8. Chapter 8

It is only when aggression is legitimate that one can expect prodigies of valour.

Jacques woke from an almost comatose sleep and immediately cursed his previous self. He'd gone to sleep, not on his modest yet comfortable bedroll, but on the cold ground without even his blanket or uniform coat to help him. Jacques's back ached with steady pain, and he briefly wondered if he was getting old. He yawned, cursed himself another time, looked for his coat, and realized why he hadn't slept on his bedroll.

Because Corporal Mathieu Vidal was sleeping on it instead.

Not 'Mathieu', he supposed as the prior day's events flooded through his mind. I'll have to ask what her real name is.

He searched his tent and found Lelei unmoved from where she'd passed out hours ago. The blue haired girl was breathing, though her face had become gaunt and reminded him of a starving soldier in Russia. It probably had something to do with her witchcraft, something Jacques had quietly pushed to the corner of his mind and was trying his best not to think about.

Jacques turned to other matters, namely his uniform coat. It was covering Vidal's body, who's own uniform Jacques and Astier had cut off of her, and he didn't know how to go about recovering it. Yesterday everything had happened at once, and he'd been too concerned about her wound to worry about Vidal's gender. Now, her wound was nothing more than a scar, and the fact that Vidal was a next to naked young woman sleeping in his tent was enough to make Jacques's face turn bright red. His mother would have slapped him.

There was another issue that throttled Jacques's mind. Vidal was a woman. A woman in the army. It went against every social norm imaginable. His father had made it clear to Jacques at a young age; men worked, women took care of the home. It was every Frenchman's duty to France to take up arms and protect the nation. Every Frenchman's. Frenchwomen helped in… other ways.

Yet, the traditionalist in Jacques conceded, women had fought for France before. During the Revolution, several women had dressed as men and joined their brothers and husbands in the defense of France. 'Republican Heroines,' he recalled a newspaper labeling them. He'd been just a boy back then.

But the Revolution was over. The republic transformed into an empire. France, once invaded from all sides during the Revolutionary Wars, was now the invader under Napoleon. Republican Heroines no longer existed.

Except for this one.

Jacques gazed at Vidal and considered keeping her secret safe. She'd continue to face danger, just as a man would. But she'd survived Russia when so many men died. Maybe it was possible.

Then Jacques remembered Moscow. Of what happened to women in war. The girl he couldn't save. The girl who begged him for death. Raising his musket. Her tears. His finger tightening. Her panicked cries. The fires.

His heart raced. Everything was dark, like Moscow. Distant fires providing shadowy illumination. His own personal hell.

She was there, in front of him. Pleading with him. She was there, in Moscow.

Begging.

Crying.

Dying.

Never again.

He took a shuddering breath, and the world seemed to return to normal. His hands were shaking.

There was movement in the tent, so he opened his eyes to look, and only then realized they'd been closed in the first place. Vidal was awake. She seemed to just be realizing her situation. She noticed her state of undress and alarm crossed her face.

"Sergeant-"

"I know," Jacques cut in. "About your… gender. Astier does too."

"Oh." She seemed to deflate. "I see."

"About that. I won't- er, I can't- ah…" Jacques swallowed and searched for courage. Tried to remind himself why he was doing this. Forced himself to remember Moscow. The girl. The fires. He swallowed again. "You can't keep doing this. Being a soldier, I mean. It's just not possible."

There was silence, but Vidal's expression told Jacques all he needed to know. Betrayal. Stabbing her in the back and feeding her to the wolves all at once.

"I'll find you a place to stay," he said more for his own reassurance than hers. "In Italica. There's bound to be somewhere for you. After all, we just took the city and I'm sure there's plenty of empty..."

She wasn't listening.

"Places," he forced himself to continue. "I'll find someone to look after you, and when we figure out how to get back to France I'll come back and-"

"Why?"

Jacques stumbled over his own train of thought. "Huh?"

"Why?" she repeated, a soft murmur.

His voice betrayed his own uncertainty. "Well because you're a… girl. It's just not right."

"I can fight," Vidal said, her voice raising from the soft murmur. "I have fought. At Smolensk and Borodino. I've been with you all this way. I fought at your side against giants!" Her face was becoming red. "Nothing has changed."

"But…" Jacques closed his eyes and saw Moscow. "What if you're captured by the enemy?"

"I suspect I will be raped," she spat, pronouncing the ugly word with vile bluntness. "It is a threat I have understood and lived with since I enlisted. My brother was tortured by Spanish guerrillas until his body was unrecognizable as human, but did that stop me from joining? This is no different."

"Well…" and Jacques felt his arguments collapse. Something deep within told him this was wrong, but logically he knew she was right. "Fine," he muttered.

Vidal blinked. "Really? I thought you'd take a lot more-"

"Yes, really," Jacques sighed. "I won't tell anyone you're a girl, and you can keep… carrying on as you have been." He looked her in the eye. "I just need one thing, though."

Vidal's eyes narrowed.

"Your name," he said before she could draw conclusions.

"My name?"

"Well it's clearly not 'Mathieu Vidal', so what is it?"

"Oh." There was a pause. "Well, Vidal is my actual surname," she finally said. "But Mathieu was one of my brothers; he died of consumption when he was young, so I never really knew him. My real name is Maria."

"Ah. Alright then."

Vidal seemed to sink into the bedroll, a weight lifted from her. Then she glanced around for the first time and took in her surroundings. "Sergeant, how did I get here?"

Jacques inhaled. "What do you remember?"

Vidal made a look. "I… got shot. I was telling someone to keep up and then it felt like I'd been kicked. Next thing I knew, I was on my back with something sticking out of my stomach, and I was watching you all march away. I tried to get up and follow you but…" Her lips quivered. "It felt like something was ripping open my guts. So, I lay back down and figured 'Oh, alright. I guess I'm dead then.' And I closed my eyes and that was that."

"Anything else?" Jacques asked carefully.

"Bits and pieces." Her voice wavered. "I remember opening my eyes and wondering if I was dead yet, and then I'd hear gunshots and people yelling and think 'No, not yet," and close them again. The pain got worse, of course. The thing in my stomach kept moving when I breathed, and I tried to scream but nothing came out. I think at some point I'd just had enough and passed out, and then I woke up here."

Jacques, who was studying her closely, saw Vidal move her hand to where her wound had been. Her breathing hitched. "Why am I not dead?"

Jacques drew a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. "You won't believe what I'm about to tell you, and that's fine, but I just need you to listen. Alright?"

She nodded slowly.

"You got hit on the climb up Italica's walls, you know that much. We spent a long time searching after that, Astier and I, and eventually found you. It… didn't look good."

"You promised me," Vidal said in a tiny voice, barely a whisper.

"No surgeons," Jacques reassured. "We took you back to my tent and did our best."

Her eyes went wide. "You managed to-"

"It wasn't enough," Jacques blurted. "You had a crossbow bolt and it went into your stomach and you were gutshot. We couldn't do anything, so I told Astier to leave, but I couldn't let you go out alone, so I stayed and then…"

He hesitated. This was the insane part. The part where a modern thinker would call him a liar or crazy and where a priest would have him burned. He doubted Vidal would react in either way, but it made him feel dumb just saying it.

