Chapter III — The Song of Departure

"An army marches on it's stomach."

— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, 300 AC

Napoleon

As preparations for the Army's departure Napoleon had devised an organizational system to separate the men into smaller groups of corps. Taking differentiating advice from his brother Jérôme, the King of Westphalia, and his Marshals of the Empire, including Marshal Ney and Berthier, they were able to cooperate together and develop a satisfactory arrangement of what was left of the armed forces.

A royal decree personally signed and approved by Napoleon retained the already existing organization of the French Grand Army, while also adding some major changes, such as the moving of entire companies into other battalions and regiments to fill in the voids within the ranks. General officers kept their posts as commanders of their respective corps.

With ground troops composing of at least fifty thousand, and seventy thousand men at most, in strength, they were dissected into seven primary divisions—the Northern Flank, the Central Force, the Reserve Cavalry Corps following immediately behind the Central Force, the Rear Central Corps, the Right Flank, the Southern Flank, and a new Left Flank.

The Northern Flank was detailed in such fashion that it only consisted of Marshal MacDonald's X Corps, comprised of 30,000 men contrived from what was left of its various infantry divisions, cavalry, and artillery. Somehow, the Prussian bulk under Yorck was still intact, owing to the large number of men currently in service. While they failed to take Riga when sent north during the Russia campaign, Macdonald's careful planning and his coordination with the Prussians has left it unscathed during the retreat. Thus, the X Corps was to be the vanguard of the Grand Army, the first to taste either the glory of victory, or the bitter end of defeat. MacDonald was more than capable, Napoleon knew, but his loyalty was questionable. Only his merit and skill was enough to convince the Emperor of the French than such a man was useful to his goals.

The Central Flank was considered the bulk of the reorganized Grand Army, manned by somewhere around fifty to a hundred thousand souls. Under Napoleon's personal command, his orders are then reciprocated by Marshals Bessières, Lefebvre, and Mortier through the Imperial Guard; Davoust, Oudinot, and Ney through the I, II, III Corps; and finally, Marshal Murat and the Divisional Generals de Nansouty and Montburn through the divisions of the Reserve Cavalry, which immediately falls under the jurisdiction of the Central Force. The Reserves were horsemen not already attached to the main Army Corps. In addition to the core of the Grand Army were the remnants of the elite Vistula Polish Legion, the Velites of Turin and Florence, the Spanish Pioneer Battalion, and a few multinational units hailing from Portugal, Poland, and Switzerland. As for support services, Napoleon valued its indispensable use for the continued function of the largest army to ever be fielded in the history of man. Military engineers in the form of the Artillery General Park; logistical companies that handled the inventory of equipment, supplies, rations, and gunpowder; medical staff that utilized the full advantages of flying ambulances and mobile hospitals with dozens of available surgeons and doctors; and finally, communications, which primarily involved standard bearers, musicians, dispatches conveyed by the brave Hussars, homing pigeons, observation balloons, and the ingenious Telegraph Semaphore system—a true testament to propagation of technological advance due to military conflict. The Grand Army possessed several incomplete prototypes of a mobile version of the system, carried on wagons and carriages instead. Napoleon knew that technology was critical to the Army's survival. He had assigned several engineering companies to begin testing and further development of the project.

Artillery was compiled into reserve groups and to be used at Napoleon's behest. This was entirely parallel with Napoleon's Grand Battery tactic, in which a large battery of artillery was arrayed in one spot, before concentrating all firepower at critical points and targets. While not at all reliable in the realm of guns and cannons, especially when the enemy belligerents are also skilled with the art of modern war, it proved to be valuable now. With the Grand Army trapped in another world with medieval knights, castles, and swords, the Grand Battery strategy was sure to trample over all those who stand opposed the French Empire.

The Rear Central Corps was headed by a trifecta: a Monarch and two Marshals of the Empire: Eugène Beauharnais, his son-in-law, commandeering the IV Corps, followed by the VI Corps under Marshal Saint-Cyr, and the III Reserve Cavalry Corps under Marshal Grouchy.

