Actions

Work Header

Nom de Guerre

Chapter 6: Try a Little Tenderness

Chapter Text

“Mom! Look, she’s waking up!”

“I’ll be right there, Manke!” A series of hurried footsteps on hardwood announced someone’s entrance. “Oh, yes, she’s stirring. Run and fetch some water, she’ll be wanting some.”

She eased an eyelid open only to shut it immediately, seared by irritation from the bright light. “Agh!”

“Oh, dearie. You’ve been through a lot. I’ll get the curtain.” The pinkish-red behind Yunan’s eyelids faded to a dull burgundy. She tried again and managed to get both open with only marginal discomfort.

She was lying in a bedroom, built of timber and modestly decorated with trinkets and embroidered squares. At the foot of the bed sat who she could only guess to be the family’s mother and matriarch, a periwinkle frog with kindly eyes and hair only just beginning to go grey. She clasped Yunan’s hand with her own.

“H-hi,” the newt managed weakly.

“Hello, dear. I hope we’ve been able to make you comfortable.” Yunan did her best to nod. The girl reappeared, another periwinkle frog. She handed her mother a glass of water and retreated to watch from behind the doorframe.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in our home. We found you outside last night and brought you in. This is the guest room.” She offered the glass to Yunan, who gladly took a sip. “You can call me Mrs. Frosh. That is my daughter, Manke.” The girl by the door waved meekly. “My eldest is upstairs, and my youngest is out with his father gathering wood and mending the fence. It wasn’t you, don’t worry.” Yunan couldn’t help but smile.

Mrs. Frosh took the glass and placed it on the nightstand before leaning over to check the bandages swaddling her guest’s arm and side. The newt winced, but it was momentary.

“Now, I’m sure you have many questions, but you must get some rest. It looks like you had a bad bump on the head so I’ll be in to check on you, but make noise if you need anything, dear.” With that, she rose to leave. The door drew shut behind her, and Yunan allowed her heavy eyelids to fall closed once again.


The next morning the battered soldier felt notably better. She could sit up – gently, quick movements aggravated her headache – and examine herself and her surroundings more thoroughly. The room was quaint, with wooden walls and clearly handmade decorations. Directly opposite from the bed hung a cross-stitch depicting the four seasons with a little poem attached. Yunan had to focus to read the letters – I’m definitely concussed – but they resolved themselves into ALL IS WAITING / EXPECTATING / FROG IS IN THE RHYTHM. She smiled. It reminded her of something an old friend of hers would say. “It’s from a lullaby my mother taught me.” As for Yunan’s injuries, the family had patched them up as best they could. Her arm was wrapped up in a little cocoon with a splint that restricted its movement. Yup, broken.

A soft, slow creak from the door caught Yunan’s attention and she looked over to see a little brown eye peeking through the crack.

You’re awaaaaaake,” the eye said in an awed, hushed tone. The door poked open further and a young frog hopped in, only recently graduated from polliwog status. He perched himself on the nightstand. “Psst! I’m Dovid. What’s your name?”

“My name is Yunan. Nice to meet you.”

“What happened? My mom said there was a fight. With army guys.” He waggled his feet, kicking his heels against the furniture.

Yunan nodded. “Yup. I’m army guys.”

Woooooow. You must be great!

She recoiled. “I don’t know if I’d say that . . .”

“What? You walked here all beat up by yourself. I heard something and came downstairs and you were there on the path all bloodylike. That’s tough.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You know, I’m pretty tough too. The other day I got a splinter.

“Did you cry?”

Nope!

The newt gave a slight smile of admiration. “Good kid.” Dovid joined in with a grin and bounced up onto the bed by Yunan’s feet.

“Mom says you’ll be staying with us. I think you shouldn’t. When I grow up this is going to be my bedroom, you can’t have it.”

“I won’t be staying that long. Only a few days.”

“Oh, good. I was planning on fighting you for it.”

A hand and a head peeked around the half-opened door. “Dovid? Are you being nice?” It wasn’t the girl from the previous . . . however long it had been. Time for Yunan was a tad finicky at the moment. Must be the eldest.