"Lelei healed you," he forced out, jerking a thumb at the sleeping blue haired girl. "She used… magic or witchcraft or something. I don't pretend to understand a thing she did."

"Witchcraft?" Vidal repeated. "Like she had some kind of herb? A potion?"

Jacques closed his eyes. "Not that kind of witchcraft. She… I know it sounds insane, but… She… Her hands started glowing and..." He shook his head. "I'm telling this badly. Look, I know what I saw. It was magic, nothingless."

There was a long silence as Vidal turned to stare at Lelei's sleeping form.

"So… she's a witch?"

"I- Maybe? I don't know. She said she was going to use 'arcanai' and 'potentia' which had something to do with her sleeping for a long time. I think whatever she did used up a lot of her energy and now she just needs to spend time regaining that. We can ask her when she wakes up, but I don't know if we'll get an answer. She's..." Jacques stumbled for the right word, "difficult."

Vidal didn't say anything to that. She sat clutching Jacques's coat around her and stared into the ground. Silence filled the tent. Jacques felt that Vidal had more questions but they both knew Jacques didn't have the answers, so neither said anything. It was becoming unbearable when there was a knock on the tent post.

Jacques leapt at the chance for reprieve. "Yes?" He stood as best he could in the cramped tent. "What is it?"

Somewhere in his mind Jacques was acutely aware he was improperly dressed to receive subordinates. His shako was missing, undershirt crumpled, and coat still clutched by Vidal.

Not to mention the dried blood. He was covered in it.

"Sergeant," came Astier's voice.

Jacques all but burst out of the tent. "Corporal?"

"I've prepared a…" Astier's hands trembled slightly. "A spot. So that we don't have to use a mass grave. I figured we should take care of the corpse before-"

Jacques cut him off, "Corporal Vidal will be returning to duty shortly, Corporal. He needs a new uniform from the quartermaster if you could kindly get one for him."

Astier wrinkled his nose. "W-What? She- He's alive? How?" Then in a low voice he said, "Returning to duty? You can't be serious. With her condition?"

"He is alive and well. And he will return to duty," Jacques snapped, no longer conflicted on the matter. "Is that understood, Corporal?"

Astier straightened up. "Yes, Sergeant."

"Is there anything else?"

"Captain Courbis wants to see you when possible," he gritted out.

"I'll go immediately." Jacques glanced back at his tent. "Get Vidal a new uniform, please."

The corporal nodded stiffly and strode off. Jacques watched him briefly before heading off in his own direction, to Captain Courbis's tent.

He found the captain sitting at his desk with a stack of papers, casualty reports most likely. The stack was piled high, a testament to the brutal fighting. Captain Courbis put down his quill pen and looked Jacques up and down.

"You look like hell."

Jacques was still covered in dried blood in a rumpled undershirt without his coat or shako. "Hard fighting, sir."

"You're telling me," Courbis muttered, glancing at the stack. He returned his eyes to Jacques. "Duclos, you're competent, no matter what you say about yourself. I need you here to help me command this mess of stragglers that we call a company. Don't ever try to resign again, or I'll consider it desertion. Understood?" The captain wore a mirth grin, but his voice had iron in it.

Jacques sighed, "Yes, sir."

"Good." Captain Courbis stood from his tiny camp chair. "Scouts came in just an hour ago. The Imperials have another army to throw at us. I'll guess the Marshal won't have us moving until tomorrow, so get some rest and have the men ready to march by sunrise."

Jacques considered protesting in some way but ultimately couldn't decide on how or even what to protest. Instead, he saluted and marched out of the tent.

Prince Zorzal's army was marching double time to Italica, according to Colonel Feraud. At Ney's orders, the hussar colonel had been shadowing the Imperials relentlessly. Light cavalry watched them from a distance day and night, consistently reporting back to Ney with Zorzal's location and movements. Normally, Ney would have needed a much larger cavalry force to even attempt such a feat, but Prince Zorzal's army had few cavalry of its own, so Colonel Feraud could watch them unopposed. The scouts reported Zorzal was a week away.

That week gave Ney time to plan, more time than his plans usually got.

Ney was able to select a battlefield of his choosing. He was careful with his choice, always personally riding out to survey the potential spots to measure their value. It took precious time, but the layout of the battlefield was essential to the plan.

Eventually he found what he was looking for. The Saderans called it Aquila Ridge, aptly named in Ney's opinion. The ridge was arranged like an eagle spreading its wings, its chevron shaped pattern facing northwest. It rose from the plain between the Romalia Mountains and the Parvus River, a tributary to the larger Rho River. The main Appia Road, traveling from Italica to Sadera, swung a few miles west to avoid it. Most importantly, however, the ridge was protected on the right by the Parvus River and flanked on the left by a moderately dense forest at the foothills to the Romalia Mountains. Perfect for Ney's plan. He immediately called a command meeting.

"We set up here," Ney explained to his command tent full of officers while sketching out a line on a map of Aquila Ridge. He drew one line stretching left while the other stretched right, so that the chevron shape of the ridge was extended into a solid V shape. The left line stopped where the map indicated the forest's treeline, and the right line stopped just before the Parvus River. The tip faced northwest, to an open plain which stretched until the Appia Road.

"High ground with two refused flanks?" General Rousseau asked, an eyebrow raised. "It's a killing field."

"Yes," Ney agreed. He proceeded to tap the tip of the V. "General Messier will command a line regiment here. We'll do the most digging here, because that's where the Saderans will hit hardest. It's easiest for the enemy to focus their attack there, so I want them running uphill and into well prepared breastworks. Half our artillery will be there as well."

He then tapped the right wing. "General Brunelle will lead the regiment on the right. If Prince Zorzal gets tired of trying to break our center, he'll head here next. It's flat ground, but the river means we can't be outflanked." Ney then tapped on the left line. "General Rousseau has the left wing; his regiment will be anchored against the forest, and if Zorzal's canny enough, the enemy might try to sneak some men into it. Nothing to worry about, though; they won't get far."

A questioning look formed on Rousseau's face, but he had enough discipline to wait until Ney finished.

"Two regiments will be kept in reserve," Ney continued, pointing to a spot in between the two lines, inside the V. "The idea is that it'll be faster for us to maneuver troops inside the formation than it is for Zorzal to shift his forces outside it. Wherever he attacks, we can respond quickly with our reserves to beat him then move back before his next attack. With our entrenchments, it should negate his numbers and allow us to hold long enough."

"Long enough for what?" General Brunelle asked.

Ney allowed himself a wolfish grin. "Ah, that is where our last line regiment and all of Colonel Feraud's cavalry comes into play. It is not enough to simply defend ourselves against Zorzal's attacks. We can bleed him all we like, but that accomplishes little. What we need is a total victory."

General Rousseau sat back in his chair with a snort. "You remind me more and more of Napoleon each day."

"General Courbet will take command of the last line regiment," Ney dictated, ignoring Rousseau. "He and Colonel Feraud will position themselves here." He pointed to a spot in the forest that sat north of the V's leftmost line. "They will spend the day prior to the battle deep in the woods and by doing so be completely hidden from our enemy. When the enemy attacks our fortified position, Courbet and Feraud will find that they are positioned far into the enemy's flank and rear. A swift combined assault by infantry, artillery, and cavalry against the Saderans from said position will send them into chaos and destroy Zorzal's army." Ney finished by clasping his hands together and looking to Courbet. "With this done we will finally be in a position to negotiate peace."

