Chapters 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."
Undergrowth rustled as the squad rushed up the slope. In the distance, they could hear the approaching sounds of battle.
"Here," Talonico ordered, hitting the dirt at a slight depression. A black and brown griffoness pulled the machine gun from her shoulders and set it next to the Corporal. Immediately more orders followed: "Milan, tell the lieutenant the second is in position."
The young griffon rushed to obey, seeking the section's leader a short distance away.
Meanwhile, Talonico kept giving more orders. "Talone, see that mossy boulder? Distance is a little above fifty meters. Check through your sights. It will be your point of reference."
Talone adjusted her grip. Her large claws handled the weapon with ease. Taking a comfortable position behind the machine gun, she said. "I have a good view."
"And position?"
"I could be like this for weeks."
"Good," Talonico answered. In fifteen seconds, they had prepared their position, Talonico on the left, the loader, private Wingerni in the center, and Talone at the right. If there had been more time, they would have taken their shovels and started digging in. "Now, don't shoot when friendlies come, so easy on the trigger. And both of you, take a sip while you can."
They were all crusted with dirt and panting from the exertion. The team's position offered them minimal protection from the sun or curious eyes above. Talonico looked up and saw nothing. Only a few ragged clouds floated in the sky.
Talonico heard someone approach from behind them. Three officers, all looking rather old, were leisurely strolling through the forest. From the glimpses of their conversation Talonico could hear, they seemed to be talking about his company. A playful thought tingled at the back of his mind. How close would they get before spotting him, if they spotted him at all? Intently he watched them move while hushing his squad with a slow gesture of his claw.
At ten meters away, the officers spotted the machine gun. "Now, these are some interesting berries that grow here," said an old griffon wearing a tailor-made, form-fitting uniform. In his helmet, two golden wings glimmered in the sunlight. The golden star of a major was pinned to his collar. "Second Company, Corporal?"
Talonico shot up. By instinct, his claw rose for a salute.
"Do not salute me, boy!" Snapped Major Thunderclaw, the battalion's commander. Talonico had seen him close up only once before. The Major was completely average-looking griffon, without any exceptional features and light brown in color. "Unless you intend to search the area for snipers, you will not salute anyone in the field."
"Yes, Sir!" Talonico answered. Talking to senior officers always left him a little shaken. It felt like a single mistake on his part would result in a public dressing down.
"Well then, Corporal," the Major carried on as if nothing had happened. "Is this all of your squad? Three soldiers?"
"One is currently looking for the section leader. And my second should return from leave any time now. We make do with what we have." The section was at a little over half its nominal strength.
"That needs to change," Thunderclaw said. "How can you wage war if you don't have enough soldiers?" With a shake of his head, he cleared his thoughts and returned to the present. "What are you doing here?"
"Sir, we're training for a delaying battle. Two platoons delay the enemy while the rest of the company sets up a proper defense." As he spoke, his voice regained some of his confidence. This was something he understood.
"And is the enemy coming from the front?"
"Left, sir. The first platoon pulls them in, and we'll get them in a crossfire."
The Major nodded appreciatively. He wanted to test every soldier he encountered to see if they understood what was happening around them or just obeyed orders. The first type would manage even if their superiors were killed.
"And you, gunner? Do you know where the rest of your platoon is?"
"Sir Major, the platoon is mostly to our right. If you look closely, you can see the skirmish line. One squad is on our left to secure the flank," Talone said.
"Good, good. Did you tell her that, Corporal? Good, always make sure your squad knows the situation. That way, they can pick up the slack if something happens to you."
Right then, Milan returned, second lieutenant Canales in tow. She was of a smaller size. Her feathers were black as soot, with ashen gray around her beak and eyes. She carried a service pistol and a pair of binoculars on her chest. Accompanying the rank insignia on her collar was the republican flag.
She had joined the army a year before Talonico and Greendown and was soon sent to the Royal Cadet School. She emerged as a second lieutenant and became Talonico's section leader. Behind the unassuming brown eyes hid an intelligent mind, and soon it felt weird to think of it as anything but 'her' section.
"Sirs," she saluted. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
Thunderclaw listened to the fighting coming ever closer.
"I don't think you have the time, lieutenant. But I will observe..."
A rumbling sound came from the sky. Looking up, Talonico could barely see the silhouette of a plane.
"AIR ALARM!"
The officers practically disappeared into cover. The message traveled down the line.
Talonico and Canales pulled out their binoculars. More details became visible: the square wingtips, the landing gear, and the engine—the purple markings on the tail.
"Not ours!" Canales shouted. "That is an enemy."
Technically the Paramilitary plane did not belong to an enemy. There was no war yet. But silently, Canales wondered if the pilot was marking their camp for artillery.
Lance Corporal Bluecrest returned to the camp at eight in the evening. After receiving instructions from the sentry standing by the road, he gave the griffon a remark about being too visible. He then headed for Captain Telesca's tent to report his return.
Ten minutes later, Bluecrest burst into the section's tent, his field cap slightly askew. "Love the party you've set up," he said. "Mind making some room for me?."
Griffons shuffled around. There was plenty of room to spare. The tent was supposed to house twenty griffons, and they had only half of that. A lantern hanging from the ceiling lit the tent. A pile of firewood and the first squad were on one side of the doorway. On the other side was Talonico and the second. At the far end of the tent, space was reserved for lieutenant Canales.
Bluecrest stepped over Talonico, careful not to hit the hot stove or stovepipe, and plopped down at Talonico's side.
"How's it going, Corp?"
Talonico put down his rifle and extended a talon greased by gun oil. "Everything is shit, except for piss. How does it feel to be a father?"
A barrage of congratulations from the others followed.
"It feels amazing!" Bluecrest accepted the talonshake. "Wish my leave would've lasted longer. At least it is shared misery. The higher-ups canceled every leave in the Army Group. I came to the barracks and was immediately put on a train here. No small trouble we've landed ourselves in."
Talonico nodded along. When it became clear Bluecrest was not about to say anything more, he picked up his bolt and explained the situation: "Nothing small, no. We have a full light and noise discipline in effect. The closest enemy is some three kilometers away. So no smoking when it's dark. However, you don't smoke anyways. If an alarm comes, our positions are up the hill. We have marked the path. Ask the next guard to show you."
Bluecrest lay down, resting his head against his backpack and staring at the ceiling. His gray eyes tracked the holes in the roof and the little pinpricks of moonlight shining through.
"What do you think? Will it be war?"
"I fucking wish," Talone answered. "It's about time someone did something about the Feast party. A genocide to cure a famine. Fucking animals."
Milan bounced in, her beak twisted in a grin: "I mean, I joined to fight, not to jump as a drill sergeant orders. I was too young to fight in the Volunteer Corp, but I am not sitting this one out."
"You two are a bit too eager," interrupted Wingerni. "But when was the last time an ultimatum didn't end in a fight? And the supply train spotted some tanks with the second battalion."
"All they saw was a field kitchen. All the tanks will be fighting around Gryphus, mark my words." Bluecrest said.
"You'd think the supply train knows what a field kitchen is," Wingerni spoke up.
"You'd think that, but no. When have you seen them touch the thing? With the shit they keep feeding us, you can tell it has not been through a kitchen. Speaking of..."
The army's dry rations were of questionable quality at best. Therefore the soldiers put plenty of effort into keeping their personal stocks full. From his backpack, Bluecrest pulled out several cans of dried food.
"You can sort out what is whose," he said. Then, when the thought returned to his head, Bluecrest asked Talonico. "Hey, Corp, what do you think?"
Talonico, who had by now finished cleaning his rifle and was putting it back together, let out an inaudible sigh at being dragged into the conversation. He had hoped not to think about the matter too much.
"Well," he muttered. "If they are mobilizing the whole regiment, it's not for a game. And after all the griffons the Paramilitary shot, there is no way Command will back off."
"So you think it's decided?"
"I do."
Talone and Milan smiled, if for different reasons. Through the thin veil of anxiety, one could spot glimpses of Bluecrest's and Wingerni's excitement. Talonico hid his out of some sense that as a leader, he should remain rational and not get excited about the possibility of a war. But none of them had seen war firsthand. They knew it was hell; they had read about the events of the Great War with interest. But they had not been there, so the thoughts of glory still lingered. Fortunately, there was a cure.
