Twilight Duty

 A measuring staff struck the wet forest soil, emitting a muffled thud in the vast silence of the woods.
"Another one here, Eamond!"
The named militiaman trudged hurriedly to the caller, carrying a bunch of small, brightly coloured flags in his arms. Upon arriving at the staff Eamond picked one of the flags, a merry yellow one, and drove its pole into the ground.
"Good. Now let's see about the width of the firing sector," said the Gunmaster, counting up the black and white stripes along the planted staff, from the ground up.
"Seventeen, so that should make it around...." the engineer mumbled as he took up a strange gadget from his belt, something remotely sextant-shaped, and peered through its many lenses back towards the camp across the dark open fields.
"...a hundred and fifty paces to the north from here," he finally exhaled, pointing to his left. The accompanying militiaman began slowly shambling to the given direction.

"How's it looking, Wolfgang?" a burly man inquired as he walked up to the Gunmaster, followed by a guardsman carrying a shouldered handgun. Turning around, still deeply in his thoughts and calculations, the engineer managed a quick reply.
"Barely tolerable, Lieutenant. Your men are slow as slugs."
"Can't argue on that, it's what you get when assigned a penalty detachment," the huge man smiled, twisting his moustaches with his left hand while the right held his greatsword against his shoulder. The handgunner behind the officers rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge his superiors couldn't see it.

It was painfully true, Gunmaster Wolfgang knew. Ever since he had joined the regiment of General Breuer on their drill march into the wilderness of eastern Averbury, he had pleaded for a chance to set up target practice for the cannon crews. It hurt Wolfgang's tender heart to see how the raw recruits handled their charges, the madly expensive cannons from the Middendorf Arsenal. He felt it was his duty to teach these greenies how to show respect towards the machines of war that would save their lives on countless engagements in the future. After days of following the general around, trying to make him realise the importance of this course of action, he had finally been given the permission.

What he had not expected was to receive a detachment of two men suffering a penalty for sleeping on duty, and the lieutenant who supervised the lazy curs as they aided the Gunmaster. With so few men it had already taken hours to set up the flags marking firing sectors and distances, long enough for them to miss the supper by a long shot. Wolfgang was deeply bitter for having to shamble here in the darkness of this rain-fresh forest edge, while across the grass plains the lights of the palisaded encampment were clearly visible in the night, promising food, drink and warmth. All the luxuries the general was no doubt enjoying even now, rejoicing in this practical joke he had played on the engineer. The man would pay, Wolfgang thought. He would write a letter of complaint to the higher echelon as soon as he got back to his tent.

"AAAAAGH!"

A sudden cry broke the Gunmaster from his thoughts. He cast a gaze to the handgunner but the youngster was fine, although seemingly terrified and fit to wet his breeches. Lieutenant Scholz let his greatsword slide off his shoulder, gripping it with both shovel-sized hands as he took a couple of steps towards the direction the militiaman had gone.
"Eamond? Don't play the twisted ankle excuse on me again, we'll finish the job we came here to do!" the officer bellowed into the darkness. In reply they heard only silent whimpering.

The trio started towards the sound along the forest's edge, wading amongst the roots and tussocks in the dark. Eventually they emerged on the scene, finding Eamond sitting in the bushes gripping a colourful flagpole that had pierced the skin in his shoulder. Wolfgang could hear the handgunner, called Calvin if he remembered correctly, sighing in relief. The Lieutenant's expression softened as he walked up to the lad.
"Fell on your face, did ya? How in the name of Sigmar will you ever defeat servants of the Dark Gods if a Ghurian bush is enough to best you in combat? Now, let me see that," he said as he knelt beside the soldier.
"What?! You've got stubble on your cheeks and here you sit whining and whimpering for THIS?! The stick barely even scratched the muscle beneath!"

The militiaman flashed full-blown red in the face, stuttering a weak reply.
"B-but ser, it ain't the wound I got scared of. There's that right-mystic bunch o' mist o'er there by that oak. I was plantin' the flags nice an' quick but somethin' whispered me name from its depths..."
Lieutenant Scholz cast a sideways look at Wolfgang, concern written on his wheather-beaten features.
"Ooh I'm sure it's nothing, lad. Here, let me take a look," he said, picking up his greatsword and bending the bushes with its blade to peek across. A large concentration of white mist was hanging around the roots of an ages-old oak, all covered in moss and barely carrying a leaf on its bare branches.
"Riiight..." Scholz sighed, stepping across the bushes to the other side.

Wolfgang followed him, intrigued, while Calvin helped up his comrade as they set after their superiors. By the time the Gunmaster reached the oak, Scholz was already standing by the mist.
"Peculiar indeed... One'd expect this to appear on the low plains we made camp on, not here beside this one damn tree," the officer wondered, mockingly grasping a fistful of mist in his gloved hand.
"I say we return to the camp now," suggested Wolfgang, looking at the two frightened youths in their company.
"It's been enough measurement and markings for one night, and I for one crave for a bite before going to bed. Gotta catch that quartermaster before she goes to sleep and locks up the supplies."

Turning back to the Lieutenant, he saw the huge man was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, he looked back to the recruits who were visibly pale with horror.
"Where's Scholz?"
"W-w-we don't know, ser..."
Raising an eyebrow, Wolfgang walked up to the mist. What was going on here? Kneeling down, he ran his fingers across the ground. The footprints of the officer were still there, fresh in the soil.

As he heaved himself back up again, he found himself standing in a spherical room with a colourful mosaic floor and full-mirror walls. Drawing his repeater pistol from its holster, the Gunmaster spun around to take in his surroundings. He was once more in a forest, although a slightly different one this time. Dark, foreboding trees shrouded in the same white mist as before, yet now it dominated the scene. Sitting dumb-struck on a fallen tree trunk he found his friends, Lieutenant Scholz, militiaman Eamond and guardsman Calvin. They all stared him for a long while before the officer dared to voice a question.
"You real, Wolfgang?"
"Yes, yes I believe I am. Where are we?"
"No clue, but now that you've rejoined our merry company I say we find out."

The Lieutenant got up and hefted his greatsword, setting off into the mist-shrouded woods. The recruits exchanged a look and drew their weapons before following him.
Just when I thought this twilight duty couldn't get any more infuriating, Gunmaster Wolfgang thought to himself as he jogged after the soldiers.