Chương 128: CHAPTER 125 Alle Begin Is Moeilijk

Sweat streamed down the forehead of a nameless soldier, dirtied with mud and ash, as he ran through the narrow ditch that was the trench. The planks fractured, now rotten and damp from the rain, burying the men under the weight of the gray, foul-smelling mire. A whistle echoed through the air, mixing with the screams and prayers, before everything was devoured by a tremendous roar. The soldier fell, slamming his back against the row of mutilated, swollen bodies that were once his comrades.

"Shit…" He felt his lungs struggle in his chest. He rose with difficulty, coughing. He shouldered the greasy, filthy rifle, cutting his finger while trying to unlock the chamber. The bullets slipped from his hand along with the blood, as the din of mechanical and biological screams mixed in the air. Suddenly, a trooper found himself above the edge of the pit, observing him.

"What are you doing standing there?! The retreat has been called. This area will soon be razed to the ground!" The soldier stopped trembling at the sight of his comrade, giving a quick nod as he extended his hand. For a second, the air stopped being so cold and disturbing. A breeze extinguished the flames on the battlefield, along with the screams and orders. A drop of dirty blood hit the soldier's pupil. His comrade gasped, frantically clutching the golden metal protruding just below his sternum.

A slender, white figure, spectral and frail in appearance, was slowly lifting him into the air, letting the blood drip into the trenches. Another drop landed on his uniform, and he slid to the ground, grabbing the mud just to crawl away. The figure, before its victim could even stop writhing, dismembered him in two with a blade thrust into each half. The organs, starting with the intestines and lungs, fell to the ground with a viscous sound.

It threw away the rest of the body, bringing its face right up to the soldier's. Now he could see it clearly: it had all the characteristics of a female body but was mutilated by dense plates of alabaster porcelain, wrapped in rough, torn bandages. From the plates, threads of flesh seemed to stir, with shards embedded beneath. It had more joints that creaked whenever it rotated its arms, culminating in curved golden blades.

The face was like a mask, but with nothing behind it, only flesh painted white and decorated with colorful, translucent shards. The head was hairless, with a few blond tufts sprouting from the mask's seams. It approached the soldier, emitting various musical notes mixed with a faint but pressing hiss. Its head rotated completely as it slipped into the trench. It rose beneath the little sun filtering through the clouds, raising the curved blade.

"What are you doing?! Run!" A violent blow tore the air, impacting heavily against the creature's skull, tearing away a part. A fountain of dense golden liquid greased the earth, sizzling as it turned dark red. The creature emitted a horrid cry, so shrill it forced the soldier to cover his ears. A new roar crossed the battlefield, completely tearing apart the beast of Termìe.

"What the… You are…" A figure cloaked in white appeared in the trenches, holding a heavy, long rifle of bronze color. The square barrel still exhaled a dense reddish smoke, while the tube connected to the reservoir distributed on the hip and leg sizzled. The figure removed his fur cap, tying it to his neck. He grabbed a small, oblong pistol and emptied the magazine against what remained of the beast. The bullets couldn't be heard in the cacophony of screams and thunder around them.

"We'll do introductions later. We have to move!" A new whistle, then another. A swarm of iron turned the horizon into a wall of waving flames. An incredible force dragged the soldier away. The poor troop fell into unconsciousness. The mind of the soldier returned to the present. Blankets of black smoke spread across the fields near the carts, consumed by the constant advance of the tracked vehicles wrapped in the red blanket.

The sound of iron devouring the tilled earth and profaning the water had by now become habitual for anyone returning from the front awaiting repositioning.

"So that's how you met the lieutenant, eh, Alfieri! Nice luck you've got, huh?!" A massive, bearded man with his right arm replaced by a thick, massive prosthesis laughed as he tapped his comrade's thigh. The boy, much smaller, smiled timidly, carefully shouldering the standard-issue rifle in his hands.

"If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be here right now…" He murmured timidly, narrowing his eyes to give that almost childlike smile.

"Come on, Alonse. Leave the recruit alone! Not everyone survives against those beasts…" A woman with olive skin and very pronounced muscles carved a twig, staring intently at the man through glasses dirty with soot.

"My dear Castiglia, but we've killed a few of those sons of bitches, haven't we?" The woman turned her head, sighing.

