Gryphus

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

“What are you doing?”

The increasingly familiar voice made the two militia griffons stop their task of tearing the door open. They had heard it now and then after the infantry company had arrived. The voice belonged to a griffon they all had agreed was closer to a hound of some sort than a noble griff, but the type of dog they had not agreed on. Was he the captain’s attack dog, or her lapdog? He certainly behaved like the former but yapped like the latter.

Turning around, the two soldiers, dressed in mismatched equipment, came face to face with a dull gray griffon staring at them with narrowed eyes. A light drizzle had dampened the dirt path the officer stood on. Large droplets of water burst against his green helmet.

“What are you doing?” Lieutenant Silverbeak demanded again.

“We- We were trying to get a look at the house,” the smaller griffon muttered. Her compatriot shot her a look, but could not muster a proper defense himself. “The commander’s orders. The family here might’ve spied for the Feast Party.”

“Then why wasn’t Captain Telesca informed yesterday?”

The two looked at each other with uncertainty in their eyes. Before they could say anything, Silverbeak continued his rant. “You were looting! You are soldiers of the Griffonian Republic, not, not some horde of bandits! Both of you are coming with me to sort this out.”

His words might have been more effective, had the two any respect for him, or if he did not stop his speech every few words. As it was, the two waited out his tirade with thinning patience, too smart to pick a fight with an officer, especially one from the regular army.

“You there!” Silverbeak called at a passing soldier. “Go fetch a machine gun squad!”

“Which one, sir?” The private answered with a clear lack of enthusiasm.

“Doesn’t matter. Go!”

“Hey, Wingerni, you have company.”

The brown griffon rolled his head back until it was upside down, catching a glimpse of a young griffon ducking behind the corner of the house they had slept in.

“Well shit, dinner’s running away.”
Rain drizzled down between the apple trees’ barren branches, soaking his uniform and the foxhole’s floor. Wingerni let the cool rain caress his face and neck until something heavy slammed into his face.

“The hell?” he yelped, more from surprise than pain, and looked at the overripe apple now in the pit, brownish insides revealed where it had smashed into his cheek. Rubbing the bits off his feathers, he looked down to see Milan in the other foxhole, holding a second apple. She tossed it his way, almost landing it in his oatmeal.

“Don’t scare the kid,” Milan admonished him.

“Don’t throw shit in my food!”

“Oh come on, that’s an upgrade.”

Wingerni poked at the clumpy, sticky oatmeal and was forced to agree. The apple would at least bring some flavor. Still, hunger was hunger, and the porridge kept it at bay, even if barely. Wingerni had gone only a few spoonfuls before Milan spoke again.

“The kid is back.”

Wingerni did not turn to look this time, unwilling to take another apple to the head. He watched Milan look at the adolescent, her face twisted in a concerned frown. The tawny griffoness jumped out of her foxhole, a piece of hardtack in one claw.

He could hear the rustling of fallen leaves as the hatchling retreated a few steps.

“Now now, I’ve got some food,” Milan cooed, trying to coax the hatchling closer. She pitied her and wanted to do something to help. Judging by the sounds, she was successful, with the hatchling inching ever closer.

Talonico looked at her efforts for a while, before speaking up. “Where are her parents? Someone should be looking for her.”

“It’s a warzone, they might as well be dead. I doubt they’d let her out in those clothes,” Talone said, shrugging her shoulders. “She has to eat and Milan is ready to oblige.”

“Even if her parents are dead,” Bluecrest continued. “Someone should’ve taken her under their wing. We’re in the countryside, so odds are she has a big family, or neighbors to look after her.”

Talonico sighed and started packing up his mess kit. “It really isn’t our business, but keep an eye on her when you can.”

“I’m not doing that Corp. If I scare her, Milan will throw more shit at me.”

“Language,” Bluecrest chided him, wagging his talon. “The kid can hear you.”

“Yes, papa. Already training for when you get home?”

Bluecrest did not answer at first, and Talonico saw sadness flash in his eyes. Bluecrest opened his beak for a biting retort but was interrupted by the ripple of distant rifle fire. All turned to look, trying to gauge the distance. The second Milan turned her head, the chick leaped at her, snatching the hardtack and running away, leaving behind a surprised private.

“Four kilometers, minimum,” Bluecrest observed. “I don’t hear heavy weapons, just rifles.”

“I think our scouts hit a patrol,” Talonico nodded in agreement. Recognizing they were in no danger, the squad returned to their foxholes.

“Did the kid snatch the food?” Wingerni asked, incredulous. “Little rascal and you were worried I’d spook him.”

