Achlos was no stranger to waiting rooms.
Adventure novels may portray bounty hunters as little better than vigilantes, riding into a town, seeing some outlaw’s sneering face hanging off the wall of the Sheriff's office with a comfy sum of money below it and deciding on a whim to take it.
They then figure out where the wanted men are faster than the dim witted lawmen, striding into their lair alone, taking out all of the ne'er-do-well's cohorts in a haze of gunsmoke, then hogtying the bounty and carrying them back to the city, plopping them down on the confounded Sheriff's desk like a hunter with the carcass of a prized feral. Then of course, walking away with a sackful of money for their efforts.
Yet as always, fiction but only took a branch from the tree that is the truth, then presented it as an entire orchard.
Even in the smallest towns, they didn’t let just anyone be a bounty hunter, and at the very least a document proving the lack of criminal convictions of the prospective hunter was necessary, if not a full-on bounty hunting license in some states. And once he brought back his quarry, alive or dead, a whole fiasco of red tape, inquiries, investigations and probing followed.
And if the wanted party didn’t go down without a bullet in their chest, gods have mercy on the man who administered it, for if the outlaw didn’t end them, the paperwork would.
“Wanted: Dead or Alive”, contrary to popular belief, does not mean “just kill them if you want to”. When a bounty had to be killed, Achlos was usually part of a larger posse, which mostly solved the legal issues as he had lawmen vouching for him. The one time he killed a bounty on his own, he spent the night in jail while the Sheriff made sure he didn’t just murder his target in cold blood for expedience.
He’d once seen some poor young schmuck jackal who thought he could handle hunting outlaws for a living grabbing the first bounty he saw, walking up to the wanted man as he was having a drink in a saloon the next town over and putting a bullet in the back of his head. The hanging that was being prepared for the criminal was instead dedicated to the newly minted bounty hunter, now a murderer in the first degree.
And just like bounty hunting, the formation of an elite reserve unit was a far cry from the romanticized pages. He’d sat in a waiting room not much unlike the one he was sitting in now during Mountain Hunter selection. Though, granted, noticeably hotter, probably because it lacked the cooling feature of a wall caved in by an artillery shell which no one had had the time, resources or drive to fix back then.
There were about twenty officers in the room. Most of the uniforms were the standard midnight blue of the Ignisdava Constabulary, yet there were also quite a few members of the Riot Amelioration Unit, or RAU, though they were popularly known as “The Crimsons”, named after their menacing crimson uniform with black trim, looking decidedly more regal than their ‘bobby’ counterparts. A couple of them were even still wearing their heavy yet flexible plate armor protecting their torso, groin and shoulders, dented and scratched in places from clubs, blades and improvised missiles thrown by angry mobs, as if to prove a point.
Achlos had heard of them, spoken either in admiration of their exquisite training and discipline, or fear and disdain for their brutality. They had been formed almost immediately after the War’s conclusion and Osnya annexed Alexandrian regions which were either historically Osnyan or had a majority Fakonan population, which sparked violent riots and uprisings by Lunist citizens against what they saw as their sworn nemesis occupying their lands.
Therefore, elite constables and war veterans were handpicked to serve in a new unit specialized in ‘quelling’ such demonstrations, and ancient battle tactics which had largely been obsolete since the advent of gunpowder were called upon as a solution. And with their red capes, large rectangular wooden shields and tight ranks, the Crimsons did indeed evoke images of Augustan-era soldiers, only instead armed with staffs and batons instead of short swords… mostly.
The RAU had been at the center of scandals related to their conduct more than once. One particularly egregious case had involved a mass Lunist riot in an occupied city a few months after the armistice was signed, and during the chaos, a unit of 40 Crimsons ended up being surrounded by an angry mob over 200 strong, charging them with swords, axes, heavy wrenches, clubs, throwing stones, molotovs other improvised, yet brutal weapons.
However, the Crimsons had also decided on that day to carry their blades.
In a way, one could look at this incident as a testament to the Crimson’s skill.
47 dead rioters, with the rest maimed or arrested, with only two casualties for the RAU when they were outnumbered five to one.
The Crimsons had earned their namesake that night… and their infamy.
Indeed, all of the red-garbed officers in the room had an automaton-like coldness to them, barely moving a muscle, seeming to blink as if on command every ten or so seconds. It made Achlos suppress a shudder.
It’s why the dire wolf stood out. Despite all of his comrades looking like they came right off the parade ground, his own red and black uniform seemed even more pristine and looked after, as if it had just left the seamstress’s needle, and his thick charcoal-gray fur was so neatly groomed, it almost looked like it was part of his uniform. However, his eyes wandered, looking over each and every other candidate, one paw casually slung over a knee.
The moose felt deeply out of place. He wasn’t the only one not in a police uniform, there were a couple of suited inspectors, yet just like how soldiers have certain mannerisms and ticks no amount of acting can imitate, so do cops, and he lacked fluency in their non-verbal language. He was an interloper, and they sensed it. He could feel their suspicious, unwelcoming eyes on him.
After about 30 minutes of waiting, the large wolf shuffled in his seat to cross the other leg over the knee and he took a book out of his knapsack. The title read “Lectures And Notes” by an author whose long foreign name he didn’t dare even attempt to try to mentally read. Clearly a philosophy book.
