Stalemate - 2. The Lieutenants

PRIVATE ELLIOT

"I have a deadly nightshade,

So twisted does it grow.

With berries black as midnight,

And a skull as white as snow.

A neko boy came over,

Tried to drink my tea.

He touched me without asking,

Now he's buried 'neath my tree."

Nonsensical rhymes filled his mind after nearly a week of constant shellfire. The pounding had already dulled away to a constant throbbing he barely noticed, and Elliot had quickly learned that it was remarkably easy to sleep to the roaring rain, when you were exhausted from hours of running between lines, your nerves torn to shreds by the ever present fear of death.

Elliot awoke suddenly on the eighth day of shelling, his mind frantically grasping for what had pulled him out of desperately needed sleep. Silence. Deafening silence, a silence that made him think he was deaf. The nekos had stopped their fire.

Boots walked through the dugout, wet clicks making themselves heard as elves sat up in the darkness of predawn. The sergeant stopped in front of Elliot, the younger elf standing up to salute quickly.

“Sound stand to,” the elf said sharply.

“Aye Sergeant!”

His uniform was thrown on quickly, bright blues stained brown by rain and mud. A cap covered his head, his bugle in hand as he hurried from the dugout less than two minutes later, and into a downpour of cold winter rain.

Or it was supposed to be winter rain. This far north, Elliot didn’t think there even was a winter. It was just hot and miserable year round. In fact, the deluge washing over him, soaking him to the bone, was the coldest he had been since arriving in Sarelin nearly three months ago. And in all that time, there had only been the shelling of lines, and the assault on the Astaran Expeditionary Force. Elliot kept hearing about how, if the nekos would just stand and fight, the rebellion would have been crushed by now. He wasn’t sure how much more standing and fighting the cats could do when they were already in opposing trenches, digging fortifications in plain sight to defend their city.

An elf climbed onto the firestep, squinting as she looked out into the growing dawn over the land between trenches.

“What in Lumara’s name are you doing?” Elliot hissed, grabbing at her wrist.

“I’m trying to see if they’re-”

A sudden crack cut off the elf’s words, her body collapsing as blood spattered across Elliot’s face. He stumbled back, a horrified cry caught in his throat.

“Now Elliot!”

The sergeant’s voice pulled him from his stupor, his bugle raising shakily. A weak breath puffed into the brass, air blowing uselessly through the instrument. It took him a moment to form his mouth properly, but finally, a clear note rang from his instrument, and then another.

Three clear notes, twice over, followed by a staccato three notes before returning to the longer three notes. His call was taken down the line, the trench coming alive with elves forming into a wall of bodies. Rifles were set over the top of the trench, hands covered by bits of dirt. Heads popped up for quick peeks at the nonexistent enemy. Some made it back down safely. Others remained on the floor of the trench, never to move again.

“Keep your damned heads down!” someone snapped.

Elliot agreed with that message, ducking down as he lowered his bugle. Seconds later, the last note of the Army of Sarelin died out, but all was not silent. Rifles were readied, prayers said as everyone prepared to go into battle.

Clipping his instrument back to his belt, Elliot took out his bayonet. He took a deep breath, sliding the socket over the muzzle of his rifle. His fingers slipped as the rain poured over them, and he let out a curse, trying to fit the bayonet again.

“Lumara protect us…” the elf breathed as he screwed the knife to his gun.

Eyes closed, Elliot continued his feverish praying, levelling his weapon with the rest of the elves to form an impenetrable wall of steel, and eventually bullets. He could see an elf standing near a swivelling machine gun, trying to stay close enough to use the weapon yet far enough away that she wasn’t an instant target for snipers. He wished her luck; the neko snipers seemed to have impeccable aim.

An indeterminate amount of time passed, the sun rising behind them as they faced down the rebellious cats barely three hundred yards away. A balloon rose slowly overhead, a group of elves with cameras trying to photograph the city and the trench system protecting it. It didn’t take long for a crackle of rifles to tear through the morning, hot bullets ripping through the balloon, and Elliot flinched as a body splattered onto the ground behind him. His prayers expanded to include the elves in the balloon, somehow still aloft even after the murderous fire.

“They’re still hanging on? And here I thought the cats were all dying of plague…” someone muttered.

“That’s enough. Sound assembly. They’re not coming.”

Elliot’s eyes found the speaker, a dark lieutenant from Mydara. He recognised the crossed flags on the elf’s blue breast, and Elliot’s hand came down in a salute to his commanding officer. His hand fumbled for his bugle, lips set as he sucked in a breath to perform the rapid notes of the call.

Notes carried down the line, the other regiments following suit. Another rifle crack broke through the call, mud splattering Elliot’s face, and the elf stumbled back, nearly dropping his instrument.

“Careful there. I don’t need to deal with the hassle of finding a replacement bugler,” the lieutenant scowled.

Elliot gulped, hand tightening around the bugle. He nodded quickly, ducking down with his rifle to wrestle with the bayonet before joining the rest of the soldiers in formation.

PRIVATE ADYA

Mass pits were dug into the ground, wide and deep. Since the shelling of the hospital, bodies had begun piling up, no one daring to bury them when elven shells could fall at any time.

Adya’s muscles ached as he worked through the nights, moving dirt and mud with a contingent of locals. Niwo and Ythin worked side by side, putting aside decades of distrust as they struggled to save lives. But to save lives, the departed had to be buried properly.

