The thing you have to remember, whenever a war's winding down, is that there's almost certainly going to be another war eventually. So it's best to start setting yourself in the best position you can to be ready for it, and the sooner the better, because everyone else's doing the same thing…

Interview with a retired member of Atlantic Federation Intelligence, 1970

Heinrich Lannes was not especially happy, and had several excellent reasons not to be.

First, he'd just found out why Sergeant Melchiott had not used her Valkyria powers to reduce the Marmota to a smoking wreck. She, had, apparently, thrown her lance at it for…reasons that Captain Varrot didn't understand.

Second, Varrot had told him to retrieve the lance, despite not having a clue where it actually was. While she had been able to give some directions for where they could start looking from, she'd admitted that she had no idea how far the lance had gone before it stopped.

Third, they didn't have a medic with them. While he understood the logic—there were, after all, dozens of Gallian casualties back at the Marmota who needed taking care of, and Varrot wanted as few people as possible to know about what they were retrieving—that didn't mean he had to like it.

Fourthly, and finally, riding in the front seat of a truck that someone else was driving was something that he did not enjoy, especially when the driver was Sergeant Yancey, who he'd told to get them to the pass as fast as she could. He was presently wondering whether or not he should rethink that decision, but he reminded himself Varrot had told them that they needed to get there quickly.

Then again, she wasn't here, and the fact that Yancey apparently turned into a madwoman behind the wheel made him wish that the sergeant hadn't been one of the two surviving squad members who were both still on their feet and could drive, Seydlitz being the other.

Finally, he saw the entrance to the pass up ahead, and started looking for the rock outcropping Varrot had mentioned as the spot where Sergeant Melchiott had thrown her lance from. It should be right about—there!

"Stop here, Sergeant," he ordered, bracing himself as he did so, and Yancey immediately obliged by slamming her foot down on the brake as hard as she could. He was still thrown forward as the truck came to a screeching halt, and he wondered if the transmission, the brakes, or anything else about the thing would ever be the same again, and spent a moment wondering if Seydlitz would stop in time.

He could hear the sounds of the troops in the back slamming into each other and the back of the cab over the sounds of the truck behind them screeching to a halt, and could just imagine the cursing that was going on back there.

"Right. Get out, but wait here a moment," Lannes said as he opened the door to the truck. "I'll make sure this is the right spot." He went around and gave the same orders to the others, then trudged over to the outcropping, hoping that he wouldn't have to check another one.

His hopes were not dashed—the rocks had the crossed rifle and spear that Varrot had described to him as the sign she'd put there after everyone else had left.

He called to the troops on the road. "Ivor! Seydlitz! Get over here."

As they came over, he pondered where to go from here. First, they'd need to find where the Marmota had turned, since apparently that had happened right after Sergeant Melchiott had thrown her lance. Then they'd need to take a bearing from this point to that point, then follow it to the edge of the forest, then spread out and find where it had actually entered…

It was going to be a long day.

As they made their way back through the forest to where they'd entered it, Lannes marveled at how relatively quickly they'd been able to find the lance.

Once they'd had an idea of where to start looking, they'd found the path fairly quickly, since there had been a nearly exploded oak at the edge of the forest, which had been only been the beginning of a long path of broken branches and fallen trees that even a blind man could have followed.

It had been a bit of a pain in the neck to follow the trail, given that they'd had to hop over various bits of debris, go into and out of various ravines, and deal with underbrush, although there had been a few instances when the lance had carved them a path through brambles and other thick undergrowth.

As they'd followed the lance's flight, he'd worried about three possible outcomes—first, not finding any trace of the lance; second, finding out someone else had already taken it; and third, finding it stuck in an irretrievable position, like embedded in the center of a granite boulder.

Finding the lance broken would be one thing. Someone else having it would be quite another, and if it couldn't be found they would have to assume the worst. Finding it stuck in the middle of a hill, though, would mean they'd have to come back with some earthmoving equipment, which wouldn't do much for secrecy.

There was also the question of whether they'd be able to find the hole at the other end if the lance actually did go through a hill. Fortunately, that had only happened once, and they'd found where the lance had come out relatively quickly—although, much to his disappointment, you couldn't see daylight at the other end.

