Prologue.
A Changeling lay in the snow. His lifeless eyes were still turned upwards, staring into the gloomy sky. The red stain of blood ran deep into the snow all around him. His young face was frozen, contorted into a tense grimace, as if he were just having a nightmare. A bullethole was visible on his overcoat, and a red ribbon tied around his hoof. The cold corpse's view of the sun was suddenly blocked, covered in shade as somebody stepped up to it. Another Changeling. He shook his head. He wore the same uniform, only his ribbon was not red, but white, with a black three-toothed crown imprinted on it.
"Oh... You..." sadly sighed Volunteer Corps' Seventh Brigade of the Third Company automatic gunner Artis. He looked at the body for some time, thinking of something. Then he spat at the snow, said some expressive words, and seated himself just in front of the changeling's corpse, throwing open the flaps of its overcoat. In just a few minutes, all the pockets had been looted, their contents secure with their new proprietor.
This changeling was not so lucky. Artis had only found some cash and bullets. There were a also few photos, a party card, and other miscellaneous documents, all useless. Looting wasn't exactly Artis' thing. He didn't like it, but just like any other soldier in the changeling army, he needed to survive. Troops from Artis' company were spread all over the battlefield doing likewise. On a nearby road were both supply and battle trucks, bearing white flags with Queen Chrysalis' crown. The soldiers on the tracks were amusing themselves. Their muffled laughs and harmonicas could be heard between the sounds of the motor engines.
There were some volunteer brigades in the column, and Hauptmann Gynt’s regiment's quest was to conquer the enemy outpost on the main column's way.
The operation resulted in thirty killed communists and about twenty killed and injured loyalists. It was hard and furious, the communists were caught by surprise and annihilated. Now, the brave anti-communists started looting the corpses with no care: overcoats were torn, and pockets and peakless infantry caps were turned inside out. Soldiers used their knives, jaws, and vigilance. Officers joined their troops by principle: “If you cannot stop something - lead it”.
Driving his black thoughts away, Artis stood and looked around: to the right, he found Kulex - a soldier from his regiment - he was very small even for changeling. Kulex was looting a body, looking happier than usual. Artis noticed there was the small brass chain of a pocket watch, peeking out from his overcoat pocket. Looks like the corpse belonged to an officer. Finally, Kulex finished with the last pocket and took some money from it. Then, he took the officer's overcoat and tore it up to check for anything he might have missed. The poor communist was left lying in one white shirt and some breeches, whose pockets were also gutted by the dexterous Kulex.
"You’ve got a nice body to loot, comrade." Upon hearing these words, Kulex turned around cautiously and found corporal Agrias behind him. They were good friends, but in the Changeling army, any friendship comes from army regulations and mutual responsibility.
"It's my lucky day, and that's no secret," Kulex answered absolutely. He had nothing to worry about, since he knew that Agrias had also found a good haul and wouldn't let the commanders know about this marauding - the whole regiment participated in looting.
"The Hauptmann said that we’ve got an order from headquarters. We're holding our positions until evening, and when night falls, we make our leave."
"Then we have some time to rest?" Another voice sounded. Everyone turned to look at the new interluder - it was a gloom soldier with scarf on his neck. Two tired green eyes looked back at them from their place between the soldier's helmet visor and a piece of black knitted fabric tied around his muzzle. It was Rainis, always calm and laconic, famous and loved by his brothers-in-arms for his accuracy and ability to find or craft anything that was needed from
almost nothing.
"Yup, we'll set the guards and have our rest, but only after formation and roll call," Agrias started told them, authority in his voice.
"Squad! Come here!" Some grey figures headed up and started moving towards the corporal. Their sergeant had been killed in the battle and his duties and authorities came to Agrias. It was his first luck. He was already in good standing with Gynt and had actually expected to receive a promotion soon.
Some dispersed soldiers now started grouping up in front of the blindage and Hauptmann Gynt. Looting is looting, but discipline is a must. Volunteer regiments couldn't exactly be called military units. They were more of paramilitary formations, made up of changelings of every kind - even criminals. Typically, they had less organization, worse supply, and even discipline was as bad as could possibly be. The brigade in which Artis, Kulex, Agrias, and Rainis served, however, was not so bad: it was mostly comprised of reservists, junkers, and trained volunteers. Every company had a machine gun and a good amount of ammunition, some of them even had some hoof-grenades and grenade launchers. In comparison, some less fortunate brigades might have even lacked rifles, equipped instead with pistols, and wore civilian clothes rather than military uniforms.
Here in Hurornd, high command had grouped the best brigades, alongside the jaegers of Colonel Ersatz. There was a great reason for such preparations: the last chord of war was about to be strung. The main forces of the communists had retreated to the forest near Hurornd and entrenched themselves in some lumberjack villages, forming a defence line of outposts. Small groups of Gold Muffin’s communists had broken through the border and hidden in the woods, steppes, and mountains of Yakyakistan. Catching all these groups seemed to be an impossible task thus far, so the loyalists were searching directly for an enemy base to strike at. Finally, Intelligence reported a large concentration of Rotfront’s forces in "Area 18”.
The complete destruction of enemy forces in this area was very important to prevent possible problems in future. General Larynx couldn't stop everyone, but he was going to stop as many as possible in this nest of wasps.
At this time, about a hundred soldiers waited around the road - the post-battle roll call had began. Injured soldiers were being transferred to the rear, all the corpses were piled up and covered with snow - there was neither time nor enough ponypower left to make normal graves, echelon troops would do it.
"Sergeant Ascalaph died in combat, are there any officers left in his unit?" Gynt surveyed his soldiers through the round lenses of his glasses. It was plain from his posture that it was only yesterday that he had been a desk officer.
"I am, Herr Hauptmann!" Agrias bravely took a step forward from the line.
"Very well, corporal. You will perform his duties, and the battalion commander will decide what to do with your unit. It is a pity, of course, that it happened. I did not think that this attack would end with the death of a worthy officer..." Gynt said this with such a tone as if Sergeant Ascalaph had never even existed. "Well. First platoon goes to guard, third platoon takes this side of the road and the second takes the opposite one. You may consider this the announcement of a halt. The officers must rouse you at ten o'clock tonight. And now — at Ease! Disperse!".
Agrias' squad was conveniently located in a dugout that served as both a barracks and a firing point for the local garrison. It was well dug: it was dry and warm, and there was a metal stove in the corner, but soldiers still had to sleep on the ground. His squad quickly brought firewood, and someone had good, dry paper for lighting. It was early November, but it was freezing. The changelings had no need for ordinary food, but they were very sensitive to heat. Here, around the slowly heating stove, a dozen soldiers sat and laid down. They had a long and grueling march behind them. Some sat with their backs against the log walls, while others were already trying to sleep, their collars pulled up and helmet pulled down to the tips of their noses. There wasn't much to talk about, they just wanted to forget everything and rest.
"It was so lousy for our sergeant…" Artis quietly said. "He would better have been shot in the head, but the bullet hadn't spared him. He suffered until he bled to death…"
"Bad way to die," Kulex replied, stifling a yawn.
"We have nothing to do with it anyway..." Artis paused and curled up by the stove, his head on his satchel, helmet pulled down over his face. A minute later he was sound asleep, following the example of Rainis, one of the first to fall asleep.
Kulex looked at Agrias, who was half-sitting with his back against the wall of the dugout. His head was thrown back, and his eyes were fixed on the exit from the shelter, where the gray sky was visible, framed from below by a wall of dense forest. He was not asleep, but thinking about something.
"You are a strange man, Herr officer. You got lucky and are making a comedy..." Kulex chuckled to himself, settling comfortably among the sleeping. Fate, working in its usual mysterious ways, seemed to cross the paths of these four at random. They were from different hives, from different families, but the war had brought them together. They had become soldiers, and now they were facing a either common victory, or a common grave. The changelings slept like the dead, as they had for the last time.
