The Faraway War, Chapter One: The Death Tol

The Faraway War

Chapter One: The Death Toll

May 10, 893
Still in the jungle

Striker was killed yesterday. No one has coped well with it. Sometimes you can really tell when somebody's lost his best friend because he's lost the fight with himself to stay alive. They sit in the sun and sweat, let the salt water rinse the dirt off their brows, give up their rations, hardly move even to swat the behemoth bugs that land on their tan faces. That is the state of the entire unit, and, as I write, I feel as though Striker is frowning down upon me--though this time not over my shoulder as he always did--and he is wondering why I am bothering with this useless journal.

I persist, however. This pen and this paper are more important to me than ever now that Striker is gone. Here I can lay out my baggage, express my disgust, see in plain words what my mind insists on burning as an image in the back of my head. The carnage, the blood, the death. On many days we do not fight. We pile. We pile the bodies that our guns and our tanks rack up like points in a sick game, we pile them as though they are our trophies that must be properly stacked and out of the way so that our game can continue and we make more and more piles. The twisted game has no preference as to which color points we make stacks of - red and brown or blue and gray, who cares. And God only knows which stack Striker is in now.

I put his letter to Regina in the post this morning. I have not yet decided if I am going to compose a new letter that will go to Jamie should something happen to me, since the one I had given to Striker is, no doubt, missing. I find the smallest bit of solace knowing that Regina will receive Striker's letter before the pitiless military letter--no, notification. I fear "letter" has too much of a nice connotation. This organization is an ambitious, dishonorable cesspool of machines run by soulless tyrants who believe that the words "We regret to inform you" can console the razed hearts of the surviving parties.

I wrack my brain every night with questions that I cannot answer, and the one that lingers like a persistent echo as I fall asleep is: Why did I come here?

The Vendettan Army was closing in on the troops of Düren. Everyday the line was pushed farther and farther down the peninsula of the Nikut colonies, and the Vendettan high brass could toast each other every night and scratch a day off of their calendars that would bring the Düren Army closer to the sea and the Vendettan Army closer to victory. For three years, the Vendettan Army had made gradual progress. But gains were slow in the dense jungles of Nikut--not one person had ever taken into account the ageless trees, the thick underbrush, or the predators that lurked, hungrily feeding on the flesh of the dead, and often even the living, too. The war was fought between two rivaling countries and Nature, and it was not uncommon for Nature to take its prize in bodies on a daily basis.

The trees loomed limitlessly over the C Company, which had slowly rustled and awoken to the bright sunshine that shone through leafy filters. The air was so thick with moisture that it seemed to fill the entire earth with a gelatin-like material, which clogged the lungs and hung heavily on the shoulders of the weak soldiers. Roy Camlach Graves pushed himself up from the bed of his uniform jacket then pulled himself so that he could lean against the tree trunk whose gnarly girth rivaled that of Vendetta's most prized Val-Graves Airship. Streamline roots ran up and down the lower parts of the trunk, their straight patterns criss-crossing and wiggling together as they burrowed deep into the rich, rainforest soil. Roy stuck to the tree with the sap of his own body, which had been depositing itself steadily on his skin since the date of his last bathing excursion three days ago. Roy breathed sluggishly, his lungs tired now that he was awake, unable to distinguish oxygen from water in the air. His eyes closed again from the weight of the atmosphere, and sleep felt achievable once again.

A loud buzzing brushed passed his grimy ear. Though an extremely loud, abrupt noise, Roy had to force his eyes to open and focus upon the insect that had flown passed his head and landed on his propped knee. The creature was nearing seven centimeters in length, with a doubled wingspan to match. It had iridescent blue-green eyes that saw everything without moving, and its elongated body blended with the color of the sky--if it was possible to see it through the sea of leaves that blanketed the jungle.

