The Abattoir

Harsh winters drive the northern griffon farmers into their homes for many months of the year, while a strip of farmable land in the south around the capital of Gryphus struggles to feed the citizens. The northern griffon families face stark challenges, barely growing enough to eat but augmenting their calorie intake with the meat of pigs and sheep they raise in their barns. Most griffons are accustomed to hunting rabbits and fishing in the many rivers of the Griffon Kingdom. Some griffons in the south eye their neighbors in the north with concern: "how can they eat thinking and feeling living things?" they ask, "fish and rabbits are one thing, but cows and pigs can speak."

From History of the Griffon Kingdom, by Goldie Delicious.

Corporal Talonico enjoyed field exercises. They yanked the soldiers away from the tedious monotony of barrack life to the vast forests of the Griffon Kingdom. So it was that when the morning bugle called, he burst out of his section's tent with a smile.

Talonico walked over to the shadow of a large pine and began stretching, grimacing at each pop of his joints. The ground under him had been uneven, leaving him with annoying back pain. His brown feathers were a ruffled mess. His white face he had smeared with ash from the stove to make it less visible.

As Talonico finished grooming, the rest of the section -a dozen griffons in total- piled out of the tent. They had all slept with their uniforms on and backpacks ready. Among them was the first squad's Sergeant Greendown, his rucksack slung over one shoulder. Tall and confident, he was a perfect squad leader.

The sergeant walked next to Talonico, groggy and disheveled.

"Some dumb fuck kept the stove blazing the whole night, didn't they?" Greendown muttered as he reached for the canteen hanging from his backpack. "Lost half my body weight in sweat."

"It's why I sleep next to the door," Talonico answered while watching his squad's morning routine. "The draft keeps me from getting too hot."

"A little draft doesn't help when someone keeps the stove on when it's twenty degrees outside," Greendown retorted. "We'd be better off sleeping in trenches."

Soldiers began shaving or preparing their mess tins. Private Wingerni pulled out the tent stove from the tent before dumping the coals inside into a shallow pit. It was a familiar routine where no one needed to think about their role.

Around them, the camp came to life. Some fifty meters from the side of a dirt road, a circle of tents surrounded a command tent, all hidden under the shade of ancient pines and firs. They were not the light tents used in much of the world, where soldiers could roll up half a tent and carry it around their backpacks. These were much heavier, designed to withstand the cold winters of the north.

It was late in the summer, and mornings were slowly becoming colder. The sun had already risen. Morning dew hung from the branches and blades of grass. A thin layer of mist hung in the air, caressing the griffons with its cold touch.

As they waited for the arrival of the field kitchen, Talonico and Greendown watched as their company commander, Captain Telesca, exited the command tent, followed by a griffoness they vaguely remembered as one of the battalion's runners. Surprised, the two watched the captain call the company's platoon leaders to her tent.

"What was that about?" Mused Talonico. "Mama Liv seemed agitated."

"Who knows? We'll know if we need to know." Greendown answered. He suddenly perked up as a familiar wagon rolled up the road some hundred meters away. "Alright, the food's here! Get in the line!"

The machine-gun section always ate as it would during wartime. Dispersed under the trees, keeping watch in every direction, weapons within reach. Quiet. But quiet did not mean entirely silent. Greendown and Talonico huddled under the same old, diseased pine. Moisture seeped into their clothes, the sensation an odd mixture of annoying wetness and pleasant coolness.

"Did you hear what the NCO school did yesterday?" Greendown asked, referring to the sight of a few dozen students running up and down a ridge. The sight had been a source of great amusement for the tired section returning to their camp.

"No," Talonico answered. Absently he softened his porridge into something resembling porridge. "How badly did they fuck up?"

"One of them forgot their rifle. He left it leaning against a tree at their campsite. Poor fucks walked six miles before someone noticed. They ran all the way back."

"Shit. Did they murder that guy?" Laughing, Talonico took a spoonful of his porridge and grimaced. "Ough, fuck! What did they make this from?"

"What are you on about?" Greendown asked. "We're all eating the same stuff."

Talonico gulped down the food. "Well, that's what I'm wondering. I think this is one breath away from being alive. Oh yes, it's squirming in there."

"There is no reason to complain about the food. As leaders, you should set an example for your troops."

Talonico and Greendown winced at the intrusion. They had seen him patrol the camp, but had hoped to not catch his eye. The two met the gaze of the company's adjutant, lieutenant Silverbeak. Gray beak, gray eyes, and gray plumage, the lieutenant's body matched his joyless soul.

"And in addition to whining, you two are under the same tree. What would happen if a grenade hit here?" He demanded in a practiced imitation of Captain Telesca, failing to carry any of her authority. His one purpose in life was to be important, and he wanted to show it.

Greendown answered first: "Sir, our seconds would take our place."

He gave the pair a disdainful look and left. Clearly, he had important business to attend to. Otherwise, he would have begun a lecture.

"There goes an important griff," Talonico muttered. From the twitch of his ear, Silverbeak might have heard it. He opened his beak, and with a shrill shout interrupted the breakfast.

Three hundred griffons jumped to attention, facing Silverbeak.

Standing at attention, with his head held high and chin up, the gray griffon yelled. "Second! Rifle company! You have five minutes to eat, after which you will decamp. Our plans have changed. Within one hour, the company will be ready to march! Squad leaders will be responsible."

With an exaggerated swagger, he spun about and returned to the commander's tent. The platoon leaders leaving politely ignored him. Most would not have dared disrespect their superiors like that in front of their troops. The disdain for Silverbeak was near-universal.

The squad leaders drank the rest of their water, pocketed the bread they had been given, and rushed to work. They knew it was not a punishment, so something serious must have been going on.

A single electric lamp lit the office. In its light, three officers surrounded a worn map. On the map stood tokens depicting the positions of various regiments. Colored strings held in place by nails showed where a fragmented frontline was beginning to form. Next to the map was a copy of a telegraph, written in shaky handwriting.

"Two days is a short time to mobilize a division," commented one officer. On his stiff, tall collar the golden star of a major glistened in the light. A narrow gold band surrounded it. The stylized S on his silver shoulder straps marked him as a member of Army Group South. It and its various factions were the de facto ruler of the southern parts of Griffon Kingdom. "If we have the priority for the trains, we will be at Whitewater in four days, but preparing an attack will be difficult. Do we have aerial reconnaissance?"

On the other side of the table stood a colonel. Graying and in her fifties, she looked as though she had to carry the weight of the entire situation on her withers. Still, there was steel in her voice: "The Corps squadron is already flying over the area. They have charted out most of the static defenses."

She extended three stacks of papers for her battalion commanders. "Do not lose these," she said. "I walked hundreds of miles to gather all the notes on those maps. Anything of note I found is marked down."

The Colonel looked at all of her subordinates. "Have your companies drill endlessly in preparation. There is no time for larger maneuvers, but we have done all of those in the past. Meanwhile, you will study these maps and plan. Every waking hour you have, you will plan. When new information comes up, you will adjust. Artillery will chart out every potential target. We have seen that a well-planned attack is the only way through a trench line. To win the first days, the decisive days, we must plan well and act with purpose."

Satisfied that they understood her message, the Colonel calmed down.

"This will not end on the negotiating table. Not unless the Paramilitary is willing to give up their power. No, this will be up to our soldiers."

The Colonel looked at the back wall of the room. There, on the unpainted wood, hung the Republican flag, quartered orange and yellow.

"This is up to our soldiers, so pray that they do well."