PART ONE: HEADQUARTERS

The old man came to a field of sorrow and pain. The ground beneath his feet was a sodden grey-brown, barren from an untold number of explosions, wet from uncounted gallons of blood, churned until no trace of vegetation could be seen from horizon to horizon. Tall dark clouds towered above the battlefield, merging with and inseparable from the black smoke that poured into the air out of the numerous burning wrecks of machinery and bunkers that littered the area. Thunder rolled across the land, though whether this was a thunder of natural or man-made origin it was impossible to say. The metallic smell of burnt ozone and shot hung in a pall over everything, mingling with the caustic odour of burning plastics and some kind of pale yellow gas.

The old man trod carefully over and around the corpses that littered the ground, their washed-out brown uniforms marking former foes as comrades in death. The whistles and vibrations of artillery shells pounded constantly down, but did not come close to the area where he walked. He made his way steadily over and around craters, threaded his way between the burnt-out half tracks that smouldered gently together in a cluster of destruction, and eventually came to a tall granite structure that rose out of the mud to overlook the field of battle.

The structure was rectangular, two stories in height and not much more in width, but in breadth it stretched hundreds of meters. Occupants could survey the field through long narrow slits that ran all along the top of the building, though none were visible now. In the centre of the building's facade stood one solid metal door, the height and width of three men. It slid open as the old man approached, and from within a group ushered out.

The group consisted of several figures on foot, their gender indeterminate under layers of cloth and padding and faces hidden by masks connected to canisters on their backs, surrounding a bearded, thick-chested man sitting atop a horse. At least, a first glance would assume it was a horse. Closer inspection would see only a matt-black material through the joints of the curved, spiked metal plates that hung over the entire body of the creature, and there was an unnatural stillness to it once it came to a stop that spoke of artificiality. There was no hint of breath from beneath the chanfron.

The man astride the creature or contrivance, whatever it was, was bedecked in night-black armour framed in blood red at the seams. Hundreds of small, riveted leather scales hung over a battered metal breastplate, from which long faulds fell to cover not only the man's legs but almost the whole chest of the thing he rode, making it yet harder to see. A great claymore was sheathed on his back, its v-shaped hilt pointing towards the sky. Hanging by a strap under his arm was a long-barrelled rifle, incongruous with the rest of his martial attire. His eyes were exposed to the air, but a corrugated tube extended from the mask over his mouth and over his shoulders to the canister held there. Despite the mask his voice was only slightly distorted, and still carried clear and loud.

"The gas gone down then, eh?" The fellow bellowed, staring at the old man standing there without any sort of protection. "Thought it would be a good while yet! Masks off, men."

As the large man said this they reached up and removed their masks as a group. The large man drew in a deep breath, held it, blinked, and then let out a wet, throaty cough. His men did likewise, bending over almost double as they choked. Quickly replacing his mask, the large man stared down at the old with wide, blood-shot eyes.

"Good gods man, how can you breath in that stuff?" he said, voice winded but loud.

The old man did not reply, but stood, leaning on his cane with little expression.

Nonplussed, the large man waved his hands over his shoulder back in the direction of the gate from which they had emerged.

"Let's get him and us back inside, shall we men?"

At some murmured sounds of protest from the group, he spoke louder and with more force.

"I hardly think one old man is a threat to the headquarters, now! Come, our enemy is not that desperate yet!"

So saying, he shook the reins of his mount and turned it in a flurry of whirring and hissing steam. Without looking back, he galloped towards and through the open gates into the building. The men he had left behind followed slowly, the old man unacknowledged as he walked with them.

A few hours later some sterile white doors in a sterile white chamber swung open, and the old man, having been kept there since his entry into the headquarters, stepped out. His expression betrayed no concern and no anxiety; in fact it revealed very little indeed except a curious affability, out of place in the dark atmosphere of this place. Awaiting him a little way from the door stood a uniformed man shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot.

"Ah, welcome, sir. The commander asked me to escort you through as soon as your quarantine and decontamination was complete. I'm Swift, his orderly."