The officers quietly considered Ney's plan.

"What if he doesn't give battle?" General Brunelle asked after some time. "What if he simply bypasses Aquilla Ridge and marches on Italica?"

General Messier coughed. "Bypass our corps? He would be leaving his lines of communication and supply wide open. We could cut him off from Sadera and then strike at his flanks and rear."

"If he's any bit competent he would strengthen his rear and lure us into an open battle. Then all this planning is for nothing," Brunelle spat.

"We could break his rearguard," Messier countered. "Attack with sudden ferocity from behind and send his army into confusion!"

"Only if he is not fully aware of the threat to his rear."

"This Zorzal is a prince, not a general."

"He is a veteran campaigner who has fought wars of conquest for his Empire!"

"Beating some tribal-"

"Generals," Ney interrupted. "Your points are both valid." He cracked his knuckles before continuing, "But Zorzal will attack us, and he will attack us here. I spoke with our prisoner in depth about our foe. The prince is overly aggressive, rash, and quick to anger. I can assure you he will attack us."

Messier and Brunelle looked at each other and collectively sighed. The tension present only moments ago now melted away.

Ney scanned his officers. "Well then. Any more questions?"

There were of course. The officers stayed in the command tent for a couple more hours, going over minute details and potential flaws. By the time they were finished, Ney had been required to light a lantern, and the map was covered with new annotations. Gradually they departed, returning to their men where they would convey the plan to their own officers who in turn would convey it to the men. Ney's plan would be critiqued by every man in the Third Corps by the next morning, and many would doubtless second guess it. He had done the same with Napoleon's plans back in Germany and Russia. It wasn't easy being in command.

But Ney had a plan, and it was in action. That was good enough for him.

Aquila Ridge was a swarm of activity.

The cavalry had arrived at the ridge early to secure it, and the infantry came streaming in the next day to begin working. Their usual camp was established southeast of Aquila Ridge in what would be the rear of the battle if Prince Zorzal's army attacked from the expected direction. Tents were pitched, wagons hauled in, and then officers began organizing work crews to take up shovels and axes. The sound of digging was soon everywhere as more men arrived to begin the work.

Sappers, professional engineers who knew what they were doing, directed the work crews to begin constructing breastworks and ramparts at the tip of the ridge. For four days they labored.

Fortifications now lined the tip of Aquila Ridge, the most vulnerable spot where the main assaults were expected to land. A full breastwork stretched across the tip. Piles of rocks filled lines of gabions, placed at spots of the line where it was too rocky to dig. Inconveniently placed trees were ripped from the earth and then cut apart to help reinforce the breastworks. Logs topped dirt piles which would stop a musket ball, let alone a crossbow bolt, in its tracks. Further slits were hacked into the logs to provide convenient firing positions for soldiers. Six gun pits, sloped at the back with a ramp of dirt and deep enough to provide Delon's artillerymen with cover, were dug at various points in the line. When a cannon fired, it's recoil would drive it back, up the ramp, and then back down again as gravity took over to reset the gun in place, saving precious time.

To the flanks, there was still a smattering of work. Men dug ditches and small redoubts at various sections. Here was less vulnerable to a frontal assault, so it was decided not to spend the time and manpower constructing a full breastwork over the whole line. Instead the ditches would slow the Saderan advance while the redoubts provided defensible positions to fall back on until mobile reserves could be brought up to plug the line.

And on the very far left flank, ahead of Aquila Ridge and its newly constructed entrenchments, nestled into a moderately dense forest, was General Courbet leading two thousand infantry, six hundred horsemen, and with four cannons.

Jacques was with Courbet. The Ninth Company made up the general's vanguard, ahead of the main body of men in order to screen them from the enemy, and act as Courbet's eyes and ears. They would be responsible for keeping Courbet hidden.

Jacques stood with Vidal and Astier at the edge of the treeline. The sun had just set, and a full moon was in the sky. Earlier that day, the Saderan Army had begun to arrive. They were encamped several miles from the ridge, and Jacques could see their campfires, sparkling in long parallel lines which marked a well ordered camp. To his right, the main French camp was obscured by Aquila Ridge but irregular fires started by French sentries speckled the landscape.

"That's us," Jacques said, pointing at the ridge to his right, then sweeping his arm to the left. "And that's Zorzal."

"They seem to outnumber us," Astier muttered. "Judging by the number of campfires."

Jacques nodded. "They have four times our number, give or take."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Vidal asked.

"Win the battle," Jacques replied, shrugging. He pictured the plan as Captain Courbis had explained it and tried to imagine it on the ground, guns firing and smoke everywhere. "The Marshal is going to bait Zorzal into attacking his position. They'll attack the tip of that ridge because it's easiest to concentrate there, and the Marshal will fend them off with his fortifications and reserves. Zorzal doesn't know we're here, so once Zorzal commits to a full assault with the majority of his men, General Courbet is supposed to descend on his flank with us and send Colonel Feraud's cavalry into his rear."

There was silence for a minute, and they all looked out at the field.

"A solid plan," Vidal said cautiously. "But it requires Zorzal to not try anything tricky."

"Like sending someone to try and get on the ridge's flank through these woods," Astier muttered. "I'd certainly try it if the only other option's a frontal assault."

"The Marshal and General Courbet agree," Jacques sighed. "They think Zorzal will send a cohort, that's five hundred men, during the initial phase of the battle to probe these woods. They want our company to drive them off."

Astier blinked. "Just our company? Why not the whole regiment?"

"Because," Jacques inhaled. "The Marshal doesn't want Zorzal knowing about the whole regiment. If it's just us then Zorzal will think we're just here to occupy the forest and slow down any attack made through it. He'll only leave a small force to secure his flank, and when General Courbet comes with the whole regiment we'll sweep it aside."

"So we're supposed to make him think the forest is occupied enough to make attacking through it too difficult, but not occupied enough to warrant guarding against it?" Vidal asked.

"Exactly."

"Sergeant," Astier growled. "We have maybe fifty fighting men in our company. How are we supposed to defeat a cohort of five hundred?"

"We're being reinforced. The Eleventh and Fifth Company got mauled badly at Italica and don't have any officers left, so they're being merged with us. That'll bring us up to a hundred and twenty." Jacques shrugged before Astier could speak again. "I know, I know. It'll still be five to one."

Vidal exhaled sharply. "So what do we do?"

"There's a plan in place. It's actually my plan which Captain Courbis approved," he said with a tinge of pride. "Don't worry, it'll work. Here's what is going to happen..."

Ney supervised the last bits of construction personally. It'd taken only four days to turn Aquila Ridge into a fortress, and now men worked through the night to add final touches. As men worked to dig pits that would slow an enemy advance, Ney rode his horse around the newly constructed breastworks. He spoke with soldiers, joked with them, and gave praise to those working hardest. Other commanders would have figured such things to be a waste of time, but Ney knew how important it was for the men to see their leader. Men around him became animated. They worked harder. Morale improved before his eyes.

In the distance, the fires of the enemy menaced them all.

