The raider's name was Latif. His story was unremarkable. A member of a gang that stumbled upon an ancient weapon buried after the Extinction. That same night, he and a handful of his henchmen poisoned their leader and slaughtered his family and most trusted comrades, subjugating the rest. After digging up the machine, the bandits turned it into a mobile camp.

  Since then, Latif has traveled the world, ravaging villages and filling the holds of his fortress with stolen supplies and slaves for sale. Periodically, he formed alliances with other raiders to overcome settlements capable of resistance. Such agreements rarely lasted longer than the first breach in the defenders’ walls, as Latif always stabbed his allies in the back, enslaving everyone in his path and recruiting the best madmen into his ranks.

  Even ambitious fools learn, and Latif’s name was no longer welcome among the wild gatherings of plunderers and slave traders. Their lairs still accepted his landship because of the tribute Latif paid to Paikan, the unofficial ruler of the local lands. But outside the markets, slavers, raiders, and even ordinary robbers mercilessly hunted the hated opportunist who dared to break all the unspoken rules and agreements.

  After experiencing several such ambushes when the rest of the bandits came to the aid of Latif’s victims, the raider realized that Volnitsa was no longer a defenseless feeding ground for his gang. He expanded his hunting zone and left the borders of the lawless region, bringing grief and destruction to neighboring lands.

  Latif’s mobile base was a nightmare manifested in reality. The rusting, two-hundred-twenty-thousand-ton wagon moved on gigantic wheels. A wide variety of weapons, from artillery pieces to rocket launchers, were welded onto the hull of this resurrected zombie. But such a behemoth required constant maintenance, and only Volnitsa lairs were willing to sell supplies and repairs. Hundreds of slaves labored day and night in the innards of the evil colossus, dying by the dozens and dreaming that the owners would recognize them as fit for sale.

  Nor was there unity in the ranks of Latif’s minions. His original gang had long since disappeared. Some had been betrayed by their own subordinates; others had been deemed useless due to their wounds and thrown into the engine bay or ammunition-fetching duties to live out their days. Often blades glinted in the dimly lit corridors, and the sounds of gunfire echoed off the walls as the raiders reshuffled dainty positions. Latif didn’t care about any squabbles. As long as his horde obeyed his will and were constrained by the fear he instilled in them, they could do whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted. On rare occasions, the returned prisoners would tell wild stories of the torture going on in Latif’s base and show their mutilated bodies as evidence.

  Such a lifestyle was impossible to sustain for long. Latif was always in need of new men, new slaves to sell and to pay the meat tribute, and a constant supply of spare parts and ammunition. He grew brazen, launching increasingly daring raids inside and outside Volnitsa, miraculously escaping the claws of death. His story was another tale of a hard and shortsighted tyrant with no achievable goal, whose only difference from the rest was his extraordinary streak of good fortune.

  One that lasted until this day. Latif dared to attack and sack a settlement in the far east of Volnitsa, capturing many exotic mutants.

  For this he was sentenced to death. The Oathtakers never abandoned their own.

  Latif’s wagon loomed over the empty scavenger camp. Smoke curled from the burning huts; both watchtowers were gone, replaced by craters. A mob of armed bastards from all corners of the world stormed into the settlement, nestled near the mountainside, rushing toward the large house belonging to the chief. They broke through the inner palisade, slowed by the absence of screams and people trying to reach the arsenal. Their suspicions were soon confirmed: the beautifully painted chief’s house and all the storehouses stood empty, and there was not a soul in the settlement or the inner camp. The locals had not left a single slave for the raiders, and Latif’s cry called his horde back, while the guns of his wagon reduced the house to smoldering ruins.

  The decoys slipped out of small crevices in the east of the gorge. Several battered and patched-up trucks and four buggies. The trucks rushed east, and eight rockets flew out of the launchers installed on top of the buggies, exploding in the bright red blossoms on the hull of the bandit base.

