Serial
20: Boot camp
December,
13th 32 S.D. 16:47 Lake Lada, Central Plains
The encampment of Sventa’s second division sat beside the shimmering banks of Lake Lada. This position was but a few dozen kilometers from the Talimer Forest, the source of the conflict between the two major clans. Rows of tents had been pitched in the past few days by the gathering forces. Temporary fences erected along the outskirts of this stronghold, though no one really feared the enemy would overrun these paltry battlements, not with their new weapons. Even as the wagon that carried Losha arrived, others rode about ferrying the latest arms, the same rifles the Haus Trading Company had sold Sventa. Indeed, as the wagon’s back fell open - allowing Losha and several other soldiers to disembark - an officer went around distributing guns to various sharpshoots.
It had been a long ride of some six hours with little room for movement, yet as they all got off the vehicle, they were granted no time to stretch their weary bodies. In an instant, as soon as their feet hit the ground, they were immersed in a world of shouts and calls. Bodies abound bustled to and fro on orders of urgency. Everyone and everything moved, driven by a single, shared mechanic: the war. Neither stillness nor idleness presided in the camp, and the newest arrivals were not spared of this dictate. Immediately thereafter, a man walked over to Losha and the others, carrying a small notebook in his hands.
“Welcome defenders of Sventa,” he said, nodding at them collectively as he stopped. He bore an armband on his left that denoted his rank within the militia. He appeared to be a Range Lead, an officer that commanded some 16 to 20 squads.
“Sa, let us make this swift work. Tell me your names, and I will direct you to the appropriate Range Lead. From there your Range Lead will break you down into individual squads. If I happen to be your Range Lead, I will tell you which squad I have already assigned you to.” He turned to Losha first. “Sa, let us begin with you,” he said, pointing at her.
For a brief moment, a wave of unease rippled up and down her spine. Losha, however, pushed her hesitation aside. She hadn’t come here to falter. Besides, she was certain her cover was impenetrable. As Dansha Sofos, a distant and non-existent member of the Sofos clan, no one would mistake her for the daughter of the Holvate Torom. Only family had seen her since her return from Palostrol, and even now none would recognize her as Losha. Per her request, Denze had fetched her a Wolf of War pelt, an old though traditional battle dress of those in that region of the Central Plains. It was essentially a suit made from a real wolf that draped around the shoulders and over the head. The wolf’s head was fashioned not unlike a hat, although to do so the maker of the article had to remove the animal’s lower jaw. Properly pulled and wrapped, only portions of her face and mouth were exposed. The wolf’s long tail appended to the back of the piece, making it appear as if it were her own hair. As long as Marila said nothing more than “Losha has gone missing,” Losha herself could act as Dansha without fear.
“Dansha Sofos,” Losha said, straightening up.
The Range Lead looked at his notebook. Rapidly, he scanned through several open pages, flipping them deftly with a passing hand. With remarkable precision, he suddenly stopped. Halting, he drew the paper closer to his eyes as he squinted.
“Sofos, Sofos...” he murmured. “Sa, Dansha Sofos, filling in for Zelin Sofos. It is extremely short notice, however, you are assigned to my unit, Squad 11. Report to your Field Lead over there.” He pointed to his left down a nearby population of tents. Posts rose high into the air over certain segments, bearing the number of the residing squads.
“Alright, let us all move along,” he said. “You. Got a name?” Thus he carried on as Losha made way for her squad’s station. As she went about, she continually looked around, searching for the person that wore a Field Lead’s armband. As she glanced around, someone off to the side spoke to her.
“You look like someone who just got stuck in here. You must be a new one, and you must be looking for someone like me.”
Losha turned and saw a scruffy looking man only slightly older than her brother. His hair, grown and unkempt, complemented the scraggly beard that threatened to overtake his face in a few weeks’ time. He sat on the stump of what looked to be a recently cut-down tree.
“Bulmon Valto Sventa, Field Lead, Squad 11,” he said, nodding at Losha. “Seeing as you are the last of my squad to show up, I suppose that makes you Dansha Sofos.”
