Stalingrad October 19th 1942
"We have to pull back! We can't hold them!"
"They're fucking killing us!"
"What about the commissars?"
"They're all dead already and we will be too if we stay!"
"Medic! I need a medic!"
"Run! Just run!"
"MOTHER!"
If Major Alexandrov could have envisioned the hell that his mother had described that awaited unrepentant and heinous sinners, it would have fallen short of what he was seeing now.
Stalingrad. A city so named after the leader of the Communist party, and by extension the Soviet Union. A city held up as an example of the progress made under communism. A modern, industrial city on the Volga River that had been home to some 2 million souls before the war. Now it was a burning, crumbling ruin.
The sky was stained red like it was bleeding from the gashes of smoke that reached high into the heavens like greedy, crooked fingers from hungry fires. The smell of smoke, gunpowder, iron, dust, and blood permeated the city. Seasoned by the sickly sweet smell of rotting corpses and death.
The droning of aircraft overhead was constant and it was terrifying. None of those planes were Soviet, all of them bore the crooked crosses of the Fascists. Sporadic flack exploded in amongst them, but it was like throwing a pebble into a tidal wave.
On the ground they were being decimated, pushed back all the way to the Volga and their line was very close to breaking. They had lost communication with command and what orders they did conflicted and countermanded one another. Made only worse by the Political officers issuing their own directives and killing those who failed to follow them.
Alexandrov watched men, his men, and all the others who had come to defend this city die. Men were obliterated by artillery fire, blown to bits while other were picked off with accurate rifle fire. Others yet were cut down by the damned machine guns of the fascists. The dirt itself was turning red and clumping like clay, but from blood, not water.
Terrible shrieking, howling filled the air as the stukas of the fascists descended down onto them. Their howling only interrupted as they they unleashed streams of machine gun fire, tearing up the ground and men that they chased after with equal ease. They dropped bombs as they pulled up sharply, the dark instruments of death falling away and obscuring a group of men in the blast. When it cleared, the men were gone. It was that which finally broke the Soviet line. Alexandrov watched the men in front of him, many barely more than boys break and run. Fear, outright stark terror on their faces. The kind that is beyond reasoning, beyond reasserting discipline. It was a rout.
Alexandrov's hand reflexively went to his pistol holster, but he took his hand away from the weapon. These men would not fear him more than the Fascists. If threats could make them stay and fight, they would have never run in the first place. Yet, he couldn't allow the Fascists a victory, could not allow them another step into the Motherland.
Alexandrov ran out of his forward command post and towards the front line and the lines of fleeing Soviet infantrymen. Vlad hot on his heels, a PPSH clutched firmly in his grasp.
"Stay! Stay and fight!" yelled Alexandrov to the men fleeing past him on either side. Those farther ahead scrambling down the ridge of broken mortar and brick. Of buildings slain and brought low by artillery fire. The men paid him no mind, too intent on flight. In the field beyond, the Fascists advanced, their gray uniforms like a spreading cancer upon the land.
Alexandrov looked around and he seized upon a flag still held in the grasp of the dead man who had been charged with carrying it. He lifted it high and ran up the shifting ridge of brick and debris, the only one advancing with him Vlad. Standing atop the ridge finally and in full view of the enemy. He began to wave the flag and shout.
"Stand! Stand and fight for the Motherland! Where do you run to?! Your home? Do you think that you can escape this? This plague that has come to our land? This vile abomination on our soil? That they will spare your home? Your wife? Your children? They will not! You cannot escape it! If you will not fight for the Motherland, then stand and fight for them! Do you think that these devils, these demons will stop here and let you live in peace? If you run today you will live, but for how long? And your families will not! These Fascists bastards will see to that! They intend to hunt us down like animals, like vermin! I for one choose to stand and fight here! Now! Stand my ground like a man and if necessary die like one! If they wish to kill my family, they must first go through me! If I am to die, I do so now on my own terms! Not theirs! As my choice! Not living in fear of the day the finally come for me! I will stand my ground! Who will stand with me? I ask you as your officer, as your Comrade, as a man fighting for his home and family, stand with me now! Keep these devils here! Keep these monsters away from our homes! This is where we stop them! This is where we show them our strength! Stand with me now brothers! This is where we fight!"
There was a single crack of a rifle firing and the clack of a bolt working and Alexandrov saw a young soldier, a man of maybe 17 years firing his Mosin towards the advancing Fascists, focused utterly on the oncoming Gray tide.
"He has the courage! Do you? Come now Comrades! I will stand right here with you to the end! I will not abandon you! Do not abandon us!"
Alexandrov was running along the top of the ridge, waving the flag madly back and forth as he did so, shouting, exalting, and cursing those around him to stay and fight. And amazingly, they did.
It was a trickle at first, but soon it turned into a steady stream of men taking up positions and soon a staccato of rifle fire was cutting into the advancing Fascist horde.
Bullets were zipping and hissing past Alexandrov like angry serpents, kicking up dirt at his feet and passing close enough to let him feel the air of their passing on his skin. He ran from position to position, soldier to soldier, directing their fire, offering words of encouragement, and bolstering their resolve.
"Yes! Just like that! Five round bursts! Aim low! Aim low! Keep firing, we want as much lead going out as possible! Do not stop shooting! Good! Keep doing that," encouraged Alexandrov and then he was up again and running, still clutching the flag in both hands and Vlad loyally, staying right on his heels.
