Chapter 47: Chapter 40: Deciding to Change

Anger. Anger was something Kalaisa knew very well. She had experienced it ever since her worthless, good-for-nothing parents died in some ditch she couldn’t even name. Not a day went by without her being enraged at the need to dominate opposition in the pits, clean cusacks’ shit, and pour milk into her siblings’ ungrateful, useless mouths instead of sleeping and recovering. It helped her through the worst, both the bane of her existence and the reason for her rash actions, as well as a fiery drive that got her back on her feet.

But after that bitch had cracked her bones, the rage… lessened, as if released from a punctured balloon. She still intended to see Ashbringer eat dirt, of course, just not right now. She wasn’t fit to lead a larger pack, not when her own was inferior. Anger also helped Kalaisa do things she wouldn’t normally do, and as she stormed across the corridor, seething with embarrassment, it was rage that gave her enough humility to carry out her plan.

She knocked on the Bootlicker’s door, cringing at the ridiculous portrait of a caped moron raising a hand to a moonlight sky that was clumsily painted over the gray metal. She agonized over her worries, cursing herself since she saw firsthand that Bootlicker was fine, and she wanted to cry from the need to admit an inferiority in anything.

Spirits. Never asked a thing of you. Make her snap so I can snap her. Kalaisa’s broken arm still hurt, but she could swing it.

“Open!” a voice said from the other side, and Kalaisa entered, blinking from a sudden shock.

The interior wasn’t what she had expected. The wolf hags were given proper cabins, often too big for their belongings. Kalaisa herself had a couple blades made from the slit-like forelegs of insectoid warriors, a couple of bags filled with the junk she collected from the dead slavers, some trophies, including the skull of her first victim, and knives.

Anji’s room was brightly lit by a set of blue lamps placed on wooden posts; a sizeable wardrobe, that was once a crate, hid one wall; posters of the already familiar caped figure covered the other walls, depicting a white-haired woman surrounded by a yellow lightning halo. The unknown wench often flew alongside several colorfully dressed people or battled vicious monsters, blasting them back into gaping cosmic rifts. A rich leather jacket dotted by smiling badges lay over a made bed next to a similar skirt. On a bedside table was a photograph of a happy family. In it, a young, white-haired wolfkin girl pumped her fists to the sky, surrounded by cubs and her mother and father.

Privileged bitch. Still-living parents. Caring sisters and brothers. Flawless. Why? Why never her, why always others… Kalaisa brushed off the frustrations. Impossible to change, so why bother?

Anji sat cross-legged on the floor, her tongue sticking out as she painted the top of her helmet white.

“What are you doing?” Kalaisa demanded to know. Did the fool fall for an Ice Fang?

“Wanna be as Lightning whip.” Anji pointed to a poster with a brush. There, the electric woman wore a black bodysuit and a cape of the same color, fastened by a jade pin, draped over her shoulders. The top of her helmet was broken, and a mane of white hair stuck skyward for some reason. “She’s a superhero who protects young and old and zaps the bad guys!”

“You believe in these delusions? In the fairy tales for cubs? Grow up,” Kalaisa sniggered. “Superheroes do not exist.”

“Well, duh, or the world wouldn’t suck so much still. Fictional or real, good ideals are worth adhering to.”

“What are you painting it white for, anyway? I saw you in battle; it was already that color!”

“That’s the strange thing! Every time I return it to the armory, it comes back pitch black. No idea who keeps pranking me.” Anji put the brush aside. “So what’cha came for?”

“Iuargugh….” It hurt to say the words; the cringe alone threatened to choke her out. Kalaisa controlled her rage and spat words into Anji’s confused snout. “I came to check up on you. You were weird in the med bay.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” Anji said slowly.

“Was it my fault?” Kalaisa stomped at another wave of surprise that coursed through Anji’s muzzle. “Just tell me! Have I fucked up everything again with my request for lives?”

“No.” Anji softened and smiled. “Your request was good! It whipped me into shape, and I murdered those bastards who dared to hurt innocents! Their bones cracking was like music to my ears!”

“Now you’re talking!” Kalaisa cheered her on to keep going, encouraged by a flash of life that had scared her before by its disappearance. “Don’t know what is bothering you, but howl it out! Go on, roar to your heart’s content! Howl your rage, and let the Spirits know of your victory! Rejoice in overcoming an obstacle and…” Anji smiled, and Kalaisa sulked at such a lack of bloodthirst. “You’re strange.”

