War Dog Rising

War Dog Rising

“Military men are just stupid animals to be used as pawns in foreign policy.”

~General St. Anthony

General of Geo-Political Issues

FEBRUARY, 1762

The Battle of Gunthering Harbor, “Operation 3392,” is considered one of the briefest but bloodiest conflicts fought by the mercenary army, the Fire Swords, in the last thirty years.

While official records are limited, a somewhat accurate assessment can be made by what few survivor testimonies and eyewitness accounts exist. What is known is that this was the first public deployment of their elite juvenile fighting unit, the Ripperwulfs, and that in the course of the battle, the entire harbor village was destroyed.

An estimated 300 Ripperwulfs took part in this fight.

It is said that fewer than thirty survived.

—The Fire Swords: A Critique

It was his twentieth combat action, and he was still uneasy. He sat in a long carriage pulled by a sextet of horses, one designed to transport cargo and troops. All around him sat other boys just like him, dressed in beige uniforms and holding their rucksacks on their laps. Their uniforms were durable, made of thick canvas, and loose enough for them to move around with relative ease. The beige color was just color-neutral enough for them to make their own camouflage based on the immediate surroundings. In a pinch, one could roll over in dirt and mud and the fabric would darken enough to be adequate. They resembled other uniforms from other armies save for the thick canvas handles sewn into them. The thighs of their trousers held handles, and so did their shirts, located under the arms and towards the back where the kidneys are. The handles were very useful for transporting the wounded to safety. Some also used them as holsters for weapons.

Conversations were brief and always felt urgent, as if they were a desperate attempt to connect with someone, even for just a minute. They had traveled for days, stopping only for the horses’ rest, not knowing where they were going or why.

The boys were used to it: the long stretches of marches, the tedium, the knowledge that each step, either by foot or by hoof, brought them closer to another fight.

This particular boy had tried to pay attention to his surroundings, to maintain his alert levels. He was observant, diligent, and familiar with ambushes. His eyes kept a wary watch on the tree lines. But the long carriage ride had bored and exhausted him, had exhausted them all. He did not like being physically limited to sitting in one position for so long. It was only when the horses were resting that he felt free to stretch and exercise. But confined, he was limited to dozing and reading what few books were being passed around by the others.

Every carriage had a few books on hand, just in case. They were all well-worn but well-cared for, mostly out of respect for those who did enjoy reading. This particular carriage had a few: books on poetry, a few historical texts, and a volume of Adventures of the Wolf Princess. The boy had already read those stories before, so he tried to focus on the history books. When he tired of reading, he slept to escape the tedium.

But sometimes, sleeping was just as bad as tedium. His somber dreams often resulted in him bolting upright drenched in sweat, trembling uncontrollably. What few images he could remember from those nightmares derived from past missions. The images of corpses, fire, violence, and weapons pointed at his face still left a shadow on him when he woke.

The boy’s name tag was printed in bold letters on the front of his uniform’s shirt: GALEN-7723. Underneath his name, his unit designation read, Ripperwulf. His age: nine.

The Fire Swords, a professional mercenary army, had taken him in when he was very young. He had no parents, thus no surname. He had no memory of having any and privately wondered if he was missing out on something. In exchange for shelter, food, and an education, the Fire Swords required only his loyalty and a willingness to fight for them.

Galen absently fingered the label written on his uniform breast, the one with his name. His right shoulder bore the sigil of the Fire Swords: an embroidered sword, blade pointing up with a plume of flame flaring out on its left side. To some, it almost looked like an angel’s wing. The single plume marked its wearer as a Recruit, 1st Class. The rank was unnecessary; the title of Ripperwulf was more than enough. The Ripperwulfs were an experimental elite unit, and as such, they suffered a fairly large attrition rate during training. The previous three battles he had fought as a fledgling, as another means of training. This would be the first time he would fight under the official elite banner. When they returned from this mission, he would request that his designation be embroidered under his name. He felt that he had earned such a privilege.

To pass the time, he opened his rucksack and pulled out his orders, complete with a brief mission summary. It was very short, only a few paragraphs, telling him where they were going but scant on other details. Like any other young child, his lips moved as he read. Almost self-consciously, one hand rose to cover his mouth. The others did not notice or seem to care. According to his orders, Gunthering Harbor was a trade port located along a vital river. A lucrative trade route, it was now under siege by an unknown force. No one knew if this hostile force was bandit raiders or a hostile army; it was merely listed as “a hostile force.” All that could be determined was that this force was numerous, well-armed and well-equipped, and very aggressive towards others.

“Think we’ll finally see some action?” someone asked.

Galen looked up to see another Ripperwulf, a young boy, Conrart-7804. Conrart had surprised a lot of people by passing the training courses—and surviving. Conrart had a round face and always came across as either nervous or hyperactive. Both were traits the others found annoying.

No one responded to Conrart’s spoken question. Only Galen deigned to nod a reply.

Up ahead, far past the horses, they could see the outskirts of a town. No one bothered to call it out, since they had passed by so many, and no one bothered to keep track of how long they still had to travel. For all they knew, their stop might be just up ahead or twenty towns over.