“That’s one smart kid,” Talone laughed, clacking her narrow beak. “I think she’ll be fine. Doesn’t need Bluecrest to be her dad.”

Wingerni joined in on the laughter. “No cursing around children,” he cackled, imitating the other griffon.

“Well, a soldier is always supposed to be on their best behavior,” Talonico joined in. He had considered backing up Bluecrest, but he seemed to be doing all right. “A model citizen in and out of uniform.”

“Yeah, you’ll need to practice that and quick. Silverbeak needs you for something.” During their conversation, Greendown had snuck up on the squad. His greatcoat was rolled and wrapped around his barrel, ready for use.

Recognizing their rest was over, Talonico jumped out of his pit, encouraging the others to follow.

“Once more the general purpose squad. Doesn’t he have anyone else to do this shit?” Talone muttered.

Talonico ignored the grumbling. “Did he say what for?”

“The runner didn’t specify. Just hurry up to the main road and find him. And whatever he needs you for, do it quick, Major Thunderclaw just showed up.”

October
Western Griffon Kingdom
Countryside south of Gryphus, Army Group South

Stela watched Amanda and Greta frolic across the lawn, their infectious cheerfulness filling the evening. Backlit by the setting sun, the two didn’t seem to mind the cold, spinning around with wild giggles, coming ever closer to a swing hanging from a tree at the end of the yard. A gramophone played a scratchy recording of a joyous Prench ballad, setting the tone for the evening. The player and disk had been Lieutenant Silverbeak’s anniversary gift to his wife.

“I’m so happy they get along.”

Stela nodded at the words and sipped her drink. The two had moved from tea to an old, cheap wine bottle a while back, and a slight blush colored Stela’s cheeks.

“Oh yes. Amanda is so relaxed around her I didn’t even know it was possible.”

Honestly, as much as she and Amanda liked each other, Stela was worried the cow was still afraid of her. Or maybe less of Stela, and more that she would be left on her own if Stela ever grew tired of her. The question of why Stela had taken her in was still fresh in the griffon’s mind. It was a fear born from pain, and she wished so much she could just take it away. The best she could do was to be a good host to Amanda for as long as she needed one.

Stela felt her pocket, where Amanda’s letter to the squad that had rescued her was stored for safekeeping. The next day they’d send it with the mailgriff. She lowered her claw onto the wooden table, looking at their play and smiled. What would those two get up to?

On the other side of the yard, Greta leaned closer to Amanda and, unheard by the responsible adults in the yard, whispered: “Thanks for coming over.”

The words surprised Amanda. From the moment Amanda and Miss Stela had entered their home, a red, wooden building that was half a shop and half a home, the hatchling had babbled nonstop. The sudden departure from exciting stories caught the cow’s ear, and she looked down at the griffon.

“Whenever Dad leaves, Mama gets really sad. So she loves to have guests over. She and Miss Stela used to do that before.”

“Oh,” Amanda muttered. “Did they do that often? What happened?”

“The war,” Greta said. “Dad left, and all my aunts and uncles volunteered, so Mama has to run the shop all by herself. There’s not much time for fun.”

“Now there is,” Amanda tried to encourage her. “So don’t worry and have fun.”

Greta jumped on the swing, sitting on the worn, wooden seat held by the gray ropes she grasped in her small claws. The white paint on the seat had been cracked by the long summer, but that warmth was in the past. Yellow leaves rustled in the wind.
Kicking with her paws, Greta slowly picked up speed. Watching the chick, Amanda moved behind her and gave the swing a strong push.

“Wee!” Greta screamed in delight, spreading her wings. As the swing came back down, she stood upright, letting her yellow dress billow in the wind. As the swing reached its apex, Amanda rose to her rear hooves and pushed the swing down with all her strength.

Giggling, Greta rose almost to the level of the branch the seat was suspended from.

Amanda had never had a childhood. She had been a slave to the family of griffons that owned her, working on their farm until she would one day be slaughtered and eaten. Although never outright cruel, they had only seen her as an animal.

Here Amanda could experience everything she had missed out on. She was learning to read and write, she had met Miss Stela, who looked after her, and let Amanda be herself.

The cow pushed again, and screaming with delight, Greta rose over the branch.

“One more time!”

Amanda obeyed, sending the hatchling up into the air. Pointing high into the deep blue sky, the swing seemed to crawl to a halt, quickly losing momentum. Then it reached the branches above the swing. Greta came back down spitting out yellow leaves.

“Are you alright?” Amanda gasped, horrified.

“Yes!”

