Ashes Of the Führer

Elisabeth Ritter's command-tent was little more than a patched canvas pavilion staked into the damp earth, yet inside it felt like the nerve-center of a kingdom. A single lantern, fixed to a center-pole, cast shifting amber light over a broad trestle table buried beneath maps, ledgers and half-drained tin mugs. Outside, dawn drizzle rattled softly on canvas; inside, the air smelled of wet burlap, lamp-oil and the iron tang of yesterday's blood.

She stood over the table in riding breeches and a loose field blouse, one gloved hand braced on the stained parchment. Across the map a dozen charcoal circles marked captured homesteads; crude arrows linked them like ligaments in a spreading skeleton.

"General," Corporal Weiss said, tapping with a splinter of charcoal, "that makes thirteen farms secured within the outer loop. Cavalry hit three at first light—no resistance worth naming."

Elisabeth nodded. "And the sweep teams?"

A second voice answered from the tent-flap. Lieutenant Marko Brandt—broad-shouldered, coat still dripping—stepped inside and snapped a crisp salute. "Infantry completed the clean-ups, ma'am. Three casualties on our side: one arrow to the thigh, two knife wounds dirty but survivable. Cavalry untouched." He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Beasts never had time to lift a spear."

"Three losses in a valley this size," Elisabeth murmured. "Acceptable, but we can do better."

Brandt shifted, lowering his voice. "We also liberated three hundred forty-seven humans. Starved, but walking. Quartermasters issued hard bread and dried pork; they're already loaded in wagons Seargent Failner commandeered."

Elisabeth traced a finger eastward along a dirt road inked onto the map. "They'll follow this track back to the village?"

"Yes, General. Two mounted scouts ride ahead, one follows behind."

Outside, horse-hooves squelched in mud and a courier ducked through the flap—cloak plastered to his shoulders, breath fogging in the chill. He produced a wax-sealed parchment and bowed.

"Dispatch from Headquarters, ma'am."

Her brows rose. "From the Führer?"

The courier shook his head. "From Herr Otto Eisner, Chief Strategist. He writes on the Führer's behalf."

She slit the seal with a penknife and scanned the neat hand.

Commander Elisabeth Ritter,

At the Führer's direction you are to maintain occupation of the Larrak Valley farmlands. A detachment of fifty infantry will remain under your immediate command. Cavalry will redeploy after resupply but may answer to your requisitions for rapid strikes within a ten-mile radius.

The Führer expresses satisfaction at the precision of your operation and commends your initiative. Hold the ground, secure all harvestable grain. In approximately seven days a caravan of farmers, ox-teams and wagons will depart the capital to assume cultivation. Your interim duty:

Collect wheat, rye and barley into hemp sacks—estimate volume in bushels.

Inventory livestock fit for breeding; cull surplus for rations.

Fortify each captured homestead with earthworks and overlapping fields of fire.

Execute or pursue any remaining beast-kin patrols within fifteen miles.

Failure is not anticipated.

Glory to the New Order,-- Otto Eisner

Elisabeth exhaled, feeling an unfamiliar warmth stir in her chest. The Führer proud. Praise was a scarce currency in his regime, and she had just been paid in gold.

Brandt studied her expression. "Good news, General?"

She folded the letter carefully. "We hold the valley. Headquarters is sending farmers within a week. In the meantime we bag every grain kernel we can find and build defenses the beasts will break their teeth against."

Weiss let out a low whistle. "Fifty infantry to cover all this ground?"

"Fifty now," she corrected. "And every freed farmer we feed today swings a hoe for us tomorrow. That's how you grow an army without firing a shot."

She moved a rook-shaped stone from one farm icon to another, mapping a cordon. "First, we garrison the high barns—stone walls, good elevation. Two squads each, overlapping arcs. Second, dig V-trenches along the orchard lanes; funnel any counter-charge straight into fire pits. Third, consolidate grain."

Brandt grinned. "You'll have the men moving sun-up to moon-rise."

"They'll thank me while they're eating winter bread." She looked to Weiss. "Signal the quartermasters: requisition every empty sack in camp, even bedroll canvases. Grain first, livestock second. Document numbers—Otto will want proof."

The corporal hurried out.

Brandt lingered. "Ma'am… the men talk. They know the Führer noticed."

Elisabeth allowed herself a small smile. "Then let them talk. Just remind them notice cuts both ways—keep the standards high."

A sudden gust snapped the flap. She stepped outside. Below the hill, fields of sodden gold swayed under gray sky; sentries in borrowed demi-human watchtowers raised spears in salute. Smoke from distant cook-fires curled lazily—human fires, on human land.

She drew a steady breath, tasting rain and burnt chaff.

Two weeks ago she'd unrolled a bold idea in a room of doubters.

Today she commanded a valley, fifty veterans—and the Führer's favor.

Tomorrow, she would feed his empire.

"Back to work!" she called, voice cracking like a whip across the ridge.

Men scattered to their tasks. The campaign marched on.

And Elisabeth Ritter—General of the People's Cavalry—turned toward the wind-swept farmland, charts and orders swirling in her mind like ravens on cold air.

The valley was theirs now.

And under her watch, not a single grain—or beast—would slip away.