Somehow this banal showcase of the scantest of individuality warmed Achlos to the canine more than any of his stone-faced Crimson brethren. It wasn’t just that, either. Everyone here was a veteran; Tyras’s conditions for entry necessitated at the very least one year of service, yet not everyone was a soldier. Achlos couldn’t quite formulate it, yet in his opinion, merely fighting in a war did not a soldier make. It was a conscious lifestyle choice, a dedication and a promise, not just a job.
Tyras, for instance, was a soldier through and through. Oh, he was other things. A family man, a constable, even a bloody musician, yet no matter what else the world tried to make of him, no matter what he became, he was still a soldier. He spoke, acted and thought like a soldier and nothing would ever change that, for better or for worse. Achlos was sure that if someone were to ask Tyras what he was, the first thing he’d answer would be “I’m a soldier”.
And this wolf was a soldier. He certainly had the scars to prove it. There was a cut above his left eye from a bullet graze, and a nasty stitching line across the side of his neck where a bayonet had narrowly missed the jugular. He’d fought for far longer than just the single obligatory year. Both his scars and demeanor showed it.
A few chairs to his left, someone stood out far from the sea of well pressed navy blue uniforms. It was a tiny turquoise-colored uniform with white trim, breaking up the neat logical row of the identically-clothed constables.
It was a rabbit doe, standing head and shoulders below the lanky dog and the ram who flanked her. Her fur was mostly white in color, everything around her hazel eyes upwards being of a cinnamon hue, like a half mask an outlaw would wear.
Class I mammals had been allowed in the Osnyan Army a year after the war began, both because they couldn’t be picky about soldiers, and because the Lunists had proven that the mobility and smaller size of such mammals made them excellent scouts and light infantry. And around the middle of the war, once tanks and airships became a new force on the battlefield, engineers quickly realized that if the crew were smaller mammals, there could be more operators in a single vehicle, or a smaller, more mobile vehicle that allowed the same crew size.
Her uniform was that of the Non-Conflictual Pacification Unit, or NCPU, which was why it also resembled more the pleasant, elegant suit of a bank clerk than the standard uniform, which by and large followed military patterns. Unlike every other constable, they were usually unarmed, save for a concealed snub-nosed revolver and switchblade for emergencies, as their main purpose was to put unstable people at ease and persuade suspects to come quietly, therefore the lack of weapons, and the uniform’s coloring was designed to have a subliminal calming effect. It also served to subconsciously separate them from the greater police force in the eyes of a criminal.
The “Turquoise” or “Baby Blues” as they’d come to be known, were largely responsible for the Osnyan PD’s reputation as one of the most professional police forces in the world, yet unfortunately it often also meant they were the butt of many jokes for many fellow officers, mostly related to questioning their masculinity, though Achlos doubted comments of those nature had much of an effect on the doe before him.
The dog next to her (a… borzoi, they were called?) was fidgety, shaking his leg and looking everywhere except at anyone around him. He seemed to wish to be anywhere but there at that moment. The doe sneakily tapped him on the leg and he seemed to calm down slightly at that.
Dogs were thankfully not actively subjugated by the Osnyan government like in many areas of the world, including some states of Nyter Achlos had been in, yet from the little he’d observed, that unfortunately did not mean that people didn’t generally treat them with contempt and distrust.
There were many who believed they weren’t even meant to exist, as they hadn’t been created by the gods, but by experimentation and meddling with Nature which most people found unspeakable.
Achlos unbuttoned the topmost buttons of his shirt and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
A small party of officers got up, presumably to go outside. They were stopped by a uniform standing at the entrance:
“Sorry. If you leave now, you lose the opportunity. Leftenant Maloko was most clear on that point.”
“What? We’re just going to the washroom! This bloody heat is unbearable! Is the heating busted?”
“You can leave, but you’ll lose the opportunity.”
“Excuse me? He’s not letting us go for a piss?!” One of the Crimsons, a tall burly caracal, got up. “What does he think he’s doing? Is this how to gain the respect of your men?” He asked behind him. All of his red-garbed comrades agreed in unison, their discontented voices adding to the clamor. All, but one. The wolf stayed behind, still reading his book. It must have been quite a heavy read, for his brow was knitted in concentration. Suddenly, the stifling heat seemed to lessen. It didn’t get colder per se, but it was as if the heat around him were suddenly absorbed by an unseen force. Achlos appreciated the momentary relief.
Several of the regular constables joined the revolted Crimsons, until a good half of the room was all but holding a protest demanding for the reprieve of going for a drink of water or a quick leak.
Eventually, when it became obvious that the officer guarding the doorway wouldn’t budge, they settled down, grumbling and mumbling curses.
Another hour passed, and a good few officers, defeated by thirst, choking heat and the increasingly irking stench of sweating bodies, decided to leave. Achlos was tempted for a moment to join them, despite Tyras having already all but officially recruited him. His physiognomy was made to tolerate extreme cold, which had made him an excellent mountain scout and sniper. Unfortunately, that advantage turned into a curse whenever he had to deal with the heat, something he sorely learned in the desert states of Nyter. Yet, just like he’d endured that vast country’s endless deserts and humid swamps, he endured a few more minutes of uncomfortable heat.
