The evening breeze shivered through the sergeant's body. The hardy old man tensed his nose, holding a sneeze despite the redness of his face. He shook our hands ruggedly, eyes darting towards the ground, then disappeared into the police precinct. His compatriots sluggishly followed. Whimpering, they hopped off the truck, hastily throwing off their warm Companion uniforms, indignant before the glare of their colleagues. The calming glow and faint bustle of the police station then faded into our rear-view mirror.
After we dropped off the coppers, we went back to Barroco's shop to synthesize the lunarfritz into sleeping potions, anesthetic, and painkillers. Despite everything, the lunarfritz would only turn a modest profit.
We slaved into the night. The faint glow of the vials reflected the starry night, flickering as the heavens wafted in and out of clouds. As I stared at my distorted self in the glass, I replayed the day, unable to believe my luck. We stole from under the noses of Companions. We impersonated Graverobber. I paced restlessly until an abnormally foul smell sucked me back to reality.
"What did you do?" I gagged.
"I added too much powder," the tired lad coughed. The bags under his eyes dragged his face towards the floor.
I cursed as I stumbled over jars. I hurried to the bubbling cauldron, which had changed from forest green to royal purple. I quickly poured a gallon of water. The concoction, sensing the offering of peace, quelled its querulous wrath, abating to light turquoise. Its pungent odor faded, too, releasing back the natural dankness of the basement.
"Zzzzz…." Barroco snored. From what I could tell, he had been knocked cold by inhaling the boiling lunarfritz.
"Wake up," I murmured, unsure of how to proceed. I wish I had paid more attention whenever Barroco spoke. Gently shaking him, I nervously eyed the concoction. Slowly, it began bubbling again. As the low, ominous rumbling foretold of disaster, I carried Barroco out of the basement and left him in the garden. I went back down. The musician was gone, so the music was all I could face.
An ethereal fog had taken over. Stumbling, I tied some rags over my mouth and continued like I was hunting a sniper. Where was the cauldron? If Barroco added too much Silver-moth venom as a catalyst, the batch was probably fine but grounded Specter's kiss, a gunpowder-like substance, could explode the whole shop.
I had inhaled too much, and my eyelids became like stones. As I stared into the flames beneath the cauldron, a mirage darted around the fire. Quenching the pyre, I saw, within the embers, a much greater conflagration, one that consumed a group of tortured souls alive beneath the walls of
…
Boom.
A large artillery shell split the ground.
It fell on some crude earthen works that someone erected to protect a fortified army camp, and I was within its rickety central tower. A bright orange glow in the distance had fired it, sending a rain of dirt into the sky.
Beside me climbed the hazy shape of a young man in a familiar army man's regalia. He handed me binoculars. Behind us were several hundred injured soldiers. They were drinking, moaning, and screaming, passing needles and Lunarfritz vials around like cigars. The air was almost nectary as a result.
Occasionally, an officer would come by and put some mortally wounded soul out of his misery. A few of them were also taking shots at the bottle balanced on the head of a bound enemy scout.
"Sir, when are we making the attack again?" the young man finally stammered, pointing to the burning village up ahead. On the heights, there was a towering old fortress shaped like a monastery. Its spires twisted, like talons grabbing the sky.
Beyond that was a mighty ravine, and below, a river. On the other side were steep crags.
Its fierce fortifications are virtually impregnable from the south; the southeast and southwest sides stared at the ravine and the crags beyond. The northern faces, north-west, from which we viewed it, and north-east, near the village, were in a deep siege by our forces.
Well-dressed enemies, three-quarters of our four-thousand-man strength, paraded themselves across the stark battlements, raining hellfire down on a sizable host of our men, who used the roofs and walls of the burning village for cover. Grapeshot cannons tore apart every one of our scaling parties, leaving broken ladders and bodies strewn on the field.
"When was our last attack?" I asked groggily like I just woke from a long slumber. I had seen this fortress before.
"Before dawn, sir, when we first arrived. We took twenty percent casualties since they somehow expected us. You led that assault yourself and took a bullet to your hat, remember?" He pointed at my head, where I now felt a light breeze on my hair.
"Where are we?"
"Sir?" Though his face was blurred, I could sense the bewilderment in his eyes. "Are you alright?"
"I seem to have lost my mind in a daydream." I lied.
"Well, um, alright, then. We are at Monvenue, remember? You accused the Viscount Gilles of something I rather not say, and then…" His voice trailed off like he was afraid of his voice.
"Wait, what was I doing?"
"Sir, your men are awaiting your orders" The young man gestured to a banner, one of a Griffon with demonic horns, tormented by the wind. A few bandaged soldiers wearily saluted, coughing. Gilles, Monvenue, all of this feels familiar.
What kind of commander was I?
I realized that the assault is doomed. I was sending unsupported infantry to take an impregnable fortress. Surrounded on two sides by a ravine, the other two sides formed a violent salient, brandishing cannons on the battlements and howitzers on the grounds below.
"Fair enough; firstly, have the men upfront relax a little and make sure they're taking shifts. We're only here to make noise, after all." I surmised. If I ordered a frontal assault, there would not be a soldier left in this army. Now, for what were we the diversion?
"Sir?"
"Well, we don't have the resources. Without our artillery, every brick in that castle is worth a good man. We must be awaiting reinforcements." I guessed.
Were we tunneling? The grounds were so muddy from the rain that the dead sank into the ground. The other option, scaling the ravine sides, was near impossible.
"How, sir? We trapped ourselves in enemy territory. There is a larger army behind us and this fortress in front, surrounding us. There is no supply line. Most of the injured will die before dusk. You also marched us all here at lightning pace, exhausting us completely." The young man panicked.
"Where are the cavalry?" I asked.
"You lured their army away by sending Glaive Roswell's cavalry to threaten their farmlands. The enemy could still be here within three days. What do we do, sir?"
"You're not my aide-de-camp, right?" I sighed, annoyed.
"I'm sorry, sir. I understand that I am deficient in many ways, but I come from a proud line of warriors. My father served you for a long time before he" His voice trailed off.
"Fine. I hope you can forgive me. There are parts of who I am that will never agree with who I want to be as well." I apologized. "What's your name, my friend?"
"Major Anderson Melbury."
"Alright, Major Melbury, am I expecting a letter?" I ask, playing on a hunch I did not know why I had.