A spectrum of metals contrasted with the crisp black uniform; tiny monuments to a long and storied career. Below the colorful swath, calloused hands clasped over a polished broadsword. An oak casket Surrounded General Green in cushioned opulence. The scent of hand-rubbed linseed oil touched the air. A respectful enshrinement, except…

General McAlexander eyeballed the lieutenant standing opposite the casket. “A cantaloupe?”

Lieutenant Hatcher flushed. “Necromancer won’t be finished with the replacement head until nightfall. They, um... improvised, sir.”

“This isn’t some subtle message?”

The younger soldier’s face twitched dangerously close to a snicker. “No sir.”

Mac let his gaze drop to the yellowish orb. Green was a narrow-minded dolt with an affinity for epic sword play. His leadership style cost innumerable men their lives. Enemy or not, the person who beheaded him had done McAlexander a favor. “The investigation turned up nothing?”

“Correct, sir. Colonel Fenton called off the search this morning. No physical evidence.”

The general sighed. Green’s entourage always had trouble when circumstance mocked their “sword swinging frenzy” view of conflict. Mac envisioned befuddled lackwits surrounding a table and pushing statuettes across its surface, hoping that the act would lend insight. But hostile teleportation mages don’t fit neatly on a battle map – and the 3rd battalion couldn’t explain their fearless leader’s disappearance from the camp's outhouse row. Mac had no sympathy for them. “Are they still using the buddy system for the latrine?”

Hatcher bit his cheek. “Yes sir, they are.”

General McAlexander looked up from the failure in the box. “I would have used a rock.”

“The big ones are reserved for catapults, sir.”

The general smiled and then motioned for silence. He twisted an ornate ring on his pinky, bringing a noticeable drop in noise outside the pavilion. “You got me on that last one, Hatcher. I owe you a beer. We have a little time before I meet with the 3rd Battalion and hand out orders. Tell me what you know.”

The lieutenant cleared his throat. “The annexation went poorly, sir. Leadership envisioned disorganized resistance – farm tools, small blades, that sort of thing; certainly not magic. So, they arrayed their forces conventionally, like the battle of Queberia Flats. But no one expected werewolves or door-to-door fighting. The tenor of our attack also made enemies out of bystanders. Some officers suggested that the Freedom Fighters of Oceanport wouldn’t exist if General Green pushed for a quick night invasion instead of…” Hatcher waved a hand around. “Slaughter.”

McAlexander raised a brow. He didn’t think the 3rd had any officers that were worth a shit. Perhaps he was wrong. "Interesting. I'd like to speak with these officers, Hatcher."

"Yes sir." Hatcher turned crisply on his heels. Pushing through a canvas flap, he left Mac alone in the makeshift mortuary.

The general untwisted his ring, and felt the cloak of security lift away. He gently closed the casket lid. “May the gods assist your journey, my friend.”

Several minutes later, a pair of soldiers came in and saluted. Hatcher followed, closing the tent flap behind him. The newcomers traded glances. Mac clasped his hands behind his back. “Gentlemen, you know who I am, and I’m tired, so I’ll dispense with the formalities.” He nodded toward one of them. “What do you do here?”

Sweat beaded on a dirty forehead. The soldier spoke with an earthquake deep voice; unexpected in a person of slight stature. “Sir, I’m the quartermaster. Major Davis Brown.”

“Lords of divinity, son. Your balls must drag on the ground.”

Embarrassment flashed across Brown’s face, but he managed to smile. “The ladies don’t complain, sir.”

“Do you get much opportunity around here?”

The embarrassment deepened. “Too busy.”

McAlexander looked at the other man. “And you?”

“Chief medic, Major Pellu Boromi, sir.”

“What’s it been like for you?”

“My hands are full patching wounded, sir. Over two hundred carried back from the front since we invaded. Most had conventional wounds, but some showed signs of sorcery. Impossible to heal.”

The general rubbed his chin to cover up a spike of anger. Sorcery, while horrifying to behold, was easily countered. Having soldiers afield without protection from bush magic could only be explained by insufficient planning or carelessness. Both were inexcusable – and someone would be held accountable. He pointed to an unoccupied corner. “Please take your rest over there, gentlemen. Lieutenant, I wish to hear your commander’s report. After you summon her, please get the colonels.”

Hatcher left to carry out his orders.

Major Boromi coughed into his fist. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Sure. Be quick about it.”

“This is a goat fuck, sir.”

“Really? Please explain.”

“Let me ask you a question. Why couldn’t we have spent more time studying the situation? It’s not like these yokels were planning on invading Jansdale. As things went, the 3rd barely had a week between King Trumwick getting pissed at Oceanport and General Green shoving us in here. Magic and lycanthropy weren’t even passing thoughts. And everyone knows this rat hole has retired mages living--” The tent flap flew open and the medic clammed up.

In walked a dusky skinned woman. Her uniform bore only one small decoration: golden rank pins at the collar. Gray hair tumbled to her shoulders behind pointed ears. Half-elven lineage lent her a timeless, exotic look that few men could overlook. Subtle humor lit her expression, but failed to reach her stony violet eyes. "I am here as commanded, general."

Mac smiled at his favored protégé, noting the rune encrusted scabbard which hung from her belt. A leather wrapped pommel protruded, shiny from use. <I>She brought her sword. Excellent. This should prove entertaining.</> “Your report?”