“Thank you for caring, Kalaisa. I feel better. Truly.”

She wanted to storm out. She hated, despised hearing these words from this weakling, from a rival destined to grovel at her feet. What could Anji know, anyway? But Kalaisa made a promise and let the Spirits rot her alive if she changed a set course.

“I…” Kalaisa narrowed her eyes. “I… I need a favor. You… You’ve been to cities before? Like Houstad?”

“Nothing like Houstad,” Anji answered. “However, Da and Ma often took me, my bros and my little sisters to help in the settlements. You know, clean up a road, fix a broken leg…”

“No, I don’t know.” The corner of Kalaisa’s mouth twitched. Asking, begging, pleading… She wasn’t cut out for it. She conquered, taking what she wanted! “I’ve never had much to do with the Normies. They’re weak.” She paced nervously, and the room suddenly resembled a cage to her. “Listen, there’s something wrong about my temper, and it’s ruining my pack. Martyshkina gave me an address of soothsayers… therapists in Houstad. They can unfuck your brain or something. And I need it to become normal. Really. Or I’ll keep failing the pack. But I have no idea how to approach them, what to wear, what to say…”

“I see, I see.” Anji smiled. “You want my expertise. It’ll cost you.”

“Name your price.”

“Let me paint your claws.” Anji pressed her paws together. “A girl must look lovely.”

Kalaisa had half a mind to kick into this serene face and shatter the mocking features. But something—she wasn’t certain what—held her leg. Happy… Am I happy? The granny’s spiel kept pestering her at nights. What does it mean to be happy? Is there anything better than to see another female prostrate herself to your mercy and hear the loser’s lamentations?

And yet… The worthless Kirk never dominated anyone; the fool was too weak; he wouldn’t have survived this long if not for her. He looked different, helping the granny’s whelps. Stronger. If cooperation could transcend an individual’s limits, then it was a sacrifice she had to make.

She stretched a paw towards Anji and released her claws.

“Do it.”

“Wow, you really are serious,” Anji whistled. “Well, it’s only fair to warn you what you are signing up for.”

She raised a finger, and Kalaisa recoiled in horror. The… thing that slipped from the pocket of the wolf hag’s finger hardly resembled a claw. Dirt or gore did not cover the noble white of the bone, but a radioactive hue did. Orange, green, purple, yellow, soft reds and blues, and shades of brown flickered into view as the finger turned.

“What the fuck is this?” Kalaisa yelled.

“Not my fault! I did everything according to the manual!” Anji shouted back in panic.

“I never painted claws, and even I am aware you aren’t supposed to use this many colors! Spirits, I have a headache from mere looking at it!”

“You think I don’t know it?! It’s the nail polish, it must be spoiled or something! My hairspray never caused such a mess!”

“You dyed your hair?!”

“What, you thought I turned ashen this young?!” Anji touched her braids and took a breath. “Okay, so we are in agreement. This is the pits. Listen, I was yanking your chain; you don’t owe me anything. Marco is soon about to drop by for our pet project; how about you stay and we’ll talk? I promise not to hurt you.”

“As if a weakling like you ever could!” Kalaisa bared her fangs.

“Who is being delusional now?” Anji asked playfully.

Kalaisa wanted to leave and slam the door so hard that the metal would bend. But that would be an admission of cowardice. And there was nothing left in the world to scare her. She decided to change and let the Spirits curse and rage, change she will or die trying.

“I’m game. Have anything to drink?”

****

“I thank you for graciously accepting my invitation,” said Sword Saint Camelia.

“It was proper,” replied Impatient One.

They were in the private dining room of the sage supreme, who served the Wintersong household. The sword saints had donated their residences on the crawler to house the little ones brought aboard, and Camelia apologized for the inappropriate meeting place. Upon examining the room, the shaman failed to understand the hidden meaning of her words.

White marble slabs covered the floor, utterly hiding the metal. Above them lay heavy carpets to prevent guests’ legs from feeling any discomfort, and a rich tapestry woven into them told of various episodes in the life of the Wintersongs, from their founding to the rise of Camelia as a matriarch. Magnificent jade statues of the Twins and a smaller Ravager holding a rising sun stood guard over a soft-looking bed hidden by a dark canopy that fell from four posts. Impatient One never met the Twins, but the unknown artist somehow managed to breathe life into the green stone, and the rubies that served them for eyes shone like the morning sun.