The orderly held out a hand with the three centre fingers extended, which the old man stared at for a few seconds before tapping with his own three. Having performed the traditional greeting of the place, the orderly turned and began to walk hurriedly towards a wide flight of steps flush against the back of the massive hall they stood in. Red and blue velvet still hung somewhat raggedly from the landing half way up the stairs, though both landing and the ground floor hall seemed empty of any furnishings. Decorative columns ran from floor to ceiling at either side of the hall, and gold gilt framed the wide window above the landing. This place had an air of faded glamour, of opulence been and gone that stood in stark contrast to the monolithic image projected outside.

"The commander is upstairs in the campaign room but insisted you be brought up as soon as you were clean. If you could..."

The orderly's words trailed off as he became aware that he was not, in fact, being followed. Stopping and turning around, he gaped at the old man, who was casually looking around the hall whilst leaning on his stick.

"Sir, you really must come with me. It is completely against regulations for you to be here in any case."

The orderly's voice held more than a trace of worry and apprehension, but the old man paid no heed. Slowly, though, and seemingly without purpose, the old man's wandering gaze met the gaze of the orderly, perched on the first step of the staircase. The instant their gazes met, the orderly's shoulders sagged and he sat, almost collapsing, on the stairs behind him.

"Who ARE you?" he said, letting out a sigh. "There's no way you can be here. Old men don't just walk across the deadlands - they don't just drop by for a visit to the central headquarters of the entire military. I think... I think we might finally have all gone mad."

He stared at the old man, who smiled his inscrutable smile and sauntered over to the orderly and sat down on the step beside him, joints crackling as he did so. The orderly laughed.

"Ha! Then if you're not here, it doesn't matter what I tell you, does it? Can't be court-martialled for talking to the air!"

He wasn't looking at the old man now, as he shouted at the air in despairing tones.

"This place is insanity. We send man after man after man out to fight and die, to lie in the mud until they rot, and I think we don't even remember why!"

He let out an incoherent shout into the air that echoed around the hall. A flurry of sound above showed that someone had heard.

"Swift? That you, boy? Where's my guest?"

The voice of the commander jolted Swift back to reality. Jerking to his feet, he span wildly around to face the old man and grabbed under his shoulders, as if to lift him bodily up.

The old man did not move. The orderly blinked twice, and his face fell blank. He stepped back and stood still and quiet as the old man gradually got to his feet.

"This way please, sir," said the orderly, and they both climbed the steps to where the commander waited.

The commander was bent over a large round wooden table in the centre of the room, hands pressing down on the wood for support as he stared at numerous small carvings that littered the surface. A map covered the table from end to end. Indeed, maps covered almost every available surface in the room - no patch of wall was bare, and the floor also had many rolled up ones scattered around. Smaller figures darted around the room in hurried silence, bringing and taking away maps, carvings or other miscellaneous goods at the commander's bawled requests. Aside from the commander, every figure was clean shaven and devoid of hair.

Strange rumblings and hissings came from pipes that crossed the walls and ceiling. The pipes had several glass sections along their lengths, and occasionally a canister could be seen shooting along in a blur of speed. Even less occasionally, one of the containers would be caught by some mechanism at a glass section, and someone would run over to lift up the glass on a hinge and remove the paper contained within. They would read the thin strip of paper and hurry over to the commander, whispering a few words and thrusting the paper towards him. The commander would usually give a bellow of surprise, anger, or elation upon reading these messages, then toss them over his shoulder. As soon as they hit the floor, a different attendant would scutter over and collect the strip, holding it to one of the lamps that burnt around the room until nothing was left but ash.

It was a few minutes before he noticed his visitor.

"Old fellow! Welcome to the campaign room! You are very fortunate - not many get to see this place. Come, come, take a look."

The commander gestured the old man over to the table, to survey the detailed outline of the land in which they stood.

"You see here?" He said, pointing. "Tomorrow morning, we take back the Grand Heights. A great day it will be - vengeance and justice at last!"

