War was a tragic and arbitrary thing, especially wars that spanned multiple continents. Some communities were decimated, barely enough left to stack one stone on top of another. People scattered like so many grains of sand. Others were completely untouched save for the lack of mature faces. Those were not depopulated due to devastation, but an unfortunate end to their conscription. It was not fair, but nothing in life was. One could only hope luck favored your little slice of the world.

After the war, rebuilding began. The Treaty of Barca, while viewed as necessary by some, did not fix the immediate problems. Some communities were favored at the expense of others, another inevitability of war. Others were left to their own devices. Sink or swim, see what the combined effort of motivated Bestia Sapiens could accomplish. This was also unfair, but so were many things in life.

Still, people made the effort. Trade was established. Deals struck. Food grown and goods produced once the factories were making things other than munitions and war machines. People with the means sent aid. People with the pull petitioned governments to send more aid. After three years, life was returning to… not normal, but the closest it could be.

One of those hardest hit was the Kingdom of Riguri. While not officially part of Osnya, they were allies. In their zeal, they expelled hundreds of thousands of Osnya’s enemies, Lunist citizens, from their borders. Troops were asked of Riguri and they delivered. As the Lunists encroached upon their borders to pay this insult back with violence, Osnya requested more soldiers, and got them. As they were squeezed between the Lunists and Yavuz Shannate, Osnya required Riguri manpower to push the Lunists from their lands. Dutifully, they complied, providing more meat for the grinder. They were promised land the Yavuz took from them and a bright future. What they received was Osnya cutting ties and forcing them to stand alone against two fronts. Sink or swim, see what a nation’s efforts could do against two hostile forces.

They kept their territory. The land, anyway. Border towns were decimated. Entire communities laid to siege or invaded outright. Stories circulated, as they always do, about the dire conditions the civilians had to endure. They did not migrate too far from their borders, unless one paid attention to the affairs of a former ally. Most did not.

Enough remembered. The platoons reinforced by Riguri faces, those who charged trenches with them, those tank and airship crews bolstered by their numbers remembered. So did the communities saved from outright massacres by their numbers. Osnyan leaders remembered. Those who remembered sent aid.

For two years, the aid was a trickle, just enough for the least fortunate to get by. Within the last year, it got organized. It had the potential to breathe new life into towns rocked by war.

The potential to. With organized aid came organized raids. Bandits saw convoys laden with food, clothes, and medicine and saw coins. Take it and sell it through the proper channels to make money off the desperate. Sapiens nature was a mockery at times and this was the reality. With the depleted Riguri army and lack of mature adults to form a proper police force, the bandits went mostly unchallenged. The aid workers started arming themselves, which helped, but only against the younger bandits. War creates trained soldiers, tested by battle, and not all of them integrate into society properly. Raiding trenches to raiding supply caravans; it was an easy transition.

Tyras wished the constabulary of South Lucia took it more seriously. Riguri asked for help quelling the bandits, Chief Billings just smirked. A burly boar who drove a desk throughout the war, running logistics, thought they were truly inept if they could not handle a little bandit raid. A strange sentiment, since Tyras was sent specifically to improve his department’s woeful readiness scores.

After some convincing, the chief decided it would be a nice training exercise. This was almost good news. ‘Almost’ because he sent Tyras with four officers and one cadet waiting on the results from his written exam. They were about as green as a sapling in springtime. None of them were soldiers and the oldest was nineteen. Bianchi, the nineteen-year-old tiger who looked like he started lifting weights around eight. DeLuca, the lion, a mere seventeen whose mane was just starting to fill out. Adamo, the eighteen-year-old white-tailed deer who was still sore about having to trim off his antlers. Higganis, the only female in the crew. She was an eighteen-year-old wooly cow and by far the burliest of the group. Shame only a quarter of it was muscle. The cadet, a stocky badger with bright eyes called Riga. Seventeen years old and the youngest by a few months.

Tyras should have pressed for at least one other senior officer. Someone with at least a few years on the force. Honeyed words and flattery would have done little but inflate Billings’s sense of self-worth. Intimidation was an option; one which Tyras was adept. Being a steppe lion, he was around eight feet tall. While he wore a suit to the meeting, one could not mistake him for a soft-handed man. Years of military service were written on his face in the form of raised, reddened scars. They sliced through white fur on the right side of his face like trails of blood in old snow. The injury took his eye with it, a silver globe in its place. Sometimes, when Tyras blinked, he wondered if that eye completely closed. It would never feel like a natural eye, no matter how well he could see through it with his forte. Billings’s eyes quickly darted away whenever he looked at the scars. He also knew Tyras spent the war charging trenches, both as an infantryman and a trench raider. Yes, intimidation would be easy, but would burn bridges. In the end, he took what he was given.

The team traveled to Riguri by airship. Trip was uneventful, but they always put Tyras slightly on edge. It was not that air travel bothered him. He was from a stateless tribe and practically grew up in the air, having access to riding dragons. Airships were big targets. The skies were relatively safe, but air piracy was becoming more common. The air police could handle it for now, but would be outclassed rapidly as tactics evolved. Unless you always press forward, you fall behind.

They landed in Riguri’s capital, one of the few cities that had a functional station and the only one that transported people rather than freight. The chief of police, a sable named Toulon, was there to greet them. From the moment he met him, Tyras felt like he may have been the city personified. A veteran whose left leg was replaced by a wooden facsimile and left hand the same. He was nonetheless warm and professional. The scars on his muzzle did nothing to hamper the smile he gave them when they approached. To greet company, his red and cream colored uniform was neat and freshly pressed. There was an energy to him that belied his injuries. They barely had time to get their bags gathered before he ushered them into a waiting handsome.

Traveling through the city, it was hard not to notice scars the war left behind. Old buildings interspersed with new ones, most of the old ones having new roofs and windows. Buildings from the last centuries were not made to withstand modern bombs. New replacing the old was inevitable, but was still jarring to see it happen so quickly.

The police station was new. It was built like a block of concrete studded with windows, each window surrounded by a concrete outcropping. It was short, maybe two stories tall, and broad. Clearly built to withstand bombs. To maintain civil order, one needed a police station. If misfortune ever dictated another war, this building would survive.

Tyras, the four junior officers, and one almost-officer were given a short tour. Nothing Tyras had not seen before. Offices, holding cells, armory, interrogation rooms, front lobby, file room. He could count the officers present on one hand. When you were short-handed, desk staff was hardest hit. The new coppers looked around with wide eyes. He could practically feel their nerves. They were used to settings bursting with staff. Lots of backup at the ready to assist if things got hard. They probably thought this situation would be just like at home, but with a different accent. For some, it might have been the first time they left the city, let alone to another country. The reality of being in a foreign land with no one to rely on but each other and the commanding officer they met only a few days prior finally soaked in. Looking back, Tyras saw furtive glances at empty desks, nervous chewing of lower lips, fidgeting fingers, and tight steps.

The scene shifted to the trenches for a moment. A troop transport billowing purpurkrumb fumes as it sped off. A fresh batch of conscripts for the front lines. Bright eyes on all, expecting to be heroes in their own personal epic. The first shell killed that. Some through slamming into reality, others from having their bodies shredded by fragments.

Tyras closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them again, he was back in the police station. Concrete walls, desks, police uniforms. No scent of a burning charnel house that got into the underlayers of your fur. Just the smell of concrete walls and paper.

“… now, everyone in. Sit anywhere you like.” Toulon’s voice pulled the rest of Tyras’s cognition into the current year. They were at the door to a meeting room. Inside were a collection of mismatched wooden chairs in front of tables with more scars than Toulon and Tyras combined. They held a few scattered cups dark with the residue of tea from whatever meeting last occupied the room. Sitting in a corner chair was a trim wolf with reddish brown fur, the room’s sole occupant. He was dressed in a typical Riguri constable uniform made all the more typical by how faded the colors were. It had a few stitches from repairs to fight the ravages of age and fights. It was not dirty, but Tyras could see where a few blood stains had been scrubbed out. He stood up when Toulon entered the room.

“Help yourselves to some tea if you like. It’s cold and a couple days old, but it’ll perk you up.” Toulon gestured at another table propped against the wall. Literally propped, as it was missing a leg and the wall was the only thing holding it up. On top of it were a scattering of teacups of different designs and a tin pot. Next to these were some biscuits that looked stale, but were free of dust and mold. Good enough to get a morning sugar rush if one had no time for a proper breakfast.

DeLuca and Higganis were the only ones who took him up on the offer. Everyone else found a seat. Tyras settled into a chair off to the side. He selected a place far enough away from the door that he could keep an eye on it while attending to whatever Toulon had to say. The junior officers and cadet chose to sit in the chairs surrounding him, wanting to be close to their superior. Tyras had to suppress a smile. He was not sure if they were doing it out of professionalism, fear, or admiration. It might have been all three. The wolf simply sat down where he had been before the group entered.

Toulon walked to the front. Maps were scattered across the wall. A large one of the entire country in the middle, and smaller maps of various regions with more detail around it. He waited for everyone to sit down before he began.

“Right. First, thank you for coming.” Toulon clasped his wooden hand in his flesh hand. “We appreciate the extra help. You may feel overwhelmed, but Chief Constable Billings assured me you would be, as he put it ‘enough to deal with a little caravan problem.’”

The sable’s hand tightened on his wooden hand. A slight curl on the side of his lip. He knew and did not like it. He needed officers to deal with a larger problem than Billings let on. He was sent a bunch of kids instead. It slipped past the young officers’ perceptions, but Tyras saw it. Toulon was trying to fix a problem without the right tools. As a fellow veteran, he sympathized.

“Pay close attention to your senior officer and you’ll do fine. Leftenent-Inspector Maloko has a lifetime of experience you would do well to draw on.” Toulon looked at Tyras. Tyras nodded once. Unspoken communication letting the sable know he would take care of his charges and make sure they were not instantly ventilated in a hail of bandit gunfire. Toulon’s body language relaxed. They had an understanding.

Toulon stepped up to the map. He extended a metal pointer by wedging the tip between two of his wooden fingers and pulling back. He tapped it against the border between Osnya and Riguri. “As you know, the main highways between our nations are situated in this area. Any goods entering or leaving over road are routed through here. On our side of the fence, the main roads split around here.”

Toulon traced the pointer down to a trading hub a small town had grown around. Mostly a stopping point to resupply.

“The bandits know to leave them alone up till there. Too dense and too many guards from the larger trade caravans. It’s when the smaller ones split and go their own ways we have trouble.”

Toulon traced the pointer down to a sparsely populated area of the map. Several circles dotted it like craters on a shelled battlefield. Many, many craters far and wide.

“They seem to go after the caravans with relief supplies. They know humanitarian organizations are less well armed than wealthy merchants carrying expensive goods. Everyone needs food and medical supplies can be worth a lot of money on the black market. They’re smart enough to know which caravans to raid and organized enough to do it quickly and far enough away from civilization to get away before we can respond.”

Toulon sighed, his frustration apparent. “At the start of the humanitarian effort, they were too loosely organized to be a concern. When they started adding military veterans to their ranks, it got far worse. Maybe one in three caravans would reach their destination.”