Finally, the door swung open. Tyras’s gaunt, yet imposing figure walked in, a clipboard in his paws as he looked over the gathered officers. They were a mess. The air stank of sweat and the coppery aroma of artificial heating that’s been left on for too long. Everyone looked as if they were done running a marathon. Most looked up at the sharply dressed white lion with contempt, as it finally clicked what he’d done.
He ignored them and cleared his throat before looking down at the clipboard.
“The following officers shall remain: Achlos Dribas. Rafil Caloris. Eldar Dolnayu. Kiah Senca. The rest of you are dismissed. The vacancies for the team have been filled.”
There was a few seconds’ duration of utter silence at the sudden appearance of the Lieutenant and the sudden, casual dismissal out of all but four candidates. All that was heard were the distant hustle and bustle and telephone rings of the Academy, muted by the thick walls. Then, as sudden as all had gone quiet, pandemonium began as disgruntled officers expressed their discontent, either by a mere grunt and a shake of the head, or by vehement cursing and shouting.
“This is some horseshit! No offense, Peg.” The burly caracal who’d earlier roused the officers ejaculated, giving one of his equine companions a quick apologetic look before marching up to Tyras.
“We sat our asses in this furnace of a waiting room for two hours and change, without even the ability to grab a glass of water or take a piss because apparently we lose our chance if we do so, only for you to tell us to sod off before you even have a word with us!?” He wagged a clawed finger at the taller, yet thinner feline threateningly, like a teacher against a particularly unruly cub.
“I am having a word with you now, Sergeant,” Tyras said dryly. “And you have only reinforced my decision. Now, stand down. That is an order.”
“I’m RAU. You’re just a regular bluebottle leftenant. I don’t take orders from you.” The caracal snarled.
“As a matter of fact, you do. We are part of the same agency, whether you like it or not. Now, I ordered you to stand down and leave. Do so and I may forgive your behavior which has been utterly unbecoming of an officer of the law or a soldier of the Light.”
“Fuck you! You think because you were a Scout Raider and got more medals pinned on you that you’re better than me? Oh, ‘Eldar’? Think I heard the carrot-muncher call the mutt that. What, you think that mutt is better than me!?” The caracal pointed at the borzoi for emphasis, at which the dog shrank back in his seat, as if he were being accused of something.
“Constable Dolnayu did not insult a superior officer or throw a tantrum worthy of a spoiled urchin denied a new toy. Pray. Scuttle.” Tyras had uttered those words in the same patient gentlemanly manner as he always did, yet his singular eye glared right back at his verbal opponent and the silver ball glittered dangerously.
Achlos thought he saw the smaller feline wish to take a step back, and his eyes were definitely widened. He looked away for but a second from the scarred veteran’s steely gaze. He bit his lip as if in deep thought. Achlos knew what was going on in his mind: He’d caused this scene out of machismo frustration and he definitely hoped his comrades would join him, a prospect which seemed unlikely now. Still, if he backed away now, he would lose face in front of his comrades, especially as a sergeant.
“Walk away, friend, don’t test him.”
“Go to Gehl!” The caracal half-shoved, half-grabbed Tyras by the lapels of his jacket. Achlos doubted it had been with any intent to follow it up with a blow, just a final physical send-off to have the final word before storming off, yet the sniper already saw Tyras bending his knees and hardening his muscles. He cringed, almost feeling bad for the rude officer.
Almost, but not quite.
The paw barely made contact with his collar before Tyras’s own paw trapped it, sidestepping to avoid any retaliation and lashing out with the heel of his palm into his opponent’s nose with an audible crunch. The Crimson grunted in pain and tried lashing out with his fist, yet the steppe lion’s long arms kept him at bay as he flayed uselessly. A kick then lashed out to catch Tyras in the ribs, yet the taller feline caught it and twisted the ankle, bringing the man down in a heap.
Tyras was upon him, knee into his ribs, paw keeping hold of the wrist in a painful submission. The caracal struggled like a fish upon land, cursing and trying to throw his opponent off him, his broken nose bleeding freely upon the tiled floor.
Achlos was already getting up to intervene, yet it hadn’t lasted two seconds.
Tyras waited until the man tired himself out and was left an immobile, panting mess. He then took a pair of manacles from his jacket and applied them to his felled opponent.
“I trust everyone here bore witness to the fact that I had acted wholly in self-defense.” The other officers, who up to that point had been too flabbergasted to do anything, quickly nodded.
“Very good. Constable, take him away to the infirmary. Say nothing of our friend’s pugilistic display to your superiors, yet I believe a night spent in the brig shall give him time to reflect on the consequences of assaulting a senior officer or displaying such puerile behavior as a representative of the law.” The officer standing guard grabbed the Crimson by the elbows and ushered him out, who by now had lost all the previous gumption he’d displayed and was meekly looking at the ground, avoiding the gazes of his fellow officers at all costs. Everyone other than the four Tyras named were rushing to leave.
“So,” he said, looking at the four candidates as he straightened his slightly crumpled collar. “Let us begin. Who wishes to go first?”
“I will.” The wolf replied, grinning as he sprung up to his feet. “Apropos, sir, thank you for bringing Cartas down a notch. I’d have probably done so myself sooner or later had you not done so. He’s a prick with everyone.”
“Language, Officer,” Tyras said icily. “We are officers of the law, not ruffians.”
The wolf rolled his eyes, yet did not say much else.
