The commander surrendered his name when he earned command, the word commander serves as both his title and name. His band of fighters need no name other than, ‘the army’. They do nothing for self, or comradery; united in a mission to find an alternative place where humanity can prosper. Their sole loyalty is to the bunker-like compound they called home. Half male and half females aged 5 to 7 years old, born as a response to a rapid drop in sustenance and uncertainty of survival. Their bodies rapidly maturing making them physically twice as old as their birth year implies. Mothers and fathers desperate to keep their pocket of humanity alive, birthed them for the sole purpose of securing another area to safeguard the continued existence of humans.
This army was lured northward from the beginning, seeking a climate that was less daunting during the ashen extended winters. They left as untested girls and boys. Over the last two years they’ve fought dozens of battles, against similar bands to their own and against fortified positions like the compound they’re approaching now. Small armies are always invited to join, some accept, others listen to their violent instincts and choose to fight. Whatever the decision, one army is on the march the following day. Each soldier looking identical with the same grey skin, the same brown eyes, the same brown hair, all of them born, living, and dying through a cycle of crisis.
Located in the center of the army camp is the command pavilion. Prior to a battle the commander will have his sergeant and whichever spearhead is due up in the rotation, meet for battle assignments.
The commander turns to his sergeant, “Where’s the lazy one, goes by Langrid?”
“He received the same instructions as everyone else,” was all the sergeant had to say. His other four spearheads are here on time to receive their instructions. Langrid will likely show up as they’re leaving or at the last minute as they’re lining up in formation.
The commander has never been impressed with Langrid’s performance. He has a reputation as a fader, after the initial clash he won’t advance, when it’s his job to do exactly that, advance the battle line. “If we didn’t need him for this assault, I’d kill him here and now. If he’s suspected of fading again, I’ll try him as a traitor, and he’ll dangle at the end of a rope before we march again.
Leaving the rest of the session to the sergeant, the commander moves to a corner of the pavilion where a quiet individual sits on one of two chairs in front of a field desk. He pauses mid-step as does everyone else to ride out a minor earthquake, The daily quakes, being much lighter here on the northern coast, are a welcome change. The quake finishes in under two minutes. The commander looks over the quiet man before him. Dressed the way they found him, in peacetime clothes made of denim. The pants and jacket, once common, are now luxury items. In contrast the soldiers to a man wear matching stained green and brown fatigues, splotches of color that were once bright and vibrant are now faded and dull with threadbare patches showing the original light brown of the fabric spun from cave rat fur. The commander takes his chair behind the small desk and waits for the sergeant to finish his briefing.
The sergeant meticulously outlined each of their positions and responsibilities. The assault on the front gate would be spearheaded by the missing Langrid. His success would be welcome but is a feint. The large frontal attack formation will shift clockwise after the first clash doubling the number of scalers on the east wall in an attempt to overwhelm the defenders. It will be up to Langrid and his small forward force to knock down the gate. After revealing the battle plan and assigning roles the four spearheads are dismissed. This left the sergeant, the commander, and the quiet individual alone. The sergeant knows he isn’t needed until they march, he leaves without a word.
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The commander isn’t happy with the current situation. He took this man on in an advisory role, in spite of him having red hair, for one reason: a promise of power. This stranger approached the commander after slipping past their picket line in their last engagement. He offered to show them a secret entrance to his people’s compound in exchange for allowing him to travel with the army and develop his abilities. The commander had his sergeant check him out and learned that the stranger was already stronger and more skilled than all of them. When asked exactly what he was developing, the stranger gave a demonstration. He snapped a half dozen twigs from a nearby branch. Then laid them out in the form of a stick man, cracking the twigs where joints belonged for elbows and knees. Then he sat with his eyes wide open looking at the stick man until it starts to move. The little stick golem stands up and takes a fighting stance and starts to pantomime an army drill.
The stranger sat back and said, “Now imagine that made out of tree trunks.”
He had the commander with that little demonstration, for a while anyway. That was four months ago and there are no five-yard-tall tree golems leading his battles.
“Where are my giant wooden soldiers?”
Annoyed by the questioning of his abilities, the quiet denim clad man fails to keep a note of irritation out of his response, “I told you; I can make you as many as you want. Making them useful is the problem. I haven’t worked out a way to make them fight like humans.”
“You showed me a stick man doing drills, why can’t you make a big version of that?”
“Unless you can talk your opponents into walking into your tree man’s attack drills, they won’t be of any use. They have no mind of their own, they only do what I program them to do.”
“That sounds like a perfect soldier to me.”
“If you had true weapons like pikes, we could have them advance as a block to break up formations, or bows, they could fire in volleys. They are of no use with these worthless shovels.”
“Those shovels have killed more men than any sword, don’t dismiss their effectiveness in the hands of a killer.”
“Precisely my point. My golems are not killers, they are machines. Like the one I made for breaching the gate. It would be useless if your soldiers do not place it against the gate and activate it.”
The commander, knows where this is going, stops talking for a moment before changing tactics.
“When you came to me and were willing to betray your family and everyone in your compound, I was dubious of your motives. But accepting your terms lost me nothing. If your information was not helpful, I would have killed you.” Commander pauses again to assess if his message was clear, as usual he couldn’t read this man, so he continued. “I’ve allowed you to travel with us and continue your research between marches. I’ve tolerated your need for double rations on account of your size and generation. Your very appearance creates trouble amongst the ranks of my men. “If you can’t deliver what you promised me, I see no reason to deliver on my promise. You are dismissed.”
The commander picked up and opened a ledger that was sitting on the field desk and pretended to read it until the troublesome redhead left.
The denim clad redhead exits the pavilion and without a word leaves the camp for the last time, while an aftershock rumbles the ground beneath his feet.