“Sa, Ver Valto,” Losha said.
“Se? No formalities little miss,” Bulmon said. “I just happened to get lucky; that is all. No reason in particular I was made Field Lead. Just Bulmon is fine.” Other members of the squad stopped to look up at their latest member. Some greeted her and waved.
“Well,” Bulmon continued, taking some tobacco and rolling it himself in a sheet of paper. “You will be with Lenol and Faima over there,” he said, motioning with his head to a tent just beyond him. “Tami will be your sub-squad Header. If you have any questions, feel free to ask anybody, except Zunba way over there; he is drunk again. That man’s a regular vansel...” He shook his head and sighed. “We are doing nothing at the moment. Tomorrow we practice field maneuvers, again. I advise you get yourself as comfortable as you can. I have to take care of that guy, so if you will excuse me...”
Bulmon lit up his makeshift cigarette as he got up and walked away. Losha turned and walked over to the tent the Field Lead has spoken of. Gently pushing the flaps aside, she ducked and entered slowly. Inside, two people sat on the floor. One was a long haired girl that looked scarcely older than Losha herself. She had smooth, almost child-like features, and she wore glasses. The other was an older woman, probably around the same age as Bulmon. She had short, dark hair, something of a thin mouth, and piercing, pointed eyes. Before them, two rifles sat disassembled with their parts spread out methodically.
“I do not see why we have to clean them so,” the one with the glasses said, facing away from Losha. “We have hardly used them.”
“Always be ready,” the other said, blandly, monotonously, as if she were a recording. However, she was the first to look up. “Sa, about time you showed up.” She didn’t smile, but the younger one stood up and introduced herself.
“Sa, you must be the last member of our sub-squad. I am Lenol Devun Sventa,” she said. “And this is Faima Sventa.”
“I got no house-name,” Faima said, not bothering to look at either. Instead she held up a piece of the rifle centimeters away from her eye. “Mother says I am illegitimate, or something, that I owe Sventa nothing. Yet here I am...”
“S-sa...,” Lenel said, glancing uncomfortably at Faima for a moment. She pulled her glasses closer to her face. “You are a Sofos are you not?”
“Dansha Sofos,” Losha said.
“Ksh, we are not deaf you know. I heard what Bulmon said outside,” Faima grumbled. Lenol frowned at these remarks, but she nevertheless tried to be inviting to Losha.
“I see you are to be our sword in the sub-squad,” Lenol noted, examining the sword that Losha had sheathed and strapped to her side.
“Your sword?” Losha asked. She was well aware that references to some brands of fighters were shorthanded to the weapons they bore, but she initially had no idea what Lenol meant when she said something about being their sword.
“She is new, or rather late. She got no clue what our battle strategy is,” Faima said, taking up a small tool in hand and applying it to one of the gun’s parts. “As expected from someone like you.”
“What about me?” Losha said as she set her bag down.
“Faima, do not start this...”
“Why not? Look at her. That classical, gaudy getup, fresh unworn boots, and a shiny new sword that has yet to see blood. I know the type. She is the kind that comes to war in fancy battle dress without ever having done any real fighting. The worst of all, they know nothing about winning, least of all how to do it.”
Losha could feel the heat drawing up in her chest, swelling in her cheeks. The only reason her equipment was new was that Denze had purchased them all recently at her request. To remain covert in her affairs, she had thought it best to buy her supplies rather than “borrow” them and draw undue attention to her actions. She remembered suddenly a host of details she had seen in her father’s documents that one night, some of which she had written in notes of her own.
“If you refer to the plan of action as decided by the Tabran and the four Prime Leads, I am quite aware of our course of actions for the war,” Losha began. “Sventa will primarily rely on our sharpshoots to reduce the enemy from afar using recently acquired weaponry with advanced capabilities, namely firing length and lethality. While our chief offense will be projectile based, our sharpshoots are to be protected from melee combat at all costs, hence the need for a small contingent of swords, spears, and other hand-to-hand specialists in each unit. I was merely surprised that I had already been chosen for this sub-squad in particular.”
