Agraneia’s new cohort was on the very edge of town, where the stake wall met the red-leafed forest. Dozens of haggard, canvas canopies hung here, each one at a different height. Water dripped through the old bullet holes and the split seams. Turning the camp into mud.

Artillery rumbled in the distance.

Cyrans were scattered around the camp, sitting on logs, on mats made of woven-grass, or on whatever semi-dry spot they could find. Trading, smoking, and drinking the last of their “supplies” they’d spent all their conscript coin on.

Agraneia could feel them, feel the way they had to laugh too hard, or talk too loud. Most of them were new. And nervous. She could also feel their eyes on the back of her neck as she walked through their camp.

Rain-soaked banners were hung along the edges of the camp, hanging from ropes or pinned to sticks. Half of them were emblazoned with the Emperor’s emblem, the other half bore a symbol she hadn’t seen before. A black cat baring its white fangs.

Two soldiers were slowly feeding dry sticks into a flaming pit at the center of the cohort. How they had gotten enough dried wood to build a real fire, Agraneia had no idea. Nobody was using it for the heat, not in this humidity. It was all about the smoke. It kept the bugs away.

The cohort’s captain was reclining in a bamboo chair with her legs resting on a stump, so the flames warmed the soles of her bare feet. She was surrounded by a few soldiers, a mix of early-timers who had maybe seen one or two calls, and a cluster of greenfins who thought that sucking up to authority would somehow make them safer out there.

All of them were provincials; longnecks from the northern provinces, whiskerfolk and hangmouths with those glassy eyes from the south, and a few other flavors of dullscale that she didn’t have a name for.

They stared at Agraneia as she walked around the fire. She could feel their resentment. Their naked hate. As they watched her approach, one of the soldiers leaned over the fire pit, and said something that made the others laugh. Someone else made a loud spitting sound.

She ignored it. She was used to it.

Even the Captain was a dullscale herself. That was rare, to see a provincial cyran leading anything more than a squad. Her face was dark, almost brown. Four long whiskers and a series of barbs ran up from her throat to the bottom of her dark, gray lips.

Agraneia squared her feet in front of the Captain, and pulled a firm salute.

“Lieutenant Agraneia, reporting, Sir.”

The Captain didn’t bother to stand, only tossed a lazy hand up to her brow, and let it fall. She took a deep swig from an unlabeled bottle, eyeing Agraneia as she swallowed.

“Welcome to Witch Patrol, Lieutenant. I’m Captain Dinnae. You’re leading Jewel squad, over there,” the Captain nodded with her head to a guttering flame pressed against the stake wall. “You’ve got five rifles plus yourself. And I’m giving you the scribe, because nobody else wants him. I need you on point. Any questions?”

There was only one question Agraneia cared to ask.

‘When do we head out, sir?”

“Oh, yeah,” the Captain wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I heard about you, Lieutenant. Don’t you worry those shiny scales of yours, you’ll get what you want soon enough.”

The Captain turned her head and called for one of her soldiers. A greenfin came running from around the fire, carrying a map and a gas lantern with him. His gear clanked heavily as he ran, his boots sank into the mud.

The soldier held the map between Captain Dinnae and Agraneia, careful to keep it away from the dripping water from the canvas above.

“We’ll launch the assault here. The other half of Witch Patrol will circle around, and hammer them from here and here. That’s not you. Your squad will be with the anvil, on the front line. Can I count on you?”

So, they’d stand before the thunder of the fort, praying not to get shot, while the rest of the cohort went behind lines and scaled the less defended walls. Meat for the machine.

“Fine by me, sir,” Agraneia said.

And she meant it.

The Captain tilted the bottle up and took another swig, her eyes still not leaving Agra’s face. That same skeptical look she got from everyone.

“I don’t care how special you think you are, glitterskin. In my patrol, you do the work you’re given.”

Agraneia didn’t hear a question, so she didn’t say anything.

The Captain narrowed her eyes. She’d probably been expecting to get a rise out of Agra, but when Agra gave none, the Captain sniffed, and took another swig.

“Keep your people low. Scouts say the enemy’s got cannons, but you know the cold bloods can’t aim for shit. That’s all I’ve got for you.”

Agraneia saluted before she left. She heard the others laughing again as she turned away, but it didn’t bother her. The only thing that bothered her anymore was the waiting. And there was nothing she could do about that.

Anyway, most of these idiots would be dead by the end of this call, anyway. A frontal assault with a single cohort. Whoever had put this mission together knew what it would cost. Probably didn’t care. Some officer back in camp might even get a promotion out of it. She couldn’t blame the Captain for getting in a mood over this. Orders are orders.

Agraneia found Jewel squad huddled around a half-sunken fire pit. This one was smoking wildly, but the soldiers here couldn’t be bothered to find drier tinder. There were five in total, which was short for a full squad. Fine by me. Fewer soldiers meant fewer greenfins to take care of.

And fewer deaths.