The Right Flank force was under Napoleon's brother Jérôme, who then supervised the V Corps of Josef Antoni Poniatowski, which mostly consisted of Polish volunteers, and the IV Reserve Cavalry Corps commanded by Divisional General Marie Victor de Fay. Under Jérôme's personal command is also the VIII Corps, formerly under Général Junot, who had been granted command when Jérôme had abandoned them. It was still a disappointment, but he was sure his brother will make sure he was useful.

The VII Corps and Austrian Corps composes the Southern Flank, the rearguard, under Divisional General Reynier and Field Marshal Karl Philip. The Austrians were transported as well, as he had learned, despite their minor involvement with the Russian invasion and inactivity Pultusk, under his instructions. Because of that, their numbers swelled to well over 34,000. They rivaled the French in proportion, and with their present conditions, he was sure some falling out is to occur between the allies, as estranged and unfriendly the relationship is. He would have to watch their every move.

And finally, the Left Flank, a last-minute revision of the Army organization, was to be comprised of the XI Corps under Marshal Augereau and IX Corps under Marshal Victor-Perrin. The two Army Corps were late additions to the main force on its way to Moscow. During the retreat, they had been attached to the Central Force to cover its exposed left side. With further security and defenses, Napoleon was convinced that the Grand Army would be unstoppable once it has recuperated its full strength.

Concerning infantry and cavalry divisions, the average infantry regiment was 1,000 men, with battalions of 300-800, and companies of 80-150. Battalions were organized to one elite grenadier company, and then four regular fusilier companies as well as a single voltigeur company. Cavalry regiments were between 800 to 1,200 men. Napoleon was well aware many of the battalions and regiments has seized to exist due to their losses. It would be sometime before they replenish numbers, as survival remains a top priority for all.

All of this had been done in a day, as the smaller magnitude of men, equipment, horses, carts, and artillery were much more easier to handle then the failed French invasion of Russia. Napoleon had acknowledged his loss in the field, and he would not do so again. As supplies were running low, his window of time had been squeezed thin, coercing the Emperor to invest much of his time in formulating a full proof plan that will allow the Army self-sufficiency for a few more weeks. The men will be angry, yes, at lower quantity of rations and food. He also had to adapt the army to the cold weather presented by this strange new land. The only other person aware of the predicament they were in was Jérôme, as the encounter with the Englishman from the day before was evidence enough for him to believe his brother. Though, the youth still had second thoughts, concerning mainly on the state of the French Empire, their family, and what has become of Europe.

In truth, Napoleon did care for his people. He cared for the Empire. He loved France as much as any revolutionary Frenchmen there is. As he loved France, he loved his family. The Bonapartes, which had birthed him from infancy and guided him to a path of success, ambition, and most ironically, destruction. He himself was the cause of this destruction. He was of this family, and forever bonded to the clan through blood, brain, and brawn.

As for his son, he was proud. The second Napoleon of the family would, probably, grow to replace his father as Emperor, or in much worser possibility, die trying to do so. His second wife Marie Louise would take care of him and sway the Senate to their favor, and hopefully. Napoleon admitted that it was his fault for not listening to her pleas. He loved his wife, but was too arrogant to see defeat even though the Empress forbade him to go. Now, they were stuck here, in this frozen wasteland with no hope of returning back.

And so, Napoleon developed the mental ability to hold his emotions, refusing to give to sentiment or feeling at a time of crisis. Yes, this was a crisis. One of many he would face in the years to come. Maybe even shorter. They were mysteriously hauled into a world unknown to him or his men. A world that contains many perils, dangers, and obstacles. He had to remain strong, and only through the force showing of ambition, cunning, and strength, will be able to survive. And along with him, the free Frenchman shall be nourished, flourish, and rise to the top. Napoleon promised this to himself, for the betterment of himself and the remnants of the Grand Army.

He would not fail.

Napoleon's thoughts returned to less than controversial figures to the logistical report currently held at his right palm. He proceeded to fix the frame of his reading glasses—a necessity he conceived far before any of the events this past year or so. He was reaching his middle years, an age where time took its toll on his body. No man of distinction wore these medical appliances in public, not even at the presence of his most trusted friends and generals. It was a sign of weakness that he desired not to readily demonstrate towards men that had followed him for almost two decades.

