Chapter 137: Chapter 130: Respite Part 2

Stitched, bandaged, and dressed, their wounds cleaned, and munching on vitamin bars, the mother and daughter followed their guide to Marco’s room. Anissa was there, kneeling and chanting prayers in a soft voice over the unconscious boy. Like theirs, her fur showed signs of recent washing, and she wore a similar black jacket and blue pants. Ignacy was nervously pacing from one end of the room to the other while a tall and thin Troll in a green medical robe and a nurse finished cleaning the eye sockets.

But not the eyes. Janine’s fist clenched, nearly drawing blood. Her son no longer had eyes. His lovable, beautiful, gentle and kind eyeballs had been eaten away by the spat venom. My fault. The guilt threatened to buckle the warlord, but she stood still. Marco needed her now more than ever. I will fix it.

“How is he, Doctor?” Impatient One asked, placing a hand on Janine’s chest to feel the heartbeat. She looked sharply at the taller woman, commanding silence. To the outsiders, the warlords had to be untouchable mountains that knew no weakness.

A rule she had not upheld lately.

Marco’s stumps and the wound in his side were already treated: the doctors shaved away the fur, stopped the bleeding and covered them in elastic bandages. A nearby terminal projected a steady heartbeat on its display.

“Short of anything miraculous, the boy will live,” said the Troll in a deadly calm voice, without breaking from his task. He spoke without a hint of emotion, but his elongated, gray fingers tended to Marco gently, avoiding causing him pain. “The blood began to clot; the venom lost its battle against the immune system, but we injected the antidote anyway.”

“Antidote?” Impatient One asked. “No one offered the warlord one.”

“Your nation didn’t have it then,” the doctor said. “A colleague of mine, Maxence I believe his name is, used samples collected from Sword Saint Tancred and Warlord Janine to compare the split used and develop countermeasures. Thanks to the advice of the young man over there, we contacted Houstad and received the formula.”

“It’s nothing,” Ignacy forced the words out, and Janine's paw slapped him on the shoulder in approval. “Marco isn’t that weak, and anyone would’ve thought of it.”

“You were the first. Take pride in your part, Ignacy,” Anissa advised him, breaking from her prayers. “Many things are often overlooked in the chaotic times.”

“Agreed. As the Taker of Oath said: Save for God, no person possesses the comprehension to account for everything; therefore, every little voice matters if we are to prosper,” the Troll said. “My initial assessment is that it would be safe to wake him in a week and prepare our patient for augmentation.”

“Why is he still unconscious?” Janine asked worriedly, seeing how a long metal instrument went into her boy’s eye socket, scrubbing the remains of an eye, and Marco did not even flinch.

“Healing coma.” The doctor paused briefly and pointed to an open book near the terminal, titled “Wolfkin Physiology,” with an irritated-looking female who had a spotted black and brown fur coat standing cross-armed in a circle of yellow light. “We recovered many survivors from the battlefields days after the battle and learned much observing their recovery. I’d wish your leaders showed the same mercy.” He straightened. “Is Terrific alive?”

“I killed her,” Janine answered.

“Good. Joy. Hope she burns in hell.” The doctor leaned closer. “You’re her, right? One of the two who stopped the torture.” Janine said nothing, and he shrugged. “My kind owes you, but I am still going to write a report recommending removing the kid from your clutches. Doubtless it will be ignored, but I have a responsibility to at least try.” He set aside the instruments and faced the family. “Any offense was intentional. I have seen the scars on the patient’s body.” He pressed a finger to Anissa’s nose, stopping her snarl, and continued unabashedly. “With the pleasantries out of the way, how are you two related to the patient?”

“I am his mother. Name’s Janine.” She offered to shake his hand, but the Troll ignored her offer. “Why are you treating my son? I thought that the Oathtakers hated us.”

“Mother, please…” Ignacy said.

“Be silent, male; the warlord is speaking!” Impatient One said.

“Misconception. Weariness. We despise the Wolf Tribe’s misguided and cruel culture and hated a specific individual, but have nothing against its people. The names of Martyshkina and Janine are spoken with respect back at my home, and our countries are long at peace.” The doctor massaged his temples. “You should see a psychiatrist or take a prolonged leave of absence from the war. Preferably both. I am not a specialist, but you seem to have difficulty navigating through the past. Concern.”