The junior officers shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. DeLuca took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Not from the information; but because the tea was old enough to be highly bitter and concentrated. It was why Tyras did not take any.

“We’ve been attempting to hunt them down. We’ve, perhaps, cleaned out twenty of their nests over the last year. Unfortunately, we’ve only eliminated four of the gangs, as they clear out when they know a raid is coming. May not have a central leadership, but they’re unified in their hatred of coppers and’ll warn each other when they see us approach.”

Toulon cleared his throat and shifted the pointer upward. He probably just wanted something to do with his hands. Rigurians often talked with their hands and Toulon, only having one, needed to make up for the other’s absence. “The plan is to send you to our auxiliary precinct in the hub. Once there, you’ll act as support for the caravan raid investigation unit. Hopefully a fresh set of eyes will help us coordinate where they’re coming from and put us one step closer to driving them out.”

He pushed the pointer against his wooden palm to collapse it. “We’ll allow you to requisition anything you like from the armory. What we have is at your disposal. I’m assigning one of our best men from the region to assist you. Sergeant Gilroy, to the front, please.”

“Yes sir.” The wolf stood at attention and walked to the front of the room. He had not said a word since they came in. The junior officers did not approach him. Might not have even noticed he was there, judging by how they jumped when he spoke, quickly darting their eyes toward the lupine figure. He stood to Toulon’s right with his hands at his sides. Posture was slightly relaxed, but with a military bearing. If you were in the military long enough, you knew how to stand at attention without clenching every muscle in your body.

“He’ll fill you in on any pertinent details and act as a liaison for the local peacekeepers.” Toulon clasped his paws together. “Now, any questions?”

Five sets of eyes gave five blank looks. They did not even know what to ask. Inexperience sometimes made you unable to know what you did not know. Looks exchanged between officers, as if expecting someone to ask something. Anything, really.

Toulon waited a full minute for them to say something. The raucous silence became too overbearing. “Sergeant, brief the men on what’ll be expected of them.” He turned his head toward Tyras. “Leftenant-inspector Maloko, I’d like to explain your role in private. Follow me to my office, please.”

Tyras nodded and stood up. He knew this would happen. Toulon knew it too. Any seasoned police chief or veteran who saw more than a few months’ action could see the junior officers were overwhelmed. Their ‘training exercise’ in Riguri may be an abbreviated one. The two old soldiers left the room, Tyras following Toulon at a respectable distance. Having a wooden leg meant one did not move with abundant alacrity.

The sable’s office was spartan. No pictures of family or friends. The Riguri flag hung on one wall. The opposite wall held several distinctions. A picture of himself as a young man before the war, graduating from the academy. A glass case held several medals from his military service. Nearby hung a red beret with beige trim on a hook, the stripes indicating rank on display. He had multiple trophies for marksmanship. They were separated by date. Earlier ones were almost exclusively for rifles. The later ones, dated after the war, entirely for pistols. The large wooden desk was far older than the building; likely moved from their previous precinct. Moved reasonably well, as there were only a few scuffs on the sides. The office had no windows, just a table behind the desk with an electric kettle and a few packaged foodstuffs; dry bread, biscuits, and tinned sardines in tomato sauce.

“Have a seat, Leftenant-inspector.” The sable gestured at the empty folding chairs in front of his desk. “May I offer you a cigarette?”

Tyras sat in the chair closest to the door. That was the third time since arriving Toulon addressed him by full rank. “Sergente Maggiore, we’re both old soldiers. Please, call me Tyras. And yes, I would like a cigarette, since you’ve been kind enough to offer.”

A slight smile, looking somewhat sideways due to the scarred-up face, spread on Toulon’s face. “It’s nice you’re familiar with Riguri military ranking. I noticed you taking in the room. Your powers of observation were not exaggerated.” He walked behind his desk. A drawer opened with the sound of poorly oiled casters. “My name is Achille, like my grandfather and his grandfather before him.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Tyras reached forward and shook the sable’s hand.

“Likewise.” Achille seemed happy Tyras offered his right hand, remembering which one he left behind on the battlefield. He started to reach with his left at first, before he noticed which one Tyras used. “What else do your powers of deduction tell you?”

Tyras smirked, always eager to show off. He was waiting for this. “The marksmanship trophies and style of beret tell me you were a sniper during the war. Likely with the Rigurian Sniper Corps. The high ranking and number of trophies, as well as you continuing the habit even after the war show you have had a keen interest in sharpshooting for some time.” The lack of a window in his office, as well as the packaged food items, were another giveaway. An injured sharpshooter would never feel relaxed in a place with a clear line of sight, nor would they feel at ease without a supply of rations to stay dug in for days. He decided not to voice those observations.

Achille nodded. “All valid, though one could ascertain that from the trophies alone.”

“You also were left-handed. When we went to shake hands, you gave your left first out of habit. Being left-handed also likely saved your life.”

Achille raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s common for an entrenched sniper with a high degree of skill to be dealt with using artillery. If they’re unable to dislodge you with counter snipers, shelling is what most field commanders would try next. Your injuries are consistent with this, but that you were injured and not killed shows your body was on the opposite side of the flash of your scope. Were you right-handed, you would have been where they expected, and not be here now.”

Some might have been offended by Tyras’s candor. Achille merely smiled and nodded. “Indeed. My spotter and I set up in a temple spire. It gave us an excellent vantage point for observing a choke point in the city. We held the line for some time, even when the shelling started. I suppose I should be flattered they found us troublesome enough to expend artillery to take out two snipers. Shells that could have been spent on higher value targets.” He sighed, his demeanor taking on a sort of subdued sadness. “The gods saw fit to send most of the fragments meant for me into a nearby bell. I survived and was carried from the rubble to a field hospital. My spotter did not.”

Tyras nodded. “We all left pieces of ourselves behind on the battlefield. And friends.” Their eyes met. Achille’s eyes, a light amber that still retained their sharpness despite his age, and Tyras’s mismatched set. They understood each other, no other words were needed.

A silver cigarette case with the Riguri crest was in Achille’s hand. He placed it in his wooden grip and opened it with his right hand. Inside were six long, brown cigarettes and a box of wooden matches. He picked one out and offered it to Tyras.

“Thank you.” The white lion said as he took it. Achille plucked out a match and struck it on his wrist. A deft motion, practiced, it lit the match instantly. Tyras leaned in to allow him to light the cigarette without reaching too far. Achille put the match in an ashtray full of cigarette stubs with white paper wrapping and slid it closer to Tyras. He did not take one for himself, closing the case and setting it on the desk.

He inhaled, breathing in the aromatic smoke. The scent of cloves hit him first, followed by the slightly spiced taste of fine tobacco. Mild and sweet, it was as smooth as burning leaf gas could be. Probably imported, as luxury cigarettes in this style were not commonly produced in Riguri. Underpinning it was a staleness. The cigarette was several years old, probably from before the war. Still smokable even if not kept in impeccable shape by a fine cigarette case, but one could tell. During rebuilding, it was unlikely they were importing fine goods like this. The cigarette was a commodity and Achille rationed them carefully for years. Special occasions only, indicated by the cheaper brand filling his ashtray. That could only mean one thing; the situation was bad and he needed help more than he let on in front of the fragile newbies.

From Tyras’s nostrils came a slow plume of smoke as he exhaled. The observations took all of three seconds to work through. “How bad is it?” He asked.

Achille did not answer right away. He sat down at his desk and produced a cigarette from a pack already sitting on the desk when they came in. He paused and slid it back in. Good; it would not do to contaminate the air with inferior tobacco while Tyras smoked something much better.

“Worse than Chief Inspector Billings let on, but you knew that already. The bandit raids, while less frequent than they used to be, are regular enough that many of our smaller communities may not last till year’s end. They’re not just raiding the caravans either. The more organized bandit groups are shaking down communities for protection. Smaller trading companies have lost their entire stock to various attacks.”

Tyras nodded, taking it in. “You seem to be doing your best, despite the direness of the situation. It’s good to remain calm.”

A sad smile crossed Achille’s muzzle. “I’m glad it seems that way. I don’t allow emotion to cloud what must be done, but resentment is building. Unavoidable. We lack the manpower to take the fight to the gangs on scale. Our military could help, but our leaders have different priorities. Much of their buildup is spent quelling unrest in newly acquired lands or guarding the fields of connected landowners.”

He leaned back in his chair, wooden hand resting on top of the desk. “I’m thankful for the help, but I expected more. Four junior officers and one cadet is not helpful. Were they led by anyone but you, I would’ve sent them back to Osnya before they disembarked.”

Tyras tilted his head. “I’m flattered, but what makes you think I can make them perform any better? It takes months to get someone the specialized training needed to take on bandits of this scale and experience to take on those with military training, which I’m certain many of the bandits have.”

“I’ve read your records, what’s available anyway. Both before and after the war, you’ve shown the ability to lead a squad and accomplish what you set out to do. I’ve no doubt you can use them to their full potential and I’ll supply what’s needed to do it.” Achille was not so naïve to believe everything about Tyras’s service was a matter of record. Good, it saved him time explaining.

Ego pushed Tyras to accept immediately. Yes, he could whip the newbies into shape. Get them combat ready and out there cleaning out nests like an exterminator ridding a house of troublesome spiders. He quelled it. “They’d serve you better working in the capital doing normal policework. It could free some of your officers to deal with the problem.”

Achille frowned, then shook his head. “I considered that, but it’s not feasible.”

“Why not?”

Achille looked at Tyras, looked away, then back again. This was the first time he seemed genuinely uncomfortable. A hard truth was in there he did not want to vocalize. Tyras said nothing, but waited. No prodding, no forcefulness. He was going to say it, Tyras just needed to make it clear he would not progress the conversation until he externalized his thoughts.

The sable let out a long sigh. “I know it’s not escaped your notice that people have been staring. The Osnyan uniforms stand out. There’s a lot of resentment among the people toward Osnya. Many feel abandoned after giving so much blood and treasure for the war effort on her behalf. They blame Osnya for the state of things.”

Tyras felt a pang of guilt. Cold like ice water in his stomach. Itchy like a biting fly on the back of his neck. “Understandable. Where do you stand on that?”

Achille gestured with his fingers down and palm out, waving the notion away. “I harbor no ill will toward Osnya, though you likely expect me to say this in present company.” He smiled without mirth. “But I do believe it. We all do what’s needed to survive. Osnya had to take care of her own and we, ultimately, are in charge of our own fate. Now, the war is over. We can heal our relations, in time. The relief caravans are proof of cooperation, not reparations, as some want to believe.”

“That’s a mature way of looking at things. I wish more people saw it that way.” The wounds ran deep, but nothing that could not be overcome. Hate was poison, but a persistent and addictive one.

“Yes… But, for now, they’ll be safer with the bandits than in the capital. Other precincts received officers. They did what you suggested and many had to be sent back to Osnya on medical leave. One in a body bag. We tried switching uniforms, anything we could think of. The accents gave them away, that was all it took.” Achille grunted. “Short-sightedness may kill us faster than any hostile army.”

“We can all be short-sighted at times.” Tyras took one last puff of his clove cigarette and ground out the stub in the center of the ashtray. The spiced clove scent hung in the air, a pleasant reminder of the experience. “But I’ve not yet agreed to anything. We’re within our rights to leave at my discretion.”