Upon viewing the contents, he found out that his fears came to be true. They would not last more than a month if they continue at this pace: they never bothered to move an inch from their current encampment.

Fifty to seventy thousand line infantrymen, grenadiers; medical, engineering and support personnel; as well artillery men and members of the Imperial Guard. Napoleon had lost the majority of their main cavalry force and reserve horsemen during their retreat, using the horses for meat and sustenance as supplies dwindled. That was before they had the chance to restock in various supply dumps and depots they had managed to capture and establish along the Smolensk, Vitebsk, and Orsha routes. Somehow, the Russians failed to destroy these depots. A mistake on their part, said Napoleon to no one in particular.

In total, the only horses they had left were up to twenty thousand, the majority of which were untrained for any form of combat and only pulled their supply carts and trains. Seasoned mounted grenadiers, dragoons, lancers, and horse chasseurs numbered in the mere count of several thousands. He had chosen forty six men from the elites, currently on their surveillance task, the majoirty of which were highly trained cavalrymen, some engineers, and cartographers, that would remain as his permanent Scout Regiment of the Imperial Guard. He would save them from the fate of reintegration, something that was an annoyance to those who had already built their camaraderie amongst their fellow brothers-at-arms.

After some time pondering, he recollected his thoughts and reworked some calculations. The twenty thousand horses were more mouths to feed, in the light of dwindling hay stocks from their supply trains. A further strain to the logistics of the entire Grand Army.

And finally, the Grand Army's main arsenal: cannons. The 6- and 4-pounder Gribeauval guns were key strategic proponents to battles. It was Napoleon's secret weapon. The magneficient Grand Batteries he had used in the dozens of skirmishes and wide scale and engagements he had participated in were feared by all. Constant bombardments, the use of canister shots, explosive shells, and mortars allowed him to drill enemy belligerents into oblivion and mentally scar his opponents. Much to his chagrin, the army only had few dozen of them remaining functional. To add to that, Napoleon had to drop most of the 24-,12- and 8-pounder howitzers due to the strain on their manpower. They were basically dead weight. He scanned his eyes towards the direction of their munition stores.

As expected, the report declared that munitions were significantly low. Their gunpowder magazines and ammunition for handheld flintlock pistols, other smaller firearms, muskets, and finally, their cannons, were all but used up. Napoleon realized that every shot counts. If their supplies were this scarce, then they had to ration it. They would have to resort to using bayonets in battles for close-quarter combat. Firearms would only be used on rare occasions. Though, according to their prisoner, he had no form of firearms on him. Napoleon also noticed that the Englishman looked confused at the sight of a musket. He would remind himself of this later on should the circumstances call for it. It may be important in the battles to come.

Finally finishing the last words of the report, Napoleon indiscriminately tossed the pile of parchment onto the topside of the table. Grabbing hold of the frame of his glasses and placing it inside one of his pockets, his other hand reached for his eyelids and massaged it. From exhaustion, Napoleon's eyes had started to strain—a clear sign that he needed to rest. Tomorrow, he will have to brief the Marshals on his findings with his brother.

The cartographer he had requested for had departed by day break, riding along with the morning scouts he had sent into the wilderness to survey the lands. A simple sketch of the nearby elevations and points of interests, such as rivers and open patches of land would suffice. He decided against moving in two days, delaying the march to a week, and giving as time much as possible for said cartographer to complete the map. They needed to locate more hospitable areas for the Army, so that rationing may be replaced with foraging. The French were skilled hunters and gatherers. A constant supply of meat, fruit, and freshwater would take care of their hunger problem. But that was still a month from now. Yes, they'd ration the supplies, but it won't last. Napoleon had bought time, and now he must use it to his advantage.

Giving in to his fatigue, Napoleon slumped onto the chair and fell unconscious.

