Gryphus

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

The first shell fell with a tearing shriek. A machine gun nest disappeared in a flash of smoke and fire, its occupants turned into bloody ribbons that rained down with dirt and debris.

Screaming, the first platoon burst forth from the forest, Canales at their lead, a pistol in her black claw. Rifles barked behind them, covering their advance.

“Forward!” Canales encouraged her platoon. “Don’t stop!”

Blood rushed through her veins as bullets snapped past the lieutenant’s head. Someone fell with a cry, but Canales ignored it. The enemy was caught by surprise, and here was a chance to drive her platoon into a charge.

There was an explosion to their left, as another position was destroyed. Neutralized was the proper term, but the clinical tone could never fit the carnage around her.

A few griffons paused to fire, before resuming their advance. None threw themselves prone. Canales saw this, brown eyes shining with pride. Then all her focus was on the enemy.

A few steps in front of Canales was a foxhole. A brown and white griffon peered over the edge, a gray helm on his head.

Canales plowed into the griffon, crashing atop him in the foxhole. His comrade was fumbling with the bolt of her weapon, and Canales never gave her a chance. Two shots from her pistol dropped the griffon, a rictus of pain and fear frozen on her face.

Canales shoved the smoking barrel against the one pinned below her.

“No! Nonononono!”

The lad, who seemed barely an adult, had only fear in his eyes as he tried desperately to shield his face with his talons.

Canales blinked, struggling to calm herself. He was not a threat.

“You there!” she ordered a passing griff. “Take care of the prisoner.”

As the two griffons left, she could finally assess the situation around her. The forward posts, set in a treeline separating two fields, had been overrun with ease. But behind the strip of forest, a few meters thick, opened another field.

The ground sloped up, and directly in front of Canales, on top of the ridge, stood a large windmill. The blades slowly turned in the breeze, and from every window came a muzzle flash. Canales flinched as a bullet snapped way too close. Brave as she was, she still valued her life.

More griffons moved along the ridge, seeking firing positions. Her task was to unhook the defenses of the flank, allowing the company to pour into the village. Before the attack began she had wondered absently if it was because Captain Telesca trusted her, or simply because she had the first platoon.

“Carranza!” She called the platoon’s second in command. The sergeant came over, a greenish-gray griffon with a weary look on his face.

“Yes?”

“Is the second wave ready?”

“Yes,” the sergeant nodded. “We’ll follow you the moment you have that hill.”

Around them, the platoon had spread out into a skirmish line, trading shots with the enemy. Two squads hang back, looking at the lieutenant for orders.

“Come on,” Canales muttered under her breath. The windmill should be gone any minute now. “Come on you piece of shit.”

As if on cue, the militia’s cannon fired again. In a flash of fire and smoke the wall of the wooden windmill exploded, raining burning debris onto the rocky ground around it. A panicking griff took to the air, but the burst of a machine gun cut the flight short. Canales looked at the weapon, confirming that the heavy weapons had come. Long bursts hammered the hill, dirt and sparks erupting where the bullets struck. Slowly the weight of fire coming their way lessened.

Canales stood a little higher, understanding her time was now.

“In a single file, follow me!”

Without waiting to see if they obeyed, Canales ran. She passed the firing line at a full run, the magazine pouches bouncing against her barrel. The world ceased to exist around her. There was only the heavy beating of her heart and her shallow breaths. Spreading her wings, Canales took to the air. Barely skimming the ground, she crossed the distance to the ridge with a burst of speed.

After a moment that lasted an eternity, she reached the foot of the hill. A griff from the militia had known the exact shape of the hill, telling them of a patch of dead ground that would conceal them.

But as reality crawled at a snail’s pace, something screamed at Canales.

Had it been that easy? No, it couldn’t. The windmill was a weak anchor, the Paramilitary had to secure the flank with something else. If not with griffons, then with firepower.

“DOWN!” Canales shouted as the machine gun opened fire.

The bullets tore through the group. A pair of griffons fell, clouds of pink mist erupting from their chests. A metallic clang, like a punctured can, rang out and another griffon fell, clutching the side of her head.