"Still with that stupid barracks nickname? And besides, most of those kills went to the lieutenant. Only he can handle that cannon without losing an arm or two." Alonse let himself go on the little wooden wall of the greenish cart, turning his back to the muddy road marked by countless passages.

"Come on… Do I really have to call the lieutenant?! You know he'll side with me." The woman gestured to the man wrapped in fur, once white, beside her. He was motionless, barely a breath moving him, embracing the gigantic fire-mouth. The woman gave him a tap on the head, immediately waking him.

"Come on… Don't argue while I'm sleeping." With a yawn, the white-haired lieutenant woke completely, smiling toward Alfieri. The boy gave a quick nod, scratching his temple.

"It must not have been a pleasant experience for someone so young." The man smiled, grabbing a silver flask from under his coat, wetting his lips. He made a grimace when he realized nothing was flowing.

"But… Lieutenant Haia, how old were you when you enlisted?" Maverick Haia, licking the little warm water left on the tip of his mustache, smiled. The cart vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, illuminated at intervals by sporadic, opaque orange lights. Sinuous shadows navigated the passage, almost caressing the vehicle.

"About your age. This conflict has lasted almost six years now. The capital was the first to fall, then the port of Tralfi in the south. They've cut us off from almost every front." Maverick's voice echoed in the darkness, striking and echoing along the spectral walls. A drop of water shattered on the cart's wood.

"I have no idea how many people have died. But I'm sure that if we lined up all the bodies, we could finally unite the continents." The light hit them, blinding them for an instant. That single second of pale white had been mercy before the infernal smell invaded their nostrils.

"If you really want to know how one lives at the front… Shut up and watch." Among the fields rose swirling columns of black smoke, forming veritable clouds. The terrain was arid, scorched by the constant jets of liquid fire emerging from the weapons wielded by the soldiers. The archipelago's uniform was white and puffy, now covered in black splotches and grayish ash. They moved clumsily, swinging the flames toward the hotspots. Some wielded shovels with serrated ends.

They threw the earth behind them, while others loaded red sacks onto their shoulders. The cascade continued until the red began to overflow from the earth. They ignored those still moving, feeding them to the flames. Muffled screams and prayers rose from the piles of bones, muscles, and coal, being absorbed by the fuel blasts. On the horizon, hundreds of those columns made their appearance, interspersed with rough circular crosses made of twigs and rifles. Tombs without a name.

The shadows of the airships stretched over what remained of the woods, reduced to black expanses. Alfieri threw himself toward the edge, vomiting as the wood creaked. The other three averted their gazes, covering their faces with their hands.

"I've never seen a single soldier return sane from a front against Termìe. At least those from Northest just tear us apart, and that's it." A weak smile appeared on Maverick's face as he cast his gaze to the black horizon.

"People don't come back whole against those bastards. For them, a couple million of us aren't worth the filthiest of their citizens. They've destroyed the mountains, burned the woods, and mutilated our citizens for something futile." Suddenly, the vehicle hit something. At the edge of the cart, a charred, swollen body with various growths resembling limbs was convulsing. Castiglia and Alonse clicked their tongues almost simultaneously. Maverick rose, drawing a small, cylindrical pistol.

From that mutilated body, a desperate little cry seemed to rise as it moved, moving a tumor that was once an eye.

"This is what happens to those who can't escape the golden crosses…" He quickly aimed, murmuring something, before pulling the trigger. The charcoal skull exploded, spilling a golden liquid. The pool almost seemed to rust, boiling until it turned red. The cart entered another tunnel, abandoning the grim ossuary.

"It's a shame they put you in the 8G. Those from the Offrandes never have an easy life." Alonse murmured, his face faintly lit by the orange lights.

"Offrandes... Aren't those the sacrificial squads that get all the worst operations?" Maverick nodded at Alfieri's question with the same smile.

"Well, the lieutenant is a legend at the front by now… And besides, he's the only one I've seen come back sane." Castiglia gave a quick nod to Maverick as she moved near Alfieri. The light shone again on the platoon as a vague series of booms echoed in the distance.

"It doesn't matter where I'm thrown. As long as this war ends, either for me or for everyone." The cart stopped after a few minutes, and Maverick got off, his cloak almost slipping into the mud. He gave a smile before turning.

"Who knows how we'll survive without you!" Alonse smiled, tossing him a circular flask. Maverick caught it, chuckling.

