Her Name

The map slapped the table, flattened by Kurl’s palm. His legs straddled the bench. Adam and Roxanne sat on a rickety wooden bench. Their train car clattered loudly. The large steel coffee maker bolted to the wall rang unevenly, constantly, and when the car struck a bump, coffee sloshed inside. Their mugs, half full, held firmly pressed.

His fingertip covered the fortress city of Tarnobrzeg nestled against the Vistula River. A detailed map of a hundred square miles centered on the walled city, “The 14th Polish Conscript Division is responsible for this section of the front. To the north is the tenth Polish and to the south is the 41st Polish. They’re not even on this map. Don’t expect any force diversions, the front is stretched thin.”

“What about the reserves?”

“We are the reserves.”

Adam stretched his finger toward the back of the map, “No, it can’t just a single mage squad. We have other reserves, right? The entire front can’t be one thin red line manned by Polish peasants? Where are the Sterman units?”

“What about the Poles?’ Kurl rubbed his chin, “They’ve been defending the eastern frontier for a hundred years. The Empire does the supplying and we do the dying. But let me assure you, we know how to defend our homes.”

“I almost forgot you’re Polish,” Roxanne took a big bite of her cinnamon roll, “The way you behave is far too imperial.”

“Well, if they know how to defend their homes, why is the line breaking?”

A strong hand struck the center of table. The train rattled, jumped, the lights flickered while Kurl took a breath and composed. He stood and adjusted his uniform, growling, “You may be right.”

“Anyway,” Roxanne sipped the last of her cooling coffee from a tin cup, “Can we get back to the briefing?”

Kurl swallowed, “The 14th has ben eviscerated. Artillery captured by the enemy. The logistics and storm brigades have moved back with the survivors. Report estimates five thousand remaining infantry. I’d say it’ll be closer to three thousand when we arrive.”

“So, there’s an entire division missing from the line?”

“Yes, and the hole is filling with skeletons,” he dropped some folded papers on the map, “at least according to the packet. Take a moment to review it.”

They read while Kurl refilled his coffee and took a seat. Roxanne stuffed another warm cinnamon roll in her mouth.

“Skeletons? That’s it?” Adam rummaged through sketches of skeleton armies and black and white photographs, “The line is falling to skeletons? Aren’t the Tarnobrzeg brimstone mines the most important in Imperial territory? Shouldn’t they be better defended?”

“Let’s concentrate on what is,” Kurl spread pictures about the table until a knight atop a siege engine revealed itself, “They have a bone mage general confronting the line directly, Abyssal class at the very least.”

“A what!” Roxanne choked on her pastry.

Adam stared at the map, a drop of sweat ran down his left cheek, “So that means? That’s why I’ve been issued bullets with blessed silver tips?”

“Precisely. Once we’re on the ground, our main mission is taking that bastard out. Until we do so, these are no ordinary skeletons.”

“What about the sulphur mages concentrated around the mines?”

“Evacuated. They won’t be effective against this threat, so they are being deployed elsewhere until the mines are secured. That’s our job.”

Fist pounded her sternum to force down the cinnamon roll remnants, “So we need Adam’s bullets to break through the enemy mage’s defenses. What about Vanessa? She’s much a much stronger candidate. Why isn’t she being deployed? We can support her.”

“Yeah, what about her?” Adam demanded, “I thought she’s our ace.”

“Brunswick is keeping her under his direct control. Do really expect the Empire to throw a weapon like that right on the front line. She’s to be held in reserve. I can’t say I completely disagree with it.”

“So, it’s a bone abyssal then?” Roxanne rummaged through the reports, “If this account is true, we’re facing projectiles, storms, and…”

“And one hell of a better sniper than I could ever be,” Adam blurted, “He took out the officers, mages, and the heavy weapons first, one by one.”

“You’re getting it. This isn’t child’s play. If we win, we may live to see another mission. If we fail, we die,” Kurl stood, “Study those maps for terrain. But don’t expect our force placements to resemble that situation,” he pointed to the rickety bunks at the back of their cars, “In fact, expect nothing. Then get some sleep when the coffee wears off, as much as you can. You’ll need to be well rested for what we’re about to face.”

Shade whisked across the windows. Steam vent roared with a screeching whistle. The car jostled and shuddered around their feet. Within seconds, the movement returned to its regular rhythmic thudding. Kurl took a seat across from them and leaned back. Sun streamed over his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sketch: the scourge of the south. The figure clad in heavy robes stared back through blackened googles.

A howling wind from the north rattled thinly insulated glass panes. Kurl sat up in his bed, still in his uniform. Boots hung from the bedpost. Adam’s rifle rested from a rack dominating the back corner. The train lurched, challenging his balance. The table remained cluttered with coffee-stained charts and empty tin cups. He selected hot water, no tea, and took a few gulps. The darkness beyond the window produced star lit shadows of farmland, forests, and mountains. He struck a match to light the gas lantern, which turned the window into darkness’s sheath.

The cut-out from the pamphlet came out of his pocket. The blackened googles stared though him. What had the scourge of the south seen of war?

The door between cars slid open, so he folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. Then he leaned forward, as if studying the maps.

Brunswick stood over him, also fully dressed despite the late hour, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We’ll be the only effective force on the front by the time we arrive. You can’t be blamed for the casualties.”

“That’s a relief.”

A folded paper slid across the map, “I know you’re worried, so I thought you should have this. I’m returning to my quarters before I wake anyone. I recommend you get some sleep tonight. Nothing good will come from worrying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kurl placed his palm over the folded paper while Brunswick returned to his car.

The paper unfolded easily. It smelt of graphite and stale bread crumbs. The first thing he noticed was the drawing of a looming broad-shouldered figure on the back. It had eyes, hair, but no mouth. A large tank, a vapor tank, was strapped to its back.

On the other side was a primer for the alphabet under the name Freya Dugalstein. But one look at the curved ends on each letter and he recognized Zinnia’s handwriting. They took away her name? Perhaps that was for the best.

The date at the top, in her writing, was July 23rd, barely a month ago. She’d made this while he languished in the pit.

His thumb ran across the practiced graphite letters on thin paper. The gaslight flickered. Kurl closed his eyes tightly. A deep breath held tears at bay.

They took her name.