“You could afford to be a little more respectful, then, dear ally.” Anissa noted, rubbing her nose. “If it weren’t for us, the Horde would have grilled your gray ass.”

“I could, but I won’t, and also thank you for our rescue. But the past grievances are long forgiven, and after your actions, the Trolls welcome any Wolfkin to visit the Land of the Oath as a friend. Sincerity.” The Troll looked at Anissa’s artificial eye and stepped closer, shamelessly sliding a finger inside its casket. The wolf hag almost choked on indignation but swallowed her pride and sat, tolerating the adjustment and tinkering with the augment. “As for your question, Warlord Janine, I am the most qualified of the available personnel to treat children. If you plan to voice objections, shove them down your ass, please. The boy’s health is my highest priority. Do any of you have the forty-eighth blood type for a transfusion? Our supplies are running low.”

Janine caught herself liking the doctor. He laid out everything as he saw it and was brutally honest in his opinions. She could trust someone like him with Marco’s fate, even if she’d much rather have Maxence here. She was about to ask the shaman when her daughter stepped forward on her own.

“I do. Take as much as you need.” Impatient One offered her arm.

“Are you Marco’s sister, by any chance?” The doctor asked, calling a nurse for assistance. She seated the tall Wolfkin and cleaned the fur and skin over the artery, while the Troll took a terminal and summoned the shaman’s medical history on the display, skimming through it. “Full of holes, no information about the family. As expected of Reclaimers… Your and Janine’s snouts look a bit similar.”

Anissa tensed, licking her lips and glancing at the shaman. Janine shifted closer to the doctor, preparing to restrain her daughter if she tried to punish the male for such a grave insult, but Impatient One simply sighed, averting her eyes to Marco.

“Coming from a Troll, that’s… It is common for barbarians to be unaware of our traditions, so I forgive you,” she said icily. “Marco and I came from the same womb, but he and I are siblings no longer, even though Colt’s, the male’s father, blood is coursing through our veins.”

“May I stay with him until we reach Houstad?” asked Janine.

“No. Sternly,” answered the Troll. “You want to help your kid? Eat, rest, and recover. Make sure he still has a mother waiting for him when he wakes up, and not a sleep-deprived wreck.”

She wanted to rage, to plant her fist into this dispassionate face over the fear of abandoning her cub when he was hurting. But the male was right, and Janine mastered her fear and knelt, touching Marco tenderly, wishing she could pass on her strength and vitality to him. She uttered to him the same simple prayer that a shaman of Terrific’s pack had used to help the little one sleep better.

Failed to raise him properly… Impatient One’s words came back to haunt her. Arrogant. Oh, how arrogant Janine was, thinking she knew better. She always treated Marco, her dear son, with softness, never disciplining him and always ready to come to his aid. She degraded her son by treating him as if he were less than Bogdan or Ignacy, and in spite of it, Marco had made her proud.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Traditions. No bite, no cruelty lacked meaning. His injury had proven Janine’s parenting methods wrong. If she’d bitten him, if she’d taught him to obey during his last outburst, then Marco would’ve stayed in safety. A little pain in exchange for survival. She did it. Her fault. Her guilt.

I will make it okay. You’ll be running again. Janine promised, plans already forming in her head. The state had cloning technology, advanced enough to restore lost body parts, even if the price of the treatment was beyond anything Janine could hope to earn in a reasonable time frame, regardless of her meager savings. As a warlord, she enjoyed free access to it, but Marco was out of luck. That was the problem. She would offer to become Till Ingo’s slave if the scientist would pay for her son’s treatment, or she’d sell herself to the Wyrms, or maybe to one of the influential people…

There were variants of how to give her little one back what he had lost without harming the Tribe’s honor. The shamans would understand. She’d lick Ingo’s feet for the rest of her life or be his test subject if necessary. No personal shame was too great to bear for Marco’s sake.

“The rest of you piss off, too,” stated Impatient One, sniffing the nurse. Her fangs flashed when another female touched her disrespectfully, but the shaman composed herself. “Wolf hag! You have duties to attend to while the warlord recovers. Abandon the studies until the end of this crisis. Ignacy… Read a book or make some cubs already; Elzada won’t stay fertile forever.” She grinned, permitting casual talk.

