The air around the camp was tense the days following Captain Yeruti Roman’s death. Unterofficer Faris Quirke pondered why as she sat in a rapidly assembled trench alongside Gefreite Urbain Marie, Hauptegefreite Nat Zahariev, her assistant flamer Kalin Rylee and several other grunts with whom she was not acquainted.

“The way I see it,” she began, her hands clutching a short-pattern utility bayonet and a block of emulsified raptor jerky, “we’re better off by a wide margin now.” She whittled a strip of jerky off and passed it to Nat. The flame trooper woman had her chemsuit let down with the sleeves tied around her waist. Her well-toned arms worked at her flamethrower with a cleaning kit that she’d been fielding out of a rectangular ration tin. Faris noted her hair cropped into a short rat tail at the back of her head. I’ve seen pictos of my grandfather wearing his hair like that. The flametrooper snorted.

“You don’t think Oberleutnant Shalev killed him?” Faris balked at the idea, visibly. It brought a deep-voiced laugh from Nat and a few of the other grunts. The flametrooper whistled for her assistant to pay attention as she began servicing a specific valve or tube of some kind on the flamethrower. Faris took the time to rub her scruffy chin. Need to shave again. Last thing I need is to get dressed down by a bloody feldwebel over grooming standards. She whittled off another piece of jerky from the block and popped it into her mouth.

“So, is this a thing we’re all collectively deciding to think is true? That Oberleutnant Kvetoslava Shalev, the least incompetent son of a pig in this company murdered the captain? For what, exactly?” Faris frowned as the words came out of her mouth. Urbain snickered at her as he worked a cleaning rod down the bore of his rifle.

“The least incompetent son of a pig, whom is the executive officer for the whole company, which, I shall remind you,” he enunciated carefully as he all but tossed the rod down the bore and ripped it back out in quick, fluid motions. “Is currently trapped either in a foreign country or something far more insidious. He kills the commanding officer after he is laid low with fever, this officer whom has nearly gotten us killed three times since being instated and has never showed his damn face in a single combat engagement? Fuck me, I’d believe it. I do, in fact.” Faris shot Urbain a dark look. She whittled off another piece of jerky which he happily took out of her offered hand. “Bribing me to shut my mouth, are we? How very scandalous, Unterofficer.”

Faris couldn’t help but smile a little, fight it as she might have. “Piss off, you brat. I’m trying to make conversation.” The smile was wiped off as Urbain sat a little more straight-backed. Nat, of course, was indifferent. She threw a glance up, nodded, said hello, herr captain de facto, then went back to showing her apprentice the ways of the flamethrower. She’d have better luck if Kalin weren’t distracted staring at her biceps, but Faris didn’t have the heart to grill the trooper.

Faris looked up at Oberleutnant Kvetoslava Shalev, in his disheveled chemsuit and bascinet helmet with its visor turned up, mask around his neck. “How’re you doing, sir?” His face was serious. He hadn’t shaved in a while, either it seemed.

“We have a mission. You need to lead it.” Her heart dropped, and the trench went silent.

Each of the four platoon officers sat with Kvetoslava in the former captain’s hybrid motor-carriage, the map table blank before them save for rough charcoal etchings made by 1st platoon’s best forager riflemen. They were all of the Subaltern rank. 1st platoon’s Piritta Winter had white hair from a genetic defect that didn’t prevent her from joining the Sanitarii. 2nd platoon’s commander was Léandre “Jacket” Jacquet. He was distinctive for a great coat he wore off duty. There were dozens of stories as to how he got it, Kvetoslava didn’t have the time to remember any of them. Fırat Pawlak led 3rd platoon, he had an average face and his men respected him, but bullied him relentless for how average he looked. Fjolla Winogrodzka was a pale junior officer—she ran their heavy weapons & cavalry support platoon, 4th. She was a replacement for a man who had died on the Butte. She was an impressively brusque woman with a perchance for swearing that endeared her to her men quickly. Kvetoslava recalled Emil giving her the moniker “Snow Smoothie” which never caught on, because of an offhanded comment the woman had made about how the women in the army were ugly. Of course she thinks we’re all ugly, he had told Emil, she’s from Tinggård. All the women there are smooth-faced and look like children. That had gotten a good laugh out of them. Sitting beside her now, he felt a little embarrassed for having laughed at her all those months ago.