The singing of birds had disappeared from the lush scenery, as if someone had grabbed a handful of canvas and ripped out the middle of a priceless painting. Hardly any animals made an appearance aside from the deadly tigers, which prowled and often times struck unsuspecting soldiers in the middle of the night. The only wildlife that the soldiers saw on a daily basis were the insects that roamed free with the food chain broken, their natural predators driven off.
Roy stared at the insect with the intensity of a feverish child. "Get off," he muttered with so little inflection that it could have sounded gentle.

Roy sat with his back against the gnarly, ancient tree for what could have been hours. The sun's progression across the sky was marked by its rays of light whose angles shifted as the day slowly crept by, not with any deliberation at all. The sun was without concern for its role as the harbinger of defeat or victory; it simply went at its own, crawling pace.

The bug flapped its wings, then suddenly flew away. The ground rumbled as if it had missed breakfast and it was empty and hungry. Roy scrambled to his feet, pulling on his uniform jacket over his stained, white shirt while the other hand reached for his brown helmet and threw it on his head.

"Incoming!" Roy shouted. The rest of his squad, who had been physically awake but just as mentally asleep as him, jumped to their feet and found cover. Corporal Roy C. Graves watched the sky intently for smoke. Here, there was no enemy in front of you--he came from above, combusting, until the climactic explosion wiped out its opponent before he realized what was happening. Corporal Graves lifted his rifle and checked the scope, which had a crack that stretched halfway across the diameter in a jagged line. It was a blind spot, he hated it--regrettably, he found himself wishing that he had snagged Striker's Winchester as he had gone down.

Roy gagged suddenly, lowered his rifle, and stared at his feet, wide-eyed. The thought had made him literally sick.

Taking deep, slow breaths, Corporal Graves raised his rifle again, scanning with the scope for any sign of human life amongst the trees. His ears confirmed his suspicions of the approaching enemy, the Düren artillery working steadily, perhaps clearing some trees, perhaps searching for targets. They couldn't be sure--they could only hope that they were the ones fortunate to first encounter the enemy with piercing rounds.

"Summers," Corporal Graves said urgently, his voice hoarse, drained of moisture. The younger soldier looked to his superior from his cover behind another tree and nodded in acknowledgement. "Get us some aerial recon reports, backup, or something so we're not sitting ducks when the big guns get on top of us."

"Yessir," Private Summers quivered, snapping an unnecessarily respectful salute and shakily running back toward the headquarters camp. The rest of C Company must have been aroused by the artillery fire, now, the storm creeping ever closer to their camp.

Roy shut his eyes and let his head fall forward until his forehead hit the smooth bark of the ancient tree. He let his mind scatter aimlessly into the darkness while his ears remained staunchly attuned to the thunder, his feet aware of the rumbling in the earth.

I don't want to fight today.

Right now, Striker would be laughing. Striker would be trying to stifle his laughter by pinching his arms and holding his stomach, but Striker would not be able to get the image of the Düren tanks out of his head, which he found so poorly engineered that it made his stomach ache with glee. Striker would pantomime the movement of the tanks, which rolled on six wheels with no treads, with his arms outstretched as if he was overweight, and sometimes he would even completely fall over with his arms and legs still tensed like he had been struck with rigor mortis, imitating the clumsy vehicles when they rolled because of the lumpy terrain. Striker. He would be laughing.

When Roy opened his eyes, his fingers felt weak, and he saw that he had been gripping the rifle in his hands until his knuckles had drained of color. Relaxing with great effort, Corporal Graves resumed his diligent watch of the jagged horizon, that nagging feeling of regret, sadness, whatever it was, still nipping at the back of his neck. He heard a faint buzzing, and his eyes narrowed--it was no insect, this buzzing was all-encompassing, not some strange sound that could only be heard in one ear from mere centimeters away. This was the rattling of metal on metal, haphazard rivets, and screaming engines. This was the pride of the Düren Army, the laughingstock of Paul Striker, the Rhye-Noh.