Achille frowned. “I’d like you to stay. The hub needs all the help they can get. They won’t throw you into the thick of things right away. We’ll give you everything you need and the people out there aren’t as hostile to Osnyas, being closer to the border and interacting with traders. They won’t be warm right away, but will when you start helping.”

Reputation could be distilled into how useful you were to others. Tyras was astutely aware, having been molded into a tool of warfare. One could see Achille was sincere in his desire to help Riguri. Sincerity only got you so far. They did not have much.

“I take it the only officer accompanying us is Sergeant Gilroy? Is that really all you can spare?” Tyras asked. He already knew the answer, of course. If there were more coming, they would have been present at the meeting.

Achille attempted, and failed, to suppress a wince. “Yes. He was the only available officer willing to work with you. In a way, it works out. You were a scout raider, if I’m not mistaken. He was one of our forward recon specializing in scouting entrenched enemy positions. You’ll find you work well together.”

Thinking back to the wolf, there was an air of calm about him. The way he quietly appraised the group when they entered without them even knowing. So it seemed, anyway. Going solely off intuition was the habit of a poor soldier or investigator.

“Does Sergeant Gilroy have any leadership experience?” Tyras asked.

Achille’s smile returned. “Sebastian was assigned to the hub shortly after the end of the war. He’s been following bandit activity since then. What limited officers we have, he’s had a hand in their training. Without him, only a fraction of the caravans would reach their destinations.” Before Tyras could interject to ask for solid proof, Achille continued speaking. “You may not take my word for it now, but you’ll see when you reach the hub. Any officer, trader, or pilgrim will vouch for him.”

Not a perfect endorsement, but such a thing did not exist. Tyras believed him. Or, at least, believed that he believed what he said. Good soldiers knew not to lie to each other, and Achille was a good soldier. Probably. Tyras leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t see any family photos. You’re unmarried, are you not?” A non sequitur? It only seemed that way, but was important to ask.

Some might have been offended. Achille merely shook his head. “Love of my country put me in the military at a young age. Training and warfare left me little time to meet anyone. The landscape after the war and my injuries would ensure most would no longer feel up to finding a mate. I never had an interest. In my mind, I’m already married to my homeland. I will do everything I can to remain faithful to her and care for her millions of children.” Achille gestured at Tyras’s ring finger, his wedding band upon it. “You’re married, so you might understand. When you see your wife suffer or your children go hungry, it breaks your heart. Were it up to me, we’d pull every soldier back and escort every caravan until every small town was happy with full bellies and safe roads. For now, we use the soldiers, equipment, and manpower we have to defend Riguri’s children. Wartime or peacetime, those of us with the training and means must defend civilians.”

And now Tyras understood his motives. Nearly dying made one introspective and Achille gave his life a lot of thought. Tyras had no doubt he would die for his fellow citizens. That was the case before, during, and after the war. Were he still whole, he would be out taking the fight to the bandits. The only thing keeping him from leading from the front was the absence of half his limbs.

“Your patriotism is admirable.” Tyras leaned forward and put his paws before him, steepled in the standard posture of intellectual opining. “Would that everyone on both sides of the border thought as you, we would be much better for it. For what it’s worth, I apologize for the way Osnya acted in the final stages of the war. Many of us feel that we turned our backs on you and wish to make amends.”

Achille nodded, but said nothing. He knew Tyras had more to say, already understanding him as the verbose type.

“I’m willing to help in whatever capacity I can for the agreed upon duration our departments discussed. However, I’m not going to keep the junior officers here if they don’t want to be here. The cadet will be returning home on the next airship. He’s definitely not ready for this.”

“I was about to suggest you send him home anyway.” Achille flicked a paw. He finally got one of those cheap cigarettes out and was in the process of lighting it. Tyras estimated he smoked one half to two packs per day, depending on how much unpleasantness was on the itinerary. Probably making up for lost time, as most snipers smoked very little during the war. The flame gave away their position and the Lunists were vigilant for light sources.

“I will also not be pressured into doing anything against my better judgement. I’d like full control over the junior officers. If I feel all we can offer is support and logistics, that’s what we’ll do. If we are to go out on patrol, I’d like to go out on recon on my own first, preferably with a few senior officers who know the area.”

“I would expect that. We won’t ask anything of your men they’re incapable of.” Achille lit the cigarette dangling from his muzzle and inhaled. A worn cleft in his lower lip held the cigarette nicely, the terminal point of a scar. The skin stained yellow from nicotine exposure. “Sergeant Gilroy may be the only officer available, but he’s worth several senior officers. Everything else we have is at your disposal. We’ll want to get your men out of those Osnyan uniforms and into something that will help them blend in. Anything in the armory is yours and our supplies are adequate. We’re somewhat limited on weapons, but we have lots of surplus ammunition. Armor as well, though much of it is salvaged military or riot control gear.”

At least supplies would not be a problem. Potentially. Everyone had a different definition of the word ‘adequate’. “It’s settled, then. We’ll leave for the hub as soon as possible.” Tyras stood up, holding out his hand to Achille. Gentlemen shook hands after a negotiation. For two old soldiers, pen and paper was an insult to their honor.

Achille stood and placed his cigarette between his lips. They took each other’s paws by the wrist. A single shake, a bond between soldiers. They let go and returned to their seats.

“I’ll arrange transportation to take you there in the morning. For tonight, it may be best you stay in the police station. We’ll make sure you’re fed and there are plenty of clean beds that rarely get slept in, if you don’t mind a barracks rather than a four-star hotel.” A slight smirk on the sable’s face. He knew Tyras was not delicate. The junior officers likely had the same living conditions at the academy.

“We’ll get by.” A familiar restlessness crept into Tyras. He knew the rules and wanted to get to work. Still more to know; slow down and do not let haste effect your judgement. “What else can you tell me about the bandits?”

Achille had the desk open before Tyras asked. His organic hand sought something in the cavernous drawer. From its depths came a binder the thickness of a pair of dictionaries stacked on top of each other. It was surprising he could lift it with one hand. Tyras’s eyes went wide for a moment before he collected himself.

“Here you are.” Achille stated. “Some light reading. All the reports we’ve gathered on their activity over the last three years.” He set it down in front of the inspector with the sound of a wooden block dropped off a skyscraper.

Tyras, rather than feeling overwhelmed, just smiled. “You’re very thorough. Truly, a testament to how seriously you take this problem.”

Achille remained standing. “It’s not all work on my part. This is a combined effort of every officer in the field. Some still with us, some not. This is a copy, so feel free to take it with you.” A slight smile crossed Achille’s features. “And, perhaps, take it back to show your superiors. Perhaps then they’ll take it more seriously.”

Tyras opened the binder, the first page detailing events from the first few weeks after the war. It was in chronological order, organized, categorized, and cross-referenced. When a man like Achille could no longer go out into the field, sometimes they lost themselves to feelings of uselessness. Other times, they poured all that energy into diligent cataloguing. They offered support to those still whole enough to be on active duty and ensure they stayed that way.

“I’ll spend every moment I can studying it. Thank you.” Tyras closed the binder in favor of listening to anything else Achille had to say.

“There’s a lot to take in, of course, but I recommend you pay attention to the activity over the last half year.”

Tyras tilted his head. “Go on.”

“May be a bit of a gang war.” Achille finished his cigarette and ground it out. He breathed smoke away from Tyras’s face. He was thankful for that, as cheap cigarettes were unpleasant if you were not used to them. “We’ve been finding lone bodies slain in fields. Occasionally, we enter a lair only to find it full of corpses.”

“Hm. Bandits raiding each other? No honor among thieves.”

Achille shook his head. “The stolen goods are still there. Lots of unopened crates. No signs of things being removed in haste. Full larders and chests of money.”

“Hm. Curious.”

“Indeed.” Achille got out another cigarette. He was thinking, distracted. Probably a habit done to help him focus. “It feels like a blood feud. Very personal. Whenever this happens, the aim seems to be killing everyone inside.”

“Personal.” Tyras drummed his fingers on the binder. Yes, this was worth looking into. “Thank you for that. I’ll pay close attention.”

Achille nodded. “Good. I’ll let you rejoin your group and speak to Sergeant Gilroy.” He offered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Always good to work with such a decorated veteran.”

Another handshake, which Tyras indulged. “Likewise. I must say it’s an honor to meet someone so dedicated. I truly hope you find what you’re looking for.”

A wry smirk crossed Achille’s muzzle. “I already have it, as do you.”

Tyras pondered leaving that alone. Curiosity got the cat. “I do? Whatever might that be?”

“More than anything else, you wanted someone to hold you in your arms and tell you you’re a good man.”

The muscles in Tyras’s back stiffened. He did not expect that, but Achille was not wrong. Before he could think about it, he asked the question bubbling up from his mind. “How did you know that?”

Achille’s smile faded slightly, eyes softening. He sat in his chair. “Leftenant inspector, that’s the place where every veteran like us lives.”

Bingo lowered his binoculars with all the care of setting down a particularly thin shelled egg. He claimed them from a trade caravan. Most of the guys went for liquor and ammunition when the loot was divvied up. They needed it. The caravan was better guarded than they thought. Lost two men taking it, so everyone was riled. Beat the caravan master to the ground, then took turns stomping him to paste. It made him a little squeamish, seeing all the gore spread out on the grass like a macabre picnic, but he did not show it. The Springheels were his family and that meant he had to approve of everything they did.

But, the binoculars were his; no sharing with anyone. No one minded when he plucked them off the lookout’s corpse. They made him a better scout and he loved scout duty. Not a popular job, so they were happy to let him have it. Lots of waiting. Lots of watching. Lots of being outdoors. Most wanted to spend their downtime training or playing cards. All enjoyed engaging in the highbrow antics of drinking and jocular banter about who was the best at hurting people and bedding men, women, or both. Deep underground in their hideout, they could let their fur down and relax.

It was far from relaxing for Bingo. Being underground in those dark rooms and corridors made him restless. He preferred the outdoors. Whether it was because of his higher mental functions disliking enclosed spaces or his nature as a dog demanding he run around and stay active he never gave much thought. He wanted to be out here, watching. Open skies above instead of rocks or concrete. Besides, he was a good scout and wanted to help his family as much as possible. He would do a good job spotting the fattest and weakest prey for the Springheels and they would make sure he was fed and happy in return. A good arrangement.

Looking through them for long periods of time were straining. He blinked away the film that built up on one’s eyes when spending too long without closing them. Get the tear ducts working. His eyes were brown slightly bordering on amber. A few stray leaves fell on his head, so he brushed them off. Flicked his ears, because he felt a tickle in one. The right ear stood straight up while the left was permanently flopped over. He was a dog, but had a bit more wolf in him than most. Helped explain why he was so on edge in enclosed spaces. Hiding in the thicket was fine. It was open enough to see out of while keeping him concealed. The brown branches blended perfectly with his muddy brown fur. A splotch of fur under his muzzle was white, so he wore his leather chest-guard up high. Further concealing his form was a dark green tunic. He was practically invisible like this.