“I was just saying hi, Rivy!” He pointed a thumb at the newt with a smile. “She’s army guys!” His sister’s arms scooped him up.

“I hope he hasn’t been bothering you, miss. He can be a handful.”

“Not to worry. I’ve dealt with my share of handfuls in the past.” Her mind returned to a moment some time earlier – when Soldats Coke and Švejk had been fooling around and managed to lock two expensive wheellock powder-rifles together by the bayonet lugs with no way of detaching them. I’m sorry, Švejk. The thought didn’t linger.

“Mom’s making breakfast at the moment. I’ll bring you some.”

Dovid piped up, squirming in his captivity. “You can join us if you want! She can walk! Right?”

The eldest daughter (Rivy? That had to be a nickname) shook her head. “No, Dovid, she must rest.”

“Actually, I . . . I-I’ll see what I can do.”

The frog raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Don’t overtax yourself on our account.”

“No, no. It might be good to stretch my legs a little.” Exclusively using her left arm the newt removed her covers and gingerly slid her feet onto the floor. A few unsteady steps brought her to the door where Dovid, newly liberated, grasped her free hand and led her down the hall to the kitchen.

Yunan was glad that her aversion to light had dissipated as the morning sun cast sunbeams into the room. Mr. Frosh stood at the stovetop frying strips of meat while Mrs. Frosh and Manke buzzed about setting placemats and napkins out on the table. It felt delightfully homely.

The male frog noticed her appearance first. “Oh! You’re up! Well, sit down and we’ll make a place for you. We have some grubhog bacon and pancakes coming up.” The newt’s face lightened. Sweet, sweet revenge! She plopped down at the table and the others joined her within minutes, but not before Mrs. Frosh took the opportunity to recheck the bandages. When the rest were seated, she spoke up first.

“Well, dearie, you were pretty out of it yesterday so consider this your official welcome into our home. I must ask, what is your name?”

“Yunan. Lt. Yunan. Thank you for hosting me.”

“Oh, it’s no issue. We’re happy to have you for as long as you need.” She passed a plate of pancakes over to the guest. “Here, tuck in. You must be hungry.” Yunan fumbled a little trying to use the fork with her left hand, but she got it working eventually.

“I’m surprised you’re up and about this quickly. Two days ago you were . . . well, not looking good to say the least,” Mr. Frosh commented.

“I am pushing myself a bit, I know, but I need to be getting back to my unit.” The newt’s hand wavered trying to cut another piece of pancake – her strength was still largely absent. “If I can. Wherever they are.”

The two elder frogs exchanged a look between them. “From what we’ve heard, the Newtopians have moved back towards the capital. They’re cut off from here by some of Ragnar’s men.”

“If that’s the case, I don’t want to endanger you all by staying.”

Mrs. Frosh responded in a kind, motherly tone. “Dearie . . . we are perfectly willing to let you stay. In fact, I insist. Your injuries need time to heal and I wouldn’t want you to go wandering out and get captured. And, rest assured, we are no friends of Ragnar’s.”

Her husband continued. “I’ll admit that Newtopia has not been kind to us, what with the toads and the newt nobility taking our coppers. But Ragnar is just another of them. The king himself, he cares about us, even if he’s far away.” Yunan’s eyes focused enough to see a diminutive portrait hanging on the far wall – a representation of King Andrias, painted perhaps a century prior. These icons were passed down as heirlooms among certain segments of the frog populace.

The newt sighed. “In that case, sure. Until my arm heals up.” Broken bone – six weeks or so. Mrs. Frosh faintly smiled and Dovid did a little celebratory dance in his seat before being shushed by his nearest sister.

“Glad to hear, dear. Now, how about seconds?”


Two weeks. Olivia, punctual as always, looked to her calendar first thing in the morning and filled in a small 14. She’d already missed her mothers’ birthday. The next week she would not be attending the annual Newtopian parade, if it was even still on, and the accompanying gala. The polite thing to do would be to send apologies for her absence but she figured that was right out. High society would understand.

