"I used to say of him that his presence on the field made the difference of forty thousand men."
Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, on being asked about Napoleon
…
…
La Rochelle was burning. Great, powerful flames leaped up to hundreds of feet, creating towers of black smoke that darkened the sky. And Princess Henrietta de Tristain stood at the end of a plain and watched her city burn. As she did so, she could not help but think back to what had been proposed on that day by a madman in the village of Tarbes as he pointed at a map of La Rochelle.
"The enemy needs the port facilities of La Rochelle. They don't need La Rochelle itself – the city itself is in fact a hindrance. A place that needs to be occupied and have soldiers guard the streets isn't going to help them.
Therefore, you evacuate the city and burn the port facilities of La Rochelle. No, you burn all of La Rochelle just for good measure, so that the troops become disorganized."
Those were his words. She remembered voicing her own objections to the plan, a plan which even if she had just implemented, she believed to be horrifying. On that distant day, Napoleon had brushed aside those comments. However, just when she had been shocked silent, her nearby captain had spoken up.
"What you've proposed is insane, but there is military merit to it. However, this doesn't solve the major problem. Even if the port is destroyed, you'll still have a large number of Albion soldiers, who will be able to get supplies from Tarbes and who will also eventually resort to pillaging the countryside. This strategy isn't going to actually destroy the Albion army, which is what has to be done to protect our country."
Napoleon nodded his head in response.
"That is correct. The objective of any war above all has to be the destruction of the army. Just destroying the port facilities won't do that, however much it'll hinder the invasion. However, the destruction of La Rochelle is not the key part, though it'll be important to lure the Albion forces in as they'll need to save the city and the port. There are a series of hills and mountains north and east of La Rochelle, correct?"
Agnes had hesitated before responding with a "Yes."
"That's the key. The enemy wants La Rochelle? They can have it. Get your hands on every cannon in Albion, and set them up in the mountains of La Rochelle. While the Albion soldiers are stuck in the city, milling about in their confusion and attempting to put out the fire, open fire with the artillery. Their objective will turn into a deathtrap."
Agnes was now completely confused by what he had just proclaimed.
"You're making artillery the key, not the mages and not the infantry?"
"Albion will have more mages and infantry than you will, as they're the invaders. You can't go one on one in those fields and expect to win. However, because they're on the offensive and will need to move quickly, you can outclass them with cannons. This is simply the best way to maximize the advantage you do have. The advantages of Tristain in this battle will be artillery and the terrain. We must use those to our utmost and prevent Albion from using their advantages in the upcoming battle."
Henrietta was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of hoof beats. She turned around and saw that General De Poitiers had arrived behind her. He mopped his sweating brow with his right hand while clutching a military telescope with his left, and then dismounted and moved besides her. After bowing to his ruler, he spoke.
"As disgusting as it is, it looks like that cursed foreigner's plan is working."
He handed the telescope to Henrietta, whom opened it and looked down at the city of La Rochelle.
She realized something upon looking at the opposing army. The Albion commander had made plans for capturing La Rochelle and using its port facilities. However, he had never actually asked the question of how he was actually going to defeat the army defending La Rochelle. To him, the task was one and the same. Now that they possessed the city, the army which had been moving rapidly for a significant distance wanted to stop, especially since they didn't seem to realize that there even was an enemy army close by. However, they were completely confused by the fact that the Tristanian Army was not in the vicinity, and from their movements, Henrietta could see that they weren't sure of what was their next move. She also discovered that while she had no way of knowing whether Napoleon had planned for this or not, the immense smoke from the fires was also obscuring the enemy's vision, preventing them from moving rapidly forward and from noticing the presence of her army.
She snapped shut the telescope and handed it to De Poitiers. Without a word, the gesture indicated that it was time for the attack to begin. After once again bowing to her, the general mounted his horse and rode off. It was only when he left, that Henrietta knelt on one knee, with her fist on her face. She needed to pray. She would likely need to pray every day for the rest of her life in order to atone for the sin she had committed this day.