Hot pain exploded through Alexandrov's head and his officer's hat went flying high into the sky, while he went tumbling down the ridge. The broken brick and debris struck, clawed, and jabbed at him as he fell down the hill. He hit the bottom heavily, but against his protesting body, he forced himself to stand, Vlad helping to pull him to his feet. He wiped at the sweat that was pouring down his head onto his neck, and his hand came away sticky and covered in crimson. Without pausing, Alexandrov grabbed the fallen flag and charged back to the top of the ridge line, the men having stopped firing when they saw him fall.
"I'm not dead yet, and neither are the Fascists! Don't stop firing! Come on, come on! Keep firing!" bellowed Alexandrov, waving the flag back and forth. Alexandrov didn't know how long the fighting went on for, or how he managed to stay alive, but eventually they pushed the Fascists back and the men though exhausted, were proud of themselves, and of their Major. Reinforcements, though delayed, managed to arrive in time to consolidate their position and form an unbreakable redoubt from which the Fascists would advance no further.
"Ow," protested Alexandrov as Vlad wrapped his head in a bandage.
"Oh quit being a baby Comrade Major. Now you'll have a scar like a real man. Your face needed some character anyways."
January 1std 1968 AD 1st Gate Army HQ
Colonel General Alexandrov traced the scar along the side of his head with a finger, before putting on his officer's field cap. He grabbed his holster off of its stand and secured it firmly around his waist, before pulling out the pistol, Vlad's TT33 and checking the load of it before re-holstering it.
"You know Vlad you were right. It does add some character," said Alexandrov, looking at his scar in the mirror as he traced it with his finger one final time.
He was soon in his personal jeep with his escort and looking over some of the more recent reports as they headed once more out to the makeshift refugee camp outside their walls. He was wracking his brains for what to do with all of those who had come to Camp Zhukov seeking aid. There were those who were completely dependent on them. The old, the sick, the children, and those who had been maimed. Still, there was a large healthy body of manpower to pull from and justify their presence to the more reserved of the Politburo who were balking at the costs of looking after them.
It seemed that Konev had been right after all about creating a paradise in this world. With much of the farmland having been stripped bare, and grain stores depleted by the army that Alexandrov's forces had repulsed, there was a small, but steady stream of of refugees and escaped slaves coming to Camp Zhukov. It was averaging about a hundred a day and the last official count had been 53 231 non-citizens that they were providing for.
The next project that was on the agenda was building a railroad to connect Falmart to the Soviet Union, and more importantly to the mineral rich Big Deep mines. Swinging a hammer under the supervision of engineers would most likely be a manageable enough task for anyone, no matter their skill level.
That didn't mean that they were free of problems in the refugee camp however. Despite providing for them with food, clothing, and lodging maintaining order with a multitude of people's and races was proving difficult. Old feuds dating back centuries were flaring up with often swift and brutal results. For the most part it was just beatings, but more than one corpse had appeared.
Even within the races themselves, tribal rivalries were proving to be incredibly troublesome. Within the warrior bunnies especially. It had not turned into outright murder yet, but having them sit and be idle was not helping the situation. It was letting them brood on old animosity and allowing it to grow.
He needed to think of something that could occupy them and keep them busy and out of trouble, but for the life of him other than the rail project he couldn't think of anything. Not only that, but many of the races would refuse to work side by side. The Warrior Bunnies especially could have prickly pride when forced to work alongside those they thought of as their inferiors. Ever since they had lost their homeland...that was it.
The Empire worked by conquering and expanding surrounding countries and tribes, subsuming their territories and amalgamating them into the Empire. The war against the Empire would largely be dictated by how strong they wanted the relations between Moscow and the other Japan and America to be. Already word was that they wanted Moscow to seriously curb their ambition in Falmart which would limit the territory that they could simply annex and shrink their sphere of influence. But what if it the Soviet Union wasn't pushing to acquire all of the territory for itself? Rather pushing to let the different races and ethnic groups reclaim their lands and homes?
If the warrior bunnies, dark elves, wood elves, and host of other races under the boot heel of the Empire were to have their claims pressed, who would object to that?
NATO, America especially wished to appear the champion of the downtrodden and oppressed to the world. Bringing freedom and joy wherever they went, so it would put them in an awkward position if they opposed a Soviet initiative to free slaves and give them back their homes. What would they tell their people? No, we want them to remain slaves and everything they have will continue to belong to the empire?
And those people who would be given back their lands and freedom by the grace of Soviet influence, would they not be grateful to the Union? Would they not be sympathetic to them and their message? A new union of states in Falmart to add to the Warsaw Pact. Armies that could be raised to exert a greater reach without greater commitment of Soviet resources. Armies that the Soviet Union could arm and win the good will of their people by doing so.
The Japanese and Americans could have a neutered Empire, the Soviet Union would surround itself with a collection of loyal and diverse states. Of course it would need the approval of the Politburo and it wasn't a guarantee, but nevertheless Alexandrov began to scribble down a rough draft as they drove to the refugee tent city.
The tour went much the same as it always did, things were doing better all the time, it was just the sheer volume of patients needing to be treated, and continue to be treated that was the biggest concern, but they were managing.
The engineers were constructing more permanent housing for the freed slaves and refugees complete with plumbing and electricity that would greatly improve sanitation amongst them. More bedding and mosquito nets were becoming available as well as veterinarians.
It had been an oversight on Alexandrov's part to not have put in a request for them initially, for although races such as Warrior Bunnies and elves had much the same physiology as humans, others were much closer to the animals that they resembled.
Alexandrov was lost in thought still when Rissien got his attention.
"General, this woman wishes to speak with you."