The guard woke them up in the morning. With his face pale, he said. "It's begun."
In the distance, artillery boomed.
After breaking camp, the company gathered in parade formation. Uncertain, the soldiers took refuge in the familiar routine.
Captain Liviana Telesca marched to the front of the company and, with a sharp shout of "Attention!" took control of the situation.
Three hundred griffons snapped into attention, still as statues. Relations between officers and enlisted varied between units and individuals. With captain Telesca, it was one of mixed fear and respect. Not fear of punishment, but of the aura of authority the Captain exuded. They did not admire or hate her because they knew so little of her. Married she was, and a little over 30 years in age, despite looking closer to fifty.
"Second Company, at ease!" She began her speech. "Last night, the Gryphus government declared war on Army Group South. We have been branded traitors to the Kingdom. It is a bold claim from those who took power via a coup. But let us be traitors!" Her eyes roved the ranks. "This government, this Feast party, is one of genocide. They believe those not fortunate enough to be born griffons are only fit to be food. And as long as the party is allowed to exist, I am ashamed to be a griffon. Are you, Company?"
"Yes, Captain!" The company shouted back, letting their disgust and hate fill their voices.
"Good. Then let us feel shame no longer. We are at war with the Feast party, and we will bring an end to them."
The short Captain looked through the ranks, allowing herself to feel little satisfaction.
"Sergeant Carranza has a few words for you before we leave. Emil."
Emil Carranza walked up to the Captain. The first platoon's platoon sergeant, he had trained many of the company's NCOs. Short, but lean, he had a constantly weary look upon him. Even his smile could not hide his tiredness. After serving as a volunteer during the Great War, he was one of the few griffons in the company with combat experience.
"Well, what is there to say that you haven't heard before?" Carranza asked. "Follow orders, and remember your training. Don't fear before there is something to be afraid of, otherwise, you can't do a thing. And remember that we are here to kill, not to die."
With a quiet thank you, Telesca sent Carranza back to the formation.
"The Company will be ready to march in one hour. And take off the wings from your helmets. We are no longer the King's soldiers."
The cannons fired again. Two thuds came from behind and left of the company, followed by explosions from the front. Canales had thought a pair of guns was harassing the enemy, while the rest of the battery prepared for a proper barrage.
The battalion had been ordered to advance north towards Mairis and its Abattoir. Though no clear landmarks stood in their way, it was obvious that the Paramilitary would oppose them along the way. Scouts cleared the road for the first three kilometers, allowing them easy passage.
After the captain’s speech, the company had set out on a snaking dirt road. The rising sun was hidden behind a thin cloud cover. A steady drizzle was its gift to the soldiers.
Some time later they passed by a captured checkpoint. A pair of scouts watched over the trio of defenders taken prisoner. The rest of the Paramilitary lay at the side of the road, covered with their greatcoats. Next to the checkpoint stood an armored car, painted green and marked with the armored brigade’s closed fist. There had been talk of changing the insignia before the first friendly fire incident, but so far the fist would remain.
Two hours after setting out, the battalion headed off the road. To their right, they could hear the second battalion’s vanguard engage the enemy. Engines growled and cannons fired. There were tanks there.
The battalion split. The first company covered the left side of the road, and the second the right side. The third remained in reserve. The heavy machine guns were split evenly between the companies.
Talonico watched the first platoon move out ahead of the company. Between each soldier was a gap of some five meters, and all looked around with almost exaggerated caution. A minute later three more platoons moved out, each squad a long column. Two more waited in the reserve, along with the machine gun section.
Talonico slowly drummed the stock of his rifle with his talon, awaiting the order to move out. He could barely breathe, and even thinking felt difficult. He clutched his rifle, a simple and reliable bolt action, a little tighter, and forced himself to breathe out. It would be nothing he couldn’t handle. Nothing they couldn’t handle. The second squad sat behind him, just as anxious as him. In addition to their normal gear, they carried pouches filled with extra ammunition. Talonico felt he should say something.
“Well,” the word left his dry throat. “Are you ready to go at it?”
“Of course. It’s hunting season,” Talone boasted. The others responded with pained smiles.
“As long as you don’t underestimate them,” Talonico warned. “The Paramilitary are former soldiers, and even if their discipline is poor, they are good shots. Most are experienced hunters.”
“Corporal, I don’t think any hunter can deal with that,” Milan responded, pointing at Talone’s light machine gun. It was a rather ugly thing, designed hastily when the Kingdom had realized that it had no light machine guns. Heavy recoil and a top-mounted magazine made aiming difficult and rendered its fully automatic fire almost useless, but somehow Talone managed.
“I don’t think any of us can. That’s why Talone gets it. Nobody else likes that thing.”
A few tense chuckles rewarded Talonico.
“You see how she handles that thing,” Wingerni added. “She should be a wrestler.”
“Reserve, in columns of squad, march.”
The rest of the company moved forwards. They trailed the paths left by the first two waves. The forest floor was mostly dry and covered by a patchy blanket of heather. A few times the troops stopped as the first company lagged behind, and a few times the first had to wait for them.
The unreleased tension tore at their frayed nerves. Every time a twig snapped it echoed like a gunshot. When crossing through a blueberry-covered glade a griffon stumbled and fell. For a frightening second everyone thought a sniper had shot him. Abashed he jumped up. A root had caught his paw. The advance continued. To their right, the second battalion pushed the enemy’s vanguard. Artillery still boomed occasionally.
Ahead of them, a rifle barked. Talonico threw himself down and pulled out his rifle. A second after the first shot a dozen more followed as the first platoon returned fire. Then the intensity lowered to the occasional shots as the initial frenzy gave way to proper marksmanship.
Talonico looked to the left. He could see Canales lying on the ground. She had not drawn her pistol and was instead looking ahead with her binoculars as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the fighting. Then an explosion hit their ears.
Talonico flinched. The shooting stopped. The enemy outpost had been destroyed with a grenade.
The order to continue was given.
Wingerni chuckled, even as his brown eyes darted about. “That was a lot of noise for one outpost.”
Talonico nodded in response. Soon the squad saw a corpse for the first time.
A pair of griffons armed with the same bolt action rifles as their southern counterparts. They wore the familiar green uniforms, but the piping was red instead of the familiar blue. Both wore simple, steel gray helmets with a small visor bolted on, now as mangled as their owners.
“Well,” thought Milan out loud. “Nothing special for corpses.”
“They make you feel nothing?” asked Bluecrest. His face was twisted into a disgusted grimace.
“You see one, you've seen them all. I’m not doctory enough to appreciate the differences.”
Talonico interrupted the whispered conversation. “Enough, keep moving. That must have been their picket.”
A ripping sound split the air.
“DOWN!” Talonico screamed, and for the second time in ten minutes threw himself to the ground.
The first mortar bomb landed on the main line. The sound it made was a sharp crack. More followed. Each explosion ripped pieces off the forest floor and threw them in the air. Shrapnel whirred angrily through the forest. Griffons pressed themselves tighter against the ground in helpless terror. Branches rained down on them. The barrage stopped. No one could have believed it had lasted only a minute.
“Keep moving!” Captain Telesca shouted. “Pass the word, keep moving. They must have the spot pre-plotted. Keep moving.”
The griffons picked themselves up and carried on. All but one. As they passed through where the first shell had landed. Next to the crater sat a wounded griffon, staring at a dead one lying on the ground. The bomb had torn the griffoness in two. Blood stained her uniform. Her claws still clutched to her rifle like flotsam in a storm. This time no one stopped to marvel.
Far away in Griffonstone, a picture of Desideria Donati sat on her mother's table. She looked so proud in her spotless dress uniform.
Mere minutes after the shelling, engine sounds came from their right. Captain Telesca looked at the map in confusion, then concern. A small path led from Mairis to a gap between the two battalions. The path could no doubt support vehicles. She called the platoon leaders to prepare a defense.
Talonico perked up when he spotted movement. Slapping his thigh, he alerted the rest of the squad. Alarms were whispered around the line. Around them, griffons slowly emerged from their foxholes. With little time to prepare, their foxholes were uncomfortably shallow.