Kvetoslava cleared his throat. No time for that now. “What is it you need, Herr Oberleutnant?” Fırat piped up. He cringed at the usage of Herr but did his best to hide it. Kvetoslava gestured to the map.

“I’ve been pouring over the maps we had on hand, even some that we managed to rough out using some of the foreigners in the company to supplement our continental maps. To be blunt,” he cleared his throat. “We’re not going to survive without more intelligence or supplies. The scouts managed to find what they believed to be a city,” he pointed to a spot on the map where several dozen squares had been situated behind a moat-like half-moon of water with a bridge drawn across it, and across that bridge several loud X’s. “We also think this might be the source of the strange equines, judging by the branch-like growths the scouts reported on the buildings.” He produced a rough sketch from a folder he had on his lap, a charcoal rub of a brick building whose silhouette would’ve been perfectly square if not for the tree-like growths sprouting out from its top and upper floors.

“So, what, you want us to voluntell some riflemen for it?” Jacket’s arms were crossed, and his face was scrunched. Kvetoslava shook his head and ran a hand down his face. Jacket’s face loosened with a sympathetic look. The captain de facto had a look of exhaustion on his face that few in the company could say they truly felt before.

“No. It’s…” He paused. Scratched his stubbly chin. “I’ve sent good soldiers to their deaths before. I don’t want to have to send them to one here. We’re in a lot of shit, let’s get all of them back alive if we can.” Piritta rolled her jaw and retrieved a cigarette from a pouch on her uniform’s webbing. A dark murmur passed through the four of them. Volunteering soldiers for a job like this was always bad for the heart.

“Faris can lead. She has the qualifications and experience for it.” A glance around the room. Kvetoslava saw no dissent and nodded. So be it, she’ll lead. Fjolla spat the chewing tobacco she’d been packing in her lip into a tin at her boots.

“Well, if Faris is leading, then I’m going to send my gunners. Assuming these… equines are the shit we think they are, better to just treat them like savages. They’ll run right into the machine guns. Colum Ivers, my junior gun commander, he needs the experience and it’ll be a simple enough job for him.” Jacket leaned forward and rubbed his greasy face in a quick gesture, almost anxious.

“Isn’t inexperience the last thing we want to be basing the team on?” He proffered. Kvetoslava fought the urge to step up for the short, rowdy heavy weapons commander, who adjusted her field cap and shook her head.

“No. We’re basing it on who would be best for the mission. Rébecca and Achille make a good team, they’ll keep each others’ backs covered and follow orders. Muirgheal has been in the Sanitarii longer than any of those shitheels. Kristel’s gun will shoot straight like always and old Murmurs will keep Colum in line.” She smirked. “I think the little shit’s scared of her. I don’t blame him, to be fair. She scares me, sometimes.” She thumbed her chin and leaned back. Kvetoslava looked to Jacket. He shrugged. I’m assuaged.

“Okay, that makes two machine gun crews. If I may?” Kvetoslava looked up at Piritta. She gestured for him to go ahead. “Nat and Rylee.” Piritta frowned.

“That really a good idea, Oberleutnant? That puts us down one of our only two flamethrowers if they get killed, and our most veteran flamer, too.” Kvetoslava nodded solemnly. He scratched his face.

“I know. It’s risky, but I don’t think it’s wise to not send them in with a flamer. Nat can take care of herself.” He paused, then smirked. “She still keep that pocket scattergun in her uniform?” Piritta snorted derisively, though the ghost of a smile haunted her face.