Roy suspected that there was no man named "Rhye" and no man named "Noh" who actually built the sad excuse for a machine, and the idea that such a craft could be compared to a rhinoceros by sound was simply preposterous. Düren was not as clever as it wanted the world to think. The dull country really needed to stick with what it was good at: being dull.
Looking over his shoulder and searching for any sign of Private Summers, Corporal Graves began grinding his teeth nervously. Support. They needed support. Or, for God's sake, at least a launcher! Rickety and poorly constructed though it was, the Rhye-Noh could very easily destroy the entire C Company once it got close enough.

Provided it didn't flip on its way toward them.

Right now, though, Corporal Graves had to pray that the tank was not fully prepared for an assault. That could buy them enough time to pick off any of its entourage and perhaps damage it with a barrage of grenades. Yes, that would be the plan.

Corporal Graves straightened and held up his open, right hand, hopefully grabbing the attention of his watchful squad. He motioned toward the currently invisible machine, then pointed at Grainger and Hill and made sure they knew to sharp shoot the soldiers on foot, then he pointed at Bard and pretended to throw a grenade, obviously at the big, semi-armored vehicle. The squad nodded in tandem.

Roy would never stop being unsettled by their uniformity.

The squad's concentration on each other was broken suddenly when the sound of rustling trees above them alerted them to the presence of another being. An animal? Perhaps. The enemy? More likely. Predators knew not to come out in broad daylight with trained gunmen on the loose in their jungle. This rustling did not bode well for C Company.

Corporal Graves shaded his eyes from the sun and squinted, trying to find the cause of the noise. It seemed as though one beam of light was stabbing him right in the face, preventing his delicate eyes from finding whatever they sought. Then, he heard the rustling again, stronger, right above him--fear gripped his heart with a bony hand, freezing his entire chest solid.

I'm gonna die.

It all happened at one time. The green form dropped from the canopy and Roy reeled backwards; he felt his rifle wriggle free from his grip, saw the shadow of the enemy in front of him. Roy did the first thing that came to mind: he tossed his helmet at the guy's face. Roy swung his legs around, slipped the knife from his boot, and pounced forward. He tackled the green-clad enemy to the ground, struggling as the man grabbed his arms, his eyes wild at the glint of the knife. Roy lifted his knee, shoved it hard into the man's solar plexus, felt the air and the strength leave him, then he jabbed with the knife into the abdomen--several times, rhythmically, systematically, and just as he was taught.

Removing himself from the quivering man, Roy quickly retrieved his rifle, paying close attention to the enemy on the ground, and he pointed the barrel at the man's head. He wasn't sure, he had been so ready with the trigger, but the man might have raised his hand and tried to speak just before Roy shot him.

Mind blank, Roy replaced his helmet to its proper place on his head, then his eyes groped for the forms of his comrades in the shady trees. Other enemies in green were around him where his comrades had once stood, and Roy panicked. He heard shots, thought that it was his turn to die, and he dropped to the ground. The green enemies began returning fire, Roy thought he had a chance, so he scrambled around the tree and took cover. He lifted the scope to his face, found the back of a green enemy's body, and fired. Roy didn't wait to see what happened, he simply found another and did the same, and in seconds the firing stopped. He was breathing heavily and feeling as though no oxygen was entering his lungs; he wanted to faint.

Roy saw Private Summers standing on the edge of a short ravine, beams of light on either side of him as he dropped his gun, aghast. "We--" he stuttered.

Roy simply stared at him, waiting.

"We should be dead," Summers breathed.

There was a moment of hesitation before Roy joined Summers again. This pause was a small lapse in adrenaline that reminded Roy that he should be checking for wounded, or confirming the dead. But not now--not with Hellbingers dropping from the sky like angelic demons.

"We need to get back to headquarters," Corporal Graves said as he pulled himself onto the ravine. The voices of the approaching Rhye-Noh entourage were becoming louder, as they had obviously heard the scuffle that had just occurred. A retreat was in order, lest the victory become a loss.

Summers nodded in agreement, or perhaps let his head fall out of pure weakness, or perhaps, for a moment, faltered in his will to live.