“Spread out! Don’t give them an easy target!” The black griffon tried to desperately control the situation. The griffons dove for cover, but the empty field offered none. Canales looked desperately for the machine gun, pulling up her binoculars. The fire was fairly inaccurate. It had to come from the edge of the field, but where?

The heavy undergrowth was easy to hide in, and Canales saw no movement. The wet snap of a bullet against the ground reminded her that they had to leave.

“Around the hill,” Canales ordered. “Get back to cover.”

An older private screamed in agony as a bullet pierced his arm. His friends dragged him around the hill, back to relative safety, followed by the rest of the group. The machine gun fired after them, hitting only dirt and stone.

That was a relief. Canales still hadn’t spotted the weapon, but if the hill masked them, she could narrow things down.

The black griffon turned away from the enemy, and looked down at private Ortolano, whose arm was being bandaged. Blood soaked the bandage and darkened the sleeve of his uniform. Next to him was Gerlond, holding her head and wincing in pain.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” the gray griffon gasped. “Didn’t kill me. I’ll make it.”

Canales smiled and nodded. But it was a hollow smile, meant to reassure without any confidence. The griffons around her were scared, feathers puffed, rifles held in tight grips. She was just as scared, but the lessons of officer training hammered at the back of her head. Focus on the mission.

She still had to take the right flank.

“I need three volunteers,” Canales said, looking up. “Storm us an opening, so I can bring the rest through.”

“No way we’ll make it,” a brown griffon shook his head. “No fucking way.”

“We will,” Canales interrupted his rant before he made the situation even worse. “We break that flank, or we get stuck here. Understood?”

The griffon refused to answer, but Canales could not allow the hesitation to spread. She grabbed the wounded griffons’ grenades and passed them to three reliable griffons, a corporal among them.

“Clear us a foothold in the trenches. I’ll bring the rest.”

The trio crawled up the slope. The entire exchange had taken seconds. Explosions and a flurry of rifle fire announced their success.

“Up!” she shouted, racing up the slope. Bullets beat the grass under her as she fell into the trench. Only dead and wounded defenders remained.

“Careful ma’am!” One of the privates shouted. “It’s a bit shallow!”

The trench was little more than a narrow, shallow ditch. Where the ground was soft, it was deep enough to walk in. Instead, Canales found herself sprawled on a rock that no shovel had touched. Swearing, she crawled next to the private.

“We have to widen the breach!” Canales yelled as more of her soldiers poured in. “You three, come with me! The rest of you, cover us!”

The quartet approached a corner in the trench. At a wordless signal, one griffon threw a grenade over the embankment. An explosion sent dirt raining. Before it had rained down, Canales had rounded the corner. Seeing a shade moving in the dust, she fired.

“Where the fuck is that mg?”

Talonico scanned the forest to their right through his binoculars. He had seen the bullets tear into Canales’ group, but the weapon still eluded them. No muzzle flashes, no smoke. The gun was damn well camouflaged.

“Just give the word,” Talone muttered next to him, looking over the sights of her light machine gun. The large, top-mounted magazine obstructed her vision, forcing her to lean away from Wingerni, who lay prone between the Corporal and the gunner.

“As soon as I see them…”

Frustration welled inside the Corporal. Their job was to suppress the enemy, but that didn’t work if he couldn’t see anything.

“Forward lads…”

It took Talonico a moment to register the distant command. He did not recognize the voice, and as countless griffons repeated the command, his confusion only mounted. The battle cry ended his confusion, and replaced it with horror.

The militia, tired of waiting when their homes were just within reach, charged. The moment they were out in the open, the machine gun opened fire. Squad and platoon leaders led their griffons walking into a massacre. Entire squads were cut down before the survivors took cover. Some listened to their survival instinct, fleeing back to the treeline or hunkering down behind their dead friends, but most tried to push in a futile effort.

Flinching at the screams of the wounded, Talonico peered through his binoculars. Finally, something caught his eye.

The rustling of a bush and dark shapes moving behind it.

“Talone!” He yelled, pointing at the machine gun. “Ten meters left of that birch. Range, two hundred. Fire!”