Claude

The First Éclaireurs Scouting Regiment were one of the foremost reorganized cavalry groups for the remanants of the French Grand Army, under the command of the Major Claude Testot-Ferry. They brought with them fresh water and rations to last them their entire trip, a sacrifice Napoleon was willing to endure if he is to save his army of nearly seventy thousand. The regiment of 45 seasoned calvary has been given a deadline by the Emperor:

"Return to me in one week's time. On the eight day, I expect you all to have returned with no casualties, with a report on your findings and a sketched map on my hand. That is all. Good luck, Major." the Emperor had paused then to swerve his head and eyes towards the cartographer's own. "Monsieur Minard."

The words echoed throughout the Major's mind, who had been given a quota so ambitious it would be impossible. His military career comprised of a series of successes since the Battle of Valmy in 1792, and on 1808, finally met the Emperor of the French in person. The ruler was strongly impressed with Claude's efforts and named him chef d'escardon for the Penisular War. He was summoned again by Napoleon in 1811 to serve as a member of the Empress's Dragoons, one of the main cavalry branches to the Imperial Guard. A year later, Claude would join his comrades-at-arms for the invasion of Russia.

The invasion was nothing short of a catastrophe. Battles, skirmishes, and disastrous consequences of the Grand Army's hasty withdrawal had rendered the Dragoons to nothing more than a small platoon, as majority of the horses trained for battle died off, starved and became fatigued during their retreat from Moscow, or were simply killed off my desperate men looking for food. Save for this group of endurance horses, who could cover up to a hundred miles in twelve hours, the cavalry were literally nonexistent at this point.

The Éclaireurs were currently on their sixth stop for the day. Due to the bitter cold, the men simply stared intently towards the fiery blaze of their night campfire. Forty-six men, silent and unwilling to move their mouths. And with them was their esteemed guest, a surveyor named Charles Joseph Minard. Minard was a skilled civil engineer who worked on bridges, roads, dams, and canals before he was recruited into the Geographical Engineering Corps of the Grand Army. Napoleon had admired Minard's capabilities as an esteemed mastermind for infrastructural projects, as well as his uncanny ability to represent numerical data on geographical maps.

The departure signified the slow countdown of the clock. Their first twelve hours consisted of five stops along their southwestern direction. Charles had insisted they head south first, as the warmer climate may be helpful to their current state. The engineer had been true to his words. While the cold was still piercing to the touch of the skin, it was hot enough that the horses wouldn't have been bothered. As a means of conserving heat, Charles insisted that the horses feed on their supply of dry hay. He explained that the digestion of food allows horses to produce warmth from within their bodies, to which Claude simply awed upon. Even he, a learned and veteran horseman, did not known of such 'trivial' facts. That was at least, according to the intellectual before him.

What estranged the Major though was the purpose of this one-week reconnaissance mission. Had the Emperor, perhaps, destroyed his maps during that day after the blizzard? Claude still thought that they were in Russia, as is the common knowledge to the other members of the Éclaireurs. The engineer Minard, though, was relatively lax regarding the subject matter, remaining silent throughout their conversations.

Moments later, the men were 'enjoying' their first meal for the day. The rations they had been given consisted of mainly horse flesh, much to the Major's chagrin. Though there were loaf bread and some beans, Claude expressed his vexations with tactful candor, in hopes of raising the troops' morale. He successfully accomplished that goal, as the response that came along with his aggravation was a chain of laughs from the crowd. He even noticed Charles smirking, who was trying not to blench on his share of horse meat. As for the water, their canteens were dirty and muddy. The engineer solved this misfortune immediately, as he had suggested pursuing the water by heating it. The hot water also bestowed them comfort that the near-inhospitable temperature had robbed off from their frail and frozen bodies. The regiment slept pleasantly that night.

Claude arose early in the morning to take a well-deserved piss on a nearby tree. He returned to camp to find Charles up and sketching away on his book.

"You are still awake, Charles?" the burly man asked, stretching. "Everyone else is still asleep."

"Yes, Major. I'm just trying to finish this portion of the map before we move on. We don't want to get lost, don't we?" the engineer replied dryly. Claude gave out a thunderous chuckle and patted the engineer on the back. This caused the later to glare, resulting to even more laughter. The Major averted his attention to the sleeping cavalrymen and forced them to awaken. The mounted soldiers jolted to consciousnesses and made preparations for their second day.