The commander swung his arm down onto the old man in a hearty backslap, one that might well have sent any man stumbling, but his hand stopped the moment it touched his guest. He stared at his hand in surprise, flexing it as a puzzled expression passed fleetingly across his face.

"The enemy took it from us a few short months ago. Kept it hush hush you know, because we knew we'd get it back soon enough, and tomorrow is the day!"

"Sir," interrupted the orderly, "Are you quite sure telling this stranger is..?"

"Nonsense!" bawled the commander, slapping the orderly on the back and nodding in satisfaction as he went sprawling. "I know a trustworthy soul when I see one, and this gentleman is one of the most trustworthy I've ever seen! Besides, he will be coming with us on the march."

The orderly's face turned to bewilderment and shock.

"Coming with us? He's an old... He can't... We..."

His eyes darted around the room in confusion as if seeking help from some other, but none came. He pushed himself up off the floor and turned to the old man.

"Who are you?" he asked. "The commander trusts no-one, and now..."

"STAND DOWN!" barked the commander. "Now, Swift, you must be tired if you think it is preferable to leave an unknown agent wandering freely around the HQ while we are out on engagement. He made it across the deadlands by himself - damned if I know how - so I think he'll find it even easier to do so again with a mighty army accompanying him.

“Swift, you are clearly in need of some recuperation before the assault tomorrow, so I'm going to give you the rest of the evening off. Don't ever say I'm too strict with you!"

The commander's laugh bellowed around the room, joined by a couple of sycophantic subordinates who hadn't even heard the joke. Swift, confused and defeated, slunk slowly out of the room.

Several hours later the old man was in a smaller, cosy room a short distance and a whole world away from the campaign room. Where the campaign room was utilitarian and functional, this was extravagant and sumptuous. Several red and green leather armchairs faced a fireplace of gas burning over faux wooden logs, and a variety of bottled spirits covered the walls around the room. The old man and the commander sat in two of the armchairs, and a third was occupied by a corpulent man who had joined them a short while ago.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This third man was introduced as the Minister of Requisitions, apparently a very influential post within the military structure, and also apparently a very good friend of the commander. The two joked with the familiarity of old comrades, and shared private memories that would mystify any outsider. Occasionally they would press the old man for information about himself, but were peculiarly unable to extract any information of import.

"Perhaps we should have our confessors look at him, eh?" said the Minister, chuckling.

"Oh, not yet. I don't think the poor fellow deserves that fate!"

The commander winked towards the old man over whisky-reddened cheeks.

"Though we'd definitely learn a lot more about you after a visit from them, wouldn't we!"

The commander laughed as if he found his own joke almost unbearably amusing, and the Minister joined him. Meanwhile, the old man smiled his gentle smile.

"A man of few words, aren't you?" continued the commander. "I don't meet many non-conscripted folk these days, definitely not around the battlefield. Intriguing..."

Both commander and minister stared at the old man in silence as if something was niggling at the back of their minds, but whatever it was broke when the Minister took a long drink of his port and spoke.

"You heard they've started conscripting in the Nor'east section? That's all the territories involved now."

"Really? Well, I look forward to the fresh recruits that'll bring."

"Pity though. I'd rather not have that kind representing the throne. They're barely civilised themselves - most need a few good lashings, if you ask me."

"Indeed, indeed."

The commander twiddled his beard as he drank, and the two spoke to the fire, old man forgotten.

"What is this world coming to, I ask you. The greatest empire the world has ever seen, reduced to using northern wildsman in its defence!"

"Shocking, shocking. And all because the blasted Jun took advantage of our trusting nature with such a cowardly sneak attack! Well, never again I say!"

"Hear hear! Wait, no... I thought we ambushed them, didn't we?"

"Did we?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure that was it. A pre-emptive strike into the heart of the Jun!"

"Pre-emptive? Sheer genius! Truly it does credit to her Majesty!"

"Hear hear! To her Majesty! A toast!"

The two men clinked their tumblers together, inebriated and happy.