A longneck was waving an empty bottle over his head and running his mouth. He was tall and slender, even for someone from the northern provinces. His elongated neck curved in an ‘s’ shape, and his scales were so smooth she couldn’t see them in the red light of dusk.

“Two more!” the longneck said, “That’s it, and I’m out. You watch. You watch. I’ll be so decorated by the time I’m out they’ll give me notes for my whole family. But I’m going to sell them, of course, and buy myself a nice little shack, right in the middle of Cyre.”

“Hells,” A surly-sounding dullscale said, “I’ll give you my note just to shut you up.”

“Gods, those glitterskin girls, they’re going to love me. I got a girl back in old Tulvus, but I’m not going back there. No, sir. Once I’m out of here, it’s nothing but Mother Cyre for me.”

“Medus, the only way you’re making it out of here is in a bag. Yeah, they’ll give you a note, sure. They’ll tag it right to your toe, and then they’ll dump your skinny neck in the ocean. You’ll get to see Mother Cyre from the bottom.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Gods damn, have you seen those glitterskin girls?” Medus said.

And then, he saw Agraneia, standing on the other side of the fire. His eyes went wide.

The surly dullscale turned around, and almost jumped. “What in the hells do you want?”

“You are Jewel squad,” Agraneia said. Not a question, but the longneck Corporal named Medus nodded.

She unslung her rucksack and dropped it on a bench that was soaked with water. The mud sucked at her boots as she sat down hard on the bench.

“Are you our squad leader?” One of the others asked. A whiskerfolk. Her voice was quiet. Her stripes marked her as a private. A greenfin. Fresh out of basic.

“Of course!” The surly dullscale - also a private - said. He was carving a stick into a point, but now he tossed it aside, and his fist clenched over the carving knife. “We’re the only short squad in the whole cohort, and now we get stuck with a glitterskin. Of course. I bet you’re green as kelp, too. Fresh from academy, right?”

“What do you know about green?” Medus shot at him. “You’re greener than the rest of us put together. I’ve been on three calls already. What about you, Private Taeso?”

The longneck enunciated his rank, using it as an insult.

“Shut up, Medus. I got two kills last week. Shot them lurking around the camp, filthy blackmouths. I got their teeth to prove it.”

“Teeth? Teeth? What in the shit are you cutting ears for, you rot-gilled lunatic?”

And so on.

Agraneia ignored it all. They were letting off nerves. What else could they do? They might be green, but they knew what they had been assigned to. What else could they do?

Agraneia started to run through her gear. She double-checked her second socks, to make sure they were still dry in the ruck. Tested her compass. Sawtooth shovel. Meatsticks and dried nuts. Her cap box and cartridges. All checked, all dry.

They were still slinging insults at each other, trying to talk themselves up, when the questions came back to her. She looked up from oiling her bayonet, and saw the whole squad looking back at her. Waiting for her reply.

She hadn’t been listening.

“Come on, tell us.” Medus said. “I bet she’s at least three. Look at the way she holds that thing. Three or four. I’ll bet my stash it’s three or four at least.”

“Well, glitterskin?” Taeso said, his face hungry to prove his ego. Pissed off that he’d been born on the wrong side of the planet. With the wrong color scales. She’d met his type before. A hundred times before. The machine of war loved drafting cyrans like him. “Is this your first call? How many have you been on?”

“Not enough,” she said.

Medus laughed, but it was an uncomfortable sound. A high, nervous laugh.

“Give us a number,” Taeso said.

She gritted her teeth. She knew where this was headed. Had done all this before, with the last squad. And the one before that…

But they wouldn’t let it go. They needed to run their mouths. They needed to feel like something was real about all of this.

So, Agraneia told them the truth.

“Twenty-three calls. This will be twenty-four.”

None of them believed her. Nobody ever did.

After her seventh call, she had stayed. She couldn’t say why. Citizenship was all but guaranteed after seven calls. But why would she go back to Cyre?

“What a load of gullshit!” Taeso said, “Twenty-three? Then why are you still a lieutenant? And why the hels are you still leading a squad? Tell us the truth, glitterskin.”

He was gripping that knife way too hard.

“Taeso,” the longneck warned, “I think you should leave it. If she doesn’t want to say.”

But Taeso was already standing up, waving the knife as he spoke. “Nobody can do twenty. You’d outrank the Captain herself if that were true. Why the hells would you stay here? You didn’t do twenty. You didn’t.”

“Okay,” she said. She went back to oiling her gun. Running the rag up and down barrel, up to bayonet’s mount.

Taeso’s boots squelched in the mud. He was standing over Agraneia, now. His knife hand twitching. He was nervous, she could smell it on him. He hated that he was so green. That this was his first call. He hated not being more than he was.

“Taeso,” Medus warned again.

