Gryphus

Having survived the Great War without any cataclysmic battles fought on its soil, and only a few volunteer divisions seeing action, the Griffon Kingdom threw itself to the Civil War with a frenzy most of the world had matured out of. The Second Battle of Gryphus provided the Kingdom with a taste of what others had seen. Propaganda on both sides spoke of death as a noble sacrifice to cleanse the nation, and here a generation’s finest was given their chance to purify the kingdom.

From THE SUNDERED KINGDOM, by Goldie Delicious.

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

“There’s nothing left.”

Corporal Talonico walked past the smoking craters, searching for survivors. Debris littered the marshy ground, covering the corpses of young griffons. The tall griff knelt down next to one, pressing long talons against her neck. There was no pulse. His brown wings spread out in agitation, and with a weary sigh, Talonico rolled her to her back and yanked her shirt open.

She had died surprised, her grayish-green uniform unbuttoned, and a cap on her head instead of a steel helmet. Blood from her wounds stained the insignia on her collar. Talonico folded her dog tag, cutting it in two. He pocketed the lower part.

“That’s four on my end,” Talonico called out. From the other side of a torn tent, another griffon answered.

“And five on mine.”

Almost a full squad. Talonico looked up, to where the squad’s last member awaited. The front third of a griffon hung from the branches of a dead tree. His body was brown, like Talonico’s, but his head was gray to the corporal’s white. “Should we get him down?”

“Not taking that risk,” answered the other voice. Bounding from the other side of the tent came sergeant Greendown. Dark gray, except for the green tufts on his cheeks, he was Talonico’s friend and immediate superior. The Sergeant looked at the corpse, a disgusted grimace on his face. “With how high he is, it would take a while. I’m not waiting for a second barrage.”

“Aye,” Talonico reluctantly agreed. “Well, that’s how it is.”

The two walked away, leaving the hill behind. Almost immediately the ground below them turned soft and wet, squishing with every step. The squad of reservists hadn’t wanted to set up their tent in the wet marsh, and against the advice of more experienced troops, set up on a relatively dry hill.

When the enemy fired blindly they had targeted terrain sticking out.

“It wasn’t mortars that did that,” Greendown said all of a sudden. “Those craters are too big for even heavy mortars.”

“Six-inch guns?” Talonico asked, tilting his head. “I can’t imagine them in this thicket. They’d sink before they were in position.”

“You know better than me. Oh, and give me the tags you took, I’ll go report to Mama Liv.”

Talonico fished the tags from his pocket. One had been torn in two by a fragment, slick with blood that stained the griffon’s talons. He gave the hill one final look, grimacing in disgust. Talonico had forgotten how awful death looked.

At least the shells had missed the rest of the bivouac area, which was a good distance away for a reason.

“I’ll get back to the section,” Talonico sighed, parting from Greendown as the pair approached the command tent hidden under the cover of a thick forest. A pair of medics rushed past him, moving to gather the dead. The initial shock had passed, and griffons were returning to their routine of rest and maintenance.

Greendown entered the tent, while Talonico continued to his, standing a short distance away. The machine gun section was directly under the captain's control, and she wanted to keep them close.

The tent had been set up under the cover of a pair of spruces, and further concealed with long branches. A stovepipe poked past them, belching thin smoke and the occasional spark. In the Griffon Kingdom, late summer could already be cool, and they were well on their way to autumn.

Outside the tent, a griffon from his squad busied herself with cutting firewood.

“No good news?” private Milan asked, seeing the look on his face. Tawny, and with red cheeks, Milan could meld into any crowd.

“None,” Talonico answered and sat on a felled tree. Frustrated, he took off his helmet and slung his rifle out. “The guns fucked everything on that hill.”

The griffoness sighed. A swing of an axe split another log of birch. Milan had been enthusiastic about the start of the war, seeing it as a chance to cleanse the world of the evil of the Feast Party. The belief that griffons were entitled to eat any creatures they considered prey was beyond disgusting. Months of fighting had not taken away that innocent enthusiasm, but her smile no longer reached her eyes. “Yeah, I expected that. What were they thinking?”

“They thought they were safe,” Talonico muttered. Slowly and methodically, he started stripping his rifle, storing the parts in his helmet. The monotonous activity helped calm him, channeling his frustrations into something constructive.