"So, marching out again tomorrow. You don't think you're pushing yourself a little too hard, commander?"

"Nonsense! I would have it no other way. There is nothing like the thrill of battle to remind you how to live. Honestly, without this war I fear I would have died long ago!"

"Heaven forbid!"

"Heaven!?"

The two men burst into ribald laughter, amidst much thigh slapping and holding of bellies. Eventually their guffaws subsided.

"What will this be? The eighth, ninth time the Heights have changed hands?"

"I think somewhere closer to the twelfth actually, Minister. The people will rejoice when they are reunited with their traditional rulers."

"Are we? Their traditional rulers? I thought the heights were originally Jun territory."

"Are you sure? The inhabitants of the area spoke damn well when I was last there - I was sure they had at least some civil blood in their veins. Jun, eh? Well then, it will be a great triumph to take it for the throne!"

Clinking their glasses together one last time, the two men polished off their drinks and stood up unsteadily, pushing off the arms of their chairs to stand. The commander blinked when he saw the old man.

"Oh yes, of course. Well, sir, it has been a pleasure, but it is surely time for our rooms and a good night's rest. Tomorrow we ride!"

With a shaky bow, the two left the old man and went their separate ways.

Soon after they left, Swift the orderly arrived, eyes darting nervously around as he entered the room. His eyes locked on the old man, and he strode over hurriedly.

"I will show you to your room now, but I would ask some answers of you."

The old man stood up and allowed himself to be led out of the room and down the corridors, maintaining the same ambling pace he always did. This seemed to agitate the orderly all the more.

"I've never seen the commander like this before! He doesn't question you a jot, doesn't treat you as a spy or potential enemy. It's practically unique in my experience. Is it some kind of trick, or...?"

The orderly's puzzled expression remained as he matched pace with the old man. As he continued it was more as if he was speaking to himself than his companion.

"Could it be he simply refuses to acknowledge anything he cannot explain? He is that sort of man - I've seen him send hundreds, thousands, to their deaths because he refused to listen to intelligence he disagreed with. Certainly, compared to that this is a small self-deception, but..."

They came to a door among many along a long grey corridor and the orderly slid it left, revealing a cramped room with a single bed and not much else. He gestured for the old man to enter. Once his guest was in, he began to slide the door shut again, and as he did so he spoke, rapidly.

"Thousands, tens of thousands of us have marched out of these doors. Tens of thousands or more, and none have returned. They fertilise the deadlands outside, and tomorrow we join them. I wish you pleasant dreams, sir, though I do not remember what such things are myself."

The door clicked shut.

Swift the orderly came to the old man's room at dawn the next day, rapping on the door then entering without waiting for a reply, to find the old man leaning on his stick in patient expectation and apparently ready to depart.

They walked through the building and gradually downwards, eventually arriving at the wide-open basement level where an ever-increasing group of grey-uniformed men and women were gathering, in a wide array of ages and physical conditions. Strong, hulking men stepped over sickly, weak ones struggling to hold their packs off the ground, and those who must barely shave mixed with those whose hair was silver. The commander towered over this bustling crowd, standing on a wide platform in the centre of the room. The Minister was nowhere to be seen.

The orderly brought the old man up onto the stage via a small set of steps set in the side, then left quickly, disappearing into the crowd.

Everyone except the commander received a set of provisions and ammunition when they entered, and most were hard at work trying to force them into their already-full backpacks. The commander's bag was nowhere to be seen, but it was an easy assumption to make that some attendant somewhere would be taking care of it. He was once more clad in the leather-and-lacquer armour of day before, sword slung over his back and rifle at his side.

"Aha! My fellow traveller arrives at last! I shall muster the men."

The commander held up one hand and the room quieted down rapidly, conversations dying one by one as the conscripts noticed.

"Men! You all know what we now depart to do. Though the enemy may throw all the fires of hell at us, though he may try to tear us limb from limb, the Heights will once more be ours!"