“Congratulations, gentlemen and ladies,” Tyras said. “You have passed my little endurance test. I am terribly sorry for the discomfort I have caused, yet I believe it was necessary. Constable, pray turn the heat off and bring the candidates some cold water.” The other officer standing guard saluted and left as Tyras and the wolf went into the office.
“Oh, hold on. Best I do this in a more open environment.” Everyone looked at the canine with curiosity, and only upon looking closer at him did Achlos realize that the muscular wolf was steaming.
It was then that it crossed Achlos’s mind that while it had gotten unbearably hot in the waiting room, it sometimes seemed like it suddenly got cooler just as it was getting to the point of him being almost nauseous from the heat.
The wolf squeezed his eyes shut and steam began pouring out from him and rushing towards various objects in the room. He could feel the wallpaper behind him becoming scalding to the touch, the old ceiling paint seemed to warm from the heat, yet the overall temperature did not seem to grow, only the individual objects.
It was just then that the unfortunate constable came in carrying a tray of four water cups and it seemed the heat the wolf had stored up for the sake of his colleagues had finally found its ideal target: the ice within the water instantly melted, then the water began to bubble and boil. The officer looked down at the tray flabbergasted.
“What in the ices of Gehledna- “ He yelped and dropped his tray as a few droplets of the boiling water jumped from the cup onto his paw. The wolf darted across the room and caught it.
“Sorry, mate,” He chuckled sheepishly. “Just saw something cold and thought it’d make the perfect target for some surplus heat. Please, allow me-“ He gripped the tray tighter and concentrated. The boiling subsided almost instantly and a few seconds later, the water had tiny flecks of ice floating.
“There! Good as new!” The wolf beamed. He sneakily stretched a paw behind him and one of the floor tiles deformed slightly as if it were caught in an invisible blazing inferno.
“What?” The jet black canine asked, looking around at the flabbergasted faces across the room. “You’ve never seen a Heatmancer Forted before?” He couldn’t suppress a toothy, cocky grin.
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The two men entered the small office, which consisted of little more than an old desk with a large chair which had once been opulent, yet was now threadbare and lumpy, and two smaller ones facing it on the opposite side. An agenda with several names written on it was laid open on the desk, evidently far newer than the rest of the décor. The wolf duly noted that fresh bars of ink crossed all but four of the names, which had been written earlier and with a different pen. Tyras naturally assumed the position of the interviewer and Rafil of the interviewee, taking the seat without first asking for permission.
“You will have to please forgive the manhandling I have administered to your comrade.” The lion began, taking his own seat. “Truth be told, I don’t believe he was about to truly strike me, yet I believe it was a necessary lesson in respecting rank. I took care not to rough him up too much, yet the shame of being so easily bested in front of his peers shall smart more painfully and for longer than any bruise.”
“Don’t apologize, sir,” Rafil began, assuming an altogether too relaxed position. Tyras thought for a second that he’d put his feet up on the desk. “As I said, Cartas is a pri-, reprobate. To be perfectly honest, sir, I sometimes think he joined the Crimsons because he enjoys hurting others. He’s the kind of conner to follow a handcuffing with a kick to the ribs or two for good measure.”
“And you never thought to report such unbecoming behavior?” Tyras asked, opening his silver cigarette case and offering the candidate one as well, which Rafil graciously accepted, popping it into his mouth then ignoring the offered match in favor of lighting it with his Forte, unable to suppress a satisfied smirk.
“No.” He replied, taking a drag. “He’s a right blackguard, unworthy of the uniform and the kind of Crimson that makes our unit the most feared and detested police squad in Osnya. But he is a capable officer, a good man to have by your side in a melee, and not the kind to shrink away from large groups of ruffians, which has unfortunately made him popular with many of the men. If I report him, it shall firstly be my word against his, and of his confederates. Secondly, even if I do manage to get him penalized in some form for his brutish behavior, there will be few Crimsons who will wish to work with me afterwards. I will be a marked man. A tattletale. A rat.” The wolf took a long, thoughtful drag of the quality cigarette, face scowling in disgust.
Tyras left a good half minute of silence to pass before replying.
“So, you’ve accepted the ill treatment of the citizens you’re sworn to protect and tolerated a behavior you find abysmal because you fear repercussions?” He asked, taking a small notepad and a steel fountain pen from his waistcoat pocket, beginning to take notes.
Rafil kept his gaze even, not looking guilty or apprehensive for one second.
“I have confronted him many times, both in private and on the field. I can safely say that I’ve saved many a malcontented worker on strike broken bones or worse at the paws of our mutual friend. Let us just say that what you did back there was not the first time he received a thorough drubbing in front of his comrades, and they were far less restrained than what you’ve administered. If you look at his medical records, you will see that the doctor was sometimes of the opinion that certain injuries were not caused by rocks, hammers or clubs of angry mobs as he claimed, but seemed more in line with a riot truncheon or even bare fists.” The wolf’s green eyes glinted dangerously as he sucked the rest of his cigarette dry, crushing it into the ashtray.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Tyras did not reply and instead continued scribbling, his face as expressive as a mannequin in a store window. He let another minute pass before speaking:
“Your military records show that you fought for the Helvetari Expeditionary Forces in the War.”
“That I did, 27th Heavy Fusiliers. Explosives expert, where as you can imagine, my Forte complimented that role wonderfully.” Rafil replied with no small measure of pride. “Before that, I was part of the Helvi Guard, The Squire’s personal bodyguard.”