There was a tense silence in the room… The clock ticked, and faint sounds came from the street. White plaster, a plain wooden floor, a desk, a few chairs, and an expensive gas chandelier. On the wall hung a large and detailed map of the area, dotted with various points, arrows and lines. Several staff officers were gathered here, all in a state of heavy expectation. General Larynx was among them, pacing the room. After another round of the room, the General would stop and pull his watch out of his jacket pocket. It was already ten minutes to six in the evening. There were no news from the forward brigades. The first echelon should already be in position, the second should be on the march. There was only a telephone connection available, and it was expensive to pull the wires behind the rapidly moving parts, so messages were often delayed. Earlier that day, at noon, the report came that the enemy barriers on the road had been removed and the way was open for the columns. This was the last message that reached headquarters. As they advanced, the volunteers had no way of maintaining a constant telephone connection, and messengers could take an endless time to reach the headquarters, for various reasons.
Then, the distinctive rattle of a motorcycle was heard from outside the window. A minute later, hoofsteps were heard on the stairs and the floor below. Everyone brightened, and Larynx beamed. A changeling entered the room, wearing a leather jacket and a hard hat with motorcycle glasses. Everyone at headquarters already knew him. This was a messenger-orderly, who more than once helped out with his timely appearance. The soldier saluted.
"Herr Colonel-General! There is a report from operations headquarters!" With that, the rider pulled a sealed package from the lapel of his jacket. Larynx saluted and nodded, as a sign of respect.
"Very well, we were waiting for you." The General took the folder and put it on the table. The courier remained standing at attention in the doorway.
Larynx opened the folder and took out its contents. It contained a map and a note.
First echelon takes the position, the second one is already coming. In a few hours, the last reserves will be drawn up.
They made visual contact with the enemy, who went on the defensive. Ersatz's Jaegers are combing the area, and there are several reports of shootings with Communist patrols. The enemy is gradually retreating from the area in small groups, Colonel Ersatz has sent detachments to intercept them. The fact that the enemy is gradually withdrawing from its trap is of course unfortunate, but on the day of the attack, fewer rifles will be directed against us and there will be fewer losses. According to intelligence data, there are about a thousand enemy soldiers in this area, a number that is decreasing almost every hour. We learned from enemy troops that their main leadership had fled. All the positions indicated by you are occupied by the forces of four brigades without significant resistance. By dawn, the enemy should be in a tight semicircle if everything goes according to your plan. Telephone communication with headquarters will soon be established, but we would like your presence on the front line. The morale of the personnel is excellent.
Front headquarters of Volunteer army report, brigadiers Kimex, Tisbe, Canaris and others. 11.11.1006.
The map accurately depicted the loyalist disposition and the supposed areas of concentration of the Rotfront. Larynx closely acquainted with it. Then he took a fresh sheet of paper from the table, and wrote:
I am coming to you immediately. Continue with the mission, as according to plan.
General Larynx. 11.11.1006.
When he finished, Larynx put his instructions in the envelope the messenger had brought, re-stapled it, and handed it back.
"You can go."
"For The Queen and Fatherland!" The motorcyclist saluted, turned around, and started down the hill. Larynx gave the staff a look of dashing enthusiasm. He smiled, but it was more like the grin of a hunting predator. A few days, the General had spent pent up in that damn farm, away from his soldiers… Now he would see them again, lead them again, this time to the last battle of this war. He wanted to personally put a fat end to this shameful conflict.
The changelings put on their greatcoats and caps. It was freezing outside, and a bone-chilling wind was blowing. In the courtyard of the folwark was a deployed operational headquarters. Several vehicles were on duty on the clock along the road, ready to load officers and equipment for relocation at the first order. Everyone turned their attention to Larynx and his companions. The General ordered them to wrap up their business, and in half an hour the staff was ready to leave. General Larynx himself got into a black car at the front of the column. Two armed bodyguards sat down with him. It would take them an hour and a half to get there.
"Get up! Line up!" These words woke the sleepers as they had thousands of times before. Grey figures were rising from their seats, haversacks were being put on, weapons were being examined for the last time. The smouldering fires were extinguished, and the kerosene lanterns were lit. The changelings formed into their squads, then squads formed into their platoons and marched to the road. Another night's march was coming. There was no peace on the road: trucks with guns attached to them were moving along the road, old three-inch guns of the equestrian license, manufactured in the first vraksian factories. Slow-moving trucks covered the front and rear of the infantry units. The trucks' headlights shone brightly on the soldiers ahead. The third platoon had already formed up, but had to pass the incoming artillery, thus serving as the last rearguard of the loyal forces. Artis carried a heavy water-jacketed machine gun, his number two carrying zink and cartridges. His assistant didn't stand out much and did his job well. It so happened that Artis and his assistant never developed a friendly relationship, but this did not prevent the calculation from working as a whole. He took his place at the end of the line, among other machine-gun crews. They always went last, as in a dense "box" lineup their bulky burden very much interfered with others. The rest of his squad, with satchels and rifles slung over their shoulders, waited for their comrades to pass. The soldiers walked quietly in the night. There were no songs, no conversations, no proverbial harmonica, just a quick and graceful step. Night marches were a grueling and often used maneuver, which the soldiers covered behind their eyes with all sorts of terrible curses.
Here the column went forward. After waiting for some time, the platoons of the 3rd company came out on the road, formed up, and Gynt came forward.
"Get to your units!" And the soldiers began to reform into that notorious "Box" - a marching column, where a dozen soldiers marched in a row, blocking both lanes of the road. This was mostly the case with the rearguard or vanguard units, who no longer had to worry about anyone passing or passing through the second lane of the road.
The rebuilding was over. Platoons took their places according to the statutory regulations, leaving small intervals of 2-3 steps between them. The platoon members walked to the side of the column, watching their subordinates and what was going on around them. The Hauptmann himself, to do his rank justice, walked like a company commander in front of everyone. The company was well equipped with kerosene lamps and other types of lanterns which were to be used to illuminate the night road. The command "March" was given, and the line moved forward, gradually gaining speed and frequency of step. Usually, at night, the soldiers went slower than in the daytime, but someone at Headquarters decided that the troops should be delivered to the desired area as quickly as possible. Everything else could be omitted. The troops had little other option but to swallow this harsh fact, so after a while the company was marching at 180 paces per minute, the famous "flea step" that was the envy of militaries all over the world. Walking like this was good on the parade ground and in the light of day, but not on the forest road at night. Nevertheless, the brave volunteers put the order above their own thoughts and were inclined to carry it out. Fortunately, there was enough light and no one ever stumbled. To stumble during such a task, and even being somewhere in the head of the column — a sure and complete destruction of the formation and the drill rhythm, in other words-a disgrace for the entire battalion. Severe punishment awaited.
The soldiers moved forward, breaking the pitch darkness of the November night. An icy wind rustled the treetops, adding to the cold, bitter air. A bad omen. Such winds are usually followed by storms, snowstorms or enemy fire. The changelings walked with their greatcoats turned up and their faces wrapped in scarves, warmed only by continuous movement. Kerosene lamps rattled, tied to satchels and soldiers' belts, the rest of the equipment also producing the characteristic hum of constantly beating against each other's satchels, gas masks, kettles and other belongings. In the ears of the volunteers was the crunch of snow under their hooves, a clear and united step. Each soldier's gaze rested on the back of the other's head and rump. If there were fighters on your left and right, that was good. If you were marching on the edge, that was bad, because you were getting the worst of the damn wind, and the first bullets were going to hit you... and the officers were out of line, which made them perfect targets. Now the column was in the rear, and the only Communists that they met on the way were destroyed during the day. Ambushes, small skirmishes, and attacks from the bullpen - this was the essence of this war, and it stretched it out for several long years.
Presently, some lights loomed in the distance. The soldiers cheered up, the goal was close.
"Column, stop!" A voice came out of the darkness. "We have a blackout here, put out your lights and follow me."
"Stop!" Ordered Gynt. And the company stopped. The soldiers extinguished their lamps and continued on, this time in almost total darkness, following the sentry who had met them and who had lighted his lantern. The sentry was dressed like everyone else, but he wore a white cape over his greatcoat and a Jaeger's cap instead of a helmet. It was one of Ersatz's soldiers who was keeping watch around the rest of the seventh brigade's forces. Soon the silhouettes of houses, cars, and sentries began to appear in the darkness. They could hear orders, conversations, and tired laughter. The company passed through one village, through another. Everywhere the soldiers could hear the voices of their comrades, who had already taken up their quarters or were taking up their quarters for the night. They reached a small village that had almost doubled in size because of the battalion stationed there. The third company was warmly welcomed by fellow soldiers. They were assigned two large barns in advance, where the soldiers were stationed. It was already midnight. The company posted sentries, and the command to nap was given.
