- TMK -

The battle did not end with the quieting of the cannons.

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Not truly.

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The mortar barrages halted. Sniper potshots echoed across the no man’s land that was one of Lysander’s colonies. Dense night air settled into the trench and pooled into the dugout.

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Locke shivered. In the faltering light, she could see the white of her condensed breath meld with the ochre fog of the battlefield. The cold nipped at her extremities, dugout permafrost now glazed with actual frost.

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Yet, every time Locke moved for the trench, her legs faltered.

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That Salamander was still out there. Every few minutes or so, she heard the crunch of lamellar against ice. With it, came heavy breaths from a reptilian snout. Every now and then, a gunshot followed.

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That’s what really kept Locke. She knew the Skald and their Ikaran masters were still out there, crawling through the rubble.

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Still between her and safety.

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At last, she found the strength that had eluded her. Locke fell against the parapet wall. The Salamander noticed her, but that was it.

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“Lizard,” Locke said in her best commanding tone. She pointed to the bayonet hanging off its belt loop. “That’s mine.”

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The Salamander’s slit pupils followed her gaze. It reached for the loop on its belt. Instead of the bayonet, however, the Salamander flung a rag at Locke’s face.

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Before Locke could belt the most profane string of insults she could muster, she realized her nose and lips were still caked in blood.

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“I-uh–” Locke fumbled with the sentence. She took the cloth an began to scrub, purple flakes peeling off one at a time. “My bayonet, please.”

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“There any birds hopping into the trench?”

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“He count?” Locke nodded towards the Ikaran corpse along the trench’s far side.

The Salamander ignored her jest. “Then I’m not giving it back.”

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Locke’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”

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“Does it matter?” the Salamander responded flatly. It opened the cylinder of its rifle as spent casings clattered to the duckboards. “We have eight hours before daybreak. Stay focused, and I might be able to keep you alive for nine.”

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Locke raised her eyebrow. “We?”

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“Four eyes are better than two. Though you’ve been about as useful as an inkless pen,” the Salamander said as it reloaded the rifle. “At least if they stick you, I’ll hear it.”

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“Why is that?” Locke asked.

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“You’re a loud screamer.”

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“Listen y–”

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The Salamander aimed the rifle at Locke. “Sit down and keep your fucking mouth shut.”

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As much as Locke wanted to take that bayonet and slide it through the back of the Salamander’s skull, this wasn’t the time. Moreover, the birds were still out there. If Locke killed the lizard, she’d be easier to put down.

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So, out of options and with the night growing colder, Locke settled against the icy soil. There she fumed at the one-sided tension that filled the trench. The Salamander’s indifference only further catalyzing her anger.

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Time passed. The occasional crack of sniper fire reminded Locke of the stalemate on either side of the trench. Slowly, the ice eroded Locke’s strength. Her eyelids became heavy. What Locke meant as a quick resting of her eyes became a light, uncomfortable doze.

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Until the sound of wet crunching tore her into wakefulness. The shear of frozen meat tearing off bone became louder.

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“Is that–?” Locke saw the Salamander in the barely visible light of the midnight sun. There, with a huge reptilian hand and a snout greased over with thawing blood, the Salamander gnawed on the severed arm of the Ikaran corpse.

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“What in the hell are you doing?”

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“I’m. Hungry.” The Salamander responded, picking its teeth with a saurian nail. It then spat out a puff of brown, blood-caked feathers.

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Locke reeled in disgust. This was what they were fighting for. Corpse feeders too stubborn to know when they were beaten. Too stubborn to know they should not have been born.

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Locke moved away. The Salamander tore off the Ikaran’s left arm. Before she could make it to the far side of the trench, the Salamander spoke.

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“Why would I have saved you if I was going to eat you?”

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Locke stopped. “Save me?”

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“Quieter.”

 

“Save me?” She repeated, too angry to form a coherent sentence.

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The Salamander puffed out another plume of feathers. “You don’t listen very well.”

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“Just what–!” Locke raised her voice until the Salamander’s rifle clicked, the barrel pointed back at her.

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“Quieter, idiot.”

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Locke lowered her tone. “What did you save me from? I’m stuck in a trench, surrounded by rhino fuckers and angry birds. Ten thousand miles from home. Everyone around me is dead and I’m stuck with a cannibalistic iguana. You save me? Without us, every one of you shitlings would’ve been frozen dung a week ago. Who knows? I wouldn’t put it past your kind to eat each other without a legionary putting a gun to your head.”

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The Salamander put the rifle to its side. It picked the last bits of bird from between its curved teeth and asked, “Why are you here?”

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“What?”