They'd finally found the thing in one of the most wildly improbable positions that he could have imagined—resting, perfectly balanced, in the fork of a tree. He'd really wished they had a camera, because no one was going believe the story when they told it.

Once they finally got it out of there, however, the real work had begun, as they carried the lance all the way back to the trucks, which was considerably more difficult than reaching it had been.

The Valkyrian lance was both heavier and bulkier than either the standard or mortar lance, which meant it required two soldiers to carry it. As could be expected, this had made going through the forest somewhat harder, as they had to take whatever path would let them get through and reasonably paralleled the trail of destruction they were following back to the trucks.

But they were finally at the edge of the forest, now, and were almost home free. All they needed was to go across a quarter-mile of open field, scramble over the Marmota's tracks—that wouldn't be easy, but it wouldn't take long—then go the last half-a-mile to get to the road and the trucks.

Then they could get the thing into one of the trucks, put it somewhere safe, report to Captain Varrot, get the rest of the squad together once they'd had a good night's rest, and then go take over one of the taverns in Randgriz and get thoroughly soused.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked this plan. Everyone could use a stiff drink or three.

As he stepped forward out of the woods, though, he suddenly stopped as something about what he could see just seemed—off. He couldn't explain why, but it did, and he was about to say something when Traherne, who had taken point, held his hand up in a signal to halt.

"Is something wrong, Sergeant?" Lannes asked quietly.

"I'm not sure," Traherne replied. "Something just doesn't seem right."

"Right. Cranmer. Marx. Go to the flanks and get in range of the trucks, then cover us."

The two snipers moved forward quietly as they split from the group, and Lannes nodded.

"Scouts in front. And stay sharp. We're not done yet."

I wish we were, he thought as they stepped forward.

As they moved forward across the field and negotiated the tracks, he found himself beginning to relax a bit, a feeling that only increased as they got closer to the trucks. Then he frowned. What if someone was planning on ambushing them as they loaded—

"Get down!" Traherne yelled, and as Lannes followed his example he heard the bullets fly through the space where he'd been a moment before.

He quickly poked his head up, only to need to hit the dirt and roll to the side as whoever they were started focusing on him. It looked like there was only a team's worth of men trying to nail them, and most of which seemed to be scouts—but not having a medic with them meant that any damage taken could be permanent—and someone could actually die.

Enough of that. Shut up and soldier, he told himself, and started to crawl forward as he heard two sniper rifles go off, and knew that at least that decision had been a good one. Bullets were still going by him, and he wondered if they were focusing their fire on him.

He hoped they were—on the ground like this, the uniform did a good enough job of protecting you that an entire MAG clip to the head wouldn't take you out of the fight—they'd tested that during one of the training exercises.

Hopefully everyone else would remember that, he thought as he heard the sound of the scouts and engineers returning fire, hopefully to some effect, and he decided to poke his head up again—just in time to see three enemy grenades arc towards where he'd last seen Traherne.

They went off, in an explosion that no scout could make it through intact.

Traherne went flying.

Lannes saw red, and realized a second later that he was on his feet and charging forward straight into however many of the enemy there were, but they seemed to be busy trying to dodge the snipers and scouts, and he could hear footfalls behind him as Yancey and Guildenstern followed him in.

He saw one of the men duck behind one of the trucks, and turned so that he'd be able to fire down the side when he got there.

As he came around the front, he saw the man starting to rise to his feet, rifle in hand, and another poking his head out from behind the truck's rear tire.

RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT!

Both men went down, but before Lannes had a chance to congratulate himself he staggered forward as five bullets went into his back. What an idiot, he thought to himself as he frantically tried to reload and turn…

RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT!

As he finished turning, he saw Yancey standing there, MAG at her hip, the two men who'd been hiding behind the other truck fallen at her feet.

Now where was Guildenstern?

RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT!

He whipped around, and Guildenstern was standing at the other end of the truck, his gun pointed at the man falling to his knees in the grass.

"Good job, you two," Lannes said heavily, his back still shooting bolts of pain through him as he scrabbled in his pockets for some Ragnaid. "Sergeant Yancey."

"Sir!"

"You and Guildenstern come back with me. We should see to Sergeant Traherne. Valkyrur damn it."