Not that it mattered much. No big caravans all day. A few scattered travelers, but no one worth holding up. Bernardyn told them not to bother with the little guys. Just track the big ones and run back to base so he could mobilize the gang. The bear was big and a little scary, but he knew what he was doing and Bingo trusted him. He hoped to do a better job, so he was a little disappointed with his inability to encounter a large trader group. With the sun setting, he would not be able to see much of anything. Time to wake Leach.

Being a bat, Leach slept most of the day. His form lay curled up with his wings wrapped around his upper body in the densest portion of the thicket. He slept with his dark shaded goggles on. Most bats were not this sensitive to light, but Leach spent a lot of time in caves as a boy. Uncomfortable during the day, but made him an excellent lookout at night.

Bingo moved over to the sleeping bat, carefully sliding Leach’s rifle away. The bat could get a little riled when startled. Even without the rifle, he still had a revolver tucked into the pocket of his vest and a knife concealed in his boot. Those Bingo could not extract and he had to hope he was not having a bad dream.

Better not wake him by shaking or even touching him. That was a quick way to get a knife through the hand. “Leach…” Bingo called out. Quietly. Do not shout, as sound carried and the bush was not soundproof. “Leach, it’s night. Wake up.” A whisper bordering on indoor voice.

Leach stirred and turned farther away from the sound’s source.

Bingo frowned. He hated doing it, but only one thing would wake him up. He reached into the leather side-pack hanging from his belt. Fishing his paw through some coins, particularly nice marbles, spare rifle and pistol cartridges, and his favorite chew stick, he found a disc of hardtack he was saving for later. Hopefully he could find and eat it after it fell in the dirt.

Take careful aim. Bring your paw back. Wind up. Throw! Bingo let the rigid biscuit go. It sailed through the air and plonked off the side of Leach’s head. It was not a second later that his gun was out. His sidearm was a Glisanto 9mm pistol from the early days of the war. The blocky, black metal frame with rounded barrel had many iterations and this was one of them. They were phased out shortly after the start of the war for something with more stopping power, but there were a great many out there and were still lethal at close range. Leach brandished it in the direction of the flying foodstuff before he even opened his eyes.

Leach blinked and turned his head, getting his bearings as he looked around. Disorientation was the most natural side effect of premature waking. The shaded goggles made his dark brown eyes look huge. Or, would, if they were not shaded. Bingo just liked to imagine they did. He also knew Leach would point the gun where he was, so he moved a few feet to the left of the hardtack’s launch trajectory.

“It’s just me, Bingo.” The dog held his paws up, nonthreatening. Not his first time waking up his friend. Stay calm, be nice, do not get too close.

Leach turned his head, eyes meeting Bingo’s. The hard lines on his face vanished and the gun went down. Good. It was not one of those days he had a bad dream. He waited for Bingo to speak.

“It’s night now, so you have to watch for the rich people because I can’t see all good at night.” He never had to wait long for Bingo to speak.

Leach tilted his head and looked up through the leaves. Sun going down, purple sky, comfortable light levels. He pulled off his goggles. His eyes were big even without the goggles. He turned onto his belly, pulled his rifle close, and checked to make sure it was loaded and the safety was off. His rifle had a scope, Bingo’s did not. He preferred the ‘spitz’ sights to line up a shot. Seeing the rifle was satisfactory, he noticed the piece of hardtack on the ground. With a smile, he picked it up, brushed off some of the dirt, and took a bite.

Bingo’s fur raised on the back of his neck. “Uh, that was…..”

Leach looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Wait, he just woke up. He probably wanted breakfast. It was good to share with family.

The dog smiled. “Nevermind.”

Leach gave him a thumbs up, indicating it was time for Bingo to sleep. Good, he was pretty tired. He curled up on his side and put his pack under his head. He did not bother talking to Leach any more. The bat had not spoken a single phoneme since he joined the Springheels years ago.

“Hands in the air! Now!” An unfamiliar voice. Male. Tiger. Speaking with authority. Probably a copper. Bingo’s eyes may not have been the best in the dark, but his ears worked well regardless of light level.

Danger! Adrenaline surged through Bingo. Eyes shot open and he turned over just in time to hear the gunshot.

He saw a tiger, framed with bulky muscle barely held in by his body armor and Riguri rural police uniform. The reddish-brown uniform with off white trim was unmistakable. He held a massive, pump action shotgun in his paws, likely an 8 gauge from the barrel size. He saw a thinner lion with murky yellow fur and a scraggly mane holding a carbine, his uniform and armor loose and mane sticking out under his helmet. More importantly, he saw the muzzle flash from the carbine illuminating the thicket like a solar flare.

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He also saw Leach. Eyes wide, more surprised than at any point in their countless scouting trips. The pistol was out, half drawn and his body half turned. They snuck up on him. How?! No one could sneak up on Leach! The bat never had a chance to fire. With marksmanship born of countless hours perforating paper targets, the lion punched a fresh hole an inch to the left of Leach’s breastbone. Right through the heart. It had to be a fully jacketed round. It went clean through him, entry and exit holes the size of a tart cherry. He was dead before he even hit the ground.

The tiger turned his shotgun toward Bingo. The dog cringed back. No time to run. No time to reach for his rifle. No time to mourn for Leach. His hands went high above his head. Loyal as the dog was, he did not want to throw his life away rushing one class III and another class III that could almost pass for a class VI.

“Hands in the air!” The tiger snarled and gestured with his gun. Bingo started to sweat. His hands were already in the air. He stuck them up higher. The tiger’s lip twitched some when he realized he commanded the perpetrator do something he was already doing. “I meant don’t move, scumbag!”

The lion’s eyes flicked toward him, a smirk smeared up the left side of his muzzle, and he looked back at the dog. Bingo took no comfort in the tiger’s embarrassment, having two guns pointed at him.

Make that four. A slender deer with a submachine gun moved in from the side. Crashing from the other side, breaking a few stray branches, was a wooly cow with a much larger submachine gun.

“I’m not moving and my hands are up. In the air. High in the air now and that’s good, right? Like this?” Words spilled out of Bingo’s muzzle almost in time with his rapid heartbeat.

“Just keep them where I can see them.” The tiger responded. Gun still trained on him, what choice did he have?

“Yes,” Bingo kept talking. “My hands are in view. Right here. Both up. Don’t shoot. Now or ever. I won’t move them.” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis, then stopped when he remembered that counted as moving.

“Anyone else with you?” The lion chimed in. Looking for more accomplices? Bingo and Leach were the only ones out here. Scouting parties did not work well in large crowds. If there were only these four officers, maybe he could lie to get rid of them? In his experience, coppers this far out were vastly outnumbered.

“Yes! There’s a lot of guys coming right now. Dozens of them. All with guns. Probably heard you shoot my friend. It’ll bring them and then they’ll kill you for being coppers.” A good lie could intimidate anyone.

It seemed to be working. The tiger’s facial expression changed. His eyes flicked to the wooly cow, who clutched her gun tighter. The deer glanced off to the side to see if he could spot the phantom reinforcements. The lion kept his gun trained on Bingo.

More officers loomed in. A scarred-up lion seemed to come out of nowhere. Sidling up in Bingo’s periphery, the dog cringed at the intrusion. If he would have jumped, he would have been shot, as the maned lion’s finger was very tight on the trigger. This new lion was larger. Body lean, but more filled out with muscle than his younger counterpart. A steppe lion with white fur. His left eye was the same shade of brown as dark wood. The right? Gone. A silver orb amongst the scar tissue. Even in the low light, it cast a glinting reflection. Looking at it made Bingo shiver. This was clearly the commander. The lion’s face was expressionless, eye glancing at Bingo, then his crew. He held a submachine gun of Riguri design, though Bingo did not know the exact model. In his belt was a foreign sword, another weapon he did not have a name for.

“Left flank clear.” The steppe lion intoned. “Find anything?”

“Rear flank clear.” The deer added.

“Right flank clear.” The wooly cow confirmed.

“Surroundings clear.” Another voice. Bingo turned his eyes to see another officer. A wolf with reddish brown fur. A senior? He could have sworn he saw this one somewhere before. “And he’s lying. This is a scouting party. Two spotters, looking for caravans.”

Bingo started to sweat a little more.

“Hm. The base can’t be too far away.” The steppe lion predicted.

Bingo sweated harder. Eyes flicked frenetically from officer to officer, never settling on one for too long. Bad, very bad. Their secret hideout was secret for a reason. Say something, dog! Trick them!

“Uh, we don’t have a base. It’s just us. Here. Fort shrub. Right in the fields. Right here.”

“Stop talking!” The tiger snarled. Bingo leaned back.

The steppe lion put a hand on his shoulder. “Never interrupt them when they’re speaking.” Voice calm and even, contrasting the tiger’s pressured speech tinged with anger. The touch made the tiger stiffen, then relax. He looked like he wanted to say something, but decided against it, keeping his mouth shut. Probably a past argument in his memory. One he did poorly in.

Now the steppe lion’s attention was on Bingo and he did not like it. He walked toward the dog, the action making him want to slide back. Would have done so, were it not for the carbine. Do not run; many coppers just shot you when you ran. So he heard.

The steppe lion leaned down. “No base?” He asked. “I remember you stating dozens of other bandits were on their way to reinforce your position. Do you remember?”

Bingo really needed to keep better track of his lies. The dog frowned. “Uh… I was kidding. There’s no base. Or other guys. Just me. Now.” His ears lowered as he glanced at Leech. Poor guy. He was going to miss talking at him.

“I am sorry about your friend.” The steppe lion stated. “You’re both too young for this life. Or to pull a gun on law enforcement officers. You’ve been caught before your life can get any worse.” He looked at the wooly cow. “Cuff him, Higganis.”

The wooly cow nodded. Reaching into her sidepack, she produced the metal manacles suitable for a Class I or II. Bingo had been arrested for petty theft several times before joining the Springheels, so he knew the routine. Sighing, he lowered his hands.

“Hey, I….!” The maned lion stated before the cow cut him off.

“His hands need to be down to cuff him, DeLuca. C’mon.” She snorted and patted Bingo down for weapons. She took his knife and pistol, then took his wrists. The cuffs were a lot tighter than he would like, but he was alive.

He glanced at the steppe lion, who was already going through their things. He was not asking about his friends, which was good. Heat was off. But, his mouth kept working. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the base?” Oops.

The steppe lion wore a sideways grin. He looked at the dog with pity. It felt strange, but it almost looked like the lion felt sorry for him. Not that pity that came from a noblewoman giving him a couple coins or a crust of bread, but something different. More of a ‘life is hard and I know why you’re doing this’ look. Almost… sad.

“I do not need to. Already know they’re likely no more than a couple days away. To the south, as the red clay on your boots is only found further south in the more elevated regions. Your belongings will tell me everything else I need to know.”

Bingo hung his head. He felt like crying. He just gave up all his friends without even meaning to. “Please don’t hurt my friends.” He said.

“Your friends are shit. We’re gonna wipe out as many as we can!” The deer spat at Bingo’s feet. He no longer felt like crying. He wanted to stab the deer now. Many, many, many times.

“Adamo, that’s enough. We talked about this. Control yourself.” The steppe lion countered. Just like the tiger, the light scolding was enough to quiet him.