There were more footsteps than usual on the flagstone outside her window. Her bedroom occupied the corner of the second floor overlooking the courtyard entrance and valley. As such, she had a good view of whatever activity was going on outside – a blunder on von Stroheim’s part, but she wasn’t about to correct him when he was making a mistake. She gingerly pulled back the curtain. Below her stood double the normal amount of soldiers, some stationary and some patrolling. A special occasion. But why? Normally Olivia was able to go about her business without much interruption, but in the past couple days they’d become more inquisitive, even bothersome. I haven’t done anything to provoke this behavior by the guards – and I doubt I’m that important to them – so it stands to reason that whatever caused this has to be external. Did Newtopian forces free a prisoner held somewhere else? Or is there someone of importance visiting?

As if to answer her question, there came a knock at the drawing room door. It was von Stroheim, still trying – and failing – to project authority after Olivia’s dismantling. “Excuse me, Miss Newton, but due to exceptional circumstances I must confine you to your quarters for today. I will have your meals delivered at their usual times.” The door shut, but not before she glimpsed the shoulder of a guard on the other side.

For today.” Bingo. There was no telling when the guest would arrive, so Olivia kept going about her rather unstructured day with one eye on the road outside. Around midmorning she spotted an approaching coach in the distance.

Von Stroheim probably wouldn’t take kindly to her snooping in on whoever was arriving, so she’d have to be discreet. She grabbed a hand mirror from the dresser and propped it up by the window, giving her a view of the terrace. Soon enough, the carriage drew up and a pale yellow newt in a long coat stepped out carrying a satchel. A few papers poked out from the overstuffed bag but he managed to hurry inside without losing anything.

Olivia barely had time to contemplate the purpose of his visit before she was interrupted by the sound of beetle wings, loud and low in the sky. It touched down on the terrace and was immediately surrounded by soldiers. One of them reached up and helped a singular figure off the back. The guards, most of them toads, saluted.

Wait a minute. Is that . . . She had to get a better view, mirror be damned. Olivia poked her head out over the windowsill.

The figure was a grey-green toad of moderate age and stature dressed in the finery befitting his rank. His gold eupalettes glittered in the sun. The newt held her breath as his guards saluted and he strode towards von Stroheim, who stood near the door to greet him. There was none of the aristocrat’s bluster in his manner, rather the vitality of a man of action and a cold, purposeful confidence. He glanced up to Olivia’s window and their eyes met if only for a moment.

It’s you. You who’ve stolen me away. You who’ve rendered our army low and disrupted the peace of a thousand years. You, who have taken so much. She shivered. I made a vow to my mother to work for the sake of this land. It’s about time to put it into practice.

The newt dipped back out of sight before von Stroheim could notice and began pacing about the room. Below she could hear the front door open through the aged beams of the house and a few sets of footsteps enter. She stopped and focused her hearing. They remained on the ground floor, tracing their way to . . . the library, she reckoned. Now here’s an idea.

Some of the furnishings were Newtopian, but the architectural structure of the manor itself was decidedly of the alpine regions. Alpine means pitched roof and heavy timber framing. Maybe, she thought, there might be a gap inside the walls. She moved to the study, grabbed a letter opener, and tapped at the wooden panelling covering the lower third of the wall. A couple portions resonated better than their neighbors. There. Hollow. She wedged the letter opener into the gaps between the boards and gingerly peeled a panel away from the wall, revealing the wooden framing of the house and the dark, narrow hollow of the eaves. No going back now, she sighed, and went in.

The space Olivia found herself in overwhelmed her with a rich, musty, woody smell. She had to negotiate her way through on her hands and knees without sight, ever mindful not to move too quickly lest she alert anyone with a thump. Once fully inside the hollow the newt closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and turned her attention to the muffled sounds resonating through the wood like nervous signals transmitted along the bones of the house. She picked up a door shutting, glasses clinking, and faint strains of conversation.