Alenadrov looked over and saw the warrior bunny that he had carried to the medical tent those weeks ago. He recognized her immediately because of her incredibly green eyes.
She was dressed in gray Soviet PT clothing of a simple pair of shorts and t-shirt. She had long brown hair that fell past her shoulders, but like many of her kin was missing half of an ear. She looked much healthier now though, not so anemic and she had fresh white bandages on her arm.
She began speaking and Rissien translated for her.
"She says that she owes you her life General. That you saved her from a death lacking honor and a life without meaning. She says that she acknowledges you as the taisech of not only her and what remains of her tribe, but all Warrior Bunnies. She pledges yourself to your service and that her life that you saved is now yours to do with as you wish. She says that she offers herself to you and your cause body and soul. She is known as Aneira, though her tribe is too scattered to have meaning anymore," said Rissien as the Warrior Bunny went down to her knees. Alexandrov's guards made to grab her as she pulled out a small blade, but were waved away as instead of attacking she made a small cut on her palm and grasped Alexandrov's hand, smearing her blood on his hand. Then she kissed Alexandrov on his bloody knuckles, in a similar fashion as the others had, but different at the same time.
Alexandrov caught a glimpse of a tattoo on her neck as she did so. A black circle with three arrows pointing out from the center.
"General, she is a wind dancer," said Rissien sounding shocked.
"What is that?"
"They are the best of their race General, their greatest warriors. One of them, especially one as skilled as her tattoo says she is, is said to be worth a hundred legionnaires and she has pledged herself to you. This is...no wind dancer had ever pledged themselves to one outside of their race or High Taisech ever. Especially not one who has achieved her rank. This is completely unheard of."
"So it is an oath of fealty?"
"More than that General, it is their oath of blood. It is the highest honor that can be bestowed on another. She has sworn to stand by you no matter what you may do or what obstacles you may face. She believes that in doing this, she is literally giving you her soul. That if you so chose you could cast her soul into hell for all eternity. It is the absolute expression of trust and loyalty General. She is yours forever now, and you will never have a more loyal companion."
Xxx
1966 AD Somewhere in Vietnam
"General McCallister will be at the SOG base for inspection two weeks from now, our sources have assured us of this. It is more forward of the majority of American units and we've kept the area fairly quiet, drawing their forces further towards the Cambodian border and towards the coastal regions with raids by both the Vietcong and the NVA. However, it is well within the range of Phantom and Skyraider attack aircraft and we don't have the air power to challenge them. If we raise the alarm and they manage to get a call out, they'll burn the entire area around the camp to cinders with napalm, and anyone with it."
"What about the fire base here?"
"We have another pair of NVA regular companies that are going to attack it as soon as we take on the SOG camp. They'll be too busy dealing with the attack to respond to requests for fire is what we're hoping. It's only a small base though so we're thinking that they're going to overrun it anyways."
There was a small group of men, less then a dozen scattered around a table strewn with maps and photos with a single overhead light hanging above them. It illuminated the table, but left the edges of the room in shadow. The men weren't Vietnamese though. No, to a man they were Russian. Elite special forces, all of them veterans of many operations and theaters. All of them killers.
"I say we go for it. We have a full battalion of NVA regulars at our disposal and there's at most a company of Green Berets and their trained militia. No more than 10 Green Berets amongst them. If we bring back McCallister's head, it will be a great morale victory for the NVA and a huge propaganda loss for the Americans. Even if we lost half of them, it would be more than worth it for the propaganda purposes alone."
It was the youngest who had spoken, but he had brought an entire team with him to Vietnam, one in which he was in charge of. He was young yes, but he had already established a reputation as being utterly ruthless in his short career. A psychopath given a license to kill for the Motherland and one who took liberty with that license whenever he could without hesitation. Bringing his special brand of brutality when seeing a mission through. Whenever things were about to get violent, or were, he would always smile.
"The risk with so little time to prepare is-"
"Acceptable when the target is a general," cut in the younger man. "Killing him is worth the risk, and whatever the cost may be."
Xxx
"This is an evil place, we should not be here," muttered a legionnaire to his companion next to Octavian, the man appearing as though he was a turtle wanting to retreat within its shell. Hunched within his armour and peering out from the confines of his steel helmet cautiously.
Octavian found that he should have reproached his man for speaking such words, possibly treasonous words, but found that he could not agree more. They had traveled long and far under the Apostle Charon, traveling to the far reaches of the Empire and into its oldest forest, and possible most unholy.
The trees grew tall here, but they grew wrong. The branches were old and gnarled, twisted like an old man's hands plagued with arthritis and gout. The bark was wavy and ridged, almost forming faces in one were to look hard enough on the skin of the tree.
The water here was stagnant, dark, and undrinkable. Yet they saw many animals here, none of them correct. They had hunted a deer their first night here, and yet when they had split it open, the meat had been black and rotten, not to mention the teeth of the beast. Not that of a mild mannered deer, but that of a wolf or some other predator. Meat still stuck in its fangs and rotting it its belly. Such a thing was unnatural, even in a world of magic and gods.
The unease was not just limited to the men either, the horses were equally as unsettled. They were increasingly jumpy, skittish, and already 3 men had been injured from being thrown from panicking horses. One had run off into the brush and they had never seen it again. Octavian would be more than glad when they left this place.
Their guides were picking their way nimbly, if warily through the forest and leading the way to...somewhere.
They were satyrs, goat men and women whom Charon had 'enlisted' much the same way that he had Octavian's legionnaires and the Messalonians. The satyrs had known where he had spoken of and had vehemently refused to show the way. That had been their biggest mistake, you did not say no to Charon.
