- TMK -

The battle only stopped when the flares ran out. But Locke knew it was a merely a pause to the carnage, not a truce. She was never that lucky. Light shone at the mouth of the dugout, the arctic sun announcing a start to the slaughter. Locke looked at her hands, one curled around the end of her bayonet, the other clutching the dugout. She retracted her hand from the dugout, a mix of grime and avian blood caked around white fingers.

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She glanced at the bayonet. Within the splotches of polished steel between Ikaran gore, she saw her own face. Her skin was ruddy with the blood of three combatants. Mouth, lips, even the inside of her nostrils caked in it.

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Then, the bayonet was covered by a piece of linen.

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“Here,” the Salamander said, withdrawing its hand after covering her bayonet with the cloth. “You smell worse than you look.”

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Locke took the cloth and scrubbed as hard as she could. Hard enough that dried blood became her own blood as skin rubbed raw.

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“Take it easy,” the Salamander gave a reptilian grimace as it examined its own wound.

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Locke threw the stained wadded linen back in the Salamander’s face. “Fuck off.”

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The Salamander’s grimace was followed by a bored frown. “Strange way to thank someone.”

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“Thank?” Locke said with a sneer. “You should be thanking me. You were begging me to save you from the birds last night, shithead.”

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“And I kept you from being rhino dung when we first got here. In my book, we’re even.”

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“At least you can fucking read,” Locke quipped. “Which is more than I can say for most people here.”

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“Which reminds me,” the Salamander began. “Why are you here? The captain, the other legionaries, they’re all born for this. Typical Saironian conscript stock. You’re a noble, a pure one, too. The eugenicists should be kissing the ground you walk on. Yet you’re here. Why?”

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“The fuck do you care, lizard?” Locke spat. “Why should I tell you?”

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The Salamander rolled on its side, unable to fully position itself in the cramped dugout. As it rolled back, the Salamander flashed a revolver, clean, well oiled, and almost certainly from the corpse of another legionary.

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“You had that the whole time?” Locke asked incredulously.

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“Of course.”

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“And you had me use this thing?” Locke waved the bayonet at the Salamander. “I could’ve just shot the fucking bird.”

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“Would you have given me the gun if our positions were reversed? No? Didn’t think so.” The Salamander responded coldly. “At least now I know you can do something other than scream. I’ll make you a deal. Tell me why you’re my new best friend, and I’ll hand you little pinky over here.”

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Locke bit her lip and dug the tip of the bayonet into the soil. She moved what little she could in the dugout, using her matted hair as a pillow as she faced the Salamander. In its slitted reptilian pupils, there was disdain, apathy, even contempt. But somehow, Locke knew the Salamander would keep its word.

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And with the midnight sun giving way to the blue of morning, it was only a matter of time before the Ikarans would be back.

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“I’m a Tutton–or I was.”

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“Old clan.”

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“The oldest. Descended from Arthad Tutton and Marhia Lorylyn herself. Pure Saironian. That’s why they tried to sell me.”

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“Oh?” For the first time, the Salamander’s voice was free of disdain.

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“I’d imagine it’s not much different in Halicarnassus. For the nobles at least. But I said no. I did not want a future as breeding stock for the next line of Tutton heirs. Not like my mother or hers before her.”

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“There is a difference,” the Salamander countered.

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“That is?”

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“You could say ‘no’.”

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“You’re a fool,” Locke retorted. “I’m here because my Ercliff, my cousin, head of the house, Lord of Gwenryth, did not accept my answer,” Locke said in a tone that mocked her bloodborne privilege. “I was to go to the Lombraids, to bear the children of their Homunculus, and ensure an alliance between the houses. When I refused, Ercliff stripped me of my rank and cut my purse strings. When I still refused, he had me sequestered by the arcane surgeon. When I threatened to end my own life–”

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“He called your bluff,” the Salamander guessed.

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“Ercliff had the Tutton eugenicist alter my bloodlines. I went from a noble scion to a commoner with a noble name. Examined to be free of deformity and ripe for conscription. ‘I granted your wish’, he said. ‘You can wed the whole of Harralheim for all I care’. So, I was conscripted, a rifle I never used was thrown in my hand, and I was on a ship for the north.”