Mrs. Silverbeak had also seen her daughter's introduction to the tree, and decided it was time to call it quits before someone got hurt. Unfortunately, with the yard visible to a side road, someone else had come to the same conclusion.

“The fuck are you doing?!” A thin, hoarse male voice demanded. “Stupid fucking cow!”

The voice and double swearing had Stela up from her seat in an instant. She recognized the voice of one of her former students. The haggard, black griffon leaned on the fence surrounding the yard, glaring at the bovine standing a few meters away.

“Hey Silverbeak, you know your food got free?”

Seeing Amanda slink back in growing confusion and anxiety, Stela stepped between the two. “Watch your words, Jules. I doubt your mother would appreciate them.”

The black griffon’s mother was an outspoken supporter of bovine liberation. Her son’s attitude towards rescued cows would have certainly caused a fight, had she known about them. As it was, Jules had been drinking and was in no condition to think of the consequences of his words. His blue eyes honed in slightly to the left of the teacher.

“And… you. I remember in school you taught us to be proud we’re griffons, and now you’ve taken a cow as a pet. Do you spre-”

A sharp blow into his talons cut the griffon’s speech. Stela had picked up a fallen branch and was using it as a cane. “Another word and you’ll be serving detention for the rest of the month.”

The sharp tone seemed to surprise Jules, who could not say anything for a moment. Finally, it clicked to him that he was an adult, and not bound to the school’s rules. “You can’t do that!”

“When I drag you by your tail to your mother, I promise she will watch over your detention.” To emphasize her words, Stela poked at the griffon’s chest with her improvised cane. Realizing she would act on her promise at the slightest excuse, the dark griffon backed off. He shot Amanda a disgusted look and left while grumbling about wasting time on cows.

With the mood thoroughly deflated, the evening came to an end. Mrs. Silverbeak sent Greta in for her evening routine, while Amanda and Miss Stela started packing their things.

“I’m sorry this ended in such a mess,” Mrs. Silverbeak apologized. “But please, if you ever need me, I’ll be here.”

The door crashed inward, revealing a dark room.

Wingerni was the first in, moving awkwardly with the butt of his rifle tucked into his armpit. Talonico was next, followed by Talone. The rest of the squad waited outside.

“Corp, I’m not paying for the door,” Wingerni chuckled, scanning the house for traps.

“Odds are nobody will. I don’t see anyone here to demand reparations.”

The house only had a single room, heated by the smoke from a chinley-less stove next to the door. The stinging smell of smoke still hung heavy in the chamber filled with the clutter of daily life cut short. A long thread hung from a pedal-powered spinning wheel where the work had been cut off, while the beginnings of a mug were emerging from a block of wood on the table, with a knife laying next to them. In every corner and nook something had been stored.

“Well this is a mess,” Talone scoffed. “But at least we know their loyalties.”

She picked up a tin photo frame from a shelf and showed it to the others. A female roughly Talonico’s age gazed calmly into nothingness, uncaring of the intruders at her home. A medal hung from the frame, golden knives crossed on a black field. A regimental insignia, given to the families of the dead.

At least one of the griffons of the family had been a member of the Paramilitary. Talone tossed the photo to the floor and kept walking. Talonico gave it a passing look of disappointment, sighing at Talone’s behavior, before returning his attention to the room.

Slowly and methodically they went through every item to see if there was anything of note. No secret papers revealed themselves between bedsheets, but Wingerni picked up another photograph, hidden behind a loose board he spotted.

“Holy shit! Full house!” Wingerni’s excited shout drew the attention of others. His photograph had an old griffon in a fancy dress uniform. Even without the rank insignia, Talonico would have instantly recognized General Oltenau, with his broad, scarred face. He was the commander of the Paramilitary, and one of the generals that had led the Feast Party’s crackdowns. Talonico thought of the brown griffon’s comment.

“What do you mean, full house?”

“I have him, the other two Generals, the King and Prime Minister.”

“Of course you do.”

While the others talked, Talone’s attention was drawn back to the stove. She was certain she had seen something around it, some sort of irregularity that kept gnawing at the back of her mind. The floor was covered with a thin layer of dust and dirt, but she could see small, sooty pawprints leading to a partially opened window.

As she moved, Talone bumped her paw against the stove’s cold metal hatch. The squeak that followed did not come from her beak. The griffoness stopped, then dropped down and opened the hatch.

Talone stared at herself. Dirty, soot-covered face and teary eyes. Torn clothes and the smell of sweat. Frightened and helpless, she made herself as small as she could.

