Somewhere
Somewhen
First-Tennant Tummnas brayed his defiance of death as he witnesses the end of his point-Dusigor, Corporal Priapus, standing at the ‘peak’, if you could call it that, shoulder more like, of the hilly draw pass that Adew company, First of Fifty-First Hoof, was marching towards, spread out in loose skirmish order. Priapus’s was back turned to the valley ahead to wave the company encouragement, a momentary lapse in awareness that cost him dearly as he collapsed under a sudden swarm of gnashing husk-things, seemingly emerging up out of the ground. Sickly green corpse-fire of the Dragon-mind shone forth out of possessed empty orbits, flashing as Corporal Priapus wailed piteously, bony claws and writhing worm-teeth tearing into flesh as Tummnas raised his service revolver, too late, much too late. But he can spare Priapus the rest, that much he can do.
"Company! Three volleys! Rapid!" Tummnas didn't have the time nor the luxury to let himself feel anything at the grisly visage and terrible ripping and tearing sounds, nor could he afford to remember mate and fawn left fatherless, but he could allow a certain cold-satisfaction in this work.
"Fire!"
The scratch company of Fauns, dressed in three skirmish-order ranks, disappears in a cloud of choking, sulfuric smoke and the effect on the heaving mass of bio-mechanical bodies is suitably devastating, .75 inch minie-balls shattering flesh and bone and other. Then the first rank kneels, hands working breach block levers and furry hands, steadied by long weeks of training and months of grinding campaign, shove paper cartridges home. As the first rank is kneeling and reloading, the second rank advances two beats and also deliver a volley, this is more ragged but close enough for the intended effect, not that this stops the shrieking of the non-coms. The dance repeats a third time as the formerly trailing line becomes the front line momentarily, before themselves disappearing behind a stinking yellow-ish cloud, this volley a single bang with only the slightest ripple, thanks to the personal attentions of the company Colours-Sergeant, and then two beats later, the first line is marching out of the cloud, arms presented out.
"Cease firing!"
The silence following the rolling thunder of the volleys is itself almost deafening, but as a stray gust of dream-wind disperses the stinking smoke, new sounds can be heard in the valley below and ahead, a bass trumping, thousand of bare feet stamping on barren ground. And through the mists, as Tummnas and company clear the shoulder of the row of low hills, a see of shining green sparks can be seen, glinting in the red of the dying dream-sun. Ranks upon ranks of corpse-husks, and behind them banners showing the colors of yet another T'cho-T'cho regiment of foot, a mass of shadows in the distance bristling with pikes bearing severed heads of men and goats, and those roars, they must have brought up a corpse-eater or two.
"Well, it was a nice life while it lasted..." mused the bay-colored goat-man, as he removed his peaked cap marking his rank and running a clawed hand through sweat-damp hair, ‘now to find out if we're doomed or just so much dead meat’, he mused.
"Company! Dusigors of Winter! Hear me! We have lived for the Queen! Now we die for the Queen! Weapons platoon! Setup your organs on that rise! The rest of you sons of motherless-goats... Fix bayonets! Form square!"
The brays and cheers that erupted from the ranks almost broke his heart, but there was work yet to be done.
"Runner!" he brayed, "Winter dammit! Runner!"
"I Hear milord!" The private looked painfully young, but they always did.
"Private..." he struggled to read the name on filthy tunic, "Sylvanos, good name lad, good name, I knew a Sylvanos once, Ceranos Sylvanos, any relation?"
"My father sire."
"Your father was Faun among Fauns lad, now, attention to orders; message to command, III Infantry Corps. Survivors of 51st regimental reconnaissance in force, in company strength, Tennant Tummnas commanding, have encountered Dragon forces in regimental strength. Unable to break contact with wounded in tow, have favorable terrain, choice obvious. Requesting relief in force, in keeping with general order to advance. We live for the Queen, we die for the Queen."
The boy trembled like a leaf as he repeated the message back, but he did well. Tummnas made him repeat it back twice more before grunting deeply in satisfaction.
"Good lad, now be off with you." He took a moment to watch the youth lope gracefully over the ridge before turning his face to the death in front of him. ‘Run Private Sylvanos, run for our lives!’
Overhead, atop the hillock to the company's immediate left the first of the volley guns thunders into action, pelting the oncoming husktide. "This is good ground" he looks around at his scratch company pride swelling his chest, making his tunic feel a size too small. ‘Here, in this pass across the ridge-line, we can choke them for hours,’ aloud, he takes up the ancient war-cry of the ancestors, the echoing response of the company thrilling him from hoof to horn.
"Death!"
"Death!"
"DEATH!"
"LONG LIVE DEATH!"
"Company! Action front! By ranks, rapid volley! FIRE!"