Nei Monggol
With a roar of straining, grinding engines and a wail of grasping wheels, the fleet clambered up the crescent dune, kicking up a plume of brown dust into the hazy sky. Despite their light frames, the dirtbikes had the hardest time of it, sinking into the grit like an overeager flenser’s knife into meat and laboriously hauling themselves out again in a relentless cycle of bumps. The migou’s buggies, though vastly more massive and burdened by the weight of their hulking occupants, were built to cruise the sands, and rolled over their surface with stupefying ease. Radim would have found the paradox of it amusing, had he not been one of the many being brutally jolted on the saddles of the bikes. As it was, the irritation wormed around his skull like a needle, now and then incautiously prodding the pall of darkness in the back of his mind.
“Devil’s dust, this.” On the bike to his left, Kuzma spat a mouthful of dry dirt, some of it snagging on his wild rust-red beard. “Pass the samogon, some got in my throat.”
“Where’s yours?” Radim did not take his eyes off the crest of the dune ahead of him, leaning forward to avoid being rattled by the next series of bumps. It did little to help. “Your drunk face already gargled it all?”
“Gave it to the lads. If you didn’t hear, these fat lunks-” Kuzma flashed a fig to the closest migou vehicle; one of the brutes on board answered with some unclear but doubtless vulgar sign of theirs, “-have been going around the camp at night, squeezing the goods from our people if they catch ‘em alone. It’d take a barrel to get one the things drunk, so they swiped everything they could from our band.”
“Should’ve stuck close to the volkhv, or us. These apes wouldn’t dare come near.”
“It’s not just the migou who’re afraid of us, you know. People get uneasy. Even samogon doesn’t help that much.”
“Maybe.” The truth was that Radim had seen it, too. Seasoned warriors hesitated a step too far when they approached him. Fresh meat did not even dare look him in the eye. This spread even to those who had never seen him in battle; the village streets he rode through were always eerily empty. The faint vibration of the metal - if metal it was - on his back, always warm through its wraps and his clothes even in the ash winter, had been his only company for a long time, along with the other three and the volkhv. He did not mind.
“Leave some.” Without letting the front wheel swerve, he grabbed the flask from his belt and threw it ahead over the handle, almost casually. It whistled through the air like an arrow catching a spark of Monggol’s white sun, sure to fall until it found itself as if by magic in Kuzma’s hand, stretched just far enough to catch it. The red-bearded warrior opened it with his teeth, drank a single deep swig, and threw it in the same way. Again, Radim did not even look up; the shimmer slipped at the upper edge of his sight just below the lid, and at the last moment his arm shot out, serpentine. He felt the warm metal tap against the palm of his hand as an afterthought. With the same motions, he opened the flask, feeling with some relief that the other warrior had not touched it to his mouth. Kuzma might have been a beggar, but at least he was a honourable one. Hells knew what scum festered in that beard of his, and Radim was not eager to taste its residue.
“You want some too?” He glanced to his right. “Fast, before I finish it all.”
“Got mine,” Kayan laughed, twisting to the side so the sun flashed on the flask at his own belt, likely still untouched. Unlike Radim’s other band-brothers, who came from his same village, the slant-eyed man was an easterner, used to the heat and dust of the steppes even before he had taken the rite of blood. Although Nei Monggol must have been trying even for him, his bravado would not permit him to show it. It surely helped that he did not wear his beard long like an Urshite, but kept it to a small wedge under drooping whiskers in the steppe way. Easier to clean blood out of it, as well, as he boasted every time, but neither Radim nor his compatriots would humiliate themselves by baring their faces like that, even if few appreciated the difference. Some things stayed with a man no matter what became of him.
“What about Gleb back there?”
Kayan turned the other way and shouted something to the last link of their line, which Radim did not hear over the howl of the engines. He did, however, see the distant head of dark hair shake, and could very well picture the grunt that came with that. Never one to speak much, Gleb had barely uttered a dozen words since they had gone through the rite years before.
“He says-” Kayan looked back to him.
“He says kark all,” Radim cut him off with a guffaw. The easterner grinned and sped ahead, dipping over the next dune.
All the better, Radim thought, the more for him. He would need it. The day would still be long.
They pitched camp at nightfall. None among the Urshite horde could tell one dune from another, but Dzhute, the migou warleader, said they were well within striking distance from where the Hymalazian army had encircled Monggol Tertius. Tomorrow, then, they would at last see battle. It was about time. Samogon was all well and good, but only blood could truly wash away this damnable dust.
From the top of the dune where their small brotherhood had raised its tents and lit its fire, Radim could appreciate the immensity of the force that moved to break the southerners’ siege. Though they were united under the long shadow of Kalagann, there was little love between the rider-bands of Ursh and the colossal migou that peopled this desolate land, and so they had set down well apart from each other. The campfires of the Urshites were far more numerous, dotting the plain as far as the undulant dunes would let him see, and this stirred some pride in his chest, though he knew that the Monggol giants were little inferior in sheer weight of flesh.
