Tristan’s Invention
Willow trees fluttered in the dozens on the backs of infantry units as they passed the afternoon absentmindedly, a luxury becoming more and more frequent with the final skirmishes on the Eastern Front more and more resembling the lazy batting of a cat at a maimed mouse. They had fashioned balls out of unredeemable scraps of leather armor to kick around, started squeezing oranges into their canteens, (artfully 'taxed' from the local farmers' groves), and perhaps most telling, began to trade stories and jokes with their superior officers, usually kept between peers.
Beneath the summer sun and swathed in humidity, many of them had abandoned the outer armor of their uniforms, left in individual piles along with letters containing, for once, handwriting made legible by patient hands speaking of the certainty of returning home soon.
"Like a grove," one Lieutenant Karren remarked to herself with a smile as she observed her platoon relaxing on the field of trampled grass. She had almost finished jotting down the scene in her journal, when a loud burst like the hot sputtering of a geyser startled her.
"Everybody look!" someone shouted.
Immediately, the field jumped in synchronized panic.
"It actually works!" Tristan shouted and pointed at a freshly-punctured scarecrow, only to inspire a rippling groan of annoyance throughout the field, punctuated by curses made in conjunction with Tristan's name.
"A'right, a'right, it's my turn now," Jean advanced with his usual misplaced authority.
Tristan dodged the hands groping for the steam-operated crossbow of his own devising, before righting his goggles and wagging his finger. "Ah-ah, no no," he laughed. "This is highly technical. I wouldn't want one of your temporal veins to burst."
"Temp--what?"
"Exactly."
Jean rolled his eyes. "I might not wear welding lenses at all times to let everyone know I'm smarter than them, but I can pull a lever."
"Trigger. It's a trigger. Be respectful, now. This isn't your standard crossbow," he hummed as he relented and handed it over.
"Careful Jean, that thing is likely to do as much damage to you as it will to that dummy," Aurora interrupted, standing nearby with her arms crossed. "That being said, I would like to try after him."
"Just what are you insinuating?"
"That it might erupt. Explode. Become shrapnel."
"Oh don't be ridiculous," Tristan scoffed, pulling down one of his sleeves to hide faded scars earned precisely from the aforementioned consequence.
Meanwhile, Jean couldn't lend two shits. "Where's the string? You payed somebody to rune this damned thing?"
"There is none, that's the beauty of it!" Tristan cackled. He rapped one of his knuckles against the steel canister strapped to wood. "That's compressed steam, sweetheart."
"Don't call me sweetheart."
Jean aimed down the fogged, scratched lens mounted on the crossbow.
Across the yard and laying beneath the only tree in the field, Raymon watched the three with idle curiosity, before averting his gaze to the forest at the field's edge, where a couple was kissing up in the shaded branches.
"The spoils of war," he grinned to himself and looked skyward.
A loose seed of dandelion managed to navigate itself between the leaves, before liberating itself high above the canopy. As he watched, he noticed more in his peripheral view, hundreds of them, in fact, shrinking upwards with sunlight catching on their bristles. After surveying the field again, he noticed a few others of his squadron laying on their backs. The possibility of them having witnessed the same sight comforted him.
"Don't waste anymore of it!" Tristan panicked after Aurora discovered the self-reloading chamber on the weapon. Bolts spat in quick succession as she sang a taunting tune of nonsense.
Jean, having realized he'd wasted his own opportunity to express wanton aggression, protested with redoubled effort and volume to have a second try.
"Marksmen!" Lieutenant Karren hollered as she tramped towards them. "I'll have you know that I could have all three of you tried for treason, you understand?"
"But Lieutenant!" Tristan stuttered.
"What do you think you're doing? Hiding this newfound innovation from your superiors? I'll have each of your names in a written report before the day's end."
"I was going to--"
"That is, of course, unless you want to let me have a run at it."
Tristan sighed in a lovestruck stupor.
Like Aurora, the Lieutenant was weak. The temptation of loosing reckless bolts was too much to resist, and before she was done, Tristan had inadvertently rallied his entire squadron in a straight queue looking to do exactly the same.
"It won't have enough for all of you!" Tristan cried meekly.
"Stand down, marksman!" the Lieutenant commanded with a laugh before handing off the weapon to another bowman.
But Raymon, sleepy and a diehard swordsman to boot, was still transfixed by the ethereal scene above him. What's more, there were curious, black spots with orange rings joining the seeds in the heavens. Only they weren't getting smaller, they were getting larger, and the longer he watched, the more it seemed they brought with them whistling trails that opposed the staccato sputters of the mechanized crossbow.
And when he turned his head to the forestry bordering the field, he didn't see the couple sitting aloft anymore, rather their bodies sprawled on the ground, and their assassins backed by dozens of archers, just now advancing from their hiding places.
Raymon scrambled to his feet. "Lieutenant!"
But his shout was drowned, obliterated and trampled by a deluge of trebuchet clusters raining hellfire and iron.