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“And the captain?”

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“What would you have done? Do I look like one of you? Do I look like a forlorn ice devil born with bayonet in hand? I did what I needed to survive. As I’m doing now, telling you the story of what it means to be me. How, despite everything, I became breeding stock all the same.”

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“Bayonet in hand?” The Salamander grimaced. “Is that what they say about us?”

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“Give me the fucking gun.”

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“Fair enough.” A scaled hand dropped the revolver in Locke’s stained palms. Quickly, she nabbed the gun. The Salamander followed it with a small hemp bag. “Rounds.”

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Locke fumbled with the bag, grasping the cartridges one by one. She looked for the hole where she’d seen Edwyn load the revolver in the past, only finding steel in its place.

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“How do I?” she began.

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“Really?” the Salamander rolled a reptilian eye.

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“Edwyn always did this for me.”

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“Pull the loading gate back,” the Salamander said with a sigh.

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“What?”

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The Salamander reached over, sliding a piece of steel to the side, revealing the cylinder. It pulled the hammer back slightly and said, “Keep the hammer half-cocked as you load.”

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Locke followed the Salamander’s instruction, rotating the cylinder as she methodically counted six cartridges.

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“Close the loading gate and pull the hammer back all the way,” the Salamander added more instructions. “Keep pulling the hammer back every time you shoot.”

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At last, Locke gripped a loaded weapon, aiming it for the dugout opening. It was heavy, but it felt like something she hadn’t had in a long time.

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A choice.

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The Salamander sighed. “You weren’t kidding.”

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The thud of steel exploding permafrost resumed as did rotary gun pops and rifle cracks. The hooting of Skald raiders rose once again, their battle songs growing ever closer.

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“Well, that’s not good,” the Salamander’s eyes narrowed. The Salamander heaved its wounded bulk onto the ledge separating the dugout from the trench. “Wait here.”

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Only being able to see the creature’s bare, clawed feet, Locke watched as the Salamander raised itself onto the firing step of the trench. A moment later, the Salamander climbed down, slinking back into the dugout without a word.

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“Lizard?”

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“They’re coming.”

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Locke looked at the Salamander, waiting for its next plan. When that did not come, she asked, “How many?”

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“Enough.”

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Then, Locke looked at the creature’s bloody, quivering hand, barely able to hold the other end of its rifle. In fact, the whole Salamander’s body was shaking. Shaking for the first time with what Locke had felt ever since she stepped foot on the continent.

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Fear.

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She looked at her own palms, bloody, caked in dirt, holding a gun she barely knew how to use, next to a Salamander who could barely stand, and said, “We are going to die.”

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“Looks like it.”

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They sat there, saying nothing as thousands of charging feet and hoof barreled closer. Locke gripped her revolver tighter, waiting to face the end. Or, face it fighting. Because Locke was no longer afraid.

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Cold, bitter, and tired, but at least she was one thing the Salamander was not. She embraced the only gift this continent had given her. And soon, Locke would be free.

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“Joh,” the Salamander said without warning.

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“What?” Locke was surprised.

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“My name. It’s Joh.”

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“Oh,” Locke was unsure of what to say. “I-I’m Locke.”

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“Better than ‘legionary’,” the Salamander replied as the hooting Skald closed in.

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“It is.” The thumping of charging hoofbeats was now within earshot. “It is.”

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Locke closed her eyes and breathed deep.

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Skald war cries turned to screams.

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Instead of thousands of grey-skinned Skald sweeping their trench, issuing triumphant, blood curdling shouts, an electrostatic ripple split the air. The roar of cirrus jets followed as the sound of hoofbeats receded. More arcane pulsations blasted above them as the boom of cannon subsided.

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Locke and Joh each issued each other a confused glance. Then, they scrambled, hauling themselves out of the dugout, barely able to make it to the firing step. There, Locke stared at carnage only magic could bring. Across the tundra, thousands of shriveled, fuming corpses lay. Between them were husks of cooked rhino and sooty craters carved by unnatural force.