“An exalted and prestigious position,” Tyras commented. “One that requires both martial strength and unshakeable faith in the Light.”
“I like to believe that I possess both.”
“Perhaps. Both your old commanding officer and His Holiness have had nothing but praise for you.” Tyras replied. The wolf frowned.
“How did you-“
“I have my sources which are as reliable as they are quick. And your file was of particular interest to me.” He said with a smirk. “Yet… I am curious about one thing: How does one go from a Helvi Guard, perhaps the most sought-after position among career soldiers and mercenaries in the world, to a conner in Ignisdava?”
Rafil shifted slightly in his seat, breaking eye contact with his interviewer for half a second.
“I…” He began. Tyras reached out with his Forte to feel his intentions. He felt apprehension and a little bit of fear. The preamble to a lie. Yet right after that came determination and grit. The reconsideration and dedication to remain truthful. “…I merely wished for a change of scenery. I hold a great deal of respect for his Holiness, and guarding him was an honor. Yet fighting on behalf of your country and defending it from heathens who’d have seen it burnt to the ground, as they’ve shown in Novaspes City… it provided a sense of fulfillment, that I was using my skills and talents to their absolute fullest. Guarding the Squire was an honor few soldiers of the faith have, yet as his Holiness himself is fond of saying, he is merely a worshiper of the Light like everyone else. What is one faithful against millions?
Yet, all the same, this may be me lying to myself. I detest languor and I yearn for martial activity. The entire time I was guarding his Holiness, a thought at the back of my mind, suppressed by faith and fear of blasphemy, yearned to be free of his service and use my skills and issued weapons on something more threatening than paper targets. If I gave myself more importance, I’d say that the War was a sort of grim response to my silent prayers. You may consider that this means I have commitment issues to a position, and if this disqualifies me, so be it.”
Tyras did not ask any more questions. Instead, he continued scribbling on his notebook for a good two minutes, until his own cigarette was spent and he twisted it next to Rafil’s spent one.
“If you merely wished for action, you would have become a mercenary. Our airdocks are full of them and their services are never in short demand. Any company would jump at the chance to hire a soldier of your experience at a rate which, Architect forgive me, I doubt even his Holiness provided. Yet you didn’t. You joined a force which aligned with your moral convictions and allowed you to utilize your skills in a way you found worthy.” Tyras smiled and showed the notebook. There was nothing comprehensible written on the paper. It was full of scribbles like that a child may have done, wavy and shaped in places to give the illusion that he was writing.
It had all been a ruse, to see if he’d sweat.
Both men laughed out loud.
“Tomorrow morning you shall report to the training grounds at 0700 hours. The kit shall be provided for you, but you are expected to come in full uniform and equipped with your sidearm, sword and everything else you find necessary.”
“Absolutely, sir! You won’t regret this. And not just because I can keep the team warm when we’re up in the skies.” He chuckled. He shook hands with Tyras, then went to leave, paw hovering above the door handle.
“One more thing, sir, if you don’t mind.” The dire wolf turned around.
“Yes?”
“You know which unit I was in. May I also know where you served, if-”
“247th Grenadiers for two years. I was then transferred to the 15th Scout Raiders for the rest of the war.”
The wolf gave a low whistle.
“You were a Raider? You have my respect, sir. Had the pleasure to fight alongside your forces a few times. All I’ll say is, thank the Architect you were on our side!” He chuckled then frowned. “But… I thought the 15th Raiders had been wiped out at the Battle of Wellspring Pass?”
“They were.” Tyras answered without missing a beat, his singular eye not expressing the slightest emotion. “I am the only one left.” He almost whispered, taking out a second cigarette. He seemed to say that more to himself than for the wolf’s benefit.
Rafil cringed inwardly and his mouth began forming the beginnings of an apology. Yet the taller lion’s stern half-mutilated gaze persuaded him to merely give an awkward goodbye and leave.
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After a few minutes, the door opened once again. To Tyras’s surprise, it wasn’t a single candidate, but both the borzoi and the rabbit doe. Despite her only coming up about to his chest if one did not count her ears, she seemed to be the one leading him into the room.
“I’m sorry, only one candidate at a time.” Tyras said politely, yet sharply.
“My apologies, sir,” The rabbit began, her voice submissive, yet surprisingly powerful. “But you will have to take us as a whole. If he’s not accepted, I shan’t join either. You may take only him, us both or neither.” Her tone of voice left no room for argumentation. The lion blinked and he looked at either of them.
“I would say that fraternization between officers is forbidden, yet the relationship between you two is clearly platonic in nature. For one, your boots, miss Senca, are clean, showing only the slight dusting of cobbled streets, while your comrade’s are noticeably stained with fresh mud, meaning that the either of you came from very different parts of the city. And I have observed you throughout the waiting period, and your demeanor is more that of an older sister than a lover.”
The two candidates blushed, the borzoi looking deeply uncomfortable, yet the doe quickly regaining her composure, walking up to the desk, yet not sitting down. Standing, she was about level with Tyras sitting down. Her dark eyes blazed with determination and she raised her chin a little.
