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The camp was alive with the crackling of fires and the bubbling of boiling liquids hanging over the flames. The air was filled with the mingling scents of hundreds of spices from around the world. Some were the overpowering flavored salts from Albrooke, some were the subtle flavors of basil and oregano from Kohlingen. One could even smell the strong whiskeys and ciders of South Figaro. But, of course, there was one place that wasn’t depicted in the bubbling stews and tangy brews which was not unexpected.
The chocobo’s feet jumped nimbly over a fallen log, landed with a soft thud that was almost silent. Yellow plumage ruffled in the wind as the bird continued to navigate swiftly through the forest, ducking under low branches and skipping over rocks and brush. The messenger grinned from where he was perched on the chocobo’s back. His chocobo was running quickly tonight. He’d be sure to win.
“Sir, General, sir!”
Josha growled a curse as he wound his way around sleeping men and fallen equipment. This was what he had signed on for, to be a bloody runner. Walking through the entire camp in the middle of the night, tripping over cast iron pots and boots set haphazardly in the so-called “clear” aisles that ran between tents. The makeshift stables were probably closed by now, the boys and cavalrymen long since having turned into their beds. He’d probably have to walk all the way back and take care of the stupid bird himself. He always got the dirty jobs. © 1999 by Junj.
2. The Light Brigade
by Junj - satheis@ix.netcom.com
For an army representing the kingdom of Doma, not one man had Doma blood in his veins.
Well, there was one.
Cyan Garamonde sheathed his sword, slowly closing a can of polish and setting a rag on its over. He fell back to lean against the leather straps that made up his chair, sighing heavily. On a small fold-down table in front of him, two copies of the same message were being held down with a pair of plain rocks. It was bad news on both counts.
It was bad for his army. They would have no reserves once more. Figaro was barely holding the western front. The White Lions were stretched thin across at least five miles. Most of the fighting there was guerilla. Waning the line even more, Figaro’s army had sent them a few hundred men, which had been completely wiped out before they had even come within a mile of their destination. No more reserves for the one army that met the enemy in bona fide tactical warfare. No more men to replace the so many that had already fallen.
And he took the news far more personally than that. Locke Cole had been a true friend, one that would watch your back when you didn’t ask and cover you when you had fallen. He had been more than willing to share a flask of whiskey over a campfire and listen while tales of happiness and woes and the past were dealt out before him. He was a companion that could always be counted upon, and Cyan felt a little bad for comparing him to a loyal dog. He was something like that, though, but he was far more independent. Free-thinking and completely loyal, how could someone be both at once? Well, Locke had managed.
He was as good as dead now. He was in the enemy’s hands, and only God knew what they would do with him to make him talk. He was too loyal to openly give out information. Cyan grimaced. Loyalty would probably be the end of him.
“What are you going to do?”
Cyan grunted as he looked up, the voice drawing him back to the present and away from his thoughts. The young man sitting on the floor opposite him had basically thrown the protocol book out the window if he had ever had it at all. Lieutenant Josha Ward looked up from the dirt floor of the tent, running a hand through his brown hair to push it from his eyes. His efforts were futile, for the hair settled back into its original position.
Cyan stared at the young man for a moment. He wasn’t sure how Josha had made it into the army; he was barely old enough to join the ranks. And how he had been dropped into the position of an aide de camp of a brigadier general, especially with his lack of finesse and protocol, was beyond Cyan. It didn’t matter, though. He was here, and he made a passable cup of coffee in the morning among other things. He was useful, and, as long as he was useful, he could stay.
“Carry on with the original plans,” he replied finally, slowly shaking his head. The letter had said as much itself. Continue with the original plans until further notice. Cyan could understand that; Banon was trying to remain a neutral party for as long as possible. He didn’t quite agree with it. Neutrality often got men killed in wars. He sighed. “Though I fear that this shall be all for naught.”
Josha frowned. “Huh?”
Cyan shrugged. “Anything this army does is frivolous. Either the enemy knows our movements, or the enemy will know soon enough.”
Josha leaned back against the wall of the tent. “That’s assuming General Cole was captured. Who knows? Maybe he just managed to get away.”
Cyan shook his head. “He would not leave his friends,” Cyan declared solemnly. “He is far too loyal to them. And it is much better to expect the worst than to hope for the best.”
“I guess you can’t lose that way,” Josha commented. He sighed, pulling himself back forward. “So, we just sit here and wait until we get some new orders.”