War is inherently about sacrifice. It is about whom can sacrifice the most for victory. You send one soldier, one battalion, to their deaths so that a valuable objective may be taken and victory may be secured. There's no way to win a war without ordering the deaths of others, whether soldiers or civilians.
That was what he had told her on that day. Yet as Henrietta wondered back to his words, she couldn't help but wonder about what he had stated, and muttered something softly to herself after her prayer was finished.
"Napoleon, if you continually sacrifice small groups of people for the sake of the many or for victory, what will be left after doing it enough times?"
…
Farther down the line, Napoleon glanced at the artillery which he had taken from across the land. It had been this task more than anything which had occupied him for the past five days. He had even managed to take a few ships and completely strip them of their guns, meaning that he had managed to procure about 150 various artillery pieces as they waited about 500 yards to the north of La Rochelle. They were hardly uniform, ranging 4 pounders to even a few 42 pounders that he had taken from the ships, but their numbers were more than sufficient.
However, while the number was more than enough, Napoleon worried about the discipline of the men. He had spent all of his time launching raids and simply amassing the cannon, so he was unsure about how ready the soldiers would be in actually using their new weapons. In addition to the guns from the ships, he had also managed to get their sailors onto the battlefield. Their expertise would be important, even if firing a gun on the field and onboard ships were two very different affairs. Still, the rest of the artillery corps he remained uncertain of, even though they had shown themselves to be incredibly enthusiastic as a result of the new guns over the past few days. They even cheered him for his efforts whenever he rode by, and apparently they had begun calling him "The Little Captain."
As he looked at the formation of the Tristanian soldiers, he felt confident in a way which he had not felt on a battlefield in a long time. The high ground meant that the infantry were capable of staying both in front and below the artillery, protecting the cannons while avoiding the risk of being blown to bits by their own guns. Apparently, the Tristanian Army already understood how to use their mages, as he had no trouble with De Poitiers in proposing in how to use them. The mages were interspersed with the regular infantry. Napoleon had stated, and De Poitiers had reluctantly agreed, that their goal was not so much to attack, but to serve to counter the opposing mages whom would no doubt seek to destroy the rest of the army. Whether a bunch of nobles obsessed with their own glory would actually listen to those orders was a problem, but eventually he hoped to resolve that.
He could see De Poitiers riding in from the distance, and he maintained his ground as the general rode towards him. As the fat general approached Napoleon, it was clear that neither one was particularly restrained in concealing their contempt for the other. Napoleon was the first to speak.
"Is everything ready?"
"Yes. Where is the Void Mage?"
Napoleon couldn't hide the look of disgust on his face in response to the inquiry. He may have viewed his partner as someone whom could be used on the battlefield like De Poitiers, but she wasn't a tool. A person as powerful as her was always someone to be respected, no matter how she was used. She was worthy of his entire Old Guard back home, the cream of the Grande Armee. He had known the names and lives of every single one of them, and in return they were prepared to cross Hell itself in his name. This general either could not or did not care to inspire that loyalty or camaraderie.
"Valliere is in the back, safe with the Princess. You are – officially – the commanding officer. Anything you want to say to your soldiers?"
De Poitiers shook his head, ignoring the dripping sarcasm in Napoleon's words.
"They are soldiers. They will do their duty. There is nothing to say to them."
"Is that so?"
De Poitiers's face once again grew beet red as he rounded on Napoleon.
"Look, you smart captain, you better show respect to your officers. You may be in the favor of Henrietta for now, but-"
"But what, sir?"
The two stared at each other, and De Poitiers was the one to break off. He strode towards his horse.
"I'll begin firing in two minutes. Tristain will be victorious. By the way, Bonaparte, who are those men behind you?"
De Poitiers had finally noticed them. Between Napoleon and the infantry sat three men. They did not appear to be fighting in the slightest, though they were constantly glancing up and down, first at the terrain and Bonaparte, then back down.
"Don't worry about them. They're not fighters. They'll go back to the camp right after the attack begins."