“Yes, sir. Your deductions are correct. Me and Eldar have been fast friends since the war. We have saved each other’s lives, bled together, fought together, tasted defeat and victory together. I believe that is a kind of bond which not even romance can match, which I’m sure is a sentiment you know all too well.” Her words and composure were polite and restrained, fitting of a governess or a nun, yet there was something in her which elevated her above such submissive positions. She would obey orders and respect her superiors without question, yet she would not stand by overt injustices or demeaning comments.
“You are correct yourself: I do know it.” Tyras said, nodding to the two chairs. She took a seat, abandoning her upright position which put her level with her superior, and her companion followed. As he thought: She naturally sought assertive positions, yet she was as obedient to a superior as any soldier. The lanky borzoi sat down, continuing to fidget nervously, refusing to look Tyras in the eye.
“Now…” The steppe lion poured the two candidates a glass of icy water each from a jug on the table. “Let us begin with the interview. Why are you here?”
The question hung in the air for a couple of seconds as the two prolonged the answer’s arrival with slow, deliberate sips of the welcome cool liquid after the long hours spent waiting in the stifling waiting room.
“The War has provided me with certain skills and experiences which I cannot fully exploit in my current position.” The doe said. “And when my captain let us know that a new team is being formed, with the express purpose of hunting pirates and dangerous gangs, I-“
“Actually,” Tyras interrupted her. “I should like to hear Mr. Dolnayu’s answer first.”
The dog’s eyes widened, yet to Tyras’s surprise, the nervous canine almost immediately straightened up, and for the first time, looked him right in the eye. He’d been given an order by a superior, and he would obey it. It was in his nature.
“Actually, sir, it wasn’t my idea,” He said without hesitation, golden eyes suddenly devoid of the timorousness that had previously characterized them. “Kiah insisted I should come as well, that I would be an invaluable addition to any such team. It took some insisting on her part, for I believed it was simply not worth it, but she convinced me that the worst that could happen was that I was turned away, and I was back to the exact same position I was previously in.”
Tyras was taken aback by such a sincere confession, one which he must have known would not reflect well on him. Then again, he probably shouldn’t have. In this room, he was the dog’s superior officer. And to his kind, that may as well mean he was his patron god.
“So, you wouldn’t have come on your own volition had Mrs. Senca not insisted?” Tyras asked.
The canine looked down at the floor for only a second before his long snout snapped back up like he’d just picked up a target’s scent.
“Sir, I am under no illusions about my place in the world. Me and my kind are good at taking orders… no matter how horrid or immoral. And furthermore, we will enjoy accomplishing those orders, at least in the moment. This makes us valuable in war, yet feared in all other instances. I shan’t get into whether I believe our treatment is fair or atrocious, for my opinion is irrelevant at the end of the day. However, the war had the advantage of making me a realist. I was part of one of the dog-only ‘D companies’. We were used as shock troops and to hold the line when everyone else had already been routed. Yet at the same time, when it came to promotions, commendations or resupply, we were at the end of a very long list. I’ve been a constable for six years and I have never been promoted or commended. Therefore, why should I believe things would change now? Our place in the world was decided the moment Lord Hemulfr first created us by experimenting with canine breeding. I have long decided to cease fighting the current and accept my place in the world.”
His voice carried no hint of reproach or sadness at his situation. It was a fatalist, if unfortunately, realistic self-analysis. Dogs had been bred specifically the previous Era as a near slave caste by Lunist noblemen attempting to eliminate any and all predatory instincts from wolves via experimental breeding on their subjects. While they had been unsuccessful in that regard, the resulting strange canines were unflinchingly obedient with minimal training, so they focused their efforts in that direction, planning on creating an army of unquestionable obedient soldiers which would finally accomplish the dream of complete Lunist dominance.
When the Lunist emperor discovered House Hemulfr’s experiments nearly a century later, everyone involved was executed and the rest of the noble family exiled. However, they now had thousands upon thousands of the new species, men, women, children and elderly throughout secret settlements in Hemulfr’s domain. So, the Eclipse Empire made an effort to integrate them, quickly noting their usefulness as soldiers and agents. In fact, it was within Lunist countries where dogs enjoyed the most societal acceptance. Almost as an apology for bringing them into a world which has shown them only mistrust and shunning.
They were particularly disliked in Fakonan countries, due to their association with Lunism, a not inconsiderable portion of the population considering them to be little better than demons spawned of ritual.
The War hadn’t helped much with their perspective, with the Lunists heavily using dogs in the invasion. They weren’t necessarily better fighters, but their unshakeable obedience, and natural enjoyment of fulfilling their duties, no matter how grim, made them feared and reviled. Tyras remembered one time hastily abandoning a trenchline as a mass charge of mostly dog units overwhelmed them, and one platoon staying behind to hold them off as the rest retreated. He remembered hearing gunshots, screams and blades piercing flesh as he ran. And then, eager barking and laughter.
“So,” Tyras began. “You’ve accepted that the world will forever see you as a dutiful soldier, for better or for worse. Why then are you afraid of applying for a position allowing you to be exactly that?”
Eldar smiled sadly.
“I may be seen as a warrior, sir, but never as an honorable or valorous one. I have and always will be a grunt. A… dog-soldier.”
Dog-soldier. Initially only used in the literal sense to refer to soldiers who were dogs, it then went on to mean any soldiers on the bottom rungs with little hope of advancement, and perhaps with a propensity for savagery.