The private’s narrow beak twisted into a grin. She saw the enemy now. She rested her cheek on the wooden stock, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

Muzzle blasts slammed against Talonico’s face. One burst after another rained down on the machine gun, stirring the crew. He could see the crew turn their weapon.

Lowering instinctively, Talonico braced for the return fire. “Fuck’s sake. You’re supposed to lead.” he thought. “So stand up and lead.”

He could not. The shots went high, snapping into trees and cutting branches. But the sound was enough to make Talonico stay low, no matter how he had managed to stand up before.

“Empty!” Talone yelled. Wingerni wrenched the magazine off and slammed a new one in.

“Slow down. Don’t spend the mags so quick.”

To their left, the first squad also fired at the machine gun. Talonico could hear the weapon’s steady, hollow beat. Talone fired in longer bursts, emptying one magazine after another.

Then the enemy found them. The air around them burned as the machine gun emptied an entire belt in their direction. Talonico could not even hear the individual shots fly by, rather it felt like air itself warped around them. Talonico pressed tight against the ground, hiding behind a tree, even as bullets tore chunks from it.

Only Talone didn’t bother hiding. She kept firing, burst after burst. Drawn in by the repeated muzzle flashes, the shots came ever closer to hitting her.

“Get down!” Talonico shouted. Finally managed to force his body to act, crawling towards the gunner. “Take cover!”

When his words had no effect, he grabbed her webbing and pulled. A stream of bullets flew through the space occupied by her head, one punching a hole in the half-empty magazine.

“Don’t fucking play games!”

“Yes, Corp,” Talone said, sounding anything but repentant. She acted as if she had not just had a brush with death.

The machine gun had stopped to reload, giving them room to crawl into better positions. The militia took the opportunity to move, their ranks visibly thinner. The field gun no longer fired, likely afraid of hitting the group advancing along the trench. A series of small explosions announced Canales’ advance. Talonic caught glimpses of the black-coated officer moving along the ridge.

Unbeknownst to them, the field gun had sought the same machine gun they had fired at. Finally spotting it, they took careful aim and fired. The shot passed between trees, hitting the treetops above the gun.

From his position, Talonico saw the first explosion, and a pine snapping in two like a dry twig. A moment later the second shot hit right in front of the crew. Through the smoke and dirt, he saw the weapon fly through the air.

“Fuck you!” Talonico joined the animalistic shouting. Everyone who saw the explosion cheered, or cursed the crew. “Fuck you!”

The squad approached the smoking crater. The machine gun had been torn from its tripod. Its water jacket, ripped open, leaked dirty water into a growing pool. The gunner's claws, ripped off, lay a few meters from the dead gunner. Two more griffons lay next to the gun, their uniforms soaked in blood where the fragments had cut into them.

“He lives,” Milan called out. The fourth griffon lay on his side, brown and gray face bloodied and battered. The chin strap of his gray helmet was cut inches from his throat. Talonico’s heart sank at the pitiful sight, and he knelt down to take a closer look.

Careful to not stir the griffon, Talonico raised his chin, and turned his head to get a better look. Milan gasped as she saw the torn mess that was left of the griffon’s right eye. A small fragment jutted out from the bloody remains.

“Should we give him a mercy kill?”

“No!” Talonico snapped, glaring at Talone. Two locked eyes, staring at each other without a word. Others stopped, looking at the two, questioning what was going on. Realizing she was outnumbered, Talone backed off

“Watch our backs,” Talonico ordered and reached for the bandages in his pocket. “Wingerni, Blue, take anything important they have.”

Left alone with the Corporal, Milan spoke up. “What about me?”

“Help me fix him.”

Talonico wrapped the bandage around the wounded griffon’s head, careful to not accidentally twist the fragment. Milan held him steady, watching with sickened fascination as Talonico covered both of the griffon’s eyes.

He was about Milan’s age, a few years older at most. Though not exactly malnourished, he was small in stature and likely hadn’t been fed well. The great famine must have happened during his youth, and the North had recovered poorly from the calamity.
“Hhh…” the griffon gasped, forcing Milan back into focus. He spluttered and coughed, trying to form coherent words. Finally arching his back and flaring his wings, he let out an agonized wail. “HEEELP! Heelp mee!”

