Albert threw the empty glass bottle at the homunculus.

The tiny construct dodged it and scuttled away, fleeing in one of the many pipes that opened in the raw wooden walls of the small room. The shards of the broken flask ricocheted on the dirt floor adding to many others already there.

Albert spat and sat down on the bench. He stared again at the slip of paper in his hand, crumpled it and swore. He pulled off a leather glove, closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. He drew a deep breath and looked up. From outside the howl of the wind intensified and the door rattled.

The cluttered table in front of him was a mess of maps, papers, burned out cigarettes and dirty mugs. On the other side sat a haggard man, a pallid complexion on which the dark bags under his eyes contrasted violently, long brown hair gathered in a ponytail and with a sardonic smile plastered on his face. His green uniform was stained with mud, his left sleeve hang limp and empty.

The man fumbled with a small bag, and pulled out a dark wooden pipe. He took a small leather satchel, opened it and began to pull out a pinch of tobacco. As he put it in the pipe, he asked, “What’s it this time? Do we need to indict the snowstorm for treason and shoot it? Do we need to prepare for a parade in front of General Northrop?”

Albert stood up, took one of the mugs and walked to a table lining the wall, a dented tin kettle sat on a small gas burner. He fished a small tea bag from a wooden box, looked at it and made a disgusted grimace. He put the bag in the mug and poured boiling water over it. Albert sighed, then turned around and leaned against the table. “No Simon, I wished it was such a thing. It’s something even worse. We have to mount an assault when the storm weakens. The artillery will fire summoning shells at the northern fortifications, and we will charge after the Ifrits laid waste on the machinegun nests.”

Simon rose an eyebrow, pressed the tobacco, put the pipe in his mouth and snapped the fingers summoning a small flame. He puffed a couple of times, his face scrunched in concentration. After a few moments he said, “Didn’t the contract with the fire-tribes expire last month?”

“It did. I don’t know what they are thinking. Those treacherous bastards are almost as bad as allies as as enemies.” Albert walked to the central table and reshuffled some of the papers. He then took out a creased map and observed it intently.

Smoke rose lazily from the pipe. The sound of the wind became louder, whistling through the trenches.

Simon bowed down and pulled out a metallic flask from the duffel bag lay under his bench. He opened it and took a long sip. He looked up to Albert, offered the flask and said, “What are you gonna do?”

Albert waved the flask away while he continued staring at the map, then turned around and walked to the steaming mug on the other table. He took it and drank a bit, “To hell with me if I know.”

He walked back to the bench. He sat down, pulled off his other glove and grasped the mug with both hands. He slumped down, “Even if they renewed the contract and avoided the pitfalls from last time the snow will make the Ifrits useless. And that will be a problem only if the artillery hits the target at all.”

Simon bowed forward, taking a look at the map. The lantern hanging from the ceiling flickered. He turned the map a bit, took his pipe and used the nozzle to point at it, “The path here, shouldn’t that give you enough cover to get the grenadiers in range?”

Albert looked away, “That’s a trap. Lieutenant Wallace has tried to use it last week,” He shuddered, “It’s infested with Wraiths. We lost a platoon there, and we don’t have enough exorcists to break through.” He emptied his mug grimacing. “Simon, do me a favor.”

Simon looked up, “What do you need?”

Albert glanced at the pipes, “Can you seal the room? You know, enemy scrying and all that…”

Simon nodded, stood up and walked to a small chest in the corner. He kneeled down, opened it and pulled out a golden plate, a crystal and red chalk. He stood up and began to trace intricate symbols on the walls.

Albert rummaged in his breast pocket and pulled out a ornate cigarette case. He pulled out a crooked hand rolled cigarette and lighted it with a match. He puffed on it observing his friend work.

The wind howled outside, the snow mixed with ice pounded on the door.

Half an hour later Simon sat down with the golden plate. He murmured a litany, cut his finger open on an edge of the crystal and dropped three drops of blood on the plate. The glyphs glowed briefly, and then there was silence.

Albert looked around again, then asked, “How long do we have?”

Simon shrugged, “At least ten minutes. It’s hard to get decent supplies. This crystal is not exactly top quality, but we should be able to chat for a bit.”

Albert took a deep breath, then said, “Do you know Margaret's little brother?”

Simon scratched his chin, then said “No, I don’t think I’ve met him. Was he at the last dinner party?”

Albert shook his head, “No, but maybe you have met him at our wedding.”

Simon thought about it, then shrugged, “Sorry, can’t remember him.”

Albert waved his hand dismissively, “It’s not important, I’ll introduce you to him. Anyway, he got assigned as Lieutenant to the 4th Reserve Regiment of the Hellfire rifles.”

Simon raised an eyebrow, “So he will be part of the assault?”

Albert clenched his fists, “No he won’t. I promised Margaret that I would care for him, and I intend to do exactly that.”

“How—”

Albert raised a hand, “Before we start the assault, I will summon him. Then I will shoot him in the leg.”

Simon gasped, then bowed forward, “You can’t be serious, that’s paramount to treason.”

Albert looked him in the eyes, “You will bring him back from the frontlines and you’ll see that he gets a decent bed in the hospital. Then you will tell them an enemy spy got here, tried to assassinate me and that he was wounded in the fight while he saved me.”

Simon shook his head, “You can’t be serious, nobody will fall for it.”

