Mtorto Lowlands

By the light of a dimmed amber lamp, the general rubbed what had, years ago, been his knee.  Cold brought a dull ache to the bones and the damp, smooth bark of his prosthesis chafed the skin there.  Of course, the arborcraft was flourishing since its root mass never lacked for rich mud in the camp, but this only further irritated the man: a gift from a skilled arbortect was a luxury and mark of distinction but he had to prune the damn thing every other day here.  He was too weary for that to be a pleasure anymore.

He had come up the ranks decades ago during the last major conflict between powers.  War was an unpleasant business at the best of times, but the unconscionable inventiveness of battle editors in the years of peace had rendered the whole mess beyond what he could readily stand.  Soldiers half-unwritten or with abominable mutilations thanks to some quirk of grammar dreamt up in the University and carved into their skin by war hammers loomed in his mind's eye.  Despite this, common soldiers only saw the smartly-dressed general, uniform somehow still candida-white in the rainy season, sure of purpose and of steady resolve.  Whatever hesitations he might have were partitioned away for times like this where he had no witnesses.

The reports scattered across the desk across of his cot were full of nothing but bad news.  The northern heretics might be unwilling to wield grammar, but they had been quick to seize the confluence of opportunities which yet granted them an edge.  A few months ago Banajir had been far beyond their reach but the attack and unorthodox succession of Prophet Shethiid led to a state of political near-crisis verging on civil war.  The onset of the rainy season let the smaller city-states to the north band together for an offensive on the weakened metropolis through the Mtorto lowlands.  Now, here, the Banajiri loyalist troops were not outnumbered but certainly at a disadvantage.  Grammar-enhanced weapons worked well enough for hand-to-hand combat, but the men had been trained with the expectation of support from the engine corpsmen.

Mired in the swampy region were several wheeled and legged engines of war and, even though the light and broad-hooved scout runners might not sink, their chassis were ill-suited to the dense trees.  The general had attempted to recruit locals with domesticated npheshi to fill the role, but all had balked.  In the end, reconnaissance aircraft had been the least-unfavorable option despite being easily spotted from the ground and the extreme cost.

An important flicker tower node had fallen earlier that week which had yet to be replaced by an ad hoc network, further blinding the general.  The heretics had built great, smoking bonfires at the base to silence its corpsmen before undermining the foundation.  There had been no news from Banajir in the time since and, for all he knew, the general would be leading his men back to a city divided.

Dwelling on all this did the soul of the man stifled inside the general no good.  Perhaps tomorrow he would make another sacrifice to the Scribe, but for now he simply wished to forget.  This was a battle that would be, he thought apathetically, without victor and without foreseeable end.