“Says a cubless woman,” Ignacy shot back.

“I did my part, male. What’s your excuse?” Impatient One laughed. “You have a mate, she has you, there’s an abundance of food; what more incentive do you need?”

“Education?”

“They are free to attend Normies’ schools.” Impatient One waved at him. “At least you think of having cubs. Progress.”

Did your part? Janine wondered, leaving the room and clinging closer to the wall to let a Malformed rush a stretcher with the paralyzed Ice Fang past them into the operating room for surgery. Her daughter often embarked on pilgrimages to visit various holy sites where Ravager’s grace lingered, forever altering the landscape and consigning the unearned bones of lost Wolfkins to the cleansing flame or fashioning talismans out of them. But bearing cubs? Never. Janine would’ve known…

Or would I? Anissa lied about the origin of her injury.

Each shaman had undertaken such pilgrimages, taking no food or water as they braved the wilderness and desolation through raging sandstorms, poisonous hazards, and sated their hunger on the deadly wildlife. Alone they traveled, watering the areas where the Tribe bled more than ever with their blood. This was a ritual to placate the fallen spirits. The shamans sang songs, intoning the names of every missing Wolfkin to help the stumbling souls navigate their path to the Great Beyond and rejoice that the Tribe thrived.

A humble and most worthy tradition, and hardly dangerous today. Bases, villages, or entire settlements have sprung up where the battlefields once were, and the sight of a large Wolfkin swooping in to pray and bleed, declining a free stay in a house or food, often puzzled the locals. The Planet’s priesthood in the Outer Lands even incorporated similar pilgrimages into their beliefs, creating a tradition of sending gifts to those in need, bridging distant people together.

During the spiritual journeys, the shamans began carrying written mail for those too poor to access the Net, growing more embarrassed but striving to fulfill their duties to the utmost. Predaig once had erupted into uncontrollable glee, summoning her named sisters to listen to a recruit’s tale. The Normie told them that the villagers regarded the shamans as heroes, praising them more than even the Ice Fangs for delivering vital medicines and instruments to the farthest reaches and for cleaning the insectoid infestations.

The image of her daughter striking a heroic pose had made Janine chuckle and earned the four females harsh looks from Lacerated One, but back then she didn’t care. It was, no, it is still funny!

“Warlord.” Thyia’s voice ripped her from the dreams. The woman bowed, pressing a paw to her heart. “Sword Saint Macarius petitions for your presence.”

“I have nothing to say to that traitor. Carry on, Ally.” Janine stormed past the woman, frowning and grinding her fangs.

“Don’t worry, Mom!” Ignacy mistook her behavior for brooding and slapped her on the back, receiving a smack from Anissa for familiarity. “Marco is a tough cookie and an expert paws.”

“I’ll gather enough heads of the Horde’s servants to honor his deed with a celebratory pyre,” Anissa hissed, closing her natural eye. “Marco enjoys reading those... What are the decadent picture magazines called again?”

“Comics,” Janine answered ahead of Ignacy.

“Comics,” Anissa said, almost as if she had tasted the word. “Ignacy. Know how to order stuff online? Capital, get Marco the last batch; I’ll give you the tokens.”

“He lacks eyes, Sis,” Ignacy said quietly, shaking from another heavy smack that almost knocked him down. “What was that for?!”

“Because you and Mother are such downers!” Anissa bared her fangs at Janine’s intense glare. “Yeah, come on, bring it on, won’t prove me wrong! You act as if his life is over!” She tapped at her crimson ocular. “Little Bro got injured. Big fucking deal. Give it time, and he’ll see better than any of us. Legs? Meh, I’ll beat him into submission until he agrees to get prosthetics! Abyss, soon we will all be laughing and teasing him about this incident!”

“If he survives…” Ignacy never finished the sentence. A kick in the stomach sent him against the wall, and Anissa pinned his neck with the forearm.

Janine placed a paw on Anissa’s shoulder, warning her to stop any further violence, and nodded to the surrounding staff to assure them that everything was under control.