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“Why. Are. You. Here?” the Salamander said in a slow, mocking manner. “Clean hair…sort of. Soft skin, green eyes. You’re noble blood. Any hatched mander could tell. Why are you here? And why did you let that legionary captain mount with you? You are not his mate. Clearly. Unless what those other legionaries said was true and you take his seed just to escape the monotony of war.”

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An enraged Locke stepped forward. “If this was the Empire, and it will be, I would’ve had you skinned and tanned into a pair of boots.”

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“But it’s not the Empire. And you’ll only get to skin me if you live.” The Salamander was unfazed. “Besides, I’ve seen worse. Unlike you, I was born among the refuse. I never choose to be Forlorn. All I chose was to listen to a black-haired Human who promised me freedom and now I’m here. Eating a frozen bird, stuck in a pit, with only you for company.”

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“You think I chose this?” Locke snapped in a virulent whisper, the occasional distant potshot or mortar rumble reminding her of the enemy.

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“You are rich and noble. The Saironians don’t conscript their valued blood. So, the only way you could end up here is if you chose. From the way the others spoke of you and how you and the captain carry, rather, carried on, I see no other option.”

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“Fuck you.”

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“Explain to me how that would work.”

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“That’s it,” Locke clawed for the top of the embankment.

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For the first time, the Salamander showed any concern. “What are you doing?”

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“I’d rather die than spend another minute in this hole.”

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Locke’s head reached the top of the trench. Her hands found fresh earth and she pulled herself up. That was, until a scaled hand wrapped around her ankle. In a fluid motion, the Salamander pulled Locke to the pit, her chin striking duckboards. Then came a flurry of gunshots. Where Locke had stood, bullets kicked up dirt. Muffled bird croaks sputtered unintelligible Common, followed by Skaldic hooting.

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“They’re coming.” The Salamander fumbled for its belt. “Here.”

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The Salamander placed Locke’s bayonet between her fingers.

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“For fuck’s sake,” Locke snapped. “That’s what it took?”

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“Not really that important right now.” The Salamander flashed its rifle. Its nostrils flared as the footsteps came closer. Then, the Salamander shoved her away with inhuman strength.

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Orange lit the trench as an Ikaran fired a salvo at them. Locke fell behind the T-shaped junction as bullets hit frost instead of flesh. The Salamander swung around the junction, illuminating the ditch with more gunshots.

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“How many?” Locke asked as the Salamander reloaded behind the junction.

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“Only saw the one,” the Salamander responded frantically. “For sure there’s more.”

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A flare streaked into the sky and Locke’s eyes opened wide.

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Along the firing step where the Salamander reloaded, an Ikaran soldier loomed, its feathers silhouetted like the corona of an eclipsed magnesium sun.

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“Above you!” Locke shouted as the bird leapt into the ditch, trench knife in hand.

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The Salamander barely caught the soldier’s hand before the blade plunged into its throat. The momentum and force hurled the two to the floor, the Ikaran raking at the Salamander with talon and blade as the struggle continued. The Salamander let out a sharp hiss as the Ikaran sliced just above its shoulder, coating the knife in reptilian blood. The Salamander responded by using all its strength to ram the Ikaran away, the bird managing a second stab to the lizard’s forearm.

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“Legionary!” The Salamander cried out, as the blade lodged itself in its arm.

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Whether by panic or instinct Locke, wasn’t sure, but she ran for the tumbling mass of feathers and scale. She swung the bayonet, steel ripping to feather and sinew, erupting on the other side of the Ikaran’s neck. She swung again and again, each time finding new, soft flesh for the bayonet. Even as the Ikaran let out an avian death screech, Locke kept stabbing.

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It was all she could do. Everything that had happened, all the torment of her life before, all the rage of being Locke went into her swings. This bird that wished nothing more than to drag her corpse behind one of its slave rhinos…she killed it first. Just as she should have done to Edwyn, Ercliff, and most of all, that fucking Salamander. Finally, fatigue took its toll and Locke’s bayonet clattered against the duckboards.

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Tears and sweat froze against her cheeks. Another flare sailed into the sky as rifles crackled around them, both sides illuminating no-man’s land with a gunshot pastel. The thump of mortars followed, breaking permafrost with exploding metal.

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Locke did not care.

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She couldn’t. Yet somehow that Salamander, even with its arm half-wrapped by stained linen, still moved as if uninjured. It grabbed Locke by the shoulder, dragging her spent frame to the dugout as the battle intensified.

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Shells slammed on both sides of the trench, raining permafrost and muddy chunks over the dugout’s opening. In that earthen pit, the pair stared outward, waiting for the clash to end. A silence that would take all night to come.