Corporal Agrias was lying on a pile of faggots stacked like a cot. After that fight, he was tormented by thoughts that kept him awake. He thought about the fallen Sergeant, Sergeant Ascalaph. "I was thinking about replacing him. Ascalaph was an exemplary commander and an old veteran, he was kind and fair to his subordinates, always ready to stand up for them." Agrias had served in his Department for a year and a half, and the Sergeant had become his senior companion and mentor. Ascalaph taught soldiers to survive in battle better than any instructors and other "heroes" who preferred to sit in the rear and watch the soldiers crawl through the mud, shoot guns and march to the harmonica singing "Erica" or "Laura", not to fight on the front line. The squad felt great in the rain and in the bitter cold, because their Sergeant always found them firewood and shelter for the night. Ascalaph was known and respected throughout the battalion. The months passed, and the war was coming to an end, but the Sergeant was not happy about it. In the last few days, he had become quiet, taking more frequent swigs from his canteen of schnapps, but he was dignified in front of his own people. On the night before that ill-fated battle, he stared at the dying fire with a blank, glassy stare. "I saw my family in a dream. And my mother, too..." he said, then paused for a moment and spat out the cigarette that had burned in his mouth. "I am tired, comrades… I'm sick and tired of this damn war, damn it… Anyway, it's all going to end soon. Nothing to worry about.” And with these words Ascalaph laughed his usual rough soldier's laugh - only there was a noticeable sadness - a very heavy sadness. The next day, he was killed during an attack on a Rotfront checkpoint. The bullet hit him in the leg and severed an artery. No one could help him; the old Sergeant had bled to death on one of the last days of the war, foreseeing his own untimely demise. Now Agrias, an officer who had recently left the Academy with the rank of Lieutenant, but who had joined the volunteer corps as a corporal, was to become the commander. He shouldn't really think about it, because it was perfectly normal. When a commander is killed, another officer in the unit must replace him. But on the other hand… How could Agrias replace Ascalaph? This question seemed to him stupid, unworthy of consideration, but it tormented him. Agrias was a careerist, but he also had a conscience that sometimes gnawed terribly.
Then Hauptmann Gynt came into the barn.
"Corporal Agrias!"
"I, Herr Hauptmann!" Agrias got up and stood at attention.
"Congratulations, you are now officially a Sergeant. The battalion commander gave his authorization." Agrias nodded in silence, relieved and glad that everything had already been decided for him.
"Well, go, at ease. Tomorrow there will be a fight, and you will command a squad." With that, Gynt left, and the new Sergeant fell silent on the firewood, falling into a dead sleep.
The morning began with a rise. The silence was broken by the sharp shouts of commands, followed by the sound of hundreds of hooves. It was seven o'clock in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to rise from the treetops. The night wind had cleared away yesterday's clouds, and the sun's red glow was clearly visible on the horizon. There was much to be done in this pre-dawn hour. Platoons and companies were formed, counted, and weapons checked. Then the battalion, in several columns, moved in the direction of the forest, according to previously explored paths. The forest itself was quite sparse: the local loggers knew their business, and around all the villages there were large vacant lots where the stumps of fallen trees stuck out.
The forest was frequently passed, and soldiers went to another plain. It slowly converted into a moderate hill, with some roofs, covered in snow. This was one of about ten villages, that should be assaulted and liberated by loyalists. Every of this villages were fortified and holded by enemy units. From that far away, they seemed very small.
Groups of volunteers appeared like small streams, taking up positions on the edge of the forest. There were more and more of them, and more companies and platoons appeared from under the spreading firs, eager to take their place in the disposition. A dense semi-circle formed around the zag. Seven brigades of the volunteer corps were preparing to make a direct attack on the enemy, while Ersatz's jaegers were in the rear of the enemy, setting a trap for the retreating troops. There were about ten thousand loyalists, and they were opposed by only a thousand of the least trained and experienced fighters, whose forces were scattered over many strongholds. The very concept of "brigade" in Changeling military science meant something between a regiment and a division, an operational unit brought together from different parts for a specific task. So the Larynx brigades were far from uniform. Some had four or five battalions, some could have only two or three (as in the seventh), and the number of companies, platoons, and so on varied.
Agrias led the way, followed by his squad. Here in the coveted wasteland, the platoon stopped and began to reorganize into battle order. Then the infantry went to the attack in chains: widely open ranks, in which the soldiers walked two or three meters apart. Agrias led his troops along the ranks of the battle-ready changelings, taking his place as the third squad of the third platoon of the third company of the first battalion, advancing as part of the right wing of the seventh brigade, sharing its section with that of the left wing of the sixth brigade. For the first time since the wakening, the Sergeant spoke.
"Check your pouches and weapons, misfires and wedges during the battle aren't going to help anyone. Artis, this is your first concern, and I think you understand why." Artis nodded silently, called for his assistant, and began to double-check his machine gun. "When we reach the enemy, there will be no time for that. They'll probably see us first. Our task is to respond to their fire with our own, since they have nowhere to hide. Do your duty with honor!"
They all listened in silence to what they had heard many times before.
"Well said, Herr officer." A voice came from the line. It was Kulex's.
There was a high-pitched squeal above the soldiers' heads, followed by a distant rumble. A column of mud and snow rose above the village in front of them. Agrias looked around the room with a dry, strained expression. Everyone was grim and focused, the machine-gun crew taking up their position in the line, their rifles hanging from their belts, haunches raised, ready for action. To their right stood the volunteers from the sixth brigade, shuddering and swaying like a wave after each salvo of guns. Behind them was a second-line chain, and behind the second-line chain was a backup chain.
More and more shells were bursting somewhere ahead, turning the village in front of them into ruins. The artillery fire was not heavy, but the soldiers were glad that there was at least some.
The whistle blew through the ranks of the infantry. The gray lines moved forward to meet the enemy's bombarded positions. Another sound was added to the heavy blows of the artillery preparation, the drum of many, many hooves trudging through the snow.
Between the chains of soldiers and the enemy was about a kilometer. The soldiers walked slowly, calmly, and each changeling trained their eyes at the desired height to see the enemy before they could see them. The closer the changelings got, the clearer the village in front of them became. Shells exploded among the small village houses, sometimes throwing up not only the earth and snow, but also logs, planks, and the remains of bodies. When the chains were half-way through, the artillery fell silent, and a hush fell over the wasteland…
"Stop! Stop!" The platoon leader shouted suddenly in alarm, and the entire segment of his chain halted in indecision. "Watch your fucking hooves! There's a wolf pit!" And then, as if to confirm these words, under hooves of the chain of the sixth brigade opened a giant pit-trap. Three soldiers were killed when they ran into the stakes below, and the rest managed to get out. Chain six immediately stopped, and the enemy in the village opened fire. The battle had begun.
A burst of machine-gun fire struck the loyalist lines, followed by rifle fire that beat at a feverish pace. All of a sudden, the shelling started again. a few soldiers fell, the others lay down in indecision.
The changelings threw themselves on the ground and raised their guns, taking cover behind stumps that protruded everywhere, and they soon began to respond. Artis' team took up position, resting the bipod of the machine gun on a wide stump. All this time death was hovering over the machine-gunners: now it whistled over the head of the second number, now something thudded into the stump that served as a support and cover, the third bullet tore up the snow next to the first number, which was already pointing the machine gun at the target. The belt was loaded, the butt rests firmly on the soldier's shoulder, and Artis holds the trigger. The enemy position was hit by a burst of fire. There was no answer, and Artis gave more. Feeling more confident with fire support, the platoon began to move slowly forward. The other machine-gunners were also on alert, and the initiative was steadily shifting to the loyalist side.
The enemy machine gun fired from a small window of a wooden house, which had been converted into a machine-gun nest. The Reds' team wasn't letting up, spreading their volleys for maximum coverage. During these bursts of fire, the soldiers crouched low to the ground and lay down, not daring to go further.
Rainis rested his rifle on one of the stumps and scanned the enemy's position through the muzzle of his rifle. He was cooly calm as usual, and even when a bullet killed his squadmate, piercing through his helmet, Rainis didn't flinch. He pointed the rifle at the black hole that was constantly bursting into flames, spewing death. A shot barked, the recoil hitting the butt on his shoulder, followed by three more. After the fourth hit in the window, the machine-gun nest abruptly stopped and fell silent.