“Enough of getting high on despair!” Anissa screamed into Ignacy’s ear, her eyes shining yellow and red. “By the Spirits, look around! Yeah, we took a beating.” She let go of Ignacy and hugged him. “But know what, brother? The Reclamation Army always prevails! The spirits never give a person a heavier load than she can carry, and who can hope to stand against us when the Blessed Mother herself is our progenitor? We are alive, we exist, and none of us is going anywhere, so stop acting gloomy!”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Ignacy said, first with uncertainty, then flashing a genuine smile. “You’re right! In a month, Marco will be hopping around on his new legs.” He snapped his fingers. “No dilly-dallying; it’s best to start researching to help cobble something better than the mass-produced version for him. I already have ideas; he’ll love his electric, poison-coated claws, you’ll see!”

“Just make sure they won’t explode,” Anissa asked.

“Ignacy’s arm worked fine.” Janine wrapped an arm around Ignacy and rubbed his forehead with her knuckles in thanks. “I trust him.”

“That’s the way! But don’t keep your honey cold, or Elzada will never forgive me for inspiring you.” Anissa stuck out her tongue and grinned, taking Ignacy’s fist to the chin. “I expect at least four cousins before the year’s end. Get on to it.”

“You haven’t even had a single cub yourself!”

“Well, forgive me for being too busy to find a mate amidst wars!” Anissa retorted, rubbing her chin.

“Why are you piling up all the responsibility on me and Elzi, then?”

“Elzi?” Anissa pressed both paws together. “So cute! Does she call you Igni or something?”

“Who knows more about bouncing back after being knocked down than the Wolfkins?” Janine chuckled and hugged both her cubs, lifting them off the floor. “Thank you, Anissa, Ignacy. Assign someone to watch over Kalaisa; it’s not right to have no one by her side.” She hurled her daughter, and the wolf hag spun elegantly in the air before landing. “Ignacy, you head to Elzada and aid her however you can.”

“I’d rather join the pack and find a way to gut Brood Lord,” Ignacy said seriously.

“You leave him to me, got it, boy?” Janine jerked her son by the nape. “That war is over for you. I’ll collect the bastard’s head and give it to Marco after I’ve punished him for his disobedience. Dismissed!”

There was little left for her to do. The guards refused to let Janine onto the bridge, directing the warlord to rest since Dragena had taken command and Elzada acted as her voice. Disappointed, Janine found Bertruda waiting near the den’s door. The Ice Fang had already changed and was dressed in full civilian garb: a white shirt, pants, a yellow sash around her waist, and a flowing, wheat-colored cape. She came alone, bringing neither knights nor Elegance.

“Sword Saint,” Janine said. “Either command your pack or rest and recuperate. A battle awaits ahead. There is no need for us to breed further enmity.”

“This is precisely why I am here.” Bertruda bowed her head and pointed at the door. “May I?” Janine didn’t move. “I understand your rage, truly. And offer no apologies, for nothing can erase the guilt and insult done by me and my house. But know this: the Mountaintops will pay for the full restoration of your son. Cloned eyes, legs, everything.”

“Would that be nice?” Janine sighed. “Would that be nice to trust you and see you as an ally... as a sister, the way I felt about you when we dueled after defeating Tecno-Queen? To view you as a family, as a kindred soul walking her own way. But that is not to be. Your kind are deal breakers. Liars. Dust-dwellers, barbarians…” She clanked her fangs, angered at the cub’s insults. “Is this what you teach your youth about us? It is painful, but it is best to know what you think of us. I will never again trust an Ice Fang.”

“Janine, I will speak to the children about their words, but they tried to save…”

“Not tried. Saved. And for that, I will tell tales of their heroism once I am home. But the problem remains.” She drew a line in the metal wall, concentrating on scratching the inanimate object, not attacking. “I entrusted my son into the Order’s care while my kin died to save yours. Do you seriously expect me to ever believe in the Order again? Sword Saint…” Janine took herself by the head, pressing a palm against an eye, “…at this point, it is no longer a matter of mistrust between the Sword Saints and the Warlords. From where I stand, all your people are traitors.” She drew another line, stopping Bertruda from speaking. “As for your offer, I am not a rich person, but if needed, I will sell my body into slavery to help my son. But I would sooner die than accept the Order’s help. Your actions are laced with poison, and I’ve had enough of it.”