“It- I-” Milan froze, trying to figure out what to do, even as she pinned the griffon down to prevent him from struggling too hard.

Talonico grabbed the prisoner’s talon, squeezing it. “Hey, hey,” he spoke, trying to keep his voice level. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” the griffon blubbered. “I can’t see!”

“That’s.” Talonico gulped. “That’s just the bandage. Don’t worry.”

“I can’t see!”

Talonico looked down at the griffon. The helpless cries twisted his soul, but the red strip on the griffon’s collar, marking his allegiance, ate away at his will to calm the griffon.

“Milan, go fetch a door or a stretcher. We’re getting him to a medic.”

“MEDIC!” the wounded boy repeated the word by instinct. “MEDIC!”

That was enough, and Talonico could no longer ignore the griffon under the uniform. He took his canteen and pressed it against his beak.

“Drink. We’ll get you to a medic.”

“I can’t see.”

“That’s the bandage.”

The water and the calm voice seemed to finally calm him. His breathing grew steadier.

“Did we get them? Did we beat their flanks?”

The genuine, eager question forced a bleak smile onto the Corporal’s face. “No. You’re a prisoner now.”

“Oh… Please don’t leave me.”

Talonico saw Milan return with a door torn off a shed. He moved to rise up, only to find his wrist held in a painful grip.

“I won’t leave you. Grab my tail. Second squad! Form up. We’re leaving.”

The five walked back to the village, hundreds of meters away, their prisoner resting on the thick, wooden door. Neither Bluecrest nor Talone spared the half-blind griffon from insults as they were forced to bear his weight.

Talonico was spared from that duty only because he carried multiple rifles and several belts of ammo on his back.

The defenses had been surprisingly light, breaking away after the ridge was taken. Covered by an artillery barrage, the Paramilitary had withdrawn across open fields, returning to their original positions.

Now Republican soldiers swarmed the streets, mingling with the few locals that had refused to evacuate. As the squad pushed their way through to the medic’s post, they came across a heated debate between Captain Telesca and the militia’s commander.

“...your grudge. The prisoners will be treated according to the Army Group’s orders.”

The young militia officer recoiled, then puffed up in anger. He swung his talon wildly. “You can bow to the General Staff, but they have no control over us!”

Behind him stood a group of griffs, eyeing the soldiers carefully. All held their rifles awkwardly, seeming intent on backing up their leader, but clearly aware of the first squad standing in their way. Talonico and Greendown made eye contact, and the sergeant nodded at a nearby house serving as a field hospital. Inside, a medic tended to the wounded of both sides.

The squad passed their prisoner to the medic, and joined Greendown. Talonico pulled out a cigarette and tried to unsuccessfully light it with twitching fingers. Checking that no one from the section saw, Greendown offered his lighter. Talonico accepted the flickering flame and nodded his thanks to the sergeant.

“What’s the fuck up?” he asked after taking a long drag.

Greendown looked at the two arguing officers, his gray face twisting in disgust. “The militia commander wants to execute the prisoners, and Grandma Livi is having none of that. So she’s dealing with the shithead while Silverbeak has the company.”

As if to prove his words, Captain Telesca stepped right up to the other officer. Despite her only reaching his beak, the younger griffon found himself backing off from her way. “If you want to kill the prisoners, you may do so. And I assure you I will march my company out and leave you to deal with the inevitable response by yourself.”

Whatever the company commander wanted to say, he was cut off by the scream of falling artillery.

Agosto poured over the charts, trying to find the correct one.

She had been woken up by a telephone call from a frustrated battalion commander demanding her support should the Prey attack his lines. Apparently, his screen had been pushed out of a village, leaving the path open to his main position.

Finding the correct place on the map had been a hassle, and from what she saw, the major’s fears seemed completely unfounded. His position was strong, and marshes limited the enemy’s approach. Snowfeather had however confirmed the order, leaving the captain to prepare the fire plans for the defense.

A battery of three-inch guns agreed, booming in the distance.