He had murdered half the village and maimed another quarter. It had been jarring how quickly he had gone from politely and glibly conversing with the village elder to slicing him in half with his massive scythe. Then, after he had murdered any who had tried to stop him and many who hadn't, he picked another to politely converse with and repeat his request. They had agreed immediately after that.
Though Octavian didn't dare to utter the words aloud, barely dared to think them within the confines of his own mind he had come to the conclusion that Charon was not an Apostle of Hardy. Sure he went through the motions and would lead them all in prayer after their morning meal, but he was certain it was nothing more than an act. The men who took up and set up his tent, who cleaned it, whispered of things that were not rituals of Hardy. Octavian had never heard of living sacrifices to Hardy before, and there were less satyrs now then when they had started out with. No one, Octavian included dared to ask Charon where they had gone either.
They had been marching for so long and at the same pace for so many days, it came as a mild shock when they actually came to a halt, Octavian pulling back on the reins of his mount to stop from bumping into the men in front of him.
They waited for a few minutes with no results and then grudgingly Octavian spurred his mounts into motion and rode to the front of the column, keeping his head down to guard against the low hanging branches that grabbed at and snagged onto him.
Octavian pulled back sharply on the reigns, partly in shock, and partly to avoid running over the supposed apostle.
He was standing impassive, holding one of the satyr girls by her goat-like horns who was grimacing in a mixture of pain and fear; clutching at the hand holding her as her hooves kicked in futility through empty air.
Charon was staring at four large stone obelisks with intricate carvings and runes on them, as well as the remains of pulped satyrs smeared across their fronts.
A stark cry of terror sounded as Charon cocked his arm holding the satyr back, like he was preparing to throw a ball, before seeming to lose interest in what he was doing and almost with a sense of resignation and a weary sigh, let the satyr drop to the ground below. She fell to her backside and stared at Charon in a mixture of disbelief and horror. In an instant she was on her feet and running back the way that Octavian had come from.
"If you leave the company I'll spoon out your eyes and feed them to you," called Charon nonchalantly to the fleeing satyr, his words acting like a thrown rock, making the girl stumble and begin walking; albeit while sobbing.
"And what can I do for you today Captain?" asked Charon cheerily, whirling in place with a smile on his face, massive scythe resting on his shoulder.
"I had merely wondered as to our progress and why we had stopped Lord," said Octavian, keeping his voice level and tone respectful.
"Oh yes, about that. We appear to have him a bit of a snag," grinned the Apostle, jerking his thumb towards the gore smeared obelisks.
"Those are magic totems you see, can't just go past them, or at least I can't at any rate. A mortal like you and your men could, though I sincerely doubt that you would get past what lays ahead."
"If I may be so bold my lord, what lays ahead?" asked Octavian, being sure to keep his tone neutral and respectful.
"You may not," answered Charon curtly, pursing his lips and bouncing his massive scythe on his shoulder. "Tell me Centurion, how would you get past an obstacle like this?"
"Well my lord, if these pillars were stopping my advance I would break them apart."
"They are quite indestructible I am afraid."
"Then I would pull them out of the ground and drag them out of the way my lord."
"Oh? What makes you think you could do that Centurion?"
"Well if the pillars will let us pass them, it stands to reason that they would not molest them were we to manipulate them my lord. We have 100 horses, a score of men and a handful of dragons. We could dig out the base and attach ropes to pull them out. Assuming they don't extend to Hardy's domain we should be able to do it."
"Excellent idea Centurion, get to it," clapped Charon happily.
Xxx
"You know you wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't stayed up so late," said Boris to Luella, the elf only managing to keep her eyes half open and nearly falling asleep any time that they stopped.
"I went to bed before you did, why aren't you tired?" asked the elf, stifling a yawn.
"I'm used to late nights and early mornings, unlike a certain someone who promised that they wouldn't be tired, or complain."
"I haven't complained," offered Luella after a moment's pause. "Oh, by the way, I got you something for New Years," said the elf, new energy and excitement taking hold of her as she reached into a small satchel bag that she had taken to carrying.
She pulled out a glass jar with a flower inside that Boris had never seen before with intricate swirling blue, white, and purple colors on the petals with yellow extensions in the center.
"I know how your wife said that she liked flowers so I went and made one for you to take back to her. I also made it really durable since you told me that everything she plants dies, but I don't know how it will do against the cold, but it should bloom in the winter. Do you like it?" asked the elf eagerly.
"Oh, it's beautiful Luella, thank you," said the old veteran, taking the flower, an instant smile making its way onto Luella's face.
"I'm glad you like it."
"You said that you made it though? Like from nothing? That's incredible."
"W-well, n-not from nothing mumbled Luella blushing. I-I took some seeds from the Dew Rose and grew it from that. W-well, not just from that. Obviously I h-had a few others with me. Flowers that is, w-well their seeds anyways."
"Luella, it's fine, you don't need to tie yourself in knots about it. It's a beautiful flower and I love it and my wife will definitely love it. Calm down there darling," said Boris ruffling the Elfin girl's hair until she squeaked in protest.
"Come on beautiful, we've got to go see how the Lieutenant is doing," said Boris and resumed walking."
"Beautiful," breathed the Elfin girl under her breath as she stared at the retreating back of the old veteran. "He called me beautiful." Luella smiled dreamily for a few moments before Boris called out for her to catch up with him.
They came to Feliks' room and Boris rapped his knuckles sharply on the door, more a byproduct of military life than actual conscience intent.