Cyan didn’t reply, frowning inwardly as Josha’s lack of patience. Why the men camped outside his tent were so eager to fight… he didn’t know. He certainly had no lust for killing nor a wish for death. But the men outside, they were hardly old enough to be called men. They were boys sent off to defend a scrap of land from an enemy on the other side of the world. How many of them had even seen Vector? How many of them had ever stepped foot out of their little villages before this? And yet they were all so eager to see a battle. They were all so eager to die.
And the families were far too eager to see them off to war. How can a father be proud of his dead son, killed due to lack of training coupled with a zealousness that treaded too near to recklessness? Cyan grimaced. “Mother, what in the name of everything good in this world are we doing out here?” he murmured, his head sinking into his hands.
Josha heard the question, dismissing it as rhetorical. Cyan spoke often of the causes for this war, and Josha knew well that he often thought of how young the soldiers surrounding him were. What exactly compelled them to fight this? Why were they in this conflict to begin with? He had often wondered the same thing himself.
What the hell was he doing fighting in this war?
He had no exceptional skills, nothing other than a few basic lessons in swordplay. He had no mind for anything tactical, and he was as green as grass. He had never seen a battle in his entire life, and the closest thing he knew as a soldier was a couple of mercenaries passing through his hometown a while back. What was he doing out here? What compelled him to join the ranks?
Well, maybe, he knew that answer. He had wanted to make a difference. A hell of a lot of difference he was making. An aide de camp. Damn… And, after many a sleepless night considering, he still had no idea why this war was being fought. A meaningless war, who had ever heard of that?
Once he had asked an imperial prisoner why he was fighting the war. The soldier had told him that it was for freedom. The Imperials wanted to crush a rebellion and bring peace to the areas under the rebels’ control. It was the same cause as the Returners’. He frowned on the memory.
The two sides were fighting for the same damn reasons.
They saw each other as evil, tyrannous rebels who leeched the crops from the land and snatched the coin from the people’s purse. They were both the same. How could they be fighting this war like that? The Returners, as far as he knew, were pretty fair leaders. The Imperials, well, he didn’t know about that. If they led the people of their lands like they were described by the rest of the army, then he was doing the right thing right now by joining the army. If they were just the same old, fair leaders as the Returners were, well, then he didn’t know what the hell he was doing out here.
And, of course, he had no way of knowing which was true. He could always hope it was the former.
That was, of course, if there had been a race.
The messenger wasn’t quite sure what he was carrying that was so important as to have only been sent out once. Normally, a carrier pigeon would fly a duplicate to the armies. That was where the race came in. It was always nice to know that the old messengers riding valiantly night and day to deliver their scrolls could often times beat the little white birds to the destination. Had a bird been flying, he and his steed would have bested the little bugger easily. They were running at full speed.
But the fact that there wasn’t a pigeon to beat wasn’t comforting. Whatever he was carrying this time, whatever news was important enough to need a runner to leave for a nonstop mission in the middle of the night, was highly classified if only one message had been sent. Pigeons could always be hunted down by hawks or the Imperials. Messengers weren’t so easy a target.
He sighed, contented by the cool night air blowing in his face. He was tired, and, even though he had just picked up this bird from the fifth checkpoint along his route, he was sure that the chocobo was wearing out as well. He was ready to hop into a tent after a cup of that nice South Figaro brew accompanied by a hot dinner and fall asleep, clothes on and everything. Just him and sleep.
What he wouldn’t give to sleep right now.
But he had a mission to do right now. No screwing around. A low branch in this forest could have him knocked from the saddle if he wasn’t watchful. And he had important news for the Light Brigade, maybe new orders. Wouldn’t that be an honor? Carrying a set of new orders to the famed Brigadier General Cyan Garamonde. That would be something to talk to his fellows about. As if they were ever given such important missions. More than likely, they just ran back and forth with reports and inventories.
It felt good to know that someone in the hierarchy of the army trusted him. When they were on your side, you were given some pretty good promotions. Hell, he could go from lowly messenger to general overnight. Not that he would want to be a general. He was good at being a messenger, but it was nice thought. Something to tell his kids if he every got around to settling somewhere. Maybe after the war.
A branch whistled by, inches from his head, bringing him back to reality with a jerk.
“Stupid,” he growled, wanting to kick himself in the head. He wasn’t about to walk the last two miles to get to the army. How dignified was that? Walking into the damn army with a friggin’ important message and having lost his chocobo along the way. He’d be the laughingstock of the entire army and then some. Everyone would have heard about that all right. Scuttlebutt was just as efficient as having a thousand witnesses to the actual act. Bye, bye, promotion. Hello, chocobo stalls.