It was uneventful. The next fifty miles saw nothing but more trees and streams. The same repeating pattern of coniferous stems arising from the ground and reaching dozens of meters into the sky. The same frozen grass plains, shrubbery, and rocks and small hills. There was no color—only the black of the supposed "evergreen" plants and the mass blanket of small crystalline specks. Though, what peaked their interest was the apperance of a river. It was too wide and too freezing for them to cross. The other side of said river revealed the tall, razor sharp and jagged mountains of the Frostfangs. Not that they knew of the name. They simply figured they couldn't continue westward anyways. The cavalrymen agreed that this might have been the supposed Berezina River the Army was originally headed for. Claud remained speculative of this logic. Something was amiss.

After much discussion, the regiment had decided to head north and follow the river, counter to it's flow. If there was a stream that the river originated from, then there must be warmer climates towards their current heading. They continued for another fifty miles and made their last stop near the river. The regimental cavalry followed the same routine of whimpering in the cold, drinking hot water, consuming the disgusting horse flesh until their bellies were full for tomorrow, and falling asleep without much to complain about. Charles continued drawing on his makeshift sketch book.

Charles

The next day was something of a strange occurrence.

Halfway through their travels, they made their third stop, as the sun shine high in the sky. They only had a glimpse of it, though, as the thick, unpigmented vapors of the clouds above had blotted out much of the sunlight to the surface. Charles had decided to leave the group for a while, asking the Major for permission stroll in the woods. Claude hesistantly agreed and handed him a sheathed sabre, before going back to his horse and tending to the might beast. He walked across their temporary camp, where the men discussed with themselves the little things in life. Some talke about their families, about how they wanted to make love with their wives and spend time with their sons and daughters. Something that would never happen, thought Charles.

Just a few days ago, the Emperor and his brother had unveiled to him the truth: they were no longer in Russia. This proved to be true, as morning patrols alerted Napoleon that their maps did not match with any of the geographical features around their immediate vicinity. There was no Berezina. There was no city by the river. It was simply fields of snow and the skeleton like forests of this barren wilderness. Charles undertook the challenge of drafting a map for the Emperor and joining the Éclaireurs on their first mission. All had to be done in a week, as the day of the deadline would be the day the Grand Army would start to move. It was their third day, just four more to go. He had only completed a third of the map.

Charles was pulled out of his thoughts as he entered the dull scenery: black trees, as if burned to the color charcoal, and blankets of snow. Roots, loose branches, and felled logs of wood were embedded onto the discolorized ground.

A few more steps forward. The same, repetitive pattern appeared before his eyes. It was straining. It was ugly. He hadn't been so bored in his entire tenure as an engineer and cartographer.

It was true. This was hell on earth. But, with the lack of a better word, Charles figured a cold hell would be better than a hell where he was burnt in an infinite inferno. The bottomless pit, where blazing heat scratched and bruised skin but not burn them. Fire that touched him yet left no mark. His blood would boil, and it would hurt him. Pain comparable to a thousand lashes each second. Yet, he managed to seduce himself with the thoughts of heat and warmth. That was something out of his reach. Charles was entrapped here, along with his comrades, in a thrice damned world filled with nothing more than Old Man Winter's droppings.

Then, he heard something.

Footsteps. It wasn't his.

Charles stopped abruptly. He quickly turned his head, hand grasping the handle of his sabre. We're his ears betraying him? His eyes scanned around the perimeter, looking for any movements.

And then he heard screaming.

Not the sort that signified distress. It was filled with rage, anger, and was war-like in nature. He had read of the war cries of the Native Indians and the tribesmen in the wilderness of Africa. How they fought with such ferocity and fervor that even an Mamaluk would shit his pants.

He spun himself around to see a large burly man charging at him, wearing thick rags of fur, and an axe by his hand. His face was covered with scarred lines upon his skin, with a face as pale as the snow, and a scalp that lacked any hair. Before he could even unsheathe his sword, the supposed assailant's head exploded, blood gushing out of the stump on the body.