Why you? he thought, then felt a sudden spike of anger as he noticed that none of the corpses on the ground were wearing uniforms—they were all in civilian clothing.

As they walked towards where Traherne lay on the ground, still not dead but about to die, he saw the others slowly drift in. They'd all learned from the old veteran, and now…

Seydlitz was there already. He'd done his best to stabilize him, but they were far enough away from anyone that he knew that Seydlitz had known it was futile. But there were things you just did for a man.

He dropped down to one knee next to the still form, as the others gathered around. He hadn't expected that Traherne would be giving some kind of inspiring death speech or something—that was the sort of thing you found in bad melodramas. But it still seemed wrong, somehow, for such a man to go out with hardly a word.

"Yancey. Guildenstern."

"Sir."

"Pick up Sergeant Traherne, and put him carefully into one of the trucks. We'll put the Valkyrian lance in the other one. We need to go."

"Yes, sir," Yancey replied, and as she and Guildenstern lifted the body, Lannes whispered, "See you in Valhal, Sergeant. I think your escort will be bigger than mine."

He turned to the others. "Get that carrion—" he swept his arm over the area where the enemy bodies lay "—search them and pile them up. We'll get some ragnite from the grenades and burn them. Also, get that lance into the truck and close the back gate. I don't want anyone to know we've got the thing except us, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the squad chorused, voices full of anger and grief, and then proceeded to do as he'd ordered.

He went and helped search and stack the bodies of the dead. There wasn't much there—the weapons were all Imperial, but none of the dead men lookedlike they were Imps. In fact, they all looked like they came from Gallia or points west, which brought up some very interesting questions.

"Sir!" Seydlitz yelled, and he turned to see two trucks coming down the road from Randgriz.

Atlantic Federation trucks.

This could be interesting, for all the wrong reasons.

"Get ready!" Lannes snapped. "We all know what they're here for," he continued, not even glancing at the truck with the weapon in it, "but I don't think they're going to want a fight. If they do, I want them all dead. If I signal, blow them to Hel."

"Understood, sir," Yancey replied, and soon the entire squad was in position to cover the road without anyone blocking someone else's line of fire. It wasn't the least threatening way to meet troops from what was at least a nominal ally, but as he stood in the road watching the truck come his way, he found that he couldn't bring himself to care.

The Feds came to a halt just out of MAG and Randgrizer range, the lead truck's passenger door swung open, the passenger jumped out and came around the door, and Lannes had to restrain his jaw from dropping as Major Miles Hayworth came to a halt in front of him.

"Lieutenant Lannes," he said, looking around at the grim-faced Gallians who were very obviously not pointing their weapons towards him but could so with barely a twitch, "I rather wish that we had met again under less…fraught circumstances. May I ask what happened before I arrived here?"

"Once you tell me why you're here to begin with, Major," Lannes replied, not as coldly as he might have otherwise. "This is Gallian territory."

"I was ordered to retrieve something, if I could find it. And I suspect you know what it is."

"Fair enough. What happened beforehand was that my squad was ambushed by men who carried Imperial weapons but don't exactly look like they're from Eastern Europa. In fact, they look like they came from your territory."

Hayworth frowned. "What?"

"We have the bodies over there," Lannes said, pointing at the line of corpses. "Would you like to see them?"

"Yes, I would."

When he got to the bodies, he didn't need to look past the first one to start cursing.

When he was done, Lannes asked, "You knew these men?"

"They…were…soldiers stationed at the embassy. All of them transferred in together shortly after the…incident a few months ago. That man on top was the highest-ranking one, a Lieutenant Clairsource. The ambassador requisitioned him and some soldiers. He must have been using us as cover." He cursed again, and looked at Lannes. "What are we going to do about this? Ten of our soldiers are dead."

"Whatever you did with those special forces men Gunther's squad killed. Or say they were suborned by the Empire, and were therefore criminals."

"And what I came for?"

"It wasn't there, and you don't know who has it. Doubtless the lieutenant would have made off with it if it was still here."

Hayworth was about to open his mouth, but shut it when Lannes held up his hand. "Don't push me on this, Major. My squad sergeant was killed by these men. I'm willing to consider this a fair trade."

Hayworth nodded. "Agreed. Besides," he said wryly, "I don't think searching your trucks would be survivable."