“Of course. No matter how many times I confiscate the damn thing, she always gets her hands back on it. She’s taken to the lashing scars like they’re bloody tattoos, so I stopped bothering with the disciplinary action.” Kvetoslava gave a few self-affirming nods. She can take care of herself plenty fine.

“Then I have faith in her to be safe… Now, let’s get over the rest, why don’t we? I think 3rd platoon can give some riflemen, then…”

0600 hours.

Unterofficer Faris Quirke stood at the edge of the river beside the city that was dubbed Tartarus by the former residents. It was surrounded on all sides by water, an island city with villages along the bridges leading in. Walking through the ashy streets, Faris corrected herself. It used to have villages along the bridges heading in. Kicking over a burnt stuffed toy left half-burnt in the street, Faris noted the former inhabitants did a fine job of scorched earth on their way out. Nothing left but ash this side of the bridge. Unfortunately… they missed a spot. The city over the destroyed bridge looked like a hive of black trees in the early morning light, growing out of windows, through roofs, across the streets she could make out. It set her stomach uneasy, but she powered through it.

Faris whistled her troops forward. Two machine guns, Nat’s psychotic ass and her assistant flame trooper, four riflemen, my 2IC and the combat engineer. Makes twelve. Would’ve just sicced 1st on the problem, but I guess Slava’s got other plans. Her gloves creaked as she tightly gripped the handguard of her rifle. She’d oiled the dump feed heavily to save time on jams, made sure the damn thing would be in pristine shape for fighting. Her long-pattern bayonet and short utility-pattern were strapped to her ankle, and enough ammo to fight a battalion hanging off her body in belts and in charger clips. Her revolver was fully loaded and she had a fistful of stolen moon clips in her pockets. Her troopers were similarly burdened with gear, save for the abundance of pump-action scatterguns.

The night before the op, they were all sleeping in their wagons, foxholes and trenches when one of the night watches had called out for a fast flyer overhead. He was wasting ammo trying to shoot it down from the sky—and ended up drawing its attention. Faris spoke to him when all was said and done, he was more than a little unnerved. The thing had glassy eyes, black branches sprouting all over its spine and wings, black ooze sloughing out its mouth. It came dive-bombing at him, speaking in Escalian. He thought he was dead, standing there with only a repeating rifle in his arms, but he dove, grabbed a scattergun from the end of a trench and popped the thing with buckshot when it floundered against the ground in a heap, then slam-fired the scattergun until the tube ran empty.

Everyone was awake by then, including the woman the night watchman stole the shotgun from. Aside from a kick in the groin, the chirurgeon said he got away from the endeavor without any serious wounds.

Faris was quick to requisition whatever spare shotguns they had in storage for the operation after that kerfuffle. From there, it was a simple matter of gathering troops, stealing or requisitioning as much ammo they could carry and get moving.

They had a single boardog-driven carriage and its driver at their center, the machine gunners hitching a ride in the back while the riflemen, Nat and her shadow were on foot. The machine guns swiveling on their tripods in an open-topped carriage seemed like a good idea, though Faris noted the convenience that it meant none of the gunners would be walking. Gefreyten Knechten Muirgheal “Old Murmurs” Cnáimhín had a cheeky grin on her creased face, but Faris let it slide. It was a waste of words and too noisy to get into an argument with Cheap Company’s oldest grunt.

Faris rubbed her jaw, behind the tight rubber seal of her bird-like gas mask. “We’re going to have to use the dinghy, figured as much.” She whistled forward her second in command, Obergefreite Thibaut Eulalie. When Faris turned, the woman was kneeling beside her, carbine-length rifle leaned on her forward knee. What is it, boss? “We need to get over the river. Find a good location where we can push off with the dinghy, we’ll do two shifts of six. Make sure Soggy is on board with ‘em, right?” A nod. On it, Unterofficer. Thibaut stood and disappeared back toward the column. A whisper of orders went up, and the silence was replaced with the plodding of kirza1 boots through ash and drying mud, the sound of rifles clicking against webbing and the hiss and swears of disgruntled troopers. Faris kept her eyes on the city as they worked.