Charles' ears had been ringing as the sudden firing of a musket resonated around his head. Tilting his eyes to the side, he was deluged by the appearance of an Éclaireur holding his forewarn by the side. He glanced to the right as more men with bald heads were coming, charging.

"Come with me if you want to live," the soldier hastily said, "We'll get the others."

And with that, they were gone by the moment. Seconds of running later saw them arrive at the camp, where the men were busying themselves with small talk, smuggled wine (provided by Claude), and general preparations for their next round of traveling.

"Where have you been, Minard? We were about to leave." the Major asked, currently adjusting his mount. "Get to your horse."

"There's men, Sire. Savages." the soldier had said. "I followed Monsieur Minard to the forest should he found himself in the nip of trouble."

"He speaks the truth, Major. If he wasn't there, I wouldn't have left this place in one piece."

"There headed this direction, Sire. We need to ride now, if we wish to conserve our powder."

"Let us go then."

Claude turned his sights towards the encampment, signaling them that it was time to go. The men quickly converged to gather their belongings and supplies, readying themselves for another hasty departure. With the men and horses assembled, it was fight or flight. The Emperor had instructed them to avoid fighting and, at least, perpetuate their only stock of gunpowder and ammo. They may have muskets, but they lacked the amount of munitions to survive a fight. They had more men, but with the increasingly cold climate, they just couldn't muster the proper will to fight, with firearms or their sabres.

The entire regiment started galloping, right before the rest of the supposed savages emerged from the thick forest. Later on, they arrived at their hundred-mile limit. Another day, another night. It was becoming the most monotonous endeavor they had ever experienced.

The fourth day brought them to the volcanic regions of the Thenn Valley. They never entered the valley and simply observed, keen on discovering whatever wonders lie beyond these lands. An oasis in a sea of desert. A paradise in the midst of lands forever conquered and reigned over the cold climate.

The men started to squabble among themselves. This was something else. It was no longer Russia. Claude was bombarded with question after question of the true intentions of the regiment. Was it an act of desertion from the Grand Army? To explore these new lands, territory no man had set their sights upon? They realized the presence of the cartographer. They were here, assigned with express purpose of guarding their surveyor.

"Men of the First Éclaireurs! Listen to me!" he yelled from across the encampment. The men turned their heads. This was the time to act. He had to reveal it to them, sooner or later. Why not now? It didn't matter much to him.

"It is true we may no longer be Russia. The Emperor Napoleon, his Imperial Majesty, has sent us on this task to draft a map for him: one he could utilize to march the Grand Army. We have been blessed by God! Giving us this paradise, for our betterment. He free man's betterment. We shall survive!"

Claude stood agape, too shocked to find out what had happened. The mounted soldiers started to bicker among themselves, weighing their options. Should they leave the regiment due to this betrayal from their Emperor, who had the audacity to keep secrets to himself? Secrets that concerned the well-being of their fellow friends and comrades? Or should they stay, understand the pressure the Emperor is facing in keeping the Grand Army intact, and help aid in this enormous operation to restore the Empire's former glory? Well, in world they hadn't known.

The men settle on an agreement and reimbursed their faith on the surveryor, their superior officer, and the Emperor, determined as ever to return to their journey ahead. They were cautious, though. Death still wreaked havoc in these lands.

Before they left, Charles, accompanied by the best trackers of the group, entered the Valley to take the necessary inquiry prevalent about the geographical makeup of the region, as well as the vegetation present. They retained a vigilant demeanor during their brief exploration of the greenery. Charles collected samples of the new species of plants they had uncovered that day. What caught his curiosity was a certain pale blue flower—a beautiful one with dozens of wide petals. The Winter Rose, as he and named it, was a magneficient thing to see. Finishing up the last of his notes and sketches on his journal, Charles and his escorts made haste to reach the cavalry regiment, picking with them along the way some fruits to last them the remainder of the trip.

The regiment left once again and rode for another fifty miles. After that, they had their rest. The next day was as tedious as ever, they now road southeast, into what Charles had deduced to be the direction of the Grand Army's encampment. Another hundred miles passed and they unwinded, exhausted of the the frivolous and mundane procedure they had been trailing for the last six days.