His chocobo cooed a warning, turning silently to another direction, trying to avoid whatever it had sensed. He looked out into the dark, but he saw nothing. Twisted limbs, gnarled trunks, scrubby underbrush. He blinked a few times, warding away the lethargy that was threatening to consume him. Something was out there. It wasn’t just his chocobo getting nervous again. Someone or something was hiding in the shadows. He could feel it.
He leaned closer to the neck of the large bird, pressing his face against its feathers. “Go,” he muttered, urging the chocobo to run faster. It wouldn’t be able to, it was already pushing its limits. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. “Oh, God, run faster, run faster.”
The chocobo couldn’t go any faster no matter how hard he urged it. They were only about a mile and a half away from the army. They could make it. They had to make it. But he couldn’t shake the hunted feeling from him. Something was stalking them. He wasn’t about to hang around and find out what it was.
He drew his sword from where it was sheathed on the chocobo’s saddle, the long blade dull in the darkness. The message was too important to lose. He would fight for it, if need be. But it would get to his destination. He would see to that.
A glint of metal in the darkness ensured that he wouldn’t.
The messenger had one, last vivid image of the bright gleaming of an arrowhead before the arrow cut through his eye, embedding itself deeply into his brain with a shallow thud, almost as though it had been shot into a melon. He fell back, blood streaming from his ruined eye, with no cry of pain as he died.
He fell from the saddle, his sword hitting the ground with a clang.
The large bird jumped at the sound and continued on the trail, fear in its wild eyes, its clipped wings fanned out as though it were begging to fly. The messenger, his foot caught in the stirrup, was dragged through the forest for a quarter of a mile, his bones cracking and skin tearing as he was pulled through the underbrush.
His body caught between the trees, and the abused girth of the saddle finally tore, the apparatus falling from the chocobo’s back with a dull thud. The chocobo ran off with a squawk, leaving behind its dead rider and the important message. After all, to a bird, an army’s orders are hardly important.
Cyan growled a curse as he pulled himself from the lumpy mat soldiers called a bed. Josha had an even fouler oath on his lips as he turned the small pin on the lamp, letting its dim glow burn into a bright flame with the onslaught of kerosene. An officer, his hand raised to his brow in a salute stood in the doorway of the tent, the flap pulled back to reveal a dark that was cut through by the light of lanterns.
“What is it?” he barked, setting his feet on the floor. The officer didn’t respond, still holding the salute. Cyan growled, motioning his hand to his head in a questionable response. The officer let go of the salute, hands dropping to his side in a rigid stance. Cyan shook his head. “What? Speak, man!”
“General, sir, Colonel Altera requests your presence. The Colonel says it’s an emergency.” The officer saluted again before slipping out the door and disappearing into the dark. Cyan frowned.
“Who the hell was that, Lieutenant?” he asked, pulling his boots on his feet.
Josha thought for a moment. “Uh, Captain Cochran. He’s Brookman’s man.”
Cyan pursed his lips. Useful, indeed. But, if Colonel Brookman was in on this so-called emergency, then it had to deal with reconnaissance. Brookman was in charge of the cavalry. Intelligence was his specialty and running off and leaving the army without eyes was his favorite past time. He stood and pulled on the uniform coat Josha held out to him.
“Damn colonels,” he muttered as he stepped from his tent. “This had better be good.” Josha shrugged, slipping through the flap. The two soldiers on either side of the tent paid him no need as he stopped half way out the doorway to lean back and grab his own coat.
That would have been good, sitting in the presence of two colonels and a general in a plain, white tunic where he should have been in uniform. Yeah, his mother would have been proud of all the manners she had taught him. He shook his head, slipping his arms through the sleeves of the dark blue coat and quickly buttoning the brass buttons. He ran his hands over the cloth, smoothing out the wrinkles. Lastly, he did the collar of the coat, feeling the cold metal insignia on it. Two silver crossing swords adorned the collar points, blades pointing up, rather than the regulation which had the hilts reversed. It marked him as an aide which was rather apparent to the soldiers (it was the first place they looked), but was subtle enough to be missed by the enemy. He grimaced. Better than the damn garish golden cords that the aides of Figaro’s White Lions had to wear.
Cyan stopped near Altera’s tent where a couple of soldiers moved about. Neither of them snapped to attention, nor did they salute him. They both knew him. He wasn’t one for formalities. A well weathered face greeted him solemnly.
“Glad you could make it, General,” Judeas Altera declared, shaking his superior’s hand warmly, his face as friendly as always. Altera was an animal of a man when it came to his temper, but his mild brown eyes and whitening hair coupled with an easy-going attitude made it almost impossible to dislike him. As it was, Cyan was willing to side with Altera on almost any matter, and he would trust his life with the man. “I was afraid Captain Cochran’s lack of tact would drive you away.”
