The shamaness unhooded to meet eyes with the distant aquilan rider. His magnocular’s zoom was consumed by three gouged eyes that perpetually cried ichor. He reported his findings, removed his helmet, unholstered his pistol, put the muzzle in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  She rehooded as she descended the mossy outcropping back into the forest. Every hooffall wilted the grass, and the bells on her staff chimed with every step. When the butt of the staff planted into the dirt, she could sense the teeming life around her: the worms and ants tunneling underhoof, the moths and thrips fluttering about, the beetles and termites boring into bark, the slugs and earwigs munching leaves. It has been too long since the shamaness has made pilgrimage to the Great Bog. She would return with the two sororitas as offerings to Pandamecia, alive or otherwise, and bring her closer to earning her a place in the rotmire creed.

  She passed no border, but the splattered blood, the trodden forest floor, the growing braying, all marked that she had entered what would be an encampment among her kin. Not that they would call it such. Walls were a begrudging necessity made to secure the beds of the herd and guard contested territory from jealous tribes. But that was among the herds. All the wilds under the sky were the birthright of the gors, and the tribes united for the purpose of casting out the aquilans; against the soft and lazy aquilans, the forest was palisade enough.

  The carcasses of prey were brought to the pestigors, who procured organs and fluids as ingredients for future rituals and brews. The rest was left to the gors. If they were patient, they would roast the offal and add it to vegetable stew, but most were already slobbering from watching the pestigors work and gorged themselves on blood-spurting meat as soon as they could. The bones had runes carved into them, then were strung together as jewelry or tree ornaments.

  She entered the flap of the sole tent, raised so that the cauldron brew’s vapor could coalesce into a heady gloom. The wargor and his bestigors took residence with her. They inhaled deeply, this intoxicating aroma, as ungors sharpened axes, loaded guns, and fashioned armor out of scrap metal and flak fiber. Lice and ticks danced across their fur as they meditated.

  The wargor was loading grenade cartridges into the grenade launcher cylinders and the loops of bandoliers. He was promised ascendancy, the repute of slaying Aquilan princesses propelling him to a place among the ironhorns.

  The shamaness stepped over the gear, sat in his lap, and lay the small of her back to the expanse of his lesioned chest. Her pale, dainty hand reached up to caress his snout; to repay this interruption, his two calloused hands groped her to bruising where they roamed.

  “Will they be upon us?” He asked. She drew a slow lick across his underjaw.

  “Soon. They will want a path that allows their metal boxes to support them.”

  “Then we have time.”

  “Yes. Yes, we do.”

  An ungor had been engraving runes into the chassis of a looted chainsword. A corrosive concoction rusted the teeth into surfaces suitable for tetani. Finished, the ungor came up behind the hunched-over wargor and handed it to the extended third arm.

  The chainsword was erected, and the first trigger had it throbbing with a guttural moan, the concoction squirting everywhere. He pulled the trigger again and again, to feel the satisfying shaking in his hand as the chainsword pulsated and graunched. He kept going, harder and faster, the chainsword thrashing under his firm grip. He locked down the trigger, leaving it quivering as it groaned to a crescendo that sprayed the last of the liquid. Pleased, he unlocked the trigger and set it aside, but it still took a moment of trembling for it to wind down.

  The ATVs took a wide berth around the encampment. Something took out 1-8 before he could relay anything more than the location of the encampment, so they stuck to monitoring movement. Over a hundred beasts were loitering around campfires, a tent, and a festering gorepit. Some more UTVs joined the convoy, passengers armed with grenade launchers and meltaguns, and holy lubricants passed around to anoint their armor against foul sorcery.

  The UTVs got as far as they could before the passengers disembarked. The beasts were too deep in the forest for mounted stubbers to support, but they would keep the forest edge safe to retreat to.

  Dozens of auxilia were between Allegra and Yoon in a loose formation: flamers, shotguns, and meltas upfront; covering them, carbines in the middle; behind, grenade launchers. Auspex wands scanned around them for hidden threats.

  They found evidence of the beastmen’s presence: hyper fetid effluvia expelled by their tainted bodies, accelerated rotting that must have been from the touch of their witch, bloodspatter from relishing the violence of the hunt over the purpose of gathering food, bone effigies hung from branches, and runes carved into bark. Nature could reclaim its own after the beasts were cleansed.

  They reached their destination and hunkered into position. With sisters humming for His guidance, and magnocular spotters, the grenadiers aimed high and fired. The mortars struck true after some adjustment and sent the ungors scurrying. Flies clumped together and intercepted the mortars, especially to protect the only tent that could be seen, but they could not catch every lobbed shell, and their numbers dwindled with each one they did. Either the beastmen would be flushed out—dispersing to the winds or running into the gunline—or they would be whittled down so that the remainder could be swept away.