“You think there’s enough of us?” Kuzma asked between mouthfuls of insipid deathworm-meat. When Radim simply nodded at the multitude of lights, he continued, “They say the king of Hymalazia has a thousand times a hundred thousand warriors.”
“More than that, he sent his champions, the warriors of the storm,” Kayan added in an indifferent tone. Gleb smirked contemptuously.
“Freaks in painted armour. What he doesn’t have is
us,” Radim grinned, almost a snarl, and the light of the fire danced on his teeth, “He could fill the desert with more men than there’s grains of dust, and they’d only be chaff to our swords.”
“Right you are, brother!” Kuzma leaned back, laughing, “The four of us will cut through his whole army and topple him from his mountain!”
“That’d be poor thanks for someone who’s given us such a gift,” Kayan would never be left behind in a boast, “The wind at our backs, the enemy’s wails before us, what’s better in life?”
“What do you say, volkhv? Do you see our victory?” Radim looked up at the old man crouched in the shadow of a tent’s mouth. If he had a name, no one knew it; to everyone he had always been the volkhv.
“I see blood, that’s for sure,” the elder’s voice did not match his dry, wrinkled skin and long white beard. It had the rough vigour and turns of speech of a man in the full of his years, something many found as unnerving as the jagged black patterns inked on his face and hands, now contorted by age. He kept his eyes fixed on the bowl in his lap, the circle of the moon bright within it. “Too soon to tell if any will be yours.”
Gleb gave a dismissive grunt. Radim found there was not much to add.
On his way towards Monggol Tertius, Radim had often found himself wondering what a city built in this wasteland could ever be like. Now, he found his silent question answered. Sheer walls of ochre stone rose from the dust plain like the pillars of a storm, angled walls bristling like a line of teeth below dome-capped spires and sinuously aligned bastions. From the distance where he stood, it was hard to discern singular details, much less the fine lines of division between the great stone blocks, and the entire massive appeared to be an impossible monolith carved by a vanished race of titans. Though fanciful, this was not too far from the truth; surely none had the knowledge and means to build something like this any longer.
This echo of bygone glory did nothing to deter the assault that churned at the foot of the enormous walls. The Hymalazian army was like a toxic lake churning restlessly against a cliff, thousands of red-cloaked soldiers and bulky angular vehicles hurling themselves at the enormous city, a myriad metallic mouths vomiting scorching fire and metal against the stubborn millenary stone. Desultory flashes of cannon-fire answered from atop the rampart, but they were clearly outmatched by the besiegers’ numbers. The warriors of the storm were nowhere to be seen, but then it stood to reason that they would be fighting at the very foot of the city, where the battle was most intense.
It would be this that doomed the invaders.
“Here they come,” Kayan pointed. Tearing his focus from the monumental battle and the pitch-like heat of the volkhv’s brew he had drunk that morning, Radim looked to his right. All but inaudible under the cacophony of the siege, the bike-riders’ horde was spilling over the last of the dunes that had kept its approach hidden. They were numerous, like a great stain of glistening oil spreading over the dust. Busy around its tanks and cannons, the Hymalazian rearguard did not notice their approach until they were a third of the way down the slope, and then its ranks came to life in a panicked flurry. Red-garbed warriors levelled their guns at the approaching avalanche of metal, firing some disorderly shots before the horde’s stubber-bikes spoke in a lightning stroke of gunpowder, scything them down to the earth. As they fell silent again, the horde’s vanguard crashed into the besiegers’ scrambling files, screaming riders slashing wildly to all sides from their saddles.
Like a gargantuan, amorphous beast, the invaders’ army shuddered and hesitated, frozen for a few moments’ surprise and indecision before it began to ponderously turn about itself to face the unexpected onslaught. Heavy artillery pieces were abandoned as troops rushed with guns in hand, the foremost firing off hasty shots on the run. Some riders fell from their bikes. The others roared their engines, well distinct now that much of the bombardment had abated, and swerved about, withdrawing up the slope now that the momentum of their charge was spent. It spoke to the Hymalazians’ credit that they did not hurl themselves in blind pursuit as Radim’s countrymen might have done; they arrayed their ranks, consolidating under the shouts of their sergeants, and marched up the dune in good order, the forward files raking the backs of the retreating riders with autogun bursts. Behind them, the waves of red began to stretch into a steadily advancing tide, the beast that was the army stretching out a shapeless limb to grasp at the unwary mites that had stung it.
Then, from over the ridge at the flank of this body of men, the second prong of the attack struck. A sky-choking cloud heralded the feral rush of the migou, tumbling down the dune in their rough buggies and all but throwing themselves from the vehicles at the enemy. A hail of ironshod muscle rained onto the reorganizing Hymalazian troops, plunging their counterattack into confusion. The flank of their pursuit crumbled as it was taking form, hulking monsters tearing a swathe into its midst; the vanguard stopped, wavered, and the riders of the horde turned back upon them. The formation ceased to be.