A line of rifles funneled the attackers to a pair of belt-fed machine guns. The LMG section meanwhile reinforced the open right flank.
It was good that they were there. From what he saw, Talonico guessed at least a platoon was coming their way.
“Hold steady,” Canales whispered from his left. A large tree masked her pit from the enemy. “Let them get close.”
Talonico slid his rifle out and positioned himself behind the sights.
A scout marched some fifty meters ahead of the main line. He was for the rifles. Talonico moved his aim to the main line, where a griffon was gesturing wildly, and the formation changed accordingly.
Talonico’s talons threatened to wrench the weapon away from his target. He forced his sights back to the griffon’s barrel.
The scout crossed an invisible line.
“Fire,” Canales whispered.
The Paramilitary dropped out of sight. By Army Group South’s standards, they were poorly disciplined. On the parade ground, they could barely stand in formation. But they were no worse soldiers than their opponents.
Talonico ducked when a bullet snapped to the lip of his foxhole. He bounced up and returned fire where he saw a muzzle flash.
The Paramilitary held their ground. In short dashes, they extended their firing line. Rifles barked on both sides, joined by short bursts of the LMGs. Both sides tried to desperately win fire superiority. The Paramilitary had taken the first hits, but they outnumbered the defenders.
“Talone!” Talonico yelled, pointing out targets, “Fire right, by the rocks!”
The griffones obeyed, a savage grin on her face as the weapon kicked against her shoulder. She saw a griffon slump over. With a second burst, she finished them off.
The Paramilitary was not advancing. The reason became clear when they heard a familiar shriek.
Talonico made himself as small as he could. Fire and steel filled the air, shaking the ground beneath him. Cannons and mortars exploded among the trees, raining earth and wooden splinters into the foxholes. Cries of the wounded mixed with screams of shrapnel.
The cacophony stopped. Talonico bounced up and aimed. A volley of fire forced him down. So quickly they had lost the initiative.
“Bluecret’s hit!” Milan yelled from the neighboring foxhole.
“Help him then!” Talonico yelled back and rose. He had seen the Paramilitary come dangerously close. He shot a griffon mere thirty meters away. But emerging from behind the infantry was a new threat.
An armored car, painted white and decorated with garish purple highlights, rolled up the dirt path. The guards of Mairis abattoir loved their car but had never expected to wield it against an enemy force. Its turret moved from side to side, a machine gun firing long bursts.
A heavy machine gun could punch through its armor, a light one could not.
“Fuck,” Wingerni blurted out. “Corporal?”
“Leave that for the AT teams,” Talonico answered. “Keep up the fire!”
Talone obeyed without hesitation. She fired once. Twice. The weapon jammed.
“Jam!” Talone called out a warning. She wrenched the magazine off and cranked the bolt handle. It refused to budge.
The weapon’s designers had thought to put a slit at the side of the magazine, to allow the gunners to keep track of the remaining ammunition. The slit also worked as an open invitation for dirt. Dirt jammed the magazine spring, which in turn could mess up the feed.
Talone pressed herself tightly against the dirt and started disassembling the weapon. Through the firing, Talonico heard a frustrated “Fucking sideways!?”
With one of the LMGs out of action, the Paramilitary advanced again. The armored car pushed back the defenders in its way. Talonico threw a grenade at a cluster of grey-helmed griffons. One of them rushed forward, diving for Talonico’s pit with a bloodthirsty look. Talonico rose to meet the charge. The two collided as the grenade detonated, stumbling off into a depression behind the line.
After two cartwheels Talonico stumbled into a precarious crouch. His opponent stood a meter away. There was no time to aim. Both fired at the same time and both missed their targets. In a split second, Talonico decided there was no time to chamber a new round.
Talonico had entered the military four years ago when bayonets were still considered an important weapon. He did not have one affixed, but the barrel of his rifle was still a solid piece of metal, and the movements were the same as before.
With a yell, Talonico lunged, thrusting with his rifle. His opponent swatted the thrust away, but Talonico followed it with a swing with the butt. The Northerner pulled back in the nick of time, but could not dodge the follow-up jab. Wooden stock collided with a yellow beak, and the Paramilitary staggered back. Again Talonico swung, this time slamming the barrel into their neck. His opponent fell to the ground.
The griffon looked up with pleading, blue eyes. Shifting his grip, Talonico brought his weapon down in a mighty overhead swing. The butt slammed into the steel helmet, and the griffon fell unconscious.
“Holy shit!” Exclaimed Milan, sliding down the slope. Bluecrest was right by her, the crest of his helmet cut. The rest of the squad was behind them.
“What now?” Talonico asked. For a moment he feared they were fleeing.
“Bounding withdrawal!” Bluecrest answered.
The platoon was pushed back. Though the griffons withdrew in good order they were still losing. The full force of the enemy attack was coming their way, and once they had given enough ground, the Paramilitary could rush through the gaps into the company’s rear.
Sergeant Carranza and lieutenant Canales moved across the line, shouting encouragements to the wavering griffons. The platoon leader was stuck on the other side of the car.
“Carranza!” Canales yelled. “We have to get rid of the car.”
“Their infantry sticks to it like glue!” Carranza yelled back. “We can’t assault it before that!”
Canales looked around. A dry boreal forest was monotone, with pines for as far as the eye could see. Very little undergrowth.
“I can take my section and clear some room,” Canales suggested. “If you deal with the car.”
Carranza considered it for a second, before agreeing. “I’ll gather a team and send it over. Keep infantry away from them.”
Talonico was informed of the plan when Canales ran next to him, ordering him to fire at anything around the car. A burst from Talone’s rifle forced those closest to the vehicle to take cover.
Talonico saw as the team of three closed in on the car. They dashed from tree to tree, closing into grenade range. Then closer. The throw had to be accurate. The lead griffon rose, a grenade bundle ready.
The griffon stilled and fell. The others dove away, expecting an explosion that didn’t come. The griffon had been killed before priming the grenade. The other two had left their cover and were now pinned.
Canales looked at the grenade handle sticking out. It was close. She could make it.
“MG section! Cover me!” She yelled. Without waiting to see if she had been heard, Canales ran. Angrily buzzing bullets flew past her. Stray shots made disgusting snaps as they struck bark from trees or burrowed into the soil.
Ten meters from the grenade, Canales ducked. Canales crawled the last meters as fast as she could. She dropped her pistol from her death grip and took the grenade bundle.
It was a like standard grenade with a cardboard handle. The only difference was the additional explosives wrapped around the round head, held in place by a canvas cover.
Canales prepared her grip on the grenade and peered over the dead griffon’s corpse. The car was close. She could see its turret pointing away from her, firing to its left. She pulled the cord and threw the bomb.
It flew in an awkward trajectory, landing in front of the car. The heavy head did not bounce. Canales ducked, and the world jumped under her.
There was a flash, a bang, and a cloud of smoke. Pieces of metal flew to the sky. Dirt landed on Canales’ head. The gunner attempted to climb out of the armored car, where a fire was spreading from the engine. Talone killed them with a single shot. The body rolled off of the turret and landed unceremoniously on the ground.
Canales slowly became aware of her surroundings. Her section was standing around her.
“How long did I nap?” she asked. A foul taste filled her mouth. “And give me some water.”
After taking a sip, Canales stood up. She had been unconscious for a minute, but dizzy for almost ten. Finding all her limbs still in working order, she came back to business.
“Greendown, what’s the situation?”
“We are currently in the reserve,” Greendown answered. “After you popped the car, we drove the infantry off. They didn’t have much fight in them. We are currently in the clear.”
“That’s nice. What were our casualties?”
“Eight dead, as many wounded.” Greendown looked uncomfortable with the thought. He clacked his beak and sighed. “The lieutenant is among the wounded. Shot in the palm. Carranza leads the platoon for now.”
“Damn. Ah, well, return to formation.”
As the griffons turned to leave, Talone extended a pair of brass chevrons to Canales.
“I took these from the car’s gunner. These are pretty rare, so I thought you might want them.”
Canales accepted the gift and Talone ran to join her squad.