Two hours later, and a spot to disembark was chosen. The waters were an ugly colour at that early hour, but Faris paid it no heed. Once the boat was unloaded from the carriage, the driver made his way back to the fortified convoy in the forest, up the hill and down a winding road.

0800 hours.

They were over the river with both teams within an hour’s time. The city had been built on sturdy stone foundations, raising it easily two heads over any of Faris’ troopers. Soggy, their jack-of-all-trades combat engineer, was quick to point this out once the dinghy carrying Faris and the second half of the team had made it to the other side of the river. “Whatever junk we scrounge from the city is going to have to be let down from the top to the bottom.” Faris nodded along, and eventually Soggy snapped her fingers. “On our way in, there was a fire burning somewhere on the west side of the city, I could’ve sworn I made out rigging and such. We can leave a team to watch the dinghy, lower it down and transport it over the river in the boat.” Faris grinned under her mask.

“Once we’re all done, we can mark the location and camp out between the stash and the road. Good plan, Soggy.” She could feel the smoldering look being sent her way from the Gefreyten Knechten.

“Don’t call me that, Unterofficer.” Faris offered no reply as she scanned the concrete foundations that loomed over the beach. She snapped and pointed to a door. “Looks like a service tunnel,” Soggy noted.

“Exactly. Alright! Thibaut, Soggy, Nat, Rylee, Marie! You’re with me,” Faris yelled in a low, harsh whisper. The two flame troopers, the looming Nat Zahariev, her diminutive assistant flamer wearing a dozen small canisters over their body joining her. Kalin Rylee. Can’t believe they saddled us with a recruit. Fucking apprenticeship programme, that brat is barely old enough to drink. Faris snorted quietly to herself. Thibaut and her carbine were beside her before she could even notice the movement. Soggy stood forward with her own carbine. Gefreiter Urbain Marie poked his head up and shuffled over, shotgun clasped in his rubber and leather gloves. Faris flicked her head toward the stairwell and turned to move. “The rest of you, stay here and guard the dinghy. Use a red flare with the flare gun if you run into trouble.” The machine gun commander, a scrawny junior officer, Colum Iver, nodded sharply. He went to salute—then stopped himself. Fuckin’ idiot. Faris gave him a thumbs up before turning back on her heel, rifle hung under her arm on its sling.

1500 hours.

Ruby Beacon and the burner team arrived at the southern edge of Manehattan later in the morning than they’d meant to, around 0800 hours, five ’o’ clock in the morning. The river was calm, and their initial plan to use a boat seemed sound until it was realized quickly they would have to transport a supply cart over the water. A pontoon bridge was the next choice, and seven hours later, it was built and crossed. Ruby Beacon and Field Surgeon (esq) were the first across the bridge, watching their old soldiers make their way across the narrow, bobbing bridge. A whisper from the quayside above set Field on edge, and had Ruby cautiously turning. A shadow moving away from the railing was the last thing she wanted to see. Bloomers? Refugees? Damn it all, I hope it was just a cat. Ruby’s wings stirred anxiously as she watched the rest of her soldiers make their way across the bridge. The supply cart was trundling along quite precariously.

“Something isn’t right.” Ruby muttered aloud. A quick smack at the back of her head had her snapping around to look at Field Surgeon, who was glaring at her.

“Don’t ever say those things. Please.” She gave a slightly patronizing smile. Ruby glared. She asked why. Field Surgeon explained it to her—Ruby needed it explained a second time. She stopped listening halfway through as a pair of glassy eyes began staring at her from atop the quayside.