“I do not see your species as a drawback, Constable Dolnayu. All I see is a stalwart defender of the Light, who despite knowing he’d never be seen as an equal by his peers, fought for them with unquestionable grit, then continued to seek to protect them via joining the police force. And I should be a fool not to wish for someone such as yourself to be counted among my subordinates.”
The canine’s face visibly lit up and a smile seemed to be tugging at his lips, yet he maintained the same expression, like a soldier standing at attention on a parade ground.
Tyras turned towards the doe now.
“I believe you found each other in the war as kindred souls, both underestimated for your species in different ways. You were part of an Armored Division, were you not, Miss Senca?”
“Yes, I was. Did you read my file?”
“No. There was no time to get the files of every candidate. However, it is a very logical assumption. Class I mammals on our side had two main roles: infiltrators and vehicle crewmen. Our ignorance in underestimating the potential of smaller mammals such as yourself cost us dearly early in the war, as our enemy used such lighter troops for flanking maneuvers and as emplaced machinegunners, where physical strength is a near non-factor, and a smaller size is a definite advantage. However, after we invented the tank, we quickly realized that one could make smaller, cheaper tanks if they were staffed by smaller mammals, or have more crewmen in a regular tank. Standard tank doctrine is to assault a trench with tanks to shatter defenses, then move in with flamethrower assault troops to sweep up the stragglers. As that was a very psychologically demanding task, the latter were often performed by dog troops, which led to them often being attached to armored battalions. I believe that is how you met Eldar Dolnayu and remained friends since.”
Both interviewees nodded.
“I suppose it was obvious enough.” Kiah said. “You can definitely understand why I am hesitant to go somewhere he’s not. We work well together. We’re at a point where we can anticipate each other’s movements as thoroughly as if we were shouting them out at all times. And if it helps you make up your mind, sir, we are both Forted.”
Tyras nodded in satisfaction. “That would make the entire team Forted. It was not my intention, but as the great General Brossus once said, it is a happy little accident, one that any commander would be a fool not to capitulate upon. And what power were you blessed with, Officer Senca?”
The doe smiled mysteriously.
“Do you have your sidearm currently at hand, sir?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“How… attached are you to it?”
“What an odd thing to ask.” Tyras thought.
“I captured it from a Lunist officer in the war and it has been my constant companion since. It’s saved my life as many times as any comrade in arms. So I’d say, quite attached.”
The doe’s smile faded and she looked down, chewing her bottom lip with her buckteeth in deep thought.
“What about your watch, lieutenant?”
“Bought it two months ago. A very pretty silver thing. Made in Helviti. Shows the time and has a compass.”
“May you please check to see if it’s in working order?”
Tyras was still puzzled about what game she was playing, yet he went along with it, taking out his elegant silver watch to check the time: 13:24 in the morning, on the dot. Satisfied, he turned his gaze toward the watch's centre to view the compass, which showed North as somewhere behind him. He shrugged his shoulders absently to this information; it checked out. The 30-hour mechanism inside was still clicking and turning away as reliably as ever despite it having been nearly a full day since last winding it up. He smiled; you couldn’t get much more reliable than a Helvi watch.
“It’s working fine.” He said.
“Good. Now please pay close attention to it.” She said.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the minute hand stopped moving. Its tiny, almost imperceptible, yet eternal march, ceased. Frowning, he looked closer with his Forte to make sure. Then, suddenly, it went mad.
The minute hand began spinning about a hundred times faster than it normally did, the hour hand not long behind, hours going by in eyeblinks. The compass was likewise spinning this way and that, as if it was unsure where North was. He imagined this is how it would act if he were at the center of the Earth. He felt the watch vibrate in his paw as the countless little cogs, switches and mechanisms were pushed to their limits by the unusual strain.
He looked up at Kiah and her eyes were squeezed shut, teeth gritted in concentration. He smiled, both impressed and entertained.
“You can stop before the nosebleeds begin. You’ve convinced me.”
She first set the hour back to what it was supposed to show, then she released her powers, breathing in sharply through her nose, exhaling as if just done moving a particularly heavy piece of furniture.
“You can control mechanical objects.” He concluded with a smile. “It’s known by spiritualists that new Fortes prop up as technology and society changes, as Fortes are gifted by the gods according to the needs of the world at that moment. Given that the Industrial Revolution is barely a century old, this means those with your power have only existed for two generations. No wonder I’ve never heard of it before. I can assume it was particularly useful as a tank operator.”
She nodded, blushing slightly as any young woman did when receiving a compliment.
“It certainly was sir. I was able to both create trouble for enemy tanks and keep ours in pristine working order, even pushing it beyond its normal factory limits. However, the more complex a device is, the more difficult a task it is for me to influence it. And a tank is quite the complex machine. Furthermore, if the device is presently operated by someone with a deeper bond with it, it’s a particularly strenuous challenge. We quickly learned whether we were facing raw recruits or tank aces by how difficult it was for me to try and jam their tracks or malfunction their gun barrel. So, I mostly saved it for emergencies. Yet I like to believe I had something to do with our team’s 153 tank kills.” She said as evenly as she ever did, yet with no small measure of pride.
“A very unique and invaluable ability, especially since we’re expected to mostly operate on airships.” Tyras turned to the canine. “And you, Constable Dolnayu?”
The borzoi cringed slightly and looked away again.
“Well, I…” He hesitated before once again snapping his head up, more out of a desire to complete an order than feeling surer of himself. “I can communicate with ferals.”