"You'll find a way, won't you?" The cart started again with a puff of steam and the sound of pistons. Its passage marked the mud, molding under the vehicle.

"Take care of Alfieri! Make sure he gets home." Maverick watched them wave, shout something, but only voices reached his ears. He raised his hand, heading in complete silence toward the dense woods. A spectral silence accompanied his steps as the world seemed to darken again. The light grew fainter, obscured by the dense, globular blanket of dark clouds. Maverick raised his head, feeling the first drop of rain brush his face. He tried to wipe it away, finding his thumb greased with black slime.

"Who knows if they carry the cries of the dead in their wombs." He shouldered the rifle, heading toward a building wrapped in lianas and foliage. It was quite massive for a barracks, with bricks painted green and greased with mud. Beside the vague cubic shape, there was something like a ribbon of branches and leaves, joined by an almost black slime. It covered an old model of a tracked vehicle, with the classic side turrets and a hatch for entry.

On the side laden with bolts and plates, a writing and a white star, bearing a code: OR -8G. Maverick smiled, shaking his head as he gripped the strap of his rifle. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. He took the first step, crushing a twig. Unexpectedly, the silence was broken not only by the creak but by a chorus of chirps and wingbeats.

"Do animals still exist at the front?" Only now did he notice the figure crouched at the side of the entrance, intent on dispensing crumbs and seeds to the various animals in the mud. It was a massive man, with shoulders like boulders and a uniform that could hardly contain them. He was bent on his knees, tossing the feed from the sack almost mechanically.

"If you stopped moving like an ox, you'd probably see more of them." The man towered over Maverick, with all his bulk but with a strangely chubby, gentle face. One of his thick hands rested heavily on the lieutenant's shoulder. A broad smile formed on that big man's pale face.

"I'm Theo Mastri! Enlisted in the 8G!" He shook his hand, furrowing his brows at Maverick's grip. The small star on his collar seemed almost to light up with the pale reflections of the sky.

"I've been assigned here by Croupier A. Lieutenant Maverick Haia. The pleasure is mine." Theo laughed heartily, lifting the sack onto his shoulders. Some crumbs fell on his uniform.

"We know who you are! My old comrades told me the deeds of the White Death. I didn't imagine I'd see you in person!" Maverick laughed, patting that wall of bone and muscle. A notebook peeked from Theo's pocket.

"Do you write poetry, by chance?" Maverick noticed all the creases on those yellowed pages. The big man smiled, a bit disheartened as he shook his head.

"To write poetry, I need to hear the song of birds, not bombs. In here, there are only reports and thoughts." The lieutenant shook his head, fixing the pen that was about to fall from his pocket.

"I didn't imagine finding other people like me in the army. Usually they're all much more taciturn." Theo turned after those words, climbing the steps and dirtying them with the filth of his boots.

"Can you blame them? Not everyone is crazy like me." Maverick smiled, pointing at the cart. A vague noise of flames and hammering accompanied his smile.

"Ah! You mean our mechanic? Go say hello. A new friendly face does everyone good!" The man entered the barracks accompanied by his thunderous laughter. Maverick tried to mirror himself for a second in the putrid water. A drop moved the surface, mixing with the mud.

"He didn't mention the general of this area. From what I was told, the G8 should be under the control of a new general." He headed toward the workshop, seeing the sparks dance beyond the little space offered by the covering foliage. The air grew ever more humid and heavy, but he held his coat tight, moving slowly. He entered, pushing aside the curtains and leaves.

The cart bore the scars of battles along with numerous plates of molten iron, giving the bodywork a vaguely asymmetrical and sickly appearance for a machine. He took a step, stirring the hair stuck to his forehead.

"Theo… I've told you several times to make noise when you come! If you bump into something, you ruin everything." A ringing voice emerged from under the cart, lifted with heavy pistons and straps. Maverick now noticed the wheeled board, on which were stretched a pair of legs wrapped in a camouflage uniform covered with branches and leaves.

"Unfortunately, I'm not Theo. I'm Maverick Haia, the new lieutenant assigned to the G8." The legs banged together, and immediately their owner catapulted out from under the vehicle. She stood up immediately, bringing her calloused hand toward him. She was a very attractive woman, with her uniform unbuttoned and tied at the waist. She was more muscular and taller than the classic ladies of the archipelago and was covered in grease and ash from her dark head to her feet.