The two soldiers started to walk, and, upon hearing another explosive artillery shell practically at their heels, they began to run. To say that the soldiers ran, however, was a bit of an exaggeration, because really the terrain was too jagged with uneven soil and tree roots for one to properly propel himself at great speeds without tripping and hitting the dirt. But they tried--they jumped and dodged around environmental obstacles. It could not have been far, Roy assured himself. He had lost track of how much ground C Company had covered in the past three days, and whether or not headquarters had moved up with them, but Roy had to believe that they were close. Sunbeams watched them go by, some bending over their hunched forms. The trees on either side of them were so big that it seemed to take hours to actually pass them. Their progress felt slow, too much effort for little gain. The sound of artillery fire followed them, but grew fainter, perhaps unaware that its scout group of Hellbingers had been slain by the enemy.

But the artillery would find out soon enough when it happened upon the bodies. And if the two soldiers were lucky, the artillery would believe that every life from either side had been taken and remained lying on the moist grass.


Adrenaline wore off quickly. Roy learned that early on in his travels as a soldier. Primal instincts were not something to live off of--instincts were to be harnessed in emergencies (which, to most every soldier, are frequently encountered), but not relied upon entirely. Roy's own endurance was his crutch when he needed to run a little over a kilometer from the enemy, not some chemical reaction that temporarily made him a super hero. Self-reliance was the key to survival for Roy C. Graves, not instincts.

Or, at least, that was what he led himself to believe.

Roy's legs burned as he and Private Summers came to an abrupt stop. The trees had disappeared and left gargantuan graves--stumps so big that a few could fit over a dozen men on its surface. The trees were dead, but the area was alive with movement, some frantic and some trudging. Tents were scattered about, a couple of VG tanks were parked nearby, as well as a handful of big guns awaiting departure. Wounded men were being carried on stretchers, others limped alongside comrades, some happened upon a sanctuary unaware and stumbling. At one time, one couldn't approach a Vendettan Army headquarters without passing several guards and undergoing several checkpoints--tags, badges, and, if suspicious enough, distinguishing marks such as tattoos and scars had to be seen, checked, and approved before any messengers or parties smaller than a squad could approach headquarters.

This particular camp was a satellite of the main headquarters back in Nikut's capital city (if one considered a Vendettan puppet government-run, barely-developed, tribal community a city), Jagra. Only one of the five Vendettan Generals was stationed here, one of the more brilliant, up-and-coming Generals, to be more specific, and Roy sought him out immediately in a serpentine path through the camp, Private Summers in tow.

"Hold it," the guard at the tent door said, moving his rifle to block Roy's path. Roy sighed and fumbled through his belt compartments until he finally retrieved his papers. He handed the crumpled, ripped, burned, held together by threads parchment to the guard, who inspected them thoroughly.

"Corporal Graves," the guard addressed him with a slight arch of the brow. He lifted his rifle from Corporal Graves' path.

They saluted each other, and Roy passed into the tent, ducking under the swinging, tarp door. As he entered, the guard stopped Private Summers, and Roy found himself alone in the tent, which was completely dark.

"Corporal Roy Graves," Corporal Graves said, snapping a salute and staying at attention. The shade was wonderful, but the stifling humidity was still thick in the air. An oil lamp flicked on, and Corporal Graves' hard stare met the sad, blue eyes of General Graves.

"At ease," the General said kindly. He smiled but still looked just as morose as ever, weariness emanating from the dark circles under his eyes.

"Marcus," Roy said softly, returning his brother's smile, whose character now mirrored the General's sadness rather than the optimism of three years prior.

Marcus stood with his left hand leaning on a wooden cane, weight shifted completely on his left side. His blonde hair was shorn short, and his sickly gray skin reflected the warm light of the lamp. He was not the same man that Roy had been accustomed to several years ago when they lived with their father in Canan. Marcus had since been stricken with a terrible sickness at the hands of the enemy's biological weapon, and his recovery had been a long and arduous one. For a long time, his brother could not walk or even feed himself. Time worked on Marcus' side, however, and his loving wife nursed him back to health.

