Bertruda’s blow landed on the flat side of Janine’s axe, sending the warlord back and drawing lines in the ground left by the black-furred legs. The woman was strong. Janine ignored an urge to blame her weakness on the bleeding wounds and embraced reality as the sword saint’s muscles bulged, nearly tearing through the tight fabric.

Bertruda advanced, nimble as a dancer; the flurry of her stabs forced Janine to wield the Taleteller like a shield. With a smug grin of superiority on her lips, the Sword Saint flitted around the warlord, her footwork effortlessly carrying her as she searched for a breach in the warlord’s defenses.

Janine beamed, letting go of the worry about her son, the weight of deaths, the lack of supplies, and the wounds she’d sustained. Bertruda had a nasty temper, but by the Spirits, she had such worthy skills to back it up! Unlike the soulless machine or the helpless guards she had fought earlier, here was the opponent who could bring her down, and this made her blood boil in excitement, driving her into a pure condition.

Fight. It wasn’t feasible to stay on the defensive, bleeding like a cusack and exhausted like a male after his first combat operation. Janine brought the battle to the sword saint, deflecting a stab and closing the distance enough to make a slash. Bertruda saved herself by taking the blow to her spear’s shaft. Her feet pressed into the rocky ground, her paws trembling and bleeding from the impact.

Janine unleashed a roar of pure fury that crashed into her opponent’s face, her lungs pumping air fast enough to mimic the wolf hag’s punch. Bertruda narrowed her eyes, and Janine kicked, aiming to disembowel the sword saint’s using the claws of her leg.

Bertruda’s lips folded into an “O,” and spittle flying at the speed of a bullet hit Janine in the left eye, making her blink. Like a piece of cloth, the sword saint weaved aside from the kick, and the fabric of her armor lightly touched Janine’s skin. Janine was too late to deflect the blow of the lower end of the spear against her leg, and reverberating pain and shivering spilled over the entire limb. She spun around, striking instinctively and leaving one shallow cut under Bertruda’s breasts.

“No longer scarless, cheating upstart…” Janine said, trying to buy time for her leg to calm down.

Bertruda twirled her spear, shielding herself as she danced away to a safe distance. She touched the cut and licked the wet fingers, keeping her crimson eyes on Janine. A storm was brewing in her eyes, giving the warlord great pleasure.

A hurricane of stabs and thrusts rained down on her, driving Janine back and forcing her to use the axe as a shield once more. She could hardly see every incoming attack, but years of brutal combat and the almost palpable bloodlust of her opponent helped her. Up to a point. Janine timed her advance with a stab blocked by the Taleteller’s head, seeking to shorten the distance as before. The spear’s tip flew over Janine’s shoulder, and Bertruda tightened her grip on the weapon, not letting it bounce off. She dragged the spear back, and with a reverse thrust, she wounded Janine’s shoulder as the end of her blade sank into flesh. Not content with a simple prick, Bertruda drove the spear aside, leaving a laceration above Janine’s shoulder blade.

“Even,” Bertruda hissed, panting heavily. She leaned over, dodging Janine’s axe, and rolled to the side, regaining distance. “But not for long, dust dweller. Too slow, too predictable, too inept.”

“Don’t rate yourself so low,” Janine chuckled.

“Such arrogance!” Bertruda’s eyes flashed. It wasn’t a metaphorical phrase; the sword saint’s eyes glittered brightly as her progenitors’ gift activated, further slowing her perception of time. “Can’t you see the situation? Learn your place and bow to your betters!”

The first strike nearly ruptured Janine’s nostril, and the second and third followed faster than she could blink. Sharp bites fell on the Taleteller, trying to slip past the indestructible metal and taste her flesh. Bertruda’s focus and speed turned her spear into a blurry dome that shaved Janine’s defense rather than touching it. As the attack intensified, the warlord lost count of the sword saint’s strokes. The last thing she knew was that her opponent had exceeded thirty-nine stabs per second. Hunters, foot soldiers, and initiates cheered their leader, but soon those sounds died down.