The last hope of the Reds to remain in the village was destroyed. There were three loyalist rifles per Rotfront rifle, and two more machine guns joined the fire of Artis' team, discouraging the enemy from leaning out of cover.
"Fix bayonets! For the Fatherland and the Queen!" Hauptmann Gynt, who had appeared from somewhere deep in the formation, gave the order. The climax of the battle was coming. The loyalists began to rise out of the snow, their three-sided points glinting in the sun.
The changelings charged in the Gryphon fashion: on two legs, with their guns at the ready, having the ability to both shoot and stab. The chains moved forward, supported by machine-gun fire, suppressing the enemy in the trenches.
The loyalists realized that there was no danger of enemy fire, and the third platoon rose to its full height and charged, setting an example to all the others. Now the outcome of the skirmish was decided, and the companies could not be stopped by reds forces. In a matter of minutes, the volunteers covered the remaining hundreds of meters to the village. Neither bullets nor wolf pits could stop this pressure.
Agrias climbed a hill and found himself in close proximity to the enemy's trenches.
"Unit! Follow me! Attack!" The officer shouted to his soldiers, choking with battle rage, as he was the first to rush into the trench, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing but dashing bravery.
When Agrias jumped into the trench, he was immediately hit on the head. The noise of the battle was abruptly replaced by a shrill ringing, his eyes darkened, and pain shot through his head. As if in a feverish fit, the officer saw the black-and-gray silhouette of his assailant. A wild inarticulate cry escaped from his chest before his bayonet sank its narrow sting into the enemy's neck. The front-line man fell to the ground with a grunt, letting go of his rifle, which had run out of bullets. Agrias clutched his head and leaned against the wall of the trench, still howling in pain. The concussion from the blow soon passed, the helmet and scarf under it saved the officer's life.
"Herr Sergeant!" Kulex's voice sounded like it was breaking through water. "Agrias! Damn you!" The soldier jumped down into the trench after his commander, looking around with his rifle ready. The rest of the squad was already keeping up with him. Kulex took off Agrias’ helmet and scarf and began to examine his head: the top of the carapace had given a small crack from which a trickle of blood trickled down to his face.
"I'm all right, go further along the trench, there may still be an enemy there," Agrias said. He didn't sound like himself. Kulex nodded curtly and added meaningfully
"You are responsible for your head like ten of our own, and you are ahead of everyone else..."
"I'm an officer, Kulex." The Sergeant stood up and shook his head. Kulex wanted to add something, but didn't say anything and went on down the trench. Several other changelings from the squad joined him. Rainis’ and Artis' team were the last to reach the trench.
"Right, machine gunner! Position yourself so that you can graze in that little house," Agrias said, pointing to one of the village houses as he finally recovered from his concussion, the house from which the machine gun had recently been fired. "From there, they can start shooting if the enemy retreats from the trenches. Rainis, stay with them."
"Yes..." Artis answered, out of breath, trying to keep up with a machine gun on his shoulders. Rainis simply nodded meekly. Agrias somehow wrapped his scarf around his head and put his helmet back on.
Red corpses lay here and there in the trench. They were terrifying to look at, because only a few of them were in uniform. Bodies in plain civilian clothing were often found among the dead. These changelings joined the Rotfront as volunteers to fight for their promised rights, freedoms, and equality. Workers and peasants opposing experienced soldiers and officers, what was the honor and military glory in this? Kulex walked along the trench, trying not to look at the bodies. He was suddenly sick of the sight of corpses. There were soldiers at that checkpoint and they fought with dignity, and these... these could only die. A rifle hit Kulex right in the ear. The fighter, merging with the gray-brown trench, staggered and fell to one side, clutching a hunting double-barrelled shotgun in a death grip. There was another one behind him, but he was more fortunate: he managed to hide behind a bend in the trench.
"Give up, you red bastard!" The shooter shouted.
"Fuck you!" It came from around the corner. The rest of the strong expression was drowned out by the approaching "Hurrah!" It was the rest of the force that reached the trenches. Shots were fired, quickly replaced by the scuffle of bayonet fighting and choice swearing. Troops of the third company had reached the enemy, almost in full force. There was a shot and an agonized groan around the corner, then two heads in gray helmets with black-and-white badges poked out.
"So, who are you?" one of them said.
"We are the third squad of the third platoon!" Kulex's partner said hotly. "And you just shot someone I should have shot!"
"Not we, he shot himself" The second head stood up for the comrade. "And I think one will be enough for you. Who is your commander?"
"I'm their commander." Agrias' voice came from behind the soldiers. Soon he came forward, pushing his own troops aside. The heads nodded in silence and disappeared around the bend, apparently in a hurry to report to the platoon leader or Hauptmann Gint. The outcome of the bayonet battle in the trench was a foregone conclusion. A few Reds retreated to the houses, from where they tried to continue fighting, but Artis' machine gun promptly suppressed one of their key firing points. The battle quickly turned into search, pursuit, and destruction. Loyalists broke into empty homes, where they no longer had the sense or desire to resist. About two dozen Rotfront troops managed to escape from the lost village, in the village itself later counted about eight dozen corpses. An important point and one of the command centers was taken by eleven o'clock in the morning. The advance along the entire front continued: the units of the sixth brigade that took part in the assault on the village on the hill bypassed it and moved on, the seventh brigade advanced in a wide front, destroying one hotbed of resistance after another. The positions of the Rotfront could not be coordinated with each other at a sufficient level, the troops of Gold Muffin fought desperately and bravely, but their lack of experience and shoddy training showed. The first line of defense fell, and the remnants of the garrisons retreated to "Point #17", the main stronghold of Muffin's forces, a village turned into a real fortress. Larynx's soldiers were preparing for their final blow.
Agrias stared at the white canvas framed by the forest as the nurse wrapped the bandage around his head it. In the distance, something resembling a hedgehog could be seen: a large village surrounded by trench lines. The sight made the soldiers uneasy. No one doubted the victory, but everyone understood that the battle would be difficult and many changelings would die. The nurse finished her work and left the Sergeant alone, giving him a last look of concern. Agrias looked after her. She was going to the other wounded. This time there were a lot of them. Agrias thought of the bullet and bayonet wounds that he had seen during his time, remembered the legs torn off by mines, the bodies torn by shells and bombs, and then remembered the nurses: the angels who bore all these horrors on themselves.
The Sergeant was ready to fight and die. This was the last step, and he was ready to take it.
The village was in uncontrollable chaos: the broken remnants of the garrisons were constantly arriving and reinforcing it, and soldiers and militia were feverishly trying to strengthen the defenses. There was no high command, and the junior officers had no idea what to do. Gradually, panic began to rise. No one expected such a rapid defeat. The inexperienced militia quickly lost morale and organization, dragging the thinned remnants into the abyss of complete anarchy.
Commissar Antis broke into the house where the general staff was supposed to be located. He was in the highest degree of disbelief and anger. At great cost, he managed to withdraw his squad from the battle and retreat to find the last hotbed of resistance in chaos and confusion. The Commissar mounted the stairs and kicked the door open. Inside the headquarters building, everything was turned upside down: the room was empty, all the drawers and cabinets were overturned and cleaned, on the table in a pool of blood lay the corpse of an officer with a punctured head, on the floor lay a gun. There was also a note on the table:
All the comrades in high command left us, leaving us certain death. I've been appointed to command those who remain, and I can't bear it. We're all going to be killed here, that's the end. If someone is reading this, I suggest you follow my example. Better death by one's own hoof than in the dungeons of reactionaries.
-Colonel Kieren.
After reading this, Antis threw the paper on the ground and stamped on it with his hoof. Kieren had never been a brave man, but what he had done now was a true betrayal.
The Commissar decided to take command. He went out of the house, at the entrance waiting for him three dozen fighters, all of whom he was able to bring out.
"Comrade Commissar, what happened?" One of the soldiers asked.
"The commander went on unlimited leave. We must save the situation." The soldier nodded, apparently understanding. The Commissar's unit was entirely military, so it was able to maintain organization and order. It was necessary to act, with all possible determination.