Colonel Jason Brookman frowned as he pulled at the long mustache adorning his face. His dark eyes were almost black with anger, and he shook his head. He certainly didn’t appreciate having his men called tactless. It was insulting to him as a commander. And he had never liked Altera to begin with.
Cyan ignored Brookman, glancing once at Josha, an impressed look glittering in his eyes. “Well, Colonel? I would like to know what you have brought me out here to see.”
Altera gestured to the area behind him. Cyan looked around the other man, and his gaze was met squarely by that of an angry, yellow bird. “A chocobo?” he asked, shooting a glance at Altera that could have been the incarnation of death. “You aroused me in the middle of the night to look at a chocobo?”
Altera cringed. “No, sir, this isn’t an ordinary chocobo,” he stated simply. The bird stared quizzically at him before shaking its head, its reigns jingling merrily on the night air. “This bird happens to be one that messengers use.” He flashed the lantern down near the bird’s large feet, illuminating a dark, metal tag on its left ankle.
Cyan nodded. “And?”
“And,” Brookman interjected, stepping around the bird to come face to face with Cyan. “And we never got the messenger.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, carefully watching both men’s faces.
Altera merely shrugged. “We might be clutching at straws here, but it’s possible that the messenger was shot down or killed before he could make it to our army.”
Brookman snorted and looked away. “And take the saddle off of his chocobo?” He shook his head, his black hair being tossed with his movements. “Not bloody likely, Altera. I think you are clutching at straws. The most probable explanation for all this is a lazy stable boy and an act of fate.”
Altera frowned. “A lazy stable boy who took the time to put reigns on the chocobo but not tie it down? I don’t particularly believe that that is, as you put it, ‘bloody likely’.”
“Maybe he never took the reigns off of it!” Brookman snapped.
“Maybe the saddle wasn’t cinched correctly, and it fell off, and the rider was killed! You ever think of that?!”
“Silence!” Cyan broke between the two men, splitting them apart. He frowned. These two colonels had been fighting since the army had been formed, testing each other, pushing each other’s buttons, and he was tired of it. “Colonel Brookman, Colonel Altera, you are relieved of your duties until tomorrow morning,” he declared, his face as blank as stone. “Lieutenant, find someone to take care of this chocobo.”
Josha nodded. “Sir.” He turned on his heel crisply, disappearing into the darkness to carry out his orders.
Cyan paid him no heed. “When are you two going act your ages?” he asked. “The army is a place for men, not for boys.”
“Then maybe you should tell your shadow to go home as well,” Brookman declared haughtily, jerking his head in the general direction of Josha’s retreating back.
Cyan frowned but didn’t respond. A cheap shot like that didn’t deserve a response from him. He glared from beneath furrowed brows. “You are relieved, Colonel. Good night.”
Brookman crossed his arms stubbornly. “First, sir, if I may be so enlightened, I would like to know if my men are to move out tomorrow morning as planned, or if we are to stay with the army as an escort.”
Cyan sighed, chewing on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. His gaze wandered from Altera to Brookman before landing on the chocobo. He shook his head ruefully. That bird could mean anything. It could have been a yellow slip informing one of his soldiers that a brother had been killed in the White Lions, or it could have been a drastic change in orders. He could never know. There was no use in looking back on it, now; he had to think about tomorrow.
They had a long night of planning ahead of them.
It probably wouldn’t have been a bad idea just to take the chocobo himself. But walking back to Brookman’s snooty attitude wasn’t as attractive as scrounging for a stable boy. He nodded to himself, agreeing with his own logic. He’d look for the boy.
He stepped over a stool and towards the large canvas tent that made up the cavalry’s stable. The tent didn’t glow with any lamps, and Josha frowned. There was always supposed to be someone watching the stables. Lazy bums. He’d have to tell the general about this. Not that any official reprimand would get them out of their beds.
A figure pushed aside the tent flap and wandered out, stopping when Josha came into view. The figure sighed. “What do you want?”
Josha grimaced. “You know someone I can get to take care of a chocobo?” he asked, trying hard to ignore the angry note in the other’s voice. As the moon appeared from behind a few clouds, he noted that he was looking at a woman. The pale light gleamed in her raven hair, and lit up black eyes to an almost outstanding purple. But she probably wouldn’t help him. She was dressed in an officer’s uniform, her high-heeled boots and insignia marking her as a member of the cavalry. Great. But what had he expected to find at their stables?