  The spotters reported two targets leaving the tent, one robed with a staff, one armored with a cauldron. A few more armored targets emerged, one with three arms, but Allegra ordered all fire on the robed target. Flies surged to intercept the bombardment, falling in thick clumps at a time as whole businesses seemed to materialize to replace the dead. The grenades that landed were the ones that left her unharmed, confidently undisturbed as she made her way to the gorepit.

  Now, Allegra ordered them to retreat, but for the ATVs to converge on the beast-witch. Whatever ritual they were up to had to be stopped, and only the bikers had enough speed. The grenadiers continued their bombardment as the rest pulled back. ATVs raced over the rugged terrain with all the power their engines could muster.

  It would not be fast enough.

  The cauldron was tipped over, its fetid brew poured into the gorepit. The bray-shamaness puked her chunky addition to the concoction and held her staff with both hands. She chanted, and the gorepit bubbled and writhed from the brew. As the staff was slammed down to penetrate the dirt, so too was this world’s zona pellucida penetrated so that the gory brew would sink and forcibly fertilize the soil.

  Yoon felt the ground kick beneath her. It was a flicker of a sensation that made her question if it really happened, but the others must have felt it, as the usually robotic auxilia slowed regardless of Allegra’s orders, shouting that was cut short when another kick made all, but the sisters stumble.

  The ground was pulsating, bubbling up in boils that knocked the aquilans off their feet. Allegra told Yoon directly to take to the sky, and both beat their wings to escape the rapid pace of bubbling earth. No sooner than after they rose above the canopy did that canopy get upended by a blister that swelled into a mound. Nightmarish maladies smiled from behind the translucent membrane of the blight boil before it burst in an eruption of effluvia and forestry. Pus rained in torrents, dirt spread out like ash, trees and stone hurtled like fragmentation. The sisters evaded by the beat of their wings, but most of the auxilia were flung by the blast if not killed outright. A jaundiced murk settled, and the ungors, once in disarray, now stampeded across sloshing mud, driven by the heighted truculence from the fetor.

  The UTVs unleashed their stubbers into the forest, now uprooted of many trees. Auxilia pulled the disoriented back to the rally point under the coverage of suppressive fire. The gors were heedless of the hail of bullets, slowed, but too intoxicated to feel pain, and what flesh was torn apart was sewn together by spurting sinew, sealed over by growths of wobbling fat, and mutated by innumerable manners of fleshy abundance. The auxilia who could not flee were descended upon by bludgeoning maces and hooves, stabbing spears, and mauling claws.

  Flamers and meltas were able to burn down the rampaging beasts, melting and searing them so that their flesh could not grow back if they were not incinerated completely. Shotguns and grenades blew off limbs as carbine riffs swept their careless hooves out from under them.

  Still, they were few and scattered, and the beasts’ number would envelop them in a blink.

  It was at those contact points that the sisters landed.

  Allegra swooped overhead and fired an oily column that disintegrated a dozen beasts, relieving this group of pressure. She rocketed to a surging cluster of beasts to shatter the spear tips that threatened to pierce the gunline.

  On the other side, Yoon dove straight into the thick of it. She dove chainsword first into the beasts, the recipient mulched by crashing ceramite and spinning teeth. With some light verbal provocation—

  “Are you the dread hordes?! All I see are drunk lambs!”

  —the gors turned to focus on her challenge. More provocations—

  “Where’s your shepherd, little does? They could have protected you from the big bad wolf! I heard you pride your horns, but all I see are nubs! The dust mites will claim civilization long before any of you do!”

  They were so infuriated that they ignored the guns tearing them apart to attack the chainsaw that was tearing them apart.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  The ATV riders fired upon the shamaness and her pestigors, but her putrescent aura gelated the bullets. The wargor counterfired with his grenade launcher, lobbing for a direct hit that ruptured carapace armor. The rest tried to reposition, but their rotted fuel was a slime that failed to start their engines. They disembarked right when the bestigors came upon them. The puny humans crumpled and mangled under their axes.

  “The band is thinning,” said the wargor as he loaded a cartridge, “I can hear the braying lose voices.”

  “The Aquilan princesses. Will it be too much?” She asked. He laughed.

  “The greater the challenge, the greater the offering. Call my men upon the winds. You stay here. We will deal with them.”

  Allegra had her back covered by her Auxilia as she shepherded them to regroup with other survivors. The murk significantly reduced visibility. The beast clusters were broken, but now she could hear them galloping around them. Too spread out for a melta blast to catch them all, they were positioning for an ambush, or perhaps it was only a few that diverted her attention while the rest gathered to overwhelm another flank, or maybe she was being herded into another sorcerous calamity.