"Officers and Communists, to me!" Antis shouted at the top of his voice, trying to shout above the confusion around him. His words did not go unnoticed, and those who sought to restore order began to gather around the small group. They were comprised mostly of former soldiers and officers, as well as ideological party members. This group went through the village, restoring order in the scattered parts. The situation was explained to soldiers and militia, orders were issued, and outspoken alarmists were executed on the spot. The situation was saved in less than an hour. Immediately, work began on additional strengthening of the village: furniture was removed from the houses, sheds were disassembled into logs and boards. The troops were regrouped, and each platoon was assigned its own section of defense. Several dozen civilian militias were disarmed and sent to strengthen homes and create barricades. Machine guns were placed in strong and reliable shelters. The first line of trenches was occupied by soldiers, and the houses were occupied by unarmed militia. When all preparations were over, Antis appealed to the remaining Rotfront with a speech:
"Our task is to repel the first attack of the enemy. If we succeed, we will be able to retreat from the village and cross the border in small groups. The enemy's numerical superiority is undeniable, but we have fortified positions and enough ammunition to repel their first attack. Comrades! We don't lose, we don't run away from the enemy! We are leaving to return again and free our people from the oppression of the monarchy! We perish, but our cause is immortal, our cause will live until the whole world is freed from reaction and the bourgeoisie, until despots and tyrants fall, until the bloody beast of world imperialism is destroyed! Stand to the death, comrades! Your death will not be forgotten! For The Motherland! For The Revolution! Hurray!"
"Hurray!!! Hurray!! Hurray!" There was a harsh answering shout. Panic and despair were replaced by a calm determination to stand to the end. The screams stopped and were replaced by the words of a song that everyone knew. This song lifted the Communists into battle, gave them strength and determination even when there was no hope: It was none other than the Internationale.
Get up, branded with a curse,
The whole of hungry people and of slaves.
Our indignant mind is boiling
And ready to lead us in a mortal fight!
These words sounded like a thunderclap, inspiring courage in their hearts. Gray chains were already beginning to appear from the copse, and a wild, high-pitched screech was heard high in the sky, familiar to them all to the point of pain. But no one flinched, no one shouted to "Get down!" or "We are doomed!” Even when the song was drowned out by the exploding shells, and the dark gray silhouettes of armored vehicles appeared from the side of the road, not a one thought about cowardice. The soldiers and militia continued to sing, looking into the eyes of imminent death.
Larynx was examining "Point #17" through the stereo tube. Trenches, fortified houses, soldiers and militia flashed everywhere. The fight would be hard. Four loyalist brigades were concentrated in the woods in front of the village. Everything that could be done for victory had already been done, now the General could only encourage and support his soldiers. Larynx came from an old officer's background and found it difficult to accept the new role of General, since he had been taught from childhood that a commander should drive, not give orders
from the rear. Nevertheless, he was aware of all the new features of the war and understood the new demands that this war gave. Having finished another inspection of the enemy positions and realizing that his eye still did not meet many enemy "surprises", Larynx looked up from the stereo tube. All around him, staff work was going on: orders were being given, reports were coming in and being compiled, phone buzzers were ringing nastily, and there were staccato orders and reports. Next to him stood Kombrig Tisbe, commander of the first brigade of the volunteer corps. He waited quietly for his own commander.
"Herr Tisbe, I think it's time to go to your location," Larynx said calmly. Tisbe nodded curtly, then turned and left the headquarters. Larynx followed. Outside, a car and security were waiting for them.
The lines of infantry were visible from the car. The front of the offensive was greatly narrowed, so three brigades were put in reserve, while the rest were drawn up in the same lines as on the previous day. Here was the section of the first brigade, this part was to advance along the road with the support of a squadron of armored cars, the soldiers were already lined up in extended chains. They were tough and battle-hardened veterans, almost everyone had two or three grenades stuck in their belts.
Larynx's car was greeted with cheers, and the soldiers recognized their General and were glad to see him. When the changeling came out, he was greeted with cheers, and Larynx waved a hoof at them and climbed onto an armored car that was parked nearby. The soldiers fell silent.
"Toffs, officers, soldiers! After many years of heavy fratricidal war, we are facing its end. The enemy is trapped, and they will get what they deserve! We were not the cause of this conflict, but the Communists, who with their lies brazenly tried to undermine our loyalty to the Queen, trample on our military honor! Now, they will be banished from our land, and their shameful ways will be put to an end. We are going to fight for our Country, for our Queen, and for our people, who must not be drugged by red lies! Beat them without mercy! They are cowards, traitors and deserters, they do not deserve to be called changelings! You are glorious veterans who have served under its banner from Vrax to Canterlot! You forged our nation with iron and blood, and you protected it from final disgrace and defeat! Prove your loyalty and courage now, as you have always done!"
The response to the General was an avalanche of furious applause, and at the end of this speech, a cannonade thundered, as if it had been purposefully timed. A few dozen guns rained down on the enemy, hammering the defenders into the dug-out ground. The moment of truth had arrived, and the troops would attack any minute now. Larynx climbed down from the armored car and hesitated: should he stay with the soldiers or go back to headquarters? The General looked at brigade commander Tisbe, who was giving some instructions to one of the battalion soldiers who had come up to him on some matter.
"Herr Tisbe, what do you think?" Larynx finally decided to ask.
"I think it's up to you to decide, but the enemy bullet might not agree with your decision... The Reds are cornered, they will fight like beasts. No one wants you dead."
The General hesitated, but sanity prevailed.
"You're right, I'll take the third line." Tisbe replied with an affirmative nod. There was nothing more to say; everything was settled.
The signal was given, and the entire loyalist line went on the offensive. This time the three lines of infantry moved more closely, forming a sort of chess order.
The cannonade ceased, and the air was thick with tension, each soldier alone with his own fear. Everyone understood that they were going straight at the enemy, straight into the enemy's guns. It would be impossible to get out of the coming battle without significant losses, "The Gods' Judgment", as the griffons say.
Agrias led his squad through the same area as in the morning, forming the right wing of the third platoon. His head, wrapped in a scarf and bandages, was no longer aching, yet it didn't feel any better either. The village houses became more and more clearly visible, and the black holes in the windows looked unfriendly to the loyalists. A bullet could have come from each of them, or even a whole line of them. The lines of the trenches, as yet indistinct, pressed down on the attackers with a grim silence. Behind the chains of the first line, somewhere far to the right, the engines of armored vehicles hummed, barely keeping up with the brave fellows from the first brigade, boldly going forward and setting an example to everyone. The chains were getting closer, and the enemy was only four hundred meters away…
And then the entire enemy line burst into flames. Hundreds of rifles, dozens of machine guns, everything that was obtained in countless raids and battles was put into use. Agrias had time to see the platoon leader fall to the ground with a broken neck, as his entire company lay down, broken by the first blow of the enemy. They were caught unaware again, but this time they would pay much more... The Sergeant was buried in the snow, bullets whizzing over him like large hail. He crawled to one of the stumps, only then was he able to turn around to see the second line begin to work in response, and the soldiers fall into the snow as if they had been cut down.
The seconds stretched out like an unbearable eternity, the shots thundering, merging into a single terrifying roar that claimed and maimed lives. Artis reacted faster than anyone else, and the machine gun was ready to fire in less than a minute. Without wasting time on aiming, the fighter fired back at the enemy, in particular those sitting in the attic of one of the houses. He saw no silhouettes, no figures, only the flash of gunfire. He worked on them, plugging one window after another. Right he fired, a puff of snow burst up as bullets rained on the ground around him. Artis saw a machine-gun nest in one of the trenches and fired at it with all his strength, not sparing the cartridge belt. The enemy gun stopped and fell silent. When Artis saw a few more flashes in the windows of the houses, he pointed his weapon at them again... but instead of a burst of fire, he heard only an empty click. The bullets were gone.
"Cartridge!!!" The hot-headed soldier shouted at the top of his voice. There was no answer. When Artis didn't hear a response, he turned to see his partner lying face down, leaning on the zinc cartridge that he hadn't managed to hand to his companion. There was no time to grieve, so Artis backed away from the machine gun and rolled the still-warm corpse off the zinc, was already covered in his blood. The machine gunner alone refueled the machine gun with fresh tape and continued working. All this time, he had every chance to repeat the fate of his assistant.