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The room unnerved the shaman a little, but not because of needless opulence in the form of pictures and statues that barely fit in the requisitioned den. There were no scent marks, nothing reminding of the sage supreme, and nothing coming from the items that belonged to the sword saint. Camelia and a line of her servants, initiates who were trained to learn obedience and diligence, smelled of strong and soft perfumes, pleasing to the nose, but utterly void in terms of telling a character. There was something portentous about seeing a reflection of a Wolfkin, different in fur color and alien in habits.

Their physical differences ran even deeper. The Wolfkins of the Wolf Tribe had mouths full of fangs, but the Ice Fang Order’s Wolfkins had front canines and the rest of their teeth resembled those of normal humans. Weaker claws, a clumsy walk on all fours, a lack of scent… Impatient One did not share her sister’s concerns about a potential betrayal of the Order, as Lacerated One herself had conveyed Ravager’s desire to preserve the Ice Fangs to the newest shamans. Nor did she hold a grudge over the lesser representation of the Blessed Mother in the Ice Fangs sculptures. It was a miracle that the two groups even accepted each other as relatives; small differences were of no consequence.

But she was wary and suspicious of them. Bertruda took a clear advantage by stealing a title in a most dishonorable manner. The Wolf Tribe was the one bleeding in wars while the Order was building its strength. Their denial of information led to deaths during the evacuation from Techno-Queen’s domain. An accident could be a simple coincidence. Several was a pattern.

At a snap of the sword saint’s fingers, a youth in a black tuxedo approached and poured drinks into their glasses.

“Are you comfortable in these?” Impatient One asked, pointing to his black shoes.

The youth glanced at the sword saint, who nodded elegantly, not once ringing the jewelry woven into her fur. “Of course, lady. The material is not rigid, it is flexible enough that I can easily grasp a feather with my index and big toes.” He lifted his leg, showing how the leather of his shoe moved to accommodate the movements of his fingers. “I can demonstrate…” Camelia’s cough led to him changing in face and retreating in a bow.

“Pardon the excitement of the youth.” Camelia sniffed her wine, savoring its aroma, and took a sip. “I fear the wartime has left our manners somewhat lacking. I will endeavor to address this shortcoming.”

“I asked a question, and the cub answered. You obstruct his growth.”

“You do not approve the servitude?” Camelia clarified.

“Manual labor breeds cooperation and obedience. Healthy traits for anyone. It is your useless melodramatics over changing the permitted limits on a whim that irritates me,” Impatient One said bluntly. “If you gave him permission to speak freely, let him talk and learn instead of crippling himself by pointlessly guessing your intentions.”

“A little hesitation can help learn restraint.”

“Hesitation is fatal on a battlefield. It is deadly in an area surrounded by wildlife. Be a better teacher and clearly explain the boundaries to the wards to eliminate guesswork.” The shaman clinked glasses with the sword saint and drank in full. “Why have you summoned me?”

Two women sat at a table with exotic dishes. Impatient One was dressed in the finest garments permitted by her rank: a sturdy brown jacket and patched lizard-skin pants. Unfamiliar pieces of meat, soaked in a sweet, pale sauce, floated in bowls before her, and thin steam drifted from the dishes. She snatched at the meat with the tips of her claws, drawing surprised gasps from the attending personnel as she ignored knives and forks. She paid no mind to their curiosity and indulged herself, remembering the pleasant taste against the palate and the lack of nourishment in those chopped pieces. Treats for cubs and little else. Waste of efforts to prepare.

Camelia dressed herself in a long, smoky gray dress that left her neck and shoulders bare and had a slice that left one leg open. Her sword was sheathed and securely fastened at her side, and the sword saint curiously examined a baked cake the shaman had brought. It wasn’t required, but Impatient One thought it justly for both sides to share food. A silver fork poked through the soft crust, and Camelia cut a piece of the delicacy and closed her eyes, chewing on the meat and bread.

“Rough and soft, the crust is tender yet crisp, and me, oh my, just the right amount of spice is used to season the meat. It’s like the flame of a campfire, warm and comforting.” She opened her eyes. “My sincere gratitude for the unusual sensation. You have a gift for cooking, Lady Impatient One.”

“The credit goes to Colt. His recipe, his teaching,” Impatient One replied in between licking a bowl clean of liquid. Unusual. Sour, but rich in vitamins.