Forty thousand men. Veteran legionaries drawn from Sadera's borders. Led by an experienced, if rash, commander.

Ney tried not to let concern show on his face. Instead, he complimented a big man shoveling away. The man wiped his brow, and a shorter man at his side clapped him on the shoulder. Ney asked where he was from.

"Stuttgart, Marshal."

"Wurttemberger?" he asked.

"Ja, Marschall."

Ney smiled. "Gut. Sehr gut." Then he turned to the shorter man. "And you? Wurttemberger as well?"

The man shook his head. "Não senhor." He smiled, showing his teeth. "Portuguese, Marshal."

"Ah, a beautiful country, but I must confess I did not enjoy my stay there."

The man's smile widened. "My countrymen made you bleed, senhor. But now you and I fight these Saderans together."

Ney nodded with a smile and then turned his horse. "Continue the good work, soldiers, but do not work too hard." he called over his shoulder. "I will need you tomorrow." He rode from the lines because he still had a final part of his plan to work on.

Back at his tent, Ney sat at his camp desk. He picked up a piece of paper, collected his quill, and began a letter to his enemy.

To His Accidency, the Inferior Son, Crown Prince of a Dying Empire, Zorzal El Caesar,

I write to you on the eve of battle, oh inglorious fool, to offer you a chance at surrender…

...you Saderan scapegoat, if you were not as stupid as a goat, I would presume that you understood you have been sent by your father to die. Oh hedonistic scoundrel, were you not by random chance born a prince, your parents would have left you to die in the woods for that is all you deserve. We the French, true masters of an Empire that would make you quake in your girlish boots, have no fear of your 'army' just as we had no fear of the three armies sent before you. I would, indeed, challenge the disgrace of a generation you call 'soldiers', who sustain themselves purely off the excrement of your arse, if only I believed there would indeed be any challenge at all. Instead, I can only be certain of a one sided flogging in which my soldiers will utterly lambast your battalions of whelps and send them to meet whatever pagan god you worship. I must ask of you, most foolish of fools, how you believe there is any chance of something resembling victory in your tiny mind. Did you, perhaps, believe that I would allow you to call this massacre a victory if you kissed my ass nicely? Fuck thy mother. Oh goat-fucker of Sadera, swineherd of Proptor, catamite of Falmart, court jester of all the world and underworld. You are a disgrace to your people. Screw thine own mother. I am Marshal Ney. I serve an Emperor greater than anyone you or your father could even imagine being. I will lead my tiny force of men to destroy your great host of girls and be dining in Sadera by next week. Should you refuse my generous offer of surrender, I will be certain to obliterate not just your 'army' but also you. Should you survive the coming battle, an unlikely event considering the frailty of your body and your total lack of mental fortitude, I will have you made a slave for all to see. You will be dragged across the world in chains so that all may see you for the rat you are. Should you not survive, I will allow your body all the respect you deserve, that of being a horse's pisspot. I shall now conclude because thinking of your inadequacies only results in strain. Kiss my arse.

-Marshal Michel Ney, commander of French forces in Falmart

Crown Prince Zorzal El Caesar, heir to the Empire, first born of Emperor Molt Sol Augustus, and conqueror of the Warrior Bunnies, finished reading the translated letter. He read over it again.

He read, and read. And hated.

With each word, he could feel the mockery imbued in it. The laughter this otherworld peasant had given when presuming to ridicule him, the heir to the Empire. He who had conquered. He who wielded power. He who would rule the world.

And this commoner dared to mock him.

He laughed. Because laughing made him appear superior, even as the words bit away at his soul. The insolence of this 'Marshal'. Zorzal would prove him the fool. He would destroy this wretched dog. This arrogant pup who believed himself superior to A PRINCE!

Men around him laughed too. The yes-men, sent by his fool of a father to spy on him while he fixed his father's mistakes. The so-called generals who thought that they knew better than him. They laughed because they were afraid. They feared him.

They laughed, and Zorzal's grip tightened on his golden chalice. They kept laughing, and now he knew some were not laughing with him but rather at him. His blood turned to magma.

"FOOL!" he screamed, flinging the chalice at a traitor. The golden cup hit the man who'd laughed for too long in the head. There was a lovely crunch as the imbecile's skull cracked, and he fell to the ground in a pool of blood.

The others flinched at Zorzal's might. His supreme excellence. His ultimate power.

"WHO ELSE?!" he roared. "WHO ELSE BETRAYS ME!"

None spoke. The traitors among them slinked behind a mask of servitude. Rightfully so. They would know their place, and they would know it well. Zorzal's hand trembled with his immense strength.

"Tomorrow we will crush the scum who DARE threaten us! I want them dead! Their leader shall be strung up!" He gripped his sword. "We attack and we destroy! No excuses!"

A 'general' knelt before him. "Your highness, it would be wise to seek other ways to destroy this foe. They have a strong position. If we instead marched for Italica-"

"COWARD!" Zorzal bellowed. "You would have me RUN!"

The coward was not deterred. "Highness, I would not presume to do such a thing, but avoiding an attack such as this would save many lives. It would be most wise not to attack here, your highness."

Zorzal let the man finish because he was a humble and wise prince. Then he drew his sword and cut the coward's throat. "I DO NOT CARE HOW MANY MEN DIE!"

He pointed his blood soaked sword at the others. They cowered as they should, fearful of his supreme excellence. He stepped forward and wiped the blood off his sword on a man's tunic.

"I want them destroyed!" he demanded. "Tomorrow they all die!"

The generals all knelt and swore it would be so.

Morning came in an instant, and Marshal Ney barely remembered sleeping at all. He was still dressed in full uniform when he woke in his small camp stool to the dawn light streaming through his tent. Courbet wasn't there to assist him as he'd grown used to. He buckled his saber on himself and had to collect his horse personally before he could ride out to command.

He arrived at a spot on Aquila Ridge above the lines of breastworks and entrenchments which had been designated as his command post. Officers were starting to filter over to the post as infantry regiments marched to their positions along the line. None of his generals came to the post, they were all at their assigned sectors, but there were plenty of captains serving as messengers and two colonels who commanded the reserve regiments.

In the distance, just coming into sight, Ney saw Imperial legionaries forming up into tight columns. Their large shields made them look even less like men in the distance and more like blobs of grey. In front of them were looser formations of men. Skirmishers, lighter equipped and meant to harass rather than charge.

"They're attacking, sir!" a captain with a spyglass relayed.

Ney walked to the captain and took his spyglass to look for himself. The Imperials were moving, some of them at least. He saw all of the skirmishers and a few cohorts of legionaries advancing steadily, maybe five thousand men in all.

"Just the start," he said to the captain. "A probing attack. He only knows roughly where we're at, so he'll have his skirmishers brush up against us to try our defenses and see what he's up against. The legionaries are just there to guard against cavalry in case we try to run them down."

The captain winced. "Of course, sir."

But Ney was already moving past him. "Runner!" he shouted, and another captain came to him. "Message for Captain Delon. He is to hold fire unless something changes. No use in wasting ammunition and revealing our guns."

The runner saluted, mounted a horse, and galloped off to the gun pits.