“It sounds simple enough. But why send us?” Conrart went on. “Why not send an adult unit?”

To that, Galen could only shrug. They were good questions, and he had been mentally asking them himself as they journeyed on. But only Conrart dared to ask these questions openly, not knowing that doing so earned him the enmity of others in this carriage. If they had been within earshot of their instructors, Conrart would have been answered with a swift smack to his head for inquiring. They were not expected to understand—only to obey.

Arrival - 12:30 pm

The inside of the warehouse smelled of sawdust and mead.

Normally used to store crates of wares, this warehouse had been emptied and was now being used as a barracks and an operations center. It was now just another spacious place to bunk, rest, and plan for the mission. Galen reported to the deck officer, as procedure demanded. He handed in his orders and was assigned a cot as berth space. He looked at the dirty floor, silently thankful for that cot. There was another warehouse somewhere, requisitioned for the same purposes. Between the two, they barely had enough space to house all three hundred Ripperwulfs.

Inside, the warehouse was a hive of activity as the boys tried to settle in, getting their gear sorted as they sat on their cots and removed their worn-out boots. It would not be long before the place, even with a slight breeze from outside, would hold the collective funk of hundreds of bootless boys.

They spoke only long enough to ask for directions and for their schedule. A few dared to ask if anyone knew any mission specifics. No one knew anything. A few asked where the outhouse was, and upon receiving the answer, promptly disappeared. Galen looked up towards the ceiling and thought of all the wasted square footage that could have been used for an extra floor, just to house them all.

He had a few hours until their first official briefing. A few hours to store his meager travel gear, bathe, and grab a quick meal. Thanks to his training, Galen could accomplish all three in a fraction of that time. The odor of cooked meat outside drifted inside, causing a collective rumble of two dozen stomachs growling as one. The Fire Swords had learned early on about the benefits of having their soldiers well-rested and well-fed, about treating each one as an investment. It made poor practice to skimp on food and have their effectiveness suffer over time.

Conrart was looking around, his rucksack draped over his back as he searched for something. He had a slip of paper in his hand. No one bothered to ask him if he needed something.

Am I the only one who takes teamwork seriously? Galen wondered to himself.

Not one for niceties, he walked over, plucked the paper from Conrart’s hand and scanned it. He then pointed to the general area where Conrart’s bunk would be located.

“Rudolph,” he spoke to another recruit in low Germanic. Even though he had no official authority over others, he had a reputation for “handling things,” usually through brutal force, outside the eyes of their overseers. “You see somebody needing help, maybe you should help.”

Rudolph’s mouth visibly twitched, as if brought out of a daydream, and Galen saw that Rudolph’s attention was slipping again. There was only the briefest of nods, which might have been mistaken for a muscle twitch. Up ahead, just behind Rudolph, he saw Randess, another Ripperwulf. He did not know most of them. A few he did know from having trained or worked with them before. But he was having trouble remembering names, or caring to remember.

From Rudolph’s expression, Galen could already see the argument forming the usual gripes and moans about helping someone who was already considered useless. Galen did not really care; he did not play favorites. Conrart had yet to prove himself in a battle. But he was also a Ripperwulf, and Galen resolved to treat him as such until proven otherwise. He himself had barely passed; he was sure of that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the far side of the warehouse. It was a brief flash of someone walking by, wearing something odd that his eyes were not accustomed to. He turned to better see this anomaly. It was an adolescent boy, just a few years older than himself. But he looked far more serious and stern, with cold eyes and a hawkish nose. There was nothing young or boyish about this youth.

His uniform was what set off alarms in Galen’s head. The boy wore a pure white uniform with gold epaulets on the shoulders. An ornate rapier hung low at the boy’s waist. In another time, everyone would have seen the sight as humorous or absurd. But the rapier was custom crafted to the boy’s height. His face fairly reeked of noble blood.

“That must be the new boy-general,” someone remarked behind Galen. He whispered in low tones, as if in fear of being overheard.

“Mischa Pyriel.” Someone spat the name out like a curse.

Mischa Pyriel was an enigma within Galen’s cadre. They had only heard of the boy and only by reputation, via whispers from the other Ripperwulf units who had served under Pyriel before. Pyriel had an innate gift for taking an inferior fighting force and turning it against a numerically superior force and winning. The Fire Swords, seeing the boy’s innate talent, had recruited him into their ranks. Galen wondered what deal they had to give to have someone like that work for them.

Legend had it that Pyriel was also a ranked chess master, having already defeated at least two chess masters. One was so humiliated at being so soundly beaten by a young boy that he had committed suicide after conceding defeat.

Seeing the boy’s fine clothing and the gold and silver rapier, Galen visibly blanched.

The boy-general and the Ripperwulfs, at the same place and the same time. I should be worried.

“Word is that in his last campaign, five divisions were wiped out,” someone whispered in a foreboding tone. “Two of them after surrendering.”

“Does he get paid more than we do?” someone else tried to joke.