The commander dropped his hand in a flourish and swept his gaze over the gathered men, awaiting a response. After a slight delay the men began to cheer, though with little passion. This was a speech they had heard before, it seemed. The commander did not seem to notice.

"Today, we strike a blow at the heart of our enemies! Today, we strike a blow for Her Majesty! Revenge, boys!"

Another desultory cheer, this time a little louder. It wouldn't do to be accused of lacking dedication to the monarchy.

They headed out with little fanfare, the commander astride the horse-like contrivance from the day before. He hardly seemed concerned for the actions of his men, not looking back as he spurred his mount and rode out at a pace that was challenging for those on foot to keep up with.

"Revenge? D’you know what he's talking about?" asked one foot soldier to another, as packs rattled and dust kicked up into the air.

His companion merely shrugged.

Time passed, and the old man found himself amongst the long lines of marching people as they clambered and waded their way over the cratered landscape. The yellow gas had dissipated, though the air was still thick with the pollution of battlefields everywhere - cordite, blood, and sweat. The line was mostly silent, just the crunch of boots and the panting of the exhausted. The commander was far ahead of the advance, often peeling off from the path they were taking to ascend nearby slopes and survey the land around, which was uniformly grey and desolate. This did not seem to dampen his enthusiasm, however, and he gave constant shouts of encouragement to his subordinates.

"Come on, men, push yourselves!"

"Pain reveals value!"

"Find your strength, for the Empire!"

These cries were met with near indifference by the weary marchers, only those near enough to the commander to be seen raising any sort of rallying cry in response. The sky was grey and dull, yet the air somehow managed to be heavy and stifling.

A soldier came up beside the old man, faded blue cap pulled over the ears and concealing all of their head save the face. The figure walked with a greater energy than most others, speaking of great reserves of stamina, and the baggy uniform hinted at a muscled physique beneath. It was only when the figure spoke that it became apparent that this figure was a woman.

"Are they so desperate they're conscripting old men now? Where is your pack, grandfather?" she asked brusquely.

The old man reached into his pocket and drew out the very corner of the pack in which, though she could not know it, he carried his tea leaves.

"They gave you no provisions? I swear, we must be losing the war badly."

A soldier shuffling along nearby hushed the woman with a hissed warning.

"Oh what?" she spat back. "There haven't been any truthmen here for weeks. And besides, it must be true, if they're sending out old men without weapons."

Another nearby figure told her that the old man had arrived with the commander.

"You're with the commander?" she said suspiciously, eyes narrowing as she turned to eye him.

The old man did not reply. She snorted derisively through her nostrils.

"No, you're not with the commander, you're another toy he's picked up to entertain himself with. What are you? An itinerant farmer? Lost your land to this madness, did you?"

Still no reply.

"Well, no matter," she finished, and they all laboured on in silence.

Something seemed to be bothering her though, and after a period of tense silence she spoke up abruptly, not quite at the old man but rather towards his general area.

"This is my third march on the Heights, you know. I've marched with the commander a few other times as well. Always comes out of it alright, that bastard does. We won't be so lucky."

"You've come out of it before. You just said," a man nearby said.

"Twice, but that doesn't mean I will a third time. Not many get through even the first time."

"What is it like, up there?"

"The same as down here, but you can see more of the area. It all looks like this anyway."

"And the Heights?"

"Windy. Bare. Hardly worth dying over."

"But we've been fighting for the Heights for years!"

"I know. They've claimed more than there fair share of blood."

"So what are you doing here? Why don't you... run, or something?"

"And go where? Besides, I have my reasons."

The conversation trailed off as the two speakers stared ahead into the unchanging distance, the old man forgotten between them.

"What reasons?" the other soldier asked suddenly.

"Huh? Reasons for what?"

"For being here. You said..."

"I know what I said!" She snapped.

The other man said nothing for a while.

"My first campaign, it was," the woman said quietly, eyes unfocused - or focusing on something the others could not see.

"I joined up with the other kids in my town. This was before the conscriptions, you see. Me and 3 of my friends, embarking on a great adventure." She spat.