"The commanders of the second and first are killed!" Agrias heard the voice of one of the second squad's soldiers, who had been shouted at a few minutes earlier. The situation was worse than ever, he was the only living officer in the entire platoon. Something had to be done, but what? The Sergeant turned, his squad having suffered relatively small losses, and Artis's team was doing everything they could to suppress the enemy fire. At this point, Agrias wished he had a second-in-command.
"Rainis!"
"I!"
"You lead!"
"Why? How should I understand it?"
"Clear! Cover me up! Artis! Settle the foes in storm of shots!"
And the Sergeant crawled to the left, where the soldiers of the second and third squads were fighting. Bullets whizzed, shots rang out, and Agrias crawled with his head down, trying to keep as close to the ground as possible. The skirmish gathered momentum. With the initial shock passed, the loyalists' numerical superiority began to take its toll, and the Sergeant was able to reach the center of the platoon chain without much trouble.
"Sergeant Agrias?" One of the corporals, who was hiding behind a particularly wide and high stump, addressed him.
"It's me! How many have you lost?"
"It is difficult to count, but many. There are almost no officers left."
"Clearly. So I'll have to lead the platoon?" At these words, the Corporal turned to the Sergeant, wanting to look at him.
"Where?" The Corporal asked. Agrias jerked his head toward the enemy lines.
"The fire is dying down! The second line suppresses them!"
"Sergeant, damn it!" Suddenly the corporal broke down with his voice. "You want us all to die here!?"
"I'm senior! This is an order!" Agrias shut him up abruptly. "The platoon! Listen to me! Fix bayonets! Attack!"
At this time, some platoons and companies were already starting to get up and move forward. The first brigade had already firmly suppressed the enemy in their area, the veterans were the first to break into the trenches and begin to clean them up. The loyalists outnumbered Rotfronts eightfold, the defenders could not resist for long. The first shock had been overcome; a determined onslaught might have settled the matter quickly.
Agrias rose to his full height, setting an example to his newfound subordinates, and swung his hoof, drawing them along with him… And it worked. The bayonets glittered in the sun again, and again the gray shapes began to rise from the reddened snow. Together, abruptly, without any shouting or bravado. Bullets were still flying at them, but most of the machine guns were already suppressed, and the remaining defenders were running out of ammunition. The third platoon was followed by the second and first, and now the entire company was moving towards the enemy, raising and dragging along all who remained alive, all who wanted revenge for their comrades. They continued to fall into the snow, but they could not be stopped. The changelings burst into the trenches with the fury of beasts. The butts of old rifles were smashed to splinters by the terrific force of the blows, bayonets stuck in shells and ribs, and broke in blind blows against steel helmets. Hoof-to-hoof combat quickly turned into a monstrous slaughter, where everything was used up to the teeth. No prisoners were taken. The remnants of the defenders retreated in disarray, trying to get lost among the houses, to retreat from the village.
Rainis led the remnants of the first squad, who ran up to the trenches with a furious shout, firing several shots at point-blank range and striking with bayonets. Without encountering any serious resistance, a group of six changelings entered the village first. Rainis kicked down the door of one of the houses and stormed in. Immediately a shot rang out, a bullet struck the lintel of the door, and Rainis fired back, sending the enemy tumbling down the stairs. Six fighters flew into the room on the first floor, it was empty. There was only overturned furniture, broken windows and spent shell casings.
"We need to check the attic. I'll go first."
"I don't like this, you may get slaughtered…"
"If they slaughter, they'll slaughter. I'm not an officer, after all." Rainis simply answered and went up the stairs. The two troopers followed him, while Kulex remained below, holding all this at gunpoint. The other soldiers including Artis took up positions at the windows.
The house was not very tall, and his ascent up the stairs quickly finished. Rainis found himself in a small attic littered with firewood and empty cartridge boxes. The only light came from a small dormer window.
Rainis heard a rustle right behind him, and he whirled to see the enemy with a raised dagger. It was impossible to use the bayonet and butt in a confined space, and there was no time to avoid the blow. All Rainis had time to do was throw the rifle aside and dive down. The blow missed, and the enemy immediately charged again. It was a front-line soldier in a military greatcoat, a former soldier or officer. Rainis ducked under the enemy's lunge again, kicked the changeling in the chest, knocked him to the floor, and began to strangle him. Three loyalists, including Kulex, rushed into the attic after him, but they could not help their comrade in
any way. Two bulky figures rolled on the floor, trying to overcome each other, until Rainis managed to hit his opponent's head on the railing of the stairs, moderating his ardor. The soldiers surrounded the new prisoner.
"Where is your leader?" Rainis asked simply and clearly.
"I won't tell you anything, you damned officer!" The communist screamed. Then Rainis slammed it against the railing again.
"Speak!"
"Screw you!" Another blow.
"Either you tell us where your commander is, or we use our rifle butts. You're all screwed anyway, you can't save your commander." The trooper went limp and lost the craving to resist. At this moment, he looked rather pitiful: his head was bleeding, his face was emaciated, and his eyes were dark with despair.
"Okay… Our headquarters… The third house down this street. Commissar Antis is probably there… Now shoot me... Our team will take it anyway! You will hide from us in the woods and basements, as we hid from you! Rejoice scum officer, then you will be responsible for everything!"
A shot rang out, and the prisoner shuddered for a brief moment before going still. There was no more. Rainis turned and looked at his companions. Kulex stood with his rifle raised.
"You did the right thing, we stayed here too long." Kulex stood up as if nothing had happened, leaving his enemy lying in a pool of his own blood. Rainis' face showed nothing, but as the party left the house, he glanced up the stairs that led to that unfortunate attic. "It was either you or me," Rainis thought as he walked out of the house into the street.
Outside, the battle was raging on. The loyalists had already broken into the village, and the Reds were trying to retreat. Rainis and the group left the house and moved down the street. They quickly reached the third house, but the door to it was open, and the footprints in the snow were lost in the general muddy mess around. The enemy was in front of them, and their allies were right on their heels. A few bullets whizzed through the air, but they missed their marks. The squad continued to advance without coordination with Agrias, who was fighting elsewhere at the moment. There was no one standing in Rainis's way, and the squad reached the opposite edge of the village with little resistance. It was only a short distance to the edge of the forest, there was no large wasteland, and the enemy had a real chance to escape. The volunteers were already exhausted; they could only fire at the retreating troops. They returned a few straggled shots here and there, trying to reach the forest as quickly as possible.
Rainis leaned his rifle against the fence and took aim at one of the Reds. He didn't stand out in any way, but the gunslinger had chosen him as a target. It was a big distance, but the shot was fired. The changeling fell into the snow, and those with him immediately rushed loosely.
Some of the enemy managed to escape into the forest, where Ersatz's soldiers joined in. Only a few Reds managed to escape from the trap and reach the Yakyakistani border.
The Loyalists captured a lot of trophies, which included mostly rifles and machine guns that had been captured by the Rotfront troops before. Many components of weapons, hunting rifles, sporting rifles, and other items were also found. It was all piled up in a good-sized pile, onto which General Larynx climbed. He gave another of his pompous speeches from atop it, one of those that are not usually received except with joy and awe. At the end, he announced that some of the volunteer brigades would be disbanded, and the soldiers of the remaining units were entitled to be demobilized at their own request. This was met with a particularly loud ovation. Some went to camp in the villages, the local population having been evacuated by the front or mobilized in the militia. Many houses were completely destroyed, as well as all the furniture, their devastation suggestive of bad thoughts.
However, the soldiers were not going to be discouraged. Captured caches of alcohol and love essence were opened, bonfires
were lit in the evening, and stoves were heated. The soldiers gathered in large, noisy groups. Everyone was discussing the events of the day. The soldiers of the third platoon were hailed as heroes, and the seventeen survivors were surrounded by a crowd of fellow soldiers: "How'd you do it?", "Well done, guys!", "Wipe the smirks off the faces of the first brigade! They are not the only ones who can fight!". The soldiers were handed flasks and bottles of schnapps, cigarettes, and much more. Then the sharp voice of Larynx's orderly came from behind:
"Sergeant Agrias!"
"I!" The Sergeant answered, got up from the bonfire, and pushed through the crowd of fellow soldiers who appeared before the orderly. He felt terribly tired, but he was happy with what he had done. He felt like a hero.
"The General wants to see you, follow me."
They passed the soldiers sitting around the campfires. There was chatter and green smoke everywhere.