Bonaparte had turned his back to the general, and answered his question without changing his posture. His back was straight, and his hands were clasped behind his back as he looked upon the burning city. Grumbling without a word, De Poitiers mounted his horse, and he galloped off. Shortly after he left, the three men stood up, grabbing their charcoals and papers, and they also left to the rear. If anyone would have bothered to look, they would have seen a sketch of Napoleon, alone and surveying the battlefield, striking a magnificent pose on the dawn of battle.
He moved towards the loaded cannons, and it was only when he had finally moved behind one 12-pounder that a roar was heard.
"FIRE!"
…
The soldiers of the Albion Army were confused. They had been promised great spoils of war and glory for taking the city which they had been told repeatedly would end this war and liberate Tristain from the grasp of their arrogant Princess. But now as they tramped through the city which they had taken, there was no sense of honor or victory. The sea of flames seemed to laugh at their hopes and dreams of riches and glory, even as buildings collapsed and the cries of the innocent could be heard.
Nevertheless, their previous order and the inertia of the crowd caused them to move forward through the city. The Albion soldiers saw innocent civilians, those whom out of stubborn pride and petulance had refused to leave their homes, stumble out of their buildings. Rather than fleeing or ignoring the invaders as usually occurred with an invasion, they pleaded with the attacking soldiers, begging that they would save their families and homes. The narrow streets and confusion from the fire had caused a complete breakdown in the orders, meaning that such a major decision was left to the sergeants and lieutenants to decide as opposed to the senior officers. Some of them chose to help, and they broke off from the advance to search for water for themselves as well as for the innocents. Others chose to ignore the sad cries, and not a few officers, enraged by the Tristanian Army whom had dared to use such a cowardly tactic, snapped and ordered the men to find whatever glory or spoils they could in this ruined town, causing more destruction and misery among the populace. The Albion forces had degenerated from an army to a gigantic mob, unable to receive orders from their high commanders and confused as towards what their next objectives should be.
It was then the bombing began. Bonaparte himself had been out there helping maneuvering and aiming the cannon, and it was never known whether he had aimed one particular cannon for its target. A large 24 pounder fired and its solid shot flew forward, crashing into the steeple of a temple of Brimir. There was a great and terrible groan from the stone building, and the column toppled over and crashed into the street. That one shot was followed by many, as artillery shells zoomed across the city, accompanied by explosions and the sounds of screaming. Buildings toppled, destroying unit cohesion even further as they became separated by the crash of stone walls.
Towards the front of the mob, Johnston's horse panicked from the rain of fire, and he struggled to keep it under control. As he did so, the same scout whom had reported the news of the city burning rode back. Whether out of fury or fear, Johnston was incapable of preventing his voice from rising to a scream.
"What in Brimir's name is going on? Where are the cannons firing from?"
"Sir, Tristanian forces have holed up north of the city. They're on high ground, and they have a huge amount of cannons. I had no idea a country had so many field pieces!"
Johnston gave a small quiver, which was absolutely not fear for a general as splendid as he was. He vaguely considered retreating, but realized that it was impossible. The men only knew how to go forward at this point anyways. And if he DID retreat, Bowood would likely use it to gain power for himself. That absolutely could not be allowed to happen.
"Get moving forward! I want about 5000 troops diverted to stopping the fires and saving the port! The rest must move forward!"
The scout saluted, and wheeled his horse around. He galloped forward about thirty yards, waving the sword he had drawn and indicating that the army was to move forward.
Then there was an explosion, and he disappeared. Johnston felt something fly into his lap, and with great trepidation, he looked down. It was… a heart? A liver? He didn't know. It was once part of a young scout, with soot on his shoulders and atop a fine horse. The animal had been miraculously unharmed, and it seemed to stop and trot around, wondering what had occurred to its rider. Johnston couldn't help but observe that the scout's legs were still on the saddle.
"Ah…ah… AHHHHHHHHHHH!"