Only the dome in front of Bertruda remained; Janine’s entire existence was concentrated on it. She refused to be fooled by the afterimages or feints, blocking the real strikes. Sparks flew in the air as the fighters pushed themselves to their very limits.

Janine persevered, relying on her instincts and studying her opponent’s movements with each blocked blow. Janine was never the fastest, and the defeats she had suffered at Marty’s paws had taught her that her physical endurance and strength could only take her so far. She honed her combat style to prioritize defense, enjoying the battle, managing her anger, and perfecting the skill of avoiding mortal wounds. In many battles, when the warlord could not overcome her foe, she would stall, prolonging the fight until her pack or named sisters could assist her.

Or until the opponent slipped.

Their stalemate continued for ten minutes, each refusing to cede even a centimeter of ground to the opponent, and both too stubborn to break the fight and catch their breath. Sweat-soaked fur clung to their bodies; more and more red spots appeared between Bertruda’s paws as she tried to push harder, and Janine’s view narrowed to the short corridor ahead of her.

It couldn’t last. Ravager had left a wound too deep, and left untreated, it spread fever through Janine’s quivering body. First shouted something, probably encouraging Bertruda; the Ice Fangs were in on it, Janine was sure of it. The crash of steel against steel drowned out his words, but Bertruda capitalized on Janine’s gasping and struck, cleaving through the coat’s side and exposing the warlord’s ribs.

Superb combat sense! Janine smiled, blood bubbling on her lips. I’d be honored to see you join the tribe, Flame Girl! But I too have a duty to win.

Dominate. Alone. No pack to aid. Impossible to outlast the enemy. Outsmarted. Outmaneuvered. Tired. Janine abandoned the defense, inhaling the air and supplanting the lost strength with a surge of frustration and fear. What if something happens to Ignacy? What if someone hurt Marco while she was away? What if she loses the title, bringing shame to the pack that had helped her for so long?

She had treated Bertruda as a challenger, someone whose life needed to be preserved for the sake of the future. No longer. She’ll take on the sword saint like a fellow sister.

A lunge inside the dome resulted in an ear split as Janine twisted her neck, dodging a stab that would have left her with a hole between her eyes. She fended off the returning spear and reached for Bertruda. The claws of her left paw closed on Bertruda’s shoulder, and Janine slammed her knee into the solar plexus of the sword saint, landing her axe against the spear’s shaft.

Bertruda groaned in pain, unable to free herself from the hooked claws digging into her bones and nailing the sword saint in place. She blinked as she saw the jaws coming at her crimson eyes…

“Restraint… Sister…” gurgled a voice.

The ghost returned. Terrific. The ruined and dead warlord skulked outside the warriors’ circle, hunched low. Through a slit in the sages’ armor, a dim amber eye stared at Janine. There was no life in this eye, and necrosis around the eye socket threatened to let the orb fall out. And still, this was her. Dead and yet existing.

Janine’s worst crime against the tribe. She had stolen such a valuable person who could have saved hundreds of lives, simply because she had let rage overwhelm her. Was she going to do it again? Was she really willing to blind Bertruda, the female whose troops had rushed to save her boy and whose medics had treated her soldiers? And because of what? For fear of losing?

Never again. Janine clenched her jaws together and head-butted Bertruda, smashing her nose. Still pushing the spearhead away with the Taleteller, Janine let go of the wounded shoulder and wrapped her arm around the sword saint, lifting the woman into the air and holding her tightly against her chest to prevent Bertruda from using the weapon at such close range.

Without the slightest hint of mercy, Janine cast Bertruda to the ground, collapsing like a comet and breaking the ground beneath them with the sword saint’s back. She increased the pressure even further by slamming her body on top of the sword saint. The blow was powerful enough to knock the air out of Bertruda’s lungs and drive the shaft of her spear into her body, leaving a long dent in her underarmor.