"Herr Hauptmann! I am glad to see you in good health." At first Agrias thought the general was addressing someone else, but then he saw Larynx, surrounded by officers, looking directly at him.
"I'm sorry, Herr Colonel-General, but I volunteered as a Lieutenant…"
"Don't talk too much, I was given your documents and I came to the decision to promote you. You acted like a hero, even though your platoon suffered heavy losses due to the attack. This war is over, there is no point in you staying here any longer. The volunteers still have a lot of fighting to do, but I don't want you to get involved in it. There are still oppositionists in the hive dungeons, the people have not yet been pacified and all the guilty have not yet been executed. Serving in the Royal army will do you more honor." Larynx looked Agrias up and down, wanting to see the changeling responsible for today's celebration. The Sergeant-turned-Hauptmann was short, well-built, and green-eyed, like most of his company's changelings. He had a dark gray carapace and pleasant features that still bore traces of the past. At this moment, the old General could see that he was a worthy officer.
"You are right, Herr Colonel-General. I have fulfilled my duty to the Fatherland in the fight against its internal enemies, and we must be ready to meet external enemies!" Larynx replied with a smile.
"Go, you have earned my favor today by your bravery. Tomorrow we go to Hurornd."
Agrias drew himself up to attention, saluted, turned around, and strode back to his soldiers.
"Well, Artis, the war is over, where will you go now?" Kulex asked, sitting by the fire for the gunner. He was not so much gloomy as he was thoughtful. Kulex didn't immediately understand the reason. "Why are you so sour, what about some schnapps?"
"I'm going to Soryth to see my mother." He began. "And I don't need schnapps, I've had as much of this vodka in the last year and a half as I could have in ten years. They nailed my number two. I didn't even remember the guy's name. Here was a changeling and disappeared without a trace, you know?"
"They'll put him in the documents, don't worry about it. Nothing is lost without a trace, comrade."
"The document is a piece of paper. A piece of paper can burn and rot. But you can't just erase your memory. He disappeared as if he never existed. We will not forget Ascalaph - he will always live in our memory, but this one…"
"Unknown soldier…" Rainis said quietly, pouring schnapps into an aluminum mug. He was going to radically change the tone of the conversation.
"For Sergeant Ascalaph! To all the fallen changelings!" He said aloud, raising his mug. His toast was met with approval.
"And for the fallen Reds, too?" One of the soldiers asked in disbelief. Rainis said nothing, and no one protested. For many, this struggle was over; many no longer saw the point of fighting with their countrymen, no matter what harmful ideas they professed. This war was to be forgotten, and its participants were only too happy about it.
"Soldiers! We won’t stay here for long! We'll sleep by this fire, all the houses are
packed to capacity." Agrias returned to the position of his platoon. He was in high spirits, but his eyes were already closing. The crowd of fellow soldiers surrounding the soldiers quickly disappeared, leaving many presents for their comrades.
"At least somehow - that warm and among friends..." Kulex downed a mug of schnapps in one gulp. He was a minor changeling, but he could drink like a squad of the royal guards. "I am expected in Vraks, sometimes I regret that I was here at all."
"Well, don't say it like that." Agrias sat down next to the soldiers. "We went to a good cause, we defended our Fatherland, after all."
"Well, that's true. At least it sounds good. But I wish I wasn't here…"
"But you signed up as a volunteer!"
"I was a fool."
"Also true." Agrias laughed wearily. "Well, it is the time, all you guys, stop drinking! There will be nothing left for tomorrow. I declare a stand-off, so that everyone will be in the best possible shape for the campaign tomorrow!"
"Yes, Herr Leutnant!" The soldiers replied, almost in unison. It was really late in the afternoon. Of course, today was a great occasion for celebration, but the soldiers had been under heavy strain for several days and were fighting, almost with their last strength. Foot crossings, small skirmishes with the Reds, the heavy toll of constantly waiting for an ambush or surprise attack, the last battle that the enemy gave with dignity and in which there were too many losses. Everyone wanted to sleep more than drink and celebrate. The night passed quietly, and the guard did not notice any enemy activity. The occasional shot could be heard in the faroff distance: it was Ersatz's fighters chasing the last socialists, who were fleeing in small groups to the East…
In the morning the soldiers lined up, boarded trucks approached, and they moved back to Hurornd. Ten thousand volunteers went by various routes to this hive, where they were to be quartered for some time, then they were to be loaded on trains and sent to the original concentration areas, where the fighters were able to discharge themselves. The return trip was no less long, there was no railway in that direction as such, the area of the Northern Hurornd possessions did not bring high enough profits to local corporations, so its development was not in a hurry. The forest no longer presented such a need to the hive factories, more mass-extracted coal and coke from Soryth and Volistad practically eliminated the need for the production of wood coal. The economy was not yet working for the army, and marching columns had to travel tens of kilometers of roads for days, often stopping for halts and bivouacs, to prevent driving the soldiers to total exhaustion. All the joy of final victory over the enemy was somewhat diminished by the marching routine.
The seventh brigade was loaded onto trucks, but it wasn't really much use. Behind the convoys were columns of marching infantry, from which the vehicles were not to go too far ahead of. Larynx wanted all the troops to approach the hive at the same time and not spread out along the roads. The journey took four long days. On the fifth day, the columns finally reached the hive.
The gray-black bulk stood on a high, bare hill that overlooked the Hurornd mountains, which stretched away in ridges to the North and to the West. For a dozen versts around the hive there were bare hills, here and there were small and large folwarks and villages engaged in the cultivation of industrial crops, mainly flax, because cotton and hemp did not take root in these lands. Once the taiga covered all this space, but with the advent of changeling ambition, the landscape changed radically.
Hurornd was a thriving hive, but its distance from major industrial centers pushed it to the periphery. The hive became more of an outpost and stronghold of the Changeling army in the event of a war with Yakyakistan. Many railways branched off from it, and its industry could provide the population with everything they needed. Trade was brisk, though much less was exported
from the hive than was imported. There were even cases when Yak trading caravans came from the East. Among the local elite were connoisseurs and collectors who are happy to have traded for fur and other various products of Yakyakistan. In general, this hive could be called Changeling "City N", because life there was relatively measured. Some vraksian workers or vesalipolis clerks would have every right to call Hurornd "a large village" for several hundred thousand souls. There were permanent military garrisons, but they were few in number, as in recent years it had been decided that the Yaks posed a minimal threat to the Changelings.
Therefore, when it became known that there was a large base of Communists near the Yak border, it became a sensation for the locals. Even the workers' strikes bypassed the hive thanks to the authority of the local administration, which sought to take into account the needs of the workers and not provoke unnecessary discontent.
And now, Larynx's soldiers were greeted at the main entrance to the hive: a large crowd had gathered along the road. Cars were greeted with cheers and laughter as they entered, but they were not pelted with flowers, because this was not the custom among changelings. Agrias sat in one of the cars next to the driver, looking out the window. He saw expensive fur coats, watch chains, top hats and hats under which glittered eyes and monocle lenses, white smiles that hid both lies and the truth. There were no simple changelings in this crowd; the volunteers were met by representatives of the local elite, happy that the security of their wallets had been restored.
Brigade after brigade was drawn into a wide passageway, entering the hive's gigantic "entrance hall" — something like a large hangar, a hybrid of a train station, bus station, and warehouse. Here trains were hauled and loaded, and various goods and cargos were stored and distributed along the spires of the hive. It took several hours of hard organizational work to get the soldiers stationed in the hive garrison, but by evening all the soldiers were already in companies in the barracks of the garrison. This spire was quite old and in fact represented a real citadel: narrow windows-loopholes, walls, in some places reaching up to five meters in thickness. Barracks, military warehouses, and other facilities were located evenly throughout the hive and in the event of an enemy siege could serve as firing casemates. At the top of the spire were the officers' quarters and the garrison headquarters. Now this fortress was empty, guarded only by a small garrison of a hundred changelings. The police and the office of the Royal gendarmerie were in a different spire.
Hauptmann Gynt's company was given the same barracks as the rest for the night. It was a clean, tidy room with bunk beds, nightstands, and cabinets.