“Lady, you shouldn’t eat from this bowl!” exclaimed a young initiate. “The lemon bowl is for washing your fingers.”

“Silly cub, everyone knows you use your tongue for that.” Impatient One rolled her eyes at her interlocutor’s ringing laughter. Bunch of weirdos.

Colt. Yennifer missed him. Impatient One wasn’t a hypocrite, and she acknowledged that she still harbored a part of Yennifer, a part of her psyche responsible for coddling her brothers and providing allowances to the lower ranks. There was a long way to go before she could truly be a dispassionate judge worthy of the tribe’s trust.

So many duties she had performed, and yet the simplest hurt the worst. On the nights before the culling, she and Nissi had begged him to leave the tribe and find happiness elsewhere, but the stupid male had refused. Colt’s stubbornness was part of his charm and a trait she inherited from him. He laughed at his first botched cooking attempt, telling Mother that he hadn’t failed; he’d just found a way that didn’t work. Colt never stopped halfway; when he decided to master something, he studied it thoroughly and wasn’t afraid to ask for help. On the night when Mother grieved about the lost cubs of her latest litter and cradled the barely alive Marco, Impatient One lost to Yennifer, and they cooked dinner together for the family.

This was the last time they felt truly at home. Colt was old then, but he tried his best to hide it to ease Nissi’s and Yennifer’s worries. Soon after, he was gone, and there was a hole in the family. A hole left by her paw.

Dad. Why did you have to grow older? Why did you have to decide to stay? Haven’t you done enough? Didn’t you and Mom deserve a rest? Impatient One and Yennifer shook their head, regaining composure. Colt was a shining example of how the lowest of the low in the tribe’s social hierarchy performed his duty flawlessly. She had no right to let him down. Too sweet. The food was rich in vitamins, but its sweetness brought unwanted thoughts. Fine for grieving.

“There is much we can learn from each other.” Camelia raised a glass of wine. “I’ve always wondered why our cousins can take bites and scratches easier than I.”

“Even cubs know the answer to this question!” Impatient One laughed. She turned to the initiates and spotted the girl who played with Marco the most. The cub stood so uncharacteristically quiet, putting her paws over the long black skirt. Almost a different person compared to all the times the two cubs rolled around in the dirt. “You there! Answer the question.”

“Yes, lady,” the initiate answered at Camelia’s nod. “Our cousins’ skin is loose and baggy. It is also rather thick, almost like they’re wearing a suit, and when you close your fangs on their necks, they squirm and bite back…”

“Bite back?” Camelia gently inquired, and the girl fell silent. “Correct me if I am incorrect, Cordelia, but there is only one playmate from whom you could have gleaned this knowledge in such an unladylike manner, and he is far younger than you and is unwell…”

“Let the cubs play and explore!” Impatient One slammed a palm over the table, drawing attention back to herself. “Perhaps they’ll form a real team, unfettered by the distrust plaguing certain elders.”

“A fair notion.” Camelia took a jab about Leonidas’ and Macarius’ headlong charge rather well. “I was even wilder in my innocent days. So many rightfully called me a brutish ruffian.” She placed a paw to her mouth. “Ah, I feel a tingle of inadequacy after hearing the explanation.”

“Don’t be,” Impatient One grumbled. “Ice Fangs’ muscles are amazingly elastic.”

“And how did you learn it? A secret lover, by any chance?”

“There is a boy from your tribe. A sage. Challenged me to full contact, no weapons duel, and I spent a good two minutes trying to break his arm.” The shaman chewed on meat and continued sourly. “Never managed it. Flexible, ear-stabbing snake.”

“Why am I not surprised?” sighed Camelia. “Impatient One. I’ll be frank. I know that you have eaten human flesh.”

“Yes.” The shaman didn’t refute the accusation. She had already reported it to the officers and received a formal reprimand.

“May I ask why? Is the flavor really so tempting?”

“You tell me. What do you think is in the cake?”

Impatient One kept eating, pretending not to hear the horrified gasps of the initiates. The bloodlust filling the room was almost palpable; it was as if a great avalanche of stones had slammed into the shaman’s body. Veins and muscles bulged on the Ice Fang’s elegant body; she had set aside a fork, and a bright crimson light engulfed Impatient One, promising an imminent and inevitable demise. A vapor trail left the sword saint’s lips. The sensation was pleasant and familiar, a genuine emotion unencumbered by the veneer of false civility. Marco was in good paws. The shaman ignored the paw that grasped the sword hilt until the last moment and then said: “It was a jest.”

