Gryphus

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

The company set out before dawn.

In pitch blackness, and with a great clatter, they brought down their tents and packed their kits. Officers cussed and hissed for the troops to be quiet.

Soon, the company was ready, sitting at the edge of the road in long, platoon-sized columns. As they waited for the trucks that were, in true army fashion, late, the platoon leaders started touring the squads, ensuring everything was in order. As one approached the LMG section, Talonico could make out a familiar, feminine voice.

“Canales?”

The griffon stopped. “Nico? I heard you got back. How was the buck?”

“Fuck,” was the immediate, hissed reply. “Is that the only joke you people know?”

Someone had decided that the Corporal was in a relationship with an Ibex buck. The rumor was made even weirder by the fact that he had never even seen one in his life.

As second lieutenant Canales came closer, more features became visible in the darkness. Black feathers and a gray, strongly hooked beak. Her brown eyes had an intelligent, calculating look. She sat down in front of Greendown and Talonico, curling her feline tail around her legs.

The lieutenant had been their section leader before being promoted to the command of the first platoon.

“No, there are plenty of others,” Canales answered. “But seriously, I’m happy to see you again. You two have all your gear ready?”

“Yes,” Greendown answered. “I took the liberty of getting a few extra boxes of bullets. Two packs per griff.”

“Good, good. Nico, are you ready for a fight?”

“Of course,” Talonico scoffed. “Time to pull some Militia out of trouble.”

The densely wooded east had been a relatively quiet front in the Civil War. The terrain, mostly endless primeval forests, made any large-scale combat difficult. Roads were few and far between, causing headaches for anyone trying to supply the troops. Every place a large force could come through had been fortified.

Even that left massive gaps between units, most of which were plugged with volunteer militia. Though in high spirits, they tended to know little about warfare. To the right of their regiment, a company of militia had been driven from the isolated village they defended.

A few minutes later, they heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Almost as one, they watched a pair of griffons pull a creaking and shaky wagon down the road. They turned their heads to follow the wagon until it disappeared around a corner.

Time passed. The griffons talked quietly among themselves, trying to stave off the cold. The wagon was already making its way back, and still, there was no sign of the trucks.

“Hey, you the second company?” One of the griffons pulling the wagon asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. We brought the mail. Take it so we can get moving.”

A pair of griffons rushed to take the sack containing the letters, dumping its contents into their helmets. Captain Telesca, watching from the side, spoke up.

“We’re waiting for our ride. Did you see them on the way here?”

“Yeah. They had to take a detour because the road was too cratered. Said they’ll be here by five-thirty.”

Telseca’s eyes darkened. It would be twilight then, and she had no desire to test if the trucks would be spotted.

The mail was shared, and to his surprise, Talonico received two letters. So did Bluecrest, and a private from Greendown’s squad. The moment it got bright enough to read, Talonico opened his letter. As he scanned through its contents, he was interrupted by a gasp from Bluecrest.

The brown griffon had covered his black beak with one claw, the other holding what appeared to be a photo. His smile reached his eyes, and the griffon seemed to radiate joy.

“What is it?” Talonico asked.

Bluecrest offered the picture to him. A female griffon, dressed in fine clothes sat on a sofa. From the cluttered background, Talonico guessed it was her home. In her embrace, she held a peacefully sleeping hatchling swaddled in layers of blankets. Soft down and small feathers covered his head.

“My son,” Bluecrest choked out the words. A tear rolled down his cheek. “His name is Andrei.”

“He is amazing,” Talonico said, handing back the photo.

“He is,” Bluecrest agreed. But as he did so, much of his joy seemed to disappear. With an almost bitter voice, he whispered. “And I’m not with him.”

October
Western Griffon Kingdom
Countryside west of Gryphus, Paramilitary

“Hey, we found the cows.”

He watched as two griffons in mismatched uniforms escorted a group of cows and a trio of beaten civilians.

“These fucks were with them.”

Company commander Averla spat out his cigarette and marched out to greet his soldiers. He was a small griffon, with reddish-brown wings and a blue head. A black mask crossed his face above his beak, reaching from cheek to cheek and covering his yellow eyes.

“Shackle the meat and get them moving,” he ordered. Averla’s voice was loud and sharp. “I’ll deal with these idiots.”

His militia got to work. The cows had escaped while being transported to a slaughterhouse, sending his unit to a wild chase to catch them. After a sympathetic local had tipped off Averla, he had tracked them to an abandoned farm. The farm and all its outbuildings were overgrown after being abandoned during the Hunger Years.