The soldiers cleaned themselves up and prepared for bed. There was no limit to the joy and relief. At last they would not sleep on the ground, not on firewood and hay, hiding under their greatcoats as a blanket. It was finally over. There was no limit to the relief of the volunteers when Larynx announced the disbanding of the seventh brigade. After this night, it would arrive in echelons at Vraks, the hive where it was formed, and there cease to exist. Everyone was happy about this, there was a very active conversation in the barracks about who would do what after the dissolution. Some wanted to continue serving in the army, some wanted to return to their native hive and continue their once peaceful life.
Artis did not participate in this conversation, he was thinking about how to get to Soryth, to his family as soon as possible. He knew that the train to this hive left a little later than the train to Vraks, but the time savings were still great. "Can I ask Agrias? He's an officer, he'll put in a good word for me," he thought, rolling from one side to the other. He saw several empty beds, intended for those who had not returned from the campaign. He remembered his dead partner again. What was his name? Who was he? He wouldn't remember it, this soldier would fade into oblivion along with this whole vile war, in which changelings took up arms against fellow changelings because of thoughts in their heads and armbands. War with ponies or deer would still be justified, these peoples were traditional enemies of changelings, but how could Chrysalis' subjects question and condemn her actions? Why was everything that was built by the backbreaking and friendly labor of the Changeling people suddenly under threat of destruction? Why was there no hope, no respect for authority? Why did the soldiers of the beloved and prestigious army start being branded "control", "officers", and "dogs of the regime"? Why did the military finally go to open war with its own people? With its own civilian population? The young machine-gunner could not find an answer to this, and there was no point in finding it. It had all ended like a bad dream, and Artis hoped it wouldn't happen again…
Then, Agrias entered the barracks.
"I wish you good health, soldiers!" He greeted the company cheerfully.
"We wish you good health too, Herr commander!" Several dozen voices answered. There was considerable confusion about Agrias' specific title. In two days he had gone from a Corporal to a Lieutenant, but he was already a Lieutenant in the army and had been promoted personally by Larynx to Hauptmann. So it was much easier for everyone to just call him "commander of the third platoon."
"So, how's our bespectacled guy?" One of the soldiers asked the question, referring to Gynt. In the last battle, a bullet broke the lens of his glasses and wounded him in the cheek. The orderlies gave the officer timely assistance, but before arriving at the hive, the fate of his eye and life in general remained in question.
"Good, I would even say Perfect. Drinks for two, talks for ten. Even his eye was fixed. Whats up, you worried about him?"
"Not really…" The soldier replied. It was clear that he meant something very specific and extremely unworthy of a soldier to say.
"That's all then, the question is settled." Agrias rebuked him with some severity, making it clear that he should keep his mouth shut.
"Herr commander, may I ask you?" Artis said rather loudly.
"Yes, you may." Agrias went to the cot where the machine gunner was standing. "What's wrong?"
The officer sat down on the bed, and Artis followed.
"I have a request for you. You told us we'd go to Vraks first, and then we go wherever we want, right?"
"Yes, this is what the command planned, this is the last order that our brigade is obliged to fulfill in the best possible way."
"Well, we can't go against orders… I just want to get to Sorith as soon as possible…"
"I'm sorry, comrade. But you're still in the line, so it's best not to evade orders." Agrias looked at him sharply and sternly, and he quickly changed from a bosom friend to a strict commander. "This is for your own good, Artis."
"Well, I guess there's nothing to do then. I immediately realized that this would be a stupid idea, and you aren't a high enough rank to allow this anyway."
"That sounds quite right, and sensible." The commander got up and walked out of the barracks, talking cheerfully to his colleagues.
All was well at the top of the spire. In the officers' barracks, they played the piano, sang songs, raised toasts, and discussed the details of the past campaign. The personnel were under the care of lance-corporals and field-sergeants.
Agrias was climbing a flight of stairs that led to the top of the stairs, to the senior officers' quarters. He was invited there. There was no question about it; Larynx considered Agrias a Hauptmann, since he himself had promoted him to that rank, not as a commander of the Volunteer Corps, but as a Colonel-General in the Royal army.
The stairs ended, and so did the small corridor. Agrias opened a beautiful oak door and found himself in a small but densely filled hall. A piano was playing loudly, glasses were clinking, and somewhere in a corner one could hear the
distinctive click of a cue on billiard balls. Several dozen changelings were gathered around a large oval table. Officers' and Generals' tunics, black tailcoats and white shirts of officials and breeders invited to the evening. In the center of this illustrious group, sat a figure in a dark blue uniform of old tailoring, with silvered buttons and an emerald-green sash of the “Order of Merit” — the highest military award of the Chrysalis Empire, as well as some other medals and orders. Larynx was hardly an "Old officer", but he had been in several major cases during his life, and had served and distinguished himself before Chrysalis, beginning his service in her guard.
"Today, I want to inform all those gathered about the brilliant victory of our volunteers over the rioters and rebels, and congratulate you all on the fact that the time of the Communist threat in our country has come to an end. All that's left of this horde of troublemakers is a pathetic, disorganized remnant, which we will soon finally drive into a coffin! Glory to Chrysalis!" With these words, the General raised a toast. In the expensive glass provided to him was a maroon essence, aged fifteen years.
"A Long life to our Queen! Glory! Glory!" Officers and guests thundered around. The wine glasses flew up, and there was a thin and pleasant chime of expensive and old sets. Agrias came close to the people gathered around the table and pushed his way through the ranks of those who were content to watch the action-in other words, through the orderlies and footmen who stood close around the table, waiting for instructions from their superiors, wishing to gaze at the stars and the aiguillettes of Larynx uniform. The young officer did not want to disturb the crowd, and so stood behind them, his simple field jacket looking rather inconspicuous among the smart white belts, crosses, orders, coats, tailcoats, monocles, and top hats. Then his eyes met with the sight of Larynx. He had already emptied the expensive container, his mood was most positive. Now, he was glad to see the one who had recently been awarded epaulettes with two diamonds..
"Toffs! There is a true hero of the past case among us! This good officer took command when his superior officer was killed, and by his own example raised the volunteers to a bayonet charge, quickly and decisively ending the battle in favor of the loyal forces!"
Agrias noticed the surprise of the changelings, who had not noticed him before. For a moment, their faces expressed one simple thought: "What is he doing here?", but these expressions quickly changed to obsequious masks. Congratulations and praise were now showered on Agrias. Bright tirades of beautiful words about military valor and glory, not a single sound about dead soldiers and ruined civilians. Agrias listened to all this with dignity and self-control, taking it for granted. He was glad to be in such company, but he was unaccustomed to all this brilliance. Long months of campaigns, patrols, skirmishes and battles with the enemy. Spending the night on the ground, in cars, in abandoned houses and sheds, constant feeling of hunger and fear of a sudden enemy ambush. This time brought him closer to other changelings. Those who could barely afford even a warm coat, let alone a tailcoat and a starched collar. Those whom some senior officer saw only as a name on a list, or as one of the many helmets shining in the sun of a marching column.
"Thank you, Toffs! Your praise is very valuable to me. But it wasn't just my bravery that won the victory. Not I alone went to the enemy, with me rose those for whom this battle was the last, those who made the highest sacrifice on the altar of victory. I understand that today is a bright day for us and our entire country, but since I am here, I want to ask you to remember at least one kind word for those who sacrificed everything to the last drop of their blood for your well-being, for the well-being of our country."
After these words, the hall fell silent. Agrias saw with his own eyes how one officer's monocle fell
out of his eye. The civilian guests froze in some indecision and bewilderment, but the officers looked to the Hauptman with understanding and respect. Many of them began their journey with a soldier's webbing, and Larynx was not an exception.
"You are absolutely right," Larynx said without mirth, but with stern firmness. "Forgetting them would be the greatest blasphemy for any self-respecting commander. So I propose a toast to all the fallen. In this war, there were no friends and strangers, there were only the right and the deceived. Three cheers for the fallen soldiers!"
"Yay! Yay! Hurray!" The military chanted in unison, raising their glasses. Agrias quietly disappeared from the party and went to his barracks. During the evening, he was deafened by applause, toasts, music, and beautiful words. He wanted to go to sleep more than ever, to skip all the splendour. It was more like a dance on the bones.
Two regular freight trains and the armored train "Ferrum-Serpentibus" arrived in Hurornd the next day. The soldiers of the seventh brigade bade farewell to their comrades and citizens, loaded themselves into the wagons, and moved to the Vraks hive, which was to be the final destination of this volunteer formation.
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