The steppe lion glanced at Bingo. “We avoid needless killing. Your friends, however, need to be stopped. You’re stealing food and medicine from dying communities. This is not a victimless crime, no matter what anyone tells you. Be thankful you are finding out now rather than ending up another casualty.”

Bingo bristled. He wanted to disagree with the steppe lion, but could not muster the words to do it. The wooly cow hoisted him to his feet.

“What now, sir?” She asked.

“You and Sergeant Gilroy take the prisoner to the nearest city…..” The steppe lion’s eye flicked upward, thinking, then back to her. “Meclen, I believe.”

“Between this and the clay, I’m almost convinced you’ve memorized the entire dossier.” The wolf added.

The steppe lion hid his mirth at the compliment and continued. “The rest of us will travel south to find the bandit den. We’ll report over the radio when discovered.”

“Yes sir!” The deer, lion, tiger, and wolf said nearly in unison.

“Hey, I want to go too.” The wooly cow stated. “Why do I hafta escort the prisoner?”

“One should never transport a prisoner alone.” The steppe lion corrected. “And the four of us can move the fastest.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, looked away, then back. “That’s… fair.” It was true, she just did not like it.

As Bingo was led away, leaving the last scouting camp he would ever have for the Springheels, he looked at the wolf. “Um… excuse me?”

The wolf looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He waited for him to speak, but it took Bingo a few seconds to realize this.

“Could you… send someone back for Leach, please? I don’t like just leaving his body out here and he wanted a good burial.” He thought back to some of Leach’s writing. “He didn’t think he’d be able to fly if he didn’t get buried right.”

Bingo winced, expecting the wolf to laugh. Tell him they would take turns pissing on Leach’s corpse. Instead, he nodded. “We can send someone for the body later. The bush should keep it well enough hidden. We can discuss more about burial arrangements when we get you processed.”

The dog blinked. It was cold comfort, but he would take it. Maybe coppers were not the barbarians he thought?

It only took another five minutes for Tyras to figure out the directionality of the bandit camp. Not too difficult to track after that. No rain for several days, so some of the footprints leading to the thicket were still visible, if only just. He was a Scout Raider. Following trails left by enemy scouts was ingrained in him as deeply as his forte.

Adamo found this particularly impressive, almost seeing it as straight up sorcery. Tyras had to remind him, with training, he could reach that level someday. He also had to remind them to keep their helmets on. More lookouts could be hiding among the trees and rolling hills. He could spot snipers at a distance, but extra diligence was always good.

Every mile, he briefly turned on his forte, just to make sure. It was taxing, but worth it if it meant avoiding a surprise gunshot wound. Walk a mile, breathe in, illuminate the world with his second sight. Nothing but the occasional passing wildlife with every check, but the one he skipped out of complacency could have been the last. No sacrificing any of the junior officers on the altar of carelessness.

They traveled two days. The roads were far behind. They did not follow any set trail. At least, none that were on the maps. To Tyras, the trail was obvious. An hour after sunset of the second day, he passed a mental mile marker and followed his usual routine.

Breathe in, draw the light deep into his inner being. Count to four, let it course through his body. Breathe out, expelling any lingering darkness lurking inside. Just like breathing oxygen and expelling waste, there was always light to draw in and darkness to force out. He felt the world open, power rushing to his head. A familiar sensation, though it was dizzying when he first discovered it years ago.

When he opened his eyes, it felt like he had two again. The entire world was framed with silver light. Focusing outward, he could see for miles if he wished, casting vision across the landscape as though riding a dragon. This time, he focused more on the area a mile before them. Not a sightseeing tour, he sought things that walked on two legs. Through action and attire, he could discern the hostile from the simple traveler, even without delving deeper to read their intentions.

The past several miles saw nothing of note, so he was not expecting much. At the leading part of his powers began an expanse of heavily shelled hills. Pockmarked with tangled growths of hardy plants, one would almost miss the mouth of a cave. It was well camouflaged behind the same species of thickets the scouts hid in. Tyras read about such structures. They were dug as shelters and surprise redoubts for Riguri troops during the war. Consequently, the Lunists and Yavuz made their own when they pushed inland. Many changed hands and were outright destroyed, so records were incomplete. It seems this one survived. The bandits occupying it made sure to keep it hidden.

And yes, it was a bandit encampment. Hidden among the trees were two figures. One situated in a nest above the entrance, another thirty meters out amongst the overgrown vines. Both had rifles, both dressed in earth toned suits to mask their presence. Both completely motionless.

Odd. Lookouts tended to patrol or, at least, survey the area from their perches. He peered closer. No movement at all. The one above the entrance was sitting up. The one in the vines laying down. At first, he thought he was prone and staying low to avoid detection, but that was not the case. He was just lying there.

They were dead.

Tyras closed his eyes and willed away his forte. A dull blossom of nausea opened in his stomach. He quelled it with a drink of water. “Bandit camp up ahead.” He stated, placing the cap back on his canteen.

“Shit.” Adamo muttered under his breath, checking his submachine gun with the next. No questioning Tyras from any cadet. Their training knew to trust someone with his gift. If Tyras said there were bandits ahead, there were bandits ahead.

“How many?” DeLuca asked.

“Two out front, both dead.” Tyras answered.

“… huh?” DeLuca elocuted.

“Something isn’t right. Stay low, fan out. I’ll take point and alert you if I see anything else.”

The three officers nodded, taking position. No more words, training kicked in. Just because someone was inexperienced did not mean they were untrained. Hours upon hours of protocol were drilled into them. They knew what to do.

Tyras still had to compulsively check them out of the corner of his eye. Glancing at them to make sure they stayed in position. Making sure they did not stumble into traps. Keep your squad alive, soldier. No one dies this time. There was no excuse for it. It was a police action, not a hopeless charge against a maxim gun lined trench.

“Deadfall to your left.” He whispered to DeLuca. The lion noticed it and steered right. It was well concealed with stray branches, but might as well have a lighted sign to Tyras’s careful eye.

Everyone made it to the entrance. They checked the body of the lookouts first. Both had their throats slashed. Their guns remained unfired. They had no time to draw their knives or fight back; no defensive wounds. Whoever got them was quiet about it. A group? Must have been to take out two lookouts simultaneously. Not so large a group that they could not sneak up on them. Large specialist teams capable of this were rare inside proper military and vanishingly so in the outlaw world.

“What’re we dealing with, sir?” Bianchi asked, casting a glance into the entrance.

“Whoever they are, they got here before us…” Tyras muttered. He looked into the cave. Breathe in, breathe out. The world filled with silver light. Casting his vision inside, he saw the winding caverns. Turns and switchbacks, curves and redundancies for ambush spots. It was far larger on the inside than it appeared, the network of tunnels stretching some 200 meters into the earth.

Bodies lay everywhere. Three dozen, perhaps? More? A large gang, but their numbers meant little when the breath of life left them. They were not moving and Tyras did not want to spend the energy to carefully check each one. A cursory glance told them their act was not a sham, sickness, or sleep. Their cooling forms said otherwise. Deep inside the cave, Tyras saw a flicker of motion. He tried to focus on it, but it was taxing enough examining all the dead at once. He pulled back.

Another wave of nausea, another sip of his canteen. He was glad he added some ginger tea extract from one of the caravans. “Something isn’t right.” He said, looking to DeLuca.

“More inside? Do they know we’re here?” The lion asked.

“I don’t believe they know much of anything. They’re dead.”

The lion blinked. “All of them?”

“Maybe… I saw movement. I believe whoever did this is still inside. More bandits too.” Tyras checked his submachine gun. It was a Benadetto Modello 48. A rugged Riguri submachine gun highly sought after during the war. Hearty, reliable, and stable, it was easily a match or better than Osnyan equivalents. It had a wooden stock under a hand tooled, vented barrel and a long stick magazine. It was chambered in the common 9mm round, so ammo would never be a problem. He always wanted one and the hub’s quartermaster was happy to provide. It would serve him well in the tight confines of the cavern.

“What’re your orders?” Adamo asked.

Orders? Right, a plan. Tyras looked over the three junior officers. They were not ready for this. If there was a hostile entity or infighting, they would do poorly in such enclosed spaces. He did not have enough time to train them in clearing fortified positions. They were supposed to be out in the open. They should retreat. Report this to the main force and come back with more men.

But, that would mean whoever did this would get away. It would take days to reach the nearest town and just as many to come back. Maybe more, considering the scale. Tyras wanted perfection. He was curious enough that he had to know what was going on. His skill level was high enough to warrant investigating this site right now.

“Stay out here and watch the entrance. I’ll check for survivors. Or perpetrators.” Tyras glanced at the gladius tucked in his belt. Keep that ready too.

“Alone?” Bianchi raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t we cover you? We can close into a flanking position and….”

Tyras waved him off. “No. I need you three out here to catch anyone fleeing the scene.” That should work to help preserve their egos. “Form a firing line in front of the entrance and conceal yourselves as best you can.” He trained them in how to recognize and emulate sniper nests. They could do that.

“How long should we give you?” DeLuca asked.

“If I don’t return in an hour, enter, but be careful.” Tyras knew he would not need an hour. He would be out well before then.

Dim starlight shined through the cave entrance, still visible when Tyras leaned over the first checkpoint. It was only ten meters inside the cave. A makeshift table and some chairs. The table was covered in playing cards, the cards covered in blood. A raccoon slumped lifeless over the table, his head a few feet away next to the body of a dusky furred possum. Hard and fast; they had time to draw pistols, but not fire. The guns were on the ground, likely dropped directly after being drawn. No bullet wounds, still silent. Tyras wondered if they had time to scream or raise the alarm. The volume of bodies deeper in suggested not.

More of the same in the winding tunnels. He moved faster than he intended, flicking his forte on in short bursts to scan ten meters ahead of him. Just death and blood. No smell of gunpowder in the air. No one had a chance to shoot? His mind flashed back to his Scout Raider days. Sneaking into an encampment, ending people as he emerged from the darkness with nothing but his blade. What was his record for kills before they had a chance to fire? Similar to this, no doubt.

The cave opened into a large common room. It was dimly lit, the walls lined with burning oil lanterns made of glass. Most Riguri lanterns from the past decade were glass, all the brass and other metals used to feed the ammunition plants. It cast dancing shadows over the various tables, chairs, and bedrolls. Some of the bedrolls contained bodies. Sleepers never to wake again. More strewn about. Now he smelled gunpowder. Recent shots fired. With the acoustics of the cave, it was no small wonder he had not heard them. These bunkers were designed for sound not to carry. A firefight could occur in the next room and one would only hear muffled pops. Easier to set up ambushes for unfortunate invaders. Tyras turned on his forte and looked deeper into the cave.

The path arched down into a branching path. One led to a store room filled with the gang’s loot. Lots of barrels and boxes and all manner of things marked with the seals of various trading companies and charitable organizations. The other led deeper into what was once the commanding officer’s quarters. A larger room than necessary, but they often doubled as briefing rooms.