Averla stalked over to the three civilians, who glared at him in contempt. He did not look threatening, wearing an old greatcoat with navy insignia, and with an unpainted helmet on his head. A quick look at history would have revealed the navy as a hotbed of bloodthirsty radicals.

“What did you think you would accomplish?” He asked. When no answer came, Averla continued. “You try to save cows, fucking cows, and put your own lives at stake.”

One of the griffons spat at his claws. A farmer, judging by his plain clothes. “Isn’t it obvious? Boreas gave griffons a sense of honor-”

A sharp blow sent the griffon sprawling.

“But you are not a griffon,” Averla growled. Hate coursed through him, turning his vision red. “You side with the prey, so that makes you prey.”

He slung out his rifle, the bayonet already fixed. The prone griff cried out in pain as the blade sunk into his stomach. Two more stabs felled his comrades. Looking at the griffons whimpering in agony, Averla called out.

“Cut three branches and put them up as a warning.”

“Yes, boss!”

Leaving the collaborators to their fate, Averla walked away, joining the column making its way to the closest village. Finding his assistant, he cursed.

“Damn these assholes for wasting our time. We should be at the front already.”

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

The shaking of the truck barely distracted the soldiers from their nonsensical discussions.

Wingerni, Talonico’s loader, was busy chatting with Bluecrest. The light brown, green-eyed griffon had his head thrown back, arms crossed behind it.

“The driver said there’s a rumor going that we’re going to get mustang advisors. Apparently, the brigade commanders are already making preparations.”

“No way that’s true,” Bluecrest shook his head. Both were of a similar color, but the lance corporal’s beak was black to Wingerni’s yellow. “And when did you talk to her?”

“Piss break. But-”

“No buts,” Bluecrest interrupted. “We’re on thin ice with Equestria as it is. There’s no way the General Staff will risk angering them. They already blockade us, so you know the ponies won’t hold back.”

“Eh, Sis always says the navy is expendable. Sending the ships doesn’t mean a commitment to a full war.” For all his silly manners and dumb jokes, Wingerni was smart and quick to pick up on what others were talking about.

“Your sister is in the Navy?” Milan piped up.

“Yeah.”

“Damn, do you have a photo?”

Elio picked up a small photograph that was immediately yanked from his claws. It was passed from one soldier to another, who ceased their talk to take a look. Almost immediately they started appraising her.

“That uniform fits well.” “She can show me navy stretches all night.” “Hey Wing, what ship does she serve on?”

When more vulgar comments followed Wingerni slammed his head into the truck bed’s wall. Elena was the first griffon most had seen in months that was remotely well-groomed and not interested in killing them.

A groan escaped his beak. “Before anyone goes and proposes, she did shoot at a passing car to keep rent low.”

“That’s it, I’m marrying her now,” A griffon from the first platoon proclaimed. “You’re invited to the wedding, but not the nuptial bed.”

“Fuck yourself,” Wingerni shot back. However, a small blush had appeared on his face, one that did not go unnoticed.

“Are you blushing?” Milan asked, leaning to take a closer look.

“No?”

“You fucking are! Can’t you handle a lewd joke?”

“Yes, I can,” Wingerni snapped, desperate for a way out. “I saw Blue’s kid and was just fine.”

It took Bluecrest a second to realize what the younger griffon meant. “Let me at him.” “No.” “Let me at him.”

A tap on his shoulder finally dragged Talonico into the conversation. He opened his eyes to see a concerned griffon from Greendown’s squad looking at him.

“Ah, Corporal?”

Hunt, he was called. White and blue face, with a yellow neck. Talonico did not even bother to look at where he was looking.

“Any talons visible? Is Blue smiling?”

The private leaned around Talonico. “Uh, no to first, yes to second.”

“That’s good. Hey, Greendown? Do you think Wingerni is right?”

“Could be,” the sergeant replied. “Mustangs fought for five years, they should know how war works. Was there anything interesting in your letter?”

Talonico pulled out the paper, passing it to Greendown over the hunched private’s head.

“Good news and bad news. Moms have steady jobs despite the war, and my sister is getting into art,” Talonico explained. He stopped to take a breath and spat over the edge of the bed. The twenty trucks raised a cloud of dust. Even at the front of the column, dirt had found its way into his dry mouth. “The bad news is that my grandfather is moving in. It seems he evacuated from his home.”

Greendown nodded in sympathy. “Sorry to hear that.”

“I know. Sucks to be us.”

Talonico’s answer turned the sympathy into a confused laugh. “What?”

