Death and Faxes
"There's two things I'm sure of in life," said Captain Alfred Whiteadder, as he stared at the typing instrument before him. "Death and faxes. And I'm not sure about the former."
Lieutenant Peaceblossom gave the captain a look that befit his namesake – pretty to look at, but bereft of intelligence. And with both men's faces stained with mud and grime, the prettiness part was lacking.
"Death and faxes," Peaceblossom murmured. "I don't follow."
"That, Lieutenant Peaceblossom, is why you're only a lieutenant in the Grand Army of Skaarsland."
"Actually, I'm a lieutenant because I got my officer's commission."
Whiteadder said something, but the 'whomp' of the ether cannon drowned it out. He took a moment to imagine how many Eurodians the magical blast had killed. A dozen? More? It was hard to say, because as mighty as the weapons of Skaarsland were, the trenches that criss-crossed western Eurodia grew ever deeper.
Such as the one he and Peaceblossom found themselves in. The one that echoed with the sound of tap-tap-tap, as he finally started typing away on the fax machine.
"The reason I said I'm not certain about death," Whiteadder said, as he typed away, "is that having read and travelled on both sides of the Tiderace, I cannot say for certain that death 'is' the end. Not for some people."
"Like the elves, sir?"
"Oh, elves die eventually," said Whiteadder. "Bleed and die like the rest of us, but if that doesn't happen, they still bite the bucket eventually. The House of Elessedil hasn't progressed from one generation to the next by having immortals on the throne."
"Not like the House of d'Amphere," Peaceblossom commented bitterly. "They just get on with killing each other."
"Yes, well, any good empire has its fair share of fratricide," Whiteadder murmured, even if he wasn't sure there was any such thing as a 'good empire,' no matter what the propos back in Skaarsland said. "But point is, I've read things, Peaceblossom. Demons, ghosts, entire realities where the dead don't die. And that's not even including what magic can do."
"I hear the Druids live forever."
He grunted. "Might as well."
Truth was, he'd never made it to Paranor. He'd never beheld the Fifth Druid Order, as founded by Shea and Tarsha Ohmsfordd over a hundred years ago. Considering that the previous one's downfall could be linked to the Skaar, he'd been lucky to be let into the Four Lands, period, and even then, had spent most of his time in the Federation. The same Federation who, as he spoke, was continuing to supply Skaarsland with everything from rifles to airships, as they fought to maintain their holdings in Eurodia.
Regardless, he continued to type. The format was the same, only the names changed.
Dear Mr/Mrs (name)
I regret to inform you that your (familial relation) passed away on (date), during an (attack/defensive action) on (date). Your (familial relation) died by (painless means) in their service to Skaarsland.
I can assure you that your (familial relation) conducted themselves in the finest tradition of the (service/profession). (Name) was well liked by their fellow (profession collective noun), and is sorely missed.
Yours sincerely,
Captain Alfred Whiteadder
Skaarsland Messenger Corps
Every message without fail followed the basic template. There was the occasional exception where he knew the unlucky bastard who'd died (usually most painfully, despite what his faxes said), but more often than not, he didn't. So that meant generating some bullshit with every fax, slightly altering the bullshit, and then sending it off to the capital, where it would be delivered before week's end.
"And…done," he murmured, as the fax machine worked its magic. Not actual magic, but technology – the type of technology which ensured that within the hour, a Mr and Mrs Weatherwax would discover their little Johnny had died in service to the homeland.
Peaceblossom walked over. "How many do you have to send?"
"Oh, only forty-nine," Whiteadder responded, as an ether cannon let out another 'thomp.' "I'm not the only man in the Messenger Corps."
"Oh, I know. Some say we could use those men on the frontlines."
"We are on the frontlines, in case you haven't noticed," said Whiteadder. Seeing the look on Peaceblossom's face, he said, "okay, about ten klicks away from the frontlines."
"Eleven-point-three to be precise."
"Work here long enough, you'll wish it was eleven-point-four," Whiteadder murmured, as he started work on the next fax.
"Think I have worked here long enough, sir."
"Really?" Whiteadder murmured. "By my reckoning, you've only been in the Messenger Corps for three months."
"Long enough to know this war isn't just, or justified, or glorious, or anything like that."
Whiteadder sighed. It was only a matter of time before he got a person like Peaceblossom assigned to him. Nobbs had been decent, but his skull had gone on a date with a bullet, so he'd been given a replacement.
Still, he knew the regs, and what they demanded he do in this kind of scenario. So, slowly, deliberately, he turned, and quietly asked, "what do you mean, lieutenant?"
"Skaarsland is weakening, sir. It's trying to hold onto Eurodia less than a hundred years after its failed campaign in the Four Lands. Corwin d'Amphere is worse than his father, and bereft of his grandmother's wisdom – he's got their bloodlust with none of the sense to use it properly.
"People have been shot for saying less, lieutenant."
"Yes, shot, because the Eurodians can counter most of our magic," Peaceblossom added. "So here we are. Two years into the war. The eastern half of Eurodia is already independent from Skaarsland, the western half knows that all it needs to do is hold out long enough for the Skaar to give up."
"Which we won't," said Whiteadder quietly.
"Is that your opinion, sir? Or the view of the royal family?"
The latter, Whiteadder silently admitted, followed by more silent admittance that everything Peaceblossom had said was correct. If Skaarsland wanted its holdings in Eurodia back, it had to sweep from west to east through everything from trenches to arcane batteries, and end the ordeal with enough soldiers left to keep the natives from getting too uppity. On the other hand, all the Eurodians had to do was hold out.
He returned to the fax machine – was this how the Great Wars had occurred, he wondered? Intractable conflicts leading up to humanity unleashing its weapons and reducing their old civilization to dust? He wasn't aware of anything in a Skaar or Eurodian arsenal that had that power, but already, Skaarsland had the ability to manipulate the weather. Already they had magic, and airships, and mages, and mortars, and countless other weapons that made the more belligerent nobles float the idea of marching on Afrique when everything was said and done. Maybe even cross the Tiderace again for another lot at the Four Lands, which unlike Eurodia, were sparsely populated, and weakened by over three millennia of one-and-off wars between its races. Even the Fifth Druid Order would pale before a second invasion, some commanders said.
One war at a time, he told himself, as his hands hovered above the fax machine. After all, I don't want to be sending faxes for the rest of my life.
An ether cannon boomed out, and Whiteadder sighed.
More explosions, more deaths.
More faxes to send in such inevitability.