Four upright people. Finally, a group of living beings! A ten-foot-tall bear dominated the room, clad in leathers. With him was a wolf in a red silk shirt too nice for his station and a pair of rough trousers. Joining them was a long-necked weasel in a pair of linen pants with hardened leather shin and knee guards and a shirt of salvaged Riguri riot armor. They surrounded a comparatively small figure. Tyras could not get a good read on his species, but he was a class I, standing maybe five and a quarter feet tall. He was wrapped in an earth toned cloak that hid his features. Darkly stained, it blended in perfectly with the dim surroundings.

The cloaked figure must have been the infiltrator with how the three other sapiens focused on him. Tyras spied him just as he leapt off the body of a fallen ram and rushed the bear. The other three acted as quickly as they could. The bear went to the wall and grabbed a large war maul likely meant for charging trenches, but it was the closest blunt instrument. The weasel approached from behind with a wood splitting hatchet. The wolf, drew his pistol, a revolver of Osnyan design.

No chance to fire. In the cloaked figure’s right hand was a sword. The design was hard to make out because the blade swung with the speed of a warrior who made the same swing thousands upon thousands of times before. Practiced, fluid, merciless. It arced downward and severed the wolf’s limb mid forearm. Before it hit the ground, the blade sliced to the side and opened the wolf’s lower abdomen. It parted like a split seam. Intestines spilled down the wolf’s legs in a waterfall of viscera. Too stunned to know his arm was gone, he tried to track the figure with a firearm that was not there. He turned, stepped on one of his intestines, and slipped, skidding to one knee.

The figure was past him before his knee hit concrete, heading for the bear. He swung his maul at the figure in a broad sweep. He darted under it like the bear moved in slow motion, simultaneously sweeping his blade toward the back of his knee. Down the bear went, minus a leg. The figure righted himself, sprung up, and hacked the back of the bear’s neck. It did not sever the head, but did cleave through the spine and all the way to the front of the trachea. When the blade pulled back, the bear’s head flopped forward, blood flowing around the wound and down his chest.

The wolf finally realized he had been gutted alive. He put his hands to his intestines to try to push them back in, then realized he was missing one. The screaming started, then stopped when the figure swung back around and lopped off his head in one blow.

The weasel was having none of this. He turned on his heels to run. Only made it four steps before the figure was upon him. He leapt twenty feet to latch onto his back. The weasel screamed, then flailed as the figure’s hood met his neck. Bites, teeth cycling like a sewing machine. Sharp and dangerous, plunging in and out of flesh. Not just piercing, but tearing chunks out.

Then swallowing them.

Tyras turned off his forte, taking in a breath. More nausea, but not just from his powers. No matter how much he saw at war, he would never get used seeing one sapien eating the flesh of another. How long did that fight last? Five seconds? Tyras found the culprit. Whoever this person was, he was the one that wiped out the entire bandit camp. Most officers would celebrate this. Someone did their job for them.

But, he was in there with him. Possibly hostile. He had no way of knowing if this person would see him as friend or foe. He raised his submachine gun, hunkering down behind a table. If he came this way, he would have the element of surprise. He-

Something grabbed Tyras’s leg. Someone with poor trigger discipline would have opened fire right there. Instead, his attention snapped down, finger tight on the trigger and mind in threat assessment mode. Not hesitation, but knowing what you were shooting before you let loose.

One of the bandits. A black furred cat lying on his back at Tyras’s feet. Yellow eyes wide and staring. Two mouths, one natural and gasping, another across his throat. Slit, but not completely. Still alive, but too weak to rise.

He was afraid. Eyes pleaded with Tyras for aid. He was a bandit, but he was dying. Cut down by something neither he nor his entire clan could fight. Tyras could pick up emotions with his forte, but he did not need it here. Fear radiated off him. There was nothing Tyras could offer him. Nothing he could do to staunch the flow of blood.

The bandit gurgled something. The act opened the wound wider, struggles increasing the blood flow. Loss of consciousness was a mercy at that point. Let him slip into the next life. Not peaceful, but quiet.

Tyras was distracted. Thankfully, the cloaked figure was far away. He thought. Movement caught from the corner of his eye. Barely saw it approaching his blind side. Lifting his head, he saw the cloaked figure lunging at him, blade mid swing and making excellent time towards his head.

No time to adjust and fire. His barrel was pointing too far to the left. Even if he did open up with his SMG, it would keep the blade from opening his skull. His training kicked in with the only logical action.

He raised the gun, lifting with both hands to intercept the blade. It caught the blade on the barrel near the receiver, the gunmetal dense enough to halt it. Parrying with a gun, he let it go, tossing it at the cloaked man. Left hand went to his belt and drew his gladius. It came free from the scabbard easily, swinging out to cut down the cloaked figure while he was distracted by a now damaged, useless firearm.

The cloaked figure was not distracted. An untrained fighter would catch the gun and attempt to use it. He brushed it aside, letting it clatter into the darkness. His blade met Tyras’s, a resounding clang of steel on steel. Tyras followed up with a heavy kick. His leg only got a few inches off the ground before the cloaked figure closed in. He was much smaller than Tyras, but that mattered little. His foot came up and caught Tyras on the instep, using his weight and momentum to pin his foot to the ground. His other foot came up and slammed into Tyras’s abdomen.

It hit him just above his solar plexus. Unexpected blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He was only five feet tall, but the shot may as well have come from a bull prize fighter. Tyras managed to swing his right fist out, striking a blind blow to get the figure off him. He felt it connect… almost. It glanced off the figure’s chest, body knifed to deflect the blow. Another impact to Tyras’s midsection sent him staggering backwards, breaking contact with their blades. He moved to a defensive position and felt the figure do the same. He already put up a better fight than the entire bandit camp.

Tyras finally got a good look at the cloaked figure. His cloak was not his only article of clothing. The cowl covered his head and the rest draped over his shoulders and down to his thighs. He wore a pair of dark gray trousers and black boots over large feet. The leather was oiled to the point they did not creak when he moved. Poking from the cowl was a short, blunt muzzle with dark gray, almost blue fur. Natural camouflage in low light. Looking past the cowl, he saw a pair of frigid blue eyes so light they appeared gray. Wide open, looking at him, sizing him up. Tyras did not look like a bandit, but attacking him on sight showed he did not trust him.

His right paw held his weapon. It was still enough Tyras could finally get a look at it. It was a somewhat exotic sword. An oversized machete almost; about two and a quarter feet long with a broad blade curving forward. A bit like a kukri that certain tribes of the Yavuz used. For a class IV, it would have been an oversized combat knife. For him it was a very good short sword. A sword made for staying in motion, swinging, chopping. Catching and deflecting an opponent’s weapon. Momentum to carry the blade through a stronger opponent. Tyras gripped his sword tighter, raising it and pointing it at the figure.

Tyras glanced at the old blade; at the chipped steel from striking bone, at the well-worn handguard from sweaty paws, at the fuller which served as an aqueduct for blood. How many had he killed only with this sword, he wondered? How many entrails spilled, how many heads chopped off, how many hearts burst? His singular eye and the dead ball of silver locked with his opponent's icy gray eyes. It mattered not. There would be one more.

Cold eyes glinted in the dim light cast by sputtering oil lamps. Poor lighting if one was acclimated to well-lit environs, but too much if one was accustomed to the shadows. Neither at home in this place, but both familiar with the setting. Intimate violence between two warriors. Neither would yield. Neither could afford to. A rictus grin spread under that stony gaze. Fangs? No, bucked teeth. Suitable for chewing leaves, but these were streaked with blood. None of it his. No one would call him prey. As if sensing Tyras's intent, he spoke two words. "Good luck."

The figure reached up his free hand and undid the clasp of his cloak. He let it fall free, pooling at his feet. A rabbit standing before him with a sword should not have been so threatening. Tyras should have been flattered; the rabbit felt like he needed his full range of motion for the duel. Underneath, his fur was the same uniform dark gray/blue as that of his muzzle. The fur of his neck was matted with blood, having run down his chin from gnawing on the weasel and who knew how many other bandits. Long ears stuck up from his head, twitched, and folded back against his skull. He had a few scars on his arms, but none on his chest, neck, or face.

Tyras’s heart skipped a beat. The rabbit from his fever dreams standing before him. Before every atrocity late in the war, he was there. The devil on his shoulder, running ahead to lead him to carnage. The only thing missing was a Lunist uniform. Was he hallucinating? No, this was real. Could not have been the same rabbit.

The rabbit was done waiting. He lunged, closing the distance to Tyras in a heartbeat. Efficient swing, coming from Tyras’s left toward his abdomen. A rising strike along the center of the rabbit’s body, it had the potential to open him up. Tyras shuffled his feet to sidestep, bringing his gladius up to deflect the blow away from his body and lunge inside the rabbit’s guard with a well timed strike.

That was the plan. When the swords met, the rabbit shifted his weight to the right. He read the pressure Tyras put through his sword arm. Most would have missed it but, to the rabbit, it might as well have been a telegraph dispatched an hour in advance. Tyras lunged, the kukri turned, and the steppe lion overcommitted. The rabbit let the blade slide past the crook of his sword, putting enough pressure to painfully twist Tyras’s arm. He had the choice of letting the sword go, trying to move out of range, or letting the rabbit break his wrist. He pushed his leg forward, trying to outmuscle the rabbit. Easy to do, normally. He had a good three feet and 120 pounds of muscle on him. The rabbit shifted on his feet and pushed, using the stability of his stance to turn Tyras aside and step away.

The steppe lion did not get by unscathed. As they changed positions and broke, he felt the bite of cold steel rake across his inner forearm. The chopping blade of the kukri dug deep, parting fur, flesh, and scratching the muscle. Lucky. Had he lacked the skill to turn him aside, it would have been deep enough to sever tendons. Then, so much for the grip on his sword hand.

He turned to face the rabbit and found him bringing the blade to his lips. Tyras’s blood was smeared across it. Lips closed around it, sucking vital fluid into his mouth. It rolled along his tongue, tasting it like a sommelier would wine.

His smile widened. A manic chuckle from his chest. “I can taste your forte, pred.”

Tyras tilted his head. He had to be bluffing.

“Do you use it to hunt,” He continued. “Or just see through bathhouse walls? Wherever you find prey to sink your fangs into.”

He knew. So much for the element of surprise, taking advantage of his opponent assuming he had a blind side. He could no longer fake blindness, only to strike unawares. Tyras’s heart sped up. A rare forte, this, rarer still in an herbivore. He only read about it in history books from less civilized times. There were those who could gain knowledge of something by tasting it. A useful blessing for telling what plants were edible or not. Discerning poisons from things safe to eat. They were highly sought after as food tasters for paranoid nobility.

It was also a talent possessed by some of the more dangerous warlords in history. It made them fierce warriors, able to discern information from their opponents easily. A bit of blood could tell them about someone’s body structure and how they move.

In a better time, he would have made an excellent chef. Might have started training that young. Instead, he was this. As the rabbit drew his sword back to a fighting position, fires blazed behind his eyes. Without his forte, he could feel it. With it, it poured off him like smoke from a bonfire.

Hatred. The rabbit hated Tyras, even though he did not know him. A hate more ancient than the war, older than countries. Something deeper and more primal than anything even the most zealous soldiers felt for their enemies. Perhaps not as intense, but instinctual.