Galen’s thoughts were interrupted by the echoing sound of boots stomping hurriedly against the warehouse’s hardwood floor. It was a sound not unlike the sound of an incoming cavalry charge. He reacted, turning quickly and ducking low, his hand automatically dropping to the empty space at his side where a flintlock pistol would normally have been holstered. But he was not officially on-mission and was not armed. (Weapons were doled out before each mission, and no one was allowed personal weapons in between assignments.) He was not alone; everyone heard the sound and reacted, dropping to the floor, kneeling or lying prone, like an ocean’s receding wave, all with hands instinctively groping for weapons that were not there. One boy was rushing for help, his face flushed and a look of panic in his eyes.

“We have a body,” he announced to no one in particular.

To the newer recruits, the dead body evoked a great many possibilities: assassins, sabotage, a freak accident, or just a sickness that had finally taken hold. The “older” Ripperwulfs, the more knowledgeable ones, already had an idea what was going on. But they kept it to themselves and chose not to talk about it, even to each other.

The deceased’s name was Gunther-6982. As a Ripperwulf, his record was no better or worse than that of his peers. His cadre thought of him as competent, alert, meeting expectations. This would have been his eighth mission as a Ripperwulf.

It had happened so innocently, as these things often did. Someone was in the outhouse, or rather, one of an entire row of outhouses mounted on the side of the village opposite the river. That alone told Galen how progressive this village was; he had been to too many places where people dumped into one side of the river and fished on the other. One outhouse had been locked from the inside for too long, and someone had become worried, or gotten curious, or was just impatient. So, help was called. Eventually the door was pried open and Gunther slid out and flopped on the dirt ground. He was dead and clearly had been so for some time. His arms were a bloodied mess.

As if sensing what had already happened, a few pulled up Gunther’s sleeves and saw what they were looking for: entire tracts of skin cut and slashed, with new cuts covering old wounds. They could tell by the cross-stitching of scars that he had been doing this for some time. The angle of the cuts coincided with what they already knew of self-mutilation, either from seeing it in others or from them doing it to themselves. But Gunther was a rare ambidextrous boy, so he was able to cut both of his arms equally. And he did. Eventually, he either cut too deeply by accident and grew too dulled from the blood loss to react, or nicked something on purpose and chose to bleed out. Everyone silently thought the latter.

News of Gunther’s suicide spread like wildfire and then quickly died like a candle being blown out. An outsider would have been perplexed or outraged at the lack of concern. There was no evidence of foul play and, therefore, nothing to investigate.

Galen listened to the details with half an ear as he sat on his cot, his eyes downcast to the oiled whetstone in one hand and a well-worn paring knife in the other. The knife was borderline contraband. The suicides were starting to become more commonplace of late. He did not know this particular Gunther; it was a popular name in Germania. He could think of five he knew already, but none that he knew as a Ripperwulf. His jacket was off, draped over his pillow. He took a careful look around and saw that everyone was too busy with their own things, but he knew that it would take only a quick glance at an inopportune moment before he was caught. Galen’s anxiety grew. He felt tired, but not tired enough for a nap. Though hungry, somehow food did not interest him. He knew what was happening to him because he was seeing it in the others. It was getting harder to focus, to keep on task. Dimly, he was aware of it as a problem and saw only one means of handling it.

Moving quickly, the blade went up in a silvery arc, slashing into his bicep. It was a shallow cut and would heal quickly if he kept it clean. He felt pain and some heat, but that was it. Undeterred, the knife went up again and three more crimson lines were drawn on his pale skin. There, he was feeling it: pain, a bloom of feverish heat, and something else. He felt clarity return.

The Briefing - 3:00

The warehouse was eerily quiet as the generals started their briefing. The eyes of over three hundred children (minus one) stared intently as the leaders gave out mission instructions and summaries on what to expect. It was a sight to behold.

While civilian kids their age still needed their mothers to tuck them in at night, these soldier-children were made of sterner materials. Long used to sleeping in the dark, in the mud, or in the cold, their eyes had hardness in them. Capable of intense focus and concentration, Ripperwulfs’ gazes bore unsettlingly to outsiders, as if something had been snatched out of their eyes—childhood itself, perhaps.

The closest they ever had to childish treats were apples. Nice, ripe red apples that were given out with each briefing. To many, this was an unconscious sign that they were being deployed to battle. “Get an apple, expect a fight.”

Pyriel stood to the side, hardly moving as his eyes scanned everything around him. His uniform, despite being custom-tailored, was uncomfortable. Like a good soldier, he ignored his discomfort. He was a general and was expected to dress as his rank and station demanded. He looked at the expressions of the recruits and of his masters. He cared more for the opinions of his masters’ than of his subordinates. After all, pawns should already know that they existed solely to be sacrificed for the greater game. He thought of the plan, his plan, as he continued to size them up.

Everyone underneath the roof would be separated into specific groups and given specific areas of the village to cover and protect. Some would work support, others would maintain barricades, and a few would be “runners” —kids who would run to and from command posts relaying information and updates. There were also suppliers, who ferried wheelbarrows full of loaded rifles and pistols to the front lines and shoveled the emptied armaments back for reloading.