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In the distance, the remains of the Arrcosi and Skald army ran, pursued by strafing bullethawks painting the sky teal with cirrus gas. A massive ship horn drowned the battlefield in its thunder, more cannons ringing from the man-o’-war as it sailed overhead. The leviathan of metal and wood shadowed the pair as the sound of gears turned their attention south.

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Less than mile away, tens of thousands of crimson legionaries in lock step formation moved between clockwork tanks and other brass machines.

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Before Locke could register what was happening or even express emotion, a Human voice spoke.

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“Would you look at that?” the voice came from above. A black-haired Saironian levitated just behind Locke and Joh. A Human whose eyes and hands ran with shifting color.

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“Here I was under the impression the survivors had abandoned this miserable little outpost to the birds. Commendable, legionary, and–,” the supernatural Human addressed Joh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what quite to call you. Forlorn militia I assume?”

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“Joh,” Locke answered for him. She looked briefly at Joh, sharing the slightest grin and said. “He saved my life.”

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The Saironian analyzed Locke’s tattered uniform. “Name?”

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“Sergeant Locke Tutton.”

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“A Tutton? Here? Surviving amidst this rabble? Commendable, sergeant, especially given the circumstances.”

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“Thank you,” Locke replied. “Sir?”

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“Oh, of course, war is no excuse for lost manners. I am Aarturian. Sentinel of the Empire, Homunculus, and vessel of the Painted God.” Aarturian bowed his head. “You and this brave Salamander are the highest-ranking survivors among this outpost. Or what’s left of it.”

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“I see,” Joh responded, sharing the same confused apprehension as Locke. The last of the man-o’-war’s shadow crossed over them, the glare of the north once again shining over the three as the legionary flood grew closer. “We were lucky.”

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“I’d say,” Aarturian said almost gleefully. “Had I known you were still that trench, I would not have laid waste to the enemy as vigorously–I think? It’s beside the point. Luck does not matter as much on a report as bravery. And you two seem brave enough.”

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“Sentinel?” Locke responded.

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“Well, you see, this company was intended to hold this position at all costs until my arrival. The fact that we, or should I say, your compatriots, fled this position is rather poor for morale. So many ridiculous stories. Arrcosi cannibalism, men crushed by rhinos or subject to Skald ice torture. Tall tales, every one. Yet the effect is the same. That is, until you two. A forlorn and a woman, a pureblooded Saironian no less, braver than the lot of them. The embodiment of our cause staring down the worst the north had to offer. Tasiana herself couldn’t have wished for a better narrative,” Aarturian spoke as he stroked his chin.

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The marching of the legionaries arrived at last, the crimson tide streaming through the ruins of the village and trench system as Aarturian pondered what to do with the survivors.

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However, Locke spoke first, “Sir.”

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“Sergeant Locke?”

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“Captain. Captain Locke.” She responded with conviction. “And Lieutenant Joh.”

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“I beg your pardon?” Aarturian raised his eyebrow.

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“Me too,” Joh echoed the Homunculus’ bewilderment. 

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“It’s just as you said. We are the very embodiment of what the Empress sold to the Empire. What better way to embellish such a story than a promotion for the bravest of her legion. Those who refused to run.” Locke held contact with the arcane color of the Homonculus’ eyes. “Besides, who else is alive to dispute the story?”

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The whirling pool of color that covered Aarturian’s irises vanished, leaving the same green as Locke’s in their place. He grinned, waving his hand towards Joh, a ray of twisting color stripping the bloody linen from the Salamander’s arm. Beneath, where a stab wound had been, was immaculate scale.

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“And you, Joh?” Aarturian addressed the Salamander. “What do you say to joining the legion?”

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Joh flexed his newly healed hand. He paused for moment as the sound of battle grew ever more distant. “I am not a soldier.”

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“What then? What would a forlorn Salamander wish as a reward?”

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“An alchemist.”

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“Done,” Aarturian agreed without hesitation. “Well, Captain Locke, congratulations on your promotion. I’m sure I will be seeing the both of you soon. Until then.”

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The Homunculus bowed, rocketing into the sky a moment later as a spectral comet.

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Locke, however, didn’t care. She didn’t need to. All Locke needed to do, was think of the future that now laid out before her.

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A future she won in the north.

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THE END