Tyras was left little time to ponder over this. The rabbit rushed him. Gauging his speed, the steppe lion took a step back, dropping into a broad footed stance with his left foot leading, bringing up his gladius to parry and strike. He hoped to take advantage of his longer reach to keep the rabbit at bay. It was hard to tell if it worked because the rabbit stopped slightly outside his reach.

He feigned left toward what would have been Tyras’s blind side. Tyras corrected only for him to feign right in response, then left again when Tyras overcorrected. In an instant, he was within Tyras’s guard range. Tyras attempted to lunge with a straight cut, but a rising sweep along the central axis of his body knocked the steppe lion’s gladius wide, up, and to his left, nearly jarring it from his grip. The rabbit managed to keep his elbow in and blade raised up, forcing Tyras to hyperextend. He tried to push forward, but rapidly stepped back when the kukri turned and sliced toward his chest.

A quick chop, the rabbit ducking around him, Tyras was barely able to turn to let the blade glance off his torso. Were he not wearing armor, it would have parted his muscles like a carving knife through a roast. The blade was heavy and keen enough to cut a deep furrow into his armor. Some would have got stuck, but the rabbit knew how to dislodge the blade as he moved.

He was behind Tyras now, and that was terrible. He circle stepped, sweeping his left foot around and bringing up his blade in barely enough time to deflect another chop. He pushed, trying to move the rabbit back, but it was like pressing on a green reed. Bending, not breaking, and moving in a direction contrary to his wishes. He struck out with a heavy blow from his right fist, but the rabbit was no longer there. Feet shuffled back in two quick motions, outside of Tyras’s striking range. He did not have time to recover before the rabbit was on him again. Slipping to the side of Tyras’s extended right arm, he aimed a sidelong chop to sever it.

The steppe lion would have thought fighting a shorter opponent would be easy. This was maddening. Every swing of his blade came from strange angles below his normal stance. It forced him to lean down and use smaller muscles that normally did not get much use. The flexors and extensors in his arms, back, and thighs already burned from fending off expert blows from the rabbit countered with increasingly awkward parries. He barely fended it off, staggering backward on the balls of his feet. He was used to fighting smaller opponents in the war, that was not a problem. The rabbit was on a whole different level.

Tyras was an excellent soldier. The pinnacle of what military training could produce. On the battlefield, he was a force to be reckoned with. The terror of enemy soldiers. Able to overcome their training with superior discipline. The rabbit was not a soldier, but he was a warrior. The trenches and fields were not his element. These dimly lit tunnels, picking off bandits from the shadows and slicing through them with more sophisticated force was his element, and this was the one Tyras had to fight him in. Never allow your opponent to set the terms of battle, but sometimes you did not have a choice. A martial arts practitioner, one developed by rabbits to fight enemies much larger than themselves. The style was uncommon due to the war. Reaching mastery took years that soldiers could not afford, but this rabbit seemed to have been training for a long time. Tyras recognized it from books. Recognizing it was far easier than countering it.

If he could not beat him with technique, perhaps he could with savagery? The rabbit moved to a ready stance out of Tyras’s reach, but the lion did not wait for him. Hoping he was off balance from the move, he lunged. Sword swinging, he raked out with his free hand. Sharp nails could peel meat from bones. All prey animals feared a lion’s claws. Instinct should have made the rabbit flee.

He parried the gladius effortlessly, blade guided harmlessly to the side. Flash of black claws in his periphery, but he did not cringe, squeal, or cower. Not even a flinch. Feet slid forward, the rabbit’s free arm coming up in a straight blow. His forearm met Tyras’s elbow along the central left of his body. Simultaneously a block and a strike, it guided the lion’s limb past him so his claws sliced harmlessly through the air.

The steppe lion did not panic. Close enough to punch was close enough to bite. He already anticipated this; the blow was aimed at Tyras’s jawline. Opened mouth, teeth shining in the oil lights. Closed again when the rabbit’s palm slammed into the bone. His head jerked back on his neck, rocking his entire body as the rabbit used his powerful legs to push upward, throwing his entire body weight into the small surface area of his palm. Tyras tasted blood. He staggered back on his heels, the world blurring.

But the rabbit was not done. His guard open, the lion got the entire brunt of his follow up. A flurry of three kicks. Groin, abdomen, and a leaping swing to the other side of his jaw. Every impact drove him backwards. Every one felt like a hammer swung by an ox. Class Is were not supposed to hit this hard. Class Is were supposed to wilt when going hand to hand with anything bigger. Who was this guy?

Tyras found himself flying backwards, his blade falling from his hand. A thousand miles away, he heard it hit the floor. He landed in a heap not long after, on his back and staring at the rocky ceiling. Black edges closed in on his dimming vision. Consciousness was floating away from him. He breathed in sharply to will his mind back into focus. Breathe out the darkness clouding his perception. Passing out meant death in a fight like this. He could not afford it. A wife to a widow, a son now fatherless. Could not leave them. The junior officers? They could not hope to fight the rabbit. When he was done with him, they would be next.

He had to keep fighting. The rush of blood and surge of adrenaline brought him to his feet. He rolled onto the balls of them, the room spinning briefly before settling where it should be. Left hand was empty. His sword!

It slid to his side. He picked it up and looked to the rabbit. He was standing back, idly swinging his kukri, waiting. The realization that he kicked the blade to Tyras was not lost on him. Why? As he stood up and held it at ready, he knew why. The rabbit was toying with him.

The manic grin spread over the rabbit’s bloodstained muzzle. “Good. Don’t run, pred.” He held out his kukri, knifing his body toward Tyras with his right foot in the lead. “You’ve seen what I do when they run.”

“I don’t want to fight you.” Tyras stated, hoping some semblance of reason remained in the rabbit. “I’m not a bandit. I’m an officer working with the Riguri constabulary, here to end the bandit raids.”

Reason left long ago. The rabbit’s eyes blazed. “Can’t fool me!” He yelled and lunged. Crossing the distance in three steps, Tyras retreated like he was avoiding an advancing tide. He did not expect the lunge and the last attack made him want to keep more distance between himself and the rabbit. More cautious. He could not rely on his size or exploiting the mind of a prey animal.

The rabbit even bit, so he had to avoid his teeth. Were this an opera or comedy, there would be something amusing about a lion fearing being eaten by a rabbit, but he was not laughing.

A flurry of strikes descended upon Tyras. While he did not have the rabbit’s movements down, the rabbit had his. He tried to parry wherever possible. Moving his blade to intercept each strike, but each pressed on him terribly. His muscles strained. The larger ones felt fine. All his smaller ones screamed from overuse as his blocks slowed.

Not all of them were successful. The blade found his flesh repeatedly. A gash over his thigh, another on his bicep. Two on his sides. Each wound was deep enough to hurt and bleed, but not hit anything vital. Blood flowed down his arms, legs, and sides.

He was wearing out. The rabbit was not. Whether his strength came from conditioning or madness was academic. He could not outlast him and not out muscle him. Sometimes, the blows felt like they were coming from three directions at once. Tyras was keenly aware of the openings the rabbit forced him to make. His throat was exposed at points, but the rabbit did not slash it. He could have killed him at any moment. Why?

The realization hit him with the force of one of the rabbit’s kicks. He was prolonging the fight on purpose. He wanted Tyras to feel it. To get exhausted. To hurt. To feel weak, powerless, outmatched. Afraid. He was the lion breaking a rabbit’s legs, slowly pulling him apart before devouring him. His hatred was such he wanted Tyras to suffer.

Which was why Tyras was guiding him toward the back wall. Easy to do, as the rabbit was driving him back, but he tried to steer him closer to several oil lamps. Stepping back, leaning away from the surgical swings of the kukri to bait the rabbit into pressing him further. Not without risks, he was bleeding from over a dozen wounds by the time they were where he wanted.

One chance. Twice, the rabbit answered a particular swing with a particular counter. It was an effective reprisal for his technique, one the rabbit practiced through years of sparring. He only hoped he would do it again.

Tyras lunged with a straight cut to the rabbit’s head. He brought his blade along the center line, upward to parry it. It was successful, knocking the lion’s gladius up and to the left. It collided with an oil lantern. The fragile glass, thin from years and years of use, shattered when struck. Flickering flames ignited the oil, cascading sparkling fire downward onto Tyras’s chest armor. He was tall enough to avoid getting any on his face. The rabbit was not.

Unexpected fire was enough to startle even the most hardened warrior. The rabbit shrieked as flaming glass struck the side of his muzzle. Dazzling and burning. Not enough to really injure, if brushed off quickly enough. The rabbit’s free left paw swiped at his face to bat away the embers. A soldier would have known what to do to compensate. Swinging forward to keep the opponent at bay and recover. But, he was no soldier.

Tyras nearly felt the sting of the kukri once more. The rabbit swung upwards to rend the flesh of his taller opponent. It was close. Had Tyras not moved with a strike of his own, he would have lost more than a couple whiskers. His blade finally connected with the rabbit. A blind swing, low and uncontrolled. The strongest he could muster with his exhausted body.

It hit. The upper portion of his abdomen, a few inches above his belly button, opened up. The gladius hit no organs, but severed muscles. Bending would hurt. Breathing would hurt. Moving would hurt.

The rabbit staggered backward. Face free of flames, but an entirely new problem. He put his left paw to his stomach, feeling his own blood and seeing it brighten his gray/blue fur. Icy blue eyes met Tyras. What had never happened before, what was not supposed to happen, finally happened. The pain hit him. Gritting his teeth, he fell to his knees.

Tyras should have ended him there. He held his sword up, battle ready. The rabbit still held his kukri. Even like this, he was dangerous, and Tyras could not seem to will his exhausted legs forward. Body near collapse, all he could do was stare him down.

“Go on…” The rabbit spat, malice in his eyes. His lips peeled back, baring his teeth like a wolf showing fangs. “You took it… finish what’s on your plate!”

Tyras stared. His head tilted. Plate?

The inaction did not please the rabbit. “… What are you waiting for?” His lip twitched. “Feel bad now? After everything?! You already ate everyone else!” His voice rising in volume, screaming despite his wounds. “I got the rest of you! You’re left! More for you! Do it!”

Body worn, but mind sharp, it fell into place. Not a soldier, never in the war, but he felt it. He was not even an adult. By Tyras’s estimation, he was only fifteen years old. That would have made him twelve at the end of the war.

Some of the border communities of Riguri were subjected to intense sieges. With a prolonged period of inertia for a city, supplies ran low. When supplies ran low, families often had to do what they must to survive, no matter how distasteful.

“The war’s over. It’s been over for a long time.” Tyras stated.

“IT’S NEVER OVER!” The rabbit screamed, leaning forward. The grip on his blade tightened. “You ate my family! You ate my friends!” Icy blue eyes softened, blinking. Tears formed around the edges. Misery underneath the rage. Despair from someone who never got to grieve. “I saw you do it, lion! Times get hard and we’re all just meat to you! It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. And again! AND AGAIN!” The tears flowed freely, rolling down his cheeks. “… So do what comes natural. Do it!”