Normally, Ney noted, they would be under fire by now. If they were fighting Russians or the British, they'd already be getting hit by the enemy's artillery batteries. But the Saderans had no artillery. Trebuchets and catapults were too inaccurate, and ballistae didn't have the range to warrant use on the battlefield. Typically, no sane commander would order an attack on a fortified position without artillery support. The Saderans, however, did not have that option.

While Ney mused about artillery, the skirmishers and legionaries advanced quickly. They were now much clearer. The legionaries with their large rectangular shields and the skirmishers carrying javelins, bows, slings, and crossbows. The legionaries marched in a tight block behind the skirmishers' loose and spread out formation.

"Inform General Messier that he may fire when he sees fit," Ney directed another messenger.

Saderan skirmishers rapidly outpaced their legionary brethren, advancing to get within range of Messier's position. For a few more minutes, Ney watched the skirmishers crawl forward unopposed. Then, as the breastworks came into range of the skirmish formation, General Messier opened fire.

It wasn't a solid, clean volley like in the drills but rather a rolling crackle that spread down the line, spewing flashes of light and clouds of smoke as individual soldiers picked out targets to fire on. Even at long range, the effect of musketry was evident with Saderans dropping to the ground in a constant dribble. The fire continued, gradually becoming less synchronized as time passed. More and more fire was poured into the skirmishers until the breastworks were completely obscured by smoke, illuminated every other heartbeat by a flash from within.

The skirmishers, to their credit, kept on coming, but they were completely outranged. General Messier had begun firing roughly three hundred yards from the enemy, beyond effective bowshot and leagues out of javelin range. The advantage that modern musketry brought was devastating.

Eventually the skirmishers reached a point where they could begin to return fire. They lobed bolts, arrows, and sling rocks at the distant Frenchmen while the braver men with javelins sprinted suicidally close to have any hope of using their weapons. It was all in vain; the French were behind breastworks which granted them near impunity against the enemy missiles. The Saderans were never going to win a shootout.

"Well," Ney said with satisfaction. "That's that."

"They're still fighting, sir," The captain from before stated.

Ney shrugged. "If Zorzal wants to take this ridge he'll have to charge it. This," he gestured to the skirmishers who had begun to fall back in the face of vastly superior firepower, "was never meant to win him the battle. It was just a probe to test us."

"I thought Zorzal was supposed to be rash," the captain spat.

Ney shrugged again. "Perhaps we misjudged him. I know for certain he's got battle experience. It could also be that he's not the one who commanded this. I suspect there are other commanders with him who could be conducting the battle. Whatever the case, it doesn't matter."

They both watched the Saderans withdraw across the battlefield back to the rest of their army.

Ney turned back to the captain. "What's your name by the way?"

The man stiffened up and saluted firmly. "Captain Remy Barbier, sir!"

"My aide is busy with command at the moment. You're my replacement until he's back, understood?"

"Yes, sir! It's truly an honor-"

"They'll test our flanks next," Ney mused, ignoring Barbier's gratitude. "Probes again. They'll find both sufficiently covered." He looked to the dense forest where General Courbet was supposed to be hiding. "At least I hope they are."

Across the field and in the forest, Jacques sat crouched behind a tree, counting the minutes go by. Distant gunfire continued to sound off in the distance, and he fiddled with his musket. Waiting was always terrible. It was more terrible because he couldn't move. The sixty men around him, all crouched behind trees like Jacques, seemed to have similar feelings on the matter.

He hated it. It was his plan, but he still hated it.

There hadn't yet been the distant roar of cannonfire yet. That meant the attacks were still light, and the Marshal didn't want to show his guns to the enemy just yet. Something had to be happening over there, and it was only a matter of time until it spread to here. The wait was killing him.

He sighed and looked over his men again. Jacques had half his company, sixty men, spread out in a thin skirmish line, each man partially obscured from sight by a tree or large bush. They all waited.

An insect was plaguing him. It had been after him for ages now, but he couldn't manage to swat the damned thing. He had a nasty bite that itched on the back of his neck and another somewhere on his ass.

War. The inglorious thing.

Then Vidal came scurrying over from up ahead. She slid behind a bush near Jacques and worked to catch her breath as silently as possible.

Jacques looked at her expectantly. "Well?"

"They're coming," she gasped. "Five hundred. Legionaries."

He closed his eyes and took a breath. "Finally."

It was two minutes before they came. Jacques heard their armor clanking before he really saw them. Finally they appeared, and the wait was now over. Vidal's report was accurate; there were five hundred Imperial legionaries marching through the woods, probing for a weakness on Marshal Ney's flank. They did their best to maintain a formation in the forest, though it was looser than normal due to the necessity of marching through trees. He could see the faces of the men he was about to kill. They were laughing about something one of the men had said. Some, too many, looked like good men. Men he'd spend a night drinking with in other circumstances.

He considered it all for perhaps half a second. Then pulled back the hammer on his musket, took aim, and he unleashed his ambush.

His musket cracked then a heartbeat later so too did sixty other muskets. They were perhaps twenty yards away, and at that range, they couldn't miss. The balls cut through the mass of legionaries, armor and all, dropping scores of men in an instant.

The screaming began.

Chaos reigned supreme in the Saderan formation as men who had never encountered musketry in their life froze. Others yelled out various curses, and still some went to help those who'd been hit. The officers tried their best to react to the ambush and began forcing men back into some semblance of order. They weren't fast enough, and they were still in confusion when, thirty seconds later, a second volley slammed into them, tearing down another three score of men. Lesser men would have broken.

But Imperial discipline was legendary, and Jacques's men were now out of time. A bloodthirsty roar erupted from the legionaries who finally organized a charge at the French.

"Back!" Jacques screamed. "Fall back!"

They were in armor, and the French were not. Jacques's men needed no further prompting; they turned heel and ran from the enemy who threatened to butcher them where they stood. Jacques was no fool. He went with them.

In lighter kit and without armor, his men easily gained an upper hand on the Saderans. There was no semblance of formation at this point. The Saderans could not maintain a tight block while charging through dense woodland, it was simply impossible. Likewise, Jacques's thin skirmish line became less of a line and more of a scattering of individuals. They now had distance on the Imperials, so men became more daring. Without stopping their mad dash, some tried to reload.

Jacques reached into his ammunition pouch. His fingers found a paper cartridge and brought it to his mouth. It was harder than he expected, head bobbing as he sprinted from armored men, to tear the paper with his teeth. His feet pounded on the forest floor. He barely managed and so poured powder into the flash pan before bringing the muzzle down to-

The powder spilled to the ground, and Jacques swore because he'd forgotten to close the flash pan.

His heart pounded and legs burned. He managed to grab another cartridge, tear it open, and pour it into the flashpan. Jacques was careful to close the pan this time. Musket fire sounded off where more careful men had managed to load their guns. He continued, pouring powder down the muzzle and pushing in the rest of the paper cartridge even as he nearly tripped on a tree root.

Jacques heard shouting. The legionaries were close behind.

He had his ramrod out in an instant, and immediately jammed it down his musket. He felt the ball go down and slammed the ramrod down again for good measure. Then he yanked it out, somehow managed to get it back in its sheath, and cocked back the hammer.

Jacques stopped to turn and got a good look at a legionary barreling towards him only ten yards away. He yanked the trigger, felt the musket kick, and bolted away without looking to see if he hit anything.