Beyond the vaguely swollen lips and slender face, the features that most struck Maverick were the emerald eyes and skin dark as a hazelnut.

"What are you standing there gaping at? Haven't you seen a woman darker than usual?" She smiled, tilting her head along with the bangs stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Maverick shook his head, shaking her hand.

"Of course I've seen some, but never as beautiful as you." She burst out laughing, offering him a cigarette. Maverick slipped it between his lips, waiting for the lighter's flame.

"Thanks for the compliment. The name's Alice Baylon. You're just like they say. An atypical and chatty lieutenant. Besides, you don't seem to be a purebred from this cluster of islands either." The woman handed him the lighter, lit hers first, then the one held between those delicate lips.

"My mother was from Northest. I'm glad she died before seeing this hell. Thanks for not calling me 'sir.' I can't stand hearing military titles all the time." Alice laughed, slapping him on the shoulder.

"I thought I was the only crazy one still using words here! I'm glad to have someone else for company!" Alice sighed, exhaling the transparent smoke of her cigarette. The rain began to soften the air, decorating everything in a thick web of liquid cobwebs. Maverick put out his cigarette, resting the butt in the terracotta ashtray.

"You know how it is. We who are entrusted with the Offrandes don't have an easy life, nor, for that matter, a very long life expectancy." Alice smiled, letting the ash fall.

"And how did you end up here?" He glanced at the Taumite flame and all the various tools scattered in the workshop. Thin drops of water filtered from the roof, wetting the bench. Alice took the cigarette from her lips, exhaling the smoke again.

"They say my blood is cursed in my land. My family was almost massacred because they think we descend from a witch, and they fled. Turgnevet is a frightening place beyond imagination. Tell me, Maverick… Do you believe in ghosts?" The man leaned his back against the military cart, raising his chin. He shook his head.

"I believe in demons, but I've never seen a spirit. Better that way, at least I won't have to hear all those screams again." A little laugh emerged from his lips as he stared intently at Alice.

"Yeah… Unfortunately, I've seen too many ghosts. I hope you don't meet the same fate as me." She grabbed the flame and the visor again, turning to get back to work.

"Is the general like you too?" Alice stopped, and her hands trembled. The thin red flame wavered, and for a second even the rain seemed not to exist in that instant. Her eyes widened, and Maverick had to take a step back.

"Well… You'll have to go give a report soon, won't you?" Alice got back to work, abandoning Maverick there. With a light step, she crossed the workshop to the door at the back of the barracks. A crate of dark glass bottles had been thrown into the mud, and a putrid smell began to spread. He grabbed the door handle, finding himself before some stairs. The walls were painted an almost nerve-wracking gray, and a flickering reddish light accompanied that bare architecture.

"Ugh… No…" Maverick lowered his gaze, meeting the tearful, reddened eyes of a young man, thin and emaciated. His uniform was dirty with every substance a body could produce, but the tag engraved " FRED MALAGER" was still legible and almost pristine. Maverick stared at him, furrowing his brow.

"Excuse me… The general's office?" Fred's pupils expanded, filled with blood. His lips began to tremble, and he clung to Maverick's hips, almost making him fall.

"Calm down! I'm the new lieutenant, Maverick! I need to report." The poor soldier's trembling fingers stopped and, with a certain disturbing solemnity, pointed to the stairs. Maverick nodded. He began to climb the steps, hearing behind him some kind of wailing, rhythmic and constant like a funeral chant.

"Is the general really such a big piece of shit?" His steps echoed. He kept walking, yet those vaguely slippery stairs seemed interminable. It was only when he saw a thunderclap light the room that Maverick realized he had reached the top floor. An annoying buzz accompanied that creaking. He raised his gaze, following a brown figure oscillating clumsily in the air.

"This place is a dump as usual." The cockroach fell at his feet, twisting and writhing. Disturbingly, its small, translucent wings almost seemed to turn to stone before breaking. One by one, the legs fell, and strange yellowish pus began to exit the ringed abdomen. A strange sensation started from Maverick's tailbone to his nape.