“Shut up,” he said back, not taking his eyes off Agra. He dropped one muddy boot on the bench next to her, “I’m not about to risk my scales for a lying, fresh-off-the-gate glitterskin. I’m not taking orders from her while she sits in the back like a coward-”

All the muscles in Agraneia’s shoulders bunched up. It was not a conscious movement. Her hand shot out. She grabbed the soldier by the wrist, and yanked him down. His face slapped to the wet ground, and before he could say another word, Agraneia pulled his hand behind his back until he yelped in pain.

Agra had not moved from her seat.

She leaned over and growled in his ear, “I never sit in the back.”

She let go of his wrist. Taeso whimpered, massaging at his arm. The knife was on the ground. Agraneia reached into the mud, picked up the knife, and handed it back to him, hilt first.

He hesitated, before taking it quickly, not meeting her eyes.

“Oil your gear.” Agraneia said to the squad, her voice so flat she almost sounded bored. Check your dries, and fill your canteens. All of you. When we move, we move. I want to be first out.”

It was a good thing she’d said something, because most of their canteens were half-empty and one of the whiskerfolk found all her caps had gotten wet. Agra told her to run and get dry ones, immediately.

Private Taeso was noticeably silent, but the longneck Corporal was running his mouth again.

“Okay, twenty-three calls. That means you’ve been here almost since the beginning, right? I mean, why? That was before the draft. But if you made it to seven, does that mean you volunteered? I’d make them give me a note or make me an officer. Either way, I wouldn’t stay in the field past seven. They can’t make you stay, can they? She must’ve volunteered, that’s the only way I can figure it.”

“Who in their right mind would volunteer to stay?” Someone muttered.

Silence.

Again, Agraneia could feel their eyes on her. Again, she ignored them. There was nothing she could say to stop them from talking, so let them talk. What did she care? By the end of this, she’d forget all their names. And with any luck, all their faces.

They were mostly ready, when one her squad members shouted, “What in the blue shit is this?”

A newcomer had arrived. His rucksack was so heavy, he sank up to his ankles with every step. Pots and pans and other useless gear jangled off the bulging ruck. It was taller than he was. He had a handheld gas-lantern that was brighter than the sun, and he was struggling to step over the puddles as he made his way towards them. His glasses were speckled with raindrops, so that he couldn’t see, even with the light.

“Have any of you seen Jewel squad?” he said, squinting at their faces. “Captain said I’m supposed to be with Jewel Squad. I’m the scribe from Carper’s weekly. Any of you seen Jewel squad?”

“A reporter?” Someone said.

“Who the hells asked for a reporter?”

Taeso spat.

He was a central cyran, a glitterskin - a true cyran - wearing a crisp set of fatigues that had probably never been this side of the gate until this week.

“Oh, you must be Jewel squad.” He snapped a smart salute at the nearest private. “My name’s Lucas Pulchus Lukaius. I’m recording the war efforts for the citizen population-”

Agraneia set down her rifle, carefully, out of the mud. When she stepped up to the scribe, his head barely reached her shoulders.

He looked up at her, his eyes filled with that zealous, naive eagerness of someone who had no idea what was happening here. Of someone who had read way too many war rags.

“Oh, another central cyran!” he said to Agraneia, turning his head to the side so that she could see the shining scales on his brow and his neck. “Glad to meet you. But I thought our kind were only officers.”

“No,” was all she said.

He swallowed, that idiotic eagerness already sliding off his face.

“Are you Lieutenant Agraneia?” he said. “The Captain said I’m to report to you. I’ll be following you, so I can get a first-hand look into- what are you doing?”

Agraneia walked in a slow circle around the scribe. She started pulling things off his pack, dropping them into the mud. The cookware. The excess canteens. When she pulled out his change of clothes, he started to protest.

“Hey! Stop!”

“Can’t write if you’re dead,” she said. She plucked the lantern from his soft fingers, and lobbed it onto the fire. It burst into flame.

A couple members of Jewel squad whooped, but Agraneia shot a look at them.

The scribe’s groaned pathetically every time she cut something else from his gear. But when she took out a thick sheaf of papers from his sack, he grabbed at them with both hands. And refused to let go.

“Not those,” he said, his eyes wild. “I need those.”

She let go of the papers.

“Cover them up, then. Nothing stays dry out here. And take off that hat.” She nodded at the cap on his head, marked with the symbol of a non-combatant. “You’re not going without a helmet.”

“But I’m not here to fight.”

“Go get a helmet,” she said, her voice flat and hard.

The scribe swallowed, hard. “Where do I get one?”

Who sent this idiot? She thought.

“Private,” Agra pointed at Taeso, who was pretending to be fixated on cleaning his own gear. “Help the scribe find a helmet.”

Taeso grumbled, but did as he was told. She watched them go, the scribe squelching after Private Taeso, shouting at him to please, slow down!

Agra’s gaze slid out into the forest just outside the barrier that ringed the camp. The jagged tips of trees, scraping at the stake walls. Those blood-red leaves, shaking in the rain. The longer she stared, the more faces she could see out in the dark, staring back at her. Cyrans, just like her.

None of them were real. Not anymore.

The sun was falling behind the treetops. Soon, it would start to rain.