Blackleaf ignored surreptitious ogling from Brown and Boromi and proceeded to paint an unflattering picture of the 3rd battalion. Her dissertation lasted ten minutes. In the end, Mac knew that Green led with tactics born last century. Fawning command staff insulated him from negative outcomes in the field. Soldiers regularly stepped around the spirit of their orders and into the territory of criminal activity. A culture of mistrust and narrow-minded interpretation seized middle rank officers. The 3rd battalion teetered on the edge of falling apart – and losing the Oceanport campaign.

McAlexander addressed Brown and Boromi. “Does this match your view of things?”

The quartermaster’s attention lingered on Blackleaf’s posterior before shifting to General McAlexander. “Yes, sir.”

The medic nodded agreement; expression grim.

Moments later, the battalion’s senior officers filed in. Mac motioned them into position next to Blackleaf. Behind them, Lieutenant Hatcher quietly entered, flanked by guards in chain mail.

“I have to get back to Jansdale, so I’m going to keep this short.” The general placed a hand on the coffin. “Through the decades, General Green fought for ideals that made our country proud. We need to do right by those ideals, or his passing – and the deaths of countless brave soldiers – will be for nothing.” This drew amused looks from Hatcher and Blackleaf. “We stand half way down the path to re-unifying our once great empire. Proper leadership is required, and I am here to make sure the Oceanport annexation has it.”

The general eyed the men arrayed before him. “Colonel March, what is your assessment of the current situation?”

One of the newcomers straightened up. “We marshaled our strength after General Green disappeared, sir. The offense is making progress and we expect to secure the eastern reaches of Oceanport by tomorrow. A fortified position has been established in the city limits. Our command post will shift forward as soon as practical. I’d say things are going well.”

“Anything negative?”

March looked upward in thought. “Well, we have the usual issues with men being away from their families, but nothing endemic. Soldiers encountered werewolves last night. The monsters killed an entire squad just north of here. We managed to get some of them--”

“How many?” Mac already knew the answer.

"Sir?”

The general’s brows furrowed. “Werewolves, colonel. How many did you get?”

March cleared his throat. “One killed, sir. Five wounded.”

“Twenty soldiers dead, for one werewolf?”

“The men were ambushed, sir. The attack was completely unexpected.”

Mac took a deep breath. “Colonel Blackleaf, how does Mr. March’s assessment compare with your observations?”

“Incompletely, sir.” Blackleaf looked stern. “Soldiers are afraid of venturing into unsecured areas, due to werewolves, and General Green’s slaying. Magic has them spooked. In addition, resistance is well organized in Oceanport. Our men are timid, under-prepared and uninformed.”

The general nodded. “Alright. Colonel Fenton, what say you?”

A man stepped forward. “I believe Colonel Blackleaf is mistaken, sir. Our troop strength stands at 875, and regular patrols head into the contested area after dark. They--”

“Go whoring,” Blackleaf interrupted. “Patrolling outside the red light district is the last thing on their minds.”

Fenton blanched. “What? How dare you?”

Lieutenant Hatcher purpled and Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Is something funny, soldier?”

Hatcher looked at the ground. “No sir.”

“I’m tired of this game. The subversive, unprofessional demeanor in this room is a discredit to the army of Athyril.” McAlexander paced over to Blackleaf and stood nose to nose with her. He planted white knuckled fists on his hips. “I’ve made up my mind. As of this moment, you are no longer in command of the 1st Battalion intelligence corps. Do you understand?”

Blackleaf’s eyes narrowed, but she stared straight ahead, focused a thousand yards away. “Yes sir.”

Fenton lost his offended scowl and was well on his way to a smirk when McAlexander continued. “I place you in command of the 3rd Battalion, General Blackleaf.”

“What?!” Fenton exclaimed.

McAlexander gave him a frosty glare. “Did I stutter?”

“Sorry sir, but…” Fenton trailed off.

McAlexander sidestepped to the cluster of 3rd battalion colonels. “But what? Did you expect that one of you would assume Green’s role? I’m sorry, but I need to win this conflict, not indulge fantasies of flashing weapon barriers. As happy as I would be to hear the rest of your white wash, I don’t have the time or patience. Medic! Quartermaster!”

The men snapped to attention. “Sir!”

“Come here.”

They quickly stepped around the coffin to stand next to Colonel Fenton. Fear tempered both of their expressions into nearly unreadable masks.

Mac’s hand lashed out to Colonel Fenton’s collar. Threads snapped as Fenton’s rank insignia tore free. Crackling noises echoed off tent burlap as pins also departed March’s collar. “Take these. You both now report directly to General Blackleaf.” Mac’s angry attention focused over Fenton’s shoulder. “Guards, escort these civilians home.”

“What? Fenton snapped, after a moment of stunned silence. “This is preposterous! The king won’t stand for this. You have no right putting an unqualified trollop-”

Blackleaf's elbow twitched as she loosened her sword. Sinister energy washed through the tent like a demonic inferno and left horrified quiescence in its wake. Barely an inch of steel showed and the weapon ached for more. Blackleaf’s eyes twinkled. "I’m curious, Mr. Fenton. How do you plan on completing that sentence?"

Mac’s smile radiated the warmth of a glacier. “Choose your words carefully. General Blackleaf is not known for being very forgiving.”

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