Janine prepared to repeat the slam. Even exhausted, she had an upper paw over her opponent. Bertruda was overconfident; she had forgotten the desperation and spite that Wolfkins were known for. Never give up. If you are going to lose, make your opponent sweat hard to get that victory, and try to take him with you. The crimson eyes of the Ice Fangs were amazing, but the universe had balanced them out, leaving the ice boys with less stamina and physical strength. Now that the sword saint had exhausted all her reserves, Janine wasn’t about to let her take a breather.

A groan escaped Janine’s lips. Bertruda reached for the spearhead, and it came off, still connected to the shaft by a chain. Bertruda plunged the dagger into Janine’s biceps and kicked, pushing off the large body and leaping into the air. A stroke of bad luck landed the kick right on the wound left by the Blessed Mother, and the world turned red. Janine let go of the axe and grabbed Bertruda’s ankle, tearing flesh and scratching bones.

She used Bertruda like a whip, stopping the downward arc at the last moment. The creaking sound of the living whip stunned the initiates. The sages had to physically restrain the Mountaintop knights from rushing to stop the brutal battle. Bertruda screamed in genuine pain, bleeding from her mouth. The shock lasted only a split second, and she curled into a ball, striking Janin’s arm with her improvised dagger and forcing the warlord to let her go.

“Un…” Bertruda slipped on her wounded foot and vomited. She limped away, reassembling her spear. “Unforgivable. To drag me to this level, to reduce a noble duel to a graceless brawl…”

“Enjoying it?” Janine picked up the axe and dropped to one knee. Everything ached. Bertruda’s blow to her leg had made the limb weak; the dagger had severed her arteries, but the blood clotting process was already well underway, sealing them up. The damaged muscles were worse, and a pulsing napalm fire burned where Ravager had pierced her.

Bertruda growled, surprising Janine with such brutal behavior.

The girl has lost it. Age and immaturity had played a cruel trick on her mind, fooling her into believing she was invincible. Janine was not kind; she had done enough damage to the Sword Saint’s organs that further attacks risked permanently crippling her. Bertruda won’t hold back; she had already tried to kill Janine once in their combat. As the elder of the two, Janine had to finish the fight in a way that would save both lives for the state.

So, what can I work with? Bertruda’s broken nose disturbed her breathing. This would ensure that the sword saint wouldn’t endure a prolonged fight. Further, her ankle is already swollen and undoubtedly sprained. This should stop her annoying, graceful fluttering. Next, the damage from the blow and the wound on her shoulder.... Not enough. Insufficient for a definite victory.

Should I… give up? Just thinking about it caused Janine genuine anguish. She could win; she knew it In battle, nothing is definitive, yet she possessed sufficient understanding of Bertruda’s tactics to grind her down, meticulously preparing her for the ultimate strike of her blade. And who would benefit from this? Who, other than the enemies of the state, would benefit from me slaughtering another champion? How many people would be alive today if I’d just held back and kept Terrific alive?

“Hey,” Janine began. “White-furred. Still awake?” The growling again. She knew how to stop it. Janine started to expose her neck.

A smack to her muzzle threw her into the air, heating the right side of her snout so much that it felt like it would fall off. She rolled across the stony ground, still holding the axe, and stopped at First’s feet, coughing and wheezing for every breath.

Ravager. The Blessed Mother drew herself to full height, and her long shadow covered Janine. In unison, the ranks of the Ice Fangs knelt, and the sages bowed the initiates’ heads in submission. Even First offered his neck to the Blessed Mother.

Janine understood the reason for their nervousness. Ravager had been an absent mother to the Ice Fangs, visiting them mostly to fight with the Twins. After their deaths, she had only visited her ice children once, so that First could finish the picture of the Blessed Mother and the Twins standing side by side. They feared the commander might bite the precious cubs.