“He’s a fan of the Feast Party,” Talonico said, taking the letter. “Had the knife and talon pin in his holiday suit, and tried to talk me into joining the Paramilitary. We haven’t talked since.”

The assistant driver’s shout buried Greendown’s answer. “Approaching the end of the road! Prepare to dismount!”

All conversation ground to a halt. The griffons gave their equipment a final check and donned their helmets. The trucks slowed down as a wall of trees came up, marking the furthest the engineers had cleared a road. Some distance away stood their camp.

Hastily the company cleared the road, forming into long lines. Everything was done with speed but without haste. As the amused rear-line troops watched on, the company marched after its captain, followed by machine gunners assigned to the company. No longer did they speak, silenced by the previously unfelt knot of fear in their stomachs.

A guide, dressed in the simple clothes of a farmer, came up to meet them. He was marked as a member of the Southern Militia by his orange armband, a bandolier, and a single-shot, 6.5-millimeter rifle.

Talone looked at the weapon in disgust. At least when the user was dead -and with that weapon, it was a when- she could take the ammunition for herself.

The silence of the long march left every griffon time to sort out their thoughts. Unreleased tension turned into boredom as the columns marched through the woods. A few leafy trees stood out from the endless mass of spruces, and the white bark of a copse of birches shone brightly next to a small, square field.

Bluecrest swatted at the mosquitoes buzzing around his sweaty head. The coolness of autumn no longer felt cool as they trudged through the thick undergrowth. Still, in the future, he could bring Andrei to a place like this. The birdsong was beautiful, and the forest smelled of life.

“Rear is falling behind,” a whispered call came from behind them. The heavy machine guns had the worst time in the terrain. Once the message had reached the front of the column, an answer rang back.

“Rear will have to catch up.”

Cursing up a storm, the heavy machine guns did that. Bluecrest watched a small, huffing private carry the weapon, and wondered which idiot had assigned the tiny griffoness a gun that weighed over twenty kilos.

A visible line of sentries announced that they had reached the Militia’s encampment. It stood a few hundred meters from the edge of a field. The crops had been harvested a long time ago, creating a barren strip of land nearly three hundred meters wide.

As the company formed a protective square, captain Telesca left to meet the militia’s commander. Kneeling on wet grass, rifle butts resting on the ground. Sharp eyes scanned the ground from under the brims of green helmets.

Their stern professionalism seemed to amuse much of the militia, who gathered to take a look. They were a varied bunch, the only uniform they wore orange armbands or quartered, orange and yellow republican flags. The same flags were on the collars of every soldier in the company.

“What is that?”

Bluecrest looked at where Hunt had pointed. Some distance away stood a field gun, hidden under a tarp and large spruce branches.

“Nico, you tell,” Greendown ordered.

“That’s a… Prench seventy-five,” Talonico answered. “What is it doing here?”

“The Prench donated a lot of weapons to Mustangs. Equestria made a lot of noise, but nothing more.”

“And when we helped Mustangs we were blockaded,” Hunt muttered. “Does Celestia hate griffons more?”

Bluecrest shook his head. He was fascinated by Equestria, and knew some things about its inner workings. “It’s because the Prench have a navy worth something.”

The whispered bickering continued until captain Telesca called the platoon leaders together.

Greendown also went, feeling out of place among the officers. Six lieutenants and second lieutenants stood in a semicircle in front of the captain, flanked by her second in command, lieutenant Silverbeak.

“Our plan remains simple,” Telesca began in an official tone that barely hid her frustration. “However, certain things must change.”

Silverbeak opened his beak. He tried to imitate the captain’s tone, failing miserably and only sounding self-righteous. “The Paramilitary captured the village two days ago, but a report was only sent after a counterattack failed to retake it.”

Greendown winced, and dared an angry glance at the militia commander a short distance away. Trust the militia to fuck it up. If the enemy had an inkling of competence, they would be up to their necks in trenches.

“The Paras have their first line right across the field. It is held lightly, meant to slow us down.”

Greendown nodded along. That was basic tactics.

“Their second line is in the village itself, anchored on the left flank by a manor on a hill, and on the right by a windmill. Common sense tells us to go around. Due to a lack of recon, that is not an option.”

Again, there was the tone of accusation. The militia’s commander, a young griffon with a cocky look on his face, stood some distance away, oblivious to the criticism.

“What we have is firepower,” Captain Telesca explained. “And to get the most out of it, we will go straight through.”

Greendown’s blood froze. A part of him had expected as much. The planning continued, going through the exact routes they would take, but Greendown heard less and less, as he prepared himself for the coming death.