  Latif’s roar of rage turned into a guttural laugh, and his wagon turned, crushing several thugs who had been too slow to climb the ramp. The fools had barely singed his beast and exposed themselves. The machine moved, drawing a line of destruction across the settlement with its belly. Inside, the overseers used their whips, spurring the slaves to exert every effort to ensure a successful chase. Tribute time was approaching, and they still hadn’t gathered enough meat or supplies. If the situation didn’t improve, Latif could well sell them to appease the ruler of Volnitsa.

  Realizing the futility of their efforts, the buggies turned around and raced after the trucks down the long canyon. The wagon rushed after them, carving gouges in the sandy ground with its massive wheels. Cannons trained on the target, but Latif ordered the men not to shoot, eager to get the trucks relatively intact. The front of the wagon opened like the mouth of a great beast, filling most of the narrow canyon and belching out an infernal roar of its engine, mingled with the sound of countless moving parts. Flames burst from the engines behind the machine as it began catching up with the scavengers.

  The escapees hurried toward the bend in the canyon, where it formed a T-shape. Their hopes in the vehicle's clumsiness turned to horror as the guns spat out a barrage of shells, collapsing a section of rock and blocking the passage to safety. Latif laughed as he watched the front of his vehicle nearly caught up with the fleeing men when the first shell landed on top of his machine. The raider’s large hands crumpled the armrests of his throne as men jumped out of their hiding places on the canyon cliffs.

  There were scavengers, bandits, and simply victims of his past conquests. The cameras caught several familiar faces among the idiots he had exploited and betrayed and those who had managed to escape or buy their freedom. Armed with rocket launchers, RPGs, or simply hurling bundles of grenades, they blanketed their pursuers in a deafening, fiery shroud. Latif’s contemptuous laughter rang out through the barrage. None of the shells pierced the hull, and only a lone mortar tumbled down after all these efforts.

  The raider's needle-like leg lifted in a silent gesture, prompting the operators to take aim. They would slaughter hundreds, and then his gang would capture those unlucky enough to survive. The cripples were also valuable in the arenas. The open gates of the wagon almost reached the runaways on the ground.

  The debris disappeared in a bright flash reminiscent of a sunrise. The operators stared in bewilderment at the suddenly captured energy and heat readings, and even Latif froze when the sirens wailed, announcing the radar detection of an enormous object south of the pursuers. Dust created a hazy mist at the site of the recently blocked passage.

  And through it, a pyramidal shape squeezed through. Sunlight illuminated the green front of the object hovering above the ground, exquisite patterns painted in gold formed letters of prayers on the smooth hull, and in its center was a circle containing several dozen religious symbols. Simultaneously, small circles opened on the front of the pyramid, revealing smooth barrels of large-caliber weapons without the slightest trace of rust or malfunction.

  Trained by experience gained in hundreds of battles, the train's operators opened fire on the newcomer. It responded with a blaze of energy, tongues lashing out from its largest guns, and shells, bullets, and grenades exploded in the air without reaching their target. Accompanied by a soft rumble, the pyramid advanced, unleashing a barrage of counterfire on the enemy.

  Artillery installations, turrets, and protective structures disappeared from the left side of the machine, as if licked away by a vast tongue, and a powerful jolt that penetrated deep into the wagon knocked the panicking bandits off their feet. But that was only the beginning. Three hundred thousand tons of the pyramid slammed into the flank of the massive wagon, forcing its right side to scrape along the side of the canyon, losing its armament. The beautiful and flawless surface of the pyramid received a few scratches, but its opponent fared worse, and the monstrous pressure ruptured several pipes inside the machine, showering the raiders with superheated gas and boiling water, exposing the bones of several misfortunate victims.

  Instantly assessing the danger of the situation, Latif sat back in his throne and gave the order to direct all power to the engines, and the flames bursting from them changed from orange to blue. Such a rapid surge of heat melted part of the rock and brought the vehicle back into motion, releasing its trapped portion with a tremendous grinding sound, accompanied by falling boulders drumming on the damaged structure. The convoy of escapees survived by sticking to the side of the canyon and letting the panicked steel beast pass.