“Stand up, all. I warned you.” Ravager backhanded Janine, knocking her to the ground. Janine heard a cracking sound and realized, in shock, that it wasn’t a rock. The Blessed Mother’s slap made her bones rattle. “I ordered you not to act like a warlord.” Another slap forced Janine to gasp as her ribs cracked. “You dare disobey me?” On more. “Why can’t you behave?” Janine’s body sank into the ground from a stomp. “Why can’t you be normal, like the Ice Fangs? Noble, kind, respectful! Why do you always provoke violence, you worthless, aggressive monsters? You needed another title, didn’t you?” Ravager asked calmly. “I’m taking all titles away from you, miserable warlord. Mockery of the tribe.” She spat on the prostrate Wolfkin. “You lost this duel, bringing shame to the pack.”

“Blessed Mother!” The amber suns forced Bertruda to stand upright. “Your intervention was not necessary. Warlord Janine did not dishonor anyone. I initiated this duel and had the situation under control. Moreover, I was about to win…”

“How oblivious can a person be? Are you blind, Bertruda, or is this the result of a concussion?” Camellia snarled, dropping her icy facade. First placed a paw on her shoulder, calming the fellow sword saint.

“Silence. Silence. Silence!” Ravager bellowed the third word, and the noises in the camp died down. The white-furred wolfkins turned still, breathing slowly so as not to incur the wrath of nature. Ravager grabbed Janine by the scruff of her neck and lifted her up, lightly smacking her head on her forehead. “Do you think me mad?”

“No,” Janine responded immediately, grimacing under the pressure threatening to pop her head. “You have reason to punish me, though I do not know what wrong I have done, Blessed Mother. Warlords face each other all the time.”

“You… you speak true…” Ravager chuckled, loosening his grip. “But you are half-wrong. I am mad. Unstable. And I do have a reason. If a sword saint swore an oath and didn’t keep it, she’s no longer a sword saint. Tell me, what did Bertruda tell you before or during the scramble?”

“She claimed to see me on the ground and hear my bones snapping.” Janine bit her lip, feeling Ravager’s finger run over her head, checking for cracks.

“Done. Anything else?” Ravager’s words demanded an answer, almost suffocating Janine’s will.

She wanted to lie. The Blessed Mother hated submissions from warlords. Often, she and Alpha snapped at the others, provoking the sisters to stand up for themselves and trust their decisions rather than blind faith in the Blessed Mother. Dragena summoned the newly promoted sisters regularly, patiently explaining to them how to use tactics and restrain their fervor when challenging a rival pack to a war game. Janine never had to suffer a defeat from either Alpha or Dragena, but Martyshkina’s insolent tongue had led her to utter humiliation in Dragena’s paws. Although this did little to hold the idiot down.

But at the same time, Janine refused to accept pity from anyone. Whether knowingly or unknowingly, she had wronged and deserved punishment. Grow through hardship; such was the way of the Wolf Tribe. Where others broke down, they rose from the ashes of defeat and marched forward. Lost honor is just honor waiting to be reclaimed, just like the land.

“To bow to my betters.” Janine’s smile mirrored Ravager’s, who let her go. ‘Betters’ was the keyword. She bowed to the Blessed Mother, whose trembling paw patted her. She then extended her bow to Camelia and First, who graciously returned her bow. And, after hesitation, to Tancred, who gave the lowest bow in return. “You won. I am Bull-Slayer no more,” Janine tossed to Bertruda, limping past her.

She ignored the sages’ offer to treat her wounds, as well as the sudden change in her opponent’s snout when Tancred said something in the sword saint’s ear. But she accepted the heavy cloak to cover her nakedness. Shame and hatred stirred in her soul. And it wasn’t Ravager’s words or the defeat she had suffered. Even the loss of the honorable name she had earned for so long didn’t bother her. Ravager was right: Fame comes and goes.

Janine hated herself. A warlord has responsibilities. One of them is to mediate conflicts between packs, thus preventing the loss of life. A warlord is expected to avoid falling into obvious traps. The Ice Fangs used her to humiliate the tribe. Her actions distracted even the Blessed Mother from her duties. Worthless, miserable warlord indeed. Never again. Janine vowed to herself, deciding to be better.