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These pages were last updated: October 21, 1998
©October 1998
URL: ../../STO/infinity/tyger3.htmlTyger, Tyger. (part three)
By Joseph Connell <jconnel1@hotmail.com>
The day proved interminable, dragging itself out and leaving the aristocrat in increasingly ill temper. He'd spent the bulk of the day alternately pouring over maps of the region, sharpening his machete, cleaning his Lugar, or wandering amongst the men. His rare contributions to the chatter became increasingly biting and harsh. This had the perverse effect of improving the men's morale and overall mood. If their commanding officer suffered so from the heat, they were certain to outlast the arrogant ass here. Indeed, bets quietly began circulating on how long it would take him to collapse when they broke camp tomorrow, though they were careful not to let Unteroffizier Dachler catch them at it.
There was actually a charge to the air among them. Whether it was the low din of insects and birds and whatnot ringing them and grating their nerves, or unconscious anticipation at the prospect of pitting themselves against some unseen enemy, the men were uniformly anxious and energized. Whatever the cause, their nerves were all electrified and singing, which led to many a nervous but genuine smile amongst them. They soon were mirroring their commander, examining and cleaning their weapons and sharpening both bayonets and machetes, over and over again. Even the guards around the perimeter were affected, their short circuits becoming shorter or longer, depending upon how jittery a given trooper was.
The notable exception among them was the stoic Dachler, who watched his subordinates with hawk's eyes. Whether he approved of all this activity, particularly its ad naseum repetition, was impossible to tell. He watched, and didn't so much as touch his own weapon or sidearm, save to heft his Heckler SMG from one shoulder to another. If anything, the giant soldier looked positively serene. No perspiration doted his skin, no unnecessary movement was undertaken. Nothing giving the least sign of his thoughts of the tableau about him.
As day slowly became evening, the shadows among them growing long, the mood within the camp relaxed sufficiently that most laid down their bedrolls and prepared to call it an early night. Dachler's Gefreiter, a wiry blonde Aryan named (of all things) Schmidt, did his own rounds among them, his manner suitably serious that the Unteroffizier didn't see need to follow up. There were no arguments to break up, nor really any more grousing than usual on the guard rotation.
His men seen to, Dachler prepared himself for the night to come, laying down with no intention of sleeping beyond a short nap. His commanding officer would need back-up that night, the aristocrat's intentions and plans as plainly obvious as that short beak he called a nose. Part of him was perfectly willing to let the Barvarian get himself killed out there, in the dark jungle alone. But he'd sworn an oath, the same his father and grandfather had taken. Damned if he'd toss the family honor away simply because he had to watch the arrogant prig twenty-four hours a day.
He caught Schmidt out of the corner of his eye, who was rummaging through his field pack with such care that he knew he'd be confiscating somebody's hidden flask in the morning. A brief, metalic glint in the firelight confirmed his suspicions. If he was lucky, it'd be a decent brand of whisky this time.
The thought of so soothing a drink in mind, Dachler closed his eyes and thought no more of it, letting fatigue then take over.
******
None of the sentries, despite their vigilance, so much as felt the clear blue eyes that studied them throughout the day. Nor did they catch the smallest glimpse of the hungry smile breaking beneath those eyes, for the hidden one waited until she was far enough away before allowing herself even that small sign of anticipation.
She was quick, but not hasty, in her preparations for what was to come. She knew the jungle could be as fearsome an opponent as any army, but to her pleasant surprise proved a most generous friend right then. She silently thanked the land, as her tribe had taught her, and used their lessons well.
She was done and gone from sight in mere moments.
******
He'd felt his fellow long before they'd reached the clearing. The Quickening had been so intense, heralding so powerful a spirit, he'd almost laughed from the aftershock of its passage, but only almost. He, unlike the great Colonelity of his fellow Immortals, had schooled himself not to show the least sign of shock or reaction to the Quickening. In this way he'd managed to surprise more than a few, giving him the extra edge so often needed in their duels.
This one had been more sudden, more shattering than most, reminding him of the last time he'd truly enjoyed himself in bed. He could not even clearly recall the experience, never mind the face or features of his partner. Sometimes he dreamed it was a demur and buxom female, others he recalled it had been a young boy with a tight virgin ass. It had been a long time ago. Perhaps only a few years, perhaps a few centuries. Time blended so easily for Immortals, the flow of years becoming rapids, sweeping away all that is familiar.
He was unconcerned with this, the past being dead to him, the present so much more…interesting.
The notion of a duel out here, in the untamed Latin rainforests, had a particularly strong appeal to his otherwise bored psyche. He found himself waxing philosophically over the possibility. To test one's mettle as well as one's blade in so wild an environment, yet to strive to rise above the animals who populated these forests, above the base instincts of simple survival…this was the true test. A test made doubly so as he didn't even have his proper sword with him, but merely a machete. One he'd spent much of the day sharpening to a fine point, true, but too common a blade to be worthy of the coming contest.