"Lieutenant Volkov? Lieutenant? Are you in there Comrade? Lieutenant Volkov?" asked Boris again, opening the door to the room and finding it in much the same condition that he had seen it in yesterday, save for the form on the single bed wrapped in its covers against the morning light.
"Got a hell of a hangover eh?" chuckled Boris walking over to the bed with Luella looking in curiously.
"Um, Boris," began Luella with a trace of confusion in her voice.
Boris ripped the blanket off of the sleeping Lieutenant, only to find that it wasn't Volkov at all, but the silver-haired mercenary laying face down and naked on said Lieutenant's bed.
"Uhh," said Boris dumbly, trying to think of a better response. Before he could, Luella darted in front of him and pulled the covers back up over top of Ianthe who hadn't even stirred at the disturbance. Then the small elf turned around with a cross look on her face and hands on her hips.
"You shouldn't go into a lady's room when she's sleeping, or pull back the bed covers," chastised the petite elf. "It's not nice."
"This isn't her room Luella."
The cross look on the girl's face disappeared and was instead replaced by one of deep concentration and thought.
"No...it's not," said the elf slowly. "She must have been very tired last night," concluded the elf with an air of satisfaction.
Boris let out a sigh at the girl's naivete and put his arm around her shoulders.
"Come on, we should let her get some sleep and see if we can find the Lieutenant somewhere else."
"Okay," agreed the elf cheerily.
xxx
"You know I've missed doing this," said Dr. Pajari hiking in civilian attire and shorts with a small backpack on. A wide brimmed bush hat on his head to shield him from the sun as he set a comfortable, if albeit purposeful pace. They were now several miles from Zhukov in the valleys surrounding it without another soul in sight.
"Yes Doctor," intoned Felicia in a monotone, the red-haired warrior bunny parroting the reply that Pajari found most acceptable in any situation.
A good hike in the fresh air really allows the mind to breathe, wouldn't you agree?"
"Indeed it does Doctor."
"You know Greek Scholars believed that when they debated or discussed new theories they should walk and talk about it. Allow more air into the blood and their blood to circulate faster to the brain and thereby think with greater power. Maybe not as true as they believed, but I've always found that walking in nature has a way of clearing the cobwebs from my brain and invigorating me. The philosophers of Ancient Greece though lacking the knowledge we have now, did not lack intuitiveness or understanding."
"Yes Doctor."
"Tell me Felicia, why do you only ever say yes doctor and agree with whatever it is that I say? Are you afraid of me? That I may hurt you again if you say anything else?"
"...Yes...Doctor, I am," answered the warrior bunny, voice hushed and breathless like her chest was in a vice and she was unable to breathe, for in a way that was exactly how she felt.
Felicia took in a sharp intake of breath as the doctor put his hand under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. It was not a harsh movement, but one that nonetheless filled her normally empty golden eyes with terror and made her body tremble.
"You have nothing to fear from me so long as you obey. Do you understand Felicia?"
"Yes...yes I do. I understand Doctor."
"Good," smiled Pajari, frowning a moment later when Felicia's ears went up straight vertical and rigid.
"What is it?"
"Four men Doctor, moving quietly, but there is a rattle of steel on them."
"Bandits then?"
"Most likely Doctor."
"I see. Should we run then?"
"They would only catch us Doctor, they're already here."
"Then I suppose we should wait here, it's an advantageous spot," mused Pajari. As it turned out, they didn't have to wait too long at all for the men stalking them to make themselves known.
"Damned beast women, have such good hearing," grumbled a muscled man in filthy clothing as he and three other men slowly emerged from the forest around them, blocking the trail ahead of them. They had on the remains of mercenary garb. Cheap mercenary garb. Boiled leather armor, low quality steel weapons, and little acquaintance with either soap or water.
Good morning to you gentlemen, I see that you enjoy nature's bounty as much as I do then?" asked Pajari in flawless Common.
"I prefer a more silver bounty if you know what I mean," said the man, idly playing with the axe in his hand.
"Then I am afraid that we are unable to assist you, for you see we have no money, merely the clothes on our back and food in our packs."
"And steel on your hips," said the bandit gesturing to the machetes adorning both Pajari's and Felicia's hips.
"Merely for clearing our path when the brush becomes too dense, I assure you."
"You expect me to believe that a man who can afford good steel, comes from the Mottled Men's Camp, and owns a slave has no silver? I'm not a fool. I'm sure that if you don't have silver, your house will pay much to get you back."
"You're welcome to what we have, but I can tell you that you'll get no silver for either me or my assistant."
"I know I am, and we'll just have to see about them giving some silver for you eh?"
The large bandit started towards Pajari, but suddenly found his way blocked by the red-haired warrior bunny.
"What? Is this little thing going to fight me?" laughed the bandit.
"Not unless I tell her to," said Pajari evenly.
"Ha! This this beast woman is going to stop me? I think I'll keep her, always wanted a warrior bunny slave," said the man, reaching out and groping Felicia's breasts through her shirt. The warrior bunny merely stood there motionless as the man fondled her. Like a doll her eyes remained lifeless, as if she was made of porcelain and cloth.
"Already trained too huh? Nice. Now step aside bitch. I said move," growled the man when Felicia stayed where she was as if rooted to the spot.
"Felicia...break his shoulder," said Pajari calmly in Russian.
Like as if a switch had been flipped, Felicia's eyes came to life and she drove the palm of her hand into the man's solar plexus, winding him and causing spittle to fly from his mouth as he staggered backwards, clutching at his injured chest.