He ran. Reloading seemed a foolish idea, so he just ran. Jacques didn't dare look over his shoulder. He used his last bit of energy and ran. God only knows for how long.

Then he emerged into light. He was suddenly in a forest clearing with just a small patch of open ground unmolested by trees or roots. On that ground was formed the other half of Jacques's company, sixty more good men, in a double rank line. Jacques saw them and knew he had made it.

Jacques's men, the ones who'd taken part in his ambush, trickled into the clearing one by one. Some managed one last shot against the Saderans before they were all herded by Corporal Astier around and behind the formed line.

"Make ready!" shouted Captain Courbis.

Jacques took deep breaths and watched the mass of legionaries who'd been hot on his heels stumble into the clearing.

"Present!" The captain drew his sword as sixty muskets lowered into place.

The Saderans staggered forward, exhausted from the chase.

Courbis's sword swooshed through the air. "Fire!"

Even with only sixty muskets, a volley at close range was deafening. It scythed through the legionaries all at once, creating a pile of bodies where men once stood. The Saderan officers were shouting, but they'd lost control of their men. Some kept stumbling forward, shields hopelessly raised, but most were trying to edge themselves backwards. Men at the back couldn't see and so milled in confusion, blocking their comrades from being able to retreat. They were still shuffling, half a minute later, when Courbis ordered another volley which tore apart their mass.

On the third volley, Jacques's ambushers returned to the fight. Tired as they were, they managed to contribute to the carnage so that the Saderans were now hit by a hundred and twenty muskets rather than just sixty. There were very few still standing.

"Forward!" Courbis suddenly called, charging forward sword in hand, and the entire company followed him.

The legionaries didn't stick around to be on the receiving end of a bayonet charge. They ran, all order lost, and the French plunged into the woods after them. It was a mad chase, not dissimilar to the one the Imperials had just led, as Frenchmen surged after their prey. They pursued them all the way to the forest edge where Jacques and Courbis had to reign in the company from continuing down onto the field. Most legionaries, those still able to run at least, managed to get clear of the field. A few unlucky bastards were too slow and got bayoneted by eager Frenchmen.

"Good plan," Captain Courbis complimented, his sword coated in blood.

"Yes," Jacques agreed. "It worked."

"Why…" Prince Zorzal growled, surveying the battlefield. "ARE THEY NOT DEAD YET?!"

"We are only testing their defenses," a cowardly general said. "The main assault has not yet taken place, your highness."

"And why is that?!" the prince spat.

"We cannot just attack blindly," another general protested. "We need to fully discover their defenses before choosing where the main assault will take place. I suggest we try another-"

Zorzal killed the coward with his sword. "Anyone else?!"

Silence. Befitting of cowardly traitors.

"Order the main assault then! Everything we have!"

The generals nodded in despair.

"Nothing serious," General Rousseau's messenger reported from the left. "Some skirmishers and a few cohorts looking for a weak spot on our flank. We sent them on their way."

Ney nodded and sent the man back to Rousseau. He'd received a similar report from General Brunelle on the right and from General Courbet in the woods. More probing attacks intended to discern his position and find vulnerabilities.

"Here they come again," Captain Barbier muttered, looking across the field.

Ney let his gaze drift with Barbier's. "That's not a probe," he stated. Heavy columns of men were forming at the center of the Imperial army. He estimated it to be maybe thirty-five thousand men, perhaps even the entire army at once.

"God save us," Barbier said and crossed himself.

"We won't need him," Ney retorted. He pointed to the enemy. "Look at that! He's sending his entire force straight at us!" He was smiling.

"That's a good thing?" the captain asked.

Ney's smile turned wolfish. "It means that Zorzal is not keeping a reserve! Nothing to react to us with! Nothing to form a rearguard with! We are going to crush his entire army here!"

"You love war," the captain observed. "It's an odd thing to love."

Ney blinked. He didn't have an answer to that. He instead turned to a messenger. "Inform Captain Delon to begin opening fire."

The man saluted before speeding off on a horse.

Ney then strode over to two colonels, the commanders of his reserve regiments. "Gentlemen, I would suggest you prepare your men for action. You will be needed very shortly."

They saluted as well and mounted horses to return to their regiments.

Ney returned to Captain Barbier, who was still in awe of the force marching toward them. The cannons opened up shortly after that, deep throated coughs which sent cannonballs screaming across the field. They plowed into the columns, creating great gashes where dozens lost limbs, then dipped to the ground and bounced up again, killing many more.

"Captain Delon knows his business," Barbier commented.

Ney nodded. "Delon claims he once sent a cannonball down the barrel of an English cannon. Probably bullshit, but he's good regardless."

The cannons roared again, artillerymen working tirelessly in their gunpits. Again, cannonballs tore apart the columns, and Ney was reminded of the Guard Artillery at Borodino, cutting down ranks of Russian infantry who despite the cannonade stood their ground.

"Regiments ready for orders, sir!"

Ney turned to find his two reserve colonels saluting. He nodded and knew what he had to do. "You, place your regiment with General Messier at the center. You, stay in reserve. Zorzal's main thrust will be at our center, but we may need to reinforce the flanks."

"Yes, sir!" they both snapped in unison.

Across the field, the Imperial army lumbered forward. The bloody gashes caused by cannonfire continually filled in by waves of fresh legionaries. Their advance was slowed both by the chaos caused by Delon's cannons and the fact that no sane man wants to march into cannonfire. He could see it, even from this distance, men flinching back from the artillery fire, trying to avoid being torn apart by a twelve-pound iron ball.

The poor fools didn't have the training to know it only exposed them longer.

One of the two reserve regiments began marching to reinforce Messier's position in the center. They came in battalion columns and occupied the crest of the ridge, behind the main line of breastworks and the men already in position. There wasn't enough room for both regiments to occupy the entrenchments at once.

Ahead, the wave of Imperials lurched onward, in spite of Delon's artillery maiming scores of men with each cannonshot. The legionaries ignored their losses admirably. They came close, and Ney would now see how they would attack. Most of the legionaries were arranged in a series of densely packed blocks. They were positioned against the French center, the tip of the ridge, where Ney presumed they were intended to act as a massive battering ram that would shatter him with numbers. On the wings, there were smaller blocks of men, presumably intended to hit Ney on the flanks simultaneously with the central attack.

"They seem to be taking cannonfire well," Captain Barbier noted.

"We are fighting veterans, not rabble," Ney replied.

"Indeed, sir." The captain fiddled with the sword sheathed at his side.

Ney watched the Imperials come ever closer. Soon they would be within musket range and begin their charge. He looked back at Barbier. "Know how to use that thing?" he asked.

Barbier smirked. "I practice every day."

"Good," Ney said. "Because I lead from the front, so we are going to be in the thick of things."

The Imperials came within range of Messier's breastworks. The fusiliers opposing them leveled their muskets and released a volley, crackling down the line in a wave of smoke that soon engulfed the breastworks. With so many legionaries in front of them, Ney figured it was impossible to miss. Indeed, hundreds fell, writhing in agony until they were trampled to death by the horde who came after them.

Yet the Imperials did not care for losses. Now they charged.

"Follow me," Ney directed Barbier as the terrifying horde surged at Aquila Ridge.