Guarded as he was against showing signs of the Quickening, he was doubly so against showing any awareness of the other's presence. He felt the eyes upon his back, to be sure, just as the other was sure have felt his upon them!
Why else would the other have withdrawn so quickly?
The contest was already joined, and already his opponent withdraws before even the first exchange of blades. He resolved to be merciful, and take the other's head quickly.
Why make such a pathetic wrench suffer?
******
Treischman proved more patient than he thought himself capable of. He'd endured the day gamely, using the time to prepare for the sport to come. He'd already resolved not to take anything heavier than his machete and Lugar .38 automatic, and was determined not to resort to the latter unless absolutely necessary for the kill. The problem was slipping away from his men with sufficient stealth so as not to disturb their rest, yet without leaving himself open to charges of desertion by the various 'observers' from the SS. Rather a Gordian knot, but hardly an insurmountable one for one of his lineage and training.
It was Dachler of all people who provided the excuse he sought before he devoted too much time or energy to the matter. "Herr Colonel, if you wish to go hunting for game tonight," the large soldier rumbled, quiet and mindful of his sleeping men, "then I must insist on accompanying you." Treischman was naturally suspicious at the offer, holding the soldier's gaze and searching for clues to the man's intentions in those eyes. The Unteroffizier's face was a perfect mask, save for the eyes, which regarded him with so iron a look as to be ubermensch.
Treischman felt a small trickle of anxiety drip across his spine. There was nothing to be read or discerned from the soldier's gaze, save the unblinking intensity with which those pale eyes held him still. This close scrutiny took the aristocrat back to uncomfortable memories of his childhood, where he chaffed beneath the stern gazes of his governess' and grandparents disapproval. Now, however, he was more than capable of holding his own against such onslaughts.
"Very well, Unteroffizier, if you feel you must." Treischman made the concession sound bored, a resolution to a matter of no real importance. His own eyes hardened to the challenge, and spoke as those iron-spined spinsters had taught him. "But you will not interfere with my hunt tonight, yes? I will conduct this particular expedition as I see fit. Is this understood, Unteroffizier?" He spoke in the same low tones as the larger man, emphasizing the last just as a reminder of which of them was the real commander here.
Even so Dachler remained impassive, his eyes still cold and impenetrable. Only a hair of a tremor to his stiff neck, his equivalent of a nod, gave any indication he'd even heard his superior's words. It was nonetheless enough for Treischman, who answered with his own nod and said "We leave at nineteen hundred, yes? Bring only your sidearm and machete…"
"Sir?" Dachler's iron façade cracked slightly at this, confusion giving a hairline crease to his brow.
Treischman actually smiled at this. "I wish to make this true contest of skill, Herr Dachler. A rifle makes the kill too easy and clean. I would see our prey taken in all its glory." He wasn't aware of the distant look that overtook his eyes, focused as he was upon the hunt to come. Dachler watched this, mask once again in place, letting no sign of questions or misgivings leak through.
Fortunately the aristocrat quickly returned from whatever distant sight he'd drifted to and focused once more on his subordinate. "I demand your oath, as a loyal German soldier, that you will not interfere or intervene on my behalf in this." The hard edge to Treischman's voice allowed no debate from the Unteroffizier.
Dachler attempted all the same. "And if the prey manages to best you, Herr Colonel?"
"Then you gain a field promotion to Leutnant and take command of this mission." The idea, never mind the actual possibility of Dachler becoming a junior-ranking officer was almost too absurd for words. He'd easily be the oldest Leutnant in the entire Wehrmacht. Treischman managed not to laugh (aloud at any rate) at the mental picture this painted. Rather, he again held Dachler's eyes with his own, the demand still hanging between them.
With appropriately grave formality, Dahcler said "I swear, upon my honor as a soldier of Holy Germany and the Third Reich, it shall be as you say." Treischman nodded, more at the careful wording of the oath than any satisfaction from the oath itself. Clearly he wasn't the only one who at least suspected there were SS among them.
"Ready yourself then," was his only response to this, turning back to his own preparations. Dachler's final question gave him pause.
"What shall I tell them men, Herr Colonel?"
The aristocrat waved this away. "Whatever you think best, Unteroffizier," he said, turning his attention away from the camp, and out into the surrounding forest. He neither heard nor really cared what story Dachler came up with. The minutes ticking away to evening were now his only concern.
That, and the invisible eyes stabbing at him from the green around them.
…to be continued.
Glossary:
Gefreiter: German army equivalent of corporal.
Leutnant: German army equivalent of Lieutenant.
Ubermensch: Nazi ideal of a "super-man".
Infinity Altaverse | Fan Fiction Site | Home Page
These pages were last updated: October 21, 1998
©October 1998
URL: ../../STO/infinity/tyger3.html