Came the seventh day, they rode east, only to approach the cliffs of the Shivering Sea—a sea filled with floating icebergs and nothing more than winds that were far too contemptible and loathsome for the cavalry to bare. They left, leaving behind the stench of the salty body of water, heading west.

It had been a week. Seven trials. Seven times hell had opened to torment them with it's frosty appendages. They had triumphed. Seven days since their departure, and on their eighth cycle of hours, they approached the outskirts of the Grand Army's encampment—the massive and sprawling city of tents and smoke pillars. As they trotted into the cantonment with as much self-esteem and delight as they could convene at the moment, they were met with the expectant faces of men who had been waiting for very long. Supply magazines were at dangerously low levels. Yet, they remained strong, despite the near-depleted state of their rations. Morale had been revived, and their trust towards their Emperor reinvigorated with such delight and enthusiasm. They had prayed, begged, and asked for mercy from the God, and how they wished the best of blessings for the Emperor and his expedition. Their praises answered, hope had finally arrived from it's delay.

There was a way.

Soldiers of all age, rank, and nationality were rejoicing, parading the heroes around the camp in celebration of their return. From the French, to the Polish, Austrians, Prussians, Italians, Hungarians, and Hollanders—all were united in this brief instance of fraternal gratitude. Something which, apparently, brought a smile on Charles' normally obscure facade.

Napoleon

Napoleon was currently leaning on the wooden table before him, his hands supporting the weight of his body. Gathered around him were Marshal Berthier, Marshal Ney, his youngest brother Jérôme, Marshal MacDonald, Marshal Oudinit, Marshal Davoust, his brother-in-law Joachim Murat, his son-in-law Eugène Beauharnais, as well as foreign Marshals Jozef Poniatowski, Karl Philip, Johann Yorck, and Julius von Grawert. He wasn't very close with Murat or Beauharnais, but both have been part of the Imperial family for years already. Only through Jérôme's manipulations were they allowed in the inner circle of commandeering the Grand Army. They were having a closed-door meeting, one concerning about their current ventures here in the damnable wasteland of the lands beyond the Wall. Yet, they were still very, very far away from uncovering the secrets and dark beings that lurk in this world.

"As all of you know, since a week ago, that we can no longer validated the fact that we are in Russia," Napoleon started, getting glances from the men surrounding him, "and I know most of you have doubted me and my brother's conclusions."

There were some nods, either hesistantly or unwillingly. The Marshals weren't as encouraged enough to disagree with their Emperor so openly.

"So, I present you a map."

He brought out a large piece of paper that nearly covered the flat surface of the entire table. The men started to inspect said map, and to their suprise, it was well made.

"My Emperor," Yorck begun with a subtle voice, "is this the map that that surveyor had supposedly created in a week?"

"Indeed it is, Marshal Yorck. An ambitious project, I digress, but the man has his talents."

"These numbers." Poniatowski pointed out across the finely sketched edges and lines. "He even had elevation and distances clarified. And that line was their path? A marvelous sight to beholden!"

"That's impossible," Murat chimed in, his face clearly in awe, "a map as detailed as this would have taken scholars months, nay, years to create!" Ney glared at the younger man, seemingly watchful of the unintentional pun made referencing his familial name. Murat winced, realizing his mistake. Jérôme watched the entire exchange with nothing more than a humored expression on his youthful face. Napoleon, befuddled by the perplexing behavior in front of him, returned to the discussion.

Further interpretion of the map allowed the Marshals to follow with their Emperor's plans. With a lack of food and supplies, their main priority was to acquire such a scarce resource for their Army, if the they are to survive. The reports from Charles Minard had just given their answer: a volcanic region northwest of the encampment where healthy vegetation, game, and fruits were amassed ran amok. It was formidable Elysium. Heaven on Earth. A chance for the Grand Army to survive.

Napoleon and his generals had decided they would there, towards what Charles had termed as the "Elysian Valley." Not one soul in this world could have come up with a better name.