Thirsty. So thirsty, it whispered. It began mantling the railing. Ruby made a little terrified noise. Field Surgeon spun. The thing lunged—it was a pegasus, with its entire body shriveled into a black husk of a silhouette, trailing glittering spores in the air behind it. Field Surgeon’s horn charged with a muddy-golden glow. Ruby barked an order to the ballista team, though it seemed unnecessary. They were already planting their tripod in the muddy beachside and jamming the automatic ballista on its mount.

The bloomer soared over and past them toward the bridge. Several bolts from the ballistas snapped past it with a distinct whistling. Ruby Beacon continued to shout orders, keeping her sight bounced forward and backwards, making sure any ambush would be caught before she could lose someone to a bite to the neck.

The bloomer hit the bridge right in front of the carriage-driver. They were unarmed save for a lance mounted to the side of their body. They swung, the bloomer was caught in the neck. It tore its own throat open like a sieve to bite down on the driver’s face. The driver screamed as the bloomer fell backwards, taking a large chunk of their face with them as bolts slammed into its back. It left a greasy black smear on the bridge before collapsing into the water. One of a thousand bodies in the water, Ruby. You can’t help that.

The driver began to spasm and scream. One of the wagon wheels screamed as it edged off the pontoon bridge. Ruby threw herself forward. If not for the chainmail on her body, she’d have her wings out. Another veteran had the same idea and they were soon across the bridge, grabbing the wagon before it could join the bloomer in the water. They pulled in the opposite direction as the flailing driver. Ruby didn’t catch it, but the veteran must have unlatched the screaming, bleeding pony’s attachment to the cart, because they flew off the wagon. There was a snap of chainmail shattering and the shlk of a blade gliding into solid meat. Then, the driver was pushed back and sailing into the water. Ruby stopped to stare only for a moment. “Don’t stop pulling, it’s going to fall!” Her attention was back in an instant.

Two hours later, the supply cart was pushed back over to shore. It hadn’t even made it halfway across the bridge, it was safer, quicker and easier to just push it back. Ruby gave the order to burn the bridge after one of her veterans called out a bloomer watching them from a building overlooking the quayside. Field Surgeon gave her a look of uncertainty. Is this a good idea? Ruby could hear the words in her head, even if Field’s face was pursed and scrunched. She steeled her gaze and nodded to Field. “Do it.”

Once all of her platoon was over the pontoon bridge, they flung one of their canisters of pitch across it, then lit it on fire. From there, there was a tired, quiet march along the beach, looking for some way into the city, the soldiers laden in what little of their supplies from the carriage they could stow on their persons.

She wasn’t happy when the only way in they could find without wasting the rest of their daylight circumnavigating the city’s border was a drainage pipe with spores glittering in the beams of light piercing the darkness inside it. “Out of the frying pan, eh, Ruby?” Field gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder in tandem with her little joke before looking over the drainage grate with a scowl. “Give me an hour and I can get this open.” Her horn took up that muddy-gold glow in tandem with the padlock on the grate.

Author's Note

Alphyrra's Almanac

1 Kirza is a waterproof textile used by many Phyrr nations in the manufacture of boots, as a protective outer layer to chemical suits and many other things. It has an appearance like pig leather, and has its historical roots in the 1st era post-apocalyptic cultures which rediscovered the means of creating the material from museum documentation on old European cultures.

Fun fact/behind the scene thing! The main weapons of Cheap Company are based on the Krag-Jorgensen (no individual model) bolt action rifle, Winchester 1897 shotgun, and the Gasser revolvers, the 1870 and 1898 Rast & Gasser respectively. Their uniforms are based on the Red Army Scout uniforms with American webgear from the interwar/WW2 years, combined with either an French "Adrian" helmet for the infantry or a cut-off pig-faced bascinet helmet for non-coms and officers, combined with a mask designed after the generic plague doctors' crow mask with gas mask filters on a 135 and 45 degree angle to the beak.