He hurried forward. While a second volley struck the charging Imperials, Ney and Barbier made their way to the very crest of the ridge, where one of Ney's reserve regiments was waiting. By the third volley, they had arrived, and Ney saw that there would not be a fourth.

The Imperials were too close and charging too fast. General Messier, in command lower down the ridge where the breastworks were constructed, did not wait to receive them. His regiment booked it, men scrambling up Aquila Ridge to avoid being hit by the impetus of a charge of this magnitude. The Imperials saw their foes fleeing and came on all the faster. The quickest among them now climbed the breastworks and jumped into the entrenchments their enemy had just vacated.

"Fire at will!" Ney shouted, and dozens of officers from the reserve regiment screamed the same.

Legionaries continued clambering over the breastwork like a wave of ants, but soon discovered that the entrenchments, with their solid wall of dirt facing away from the ridge, provided no such cover from the opposite direction. The incoming fire shredded them.

Ney wrenched his saber from its scabbard. "Charge!"

Two thousand voices bellowed the same, and suddenly a wave of blue descended the hill with bayonets bristling in front. The Imperials, whose momentum had been used up when they reached the breastworks, now found themselves disorganized, exhausted, and facing down a charge by fresh troops. And in spite of their massive numerical superiority, they did the sensible thing and tried to run.

Except they couldn't run.

Crammed into their packed formations, the men who tried to flee found themselves pressed up against a wall of their own comrades who, deeper within the mass of men, could not see what was coming for them and thus did not run. Stuck between the rapidly approaching wall of bayonets and their fellow legionaries, the men began to shove and kick their way through. Panic drove them, and soon the men at the front were engaged in a shoving match with the men at the back which, as the French grew ever closer, devolved further into men being crushed in between groups of desperate Saderans.

Then the French charge drove home with bayonets and a true slaughter began. Ney was among the first in. The momentum of his charge was concentrated entirely on the point of his saber, which impaled a man through his face and drove through with such a force that it exited the back of his skull and was only stopped by the end of his iron helmet. Then he was advancing again. He ripped his saber from the man's skull, closing the distance with another panicked legionary so that he was in the midst of a giant melee, cutting high to low and denting his new opponent's helmet with the force of impact. Ney cut again, low to high along the same line, and this time caught the legionary's chin with the tip of his saber so that it chopped through flesh and bone, and the man died before he understood he was fighting. It was unending. He powered forward again, saber cutting blindly until it met flesh and severed a Saderan's hand. Again. Ney found another to kill. A spear was suddenly thrust at him, and Ney nearly died in that instant. He didn't. Instead, his saber made a desperate cover, turning the life ending blow into a minor graze. Then it shot forward, cutting left shoulder to right hip, and was stopped by the legionary's shield. Their exchange was short lived. Ney prepared to swing again, and the legionary prepared to parry Ney, and a French bayonet emerged from the chaotic melee and skewered the legionary through the back of his neck. Ney didn't get to thank his savior. The Marshal was on the next opponent immediately, throwing himself forward regardless of consequence. This legionary saw him coming. A rapid thrust met Ney's advance, one that the Marshal parried. The spear drew back, slipped Ney's saber, and thrust a second time. Ney again covered it, charged forward, parried a third time, then cut rolling his wrist so that the saber descended on the legionary's hand, holding the spear. A finger jumped off, so Ney swung again, and two more fell. He did it a third time, for good measure, and now the legionary could no longer hold his spear. Ney distantly heard screaming. He continued forward, grabbing the rim of the fingerless legionary's shield, and pulled the shield down so that he was free to thrust with- His left foot slipped on a discarded helmet, and Ney went to the ground. His opponent screamed, and jumped on him. Punches from a fingerless fist rained down on his back. A crescendo of pain roared across his body, but Ney could not see. He was face first in blood soaked grass, and he knew he would die here. Ney tried to pull himself up and failed. He tried again, and was amazed to find no resistance. Something grabbed the collar of his uniform.

Ney's head suddenly emerged from the blood soaked grass, and he drank in air like a parched man would water.

"You don't get to die here!" Captain Barbier blared into his ear.

Ney no longer had any choice in his actions. The fingerless man was dead, Barbier's sword through his armpit, and he was dragged from the melee by Barbier and an unknown soldier.

He found himself at the top of Aquila ridge, pain shooting across his body. Below, the French were still engaged in brutal melee with the Saderans because, try as they might, two thousand men could not rout forty thousand. The numbers simply did not allow for the Saderans to be forced back. But disorganized and exhausted, the legionaries fared little chance against a well formed French charge. The shock of that charge meant the Saderans were now fixed in a state of endless confusion, allowing French bayonets to extract a heavy toll. Ney knew it wouldn't last forever, eventually momentum would be lost so that numbers could prevail, so he looked across the field.

"Anytime now, Courbet."

Delay plagued General Courbet's force, and patience was running thin.

Jacques and Courbis had decisively defeated the probe sent into the forest, and vitally they had done it with only a hundred and twenty men. That meant Zorzal was unaware of the threat concentrating on his flank, and there was nothing ready to stop their eventual attack.

However, the French had trouble moving the rest of Courbet's force through the dense woodland. They had four cannons with them, mounted on horse drawn artillery carriages, and it seemed that they would get caught on every single branch or bramble in their path. Horses, the six hundred that Colonel Feraud brought to accompany Courbet's infantry, had to be led gradually on foot through the forest or risk debilitation by an upturned root.

It took a long time. Too long, by Jacques's estimates. He knew they were supposed to descend on the Saderan flank right at the moment of impact between French and Imperial forces. However, that moment was here, and they were still not in position.

"Fuck it." he heard General Courbet spit. "Cut us a path!" the general bellowed.

And so they did. The infantry distributed whatever tools they had, bayonets, large knives, small hatchets, and they hacked a way through the forest. They worked efficiently, destroying roots, branches, and bushes which threatened to impede Courbet's force. With their vigor it only took minutes and then the force had a safe path to march through.

Now Jacques stood at the treeline, his company assembled into a battalion column, with a grand view of the battle before him.

"Holy Christ," Vidal breathed.

Astier spat. "Nothing holy about that."

It was one big field of men. The Saderans must have sent their entire army at the Marshal's lines because there were just so many. They had hit the Marshal's lines with a fury. On the flanks they were driven off and now reassembled just barely out of musket range so that they might attempt to attack again. In the center, where most of the Saderans were concentrated, a large confused melee had erupted.

General Courbet rode clear of the woods just as the artillery and cavalry did as well. The general saluted Colonel Feraud, and drew his sword. "Forward!"

No time was wasted. Colonel Feraud immediately galloped off, leading his mixed squadrons of hussars, lancers, cuirassiers, chasseurs, and dragoons straight for the enemy rear. The rest of the army dropped like a hammer on the Imperial flank.

Jacques felt himself marching to the beating of drums. They went at double pace, and came as a blue tide emerging from the forest. Ahead, the four cannons which had been slow beasts in the forest were now agile foxes. Horses drove them forward, quicker than the infantry over open ground. They arrived perpendicular to a line of legionaries, still organizing to make a second assault on the French left wing, and were quickly unlimbered by skilled artillerists so that the Saderans could not react fast enough.