Marcus looked as though he had not slept in weeks, which could have either been an accurate assumption, or simply an observation of how he normally looked. Ever since his second son was born, he seemed more morose than ever, and even less available for correspondence from Roy. Marcus was only allowed so many letters from certain people, and it wasn't always clear where he resided because of the constant need to travel to see other generals.

"Funny thing we received in the mail this morning," Marcus said tonelessly. He motioned for

Roy to come to the wide table that was set up under the swinging oil lamp. Roy stood at his brother's side and looked at the scroll of parchment on the table.

VENDETTA AND DÜREN MAKE PEACE, the first line read.

Roy's jaw dropped.

"Check the date," Marcus said, putting his finger on the parchment. "It was three weeks ago."

"I need a smoke," Roy rasped.


Peace between Düren and Vendetta never came as easily as war. Düren was through with its futile war with technology. It was impossible to adapt at the rate of J. L. Valentine and L. R. Graves, whose prolific designs and productions were in blueprints one week and on the battlefield the next. The terms of peace were complicated and hard to reach, not unlike a child's plan to obtain the sun. Neither side could compromise on whose soldiers would die in vain. Vendetta did not want to give up its land won, and Düren did not want to surrender with no territory to claim. Queen Abigail simply abhorred war (but could not quite control herself when it came to out-doing Düren), and it was completely against her morals to dishonor the young men who died. Riechenbach V was as much of a Hawk as his father and grandfather and fathers before him, and would therefore surrender only if his terms were met--despite the outrageous odds if he continued to fight. The peace talks were arduous and slow, and neither side would even agree to a ceasefire until they could agree on the final papers. Riechenbach V would propose brazen, uneven solutions, which Queen Abigail would readily veto, while her contributions, though mild and fair, to her, were shot down by Riechenbach V. Finally, they agreed to let their foreign advisers and highest-ranking generals work out the Treaty of Hoffsworth, which laid out these terms: Vendetta kept its territory won, but would allow for a controlled amount of Dürenian activity to take place in Jagra and its surrounding provinces. The rest of the market and resources would belong to Vendetta. These terms were not ideal for Düren--in fact, most of the public was outraged at the turn of events, but the Dürenian foreign advisers and military generals signed the Treaty with warm hands to shake and genuine smiles.

Corporal Graves held on tightly to the rifle in his lap, which bounced and tumbled along with the tank that he rode on, plowing full speed toward its next destination: Jagra. The terrain was much flatter than the jungle's bumpy, rooted surface, but its properties as a plane for transportation left just about as much to be desired. Outside of the rainforest, it became marshy, the ground perhaps a similar consistency to the air in the rainforest. In the marsh, however, there was more moisture to go around, not to mention fungi and plant life to feed off of it. The marsh was as hot as the rainforest and not nearly as pleasant; while the jungle had its occasional charming creature and interesting flora, the marsh had deadly aquatic life and the rank of a moldy dungeon. It was darker in the marsh, more monotone in its color palette, which was mostly grimy green, dank blue, and brown. Where there wasn't water, the ground was coated not in grass, but moss. It took no less than the genius of the VG dual-engineering technology to get tanks and troops across the terrain quickly: tanks were fitted with gargantuan propellers which were placed on the widened tank's undercarriage, causing them to seemingly "float" across the precarious surfaces. But when the tanks reached moss-covered bodies of water, many unfortunate accidents occurred where tanks slipped nose-first into the water, never to be recovered in the deeper cases. Trial and error was the only way for tanks to find a path, and such was the course for Corporal Graves and the 46th Artillery Regiment.