Felicia's leg went nearly straight up, then like a meteorite came crashing down with her heel striking the man on the shoulder with a sickening crunch that saw the man's left arm sink noticeably lower to his side. He stood dumbly for a moment, then began shrieking in pain as his companions readied their weapons.
"The name warrior bunny isn't just a name gentlemen, it's an earned title. An honorific. You would do well to remember that," said Pajari walking up to Felicia and lifting up the hair by her neck for the other bandits to see. A black tattoo was revealed near the base of her hairline, three arrows pointing out from a circle. Recognition dawned on the bandits faces, followed swiftly by fear.
"More than that, my assistant is a Warrior Bunny wind dancer. So named for the speed for which they move...and the swiftness in which they kill. Moving amongst ranks of their foes like the wind itself. The number of arrows coming from the circle on their neck tells of their skill and prowess. The highest level is three gentlemen."
There was a rasp of steel as Pajari drew his machete and tossed it to Felicia's feet, the steel blade glinting in the morning light.
"Felicia...kill them."
"Yes Doctor," said Felicia, crouching down like an Olympic sprinter, grasping Pajari's machete in her hand, before exploding outwards with incredible speed.
The largest bandit who was still grasping his broken shoulder brought his ax back with a roar and attempted to split the warrior bunny's head.
Felicia dodged to the side and was in an instant on the man's shoulder, already withdrawing the length of steel from his neck before he even understood what was happening.
She leaped from his shoulders onto the bandit behind him as the first man fell, driving the second to the ground beneath her weight and twin steel blades that had sprouted from his chest. Felicia then rolled forwards out of the swing of the third man's sword, turning as she did so and bringing her first blade across the back of his knees, severing the tendons in them. He fell back with a cry of pain, before having his cry cut short by a second length of steel removing his windpipe.
The last man in desperation tried to bash in Felicia's head with a studded club, only for the club and most of his arm to fly away as Felicia brought her blades across in an X in front of her. Before the man had taken so much as a step backwards, Felicia had driven the one machete into his heart, and the other into his throat. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
Felicia spun the blades in her hands to fling the blood off of them, turning green grass crimson, before sheathing her own machete and offering Pajari's back to him, holding it up to him while she went down to one knee.
"Good work Felicia, I'm proud of you," said Pajari, taking back his own machete and sheathing it, causing the warrior bunny's head to shoot up in surprise at the praise.
"Oh, hold still," said Pajari grabbing hold of her chin, causing Felicia's mind to go blank with terror, before his other hand produced a handkerchief and wiped a smear of blood from her face.
"There, all better. Can't have you coming back to the camp covered in blood now can we? Come along now Felicia."
"Yes Doctor," said Felicia quickly, picking up her pack that she had dropped and falling in step behind the Doctor.
xxx
It ended up taking several days, seemingly surprising even Charon himself at how involved the task had become. The stone obelisks went down deep and widened out at the base, making pulling them out all the harder. They dug slopes so that they could drag them out, but even with every man and beast at their disposal, it was still a physically excruciating project. The dragons had startled the horses and had been less than pleased at being used as beasts of burden. So much so that after a great deal of wasted time they had decided to forgo the use of the creatures. The delay had...displeased Charon, though he seemed to be refraining from indulging his anger on those around him. Most likely to avoid slowing down the work.
It was finally nearing its end now though. Every time that they managed to pull one out the runes on its surface would glow brightly for a few moments before guttering out like a dying candle. This seemed to please Charon who would have them drag the giant stones deeper away into the forest and farther away from the remaining obelisks.
The smell of freshly turned dirt and clay mixed with horse and human sweat into an unpleasant musk that settled over their camp and into their clothes. There wasn't enough water to bathe with, and what they could gather from around them would cause rashes or give men terrible bowel pains even after straining and boiling it. The only reprieve had been when it had rained and allowed them to stand outside in the downpour and replenish some of their water supply. After it had ended though, the air had become thick and heavy with buzzing insects that bit and tore at a man until they left angry welts and made rivulets of blood stream down their body.
They were ugly things, black and red with multifaceted eyes that only buzzed angrily when you swatted at them. When you finally did manage to squash them, it was with a sharp crunch leaving a blotch of foul smelling ichor that seemed to only draw more of them. Thankfully they seemed to only come shortly after the rains and linger for only a short while.
They were all stripped to the waist, all weapons and armor laid down so as to not impede their work. Octavian himself was in amongst his men helping to pull. It served a twofold purpose to do work that most Imperial officers would have considered far beneath their station. As a Centurion it was expected that he would lead by example and never make his men do something that he was not willing to do himself. The second reason was that the mood of his men was souring and morale was dropping steadily. Worst of all, it was completely understandable and Octavian felt the same way.
They didn't know where they were. They had no idea what they were doing. The living conditions were miserable, and the work was near back-breaking. They resented being under Charon's control. Resented how he had so casually killed one of their own for a Messalionian escaping. A death that Octavian felt personal responsibility for.
Octavian himself felt resentment towards Charon, but for a slightly different reason. He tried to seem glib and always in control. A wise and powerful apostle, but he was prone to petulant fits of murderous rage the moment something didn't go his way. Treating life as little more than a child does grass they pull from the earth. Something to uproot in absent minded boredom or take your rage out upon, with no regard for what damage was left behind.
The satyr girl who Charon had decided not to murder in his frustration was on the rope in front of Octavian, pulling for all she was worth, which wasn't much anymore. Satyrs weren't made for this kind of work. They were sure footed and hardy, but they were also slight of build and the girl hadn't been sleeping too well from what he could tell. Her eyes were always red from weeping, though no one ever saw her cry and she hardly ate. Needless to say, it seemed that she was very close to collapsing and that was what she did several times, falling to her knees before staggering back up to her feet. Each time slower than the last.