  The vox was filled with chortling, another foul hex. Yoon seemed to stabilize her flank. The signatures of the ATV squad had gone down. This battle could not be won without the beast witch persecuted.

  When her flank had gathered well enough, she beat her wings straight up out of the murk and soared straight to the encampment.

  The beasts were heedless in their charge at Yoon. She hacked and blew off their limbs as she darted around them, avoiding getting bogged down by any one beast, but now they were reattaching them. Only decapitation and incineration could put them down, so she stayed close to protect the gunners as best she could and took heads when the opportunity arose. Vox was dead. She could barely see. They kept coming. She kept singing. As long as she was singing, she did not have to think about whether she was winning.

  A beast leapt from above. He was impaled upon her raised sword, sliding down and convulsing as the teeth chewed through. Yoon fired her pistol at an oncoming gor only to be rammed by another. She lost her sword as they fell. On her back, her free hand kept his slobbering bite and flailing fists at bay so that her gun could take aim and blow his head off with her last bolt. More blood spewed from his neck stump; he twitched, then slumped.

  She shoved him aside and went to pull out her sword. In the absence of song, she noticed the absence of battle. The other flank and UTVs were still fighting, but her immediate area went quiet. Her sword was stuck on something inside and needed to spin to chew free. Still quiet. Did the auxilia abandon her? Did they all die? What happened to the gors? Can she still escape? Was she going to die here? Were they going to do worse to her?

  Her panic was punished by an axe cleaving into her left wing. She beat her wings, the damaged one coughing out the axe and sputtering, working barely enough to get her away. She cursed her lack of temperament that saw her crippled oncemore.

  The hulking bestigor snorted and retrieved his axe. A dozen more appeared from the murk around her. Then another, with even more bulk, wielding a chainsword and a looted grenade launcher.

  “Have you been told we prefer to take your sisters alive?” announced the wargor, arms outstretched.

  “I offer my life to the Emperor. I pray that He accepts it.” Yoon began.

  “Of course, we prefer to take any Aquilan alive. We inflict retribution in vengeance for our ancestors and in defiance of ‘His’ Imperium.”

  “I offer my strength to the Emperor. I pray that He redresses it.” She had failed herself. She needed Him back in control.

  “Princesses are the most hated of them all. You are walking avatars of all we despise. The sight of you ignites hatred hotter than your flamers, and inspires the most scornful of torments.”

  “I offer my blood to the Emperor. I pray that it quenches his thirst.” She had no plans to die, but die she would, confronted with these brutes, that was certain. Only miracles could undo certainty, and only He could bestow them.

  “Yet we gain little satisfaction in their suffering. Glory in slaying, yes, but even the most frightened princesses are suddenly imbued with infinite resilience once under grasp.”

  “I offer my body on the altar of the battlefield. I pray that He grants me a noble death.” If she has no way out, she would at least fight hard enough to not be worth taking alive. If she is taken alive, she would need strength enough to be worth torturing.

  “So now we send you straight to hell for eternal torment, the deliverer granted repute among the tribes and infernal blessing worth a lifetime of dedication. So I thank you, princess, your downfall shall bring my ascension.”

  “I pray for His protection,” she smirked, having been given just the ammunition she needed, “As I offer all that I am.”

  Allegra descended from the heavens, firing bolts at the beast-witch. The flies collected to intercept, at great cost, yes, but the full business could afford casualties and surged up as one. She kept firing, then stowed the pistol, took up the multi-melta, and unleashed a heatwave that bankrupted the business. Those not evaporated directly by the blast soon keeled over from the residual heat melting their tiny bodies, and the remnants could not incorporate into anything that could threaten her radiance.

  She landed a ways from the witch and her security detail of gore-bathed pestigors equipped with butchering cleavers. No matter how much one witnesses, the mutant offers endlessly revolting forms, living monuments of all filth that must be expunged. The sight inspired a prayer of hatred from the book of indoctrinations.

  “To Be Unclean. That is the mark of the Mutant.”

  She aimed with her multi-melta at the advancing pestigors. The witch unhinged her jaw and unleashed a howling scream that popped Allegra’s ears, cracked her lenses, reverberated in her brain, and stumbled her to her knees.

  “To be Impure. That is the mark of the Mutant.”

  The witch belched the same infernal flatulence from the outpost, now in a stream of corruption headed for Allegra. Ears still ringing, Allegra fired into the spew, dispersing it, but the thick concentration had shielded the pestigors.

  “To be Abhorred. That is the mark of the Mutant.”

  Allegra rocketed into the air. She fired her bolt pistol while dodging the bile that the pestigors pulled from their throats and intestines. When she landed, another stream of corruption was blunted by melta fire.

  “To be Reviled. That is the mark of the Mutant.”