Albert looked away, “They will believe anything and make him a bloody hero. Hell, I would be surprised if they don’t say another spy got away and that’s the reason for the mess.” He looked up at the ceiling, “They will send him home with a medal. We both know that this thing will end in a bloodbath and they’ll need some shining example of patriotic courage to balance it.” He drew a deep breath, “If any further problems arise, his father will handle them. He has friends in a lot of important places.”

Simon stared wide eyed at Albert, “How did your brother-in-law land here with all that connections?”

Albert snorted, “The fool was somehow convinced that he’ll return from this damned war covered in glory and with tall tales of daring adventure. For the king and the country!”

Simon took his pipe, his hand trembling, “This will end badly.”

Albert closed his eyes, “It will end with me and my men ripped to pieces. But at least he will get back alive. I have a favour to cash in with Captain Blackwood. Believe me, it will work.”

Simon snapped his fingers, the flame flickered briefly. He snapped them again a few times, lighting the tobacco at his fourth try. “What… Albert, you can’t ask this from me.”

Albert stared at his friend, “I can and I’m doing it. Damn, Simon, you owe me. And you always told me that a Brook pays his debts.”

Simon looked down, leaning on his leg, his hand limp, a few flakes of burning tobacco falling down. He whispered, “You bastard.”

Albert stood up and walked around the table. He put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, and said, “Thank you. You’ll see, it’s for the best. And Lord Foss will remember this.”

Albert returned to his bench, sat down and rummaged through the mess on the table. He pulled out a few empty sheets of paper. “I will give you a few letters. They should guarantee that you’ll get out of this clean. Tell Margaret when you give her my letter that...” He gulped, “Nothing, give her only the letter.”

They both sat in silence, Simon staring at the wall, Albert writing.

The crystal cracked, then crumbled to dust. The glyphs on the walls dissolved. The sound of the storm filtered again in the small room.

---

Albert stood in the trench surveying his men in the grey light of the late morning. Farmboys and sons of merchants, trembling in the waning storm. He heard somebody sobbing, somebody else was whistling an upbeat tune. He could see the embers of a few cigarettes, their light shielded by the wall of darkness summoned by the sorcerers to cover their preparations.

A black haired boy rocked back and forth whispering a prayer, gripping his rifle with one hand and an amulet with the other. He was barely an adult, the plumpness of youth eroded by months in the trench.

A few dozen yards on his left a group of mechanics was fussing around the dragoons, fixing last minute issues with the engines of the heavy armors and renewing the enchantments on the steel plates. The elite riders sat a few paces away, cracking jokes, bragging about how many soldiers they’ll bring down this time, about the girls they’ll sway when they’ll return home. Bold, fearless, the best of the best of the king’s army. They knew they wouldn’t see another dawn.

His sergeant coughed beside him. Albert turned to look at the thickset lowlander, weathered skin and a lush salt and pepper mustache. His uniform was immaculate, a rare occurrence on the front. “Yes, Mister Glas?”

The officer glanced worried at the sky, “How long before the charge, sir?”

Albert pulled out his golden watch, “Twenty minutes. Alert the left side, see that they are ready.”

Glas saluted and moved away, moving swiftly among the mass of soldiers.

Albert looked up, the shroud that covered them wouldn’t last that long. He eyed the watch, a gift of his stepfather, the family emblem engraved on the lid. A remarkable craftwork.

He heard a low whistle becoming stronger, the subdued booming of the howitzers following. There was an detonation and a scream of rage. Other whistles and explosions came immediately after that.

He swore, grabbed his pistol, put a foot on the ladder leading out of the trench and screamed, “Charge!”

His officers whistles trilled, the dragoons ran to their armors, the hissing sound of engines behind him as he climbed out on the battlefield. His men followed and charged through the shroud, running on the snow-covered wasteland between the fronts and up the low hill.

In the distance he could see the hulking shapes of the Ifrits as they pounded on the enemy defenses, stones and sandsacks, swinging flaming swords and collapsing almost immediately under the fire of the machineguns. Only a two hundred yards separated him from the battle.

He ran forward, bullets grazing him, his world shrank to the strip of land before him. He jumped in a crater, beside him someone fell, victim of a sniper probably. His heart pounded, then the massive metallic steps of the mechanized cavalry signaled that the dragoons had joined the attack. He gripped his pistol, murmured a swift prayer, jumped out of the cover and continued to run.

Snow had already become mud under the boots of his soldiers, his steps were unsure but he pressed on. The dragoons had broken through the barbed wire and were moving in behind the last remnants of the Ifrits, their plating shrugging of most of the shots.

His riflemen were just behind, on the left he could see the grenadiers nearing one of the machinegun nests. Albert slipped, fell down, and pulled up again. Then there was the whistling sound, from another direction this time. He looked around, there was mud, and blood and men running and an explosion of dirt and stone.

---

Albert lay on his back, looking at the sky, a lonely snowflake landing on his cheek. The sun was timidly coming out from behind the grey clouds, barely shining through the billowing smoke. Pain was a far away memory for him, the moaning and screams subdued and hardly perceptible. His ears were bleeding but he didn’t care.

He felt at peace.

Albert raised his left hand, and noted he missed two fingers. He tried to chuckle, managing only to get out a wet coughing. As he began to breath again, he rummaged through his breast pocket, and pulled out an ornate cigarette case. He tried to open it, but it slipped through his fingers. His arm fell down.

A banshee wailed.

Albert lay on his back, his eyes turned at the sky.