"It wouldn't be," Lannes agreed, "although you can look around after we leave, if you like. Also, do you want the bodies back?"

"Yes, please. We have extra space in the trucks. Thank you." He stuck out his hand. "We should talk sometime when one wrong move won't set off a firefight."

Lannes shook it. "Agreed."

Twenty-four hours later, Heinrich Lannes walked down the stairs of a tavern on the border between the Darcsen Quarter and the rest of the city. Some of the squad—the ones he trusted for this, anyway—were already there, sitting around two tables they'd slid together. Friedrich was there, looking a little haggard but content, which was understandable given that Kat was snugly against his side and he had a mug of beer in his hand. Ivor, van Reenan, Cranmer, and a few others were also there, celebrating the recently announced end of hostilities in subdued fashion.

But that wasn't what he was here for—at least not yet—and he made his way to the far corner of the room, where three people, of whom the one in the middle was succeeding at concealing her face, sat, all facing the doorway.

He slid into the only open chair, and looked at the two on the ends. "Captain Varrot. Captain Vredefort." He dipped his head slightly, and said, more softly, "Your Highness."

Varrot leaned forward. "Lieutenant—"

"Captain," he said, flatly, "I know she'd rather not be known. But first, I found out that you and her had a very intense—and brief—discussion before you found me. Second, right now, my girlfriend is providing my squad sergeant's sister with a shoulder to cry on while she grieves for said squad sergeant, who died yesterday due to getting blown up by multiple grenades while on the mission. Right now, that's where I should be, but at your orders, I came here. So please don't take it amiss when I say that I want some answers. Now."

Varrot glared at him, but Vredefort snorted. "I told you he wasn't stupid, Captain," he said, and Lannes turned his head to look at him. "Oh, and it's Major, now. Her highness informed me two hours ago."

"Congratulations. You're heading the office, then?" The conversation they'd had less than a week ago—had it really been that short a time?—had been extremely enlightening about what his former boss actually did.

Vredefort smiled. "I will be. Apparently, not being able to detect an incipient coup isn't good for one's career prospects."

"Ah?" This was news to him.

"Chancellor Borg handed Her Highness over to Prince Maximilian when he ran the Marmota into the castle, though apparently the prince had him shot immediately afterward. When I went through his quarters this morning, I found evidence that he and General Damon were plotting a coup once the war was over."

That made a lot of things that had happened during the war make a lot more sense.

"Her Highness," Vredefort continued, "asked Captain Varrot who she trusted."

The captain nodded. "I said I trusted Major Vredefort." She wrinkled her nose, slightly. "Then she asked who I would trust to retrieve what you were sent for."

"Why not Gunther?" Lannes asked.

The princess spoke then, quietly enough that he had to lean forward to hear her. "Lieutenant Gunther and Sergeant Melchiott are good people, and uncomfortable with the powers Sergeant Melchiott wielded. I do not condemn their choice—"

That makes one of us, Lannes thought.

"—but that choice showed that they could not be trusted to retrieve it. You were the next choice." She paused. "I'm sorry about your sergeant. But I must know if you found what you were looking for."

"He was a good man," he said quietly. "And yes, I was."

"Where is it?" Varrot asked.

"Somewhere safe," Lannes replied. "Guarded by members of my squad who don't know what it is they're guarding, just that it's valuable. May I ask what you're planning on doing with it?"

Vredefort leaned forward himself. "The only people who know that Gallia no longer has a Valkyria of our own are the people at this table, the leaders of Squad 7, and Irene Ellet."

"Pardon?"

"Yes," Varrot said, somewhat unhappily, though Lannes wasn't sure why. "When Lieutenant Gunther talked Sergeant Melchiott down from going out the way Selvaria Bles did, she deactivated her Valkyria powers, we think permanently."

"And…?"

"And this war won't really resolve anything," Vredefort said flatly. "Neither the Federation nor the Empire is willing to fight to the finish, and we certainly aren't. And all the problems that led to the first war, and this one, are still going to be there. Give it another twenty years, and there will be another."

"Also," the princess said softly, "I believe you know that I have decided to reveal myself as a Darcsen. This could cause…unrest, though I believe it necessary."

Lannes, for his part, wondered how the House of Randgriz had kept a secret like that for close to two millennia, but kept his mouth shut.