Glad I’m not a runner, Galen thought. They’ve got bounties out for those. He held his apple firmly with one hand, but did not bite into it yet. He needed more pain before he could taste again.

He sat on the floor, as did most of the others. Some sat on bunks, in rows of three to five per bunk. Some even sat on desks and crates. Comfort was a longgone concept to most of them. On Galen’s lap lay a notepad wherein he would write down notes and draw a crude map of the village. They stood facing a large map of the village drawn with a thick paintbrush on the wall of the warehouse. Squares signified buildings, with the north-most edge of the town marked with Xs to denote the perimeter line.

Much to their quiet surprise, their instructor, General Adalgisal, conducted the briefing. He was required to push boys to succeed, even if they had to crawl over the bodies of their lessers. He demanded excellence and knew how to get it, but it was a dirty job, and he hated it. He saw each boy rejected from the program— whether from failing the course, earning a crippling injury, or being killed while in training—as a personal failure. Now older, balding, and starting to lose his muscle tone, the General’s knuckles appeared badly scarred from decades of pummeling failed trainees’ faces.

He had put his boys through hell, and they had hated him for it. But their hatred for him was nothing compared to the loathing he had for himself and his duties. Some that he trained wished for death, begged for it, and a few times, made that wish come true on their own, arranging a suspicious training accident, or just hanging, cutting, or shooting themselves. The moderately injured were usually put back into their regular units: no harm, no foul. But the ones who were crippled, who had lost limbs, were the ones who kept him up the most. The boys with a missing arm, working in the mess halls preparing meals— marked, maligned, and stigmatized as Dull Swords–forever condemned to work in a meager support role.

Adalgisal looked at the three hundred boys he had trained, fostered into the program, and pushed to near-death so they could pass the program. If everyone had survived the training, there would have been close to a thousand live children in front of him. He tried to block that awareness out of his mind.

He had to conduct the briefing. He had to give them their orders, their objectives. He just wished they did not have to look at him directly the whole

time.

“For the Ripperwulfs,” General Adalgisal called out. His voice boomed and resonated throughout the quiet warehouse.

“You will hold this barricade just outside the town limits to the north. This is where their main attack force will come down. There are no other approaches for them. They have to come to you. You are to hold that barricade at all costs until artillery can be properly aligned.

“If this barricade falls, then they can quickly overrun this town, and we will be unable to use our artillery without leveling the entire village. Keep them contained and we can blast them from afar.

“Backup and support are minimal. And the supplies we have on hand for this are below what you are used to or expecting.” This revelation led to some noticeable groans within the crowd. “You will be on your own!” he called out sharply.” You are considered the best of your rank, the elite! To be elite, you will often find yourself having to do far more with far less. This is the price you will all have to pay.”

“Minimal support” meant that some lesser-ranker recruits would have to carry the spent firearms, cart them back to a safe location, then hurriedly clean and reload them. The reloaded firearms would then be sent back to the firing lines. There would be only a few medics to do quick-patches under fire or carry out the wounded with the same wheelbarrows used to carry out the expended firearms.

“Once you are given the signal, fall back in retreat. Three flares, all red. Remember that: red, red, red.” Adalgisal continued. “Questions?”

Several hands went up, including Galen’s. He waited impatiently until he was called on.

“Requesting estimated number of hostiles as well as level of hostiles’ skill set,” he called out.

“Good question,” Adalgisal said. “Estimated number: unknown. Plenty. Expect human wave attacks. You all have been trained in melee fighting, so prepare to use those skills. As to how skilled our hostiles are, also unknown. They could just be a very big band of savages. We have no idea.”

No one vetted the client’s claims before accepting the contract? Galen thought grimly. The village was small; its only commerce came from trading with passing river merchants and some fishing. He wondered if anyone had bothered to investigate the client at all before accepting the contract, or if they had just leaped at the chance for a quick profit.

Adalgisal continued, “Here’s an obvious question: what if they don’t come? Then we rest at daylight and resume at sundown until the client is satisfied or the threat has been removed. All we do know is that they are striking at night, and only at night. They collect their dead, leaving no chances to back-track, so we don’t know where they’re laired up. And they are also skilled with bows, rifles, and they are also skilled with bows, rifles, and pikes. Expect anything and everything to be used against you.”

There were a few more questions, mostly the usual gripes and moans about not having enough equipment. Adalgisal understood their concerns, usually masked behind childish whining that no training or pummeling could completely erase.

After the briefing, the assembly had quietly dispersed. There was an electrical charge in the air. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation and weary expectations. Adalgisal walked away from the mapwall, headed towards the corner of the warehouse that had been fitted as his private office, and cast a covert glance at the boy-soldiers he had helped train. He took a private personal pride in how most of them had turned out. Young boys were considered the hardest to effectively train, especially the Ripperwulfs, even when they already had experience in the Fire Swords’ military service.

Adalgisal’s office was just a tent that had been moved indoors. Thankfully the canvas walls protected him from the outside, where others might now see him slump in his chair, feeling his age, regret bubbling out of him like bile.