The rumors were not exaggerated. Tyras recalled one report of a besieged town where a small group of lions and wolves supplied meat to the townsfolk. Everyone was too hungry to question where it came from. They were just thankful to have it. One day, they all disappeared. The authorities searched their home and found them. Their bodies were upstairs, slashed to ribbons. All accounted for, all dead. The bigger surprise came when they searched the rest of the house; specifically the basement. A makeshift slaughterhouse greeted them. Herbivores of all types, many of whom had been missing themselves, were found in various stages of butchery. Were they not already dead, they would have been executed, though that would have been cold comfort for the dozens slain.

“What happened to your family should never happen to anyone. Especially not to a young boy.” Tyras stated. “Though it may not mean much to you, I’m sorry. War makes monsters of us all.”

The rabbit’s sword grip loosened. He gazed up at Tyras. The flames of hate in his eyes flickered. “I don’t want your sympathy… I had to do horrible things.”

He nodded. “I know. Desperation is likely how you found out you could eat meat. With your gift, being forced to eat those you knew... I cannot imagine the pain you went through.”

The rabbit looked away, but only for a second. He too knew his opponent was still dangerous. “It’s not a gift. The gods are cruel.”

“No crueler than men.” Tyras replied. “It’s why we do everything we can to make the world better, so others don’t have to suffer the way we have. It’s why we fight.” The rabbit’s eyes locked with Tyras’s. “And why you do what you do. You don’t wish others to suffer either. I hold no ill will to you for any of this.”

“… I could have killed you any time.” The rabbit tilted his head.

“I know.” Tyras managed a smile, which may have looked unnerving. He was still bleeding freely from his mouth. The steppe lion threw down his sword. The fight was over, come what may.

The tears flowed fresh. He blinked, looking away. He sniffed and dropped his sword. It clattered to the ground. He smiled, though his teeth were just as bloody as his.

No fight in either of them now. Arms laid down. At least someone from all the carnage would live another day. Help the rabbit up and bring him in.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the carbine’s barrel. Were they approaching on his blind side, he would have missed it. His ear flicked, hearing the squeezing of a trigger, anticipating the pull. Were it not so quiet and he not so elevated, he would have missed that too.

Tyras lashed out with a paw. Not to wound or maim, just to divert. He only managed to push the barrel a couple inches off course, but it was enough. The gun went off, report echoing in the chamber. The injured rabbit, cowering away, moved just enough that the bullet only grazed his right shoulder. Had Tyras not intervened, it would have went through his chest.

Tyras wheeled around to lock eyes with a bewildered DeLuca. His lips pursed, eyes wide. Fear, though not of the steppe lion. He was running on high alert from witnessing tunnels lined with the dead.

“DeLuca!” Tyras barked. “Stand down!” Mind briefly flicked back to the war. Just a moment, forgetting he was a senior officer talking to a junior, not a soldier convincing another to spare a prisoner of war.

“He’s dangerous! He has a sword!” DeLuca retorted, voice shaking more than his hands.

“That’s an order!” The force of Tyras’s command convinced the maned lion to let go. Tyras snatched the rifle from him.

“Sorry sir!” DeLuca held up his hands. Tremors made his fingers dance. “I mean, did you see the bodies? These are dangerous… I mean… Did you do this? You scout raiders don’t fuck around…”

Tyras shook his head. “I didn’t. It was…” He turned to point at the rabbit. His finger pointed at empty space.

“… He’s gone?” DeLuca stated the obvious.

Tyras’s pulse quickened. Was the rabbit’s story a ruse? Did he intend to ambush them again? His eye darted around the room, trying to find any trace of him. He had not retrieved his cloak. The sword was still there. Even if he left it, he could have another somewhere.

Tyras broke into a sweat. The rabbit could be in any shadow. He was probably watching him now. He had to find him. To give chase. He would not get away. Not again. The rabbit always led him to bodies. To carnage. Even during the war. He had to follow the rabbit at any cost!

He would use his forte. It had not worked in the past, but it had to now. It just had to! Unfocused, he willed the light in and forced himself to see beyond his normal sight.

The world flickered in silver, but dimmed rapidly. The fatigue, blood loss, and a minor concussion met at the same intersection. Together, they pulled Tyras into unconsciousness. DeLuca barely had enough warning to catch him as he fell.

Tyras woke up outside the bunker. His wounds were bandaged far better than he could have expected. Turns out Bianchi wanted to be a nurse before joining the force. Decided he did not like dealing with body fluids other than blood, so his career choice was made. Adamo handed him a cup of coffee. Acidic, bitter, and gritty, he downed it like ambrosia. It was the best coffee he had in years. Drinking it helped stabilize reality. No phantom rabbit, just the one he fought.

They were all safe. The rabbit was gone. Adamo and Deluca searched the bunker top to bottom. No trace of him, save for the spilled blood, his weapon, and his outer covering. Tyras attempted to use his forte to find him, but did not dare extend his vision farther than a hundred meters. No trace of him there either. Even with an injury like that, the motivated could run for some time.

He was angry with DeLuca, briefly. He asked why he came after him so quickly. It turned out he was fighting the rabbit for nearly an hour. Put the struggle into perspective. There was a lecture in the lion’s future about trigger discipline. For now, he just wanted to go back and report what they found. Put out a tracer looking for someone of the rabbit’s description.

He was not hopeful. There was a lot of land and a lot more abandoned forts out there. More bandit nests too. Hopefully, they would find them before the rabbit.

Five years passed. Riguri was in much better shape. Bandit raids had lessened. Still a problem, but not on a grandiose scale. Many communities recovered. So Tyras heard. He returned home after three more months of service. All the junior officers now had careers of their own and were mentoring junior officers of their own.

Small joys and small respites were a rare treat, especially for someone as busy as Tyras. Rhodika and he had a night to themselves. Sabina was watching Cyprian and their baby daughter, so they were quite safe. Achlos, Eldar, Kiah, and Rafil could entertain themselves for a night. Tonight was theirs.

They decided on a nice dinner. They chose a restaurant that, up until six months ago, had a reputation for food of middling quality at best. Lately, one had to make a reservation to get a table. Rhodika made theirs the day prior and still only managed to get a time an hour before closing.

As Tyras ate, he could see why. The restaurant’s focus was Riguri cuisine, so he ordered a pasta dish. His wife went with a beef dish marinated in white wine and paired with roasted potatoes and vegetables. Their plates came out faster than expected, deposited before them by the smiling waitress, an elderly gray fox named Carmen. She worked there thirty years and was not shy about saying so. Tyras was adequately pleased with his food’s appearance. Broad noodles with a red sauce and black shelled mussels, plated nicely. The sauce had heat to it, spicy but not overly so. It warmed, but did not burn, and was balanced out with cream and herbs. The mussels tender and slightly sweet. The pasta had a little olive oil on it to help the sauce stick. Tyras ate every bite, sopped the remaining sauce up with the generous portion of bread given, and pondered eating the discarded mussel shells, plate, and silverware.

“This is well beyond my expectations.” Tyras commented.

“If all Riguri cuisine is like this, we might have to immigrate.” Rhodika chuckled. She cleaned her plate as well.

“Thank you. Glad you enjoyed everything.” The silver fox waitress materialized next to them in that way waitstaff did when least expected. “Did you save room for dessert?”

Tyras and Rhodika looked at each other. The answer was no, but coffee and cake were a perfect cap to such a meal.

“If the same person who cooked the main course is responsible for the desserts, how could we refuse?” Tyras stated. The stomach for dessert was separate from the stomach for food, after all.

“We have a pastry chef for that, but he follows the head chef’s recipes.” Carmen commented. “I recommend the white peach tart. It goes nicely with coffee.”

“Quite talented, isn’t he?” Tyras commented.

“Oh, yes, we’re very lucky.” Carmen wrote something down on her notepad. Had to take stock of orders for the inevitable bill. “Just showed up a couple years ago. We hired him as a dishwasher. Eight months ago, our head chef up and quit in the middle of dinner. He kind of just took over the kitchen. Food improved a lot since then.”

“A dishwasher to a head chef?” Rhodika raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like something out of an embellished biography.”

“Heh, he doesn’t talk about it much, but I assume he had some classical master training him in Riguri or something.” Carmen flicked a paw. “He tastes the ingredients all the time. Says that’s enough for him to know how to use them.”

Tyras felt an itch in the back of his head he could not explain.

“I’d very much like to meet him. Wouldn’t you, Tyras?” Rhodika asked.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course.” Tyras half said, half mumbled. The gears in his head were turning. No, could not be.

“Oh, of course. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. And I’ll be back out with your desserts as soon as I can.” Carmen walked away before Tyras could ask any follow up questions.

He looked to Rhodika. Brow furrowed, thinking. She knew that look. Her head tilted and she asked “Something wrong?”

Tyras had to think for a moment. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just an odd feeling.” He had to quell his paranoia. The war was eight years ago. Jumping at shadows was a habit he needed to break.

He thought. The chef approached from Tyras’s back, out of view. His footsteps were so silent the lion did not hear him until he spoke. “Good evening. Carmen said you wanted to speak to me?”

That voice was familiar. Tyras turned his head.

“Yes, the food was wonderful. We just wanted to thank you in person.” Rhodika said.

“I’m glad you-“ The chef stopped talking when Tyras met his gaze. Wood brown and silver meeting icy blue.

The figure before him was a rabbit. Fur so dark gray it was nearly blue. His body was trim and muscular, odd for a person with access to lots of delicious food. A sure sign of maintained physical conditioning throughout his life. He was tall for a rabbit, six feet not counting his ears. He was dressed in a white chef’s jacket, black slacks, and leather shoes designed to grip the floor and not skid on spilled food.

The rabbit. He was here. Older, dressed differently, lacking blood in his fur, but it was him. The teenager was now a man. Sword exchanged for a ladle, he did not look a warrior, but was built like one. No mistaking it either. Tyras knew his face, his eyes, the scars on his forearms visible with his rolled up sleeves.

Tyras stood up, not making any threatening moves. Just because they met again did not mean he was hostile, but he was not taking any chances. He stood at ready to defend both himself and Rhodika. This time, he would not get the drop on him. No surprises.

The rabbit looked up at him. Eyes were wide, but looked different than last time. He could not read them. No strong emotions coming from the rabbit. It was like seeing him made the rabbit go blank.

His expression softened. A slight frown. Icy blue eyes warmed, rimming with moisture. Tyras found out he was still very, very fast. Before he could react, the rabbit lunged.

Tyras stiffened, bracing himself… and felt the rabbit wrap his arms around his waist. He buried his face in Tyras’s chest, holding him close like a dear friend he had not seen in several decades.

He was not sure how to react. He stood there, arms at his sides, processing this turn of events. His ears flicked and he heard it.

“Thank you for being good… Thank you for being good…” Over and over again. He looked down. The rabbit was crying. Not ashamed, letting the tears flow.

An outpouring of gratitude rushed forth. Pain from long ago erased with a simple gesture of kindness five years ago. Brokenness partially healed by the sparing of a life. His life. The feeling so warm, so pure, so genuine that, for the very smallest of moments, Tyras felt forgiven for every life he took during the war.

Only the smallest of moments. The one could never overcome the many.

But, he appreciated it. Tyras smiled and put his arms around the rabbit.

“Tyras… Who’s this?” Rhodika asked.

The steppe lion just smiled. “The man who nearly killed me five years ago.”

Often, life was not fair. Every once in a while, it gave you a break.