It was hard work, gruesome work. Adya barely got any sleep, the shells of Fort Naia keeping him awake morning and night, and dying nekos robbing him of sleep as he tried desperately to save who he could.

And then the guns fell silent.

Adya stumbled up from his cot in the early morning, poking his head outside the small tent reserved for the healthy. The field hospital had been rebuilt after the shelling, walls of dirt hastily constructed around tents that were spread much thinner to avoid the elven cannons. Even Adya knew it was a flimsy defence against shells that could fall at any time.

All around him, medics were looking suspiciously at the sky, rain soaking them all quickly. Gone was the constant thunder of the heavy Niwo guns, the muzzle of Fort Naia was silent.

A lone bugle could be heard from the fort, notes trilling a call. Adya shrugged, slipping back into the tent to dress properly. He was awake, and there were Niwo to help.

An hour later, a rumble was heard, the gates of the city opening. Wagons rumbled past the hospital, Adya catching the glint of steel as he scrubbed out bedpans. The Niwo army was moving their cannon outside of the city proper. That explained the silence of the guns; Sarelin no longer had the hands to move their artillery while keeping up the barrage.

A neko approached Adya, his body thin and eyes sunken in exhaustion. Yet he held an air of authority, quiet strength keeping him standing through the siege of his city.

“Private, I wish to speak with the medic in charge of the hospital,” the Niwo said.

“That’s Lieutenant Nekhii,” Adya said, pointing toward a tent. “Do not go inside. I will bring her to you.”

“Who are you to give me orders boy?”

“Private Adya, of the Khorsan Blue Lotus. I’m here to save lives, and if you go into that tent, you will die. Pardon my disrespect sir, but I insist you do not enter any of the tents here.”

The Sarelin neko took a deep breath, visibly containing his displeasure.

“Very well, bring Nekhii to me. I need to discuss the cannon with them.”

Adya nodded, letting out his own breath. A makeshift mask went over his nose, and the Ythin neko ducked into the tent. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lantern that provided just enough light for the few surgeons still left. Picking Lieutenant Nekhii out, Adya stepped around her, making sure he approached from the front to avoid any issues should she be cutting into someone.

He cleared his throat quietly as the neko handed a syringe to her partner, a neko whose fur colour was undecipherable under the blood covering his arms and face.

“What is it?” the lieutenant asked wearily, her orange fur streaked with blood and grime despite its short shear.

“A Niwo officer is asking to speak with the neko in charge of the hospital,” Adya replied. “I’m not sure who he is, but he matches the description of Captain Nyanta… sort of.”

“You are not certain?”

“A lot of the Niwo are starting to blend,” Adya admitted.

“They are,” Nekhii sighed in agreement. “Very well. Remain here with Corporal Batu, help him with whatever he needs. Batu, make sure you get those syringes filled. There might be something to that alcohol cleanse. It’s worth a shot at least.”

“Yes sir,” Adya and Batu said quietly.

The Ythins changed spots, Batu handing Adya a syringe with a clear liquid that tore at the young neko’s nose.

“Vodka?” he asked incredulously.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Batu demanded. “Put it over on that tray for Tent 23.”

“What about the blood drips… the vein things?”

“Their problem isn’t hydration,” Batu scoffed. “What would a kitten know of medicine anyway?”

Adya bit his lip, transferring a handful of syringes to the platter designated for Tent 23.

“How old are you, fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen…” Adya muttered.

“Figures. Well, how do you like your glorious adventure so far?” Batu scoffed, sticking another set of syringes into the neck of a bottle.

“I didn’t-”

“-join for adventure? I suppose you came to watch people die then?”

“What? No! I want to help!” Adya protested.

“Kitten, hospitals are where people go to die during a pandemic. We’re not here to help, we’re here to make them more comfortable in their last days, before we join them,” Batu explained patiently.

“Horse shit. Is that why you and Lieutenant Nekhii are trying to find ways to save people?” Adya demanded indignantly. “Is that why Khorsa sent a company of a hundred nurses six hundred miles to the middle of the bog? Because no one can be saved?”

“Yes. Because it’s not about saving people, it’s about showing the elves that the nekos will stand together. It’s about getting those fucking knife ears to back off and let us live,” Batu snapped.

Adya’s ears flattened as he turned to set the latest batch on the tray. His eyes caught a canister in the corner of the tent.

“Hydrogen cyanide. For those who are suffering too much. One minute and they’re gone,” Batu said, following his gaze.

Adya shuddered at the callousness in the neko’s voice, trying to focus more on the syringes filled with liquor from the Mydaran mountains. It wouldn’t work, and he felt like Batu knew that. But there was nothing else he could actually do, and Adya’s spirit was starting to break.

“Adya.”

He looked up as the lieutenant entered the room.

“Captain Nyanta is requesting medics for the eastern bogs. The Niwo are digging trenches around the elves, and they’re expecting a lot of wounded. He… wants to avoid as much death as possible for both sides,” Nekhii said quietly. “I can only spare you and Private Oktai. You will report to Captain Nyanta, and follow his directions until he sees fit to release you from his service.”

Adya’s face fell, his ears twitching in discomfort.

“I know it’s not ideal. But you would be able to do more good out there anyway. Good luck,” Nekhii said, moving to help Batu.

Adya bowed slightly, before making his way out of the tent. It would take only a few minutes to gather his things, then he would join the Niwo in their war.