The cannons boomed as one, letting loose their deadly payloads. Grapeshot.

There was carnage.

Like massive shotguns, the cannons spewed forth hundreds of tiny projectiles which engulfed the Saderan line. They tore down five hundred men instantly, and the Imperials were flayed. Their officers immediately lost control, and the entire formation broke and ran. Unfortunately, they ran into the path of Colonel Feraud's cavalry, who sabered the fleeing men relentlessly and ensured they would not return to the field that day.

General Courbet seemed satisfied, and while the cannons reloaded, he led the infantry forward. They marched like the wind, soaring forward parallel to Aquila Ridge so that they maintained their position on the Imperial flank.

Finally, they arrived at the tip of Aquila Ridge, where thirty thousand legionaries were assembled in a monstrous blob pinned in melee by a couple thousand fusiliers. Courbet's force approached from the side, and the Imperials were too focused on Ney to react.

The columns of Frenchmen were ordered to form lines. Jacques helped Captain Courbis shift the Ninth Company from its place in the battalion column to the firing line.

Orders were dispersed among the officers. Jacques, and two thousand other men, cocked back the hammers on their muskets, leveled them at the Saderan horde, and pulled the triggers.

A deafening cacophony erupted with smoke. Bullets mangled the massed men.

Their volley had a brutally visible impact. At least a thousand dropped to the ground, pools of blood and gore forming from their bodies, and a thousand more screeched in the agony of being wounded by musket fire.

Jacques was given little time to observe the carnage because immediately after that every officer in the regiment screamed their lungs out to deliver a single order.

"CHARGE!"

And they did.

The fusiliers leapt forward as one. Jacques had ten seconds to consider mortality, and then the charge hit. They were fresh and they were eager, and they had outmaneuvered the enemy, and they had just routed thousands of legionaries without even a proper fight…

"Crush them!" he yelled.

Jacques killed his first man without even a thought, a thrust from his bayonet at a man too tired and too confused to parry. More like murder than battle.

Then they were all fighting. Jacques thrust and parried, covered himself from spear points then retorted in kind. There was a moment when it all seemed to be a big mistake; they tumbled over the first men they charged, but now men began to notice them, and there were so many that the regiment seemed to be swallowed by them.

"Push, goddamn it!" roared Courbis.

Jacques obeyed. He leaned forward, got his bayonet in front of him, and pushed, ignoring the danger. He knocked a man down with his shoulder, and his bayonet stuck into another and the man went down and Jacques's head was grazed, and he shrugged it off and thrust, desperate, blind, struck, was hit in turn, this time by a shield, hard enough to stumble, and he fell to one knee but got his musket up, and made a parry, covering a frantic blow from a sword, got feet under him, rising, sweeping the sword to the right, sticking the swordsman in his elbow which held an uncovered gap in his armor, stabbing so hard the tip grated against steel on the other side, stock sweeping up into the man's mouth so that his jaw shattered and teeth sprayed. Aware, in some distant world, that these were not, in fact, men. Women, not men. Women he was killing.

Dead and down.

Next.

"Push!" he wretched as he extracted his bayonet from the dead woman.

Again, he went forward. There were women intermixed with the Saderan men. Women in finely gilded white armor. Women fighting under a rose banner. Women being butchered. It was disgusting and horrible and Jacques tried to seal his mind from it.

He pushed and was soon staring down the spear shaft of an armored woman. Around them the French surged forward because they had taken their foe in the flank, and in warfare that meant the difference between victory and defeat.

Jacques focused. It was just his bayonet and the spear point of his adversary. The woman allowed a moment of distraction show, glancing at her comrades dying around her, and Jacques used that to cross spear with musket, levering away his opponent's shaft, and his bayonet slammed down, breaking her fingers through gauntlets, and then leapt up like a fish rising from a water into the woman's face, she wore no helmet, and the woman was dead.

Her body collapsed. He tried not to look at her mutilated eyes.

Next.

He advanced, and so did all his countrymen. A legionary appeared in front of him, and Jacques attacked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw French cavalrymen charge directly into the rear of the Imperial horde, cutting a swathe through them like a knife through butter. It didn't matter.

What did was his enemy, parrying Jacques's bayonet with his shield and throwing his own counterthrust at the Frenchman. Jacques met it a quarterway down his musket, swinging left to right, deflecting the blow and knocking the spear aside in one motion. He counterthrust and got caught on the Imperial's shield again. The legionary tried to skewer Jacques again, so Jacques stabbed into the man's thrust. His bayonet pierced the Imperial's hand, and the Imperial dropped his spear. Jacques advanced, thrust high to bait the shield, succeeded, kicked the legionary in the knee, broke something, and finally perforated the man's skull as he was falling.

Next.

He charged a new foe, another woman in armor, and thrust from his waist up. The woman wasn't prepared. His bayonet rammed into her jaw and continued through her skull.

Next.

Another legionary. He thrust, was parried, closed distance, and smashed his buttstock into the man's face.

Next.

A wounded woman trying to get off her helmet.

Next.

A pleading woman.

Next!

Someone crying.

NEXT!

A girl in Moscow.

"NEXT!" he roared.

But there was no one else.

Around Jacques was a field of corpses, and only Frenchmen still stood. The Saderans had given up, finally. Sent into chaos by Ney's charge from the front, butchered by Courbet's attack on the flank, and finally routed by Feraud's cavalry from the rear. The Saderan legionaries, veterans all, could fight no longer. They surrendered en masse. Many tried to run, but without a rearguard they could not outpace cavalry, and Colonel Feraud was quick to herd them back, butchering those who refused to surrender. The entire army was destroyed.

Jacques looked at the corpses. The men. The women. He fell to his knees, musket falling from his hands. And wept.

This is the longest chapter I have ever written, longer than what would have been the combined march to and subsequent Siege of Italica if I had gone with the original plan of combining them. It is quite possibly the longest single thing I have written period, though it comes close with a couple papers. 11,766 words. I am very proud to present it to all of you, and I am eternally grateful that people enjoy my nonsense enough to read it consistently.

I considered cutting this chapter in two like I did with Italica. It's brutally long, and I wrote certain sections of it with the intent of making the reader feel exhausted just as Jacques or Ney would in battle. However, your reviews told me that you were perfectly fine with long chapters like these, so here we are. I hoped you made it through in one piece.

In addition to being my longest chapter, this was also the most tactically complex battle I've written. I absolutely adore military tactics and strategy, so it was a joy writing it. I understand, however, that this does not appeal to certain readers so I apologize if the command meetings and planning and tactical decision making were boring to you. I have tried to be as faithful as I could to history and real life in how the battle played out. Obviously something like this never actually happened, so it's up to personal interpretation on how a Roman legion would stand up to a musket volley or how well a bayonet charge would work against those same legionaries. I have written out my interpretation. People are free to disagree with it, just be respectful.

Finally I would just like to reiterate a thank you to everyone reading. I read and appreciate every review I get, and it brings me great joy to see people enjoy what I write. I encourage everyone to leave a review if they liked (or disliked) the chapter. At this point I'm not certain if I can keep saying I'm an amateur writer since I've now written the equivalent of a novella, but I just ask that everyone is respectful and understands I do not do this for a living.