  A cry of disappointment came from the unusual alliance as their oppressors widened the distance between themselves and their allies. Several mutants and humans with powers began to run for a jump to land on the wagon. A single volley from the pyramid cut off part of the cliff, forcing the stunned people to retreat. No one was killed, but the message was clear. Don’t interfere. This is our hunt.

  The pyramid did not turn; it simply changed direction, following the raiders who were trying to escape. With a series of loud bangs, six long capsules flew out of the pyramid, catching up with the wagon in seconds. Five capsules pierced the lower decks, unerringly finding their targets near the arsenals, engine room, and prison. The serrated blades on the capsules' prows sprang into action, gnawing into and tearing through the metal in their path like a parasite burrowing into a human body, and the last capsule struck the command tower, bringing a smirk to Latif’s face. The armor in this spot was too thick, and a remaining cannon targeted the uninvited guests. Completely calm, Latif gave the order to prepare to repel boarding.

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  ****

  “Forward, bastards! Take position!” A kick to the shoulder sent Rustam skidding headfirst across the floor. The kid struggled to get up, miraculously slipping out from under the feet trampling him.

  Panic reigned on board. The guards handed out simple, small-caliber weapons to the slaves and drove them through the corridors to the place where the walls were bent. Months of beatings and abuse had taken their toll, and the desperate people did not even dare to think of resistance. Men and women, Normies and Mutants, formed a circle, raising their weapons with trembling hands.

  Behind them, panels rose up, and Rustam clung to the nearest one, peering over it in horror and clutching his shotgun to his chest. He was lucky; a week ago, one of the bastards who had burned his village dragged him into a tunnel to get ‘acquainted.’ He got acquainted with a sharp piece of pipe that Rustam had stabbed into his belly. Then he used it to smash the bastard’s head, and by some miracle, his masters rewarded him for this deed with oversized armor and weapons belonging to the deceased.

  To Rustam’s left and right were teens his age, newbies, as the raiders called them. Their lives were worth little, and any disobedience led to death. Just yesterday, Yura had been boiled alive in the reactor for refusing to shoot a man whose legs had given out. But at least they were no longer beaten for no reason and were given nutritious food instead of the shitty broth consumed by slaves.

  Everything lost its meaning. Pa and Ma had always taught Rustam to care for others and be honest, but when the beasts in human form visited their village, none of that saved any of them. Rustam survived, afraid and trembling, submitting and closing his eyes to the surrounding cruelty. Even the death of his brothers and sisters from starvation no longer touched him. The boy wanted to survive and dared to hope that he had earned a ticket to the future, that he could escape one day...

  And now this had happened. Nothing was going as it should have. He would never be free of this nightmare.

  One slave, a girl named Sylvie with a mop of brown hair, took a step back, her mouth agape with fear as the screech of tearing metal rang through the wagon. Strangely, Rustam thought it was coming from above, rather than from the swelling "boil" before them. Sylvie screamed when she saw the sparks and slag falling from the wall. The boy smelled smoke.

  The hand grabbed Sylvie by the scruff of her neck, jerking her into the air and turning her face toward the twisted grimace of Overseer Daulet. Tumors from frequent handling of the leaking reactor covered his obese body, almost covering his swollen eye, and a predatory clicking mechanical pincer replaced his right hand from the elbow down. Locked in unending pain, the supervisor delighted in venting his sadistic temper on others.

  “If you don't want the honorable fate of cannon fodder, you'll play the role of warning pancake,” Daulet exhaled, spitting out sticky saliva with each word and raising his pincer to strike.

  Rustam turned before he even had time to think about what he was doing. He didn’t know Sylvie; they had barely exchanged a few words, but her appearance, her thin ribs pressing against her skin, and the color of her hair reminded him of his little sister. I won’t let this happen again. This time, I... I can do it! His finger squeezed the trigger, and the pincer moved with inhuman speed, protecting his contorted face from the shotgun pellets. Several pellets ricocheted off the guard’s armor, and another owner knocked the weapon out of Rustam’s hands.

  “We have a hero here, Daulet!” the bandit snorted. Rustam grabbed the knife from his belt and stabbed the man in the leg, but the blade snapped against his greaves. The bandit shoved the barrel of his pistol into the boy’s mouth, breaking part of his upper tooth.