“Ah. I’ve heard of this Forte before. Quite a popular one to explore in fiction.” Tyras said. “So, you can mentally communicate with unevolved beings, correct?”
“Yes, but the reality is far from how fairy tales of old or penny dreadfuls of today portray it. Mentally speaking with a feral is far different from speaking to a Bestia Sapiens. They do not see the world as we do, and their brains are far simopler, therefore their thoughts are far more rudimentary. They see things as threats, food, obstacles and other kinds of rudimentary concepts. For instance, during the war, we were going through a forest. We came across a Wolf-Gecko and I persuaded the men not to shoot it for food. After getting it to trust me, it let me know that he was this far into the forest because it became dangerous, after “Two legs like us, but with pelts of snow, not grass like us, invaded.” This obviously let me know that Lunist soldiers, Alexandrian in particular, given the white uniforms, were in the woods and we prepared accordingly.”
“Sounds like it came in useful, then.” Tyras commented.
“Yes, but I somehow doubt it will find much use in the role you require. From what I understand of the team you’re forming, we’ll mostly be deployed in urban environments or airships for no more than a day maximum, where the chance of finding a feral who knows something which may give us an edge are minimal.”
“Do not sell yourself short, soldier. There are still all sorts of urban critters which may share pertinent information we could use, and we will be utilizing dragons for our air raid missions. Come to think of it… Feral Affinity Forted made the best dragon riders. Why were you never offered a position in the Air Cavalry?”
Tyras already knew the real reason: Air Knights, dragon riders, had always been a sort of elite in world militaries. A few centuries before, in the previous Era, they were almost exclusively nobility, who bought and bred their own dragons. Stateless who also had dragons were often drafted as militia, but it was quite rare and done on the hush-hush so as not to offend the elite air cavalry who saw dragon riding as their exclusive birthright. Recently that was no longer the case for the most part, with air cavalry units being mostly regular soldiers who proved they could handle the extreme stress and physical prowess required, yet the chances of a “dog soldier” being offered such an exalted privilege were next to nil.
“I performed the role I was offered well. They must have never seen reason for me to divert from it.” Eldar said.
Tyras nodded and began scribbling in his notebook once again. “Well, between your ability to directly communicate with ferals, and by extension dragons, and Constable Senca’s affinity for throwing a proverbial wrench in whatever technology our foes deploy, I should be the biggest cretin in Osnya to not see your value. You’re on the team. Both of you. I expect you on the field first thing tomorrow morning.”
Kiah gave a conservative little smile, which she concealed by drooping her chin into her breast. Her companion on the other hand, had a reaction as if he were suddenly burned by a steam car’s scalding heat vents. His muzzle went up like a springtrap, his eyes as wide as gold-colored saucers.
Tyras was confused by this reaction. Was it really so surprising that he’d hire him? He’d singled out only four candidates, anything less wouldn’t have been much of a team. There was nothing he’d said during their interview which would have suggested that he would show the dog the door.
But then, the steppe lion put himself in his new team member’s fur: Eldar Dolnayu had most likely learned from a very young age that good fortune simply does not come to him. He was what he was: a grunt who took orders. Nothing more. Never to be remarked, never to be praised, never to be given any position higher than foot soldier.
He’d learned the age-old mantra of “Put your expectations low and you’ll never be disappointed.” Eldar may have learnt how to suppress disappointment, yet he’d never tasted pleasant surprise or meaningful success or recognition before. Until now. He was perhaps more astonished than he’d ever felt in his life. Tyras couldn’t suppress a small sad smile at that.
However, the moment of shock passed like any other and the dog remembered his duty. He sprang up from his chair, heels clicking together and saluting. Tyras got up and reciprocated the gesture.
Then, Eldar went down on one knee, palm over his heart. Tyras laughed.
“Really, there’s no need for tha-“
“I give my heart, I give my life.” Eldar tilted his palm forwards, as if presenting some invisible offering. “May I prove worthy of your command and serve you well. May my service help you in battle and help me complete myself. May your orders be wise, your hand even and your mind clear. And should the worst come to pass, scatter my ashes over the Yellow Tongue, where the ancient wolves with pelts of sand shall welcome my shade as my flesh never was.” The dog was mumbling these words softly, yet clearly, seeming to speak less to his new commander and more to an unknown third party.
Tyras had heard of this before: The Moon’s Servant Vow Of Allegiance. The vow which elite Lunist soldiers, such as the Nyxferers, gave to their commander. Only the last sentence was different.
He wasn’t particularly surprised that Eldar was of the Lunar Faith. There were many of the faith who rejected the Eclipse Empire and fled throughout the world.
Eldar got up and looked Tyras in the eye, golden eyes ablaze with both determination and submission. The look of a warrior awaiting his general’s orders.
“My life is yours now, sir.” Eldar bowed his head. “Use it wisely.”
With that, he gave one final salute and left. His dutiful gaze was now swapped for a massive, dopey smile as he walked away with a noticeable spring in his step. It was something anyone else would have attempted to conceal, but not him. When dogs felt something, they expressed it for the world to see. As he turned around to leave, his tail was swinging this way and that like the windshield wipers that had just started being introduced on automobiles.
The brown-furred doe trailed behind him, but stopped to salute her commander herself and to mouth him a “thank you” before joining her companion.