“. . . as . . . your oth . . . est . . .”

To the left – she felt her way through the darkness. The voices gradually grew louder as she moved until she could press herself to the wall and make out their words.

“. . . a regrettable situation, yes, but she has served her primary purpose and we must await an opportunity to make use of her again. She is, after all, the daughter of Lady Newton – it would be foolish to discard such an asset, even if her remaining value is only in exchange.” This first voice was deep and resounding. Ragnar, more than likely.

“Can’t we, like, put her to work on something?” Von Stroheim.

“Her? No. The Newtons have stood at the right hand of the king for centuries. To give their young scion tools or information would be inviting disaster. Do not underestimate her commitment.” You’re giving me too much credit, honestly. I’m just seizing the opportunity. That or earning myself a ticket straight to a real prison. “Now then, to business. Merkwürdigliebe?”

A third, unfamiliar voice joined the conversation. “Why, yes. I have requested your presence in person as, well, we’ve reached a development that we would rather not have intercepted and known by the enemy. The Newtopians are aware of the theoretical outline of it – I myself asked them for research funding two years ago and they rejected me out of hand – but practical implementation? That’s another matter.” Olivia heard the sound of a glass placed on a table. “Now then. The war has entered a new phase, and, though you have been performing well, you must adapt to that reality. Until now your victories have come on the back of superior skill on the battlefield, but Newtopia is a hardy kingdom. They can afford to take losses that you cannot.”

“This is . . . more than fair. But the Newtopians have thus far proved themselves incapable of matching our speed and flexibility in the field.”

“Yes, but in time, they will learn. A war cannot be won on tactics alone. You must develop resilient logistics – and I believe we have found the key.”

“I’m listening.”

“I and a few of my colleagues have been researching an . . . unusual barbariant colony discovered in the far northeast. Resident ants moved and behaved as one rather than as individuals! Ants do tend to work as a collective, but not to this extent. Imagine – a whole sea of ants coordinated across distances of miles, each perfectly choreographed and working towards specific goals. Upon investigation, we have determined that they behave in this manner as the result of a mutation in the colony’s queen caused by extended contact with a rare species of fungus. By combining trace spores of this fungus – rendered harmless, do not worry – with barbariant trail pheromones, we have developed a method of controlling these ants. Tell them to follow, and they follow. Tell them to lift, and they lift. Tell them to haul supplies where they’re needed . . .”

“. . . and you feed an army.”

There was a moment of quiet. Olivia imagined the toad nodding in ambitious contemplation. Her blood ran cold.

“Use a force of spider-riders to trace a path, load the ants with supplies, and they will deliver them in a timely manner, day or night, even unsupervised. No more frogs trying to get their wagons unstuck from the spring mud. No more toads hauling crates when they could be on the frontlines. The ants themselves could be used in combat in an emergency, but they’re less effective than conventional soldiers. Still, though, the possibilities are endless. And as for you--”

“Me?” Von Stroheim interjected.

“Yes. I believe a pheromone trail could be laid rapidly from the air. Given your avian experience you may prove instrumental in putting that into practice. With Ragnar’s permission, of course.”

The toad’s voice returned. “Once we have the basics down, yes. How long would it take to begin deploying these ants, Dr. M?”

“Soon. Perhaps only a month or two. The system works in the ants’ home territory, at this point it is only a matter of scale.”

“Very good. I shall allocate resources and a complement of soldiers to your operations.”

At this moment Olivia picked up a new set of vibrations through the wood – footsteps in the hall below. Her heartbeat picked up but she held her breath as she began the slow retreat back towards the study, praying the unknown presence would not investigate her chambers. The footfalls were on the stairs now. She ducked her way back out of the hollow and into the light for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The loose panel was hastily slotted back into its place and she moved to her bedroom where she picked up a discarded book and began to read in her normal manner. There came a knock at the door.

“Excuse me, Miss, I have your lunch here. I’ll place it on your table.” It was a servant. The dust-covered newt breathed a heavy sigh of relief.