Octavian was from the Empire which had a certain disdain for demi-humans or nonhumans, but one of the reasons he did so well as an officer is because he cared for each and every man under his command, as willing to lay down his life for them as each of them was expected to for the Empire. It was an empathy that he couldn't turn off merely because someone under his command wasn't entirely human.
During the next pull, Octavian leaned in close to the satyr's ear.
"Don't pull anymore, just keep the line taut. It'll be alright," whispered Octavian. The satyr gave no indication that she heard him, but on the next command to pull, her arms and shoulders no longer trembled as violently and she didn't fall to her knees again.
With a mighty heave they were able to finally pull the obelisk out of the pit and forward far enough so that it was no longer in danger of falling back in. Dragging it through the underbrush was still hellishly taxing, not not nearly so much as pulling it free of its earthy mooring had been.
They pulled it into the forest until Charon deemed that they had pulled it far enough. It had been like hat with all of them, the apostle circling the obelisk each and every time like a bird of carrion deciding if its prey was too weak to resist anymore.
"Alright, that's far enough. That should be the last one
With a palpable groan of relief, the work part released the ropes, letting aching muscles finally rest. Some merely standing in place and panting. After a few moments they began to move again, first unhooking the horses and bringing them forage and water, tying them to posts and trees so that they would not spook and run off as others had. Posting guards so that no predators, human or otherwise would try to make off with the horses.
They lined up for food by way of seniority, Octavian allowing the Messalonians and their prickly pride to go first. First their knights, then their officers, then squires, and finally their footmen. When Octavian's men were next to eat, Octavian allowed his officers to eat first, but he himself stayed out of the line of food until all of his men had gotten their portions. It was odd for an Imperial officer to do, but Octavian had to set an example.
If there was to be a shortage of food, he would share in the hardship as much as the lowliest of legionnaire. It was why he partook in all the work that they did. No man would have resentment grow towards their officer if they were in the same boat as them, or in fact was worse off than a common soldier.
They had enough food however, and soon everyone was eating and resting. The sentries having been relieved so that they could eat as well with others who had already eaten.
Octavian was eating his stew when he noticed the satyr from before trying to eat. Her hands and arms were trembling violently, having great difficulty even raising them above chest level. Spilling much of the food from her spoon before it was even halfway to her mouth. Octavian made his way over to her.
"Here, allow me," said Octavian, surprising the satyr and taking the spoon and bowl from her hands. He filled the spoon to the brim with stew and brought it to her mouth like how he had fed his infant son. She looked at him for a moment with large, doe-like brown eyes before taking the proffered food.
Octavian fed her until the stew was gone, then, held up her water gourd so that she could drink. She took several long slow droughts before Octavian took the gourd away from her lips.
"Thank you," said the satyr after a pause, her voice incredibly soft. Like raising it would cause her pain. "I had no expected an Imperial to show such kindness to a satyr. Oh, I see," said the woman noticing the tribal tattoos just peeking out from the edges of his sleeves. "You were not born in the Empire."
"We all start somewhere, but end up where we belong in the end."
"I don't belong here," said the satyr girl quietly.
"This isn't your end."
"It was for my father. And my mother, my brothers, and my sister. It was almost for me as well until that-"
The satyr fell quiet as Octavian put his fingers to her lips.
"It is best to not speak like that, for all of our sakes."
"I see. You are here the same as I am then. You and your men."
"We are."
"How did you get swept up in this?"
"By chance, same as the Messalonians."
"Did you bend the knee?"
"Yes. It seemed that refusal was not an option and I had no wish to test the punishment."
"Were only our elders so wise," said the satyr girl morosely. "Our village is done after this. Too many dead, too many injured, too many scattered. Can I sell myself to you? I can cook and clean, look after your armor and sharpen your sword. If you have other needs...I can take care of them as well."
"I will think on it, but I would not have need of your other services. I have eyes only for my wife and her alone."
"She is a lucky woman then. You seem like a good man Centurion, what is your name?"
"Octavian. Yours?"
"Calista."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Calista."
"Yours as well. I implore you to take me into your service Octavian. The world is not kind to a woman on her own, especially a satyr. I would be no trouble I promise."
"Why so eager to serve?"
"I have nowhere else to go, and you seem like a kind man. I would be able to find no other work and I would merely be a slave to other satyr tribes. Satyrs...do not treat slaves kindly. Less so even than the empire."
"I will not accept so quickly," said Octavian after a few moments pause. I will give you a day or two to think about your offer in case you wish to retract it. If you still wish to give yourself to my service at the end of those two days I will accept."
"Your words have just convinced me that I have made the right choice in my master my lord," said Calista with a smile.
Xxx
"Aw, someone's tuckered out," commented Feliks, seeing Luella fast asleep inside the BTR and drooling ever so slightly. "And she's supposed to be helping to load up supplies."
"I don't mind at all if she sleeps the whole time Comrade Lieutenant. Our little angel there is a real life saver," said Dima, the armored sergeant.
He had a special soft place for the elf now. As short a time ago as yesterday he had been helping to hook up a trailer and had crushed his hand in between the hitch and trailer, pulping it. His hand had been beyond repair and he had only just wrapped it in a towel, still cursing and bleeding everywhere when Luella had wandered by.
She had rushed over upon seeing the wounded tanker and gingerly taken his mashed hand in between hers. Then she had begun to sing and Dima witnessed firsthand the miracles the little elf was capable of. His hand had been covered in golden light and he had watched amazed as it had reformed back whole and even better than before. Free of any scars or blemishes.