“Are you assuming that I’ll do it because I’m a woman?” she demanded, her voice cold and level.
“I’m assuming you’d know who will because you’re standing in front of the damn stables,” he countered. “Besides that, you’re in the cavalry, so am I correct in that you know who I’m looking for?”
She frowned, her face darkening with contempt. “You’re that bloody aide, aren’t you?” she growled. “General Garamonde’s gofer. You wouldn’t be spying on the Colonel, now, would you?”
Josha sighed, walking forward. “Fine. Think whatever you want but get outta my way.” He pushed her aside, grabbing the tent flap.
She pulled him back, sharply twisting his arm at the elbow. “You can’t just barge in there,” she declared, pulling him away from the tent.
He wretched his arm free from her grasp, ignoring the flare of pain that numbed it for a moment. He subconsciously flexed his fingers, checking to make sure they were functioning. “You got something to hide?”
She pursed her lips, measuring him. “Of course there’s nothing to hide, but the chocobos…”
Josha groaned. Soldiers were a suspicious lot, they were. Good luck charms were a hit around the army. Four leaf clovers, rabbit’s feet, a lover’s ring, a relic, a talisman… they all had their little charms. And, of course, they all had their little suspicions. And the cavalry… they were the worst. They had a long, time-honored tradition of putting their chocobos to their stables an hour after the sun went down. No ifs, ands, or buts. And the man who didn’t, well, he was going to die the next battle. There was nothing to disprove this theory.
There was little more than coincidences to prove it.
He sighed irritably. “Look, I don’t have time for this,” he stated simply, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you gonna help me, or am I gonna have to get really pissed?”
She raised her hands before dropping them to her sides. “It’s the middle of the bloody night! I’m not going to take the time to help you.”
He frowned, pulling his arms apart and holding out his hand. “Tags.”
Her expression mimicked his, matching cold with cold. Her hands planted on her hips, she shook her head, her raven hair gleaming with her every movement. “No.”
Josha looked away off behind her, trying to find a way to cool his anger. The fires in the camp gleamed wickedly at him, dying embers mocking him. It was too early to argue and too late to fight. And he was tired of both. Everything in this army you had to fight for. Infantry fought for the dead men’s boots. Cavalry fought for every piece of tack on their chocobo’s back. Doctors fought for supplies. Officers fought for power. And the aides… the aides fought everyone for anything. And when the army had grown tired of fighting internally, it had to defeat the enemy to please the brass.
It was amazing anything ever got done in this backward, little world.
He looked back to her, his eyes ice. “Tags.”
She sigh heavily and made an elaborate show padding her uniform for her “tags”. They weren’t so much tags as they were thin, metal plates that they shoved down your throat if your face happened to be mutilated beyond belief. But they were the only form of identification that a soldier always had on him. And the metal didn’t tempt soldiers to burn them as kindling, either.
She handed them over, pulling them from around her neck where she had known they were the entire time. He glanced at them, pursing his lips. Isabel Treveare. He stared at the thin tags for a few minutes, well aware that she was staring at him, irritated at his inaction. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing up at her face, burning her looks into his mind and stamping the name to her. He’d remember her now. He always remembered everyone, could draw up anybody in this whole damn army and put a name to them. He remembered the man he’d met while signing up. Name, face, personality. It was a little trick. It only seemed to work when the information was pretty much frivolous, though. He didn’t know exactly how he did it, but if he ever figured it out, he wouldn’t have a job as aide anymore; he’d be a goddamn spy. Maybe he ought not to disclose this certain skill. Walking and talking behind enemy lines and squealing on their movements wasn’t his idea of a good time.
He handed them back to her and turned to the small tent that housed most of the stable hands. She glared at him angrily as he turned, grabbing his arm once more in an insistent tug that stopped him with an indignant sigh.
“What?” he growled, pulling his sleeve from her grasp.
“What the hell was that all about?” she asked, her voice hot with anger. “You’re not going to write me up?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said carefully. “I just thought I’d return the favor and waste some of your time. Good night.” He started walking again, leaving her behind him, oblivious to her reddening face. “And don’t wake the chocobos,” he added over his shoulder as an afterthought.
He shook his head as he made his way to the tent. Don’t wake the chocobos. The last thing this army needed was bad luck. They were losing this war, and he knew that. The enemy was always able to track them. Any more bad luck, and they’d all probably end up with cholera or some such disease.
He opened the flap of the tent and walked inside, turning up the kerosene lamp and waking the sleeping boys. But, of course, he needn’t worry about stupid superstitions and charms. He had all the good luck he was going to need.
He pulled a boy to his feet.
“Come on.”