"You volunteered? Before the call-up? You must have been fighting for years…"

She cut him off.

"We'd seen the parades passing through the town, clean-uniformed soldiers marching down the main street in step, people coming from all around to cheer and throw bunting over them. It was like a royal visit, and we wanted that kind of adulation.

We signed up the instant the recruiter came to town, and they practically threw us onto the back of the caravan cart. We were foolish; we'd hurried to the recruiters as if this was just another game we could quit at anytime. We hadn't even told our parents we were going to sign up, and suddenly we found ourselves taken without even the chance to say goodbye. I dread the thought of how my mother must have felt when she found out her daughter was missing.

We weren't a hard-up family either - at that time the belief was that only the poor would have to go and fight. We were just four kids unfortunately choosing to play soldiers right at the time the empire decided it needed to take recruits wherever it could find them."

"How long was it before you managed to contact your parents again?"

"I never did. You know how strictly communications are regulated here. They refused us for two years, then abruptly informed us that our home town had been destroyed in the latest round of battles. I went back, once. It's all gone."

More silence, which seemed to draw more words out of the woman.

"They let us stay together, at least. That was the first time I ever saw the commander. We were screaming at the logistics officer who had just read off the battle regiment list, splitting us up. This was early on, before complaining was a capital offense. The commander appeared from nowhere to see what the fuss was about, and laughed that ridiculous belly laugh. A minute later, we were all in the same regiment. I actually felt gratitude to the fat old beardsplitter."

The group that had gathered as she spoke searched around nervously for the subject or any possible intelligencer, shuffling further away from her until they were sure they were safe. She didn't seem to notice.

"He knew! He knew exactly what regiment we were joining, exactly what we were going to face. No wonder he laughed so hard.

We left the HQ one morning at the crack of dawn. That HQ was ten or so Ks further back than the one we just left - Ha! You can see what the years of fighting have won us. A few Ks of torn-up dirt - Anyway, we set out and headed up this way, almost the same path we're on now. The land was a little flatter then, a little drier, and there was even some vegetation hanging on.

Just like now, our way was quiet, and clear. We didn't notice the sounds of the shells at first, I guess we thought it was thunder or something. We'll hear them soon enough, I think."

More nervous looks.

"The frontline was another world. Deep trenches ran further than the horizon, and hidden within were rooms, entire barracks, whole collections of storehouses. You had no way of knowing what lies below from looking at the barren surface, and I assume it's the same now. There's no worries about sappers in that area, because the Heights block the way. That's what they are, the Heights; a group of huge basalt monoliths sticking out of the ground. No-one knows what made them.

The shells, though, they can fly over the Heights with ease, so everything has to be built into the ground. We spent the night there, feeling the ground shake at every one to smash into the ground above us. The next morning we stormed the Heights.”

Several others surreptitiously came closer as she spoke, drawn despite themselves.

“They made us run at them, as they'll make us run at them again. Bullets rained down on us from high above, so high as to be almost out of sight, but clearly we were well within theirs because the fire never let up. We shot upwards wildly, but I don't think we caused many problems for those above us.

It took almost an hour for us to climb to the top. An hour under a constant hail of fire, watching one after the other of my companions fall. By the time we were close to the top, there was less than half of us left, and we were too exhausted to do anything more than walk, despite the lead flying into us. It was just a question of numbers - there were simply more of us than they could kill in the time it took us to scale the Heights. There was no strategy. The Heights were paid for with blood.

When we got to the top, there must have been no more than forty or so men waiting for us. Forty men had rained death upon us for an hour!

It was at that point the commander came racing up and crashed into them, riding that steam-steed and accompanied by a small contingent of his own. We joined in happily, and soon no enemy remained."

"So we just have to stay alive for the ascent?" asked the man walking with them. "We can do that!"

He looked around, a tentative smile on his face, trying to encourage the others. Some nodded grimly. The woman stared straight ahead, unspeaking.

The sound of shells rumbled in the distance.