So now it starts, he thought.

The current mission would have been simple with their regular troops. The Circle—the Fire Swords’ ruling body—however, had insisted on using the Ripperwulfs, despite the fact that the Ripperwulfs had been trained as small units and were unused to being deployed in such large numbers at once. It did not help that a number of the boys already demonstrated difficulties from the brutality of their training and the subsequent missions. The reduction in allocated supplies was also a cause for alarm. He did not want his people to operate on reduced rations, nor did he want them to fight with reduced arms. This mission had more artillery on hand than firearms, and that bothered him.

As Adalgisal began to again consider his role in the upcoming battle, the flap to his tent blew open and a man walked into his personal domain. The General’s first thought was to shoot the man dead, just on principle. The metal bars on the intruder’s uniform stayed his hand, but not his anger.

“General.” Adalgisal feigned courtesy. “I did not know you were coming.”

General St. David was the General of Research and Sciences, the academic head of all the Fire Swords’ scientific advances and one of the people who had reopened the Ripperwulf program. That alone raised Adalgisal’s ire. St. David was a painfully thin, reedy man with a greasy look in his eyes and a smile that made others feel soiled somehow.

“I just wanted to report in, to see if your resolve is still intact,” St. David offered. “I also wanted to observe the troops, to gauge how they will fare in this conflict.”

“Given the numerous setbacks we’re already having, I think you know that already,” Adalgisal said, keeping his tone neutral and his eyes locked on the general.

“I’ve been apprised of the situation prior to coming here,” St. David replied.

Preparation - 4:30

The supplier was another Dull Sword. Galen had nothing against the Dull Swords; he found them competent, despite always missing something that had gotten them removed from the front line. He knew of a cannoneer’s mate, a Kanonier Helfer, who had lost his foot when a cannonball fell on it. He also knew of the quietly acrimonious relationship that existed between the Dull Swords and those who played active roles, especially the Ripperwulfs. Dull Swords often felt marginalized for living with a disability and believed the others were superior. Galen had never figured out the actives’ resentment toward the Ripperwulfs. As far as he was concerned, the Dull Swords did their part, and he had no complaints against them.

Zelig, the supplier, was a few years older than Galen. He wore a constant bitterness in his expression from behind his table, where he doled out the Ripperwulfs’ equipment, usually receiving only silence or cruel jibes for his efforts. As the supplier in charge, he worked with a small command who stood behind tables that flanked his own. He still had his arms and legs, and worked deftly with one hand. Galen remained quietly unsettled dealing with someone who had full shirtsleeves with an empty space where his left hand used to be. He remained fully aware that one day he might be one working behind a desk or table, most likely missing a body part.

Five lines of Ripperwulfs stood patiently as the ones in front stepped up to the table, called out their names, and accepted their equipment. Sometimes, a boy made a special request. Rarely, a request was denied without reason. When it was Galen’s turn, he stepped up to the table.

“Galen-7723.”

Zelig nodded. He reached under the table and pulled out two shoulder bags by the straps and handed them to the boy soldier, who took them eagerly. “Modified loadout,” Zelig said, clearly expecting a backlash. “Each bag has nine short-barreled pistols, .40, all loaded with triple-shot per bag. A small medical bundle in each, powder, and shot.”

“Usual loadout is twelve,” Galen pointed out. It was the closest he could give to a protest.

“Orders from above,” Zelig retorted in exasperation, having made the same argument many times before. “We have to work with what we have. Anything else?”

“Personal weapon: Beil, Art-drei.” Galen replied, slipping the straps over his shoulders, testing the weight of the bags under his arms. The bags were balanced and would not impede his movements.

Zelig nodded, called out for the requested item and it came swiftly. A hatchet, its sharpened blade shone under the oil-lamp.

Beil, Art-drei. Hatchet, type-three.

“Looking at you, I would’ve thought of you as a type-two,” Zelig admitted, allowing a bit of personal, casual conversation to leak out. “Lighter, easier to handle.”

“I like the heft,” Galen said as he grabbed the heavy hatchet and slipped it into his bag. “Here, danke.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his apple, and set it on the table’s surface. Then he walked away.

Zelig was impressed. It was not often that an active spoke to him as a human being and rarer that one would part with his treat almost as a gift. Still, he remained careful, taking the apple and setting it under the table. He would cut it first to make sure no one had slipped a nail into it.

Mission Start - 5:15 dusk

The village looked like any other river village—built a bit too close to the river and half of the town made up of short piers and a few warehouses. The main street entrance to the north was well-barricaded. Carts and carriages were upturned and nailed together with bits of lumber. Galen could make out the sloped shapes of at least three small fishing boats added to the mix. They were the only ones in the village now; its former occupants had left long ago, evacuated somewhere. So, they did not have to worry about people getting in the way or coming under fire.

To the east stood a stone wall that reached a dozen meters above to higher ground. He felt assured that the opposition could not reach it to flank them. It was too high to jump down, but they could rappel or just fire from above. Further south, up along that higher ground the Fire Swords’ artillery gathered, situating their forces.