Vredefort spoke again. "We're still counting the dead, but the estimates are that the war cost us nearly eighty thousand military deaths, and probably ten thousand or more civilian ones. Some of those losses are being made up for by rescued Darcsens and other refugees from the Empire, but not nearly enough. To make matters worse, most of those casualties were suffered among those who were either of marriageable age or were about to be. After the casualties we took in the first war…"

His voice trailed off, and Lannes nodded. "We can't afford a third war, can we?"

"Not like this one. And not like the last one. It's not just the people, it's also the industry. It'll take us years just to get back to where we were before the war, and that's assuming that we don't have a civil war, which I doubt. It'll be a decade or more before we recover."

"And with the Federation and the Empire each looking for a way to get an advantage in the next war, we'll be a target."

"Yes. Even if we survive another invasion like the last one, we'll be crippled for decades. Which is where what we sent you to find comes in."

"You intend to find another," Lannes stated. It was all coming together now. Find someone with the potential to become a Valkyria, activate them, and then use the threat to either prevent an invasion from happening or to destroy it before it could cause Gallia serious harm. And, of course, activating the powers would possibly require the lance and…

"What about the other part, the shield?"

"I have it," Varrot replied. "Sergeant Melchiott dropped it, and I took it for safekeeping. Either you or Major Vredefort will receive it within the next two days."

The princess spoke again. "As the captain implied, there is a further role you may take, if you wish it."

"What would that be?"

"I'm resigning," Varrot said, and Lannes chuckled.

"Going to start a farm with Sergeant Potter, I take it?"

Varrot appeared somewhat taken aback by the fact that Lannes knew about the worst-kept secret in the 3rd Militia, but only said "Yes. The 3rd will need a new commander for the peacetime cadre—and it's going to be a bit larger than it was before the war."

"Oh?"

"Three-quarters of the regular army is gone, and we need troops to watch the borders while it rebuilds itself. We're designating certain units as 'active militia'—regiments that will be kept at third- to half-strength, instead of being reduced to skeletons manned by some officers and noncoms—which will be used to watch the borders and the like."

Lannes suspected he knew where Varrot was going with this, but he was willing to let her continue.

"If you were to accept this assignment, you would have two tasks. First, to provide some measure of security in the Ghirlandaio area. Second, to protect what you were sent to retrieve, in coordination with Major Vredefort."

"How would we keep this quiet?"

Vredefort spoke. "I'll be continuing my cover as the owner of Vredefort Import/Export—I'll just be expanding, and moving the headquarters to Randgriz in a few years. Years that I'll be using to train the new head of the Ghirlandaio branch office—you."

Lannes blinked. "I'm flattered, but do you really think I can run the business profitably? And won't I be a bit busy with the regiment?"

Vredefort smiled slightly. "Miss Firenze can make up for most of your weaknesses. I believe she would be happy to assist you."

That was true, Lannes acknowledged, but…

"I'm not dragging her into this unknowingly," he said flatly. "I won't tell her any of the details, but I'll not have her making any decisions without knowing that something dangerous is going on. Because this will be dangerous."

Though that last sentence had been more a statement than a question, Vredefort and Varrot both nodded.

"Which brings me to another question, Captain," Lannes said flatly. "You seem to be going along with this. Why?"

"I'm not quite sure—"

"You never ordered Gunther to actually use Sergeant Melchiott's powers, when she could have used them to deal with the gates of the Citadel—or, for that matter, the Marmota. So why are you willing to do this now?"

"Because I didn't want Damon to know that Sergeant Melchiott's powers were still available, because I didn't trust him, and because I thought the Royal Guard could bring the Marmota down. Then I thought we could do it without losing anyone, like we had every time except when we'd faced Selvaria—or the Marberry." She paused, and looked down at the table. "I was wrong."

"There's more to it than that."

"Yes, there is. Sergeant Melchiott was forced into that role. She did not ask for it, it was obvious that she didn't want to play it, and I wasn't going to force her to. However, Lieutenant Landzaat's actions saved us at the Naggiar, and I would have recommended releasing him without charges, had he not escaped and then sacrificed himself on the Marmota. To be able to use a Valkyria of our own—it's necessary, but I do worry."