The attack stopped soon after. The third company passed through the second, but no more fighting could be heard.
They stopped at the edge of a small clearing and dug down. As the Sun began its descent, the field kitchen rolled in, giving each soldier half a ladle of soup.
“Well I am going to dine like a Queen,” Talone remarked to the corporal in charge of the kitchen. “Shall we receive exotic fruits with this feast?”
“Careful Talone, tomorrow we will get just flavored water.” Milan seemed chipper. Her fear had been buried by excitement.
Talonico fought down the grin that threatened to appear on his face. His job included not complaining about anything, no matter how he would have liked to join in on the fun.
“Miss, no one is forcing you to eat anything,” the cook corporal responded. Mocking rear-line troops was fun until you angered the griffons responsible for feeding you. The line moved along, and Talonico presented the staff with two mess tins.
“For our guard,” he explained. The cook muttered that the sentry should get their own food, but nevertheless poured half a ladle into both tins.
The squad set up a small fire to keep Wingerni’s porridge warm and gathered around it to talk.
“Well, it was a show,” Talonico began. “Needless to say, I am proud of you. How is everyone holding up?”
“Are you doing mushy stuff, Corp?” Bluecrest answered, raising his eyebrow.
“If you want to call it that. I take it your paw didn’t turn to mush.”
Bluecrest looked down. The puttees on his right paw were torn. “This? No, but it was close. Dinked my helmet as well.”
“Didn’t make your head any worse,” Milan laughed. Bluecrest tossed a pinecone at her in response.
“Well, you are clearly healthy and acting your age,” Talonico muttered. “The rest of you?”
Talone nodded and flexed her claw. “Honestly, Corporal, I enjoyed myself.”
If she was honest, Talonico was concerned. Hating the Paramilitary was one thing. Enjoying killing them was another.
“Well, as long as you are fine. Be ready to set up the tent when it comes. This night we can sleep in peace.”
The battle raged in the distance, but for the moment it had no effect on the machine gun section. Along with the first platoon, it had been sent to secure a crossroad at the regiment’s left flank. Finding their target empty, the griffons had dug in. Behind their rudimentary trench, the second squad sat. Talone stood guard in the trenches.
At first glance, one could have thought from their relaxed demeanor that there was no war. But a closer look revealed the tension, the nervous glances at every loud sound.
The soldiers used the moment to eat. Talonico stirred the food in his mess tin. Hanging from a branch above a fire burning in a pit, the mixture of water and emergency rations was forming into an approximation of porridge. Rainwater dripped steadily into the tin. The fire below sizzled and spat out clouds of ash. The sludge made Talonico miss the half-living concoctions of the field kitchen. The cans of cured fish in his backpack beckoned, but he would not open those unless there was nothing left. If nothing else, at least his last meal would taste good.
“Come here,” Wingerni’s whispered voice drew Talonico’s attention. He looked up to see Wingerni coax a redwing closer. In his palm, the young loader had ground-down bread. The bird hopped around, curious as to what the lumbering beast was doing.
“Come now, I have food. Yes, yes, come closer. No, don't go away, it's okay and there she goes.”
Talonico’s eyes followed the bird's until it disappeared into the foliage.
“The dumbest chick in the forest and you still can’t get any,” Milan mused. “What will you do with a griffon?”
“You know, I’ll just lay down a line of breadcrumbs, and they will follow it right into my home,” Wingerni answered, playing the scenario out with his claws. As an afterthought, he added. “I got the idea from Bluecrest, so thank you for that.”
Talonico snorted, and from his other side, Bluecrest muttered. “You get married and that becomes the peak of comedy. How funny is that?”
“I mean, the idea that someone married you is pretty funny.”
“You’ll be climbing that tree tail first unless you shut up,” Bluecrest growled.
“Relax,” Talonico stepped in, raising his claw in a lazy, calming gesture. “There are three married griffons in the company, Sister Livi included, so there is not much material.” To Wingerni he added. “And you can recuse that stuff only so many times until it becomes stale.”
“Like you and your VD, corporal?” Milan asked innocently. It was a joke that had started during Talonico’s basic training, long before the squad had been formed.
“Not exactly,” he answered. “And it’s diseases, plural. I have a whole collection, so there is no shortage of materials. The one about an Ibex buck is stale.”
“How so?” Milan asked. She had heard the joke once or twice.
Talonico shrugged. He had so far kept a professional distance from the squad. It felt so silly now. They were competent and did not need a drill sergeant to keep them in line.
“Back during the NCO course, actually basic, there was a joke about how I would take every chance to sleep with an Ibex buck. I have no idea where it came from, I have never even seen an Ibex. It was fun, but I heard it too many times to keep laughing.”
“But you laugh at the VDs?” Wingerni asked.
“If one disease gets stale, it’s easy to switch to a new one,” Talonico answered. “Now take your food and stop asking dumb questions.”
Not soon after they had eaten, a new arrival walked up to the squad.
Talonico bounced up to greet sergeant Carranza.
“Well Nico, good to see you,” Carranza said. “How are you feeling?”
“Wet, sergeant,” Talonico answered. Invoking the rank of the griffon seven years his senior felt natural, even in a half-joking reply.
“Wet? And this is not even infantry’s weather,” Carranza’s voice was laced with amusement. Infantry’s weather referred to a torrential downpour typical in the autumn. “Have you grown soft, corporal?”
Walking away from his squad, Talonico answered. “No softer than before. Except for feathers, they are something else.”
“Good. I think you Ibex will like that!”
Talonico blurted out a litany of curses. Deciding they were far enough from the others, Talonico spoke with more honesty. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I was too tense after the village.”
“I figured as much. You are not the only one,” Carranza said. The pair stared into the distance in silence. Rainwater flowed down to the brims of their helmets and dripped down in large droplets. On Carranza’s face a few tears mixed with the rain. It was this tenderness in the larger-than-life sergeant that had made Talonico open up.
“Do you think Canales will become a platoon leader?” Talonico asked suddenly. The lieutenant was currently on the other side of the trenches. With the first platoon’s leader dead, Canales might soon take her place.
“That depends on what kind of reinforcements we will get. It would also make Greendown the section leader. Do you think he’s up to it?”
Talonico blinked, surprised at the question. For a moment he thought, not so much on what to say but how to say it. “Definitely. He was just about destined for the job.”
“I thought as much,” Carranza admitted. “I already put out a good word to Sister Livi, but we’ll see what happens.”
The appearance of a combat runner interrupted Carranza. “Sergeant! The fifth squad has come across a farm not marked on the map. Corporal Tasca requests reinforcements to secure the farm.”
“I suppose that would be you,” Carranza said to Talonico. Get to the platoon CP in five minutes Canales will lead the team.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Talonico responded. He spun around and ran to his squad.
The door crashed open. Talone burst through, sweeping the hut with her machine gun.
“Empty,” she announced to the squad following after her. Talone rested her weapon on the ground and took off her helmet, revealing the pattern of black stripes underneath. “No scary grandmothers in sight.”
The hut was small and simple. A single room with a small window, and a table that could maybe fit two griffons. The squad spread out, taking a look at their surroundings. Wingerni was the first to notice what was amiss.
“This place looks untouched,” he said, gesturing at the shelves. It seemed the inhabitants had taken nothing with them as they had left, but neither did the state of the room speak of a hasty flight. Only trails left by a cart suggested that the inhabitants were gone. Every surface seemed immaculately cleaned, and drying wooden spoons hung from a hook. Wingerni touched one of them. “Dry. They didn’t leave recently.”
“Whoever left here was in no hurry,” Talonico agreed. He stopped. Through the window, he could see a partially hidden shed down the hill.
“No one checked that,” he said. The fifth squad should have done so when they secured the perimeter, but they had not mentioned having done so.
Talone clearly had the same opinion, especially regarding their corporal. “Tasca clearly didn’t do his job. It was an easy task, but not the best griffon.”
Talonico covered his snort of laughter. The guilty smile on his face was harder to cover.
Talone pulled the bolt open. The rasp of metal stirred a gasp from someone inside. In a second five weapons were pointed at the shed. With a stern voice he rarely used, Talonico ordered: “Open the door. Slowly.”