The war had lasted only three months, and Milan had been there from the start. That was more than any of the reservists had seen. It was in fact, more than Talonico had seen, having spent two months in a hospital after being shot through a bone in his arm.

“It’s not that long ago that wars had a clear battlefield, and everything behind it went untouched,” he continued.

“And that’s what they were used to?” Milan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Must have been,” Talonico answered. All the while, he kept cleaning the weapon. “Damn them.”

“And damn those guns.” Another log split. “They keep shooting unmolested, and even if they only catch idiots, they get to keep going.”

Talonico nodded. “I’d pay for some pilot to strafe the guns. Make those fuckers run for once.”
“I mean, you could climb to Gun-Fucked hill. When you see the cannon blast, you start shooting.”

The name, so very military in its nature, brought a smile to the corporal’s face. There was not a single thing they could not give a sexual name. He patted his rifle reassuringly. “I don’t think eight-oh-three could make that shot. Not for lack of trying, he’s a spirited lad. Now go to the tent and get some rest. I can chop the rest of the wood.”

The howitzer fired again. Ancient trees shook from the muzzle blast, raining branches onto the griffons crewing the weapon.

“Reload!”

Captain Agosto watched as the crews realigned their howitzers. Pairs of griffons maneuvered heavy eight-inch shells and propellant bags, going through the arduous process of reloading the guns. One by one, the long barrels rose, pointing high into the sky.

“Attention!” Agosto yelled, raising her claw. Seeing she had the attention of the gun commanders, she brought it down in a swift strike. “Fire!”

Again, the four guns fired, shaking the earth. The crews, dirty and tired, moved away from their weapons, congratulating each other on their good work.

Agosto watched them with pride. Although the battery was cursed with old guns, the crews more than made up for that deficiency. The howitzers had no recoil absorbing system, meaning the weapons had to be staked before firing, lest they required two observers: one to see where the shell landed, and another to find the gun.

“I am impressed, Captain.”

Agosto looked at the griffon that had spoken. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Lieutenant Colonel Snowfeather was an odd griffon. She had a small head and a flat, round face of gray and white, a pattern the rest of her feathers shared, while her fur was almost yellow in color. Snowfeather had been an observer in a number of conflicts around the world, refining her tactics on that experience. She had returned home just in time to support the coup that had started the rule of the Feast party.

“I admit, you are a good replacement for Major Manole, bless their soul. You did not disappoint.”

“Aye, that screech was an excellent teacher.”

The Major, fully aware of their outdated equipment, had gone out of their way to make the battery’s soldiers proud of their service branch. The red stripes in their collars ended in the symbol of a flaming grenade, something normally reserved for dress uniforms. “So, Colonel, what brings you here?”

Snowfeather laughed at her straightforwardness. It was in her opinion the best part of serving in the Army Group North, and the Paramilitary after the coup. As she moved to pull a list of orders from her pocket, she swung her rifle out of the way. The weapon had been cut short, with half of its barrel and the entirety of its butt missing, making the whole thing look like an oversized pistol.

“Work, as always. The regiment is being pulled from the front,” the Colonel answered, offering Agosto her written orders. “Why or where, I do not know. The withdrawal must be gradual, lest the Prey finds out.”

Prey. That was what they called those fighting in the Southern army. Griffons that had disgraced themselves by siding with the bovines, willing to throw their lives away for creatures only fit to be food. Army Group South, Republicans, Monarchists, or Equalists, whatever they called themselves, they were all the same kind of scum.

“I understand. I will start the preparations. Well, it gives us a moment to stockpile. We have ammo for two more days.”

As the Colonel left, Agosto’s telephone operator spoke up. “Do I remember this right? Isn’t she the one with a tank?”

“Three,” another answered. “One for each kid.”

“She had twins?” Agosto asked, surprised. “I thought she had just one egg.”

“The word is,” the operator hurried to explain. “That she got two chicks from one egg.”

“And she has a tank for each of them?”

“Yes, or, well, only one now, two are stuck in customs in Prance.”

Leaving the two to their talk, Agosto scanned her orders. The regiment had suffered few casualties, so that was not why they were leaving. No, they were pulled from the front because they were needed somewhere else.

Finally, they would be pulled from this wasteland to somewhere their contributions mattered. Something, she knew, was about to happen.