The sun slunk slowly towards the west, and a few people took a brief moment to appreciate the beauty that only a sunset could offer. The skies were alight in gold, amber, and violet, slowly transferring to bluer hues. In this town, there would be no lamps or lights on tonight. Lamps would give away their position to the enemy. There would also be no moon tonight.

If the opposition has cannons, this battle is going to be short, Galen thought with an almost cynical detachment. The buildings flanking the entrance were already garrisoned and fortified with snipers and signalmen. Support soldiers remained in a few buildings behind them, ready to supply the soldiers with fresh arms and carry away the wounded. Galen himself was right behind the barricade, where the action would be the hottest, a short-barreled flintlock gripped tightly in his hand. Even with the cut barrel, a .40 was still mildly heavy, but he liked the stopping power it provided. Three rounds of .40 fired in the torso or chest would put anyone down quickly. The others had their bags of pistols, but some requested others armaments as well, arms that they were more comfortable with. The older Ripperwulfs had rifles, a mix of available carbines and long-rifles, which Galen hated. A few had blunderbusses, in case the enemy managed a perimeter breach.

For some reason, Supply had a cache of longbows in storage as well, which some had asked for. He had also spied a few mortars, which looked like blunderbusses with a bad case of the mumps.

Artillery support would not be available until signaled. The Ripperwulfs only had to hold their ground until then. For now, plenty of firearms and youthful determination augmented with military training had to suffice—a strangely volatile mix.

In the distance, some of the others prayed, some hummed, or did whatever they did when anxious. A few recited the creed as they waited, the creed they all made when they graduated into Ripperwulfs:

“I am Ripperwulf Fire Sword.

“I have answered a call few would and fewer have succeeded.

“I am soldier, warrior elite.

“I am to fight and win.

“I am faithful to a proud heritage,

“One of honor and valor!

“Accept that I am to fight harder than others.

“Accept that I am elite above all.

“I will meet my adversaries, and defeat them soundly and resolutely.

“For I am the better trained and will fight until victory or death.

We brook no surrender, and we tolerate no failures.

“We leave none of our own behind nor will we demean that which makes us Ripperwulfs.

“I am the tip of the spear, the vanguard, and the destroyer.

“I am Ripperwulf Fire Sword.”

Galen did not bother to pray or sound the creed himself. He had moved beyond that long ago. He just checked his weapon and took aim into the darkness, just in case.

A cadet was the first to mark the beginning of the attack. He was another recruit, an orphan, in the Fire Swords. As the boy strode back and forth atop the barricades for a better look, he unwittingly gave away his position in the ambient evening light. A high-pitched whistle pierced the silence. With a loud thunk, the boy fell to the ground, an arrow sticking out of the side of his head and a look of utter surprise on his face as he died.

“Attack!” someone called out, and everyone got into their positions. Weapons were drawn and pointed at the road beyond the barricades.

“Anyone see anything?” someone called out.

“Nothing. Shut up!”

Then from outside the barricades, the darkness spoke out to them: a low whispering that seemed to come out of nowhere. Then the murmuring grew louder, all one voice, in low tones, and in a language that the others did not know. It sounded like a Latin mass, but much lower, darker. The voices seemed to hum and resonate in the night air. Galen repressed a shudder as he held his gun at ready.

“They might be close,” someone whispered.

“Archers, light up!” someone called out.

Behind them, the designated archers, considered archaic in this age of flintlocks and cannons, responded. With fluid motions, they pulled out arrows, the tips replaced with waddings soaked in fuel, lit matches, and watched the tips alight. It took only a few seconds to notch the arrows, aim them up high above the barricades, and fire. Crimson comets flew across the night skies in an arc before they landed at a distance beyond the barricades. The ones behind the wooden barriers leaned closer, their eyes squinting as shapes started to form. Dark shapes that moved slowly but unnaturally.

What they saw caused some of the others to curse and even scream in terror. The entire road seemed to move, almost swaying back and forth like the waves of open water. Then everybody figured it out; they instantly knew. It was not the road that was moving, but seemingly hundreds of bodies crawling on the road towards them.

The crawlers, realizing that their cover was blown, reacted instantly. They rose up as one, throwing their dirty cloaks aside and drawing weapons, all screaming in a terrible roar as they charged towards the barricade.

“Open fire!” someone called out. Instantly two hundred weapons, all wielded by Fire Swords, took aim and fired as one.

Above them, almost a quarter mile away, Mischa Pyriel observed the events unfolding at the barricade. They were situated above a steep hill that overlooked the entire harbor village. Pyriel stood alone with a pair of opera glasses held to his face. There was no large tent with tables full of maps and diagrams. Nor was he crowded by scouts, aides, and messengers. Pyriel required none of that. Pyriel’s mind was an instrument of precision. Inside, he had entire campaigns planned and worked out. The same mind that could calculate dozens of chess moves, probable and likely, was just as capable of plotting potential counter-moves by an enemy general. He felt the use of aides was inefficient, used only to bolster the egos of other generals. All he required were regular updates from a few messengers in case he had actually missed something. The gilded glasses offered a fairly myopic view on things.

