Stalemate - 5. Fruitful Rain

PRIVATE ELLIOT

“I heard it’s actually an elf deserter. That’s why no one suspects it; they’re looking for a cat.”

Elves sat around a table in a farmhouse, cards in hand as coppers passed between them. Elliot stared at their game distantly, trying to get the sight of a room splattered in blood and body parts out of his mind. He hadn’t even had the chance to really meet them. Not that it would have mattered. The werewolves never would have let him in.

It was more than the aftermath of the neko’s attack though. He had been there. He should have been in that dugout. And Elliot didn’t know if it was luck or fate that had saved him, but he’d had far too many close calls.

The elf’s fingers ran over the noose around his neck, taken from the hanging of a deserter. It had tasted blood, a lot of blood. Surely it would desire no more, and would protect the one wearing it. Coupled with the wolf’s knot just below his throat, there was no way his luck could run out.

“Maybe it’s a black cat. I’ve seen one, covered in fur. It dodged all my bullets and dragged a body back into a crater. Probably ate it,” an elf shuddered.

“Bullshit Davis, it didn’t dodge your bullets,” another elf snorted. “You’re so blind you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.”

“Con too!” the elf snapped back.

“You’re all wrong. It’s not an elf. It’s not even alive. The way it travels through no man’s land, moving from sector to sector in the blink of an eye… It’s the Ghost of King’s Crossing,” an elf spoke up.

His hand trembled as he raised his glass of vodka, and the elf swallowed harshly.

“Hah, everyone knows King’s Crossing was a hoax. What, Captain Sylvan really let her wolves loose to pillage a friendly town? She has more discipline than that.”

Elliot shook his head at the claim. He knew. The bugler knew who the neko was. The explosion echoed in his ears again, his body flying back to hit the firestep as a calico werewolf stood over him.

“Talk and I’ll let you bleed out slowly…”

His eyes squeezed shut against the memory, the elf’s own shudder ripping through him.

“Whoever it is, they sure like red. Four attacks, and each one had a red fabric left at the scene.”

“Well duh, why do you think they call him the Red Ghost?”

Elliot stared at the elf across the room, watching him drink from an empty glass. He knew too. They were all wrong, but he knew who the werewolf was.

“It wasn’t a hoax…” he muttered.

“Hey, shut up, bugle boy!”

“Yeah, we’ll let you know if we need the cats to wake up!”

The elf stood up stiffly, moving across the room. He stopped in front of the elf from King’s Crossing, staring down at him.

“You were there.”

The elf nodded, glass trembling as he looked up at the bugler.

“I… He’s… he’s coming for me… for all of the first Mydaran… He won’t rest until we’re dead.”

“What did you do?”

He shook his head, wide eyes staring at Elliot.

“I can’t… I can’t tell…”

“You made him one of you,” the bugler accused. “You raped him.”

The tiniest nod escaped the elf, and Elliot reached down, nearly tearing the elf’s cravat off as he yanked him to his feet.

“Why didn’t you finish him?!”

“He was dead! I know he was dead!” the elf gasped, hands fighting to push Elliot away.

Hands grabbed the bugler, ripping him away from the werewolf. The commotion around him hit Elliot sharply, his body flinching at the yells and snapped orders as elves held him down.

“You’ve killed us all!” he yelled at the werewolf. “You killed me, and your friends, all for some pussy! I hope he murders you slowly!”

He heard the whimpers of the werewolf as he was dragged out of the farmhouse. Elliot would take his punishment for fighting. It didn’t matter.

They were all dead.

PRIVATE ADYA

The dawn broke far too early. Adya paid little mind to the changing light. He had a small gas lantern hanging from the roof of the dugout, and it provided just enough light as he carefully pulled the bullet out of a Niwo’s shoulder.

They hadn’t even had a major assault. The bodies piling up were the result of snipers, and wiring parties running foul of machine gunners. Dawn was the worst time of day, when the order to stand to was issued and both armies stood waiting for anything to happen. Jumpy trigger fingers pulled at anything that moved, and any living being caught between the trenches in the early dawn was invariably cut down.

The loud burp of a machine gun suddenly tore through the silence of the dawn, and Adya gritted his teeth as the dying screams of a neko or an elf dropped in the still air. With trembling fingers, the Ythin threaded a needle, and began sewing the edges of the Niwo’s wound together. They were out of tape, out of morphine, out of so many necessities. And still the war continued.

A thump echoed on the roof of the dugout, and the nekos flinched, a wordless cry escaping the Niwo as the needle jabbed into his flesh. Adya pulled back quickly, trying to focus on the wound as a series of thumps pounded the trench around them.

It was like no gunfire he’d heard before. Missing was the sound of explosions, which ruled out hand bombs, he hoped. A splat outside the dugout brought to mind the heads of prisoners that the Askani used to hurl over city walls, and Adya’s stomach churned as he fought back bile.

The last stitch pulled tight, Adya biting through the tiny thread before tying it off.

“Try not to use your arm too much,” he muttered wearily.

The two nekos shared a look. They both knew it was ridiculous to ask that, but Adya still felt the obligation to try to protect his work.

Rising to his feet, Adya tucked the roll of thread away, sticking the needle into a tray to be disinfected with whatever was on hand. Trying to save the soldiers around him felt easier than the plague victims, yet still he felt the ache of those who didn’t make it, of those who expired under his care.

The neko stuck his head out the dugout. His fur puffed out at the sight of a rotting cucumber laying in the trench, and Adya kicked at it, a feral instinct rising in him to verify the vegetable wasn’t actually a snake in disguise.

“Fuck, they’re throwing rotten food at us now?”

This was bad. This was really bad. It would spread disease. The Niwo around him were starting to starve. They would eat anything they were given, even if it fell rotten from the sky. He could already see one of the nekos chasing at a piece of broken pumpkin, biting into the fruit

“Ancestors protect me from moronic Niwo…” the neko sighed, ducking as a tomato splattered into the parapet beside him.

He hurried to the Niwo, tearing the food out of the cat’s mouth. Ignoring the indignant yowl, Adya hurled it over the side of the trench, wondering if his arm was good enough to reach the elven trench some 25 yards away. Probably not, but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction at the thought that his improvised fruit grenade would knock some sense into an elven commander. Maybe it would send them home.

It was painfully wishful thinking, but he was getting desperate himself. The sounds of the dying grated at his nerves constantly, and nearly a week of catching five minute naps between patients was slowly driving him insane.

Adya only prayed it would end soon.