With a loud and panicked scream, Johnston wheeled around. He was no longer thinking of glory or promotion or stopping Bowood. Now, all he wanted to do was to live. To live and to not fight and to escape to Albion. That was what now mattered in his heart, and so he began to ride straight to Tarbes. The safety of the rest of the army was now of no importance to the commander, as he abandoned even his nearby aides.
The Albion soldiers saw their commander flee, but even as they wondered whether to go with him, their lieutenants hit them with the flat of their swords and ordered an advance. Even the aides, long fed up with Johnston's arrogance and political bickering, now ignored their direct superior and also distributed orders for an attack, though with limited effectiveness. Nevertheless, the soldiers obeyed. They moved towards the artillery that took their limbs and ended their lives, wading through the sea of fire to reach their new objective which their officers had prescribed for them. Johnston's orders to save the port, the main reason why the Albion forces had come to take La Rochelle in the first place, became completely ignored. Yet despite the confusion, these soldiers were fortunate. They did not have very far to move.
The first group of Albion soldiers finally moved forward out of the city and onto a grassy heavily sloped plain, only to be confused by the sight of the guns in front of them. While the cannon had at first been spread out, Napoleon had gradually massed them together, directing them to fire at specific locations within La Rochelle rather than just aimlessly lobbing shells into the city. The result was that specific buildings and roads had been destroyed by cannon fire, rendering them all but impossible to pass by the soldiers. While some earth mages managed to clear a path, there were too few of them to make it practical for the entire army, and so the soldiers were gradually being funneled into fewer and fewer roads to maneuver in.
However, the minute the Albion soldiers saw the cannons, the artillery stopped. An eerie calm began to fill through what was clearly the new battlefield, only interrupted by the continual tramping of Albion soldiers as they arrived onto the plain. But even as the weary and hungry men saw the Tristanian infantry and the artillery they were protecting, they resolved to fight. The soldiers were now angry men, infuriated with the Tristainian refusal to stand and fight, with their reliance on unmanly weapons such as cannons, and their hearts were also filled with rage towards an enemy whom would commit an action as savage as the burning of their cities. And so without even thinking of the consequences, pikes and muskets were raised, and the soldiers charged.
…
As Martin looked out on the giant horde moving forward, he glanced at the other water mage of his company who was with him. The two were at the back, waiting for the moment to strike when the enemy mages appeared.
When he thought about it, it was clear that things really had charged ever since Napoleon had appeared. Martin was no coward. He may have no longer been a noble, but he still retained the sense of duty and courage which was ingrained in every noble boy from the moment he was born. He normally would have utterly chafed that a mage like himself should ever be told to wait at the back. But under Napoleon he did, and without complaint.
It wasn't just because of his captain's martial prowess. If he was capable of defeating Foucard in single combat with no difficulty, then he could also defeat Martin. Foucard was without a doubt the strongest man in the company. He loved fighting, and was always either in brawls or training himself to order to become better at brawls. He had been placed in the front ranks like a soldier of his caliber deserved, waiting for the Albion forces to clash. However, the mere fact that he was waiting would have been amazing to anyone who knew him beforehand, but not to one who had seen their company in the past few days. Every soldier knew that their new captain would sternly punish any who broke their formation and disregarded his orders.
Yet although they never slept as they participated in one nighttime raid after another, and even as they grumbled about the stern discipline he exacted, Napoleon had won their respect. He was stern, yet fair. And he rewarded them well for their raids, and had also succeeded in giving and keeping his promise of regular wages as opposed to the intermittent work of a mercenary. Napoleon had proven himself worthy of respect by every man in the company, and thus they all knew that they would do their duty on the battlefield. These 50 men fought not primarily for Tristain, and not for gold or riches. They fought to show that they were worthy to be his soldiers.
Meanwhile, the enemy army continued to move forward. They had been 500 yards away initially. Now there were 475 yards between them. Then 450. And yet the guns remained silent, and while the Tristanian soldiers remained silent, the Albion forces gave off a massive war cry as they charged in their frenzy.
However, even as they did so, they began to slow down as they reached the 400 yard mark, as exhaustion and hunger were clearly taking their toll. They continued to stumble, reaching a distance of 350 yards, and finally 300. It was at that exact moment that the cry was heard across the line.