The constant jarring and sloshing of the tank's progress was progressively making Roy sick to his stomach. Taking long, deep breaths, Roy scratched the scruff of his chin and attempted, quite fruitlessly, to relax for the ride. The benefits of his affiliation with the 46th were numerous, including but not limited to: not having to walk, several tons of metal as a barrier against attack, and some interesting company. The tank operators were a strange breed of soldier, and this was a conclusion that Roy could readily decide upon after spending several days with a few of the men of the 46th. They were undaunted by closed spaces as well as the phrase: "No chance of escape." If their tank was fired upon and damaged to the point of imminent explosion, the cockpit was not designed to free its operators in such an emergency situation. The soldiers of the 46th could contort themselves to fit into the tiny spaces available in the cockpit and still manage to work like dogs to keep the tank going. The gunman, perhaps the one most likely to escape an attack because of his seat in the upper gun turret, was also the main target of most assaults. It was, as he put it himself, his job to destroy as many enemies as he could before he was killed. And it was not with any hypothetical air that the gunman told Roy this grim task: it was imminent to the gunman that he would die before the war was over.

Luckily for the gunman, though, the ceasefire had been issued--at least to the Vendettan troops. It was not uncommon for either side of the warring parties to continue fighting, whether it was because they had not yet received the ceasefire, or even because some soldiers wanted to take it upon themselves to reconcile an unfavorable treaty. As far as Roy's tired bones were concerned, ceasefire meant ceasefire, and maybe that was unsoldier-like of him, but if he worried himself over anything more than not losing his lunch rations to the tumultuous ride, he might just break down crying.

And Corporal Roy C. Graves did not cry. Not after Striker died, not after his unit was killed, and not because he was sick to his stomach and under potential enemy fire.

"Oi, Corporal Graves," the gunman called from his turret, almost chidingly.

Roy looked up at him, forcing a smile.

The gunman, Lieutenant Nicholas, gave Roy a thumbs-up and a toothy grin. "Jest a few more hours, Corporal," Nicholas assured him. He had the accent of a true Northerner, bouncy and having a sort of tart flavor, with shortened syllables and completely different inflection from the inhabitants of Canan and other mid-Vendetta citizens. Roy merely nodded and shut his eyes again, clinging to his gun. He would be in Jagra soon. Soon.

The tank passed out of the marshlands and onto solid ground, which meant that the small convoy of the 46th was only 60 minutes from the Jagra capital. Trees reappeared, though these not as large and crowded as their rainforest cousins. The 46th Regiment convoy consisted of six green and black tanks, all doing their part to help transfer Vendettan troops from the frontlines back toward civilization and, ultimately, home.

"Think ye'll volunteer to stay in this hellhole when we get there, Corporal?" Lieutenant Nicholas inquired out of the blue.

"No, don't think I will," Roy replied. He yawned and stretched, having recently woken up from a short, not entirely worthwhile nap.

"I 'aven't decided yet," Lieutenant Nicholas added. "Is' not like I've got much to go 'ome to, y'know."

Roy folded in his lips and remained silent. He couldn't relate to Lieutenant Nicholas' situation; he had his father and his brother, the Valentines, Jamie, the ring... He had so much to go home to that it seemed borderline insanity to leave in the first place. But everyone has his own ideals and motives and ambitions that often drive him away from what he desires. Not all of them, however, come back missing his best friend, stained with the blood of dozens upon dozens of men on his hands, and a serious doubt in his own will to live. In that sense, Roy had much more of a reason to leave than to stay, and he would truly have to reassess his morals if, for some reason, he was ordered to stay in Nikut; he would risk defaming the name of his General brother--and not only Marcus, but his father, too. He would be the only Graves boy that wasn't helping in the war effort, and that would be disdainfully dishonorable. Roy squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about the possibility of going AWOL. It was not in his agenda right now--getting to Jagra in one piece in order to bathe, however, was.

Several events happened all in the same moment. The last thing Roy remembered was hearing the high-pitched crescendo of an incoming shell. Nobody even yelled: "Incoming!"

The shell exploded on the ground to the left of the tank, the opposite side from where Roy was lounging, tossing the tank to the side. Roy was thrown off and sent tumbling to the dirt; the tank shielded him from the shrapnel, and it landed on its side, slid, and barely missed running into an all-but aware Roy Graves. There was a loud ringing in his ears that deafened him to the noises around him. He remembered, then, that it was superstitious to believe that angels try to contact humans by making their ears ring. Roy believed they were going to tell him it was his time to die.