For now, there was no need to shout. With a creak, the door opened. Something towered over the griffons. Hesitantly, fully aware of the guns pointed at her, a cow stepped out.
Milan swore and lowered her rifle. Wingerni took a step back. More disciplined, Talonico and Bluecrest remained alert, and on Talone’s face, there was no emotion.
Hay hung to the cow’s coat in lumps. The coat itself, brown and white in color, was matted with dirt. A disgusting smell lingered around her.
“You are not Paramilitary?” She asked when her eyes had adjusted to the light.
“No,” Talonico said. “Was there anyone else in with you?”
“No, no,” the cow shook her head. “I was all this family had. May I come out?”
“Do so. Milan, check the shed.”
Milan peered inside. Talonico saw the disgust flash in her eyes. Seeing the question on the Corporal’s face, she confirmed: “It’s clear.”
Finally, Talonico calmed. He rested his rifle on the ground and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The wet cloth at least cooled him. Finding the cow looking at him curiously he asked.
“Are you alright? Hungry, thirsty?”
“No, no, I had water and some grass.”
Talonico nodded. “That’s good. Ah, come with us. I think Sergeant will know better what to do. Please follow me, miss?”
“Oh I haven’t been called miss in years,” the cow giggled. “Amanda. I’m Amanda.”
The squad led the cow to where they knew sergeant Carranza to be. When she first stumbled, Wingerni and Bluecrest caught her.
“Why were you locked in there?” Wingerni asked suddenly. Ignoring the winces of the other griffons, the cow answered.
“The family here left when the fighting started. They said they would return in a week and left. Locked me in the shed so I wouldn’t flee. Left me all sorts of trash to eat so I won’t starve.”
“Corporal,” Talone said, dashing next to Taloncio. She gestured at the hut. “I should probably get her some proper food.”
“Do it. But don’t take too long.”
They passed the cow to sergeant Carranza. Soon after the detachment returned to their trenches, escorting her to safety. In the distance, the roar of cannons grew louder. At sunset, a pair of griffons escorted the cow to safety.
The messenger interrupted Major Thunderclaw’s breakfast.
Hiding from the rain under his greatcoat, he read his orders.
Once resupplied, his battalion was to march out through the marshes to the regiment’s left and flank around the enemy’s defensive line. The rest of the regiment would then attack, and force the enemy from their positions. Thunderclaw’s task was to make sure they could not retreat to the Abattoir.
Thunderclaw summoned his company commanders and began preparations.
The moss squelched where Talonico’s talons sunk into it. Moisture crept up the sleeves of his uniform, weighing them just a little more.
One step after another, he forced his body to move. The rest of the squad stumbled on behind him. The ground had changed from dirt to a soft marsh. Fallen and living trees formed a maze where every branch seemed to reach out at the griffons, intent on snagging into their uniforms or equipment.
Talonico glanced behind, confirming his squad was still in contact with him, and then scanned the woods to his right. Tall grass and shrubs intermingled with the trees, blanketing the ground for as far as the eye could see. Although a scout platoon was moving ahead of the battalion, there was no excuse for carelessness. Every other soldier scanned the marsh to their right, every other to the left. Platoon leaders watched the skies.
Talonico knew he was not truly that exhausted, his mind merely claimed otherwise. They had not marched for that long. The lack of landmarks simply gave the illusion that they were not moving at all. Mind breaks before the body, he reminded himself and forced another step.
“Stop. Break, five minutes.” the griffon in front of Talonico said. She was one of Greendown’s ammo bearers.
Talonico passed the message and dropped his backpack onto the mossy ground. He sat on the backpack and stared into the distance. He gripped the polished wood of his rifle tightly. Around him, the battalion, marching in a single file, disappeared into the grass.
With slow, deliberate movements Wingerni pulled out a piece of bread from his pockets. He ground it down between his talons, before extending his claw, palm open. A small bird stopped on a branch, watching him curiously.
“Oh yes, you are quite the beauty,” Wingerni cooed. “You don’t know fear at all, do you? Such a brave little birdie. Or maybe you just are hungry. I’m with you there.”
The bird did not respond, merely watching the griffon. Deeming shelter more important than the peculiar creature, it flew off and disappeared into the rain. Wingerni smiled after it.
Five minutes passed. Grass shifted as the griffons rose, and continued their march. Life carried on, but at their side walked death.
Private Izzo cursed as the engine failed to start. He was happy about the new trucks. They meant the griffons in the supply train no longer had to physically drag their supply wagon. The problem was that the little beasts were far less reliable.
Pulling away from the engine, Izzo let out another litany of curses. If the truck was alive, he knew it would be laughing at him. Breaking down on a dirt road? He had just and just managed to drive into the woods, momentum carrying him the last few meters.
He took a deep breath. He needed to take a drink. There was nothing he could do until another truck came from the Abattoir. His webbing was on the other side of the truck. He had left it there after the thing had begun chafing at his shoulders. It was just unnecessary weight for the drivers. His rifle kept it company, having gotten in his way one too many times. The fighting had begun anew, but it was far away.
He had not yet noticed that some shots were coming from much closer than the last time.
Izzo walked around the truck and froze.
Emerging from the woods was a line of griffons. As he watched, more and more became visible. They moved with wary steps, careful not to be caught off guard.
Izzo’s rifle was within arm’s reach. They had not spotted him yet.
If he fought he would die.
If he did not fight, they would march right up to the battalion commander.
He did not want to die. He did not want his friends to die.
The matter was decided for him when one griffon pointed their rifle at him. They would shoot before Izzo could do anything, and they would not miss. Stunned, Izzo raised his claws in surrender.
As his wings were bound, Izzo watched the advancing soldiers helplessly.
The abattoir was within reach. The regiment had smashed through the last defenses in their way. The honor of taking the Abattoir belonged to the first battalion.
The battalion had stopped at the edge of the woods. A road embankment ran parallel to the firing line, and behind it opened the rye fields surrounding Mairis. It was an odd-looking thing. In the south, villages were often built of bricks, and looked like someone had taken a few city blocks and planted them in the middle of the countryside.
Mairis consisted of four clusters of wooden buildings, of which Talonico could see two.
Behind the road, the ground continued on a plateau, before sloping down into a small mirrored-L-shaped valley split by River Avide. Down at the riverbank, where Talonico could not see, was the temple to Boreas, the town hall, and the homes of the most important residents. On the right side of the valley rose two clusters of houses. One hid behind the other, where the ground once more sloped down. On the left was a row of barracks, surrounded by barbed wire.
“Talonico?” The corporal looked up to see Canales. The lieutenant was flanked by Greendown. “A moment?”
“Of course, of course,” Talonico answered. The pair sat down next to him.
“You looked like you were in some deep thought,” Greendown said, with a teasing smile and a pack of smokes extended. Talonico understood the situation was not too serious and accepted the smoke.
“I stopped walking, so my brain started moving instead. I don’t dare stop it.”
“Please don’t,” Canales said. “I need you to give your best now.”
Talonico looked at her, rubbing his chin. “The tanks are here?”
“At any moment,” Canales confirmed. “Eat what you can before that.”
Half an hour later the tanks arrived. Ten tanks prowled into view, their commanders proudly leaning out of the hatches. Two full platoons. After a moment of silence, the cheering began. Officers quickly silenced the troops, returning discipline. But there was a reason to cheer.
Griffon Medium Tanks, commonly called Vultures, were beasts meant to cut through trench lines. Eight meters in length, and nearly three in height, they were armed with an imposing six-pounder field gun and a pair of sponson-mounted machine guns. On their hulls, various slogans were written.
“Bovine Liberation Now!”
“Onwards to the North! First to the Frozen Sea!”
“Death to the Paramilitary!”
The tanks stopped and spread out into a line. Behind them, the third company set out in columns, ready to attack the enemy on the right.
Even though they were not supporting the second company, the tanks still made the morale soar. Nothing was going to stop them now.
With a whistle, the first mortar bombs fell. Explosions rocked the ground, and splinters of buildings flew high into the air. Mixed in with the explosions were smoke shells. Clouds of white smoke spread, surrounding the manor in the company’s path.