  “I thought there was a rod in it. All this new generation are such soft-hearted, snotty-nosed trash. Shoot this meat…” The shot interrupted Daulet.

  The boarders did not wait for their machines to cut a clean circle. They kicked the weakened section of the bulkhead, collapsing it, and immediately opened fire. The first round sheared off a chunk of the falling section and struck Daulet's helmet, knocking it off his head. The bulging tumor under the helmet burst, flooding the man’s left eye with a disgusting-smelling, sticky yellow substance.

  With a crash, the first of the intruders burst inside, and time slowed down for Rustam. He saw the master’s finger moving at a crawl’s pace, pressing the trigger, and twisted in his grip. I won’t die. I won’t die here, no matter what. The boy thought, opening his mouth as wide as he could, the corners of it cracking.

  The bullet tore his mouth and knocked out several of Rustam’s teeth, piercing his entire body with excruciating pain, as if acid had spilled into his mouth. His throat was parched, one ear had stopped hearing, and his head was splitting from a loud ringing. But he was alive. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement from the breach.

  “Step forth and perish!” barked a female voice.

  A figure clad head to toe in white armor pushed forward. A cloak flapped behind her, catching on the edges of the breach, and behind her, a mist shimmering with blue and green poured in. In its depths, Rustam saw other figures of giants, while the first one was already rushing forward, and on her cloak, or perhaps a robe thrown over her armor, a seahorse embroidered with gold thread shone, adjacent to a round symbol.

  Without stopping, she leaped over the stunned slaves, denting the metal ceiling with her helmet, green light dancing across its slit. Landing behind the slaves, she charged toward Daulet, swinging her spiked mace as she went. The tip pierced the gorget of the man holding Rustam and pierced it, much to the boy’s surprise.

  He wasn't shocked by the gurgling of the suffocating bandit or by the fact that the hand literally knocked him off his feet, hurling him into the walls behind the other masters. No, the weakness of the raider’s armor surprised him. He remembered how that same armor had allowed the bandits to pass unscathed through the machine-gun fire of his village’s defenders. Raising himself up on one hand, the boy saw a flash of electricity run through the mace.

  Daulet cursed, lifting Sylvie up like a shield. The boarder didn’t stop, firing several rounds from the pistol in her hand, hitting the bandit’s shoulders and wrist. The plates of his suit cracked but held, and he used his pincer to block the crackling mace as it glided past the hostage. With a slight buzzing of the motors inside her armor, the woman dragged the mechanical limb down to Daulet’s thigh and released her pistol.

  Instead of falling, the gun settled onto her forearm, and the woman’s fingers, tipped with sharp claws, dug into the crack in Daulet’s wrist, eliciting a cry of pain from him. The mace flashed, crushing the head of a bandit who rushed to Daulet’s aid and breaking the kneecap of another when he fired a burst of machine gun fire at her. The bandit fell, screaming and clutching his mangled leg, and several notches appeared on the stranger’s thick plates.

  “Mercy,” the fallen man choked out.

  “Ha! You took advantage of our hospitality; now down comes the punishing thumb!” The woman raised her leg, ending in a shod hoof instead of a normal foot. She stomped, crushing the bandit’s face and pressing the spilled remains of his brain into his crumpled helmet.

  Daulet’s hand jerked, and he released Sylvie. The boarder pulled her fingers out of her opponent’s wound and shoved the girl behind her back. Taking advantage of this momentary hesitation, the raider struck her opponent in the ribs with his knee, forcing her to double over. His pincer eluded the mace and stabbed into the boarder’s lower abdomen.

  Sylvie! Half-conscious with pain, Rustam got up. The girl was still behind the strange woman, and if she took even one step back or fell... Staggering, he gathered all his strength and hurried toward the fighters, ignoring the chaos around him and the flying bullets. Rescue. He couldn’t save his family or himself, but maybe even he... His hands closed around Sylvie’s waist, pulling her aside.