“It is fortunate, lady,” Camelia said icily. The crimson light in her eyes faded. She gestured for the initiates, and the male refilled their glasses. “I would have slayed you otherwise.”

“I know. I wanted to see the real you,” the shaman grinned.

Camelia ran a paw over her snout, calmed herself, and said: “I wasn’t aware that the shamans are permitted to lie.”

“We are not. But nothing human is alien to us, so shamans are allowed to make jokes as long as they are directed at friends and do not leave them in the dark.”

“You count me as a friend, then?” Camelia asked.

“Foolish question,” the shaman grumbled. “You fought beside us, saved a male’s life, and treated him later. Who can you be, if not kin and a friend to our entire tribe, Sword Saint?”

“Sometimes I forget how different my distant family is,” Camelia said warmly, placing a palm over her heart. “You honor me. But do tell, what sort of meat did you use?”

Impatient One knew that this question would come, and it was still humiliating. But what could she do? Attending a peace parley empty-handed and not exchanging and sharing food would be an insult, a gesture of mistrust, and that was the best she could afford. She shrank back and admitted: “Cusack leg.”

“Cusack?” The sword saint lifted a piece of a cake and touched the meat, tasting it again. “But lady, surely I am a victim of your jest anew. It is too soft.”

“Tenderizing. Intense tenderizing,” Impatient One forced the words out. It was an understatement. Cusack meat was highly nutritious but notoriously known for its hardness, and Normies bred lizards as it was physically too hard for their children to chew on cusack steak. Impatient One applied a special technique Colt had taught her to soften it up.

She had prepared a gift for Camelia, one of the wealthiest individuals in the Reclamation Army, using the cheapest and poorest quality ingredients available in the state. The ignominy of such a gesture was obvious. If Camelia wanted to incur a blood debt for such an insult, the shaman would pay it.

The sword saint smiled brightly and kept eating: “You simply must share the recipe. If we can mass-replicate the tenderizing method in factories, it has the potential to boost the sales of cusack rations. My nose and tongue don’t lie; there’s a profit to be made. For both of our groups. Speaking of which,” she said off-handedly, “the matter of strained relationships incurred by an act of rash misunderstanding remains. Tell me, what is the procedure for transferring a title from one warlord to another in the Wolf Tribe? My knowledge of that matter is somewhat lacking.”

Ah, so that is the reason for the invitation. Impatient One understood. Soulless One was right. The Ice Fangs liked to dance around an issue, never revealing their true intentions. Camelia did not invite her here to talk about her cannibalism or to build rapport; it was because of that cheater, Bertruda Mountaintop. She didn’t want to help Janine, the Wolf Tribe, or Impatient One.

The realization saddened her mood. What a fool she was, thinking that the Ice Fang wanted to bridge the relationships between the two groups. In her arrogance, she imagined herself as someone who could mend a chasm, so maybe their cousins could visit their villages and compete in dominations, and the Wolf Tribe could do the same. Idiot. All the Ice Fangs cared for were themselves and no one else. They can be trusted on a battlefield, no matter the superstitions of the older shamans. But in times of peace… They didn’t care about Janine; they cared that one of their own had sullied her honor and brought shame to the household by attacking the wounded. That is what they wanted to fix—to be perfect in the eyes of others.

“Nothing can be done,” Impatient One said sternly. “Warlord Janine lost fair and square and was stripped of her rank by the Blessed Mother. An honorable name is not a toy to be passed around. It is a thing of honor, a mark of achievement, and Sword Saint Bertruda has earned it tenfold for her actions. No one disputes her success.” The food no longer piqued her interest, and the shaman stood. “I have had my fill. There is a penance for me to do.”

“Have I offended you in any way, Lady Impatient One…” Camelia asked, startled. Or pretending to be startled.

“You have not,” Impatient One assured her. “You are a generous host, a staunch ally, and I wish your den and your bloodline peace and happiness. I was led astray by immaturity. I apologize for the unworthy joke, and I will send you the recipe. Consider it a gift from the Wolf Tribe.”

She said her farewells to the initiates and thanked them for the food and service. There will be no understanding in this generation. But change is inevitable. What is impossible today may be an everyday reality tomorrow. Patience. She must have patience and do her duties.