“Early,” Bluecrest hissed. “They’re too early.”
The carefully planned bombardment had started ahead of schedule. With quick corrections for fire difficult, the infantry had to fit into the schedule set by the artillery. Now, they would have to catch up.
“First wave, move. Second wave, prepare.”
Talonico stood up and gestured for the others to follow. They dashed through the field, straws quietly shuffling around them. A chain of griffons extending for nearly a hundred meters moved with silence and purpose. Talonico held back his cheer, to not let the enemy know they were coming.
The forest to their left exploded into gunfire. The first company had made contact.
A rifle cracked, and one of the scouts dropped to the ground. The others returned fire. Talonico saw flashes of light and movement, and the fight was over. Talonico jumped over the fallen scout and kept moving.
They reached the edge of the plateau.
Talonico lay down next to a tree. There was a good view. He could see the manor and the adjacent buildings. There were granaries some fifty meters away, to their right a few sheds, and to their left the manor itself, a yellow two-story building. The breeze had already blown the smokescreen away, revealing the cratered courtyard.
“Here,” he whispered. Quietly Talone snuck next to him, preparing her weapon. To her right was Wingerni, ready to reload the weapon. Everywhere squad leaders guided their squads into position.
Canales shuffled over and tapped Talonico on the shoulder. “Open fire on command. We’ll signal for others. On the manor, there’s a machine gun on the top floor. Do you see it?”
Talonico pulled out his binoculars. He could see the barrel of the weapon poking out the attic window. And just barely the dark shape kneeling behind it. His stomach turned to stone. There must have been more, all playing the waiting game. Both sides waited for the other to shoot first, balancing losing the initiative with staying hidden.
“Yes,” Talonico choked out. He pointed out the target for Talone, who took aim, her finger slowly moving to the trigger.
The fighting on their left showed no signs of stopping. And more sporadic gunfire came from their right. The sharp booms of six-pounder guns joined in.
“Nico, give me your rifle,” Canales whispered. “Shoot when I shoot.”
Talonico obeyed, and the lieutenant slowly rose, aiming at something. Another bomb landed on the courtyard, blasting apart a well. Then the shelling stopped.
Canales’ finger curled around the trigger. Through the sights, she watched the window on the left of the door. Her heart hammered in her barrel. One. Two. Three.
A griffon appeared in the window. Gently, calmly, as if on a firing range, she pulled the trigger. The griffon disappeared.
A heartbeat later the attic window exploded inwards as Talone emptied her entire magazine. Talonico’s world exploded into light and noise as three platoons opened fire.
Wingerni yanked off the empty magazine and slammed a new one in, even as bullets whipped past him.
“Single shots!” Talonico shouted. “Keep it up! Aim at the window!”
Talone aimed and fired two shots. The gun crew dared not raise its head again. The rifle bucked in her claws as she fired again and again. A grim, satisfied smirk came to her face. The weapon clicked empty.
“Reload!”
Wingerni pulled the magazine off. Splinters flew into Talone’s face as a round hit a tree, and Wingerni fell with a yelp.
“Fuck, I’m okay, I’m okay!”
Talone didn’t waste a second to answer, picking up the dropped magazine and slamming it in. Talonico pressed against her, pointing a talon at something.
“There’s an MG! Shoot it!”
“I don’t see it!” Talone screamed back. Broken out of her trance, she saw that the defenders were already recovering. Firing from windows and firing slits cut in the walls. Some dashed through the trenches dug between the buildings or rose over the parapets to fire. Wherever the Paramilitary was pinned, somewhere else they rose.
“I’ll walk you. Look right of that bend in the trench. He’s reloading now”
Talone fired.
“Good, a few more,” Talonico ordered. Through his binoculars, he saw the gunner jerk back. The second burst felled them.
The machine gun in the attic fired again, kicking up dirt around the team. Ricochets whirred angrily through the air.
“Goddammit!” Canales shouted. “Right, Nico, keep that HMG pinned. Focus on nothing else.”
She tossed the rifle back to Talonico. “Full clip. Keep up the fire.”
Talonico adjusted his position and took aim. He could see the griffon inside.
Talonico’s talons threatened to wrench the weapon away from his target. He forced his sights back to the griffon’s barrel.
Talonico knew he had killed before. But then there had been no thought behind his actions, merely the chaos of battle and the need to survive
He thought of Amanda.
Amanda had been lucky, and still, no one deserved her fate. The Party’s victims now had a name and a face, and this griffon, though innocent of what happened to Amanda, fought for the Paramilitary. He fought to keep things as they were.
Talonico’s talon curled around the trigger.
”You,” he thought, ”You, I will kill.”
Talonico pulled the trigger.
Around them, griffons of the second company fought. But their attack had come to a standstill.
A runner from the second company ran to major Thunderclaw.
“Sir, captain Telesca requests a second barrage on point Baker 1. The enemy is dug in, and she does not have fire superiority. She will not assault until she has that.”
Thunderclaw nodded at the runner. He had already guessed it, as he saw the second company’s firing line from his position next to a tall, dead and barkless tree. Third company he did not see, but as he had heard no fighting from their direction, he assumed they were preparing to assault their first objective. And the first company?
Streams of wounded stragglers returned from the left. The first company had decimated a platoon trying to probe the battalion’s flank, before being hit with pre-sighted mortars. Just as they had planned the attack down to the last detail, the enemy had planned their defense well. Already it seemed the Paramilitary had vacated the forests in the first company’s sector, leaving them with a bloody nose for little gain. The only good news was the prisoners coming with the wounded.
“Vozza,” Thunderclaw ordered the artillery observer by his side. “Tell the mortar platoon to fire a second barrage behind point Baker 1.”
“Sir, I cannot just disrupt the prepared fire plan,” the Lieutenant said. “All tubes are already preparing for their next targets. They may not have enough ammunition for both missions.”
“Do as you are told!” Thunderclaw snapped. “The fire plan will not matter if the infantry is stopped now.”
Sufficiently cowed, the lieutenant picked up his field telephone to call. Thunderclaw gave his map a look over.
“Rubino!”
“Sir?” one of Thunderclaw’s runners asked, stepping forward.
“Fly over to the third company, and tell them to send two tanks to assist the second company.”
The courier flew off, skimming the ground. Soon the second company’s runner followed, carrying Thundercalw’s message to Telesca.
Dammit. His plan had been good, but it needed to adapt. The enemy knew to not try a static defense, instead pulling back to new lines.
But how to adapt? He had a platoon of scouts in reserve, nothing more. He was a good player, his pieces were clumsy. Three rifle companies left him without a reserve. The fourth company? Yes, the fourth company. Now spread out across the line with its machine guns, there was his reserve. Carrying machine guns cumbersome on the offense, but so vital in defense that he could not make them into a rifle company. The scouts were busy elsewhere.
No, he could not change his plan, because there was no way to change it. The tanks were the greatest concession he could give to the second. The weight of his punch was on the right, and he had just weakened that. But neither could he let the other companies be stopped, lest he risk his right talon being chopped off. He just hoped Telesca made good use of the tanks.
The rightmost outbuilding collapsed as two six-pounder shells slammed into it. Pillars of smoke and dust and pieces of logs flew into the air. Four heavy machine guns hammered the survivors climbing from the rubble.
Talonico cheered as the two tanks trundled up from the right. In a single stroke, the deadlock was broken. The tanks fired again, and two more explosions shook the ground. He could hear the whistling of bullets die down as panic set in among the defenders.
He slapped Talone on the shoulder. “Pour it on, don’t let them recover! Anything that moves, shoot it.”
To Milan and Bluecrest, who had remained in cover, filling empty magazines, he shouted: “Get in here! We need every gun.”
The two rushed up the slope, pulling out their rifles. Across the line, Griffons were emboldened by the appearance of the tanks, and the sudden lack of bullets coming their way. Mortar bombs slammed into the courtyard. In the flashes of flame, Talonico saw running griffons fall over. Rounds fell for a minute, and Talonico felt a grim satisfaction that it was not him in the middle of it.
A cheer came from the right. The sixth platoon charged through the line. Their shouts overshadowed the sound of firing. Without firing a shot, they crossed the fifty meters to the outer buildings. Immediately they started throwing grenades through the windows and firing slits.