  The strange woman didn’t fall. The pincer dug deeper into her body and tried to open, widening the gap. A trickle of blood ran along its blade to Daulet’s grin. His hand slid to the machine gun on his belt and jerked convulsively as the mace handle struck his face. The beak on its lower part tore the bandit’s lip, and he recoiled, pulling out his pincer. He exchanged three blows with the boarder and suddenly turned, sprinting down the corridor, leaving behind two bandits who had come to his aid. The man and woman did not last long. One died under the blows of the mace, and the other tried to shoot the woman, but the bullet flew over her shoulder, hitting the top of his head.

  Sylvie and Rustam gasped at the blood spreading across the floor, attracting the attention of the strange warrior. She was in front of them faster than the teenagers could blink, her hooves clattering across the floor, and the mace nearing Rustam’s eye, crystal clear despite the brutal battle. His heart sank, and his mouth refused to move. Together with Sylvie, they froze in horror.

  “What were you planning to do with her, animal?” hissed the woman.

  “Ruda! He’s just a boy!” a cry rang out from the breach, and Rustam glanced over there.

  The swirling fog hid the rest of the slaves and newbies, and the raiders were either killed or fled. The giant who had called out to Ruda was decked out in blue and red clothes and armor decorated with bull emblems. Two of the boarders had arms that were too long, reaching their ankles.

  “It’s in their armor, Ney. What, you think teens magically gain the ability to distinguish right from wrong only upon reaching adulthood? It’s incorrigible.”

  “Sariant. Don’t touch minors,” said a Long Arm. Two gilded eagle heads held his dark green cloak, adorned with purple stars. Despite the recent battle, there was not a speck of blood or soot on him.

  “Yes, Commander!” The mace withdrew from Rustam's face.

  “How’s your wound, Sariant?”

  “Just a scratch, Commander! Not even bleeding!” Ruda raised her pistol and started shooting into the corridor, hitting a bandit who peeked out. “Will anyone provide me with a worthwhile dance prior to dying? What, no volunteers? But you were so brave with the villagers!”

  “Medics, we have an injured.” The glowing slit of the commander's helmet looked at Rustam. “No, the veil stays.”

  “Send me your best so I can grind their bones into dust!” Ruda held her mace over the gash in her armor.

  “Commander, don't think anything ill of our sister. She's overzealous, but her intentions are noble.”

  “Zeal is commendable, but excessive posturing creates unnecessary risk,” said the commander. “Sister, you do not treat your raiment with befitting respect.” He glanced at the woman’s tattered robe, covered in blood and soot.

  “I'll wash and mend my tabard and cloak upon returning, brother. Can’t fix a life as simply.”

  “Hear, hear!” Ney laughed. “My sister’s selflessness inspires me. It would be an honor for me to aid her in such a mundane task. After we exorcise the evil from this den of depravity and find our people.”

  “Ney's right!” Ruda said. “Landmeister Yaro’s holy scriptures teach us not to slacken our efforts when the enemy’s defenses and morale are broken. They have numerical superiority, so there is no need to give them a chance to rally and take advantage of it. Let us kill the beasts and rescue the prisoners!”

  “I concur. However, this time I will lead the charge. Sariants, bring up the rear. Troops, secure our prisoners and let the medics do their work,” said the commander, raising his mace and marching down the corridor, accompanied by four giants. Soon, sporadic gunshots rang out from the depths of the fortress.

  Someone was moving inside the fog, and Rustam tried to stand up, but the multicolored vapor reached him, enveloping the young man, and he inhaled it. His vision blurred, his body went numb, and the feeling of pain and even concern for Sylvie disappeared. Only he existed, and the conviction that everything would be fine, that nothing threatened him. Rustam yawned, understanding how exhausted he was, and lay down on the floor. No, it wasn’t the floor; it was his bed. He smelled a fragrance of freshly baked bread, made by his father. He saw the phantom silhouettes of his brothers, sisters, friends, and a white shape looking at him with eyes as red as rubies. Weakness spread through his limbs, and before he fell asleep in this strange haze, he thought he heard his mother’s voice, and tears welled up in his eyes.