Faima looked at Losha, not so much in disgust or annoyance, but of indifference. “Sa, whatever. Just do your damn job and make sure Lenol and I do not get stabbed. I do not need to die any time soon, least of all due to the mistakes of a careless girl.”
“T-that was uncalled for, Faima,” Lenol said. “You know, I had never held a gun before this all happened. A-and you did not treat me like that...” Lenol adjusted her glasses nervously.
“Sa, but at least you proved you could shoot. This b***h however...” Faima pointed at Losha with the end of the tool as her other hand sorted through the parts. “Looks like the only time she ever picked up a sword was from the store.”
Losha shook her head. Though she felt herself growing hot despite the winter air, Losha stilled her flushing emotions. She had come here to cease the fires war had lit, not kindle violence of her own.
“Think what you may. I have seen bloodshed enough recently, and I have practiced in minor acts of swordplay, though I have yet to see full-scale combat. Nevertheless, I came her to defend these lands from death; that includes your life.”
“Ksh, at least you can sound noble.”
Lenol looked at Faima and sighed. Losha, however, had moved beyond the matter. She shrugged and pushed her bag into an unoccupied corner of the tent. For a moment, she looked at the spot curiously, as if something were missing. She was about to speak up when a man wearing a helmet came in.
“Sa,” he said, carrying an item rolled underneath his arms. “You must be Sofos.”
“Dansha Sofos,” Losha replied.
“Tami Lest Sventa. I am your Header for our sub-squad.”
“Sa,” said Faima as she began to assemble her gun. “First the useless one appears, now the one with the funny Gandian name comes over. This is making my day.”
Tami smiled at Losha anyway, ignoring Faima completely. “Faima is just bitter. She is like that with everyone.”
“Not Lenol,” she said, snapping a small piece into the barrel.
“Well, the sooner you learn to ignore her, Dansha, the better we will be as a team. Though, do not expect to see much action, what with your being a sword and all.”
As Losha had anticipated, and as her research had indicated, the main strategy was to take down Henron with superior long-range combat. It was strange to know that she herself had played a role in that decision. By fate she had helped deliver the very weapons they were to use in this war. With any other turn of events, these powerful tools of destruction could have easily ended in opposing hands. She had journeyed with the merchants, sitting in the same wagon that had brought the very rifles before her now. How her actions had amplified a war she was all too against.
“Sa! Before I absentmindedly walk away with these, let me give you what I came to drop off.” He handed her what was, conveniently enough, the sleeping mat she had just wondered about, as well as a sort of belt with various pouches. One of them already held a canteen and a knife. Losha assumed the belt was part of their standard supplies.
“Thank you,” she said, grabbing both. She saw that he had a revolver holstered to his leg, and as she considered it, there had been a large number of older firearms floating around. It made sense to supplement the new guns with their previous generation of weapons. They had a limited supply of rifles and bullets that they had purchased from the Haus Trading Company. Their older stock, though not as capable, remained prolific and accessible and could still finish the job at the right distance.
“I shall leave you ladies to yourselves. Play nice now, alright? When you get the chance, Dansha, do take the time to get to know the others from the squad. We will not break into sub-squads under most circumstances, so we are not the only ones you will have to be familiar with. Sorry for the quick meeting, but I have to take care of some business with Bulmon over at the ordinance. Dinner is at six exactly, and 12 hours from there we start working field drills in the morning. I will be back soon enough, but feel free to ask about anything. Um, at least to Lenol here.”
“Ksh,” Faima waved him off, though he was due to leave shortly, gesture or not. With that, Losha finally had done what she had intended to do for so long; join the war. That goal was in itself but a step towards ending it, her final aim. All the pieces were set. The only thing left to do was play.
Late that night after dinner, Losha returned to the tent by herself. She found it empty for the time being. She hadn’t rushed her meal, and she had spent some time mingling with the other swords from her squad. She wondered where Faima and Lenol were themselves at this hour. However seeing as that only she occupied this space presently, Losha took the opportunity to meditate on her thoughts. Going over to the mat she had set up, she sat down, folding herself cross-legged.