In flashes of fire and movement, the six squads moved from building to building. The tanks meanwhile had driven behind the manor, firing into the distance. In the village center, Talonico could see explosions as the tanks fired indiscriminately into buildings.
Captain Telesca ran to them, accompanied by her runners. Silverbeak was missing from the group.
“Canales,” she said, calm and professional. “Get your section down there, and set up defensive positions.”
Canales led the section to the manor. Corpses lay in the trenches, twisted in pain. A few were in the courtyard. The yard itself was torn open. Thick acrid dust lingered in the air, and somewhere a fire crackled threateningly.
“Well fuck me,” Talone blurted out when she saw a griffon on the ground behind the manor, a heavy machine gun on her back. “That was one persistent bastard, but if she gets back from that, I will be surprised.”
Canales ordered Talonico to get in position on the right side of the yard. There, the ground rose in a small embankment. Likely the beginnings of a future wall, it now served as cover for the squad.
“Spread out,” he ordered. “Talone, if you see anything move in front of us, give it a quick burst. Remember we have the third company on our right. And everyone takes a drink.”
Talonico felt nauseous from dehydration. There had been no time to drink during the fighting. Now the lukewarm water was the best thing in his world.
He put the canteen down and glanced at his wristwatch.
They had fought for twenty minutes for practically no gain.
“Hey Corporal,” Milan spoke. “Why do they give LMGs so much work? We must support the attack, we must rush to the defense. Often we have to charge because everybody else has a bolt action. The army should get submachine guns, and give them to those who charge.”
“I’m sure the generals have never thought of that,” Bluecrest suggested. “You should bring it up over tea.”
“If you want, I can get a hacksaw and make you a submachine gun,” Wingerni suggested, pointing his thumb at Talone.
As if on cue, Talone fired. The sound broke the relative calm.
“One of them popped from the field,” she explained, never raising her head from the sights.
“What did they do?” Talonico asked. His focus had been on the buildings across the river.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look that closely.”
The watch continued in silence. From their left, they heard no more shooting. The tanks had calmed down, conserving their ammunition. Only on their right, the sounds of fighting continued. Then a metallic cough came from behind the temple. More followed. By instinct Talonico crouched. But these rounds were not meant for them.
To their right, mortar bombs exploded on the hill, hammering the rightmost part of the village. More and more bombs fell, as though the enemy sought to break an entire company in a single barrage. But that too died down. The battle paused for a breath, preparing for the second round.
Talonico heard shuffling behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Major Thunderclaw was coming their way, Telesca one step behind him.
“The enemy has no tanks,” the Major said to Telesca. “Nor do they intend to counterattack. They would have done so now.”
“They try to dictate the battle by pulling us into one frontal attack after another,” Telesca answered. She then looked at the griffons by the embankment.
“Well, Talonico. How is it that the Battalion commander always finds you?”
The question caught the Corporal off guard. He chuckled as he spun around to greet the two officers.
“Ma’am, the same way the bullets find us. We are a priority target.”
“That you are. That was some clatter, was it not.”
A quick flurry of affirmations came the captain’s way. None seemed quite genuine, but what were they supposed to do? If a captain asked you a question, you said yes.
“Good, good,” the captain muttered as he looked into the distance. There was not much to see. Nondescript homes and tall trees. Mist hung close to the ground, swirling around the green rye stalks.
“With the tanks, we can easily cross the river. Is the first company in position?” Captain Telesca asked, now speaking only to Thunderclaw.
“They telephoned me a moment ago,” the Major reassured her. “Their scouts had just cleared the woods. Now get your company moving. We are squeezing the enemy, and I won’t waste that opportunity.”
The captain did as she was told. As heavy machine guns were dragged into the manor to provide support, the second company spread out and prepared to advance. The automatic section was shuffled to the right, to support the platoons clearing the temple. Three platoons, 4 through 6 were in the first wave as they had suffered the least casualties. The other three and the automatics in the second, ten meters behind the first.
“Advance,” Canales whispered. Talonico rose and started moving forward. In front of him was a line of griffons moving without a sound, nervous eyes scanning the field. They moved past the tanks. The vehicles’ commanders seemed just as anxious.
A few gunshots rang from the right. Then the tanks opened fire. To Talonico’s surprise, the explosions came from in front of them. Something was behind the manor. Griffons exchanged nervous glances.
“What is it?” a griffon's eyes asked.
“I don’t know,” another’s answered.
With time to think, their thoughts flew to the worst conclusions. A second line? Reinforcements. Already the company had been thinned. Would the second be as bad?
One of the scouts, moving ten meters in front of the line, suddenly stopped, and fired.
“Enemy in the field!” she screamed. More gunshots followed. Then the enemy opened fire.
The scout had stumbled onto a lone straggler. When she had opened fire, the enemy had seen the muzzle flash. To their front left, on top of the valley’s left slope, six machine guns opened fire as one. Griffons fell screaming.
Driven by instinct, many opened fire. The enemy in the Temple, and those pressed against the riverbanks took aim and fired. More griffons dropped dead. Caught in a crossfire, the second company stopped. The only thing saving them from a disaster were the crops hiding them, and that they were not in a proper enfilade. The bullets did not pass through the entire line.
Captain Telesca watched the situation with concern. The first wave was paralyzed. She had already stopped the second, which had traded shots with the enemy on the ridge for several minutes to no effect. She had thought they had received machine gun fire earlier, but with it being so ineffective, she had written it off. Most likely just exceptionally heavy rifle fire. She had been wrong.
From the muzzle flashes, she counted a full machine gun company. Tracers flew her way at even intervals. While scary, the fire had been largely ineffective, and now they were firing blindly. In fact, most rounds flew over their targets. The field was not completely flat, and her griffons had found some dead ground. But if she tried to move the company, the enemy was sure to correct their aim.
As she watched she also saw the first company engage the machine guns. The tanks fired, and one of the machine gun nests disappeared. She could not see the results, but from an explosion that close, the weapon had to be out of action.
That made the rifles in front of her the greater threat. The worst was over. Now she just had to get her company back in motion.
She called Canales over. She was to move forward, and clear the enemy from the dead ground created by the river. The rest of the company would follow soon after. As the second lieutenant ran off, Telesca ordered Silverbeak to bring up the second wave once the first had reached its objective.
And where to start the rallying? There, the sixth platoon seemed to waver the worst. She walked over to the platoon, as if silently ignoring the bullets flying past her, and with that mockery of death seeking to inspire the company.
“Where is your platoon leader?” she asked the closest griffon. He had been firing without aiming, a clear sign of rising panic. The blue griffon looked up, and had the decency to look ashamed.
“Dead,” he responded. “The MG got her, took off half her head.”
Well, without a leader to inspire them, no wonder the platoon had stopped. Since all other platoon leaders were busy with their own platoons, it fell to Telesca to take control. She just needed the right moment.
“Greendown, Talonico!” Canales called the two squad leaders. “We will get up to the river, you see where it turns. There is some dead ground there, and a flanking position. Do you have grenades to clear the bend?”
“Yes,” Greendown answered, his face serious. Talonico also replied in the affirmative.
Without a delay, Canales led the section to its target. Forced to move carefully, and to stop at every sound, their movement was slow. They could not afford to stumble into a straggler. Crossing the distance took almost five minutes of crawling which left them exhausted.
“Get your ammo bearers to watch the flank,” Canales whispered as they drew near. “We’ll throw grenades and get to the bend.”
Talonico quickly passed on the message. He pulled a grenade from his belt. It was a peculiar-looking thing, with a long, cardboard shaft and a heavy, round head filled with pellets.
The river was ten meters away. Talonico grabbed the grenade's pull cord. Wingerni also prepared his grenade. Greendown made eye contact with Talonico. Yellow eyes met red ones. Both could see each other’s fears.
Greendown raised all three talons. He prepared his grenade and nodded once. Twice. Thrice.