  Allegra launched straight for the witch. Another bray-scream knocked her out of flight, sending her tumbling across the mud to the witch's hooves. A hoof stomped on her chest. Three gouged eyes and an ever-widening maw loomed over her as the scream continued. Her lenses ruptured, and she could feel her organs shuddering.

  “To be Hunted. That is the fate of the Mutant.”

  Her arms felt like they were anchored down, but still she strained to lift them. As if by divine wind, a renewed strength broke through the malaise and grasped both hands around the leg. The bray-scream turned to a babe’s cry when the shin was crumpled.

  “To be Purged. That is the fate of the Mutant.”

  Allegra turned over to shake out the lens shards. Eyes watering from the stinging putrescence, ears whited from the damnable scream, she sat up and evaporated the security detail before returning attention to the snivelling witch that clutched her broken leg.

  “To be Cleansed. That is the fate of the Mutant.”

  She stuck both barrels of the scalding hot multi-melta into the witch’s unhinged maw. Steam rose from boiling flesh and blood, and her screams were muffled by the metal gag. The witch had plenty of time to regret opening her mouth so wide as she perished in agony. Upon the witch’s last heartbeat, the murk too dispersed. Without their mistress, the pestigors and all the other beasts were but helpless calves to be put down.

  “Your ascension? So only the boss gets credit for all this trouble? Are the rest of you alright with that?” Asked Yoon. She could make out a dozen of the brutes in the murk and lost sense of her location, “You do all the hard work, and he gets the spoils?”

  “The slayer is rewarded,” the wargor snorted, “I am champion, and your neck shall be another I cleave.”

  “After your boys tired me out, and now hold me down? Is that what passes for a champion? The cowardly way is the smart way, but no god I know sees glory in it.”

  “Enough talk,” the wargor huffed, “you know nothing. Seize her now.” He ordered. They did not move.

  “What has he done to earn his place? Does he always send minions to soften up the enemy for him to swoop in? Or have a witch win his battles for him? What glory is in that?”

  “I have long earned my place and bested every challenger since. My band, my glory. Anyone who wants to settle it can settle after we have her in our grasp.”

  “Oh yes, after, when the men are exhausted, and the witch is at your side. Before they know it, I’m halfway to hell, signed off under your name. Silly me; where I come from, the war trophies go to war fighters. But I guess your troops are grateful to die in your shadow.” Took some educated guessing, but now the followers were exchanging glances.

  “Fools! Guard the perimeter. I’ll take her myself.”

  The bestigors pulled back as the three-armed wargor stepped forward. Looks like this was the best mouthing off would get.

  He held his grenade launcher at the hip and began bombarding. She beat her wings to weave around the trees, dodge the explosions, and close the distance all at once. The next grenade was launched in front of him, launching a wall of dirt that he charged through, ramming into her, his back arm swinging his chainsword down, only to be blocked by hers.

  They both tumbled across the ground, but quickly regained footing. Now she swung on the offensive, the clash of their sword sending sparks and screeching groans from the meeting of spinning wheels, as his two other arms loaded cartridges.

  She swung to bat his sword aside and beat her wing to ram into his exposed flank for a change. Experienced as he was, he sprawled his hooves back and broke her charge with his hips. She pulled back, parrying his sword, but left open for a grenade launched into her gut.

  The explosion cracked her armor and flung her back into a tree. Dual impacts left her dazed as he approached. She tried to stand, but another direct hit shattered her armor, smashed her through the tree, and rolled her across the mud.

  The grip on her sword hilt took all the strength she had left. She could not move as he stepped closer, and his launcher was aimed to smack her down if she did.

  Damn. Couldn’t even get herself killed.

  The murk shriveled and slunk back like a poisoned insect. The wargor dropped his weapons and fell to his knees, puking bile that wriggled with worms. The receding misama revealed the bestigors being worse off, hacking up putrid blood and diseased organs. The other gors and auxilia lay scattered.

  Sickened as they were, the beasts were recovering faster than she was. They shrugged off their pain to stand oncemore, only to duck back down under the suppressive fire of the UTVs that now had a clear-ish line of sight. The bestigors scurried away, but the wargor was undeterred. He went for his launcher, but Yoon tossed an active chainsword that chomped into his trapezius like a rabid dog. Howling, he ripped the chainsword off and tossed it to the mud, still snarling as it churned.

  Yoon staggered onto her knees and crawled to pin the launcher with one hand and dig her other into his wound. He punched into the exposed stomach of her bodysuit; she grit her teeth and head-butted him, cupped his neck with her hand, and beat her wing, tearing out a mangled trail of viscera in her short flight. She fell back into the mud, gore in her hand flowing like ribbons. She was not sure what she pulled out, but he gurgled up blood and slumped into a pool of his own expulsion all the same.

  Emperor, she was grateful for this victory, but before she lost consciousness, she prayed that, just once, she would get an easy win.