Mance

A large man with long brown hair, that has gone mostly gray, was currently meditating at the confines of his own tent. He looked remarkably normal—an average individual in a very vindictive and cruel world. From the natural laws of this land and to the deities who seemed to stand above it, the wrath and corruption spread forth has encompasses even the most conceptual of ideals, changing the very hearts and minds of men. Yet, a greater evil approaches, one that will bring along with him an army that will bring forth further destruction and chaos.

Mance Rayder was the current King-Beyond-the-Wall, a title named to any Wildling that had managed to unite all of the Free Folk beyond the Wall.

A charismatic, calm, and driven man with strong leadership qualities, his exceptional social skills enabled him to unite the majority of the diverse Wildling clans. His honest yet stern persona earned him the deepest respects and admiration of the toughest and most violent wildlings, as well as the mythical giants further up north. His trusting nature was something of a benefit and a disadvantage in his part, as he realized this with the various betrayals and backstabs he had encountered in the last several decades of his life.

Mance has been a black brother of the Night's Watch, the same dying military order that had nurtured him and nourished him since he was but a babe. A Wildling babe to be exact. When Mance was but an infant, the wildling raiding band he was with was killed fighting the Night's Watch, leaving him an orphan, but the scouts took pity on him and took the baby back to the Wall to be raised as a black brother. Mance struggled with his dual identity as he grew up. Chafing at the restrictions and orders that the Night's Watch places upon its members, he eventually fled over the Wall and rejoined his own people. Over several years he became a respected war leader and warrior, and eventually was made King-Beyond-the-Wall by acclamation.

He had remained with in the Thenn valley for sometime, negotiating a unity between his people and the Thenn. As stubborn and greedy as they were, the Theen was not one that dishonored the code of hospitality. He had rode with Tormund Giantsbane, his most trusted lieutenant and friend over the last few years, along with some capable Wildling warriors to the valley to talk with the Magnar of the Thenn. His name? Styr, a fierce warrior that Mance was highly impressed of.

Unlike the other wildling clans, the Thenn actually have lords (more like hereditary chieftains), and live under established laws that they enforce. As a result they are the most disciplined of the wildling clans, making them organized and dangerous in combat; they also possess the most advanced armor and weaponry among the Free Folk. The Magnar's followers worship the man like a god, and follow every order, however ridiculous.

Mance was eventually interrupted of his rest when Tormund stormed inside his tent. A large, muscled figure with thick red proportion of hair on both his head and beard.

"There's something you should see, Mance. One of the Thenns had been killed during their scouting outside of the valley."

The older man opened his eyes. "Show me."

The pair exited the tent and came upon the village center located at the base of the green valley. Styr was waiting with his men, inspecting a bloody carcass that lacked a head. There was nothing more than a stump on the mangled body, the insides having been relieved of what blood was lift.

"What happened here?" asked Mance, currently followed Tormund and his other accomplices, with a concerned expression on their faces. "By the gods of the old."

"Indeed." the Magnar answered. "My men had never known of other Free Folk capable of exploding other's heads upon their will. The scouts recalled hearing a sound comparable to the eruptions of volcanic areas further north of the valley. As far as I know, molten rock do not walk."

"And what do you propose we do here, Styr?" Tormund asked. "You know we ain't have nothing to do with this."

"Stand down, Tormund. Let's not get any more aggravated than we could. We are here as guests. Let us not tarnish our relations." Mance returned his attention towards the sadistic cannibal before him. "Any other details that your men wish to enlighten me with?"

"They do." the Magnar answered. "Before their prey had escaped, they heard the galloping steps of horses, with men mounting them clad in coats as as blue as the darkest depths of the Shivering Sea."

"What do you make of this, Mance? That sound like any Free Folk to you?" asked Tormund.

"No." the older man replied. "This is something else. These were no wildings or kneelers."

"Then what are they?" the Magnar said, looking at the dead corpse. "It's such a pity though."

"I do not know. But I do know this: we have a threat in our midst."

The meeting dispersed without word, and Mance retired to his quarters. He heard the Thenn leader, not wanting to waste precious meat, send for the cookers to roast the cadaver for tonight's feast. Mance would not be participating in it, and neither will Tormund or his men. They had something else much more important to discuss about. The alliance would have to wait for now.