The bandits’ use of camouflage was impressive. Pyriel had to compliment their inventiveness. By crawling low to the ground, the enemy remained under any line of sight of the barricades’ sentries. Only the use of the arrows had given them away, another interesting touch that Pyriel had not anticipated. He had expected a brute-force surprise attack directly at the barricades. Now, the opposition’s hand was forced, and they were crashing full speed into the barricades, using human wave attacks to overcome by sheer numbers.

Someone spoke to him from behind. “Preparations are nearing completion, General.”

Pyriel deigned only a nod of affirmation, engrossed by the battle beneath him. He felt a nudge of exhilaration but kept it contained. It would be beneath him to indulge in emotional outbursts. The one regret he had in commanding was that actual warfare was too unpredictable compared to chess. In war, pieces moved independently, never following the original plan. Unforeseen elements regularly complicated matters. So many factors to consider. He welcomed them all. In truth, he actually enjoyed the intellectual exercises required. No music, sonnet, or visual beauty could compare to the scale and grandeur of a well-organized campaign.

Secretly, he also enjoyed the visceral aspects of warfare. To put it bluntly: he loved the slaughter. Unfortunately, his high rank and station removed him from the front, where he could partake in the viciousness at its freshest.

It was chaos, and they were in the center of it. At the barricades, no one had a moment to think; they could only react. The small hands of several dozen soldiers instinctively moved on their own: firing, attacking, counterattacking. While some of the boys carted the severely wounded off to the medics, the others literally fought with one hand on a weapon and the other applying salve and bandages.

“How much longer?!” soldiers screamed out at regular intervals. In the midst of the fighting, time moved strangely, and seconds felt like hours.

In the chaos, Galen tried to retain his wits. He knelt on the cold stone road at the bottom of the barricade, as his trembling fingers kneaded the ground in search of another pistol. A semi-circle of loaded flintlocks lay at his side. He discovered a small blown out opening that gave him a porthole to fire through.

Suppliers would rush in, ducking low to dodge incoming fire, often carrying several bags under their arms, stopping just long enough to dump a bag or two with a Ripperwulf and leave with another bag of empty flintlocks and, sometimes, someone wounded.

“Galen, above you!” someone screamed nearby. Galen looked up and saw one of the mysterious malignant creatures hovering over him, crawling on all fours up the barricade like an animal, only to pounce on him. Its face was human but covered in a mask of dried mud or moss. All he could make out was the eyes and the white teeth grinning ferally.

Galen roared a curse as he dodged the large body falling in his direction, his gun dropped and kicked aside. He barely had enough time to fish his hatchet out and swing it in a wide arc. The hatchet’s blade slid across the attacker’s neck and blood spewed out. The thing barely had time to grab at its gushing neck before Galen brought the hatchet around and slammed the blade into its stomach. The enemy doubled over and collapsed into a ball. Galen did not take time to admire his prowess; he just took another pistol from his bag, took aim, and fired a round into the creature’s head before resuming his spot at the barricades, sparing a second to slip the handle of his still-bloodied hatchet into his pants leg’s handle-loop.

Behind them, up above, snipers fired their muskets, reaching an unseen target beyond Galen’s range. The archers took part as well, continuing to light arrows and firing them overhead, giving the snipers momentary but vital light to work with.

Their strange enemy’s attacks grew increasingly vicious as the battle dragged on. The Ripperwulfs proceeded as trained: making body shots, aiming for the chest, to deter their opponents from continually coming at them. Flesh wounds and wounded limbs did not deter the boys from charging forward, some even daring to use the bodies of their own dead as shields.

Then someone shouted out, “Artillery!”

Galen instantly backed away from the barricade, scrambling to get as far away as he could. Around him, other youths complied, their compact bodies rushing, tumbling, and staggering away from the haphazard barrier they had previously been valiantly trying to keep.

BOOM! A split second later, a section of the barricade exploded. Those still mistakenly daring to hold their ground found themselves suddenly airborne, their bodies landing everywhere. Galen blinked. He saw one kid standing at the top, still firing down on the invaders. In an instant, he disappeared in an explosion of smoke and wood splinters.

“No one said anything about THAT!” someone screamed. He bellowed a shrill, piercing scream that could only come from a child, military training or not.

That is interesting, Pyriel could only comment inwardly. Artillery had not been expected nor anticipated. He peered at the obliterated section of the barricade. It was difficult to assess the extent of the damage, since the black smoke had obscured most of the damage and the breeze was too soft to blow it away.

He quickly surmised that the hostile operators were not trained to fire whatever cannon they were using. He further surmised that they had only one cannon, since a competent leader would have used a salvo of cannon fire if possible.

Still, he found the mere existence of just one cannon disquieting.

“Status?” he commanded.

“We have just completed, General.”

Pyriel found the timing disturbing: the cannon’s appearance coinciding with the completion of his own final play. He would have to make some inquiries once this was all over.