Four grenades sailed through the air, landing on the riverbank. Talonico heard an alarmed yell that was cut short by a series of explosions. Mud and water flew in the air. Before the last droplets fell Talonico rushed to the riverbank. The river made a sharp turn, running parallel to the company, before turning away from them where Talonico was. Their right side was clear and screened from the temple by apple trees. The bank facing the company was steep, and a row of griffons leaned against the side, firing into the field. They were still recovering from the sudden explosions.
Talone landed next to him, aimed, and fired.
Two bursts cut into the Paramilitary. Dead griffons rolled down into the river, or lay where they were shot. An officer fired her pistol empty. Talonico shot her. The officer fell into the dark waters and did not rise.
“More grenades!” Greendown shouted. Another grenade landed in the dirt. Its explosion ripped the paw off an unlucky griffon. A moment later Talonico’s grenade landed on a trio operating an automatic rifle.
Panic setting in, the Paramilitary did the worst thing they could have done. They ran.
Talonico snatched up his rifle, and aimed. His shot dropped a griffon rising from his hiding spot in the reeds. A bullet hit the wall, spraying pieces of rock at Talonico’s brown face. More bullets hammered into the rocks, forcing him to hunker down.
“Grenade!” Milan shouted a warning. The explosive hit the wall and plopped down on the wrong side. The ground shook. Talonico’s ears rang as he bounced up. The griffon who had thrown the grenade was slower. A gray helmet rose from the reeds right into Talonico’s sights. His rifle kicked, and the head disappeared.
Talonico reached for his belt. Two grenades left. He tossed one and was rewarded with alarmed yells, followed by an explosion.
“Into the river,” Canales ordered. Talonico hauled himself over the wall. His paws landed on soft soil, and instinctively he spread his wings. With a clumsy glide, he crossed the river and took aim.
Telesca saw the explosions and sensed the fire lessening. The machine guns were no longer an issue. Now was the time.
She was not an approachable leader. Many in the ranks found her scary, even to some who had known her for years. But they respected her, and here that respect was all that mattered.
She pulled out her service pistol, and with a shrill, piercing voice cried. “The path is open! Sixth platoon, follow me! Second company, follow your Captain!”
Unflinching, she marched, even as the company hesitated. But she could not look back, because she could not hesitate. And then it happened.
A few squad leaders stood up. Then their squads. And with that, the spell of fear was broken.
Cheering, the second company charged. Rifles dropped a few. But this time they did not stop.
With grenades and bayonets, they cleared the Temple. Corpses were sprawled on the sacred grounds and wounded leaned against walls, where the blood ran down the yellow wood. Behind the temple, they found the remains of a mortar battery.
Talonico aimed at the commander, but she was faster. He fell holding his wrist. Talone gunned the officer down in return. She emptied her entire magazine into the shaking corpse.
A Paramilitary captain, finding himself in command of little more than a hundred griffons, ordered a retreat rather than commit to a last stand.
The exhausted battalion had taken Mairis. 27 prisoners they had taken to be marveled at. The enemy’s estimated body count approached three hundred dead and wounded.
As Major Thunderclaw watched the third battalion march past his troops, he felt little joy at the success. Across the field, 89 of his griffons lay dead. A similar number was wounded, waiting for evacuation.
Fifteen percent of his battalion had disappeared in less than an hour.
Such was their first real battle.
Talonico was surrounded by his squad. A bandage had been wrapped around his wounded claw, which he had shoved into his coat. Moving with three limbs made for a tough balancing act, but it kept the limb immobile until a medic could take a look.
They had gone to see the lieutenant that had shot him. Something in her called to him. A morbid, intense curiosity that demanded to know who she had been. Or the desire to focus on the most intact corpse. The tanks had devastated the mortars, leaving wrecked weapons and mangled bodies around smoking craters.
The lieutenant lay on her stomach, head rolled to the side. She might have looked alive, were it not for her pained grimace. It was something nobody alive could make.
“So this is the one I stitched?” Talone asked. The griffoness was leaning against her machine gun, a cigarette hanging from her beak.
“Yes, it is,” Talonico said. He too was smoking. It had stopped his claws from trembling.
“Good. I’m taking the first bits.” Without warning, Talone reached for the corpse. She pulled her pockets open and rummaged through their contents.
“Letters, letters,” she muttered. She glimpsed at the contents of one letter and laughed. “Holy shit, she was a romantic.”
“Is that necessary?” Milan asked. “Come on, desecration is a bit much.”
“Not if there is a purpose. And if you don’t want to watch, you can go keep Whitefeather company,” with the last word, Talone’s voice gained a triumphant tone. She pulled out a dozen coins, inspecting them. “Fifty Idols? Bitch was rich.”
With the invisible barrier crossed, the squad descended upon the corpse. From her haversack, they found a loaf of hard rye bread. Bluecrest pocketed it. Touching a corpse had been a disgusting thought mere moments ago, but now those thoughts were in the past.
Lieutenant Gilda Silvia was left on the field, her pockets empty. Her rank insignia was torn off, and would later be used to buy coffee grounds from rear-area troops.
Talonico lay on the grass next to a farmhouse, leaning on his backpack. A Paramilitary propaganda poster was nailed to the wall above his head.
"Are you a predator or prey?" the poster asked.
He was not going to fall asleep, he was far too tense for that, but it helped him relax. He believed they would soon continue their advance, and wanted to use every available second to rest.
Two sets of paws and talons appeared at his side. It was Wingerni and Milan.
“Ah, Corporal,” Wingerni began. “Lads from the third platoon said that the field kitchen is bogged down. Do you mind if we go and scour the place for food?”
Talonico watched the two, considering if he should give them permission. The pair of innocent faces brought his sister to mind, looking at him with her ruby eyes shining.
Killing was its purpose, but looting was where the Army drew a line. Something in the thought made Talonico smile.
“Well, it is not exactly allowed, but as long as you only take from the dead, I'll look the other way. It is a small sin, all things considered. And Wingerni?”
"Corporal?"
Talonico pointed at the poster. Imitating Silverbeak he asked: "are you, a predator, or prey?"
"Corporal, I am the finest rumor-hunter of this regiment, and it is a tragedy I have not been rewarded for it."
The pair left. Soon Greendown replaced them. “Again you are just thinking," he said. "You should be sleeping. You never know when you next have a chance.”
“I don’t know how to stop thinking,” Talonico answered. “If I do, then I’ll start thinking all sorts of bad things. Like should we do this?”
Talonico gestured at a trail of blood staining the cobblestone yard. Private Whitefeather had fallen there. Talonico remembered how during one winter his rifle had frozen stuck. The burly private had wrenched the bolt hard enough to shatter the ice and to pull the bolt from the rifle. Baffled, Talonico and Greendown had passed the information up to the lieutenant running the exercise.
The lieutenant had laughed herself silly, and remarked that Whitefeather was no scout material. A machine gun had killed her that day. Whitefeather had been blinded by shrapnel.
“Do you think Boreas would want us to kill griffons? Is that why Grover united us?”
Greendown did not answer, staring vacantly into the distance. An ocean of emotions swelled in his eyes as he looked at the dead, threatening to spill over the facade of a strong leader. He blinked, and with that, the ocean was covered with a thin layer of steel.
“I’ll leave the spiritual to the priests. But if Boreas did not want war, he didn’t do much to stop it. Better we don’t think of it.”
“Exactly,” Talonico said. Then, wrenching the conversation to a more comfortable subject, he blurted out. “Say, Quartermaster. You know how ponies say Celestia moves the Sun and the Moon? Do you think they are bullshitting us on a species level?”
“If you can’t stop thinking, I can help with that,” Greendown said, brandishing the butt of his rifle. “But no, you can’t get a whole species across three continents to get on that kind of prank.”
Talonico rose from the grass and picked up his helmet. “I don’t know. The Paramilitary must be shitting us with everything. And that’s half of all griffons on board.”
Greendown shook his head. “I suppose you can figure that out at the hospital. I heard you were hit in the bone.”
“Yes. My left talon is fucked.” Talonico’s happy look was replaced by a somber one. He had seen the approaching ambulance. “So, say hi to everyone for me, and tell them to not worry.”
Talonico left the front on a carriage pulled by a griffon and a rescued bull.
The rest of the battalion carried on with its war. The battle of Mairis Abattoir was over. The first three days of what would be six years of war.