A single gas lamp rested on the floor, but she didn’t feel the need for it. Shrouded in the evening’s darkness, she reached over and grabbed her sheath and sword, laying them across her lap; she knew where they were by instinct. Despite how easily these tools of war fell into her hands, they were ever foreign objects that remained obscure to her touch. She had not lied to Faima; Losha had practiced a small amount of swordcraft, but just enough to properly handle the blade without injuring herself. It was hardly the sort of knowledge required to defend one’s comrades and repel enemies. However, her weapon of choice was seras, not the sword. She didn’t want to think of its steel edge as merely ornamental or of idle use, but if things went according to plan, she would have little need for it. Still, it would serve her in unforeseen circumstances, and it kept up her appearance as a normal fighter rather than a powerful serialist.
On the matter of when she would cease to hide her abilities, Losha pondered greatly about that time’s arrival. She couldn’t just charge off into the heat of battle. Even with serialization at her side, such reckless behavior would see her wounded or killed. There was also the question of whether any action would reach her at all when they began to engage Henron. As she had read and now had seen, rifles and guns were proving instrumental to their way of war. Historically, most of the combat in the Central Plains had always been open-air and melee-based. Projectiles had played secondary and supplementary roles. She had heard that Gandian warfare had long since been the opposite. Now, as it seemed, technology had spurred a change in tactics. With the reduced role she was to play on the battlefield, would she really have a chance to bring about the war’s close?
Though Losha had planned this far and made all of her pieces come together excellently, from here on and beyond, the details become increasingly impromptu. She but carried vague ideas of how it would all take place. The enemy would rush them, she would stand up and strike them down with serialization, and knocking them out by the hundreds, Losha would beat them into submission. Yet there remained a great number of points naively unaddressed. If it came down to it, could she kill? How exactly would she attack using serialization? What if she depleted her available seras and tired? What if her actions only made everything all the more unstable? What if she never really had the power to change things and could but look on as the cycle of casualty and slaughter continued unabated? Everything in theory had been straightforward, but now she didn’t even know truly what the application would look like.
Her mind turned to Marila and the curious choice she had made. Despite her overwhelming misgivings, the great lady of the Sofos clan had acted as Losha’s co-conspirator. Though Losha had hoped from the beginning to persuade her, she hadn’t expected it in such the way it happened. By sending a stand-in, the now semi-fictional Dansha, Marila had not only implicated herself in Losha’s outrageous plot, she also jeopardized the trust and honor between Sofos and Sventa. In retrospect, the lose of Zelin would have been a painful but safe choice for any reasonable leader who had to think above individuals as it concerned the welfare of a group. What’s more, news of Losha’s disappearance from the Sofos would stir up questions about her responsibility.
Lastly there was the matter of what would happen when people found out she was Losha, not Dansha. Assuming Losha could do everything she had come here to do, she would have to reveal herself some time, especially when she came home. Since Dansha had been Marila’s construction to begin with, Marila would be in some sort of bind regardless of how everything ended. As such, Losha couldn’t see how she had managed to win the woman over. Surely it hadn’t been the bold ideals and childish zeal she had displayed. Perhaps Marila, in some way, honestly believed that Losha could do something to end the war quickly, and that such was worth the risk both were to take.
In light of all the doubts she had herself now, it was no small thing for someone else to see her potential. Indeed, how could she execute her designs effectively if even she were not assured of the purpose she was trying to accomplish? She turned her thoughts over to something Master Eltin had said long ago when she was first beginning to learn the art of serialization. The exact words escaped her, lost to the likes of time, yet the general phrasing remained fresh in her mind. It went something to the effect that doubters will more often find themselves on the proper path, as opposed to those all to confident in themselves. She was far from being totally confident, but that was no sign of whether her actions were set to end the war.
As she held the sword over her legs, familiarizing her body with the blade’s cool metal, she decided at last that there could be no certainty in the matter, never mind how much thought she gave to it. The only appropriate course would be to put her best efforts into whatever she felt was right. She had resolved herself to act as far as this point; she would see the outcome through, no matter what. That was as much as she could ask of herself.
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