That sounded reasonable enough, although he wasn't sure if an officer responsible for the lives of the soldiers under her command should have been thinking that way regarding Sergeant Melchiott.

He then realized that he wasn't nearly as angry with her as he had been, and he wondered why. Then it hit him—she'd admitted that she'd messed up, and messed up badly. That wouldn't bring Berthelmy, Kanawa, or Traherne back, but he couldn't hate Varrot. He still needed to clear a few things up, though.

"So is there anything else you want me to do in addition to what we've already talked about?" he asked.

"Yes," Vredefort replied, "but not here. Later."

Lannes nodded. "Yes sir. If you three will excuse me, I need to go talk to those soldiers over there," he inclined his head to where his squad members were occasionally casting glances in his direction, "before they decide I don't like them anymore." He smiled thinly. "I think some of them might be useful for what's coming. And then, I'm going to go talk to Julia. How should I tell you about my decision?"

"I'll be in the palace. I still haven't finished searching Chancellor Borg's rooms."

"Understood," Lannes replied, and stood up.

"Lieutenant," her highness Princess Cordelia gi Randgriz said quietly.

"Ma'am?" he responded, conscious of the fact that it wasn't the proper title but he didn't want to actually blow her cover.

"Thank you."

When he finally made it back to where the 4th Field Kitchen had been moved, along with the rest of the 3rd Brigade, in order to provide some level of security for Randgriz, now that there was a massive hole in the city wall and the Royal Guard didn't exist anymore, he wasn't sure how he was going to explain all this to Julia.

How much could he say without compromising security? How much could he withhold without lying to her? Was he going to be able to talk to her, or would she be too busy consoling Sergeant Frake?

So it was with some level of trepidation that he approached the spot where he'd been told that Julia and Frake were, which, due to the fact that the Royal Guard's kitchens were intact, was not on duty. Instead, they were in a small alcove near the palace, with several of their fellows providing an unobtrusive but intense shield.

They let him through, but it was obvious that if either Julia or Frake found his presence unwelcome, he would be thrown out on his ear in short order. So it was with some relief that he saw Frake asleep on one of the benches, with Julia sitting on the other. She looked up when she heard him approach, and a wan smile touched her lips.

"How is she?" he asked quietly, gesturing at the sergeant.

"Better," Julia said softly, "but I'd like to let her sleep, if we can."

Something of what he'd come to do must have shown on his face, because hers grew a look of concern. "What is it, Heinrich?"

"Do you mind if I sit?"

"Of course not," she replied, and moved over to give him enough room. "What do you need to tell me?" she asked as he settled in, and he was reminded that an intelligent girlfriend was a two-edged sword. An intelligent wife, even more so.

On the other hand, such a sword could serve Gallia well. And, for that matter, would never be boring to live with.

"There's a certain question I'd like to ask you, sometime soon," he began, and one side of Julia's mouth quirked upward slightly. "But before I do, I need to tell you what I've been asked to do." He paused. "I've been asked to watch some important things. Things I can't tell you about right now, but can later. It could be dangerous, because these are things that other people might want, and there might be a civil war in Gallia, and—"

"Heinrich," Julia said, softly but firmly.

He paused, surprised by the interruption. "What?"

"Does this have anything to do with why Sergeant Traherne died?"

"Yes."

"Will doing this help keep something like that from happening again?"

He decided to answer honestly. "That's the idea."

She nodded decisively. "Then the rest doesn't matter. I'm in."

"You are?" Heinrich replied, not surprised by her answer but somewhat surprised that it had come so quickly.

"Yes. Valkyrur curse it, Heinrich, you don't think I know just as well as you that Gallia isn't out of danger even though Maximilian's defeated? I didn't call you on it because I knew you weren't supposed to tell anyone, but I know what happened after you and I parted ways that midsummer night. And I know there are people who want to use the war to try and get an advantage for themselves." She smiled sadly. "I'd almost think less of you if you didn't do whatever it is you're doing. And don't you dare try and protect me from it."

Heinrich nodded. He'd expected nothing less. "I won't ask you now. But once you're demobilized…"

"That's time enough," she said, and kissed him.

A/N: This is not the end of the story. There's a two-part interlude and an epilogue left, so stay tuned.