"What the…" Another flash shook the interior of the building, but the lieutenant wasn't thinking about that. The door before him exhaled something. It wasn't a perceptible miasma, yet something inside Maverick perceived it. It seemed as if his organs were rotting and his bones twisting until they pierced his flesh from side to side. He slapped himself, staring intently at his pale skin, perfectly normal for him.

"I'm just exhausted… nothing serious." He smiled, knocking on the dark wooden door. Three thuds, and he waited, tapping his boot on the floor.

"Yes, please, come in." A voice rang out from behind the handle, and again those words brought back that sensation. With his heart seeming to want to declare war on his body, Maverick entered the office. The walls were painted green, and a large window made artificial lighting superfluous. A wide, old desk occupied most of the room, rather bare now that Maverick noticed it. At its side, a tiny bookcase with few texts tried to give some decorum, just like the red circular rug in the center.

But what most disturbed and intrigued the lieutenant was the man near the window. His figure was massive, yet somehow almost elusive. He wore a heavy black cloak with various red embroideries on the broad shoulders. A fur collar, a bit worn, decorated his neck. On his head, the classic general's peaked cap, with a small stain on the side. Slowly he turned, and all the air seemed to be infested by an unbearable miasma. Even the saliva Maverick tried to swallow was accompanied by the need to vomit.

"You must be Lieutenant Haia, right? It's a pleasure to have you in our squadron. I am Malcolm Van Jir." Maverick felt something weigh on his shoulders. His stomach closed, and an incessant nausea took possession of his senses. Everything about that man was black, from the uniform to the gloves, to the hair and eyes decorated with those vaguely grayish pupils. Malcolm smiled, moving his thin lips as he sat down.

"Have a seat. I need to inform you of the operation taking place tonight." Maverick nodded, sitting in the armchair. For a single instant, the piece of furniture creaked, but the sound was lost in nothing.

"Yes, of course. I was informed of the assault on the east bay." Malcolm smiled, resting his elbows on the desk. His every gesture emitted no sound, and Maverick was sure that his chest didn't move.

"Tonight the conflict on this side of the archipelago will end. It will be pleasant." The general extended a hand to him. For that instant, Maverick felt the world vanish, as if only he and the man before him existed. Their fingers intertwined, and a horrid sensation of slime enveloped Maverick's arm.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant Haia…" The black eyes pierced him, devoid of life. Maverick rose, trying to hide.

"… Everything must end." Malcolm watched him leave, saluting him with narrowed eyes. Once outside, Maverick clutched his chest, descending the stairs panting.

"I have a bad feeling…" As he set his foot on the steps, he realized that the carcass from before had now vanished. The night came with no stars. Tongues of fire engulfed the forest, mixing their grim splendor with that of the now-exhausted artificial sun. A horrid odor of various chemicals had taken possession of the air. Harrowing screams formed a chorus in the darkness, silenced by the constant thunder of the artillery.

Maverick was on the cart, his hands soaked in blood and his entire coat painted the same color. Occasionally, the iron flashes illuminated the scene. Alice was there, intent on medicating the ill Fred, with Theo muttering prayers.

"Lieutenant!" The boy's voice echoed in his mind, and only now did Maverick realize that the slime he felt between his fingers was his comrade's intestine. He felt a knot in his throat as Alice's voice reached his ears, muffled.

"Fred… Don't give up… We can still…" Alice sobbed, but by now the boy wasn't responding. His eyes had remained shiny like marbles, fossilized on that terrified expression. From the top of the cart, Malcolm watched him, giving a nod. Alice, in Maverick's eyes, moved her head again and again, but after a second nod from the general, she froze. She lifted Fred and threw him off the cart, immediately covering her ears.

In the interval between one cannon shot and another, Maverick's distorted senses perceived the sound of bones being chewed under teeth.

"Come on, Lieutenant, don't give up now." Lit by the glare of the bombs, the general's dark, grim face twisted into a smile toward Maverick, with Fred's intestines still clutched between his fingers. Maverick tried to say something, to create a vocalization with all the emotions swirling in his head, yet looking at Malcolm, he couldn't stop trembling.

"Every beginning is difficult." Malcolm's voice echoed as a bomb illuminated that face so dark and devoid of all vitality that Maverick could only smile. His hands lost strength, now wrapped in a sticky slime. When he heard those words, Maverick's mind almost went blank, and a strange hum escaped his lips.

"So it's true… Ghosts do exist."