Talone blinked and saw the hatchling had retreated deeper into the oven. It was not her. They shared only a bare resemblance in color, and what she had thought were stripes were only dirt on her feathers. Then to her horror, Talone saw something shift under the chick’s wing. A hatchling barely covered with fluffy down and the first hints of fur. It still breathed, but for how long Talone had no idea.

“Corp!” she yelled. The rest of the squad rushed in at her cry.

“Oh shit!” Milan was the first to recognize the hatchling that had snatched her food. She tried to reach out with a reassuring claw, only for the hatchling to retreat even further into the ashes.

“She’s scared,” Talonico observed. “Give her some room. Milan, try to coax her out.”

The others backed off, while Milan reached for her canteen, holding it just outside the hatchling’s reach. At first it seemed to work, before the hatchling looked at the other soldiers and backed off.

“Why is she so shy now? She had no problems earlier?” Wingerni whispered.

“She was hungry,” Talone answered curtly. “Or the smaller one was. Is it working?”

“No,” Milan answered, pulling her claw out of the stove. “She’s scared, and water isn’t enough to change that.”

“Let me try.”

Confused, Milan stepped out of the way, allowing the striped griffon to step in front of the hatch. She reached inside, and grabbed the hatchling by the collar of her shirt, dragging her out screaming and kicking. “Grab the smaller one.”

“Talone!” Talonico yelled, both in anger and surprise. The feeling faded instantly, as the private looked at him, something fragile briefly surfacing below her veneer of rage.

“Corp, we have to get them to the medic! Who knows how long they’ve been breathing that soot and ash!”

Realizing that she was right and that there was no point berating her, Talonico simply nodded and made for the door. Once outside, he stopped to give final orders. “Bluecrest, Wingerni, try to figure out where her parents are.”

The two hatchlings were carried to the medic’s post, the older with much greater difficulty. They picked up Greendown’s squad along the way, which rushed to help the medic prepare. By the time Talonico arrived, a table had been cleared for the two, the medic standing ready to inspect the two. Listening to Talonico’s explanation, he began his work.

“They are still breathing, and they aren’t coughing their lungs out,” he spoke as he scanned them for wounds. “But breathing that much ash might cause problems down the line. A bigger issue is that both are freezing and malnourished. Feeding one is easy, but he is going to be a tougher case.”

“What can he eat?” Greendown asked the medic, nodding at the younger hatchling. With both present, he had automatically taken control from Talonico, which the latter accepted with a relieved sigh.

“Someone has to regurgitate meat for him. Preferably cooked, but I’ll accept even raw meat right now.”

“Can’t we take some from the locals?” The Sergeant demanded. “Or give him vegetables or fruits?”

“Likely salted for preservation, so no deal,” The medic explained with growing agitation. If the hatchlings had been shot or hit with shrapnel, he would have been in his element. Now he had to go off of old lyceum lessons. “And vegetables don’t have enough nutrients for him. Just focus on getting them warm!”

“Here,” a raspy voice interrupted the medic. A Paramilitary griffon with an amputated paw pulled a red scarf from around his neck and offered it to the hatchling. “Keep her warm.”
Wordlessly, a griffon with a smashed beak offered the medic water. One by one the wounded moved closer, offering rags and water to wash the hatchling, or clothes to keep him warm. Griffons who had the day prior done all they could to kill one another were now united by the most base need to protect and nurture. The older hatchling shrunk back, overwhelmed by the press of bodies until Milan pulled her out of the way.

Those who were at their journey’s end would recall the moment with pride, more pride than triumph had ever brought them. For the ones who would carry on to one battlefield after another, the fleeting moment would eventually become a hazy memory, lost in the din of death and violence.

“Hunt,” Greendown ordered. “Go and kill some small animal. Squirrel, hare, bird, anything, and bring it here.”

The blue and yellow griffon rushed out, passing Talone.

Talone felt a pang of guilt as she watched the Paramilitary. She had no issue killing them, and now they went and acted like normal griffons. Unable and unwilling to bear the feeling, she reshaped it into anger, focusing it on the griffon she had seen in the photo. That griffoness had abandoned her family to fight for the Feast Party. It was her fault the hatchling was so close to death.

“I’ll go help Hunt,” she said and left the house.

As Greendown had guessed, the arrival of Major Thunderclaw meant that something was happening. After conferring with the Major, Captain Telesca gave the order to prepare to march. Orders were issued to platoon leaders, who informed their squad leaders of what was happening. The whole battalion was on the move.

Setting out on a darkening road, Talonico finally managed to ask Bluecrest: “Did you find out what happened to their parents?”

“Yeah, the Militia shot them as potential spies.”

“Ours?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”