“Our time,” Radim said, reaching for the handle of his still wrapped sword. He saw pennants of crimson and yellow rushing back towards them from the forefront of the siege, the Hymalazian king’s thunderbird upon them. If his champions were finally approaching, he and his brothers would be there to meet them.
He tore the rags away from his blade, feeling the sting of the circular bone amulets the volkhv had driven into his skin with their recurve spikes. The sword was unlike any other he had ever seen, aside from its three fellows. It had the feel and weight of metal, considerable given its size, but its surface looked like smooth black glass. The blade had a deep, angular curve in the middle, like a strange branch or two symbols of lightning welded together. The handle was of beige bone, or very worn wood, but it was affixed to it so smoothly that they truly seemed to be as one piece.
He dragged the edge across the palm of his hand, and it drew blood with ease despite its odd shape.
Кровь…The darkness stirred from its rest, creeping over his mind from its hiding place, and with it came the voice. The volkhv had said it belonged to the sword, but Radim was not so sure. The weapon, unusual as it was, looked new, indeed never suffering a notch in the time he had wielded it, but the snarling words that shook his marrow when he wielded it sounded ancient in a way he could not name. Perhaps it was the language, some hoary speech the world had long forgotten, but whose meaning he nonetheless understood in a way far more primal. Perhaps it was the contempt he could feel in them, the disdain of an ageless mountain as the unsure steps of youth braved its paths. Whatever the truth, he was never given time to dwell on it.
Жажду крови…His body insensible, Radim saw the ground beneath his feet grow further. His loose plates of armour groaned and scraped as the muscles below bulged hideously, huge lumps of flesh grown a ruddy violet pushing them apart in their abnormal growth. A smooth sliding as reforming bones broke through the skin on his back and upper right arm, their tips shearing away into spikes. Fingers on hands and feet alike curled, twisting into blackened claws. Jaws were forced apart by a forest of dagger-like teeth. The neck bobbed, adjusting to the weight of the single horn on the left side of the head. The heat that had been within him since the morning grew to an all-encompassing blaze, one which only one libation could quench.
Жажде нет конца…The thing that had been Radim bellowed its rage to the sky, joined by the chorus of its brothers, and the battle below froze for a moment at the visceral terror of that sound.
Столько крови, столько плоти…It crashed among the red-garbed warriors in a leap. All thought of discipline was forgotten as shreds of flesh and metal sprayed under its blows. Its sword was black lightning, gouging through the armoured hide of tanks as easily as through human skin. The vermin that dared call themselves men trampled each other to mush as they scrambled to escape its wrath.
Круши, терзай, рви в клочья…It picked up a struggling body and snapped off its head with a bite. They were walking carcasses before it, helpless offerings to its thirst. It was invincible.
A scream rang out ahead. This one was different, somehow. The thing raised its vitreous yellow eyes, trying to track the sound. That voice did not sound afraid. It was a scream of-
Challenge?
Something slammed into its chest, and it staggered back, dense black blood spattering its armour. The warrior before it was larger than the others, bound in red and yellow metal. A defiant grin cut across his face, and a cannon worthy of a small war vehicle smoked in his hands. More of the bulky figures crowded its sight now, brandishing huge pieces of metal - guns, swords, hammers. Its wandering eye saw some further back routing a pack of migou, the gutless brutes losing heart before an enemy they could not overwhelm by sheer strength.
Они ничто… Убей, ломай их хребты… Больше крови…The thing snarled, and its brother of the flaming beard answered at its shoulder. They sprang forward. The warrior with the cannon began to squeeze the trigger again, but he was too slow. A stroke of a black sword severed his body and weapon from shoulder to hip. The horned thing plunged among its new foes with cruel abandon, heedless of the blows that fell onto its hide, cutting, mangling, killing.
A shriek to the side. It looked up, and gaped. Its brother had fallen to one knee, a leg broken by a hammer’s blow. As it watched, another warrior in red and yellow swung his greatsword in a wide arc, and the flame-bearded head toppled from its shoulders. The thing howled, its rage turning bitter.
Мсти… Все они умрут…The slayer barely had time to finish his exultant cheer before being caught upon a horn and tossed into the air. The thing thrashed furiously, uncaring of what it cut so long as something bled.
Something stung its ear, more aberrant yet than a fearless cry. In the face of its anger, someone was daring to
laugh. It spun about, coming to face with yet another storm-warrior. His red and grey beard was like flames over ash, and the laughter on his lips seemed to mock the scars that surrounded it. It lashed out with its sword, but the warrior’s axe was fast in his hands, faster than it expected. Black blood spurted from its wrist as the dark blade fell into the gory dust with a damp thud. Roaring, it clawed with its good hand, but a burst of heavy shells to the side staggered it, and the warrior - no, the champion hewed its leg out from under it, sending it sprawling on its back. The heat was draining from its wound together with its blood.
Radim saw the sun shine upon the axe as it descended on his head with a boastful, theatrical flourish, and then darkness claimed him for the final time.
Izurich
Archetype Zero
Lord Zee
Cyclone