“What powders do we have?” one of her aides asked.

“The triple one and one-five-four,” Agosto answered, and the aide jotted the detail down. They had seventeen types of gunpowder in storage, all burning differently and resulting in a different trajectory for the shot.

Markings filled the map. They had to calculate every shot multiple times, accounting for elevation, air pressure, powder and so much more. The cheat sheet Agosto had prepared was lost somewhere in the clutter.

“Honey two’s location is” the telephone operator spoke to his headset. “Honey one, two, one, nine, six, one hundred, forty.”

Somewhere on the other end of the wire the details were checked. “Ma’am, correction! The elevation is forty-five.”

Agosto acknowledged the correction and added the numbers to her list. The terrain around the position was uneven, and a small mistake in elevation could result in a massive overshoot as a shot landed in a valley instead of a hill.

“Start calculating that one,” she ordered, finally finding her cheat sheet. She passed it to her aide, who sighed in relief at the reduced workload. Instead of doing all the work from scratch, he could adjust the ready numbers.

“Every other battery has already left,” her quartermaster muttered. “I’d hate for things to go to shit right now. All the weight on our withers.”

“At least they are wide,” Agosto scoffed. “I think they can carry one battle.”

Greendown’s section found itself in the company’s reserve, digging foxholes in an apple orchard. The Paramilitary had attempted a small probing attack that had been driven off without casualties.

Exhausted, they had greeted the delayed food delivery with equal amounts of excitement and curses. The food had been brought in large cans instead of the wheeled kitchen. Six hours the soup had been waiting for them, when it would last in the can, at most, four hours.

“Some gourmet stuff,” Wingerni snarked over his mess tin. Although soldiers considered almost anything edible after a battle, none would deny the odd taste of the soup. “I can really taste the spoiled vegetables.”

“I think there’s more than that,” Milan answered, digging into her meal, and pulling out a piece of a hare. She rolled the small piece of meat in her fork. The griffoness sat on the stone oven of the house the section had moved into. “I bet this bunny had something.”

“It had hepatitis,” Wingerni suggested. Talonico audibly snorted behind him, so the private chose to keep going. “A B C D E F G, which one does it have, Corporal?”

“K,” Talonico answered without hesitation, hiding his smirk behind a sip of water.

“Do they go that far?” Talone whispered, leaning over to her friend.

“Eh, I bet the Corporal has one in his collection. Hepatitis hare,” the brown griffon giggled. He was barely an adult, and at times it showed.

“Don’t whine about food,” Bluecrest said from the other side of the room. “It’s good enough, and we have plenty of it.”

“Hey, don’t take it too seriously,” Milan raised her claws in a calming gesture. “Talone isn’t into jokes but she doesn’t get mad.”

The older female scoffed. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“That’s because Talone is always mad,” Wingerni said, ignoring her plea. “She was fucking crazy today, kept shooting like that mg was nothing.”

“And speaking of,” Talonico interrupted them. “Clean up that gun a second time. I don’t want any nasty surprises with fouling. I’ll go get more ammo once the quartermaster is ready.”

“Will do, Corp,” Talone nodded. “Hey, Milan, did you snatch that thing I told you to?”

“No, I was a bit busy carrying those guns. Wingerni got something though.”

The private pulled out a photograph from his pocket and showed it to the two females. Talone seemed confused at first, before cracking a smile at a whispered explanation.

The rest of the short dinner passed with nonsensical conversation. Eventually, the Corporal left to find the quartermaster, leaving the squad under Bluecrest’s care.

They went through their routine in silence, cleaning their equipment, and arranging themselves some room to sleep. Furniture and kitchenware were shoved aside. A sentry from the first squad stepped outside into the darkness.

“Right, try to get some shut-eye,” Bluecrest eventually instructed the others. “It’ll be a cold night, so be ready for that.”

As the room fell silent, Wingerni’s mind wandered back to the battle, and the paralyzing, intoxicating fear. The sensation was all he could remember.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, his hand reaching for his sister’s photograph, stored deep in his pocket. Holding it in his claws, he finally fell asleep, dreaming of home.