing walls as the crusaders climbed inside. A first geysers of hot steam erupted ahead, then the outline of a cobbled-together thermal power plant, providing its share of power to the city, appeared. Fortunately, the crew was absent. The cruiser descended heavily, releasing a small group led by Butylin. They dispersed while technicians in heavy suits began performing maintenance on this pile of scrap metal. The uninterrupted plant operation lessened the chance that the Oathtakers would be detected.

  Szarel rose, switching the display and watching as Captain Mikhas instructed Rustam. Medics were assisting in the preparations, administering harmless subcutaneous injections to all members of the task force, causing reddening and swelling of the skin, simulating the early stages of radiation poisoning or the effects of poorly healing wounds. Ruda coated their faces with a mixture of lard and soot, Ney checked the weapons, Yeshua counted the money, while Chernogor consulted the updated maps.

  “I admit, we infiltrated here much easier than I expected,” the commander grumbled over the private comm channel. “A lord gathering his court. You were right, Magister.”

  “Your warnings were not unfounded, brother,” Szarel returned the courtesy, not at all surprised that his suspicions had been picked up.

  “Of course not,” Chernogor snorted. Szarel regretted not being able to roll his eyes. His fighting brother’s straightforwardness had already become something of a legend. All the worse for his hopes of resignation, since the magister had recommended the cantankerous commander as a potential magister for one of the rebuilding chapters. “But no ruler could ignore such interference. Not during what’s happening. It would be a slap in the face. To avoid appearing weak, the ferret would want to corner us.”

  “Even if we’re discovered early, which I doubt, they’ll tire before they catch up,” Szarel assured.

  “Possibly. Even certain,” the old man agreed. “The unlucky folks will scald themselves trying to get here.”

  “It’s accounted for. Upon receiving the signal, the cruiser will come to meet you,” Szarel announced. “Return our people, Chernogor.”

  “At your request. Faith and prosperity! Let the Oath be my witness!” Chernogor slammed his fist against his chest, producing a ringing sound.

  “For the sake of the children and future generations.” Szarel repeated the gesture, deeply moved by the courtesy shown by a man so far removed from religion. If Chernogor could be called a priest, then his altar was a beer stand, and his prayers a torrent of drunken obscenities.

  Nevertheless, he had rightfully earned his rank. And you? What would the past magisters say if they saw today’s bridge or heard your thoughts? Traitorous doubts whispered. Szarel didn’t deign to discuss this. Actions are the best way to dispel prejudices. In time, his soul would accept the change. Until then, he could only try to lead everyone as best he could.

  Having turned off the terminal, the magister left the bridge, walked into the medical bay, and nodded benevolently to the now-familiar Lika, whose lungs had been replaced with artificial implants. The operation had caused a rare case of foreign body rejection, and Cenfus kept the child on medication while waiting for her restored immune system to adapt. Meanwhile, her condition served as a supplement to the chief physician’s current medical dissertation.

  Clearing a path for himself with telekinesis and shaking the girl’s hand with an invisible one, the magister leisurely walked into the intensive care unit, where young Grisha sat on a comfortable bed, propped up by pillows and enveloped in sensors. To his left lay disks with audio recordings, and Cenfus hung from the ceiling, constantly checking his patient’s data for the slightest anomaly.

  “I have documented my disagreement for the record,” Cenfus said instead of greeting.

  “It’s just one question,” Szarel said.

  “Everything always starts with the first step,” the doctor snorted.

  “Just one. No more.”

  “Everything will be fine, Uncle!” Grisha said contentedly, squeezing and unclenching a rubber headband. His long hair had been reduced to a mere fuzz after the boy had asked for a trim to copy Rustam’s. The fear, uncertainty, and doom in his eyes had given way to curiosity, amusement, and a touch of audacity. “Compared to the past, this task is nothing. Easy-peasy.”

  “It’s not up to you to decide,” the doctor snapped. “The moment I notice the slightest threat, we immediately stop this... experiment.”

  “Agreed,” Szarel didn’t argue. “Grisha, have you listened to all the reports? Have you remembered everything?”

  “I don’t need to remember anything.” Grisha’s finger, still pale and just beginning to color, touched his forehead. “That right here grasped it all. Go ahead. But try to formulate your request as clearly as possible. Avoid being vague, or I’ll start blurring. Sir.”

  “Excellent.” Szarel’s telekinesis touched Grisha, carefully checking his pulse and blood pressure. The power penetrated deeper, examining the precious heart. “Using your gift of foresight, tell me what Draz will do in the event of...”