“Send the recall order,” Pyriel ordered calmly. “Fall back signal to the town’s center.”

The aide complied.

The others below did not know what the final endgame would be. If they did, they surely would have protested violently against it. It did not matter to Pyriel. Pawns never know what they represent in context of the overall game.

BOOM! The barricade bucked again under the second blast. The explosion of wood splinters and iron nails injured far more than the impact of the cannonball itself could manage.

Galen ducked behind the corner of one of the buildings, knelt down, and traded fire. He wasn’t even sure he reached his targets. Most of the barricade remained covered in dark, oily smoke.

Others had returned to the barricade, if only to retrieve an injured comrade or some vital piece of weaponry or equipment. A wounded kid lay face down on the road, screaming as he tried to crawl to safety. Jagged pieces of wood ripped into his back and legs. A couple of recruits, one of them Rudolph, rushed to his aid. A kid with red hair that Galen had never met before hurried over to help.

Galen and others provided cover fire. A fresh shoulder-bag of flintlocks appeared at his side, and Galen instantly went for it. He fired with each hand clutching a pistol as someone shoveled the emptied pistols into a bag. They would be dragged back to a resupply point to be reloaded and sent back to the battle lines.

Rudolph slipped his arm around the wounded kid’s body, lifting him off the ground like a sack of potatoes. Redhair slipped a strip of leather for the boy to bite down on as they moved him. The boy screamed, but still bit down. While Rudolph dragged the victim away, Redhair drew his blunderbuss and watched their backs.

CRACK! With the third cannon blast, the entire rescue team was literally wiped out in a flash of fire.

Too much, Galen thought. This is too much.

Suddenly, a bugle cut through the rifle fire. A loud wail followed by intermittent bursts. Behind them, up above the higher ground, the skies lit up. A plume of red crested above, intense and intentional. Then a second, and a third.

“Fall back!” someone shouted. An air of urgency mixed with relief and elation. “Fall back to the town’s square!”

As one, the remaining soldiers moved away like a tidal wave, even as select teams stayed behind to give cover fire for those retreating. It was no rout; these boys, even so young, still moved with trained precision. Some even ran backwards, like Galen, firing their weapons as they ran.

Randess, a fellow Ripperwulf Fire Sword, responded to the retreat like everyone else: he ran. Like the others, his clothes stank of gunsmoke and dirt. His hands shook from fear and the aftereffects of continuously firing flintlock pistols. He tore down the street towards the town’s center. He didn’t have a plan other than finding cover in one of the buildings. At the first door he saw, he tried the knob. Locked! With no time to waste, Randess ran towards the corner. Windows! He smashed the glass open with the butt of his flintlock, taking only a spare second to clear away the shards before climbing in. He stumbled and fell on the hardwood floor.

His mind racing, Randess wondered how he would deal with the homeowners, if they discovered their uninvited guest. He picked himself off the floor and scrambled towards the front of the home, intending to unlock the front door so others could take cover within.

In the main room, he realized that the front entrance was blocked by hundred-pound barrels. A cold wave covered his body as he read the labels branded into the sides of each barrel. He knew their contents!

The barrels closest to the wall read Buckshot. The barrels stacked behind them were marked Gunpowder. Randress understood instantly: the town’s center had just been turned into the largest killing field in this conflict.

Galen was still running when another recruit right next to him tripped and fell. He could hear the sound of the boy-soldier’s skull connecting solidly against the stone road. Stopping, Galen bent down, grabbed the boy’s arm, and looked into his face. Even through all the soot and blood, Galen knew he was looking at Conrart.

“We’re not going to make it, are we?” Conrart shouted in despair.

“Stow that!” Galen shouted back. “We’re going!”

Almost dragging him, Galen turned and kept moving, straining as they limped forward. He slowed. Even with a wave of angry, almost inhuman things rushing to slaughter them all, he still slowed to help someone, anyone. On the hill overlooking the entire village, Galen and Conrart all saw it. As if silently summoned by some unseen force, every Fire Sword in the retreat took a moment to look up and see what awaited them. Some screamed outrage; some stopped and stood mute, either in shock or incomprehension. A few dropped to the ground, reacting to the horror with prayer or resignation. But they all saw it. That familiar outline of cannons, one of many things any infantryman would fear. The Fire Swords had their own division of artillery, and Galen had seen them in action before. He had learned in school that the average grapeshot round fired from a single cannon could destroy a dozen solders at two hundred yards.

Right now, forty cannons stood spread in an uneven line, their iron barrels pointed down right at the town. In the center of this line, a lone figure towered aloof in his white uniform, the brass buttons and saber gleaming red fire reflected from the torches behind him.

“Do not fire!” Galen shouted out.

In that instant, they both saw each other. Pyriel saw the young Ripperwulf, bloodied and battered, carrying another wounded boy, shouting up at him. He read the boy’s lips and saw the horror in his eyes.

Galen watched Pyriel’s jaw move, as a jaw would move with the mouth to form words. A single word was spoken, and at that moment, Galen felt the weight of the entire world, his world, crashing down on him.

“Fire.”