"She stayed up late last night reading," said Boris. "She said that she wanted read more Russian books so I managed to get a copy of Anna Karenina for her."
"Wow, letting her dive right in then huh? Isn't that a little advanced? I mean she only learned Russian a few months ago."
"No actually Lieutenant, she's practically devouring that book. I'm telling you, she quick as a whip that one."
"Just not when she's sleeping in the BTR," said Feliks. "Too bad that she fell asleep on the tracks."
"What?" asked Boris.
"And the responsibility train is coming," continued Volkov, hopping through the hatch into the BTR.
"Hey sweetie, I know that you're having a nice sleep, but it's time to WAKE UP!" yelled Feliks clapping his hands together loudly. "Huh, she's really out," said Feliks as Luella failed to so much as stir. So instead Feliks went and pinched her nose shut.
He watched for a few moments as the elf became to move in discomfort while asleep, before she jerked awake with a start.
"Time to get to work Luella," said Feliks to the drowsy elf.
"Okay," said the girl rubbing the sleep from her eyes, then a frown creased her face as she twitched her nose. "Did you pinch my nose?"
"Well you wouldn't wake up."
"Boooris, Feliks pinched my nose."
"Can't do anything darling, he outranks me."
"But it's not nice," protested the elf.
"Neither is sleeping when you're supposed to be working," said Feliks. Instantly a guilty look appeared on the girl's face and she looked down.
"No, it's not," agreed Luella.
"Well come on now, we've still got a few boxes to get loaded up," said Feliks hopping out of the BTR.
It wasn't like Luella was overly strong. She was fit for sure and nimble, but in terms of raw strength it was rather funny to watch her try to lift things, but she was very helpful in tying things down and what she could help carry she did. It was more about keeping her from acting like a spoiled child. She was good most of the time, but she had a teenage defiance streak in her from time to time.
Ianthe was around too, helping load things and getting everything ready to move. A change had come over her ever since they had come back from Japan. She had been morose and sullen, much less talkative and animated when she interacted with people. Withdrawn was a good way to put it.
He had first noticed it in the limo when the Russian Federation had been taking them back to the gate. He had recognized the look and how she had gripped her hands tight enough to break the skin. She was dwelling over her what she perceived as a failure on her part and it was tormenting her. Maybe she wasn't feeling useful since they had been cooped up for so long? He would have to figure out a way to improve her mood and he had a few ideas.
Xxx
"Hey Luella, come here," said Feliks gesturing with one of the two quarter staffs he was carrying.
"Oh? Okay," said the elfin girl cheerily, hurrying to his side.
It was the end of the first day of their long range patrol and they had just set up camp for the evening. Normal procedure would usually call for going into the forest and camouflaging the vehicles, but Feliks had decided against this. Their enemy could only engage them at close range so he instead had them stop in open fields or meadows where they had long, clear, and unrestricted fields of fire in case they were to be attacked. Being in the trees would limit the effectiveness of their weapons.
"What's with the sticks?" asked Luella.
"We're going to go talk to Ianthe," said Feliks.
They walked a little ways away from the main cluster of vehicles to where Ianthe was sitting on a stump, sharpening her sword absentmindedly with a stone and checking the edge with her thumb. Her dragon Maximus snoring loudly behind her, wing covering its massive head.
The mercenary looked up as Feliks approached, icy blue eyes meeting his and she stood up, bring her fist to her breast in a gesture of respect.
"Lord," said the mercenary, but eying the quarterstaves that Feliks was carrying.
"Tell her that I want to spar with her using staffs," said Feliks.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" asked Luella.
"Yes, it'll be fine."
"Okay," said the elf like she thought it was anything but.
Ianthe's face showed open surprise when Luella put forward Feliks' request.
"She wants to know how experienced you are," said Luella.
"Pretty good," said Feliks.
"Alright, she accepts," said Luella, as Ianthe took one of the staffs from Feliks, a bit of a bounce in her step whereas before she had seemed to only glumly shuffle as she warmed up, twirling the length of wood and stretching.
"This may not be a good idea," said Luella as Feliks set down his AK, vest, and helmet, watching as the Messalonian expertly twirled the staff between hands. "Maybe you should tell her that it's going to be a light spar. I think that she thinks that you mean something other than you do. Sparring is different in Messalon."
"Don't worry, we practiced with these in training."
"If you say so," said the elf.
Feliks and Ianthe squared off and there was a predatory gleam in the mercenary's eye, as she readied her staff.
"Okay, and go," said Luella.
Ianthe took the initiative and charged towards Feliks. He struck out with his staff and she blocked, the struck in turn and Feliks blocked. The cracks of wood on wood filling the clearing.
Just like in training, thought Feliks as he raised his staff to block an overhead blow. Instead of the staff descending from above, it thrust out like a spear striking Feliks in the face, making his eyes water and to stumble back in pain. Lightning fast Ianthe first struck him in the ribs on his right side, then his left sending waves of pain emanating from his chest, causing him to hunch up. Feliks' vision cleared just in time for it to be filled by a descending staff of wood and then everything went dark.
When the world came to light again, Feliks was on his back, looking up into the faces of a concerned wood elf and a bemused silver-haired mercenary. Ianthe said something in her native language that Feliks didn't understand, but the corners of her mouth were turned up in the smallest of grins.
"Ianthe says that you're not that good and you need more practice. She also says that you are going to practice every evening until you get better. Also you owe her money for disgracing yourself so badly."