Dogs of War, Part 1

When he arrived at our outpost, nobody made a move to help him. He looked like hell, beaten and bruised, practically dragging himself along the ground, likely wouldn't survive the night. But he was one of them -- blood red uniform, and not just from him leaking onto it; stony gray skin, even though he had lost much of his natural color; glassy emerald eyes, with the usual defiant sheen looking more like a glazed stupor.

We had been fighting an embittered war for decades, with millions of human lives lost and hundreds of towns destroyed at the hands of Banarii. And here was one of them, come crawling into our encampment, leaving a trail of vital fluids behind him like a slug.

In dead silence, our small, isolated band of twenty watched him stumble to a water barrel and drink from one of his craggy hands, only to sputter it out in a coughing fit. Between labored breaths, he looked up at each of us in turn with a look of exhaustion, though strangely without desperation or pain. "The war," he rumbled, with a look of grim resignation. "The war. It's over."

He collapsed into the dust and lay there for several seconds before three men rushed to his aid.

Before nightfall, the medical staff had him stabilized, with surprisingly little trouble. Despite their alien appearance, it seemed Banarii physiology was not too different from ours.

"What do you think we should do with him?" Our head field medic sluiced blood off his forearms, frowning with disgust. "I know I took an oath to help the sick and dying, but I think these bastards have repaid the debt more times over than I could hope to make up for."

The enemy soldier lay dormant on the cot, his uniform removed and replaced with bandages, hooked up to several support machines. He was at our mercy, and had surely known it. "It would be treasonous not to agree with you, doc. But he said the war was over, and I mean to at least find out more about that."

"Personally I feel like it's a waste of resources. Aid we could be administering to our soldiers."

"This man is a soldier too. He knowingly came to an enemy camp with an important message, looking for help and someone to listen. I think we can at least afford to hear him out."

"Yes, captain." And with a salute, he left me in the medics' tent, alone with the dog that had strayed into our territory.

For some time, I'd been beginning to feel like we were all lost mutts. Ordered to establish an outpost on the furthest edge of the Wildlands, my company had been blindly following directives from headquarters sent by carrier pigeons. When the supply trains stopped coming through, and the missives cut off, several of the men had suggested deserting. I wanted no less than the rest of them to go back to what was left my home and be with my family again, but I was determined to stay the course and fight the good war, like they'd always taught us. Had it not been for weeks of convincing, bribing, and even threatening, I'd be fighting this war alone. Most days, I'd felt that I already was.

I stood over that fiend for some time, looking at his near lifeless body, even tempting myself to think how easily I could end him with just my bare hands. But that would be to go against everything I had ever believed in and stood for thus far. When, after some indeterminate amount of time, he finally opened his eyes, I was surprised at my first question.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

He considered me and his surroundings for a moment before replying. "I know that a part of you believes me, if I'm not dead yet."