"FIRE!"
Albion may have developed new long-range cannon since the downfall of the monarchy, but they were hardly the only country capable of developing new ways to destroy their enemies. Tristain was perfectly capable of advancing by itself, even without the aid of Napoleon. For while Albion forces had learned to produce superior cannons compared to Tristain, Tristain had discovered a new method of using cannons on the battlefield.
It was the first time in the history of Helgekinia that canister shot was fired. As opposed to normal solid cannon balls, canister shot consisted of a large number of smaller iron balls, stuffed into a small canister which was fired from the cannon. The canister split open upon firing, and thus the iron balls were scattered across the field, decimating infantry and cavalry alike. Cannons which were designed to destroy stationary walls and buildings were in effect transformed into gigantic shotguns.
The newness of the Tristanian invention meant that only the 24 pounders and larger guns were capable of firing the new rounds, meaning that only slightly more than half the guns fired at once. Nevertheless, the result was devastating. At the close range that the guns had been fired at, the Albion army was attacked by literally thousands of small shrapnel and balls, some of which penetrated through one soldier and into another. In the space of a few seconds, thousands of Albion soldiers were wiped out in nearly one blast.
The Albion soldiers wavered, and it was clear that the surviving men were badly shaken by the blast. But while a few men cried out in horror and fled, the majority of them realized at that point that there was nowhere to retreat to. To go back to the city would simply invite the artillery to bombard them again, and then they likely broken and hounded by the Tristanian forces all the way to Tarbes. Now armed with the courage of desperation, they continued to charge.
It was the correct move. Given how new the weapon was and the relative indiscipline of Tristain's artillery corps, it would take them approximately somewhat over 2 minutes to prepare another round of canister shot, which would be enough time for the Albion soldiers to cover the remaining 300 yards. So they moved forward, reaching 250 yards, and then 200. They would have to deal with the infantry guarding the cannon, but that would be no concern. Even as the enemy muskets assembled into position as they reached the 100 yard mark, they were still ready to do battle.
And so, at the 50 yard mark, the Albion soldiers continued to charge, and the Tristanian matchlock guns opened up a devastating volley.
Martin couldn't help but suppress a feeling of admiration for the Albion forces at this stage. They had marched quite a distance at a rapid pace and had been devastated by small arms and artillery, but they still continued. Some of the enemy musket men had stopped and fired their guns, but the rest of the men charged forward. With a great noise of crashing men and weapons, the two sides began a great melee duel to the death
It was then that Martin noticed it. To the wind mage's right, Tristanian soldiers were flung to the air as spikes of earth rose up from the ground and impaled them. It was clear that an earth mage was nearby, attempting to use his magic to force a breakthrough. He pointed at his water mage companion, indicating the problem. The two already knew how to take care of it.
The water mage cast a hover spell, thus lifting himself up a few feet off the ground. While hover was a useful and basic spell, it was normally completely useless in combat, as a mage could not use it in conjunction with other spells. However, Martin had a way of getting around this limitation to a degree.
The water mage orientated himself towards the earth mage, and Martin pointed his wand at the water mage and cast the spell he was the most familiar with, Speed. It was the same spell he had used on Agnes on the night they had destroyed the Dragon's Raiment. Instantly the water mage was rocketed towards the enemy earth mage, colliding into him as they both rolled along in the dirt. Martin looked towards the rest of the line. There was nothing more he could do for his friend. As he was a triangle class mage, he should be fine.
But then there was another blast to his left, one that he could tell was wind. This time, it was up to him. He could spot the enemy wind mage from a distance, a young man with blond hair. Casting Speed upon himself, he hurtled through the ranks, throwing aside both Tristanian and Albion soldiers alike. He did not stop until he crashed into the wind mage and the two were entangled. Martin used another spell to sharpen the wand he carried so that it was like a knife, and then attempted to plunge it in the mage's back.
But the enemy mage had quickly cast a shield to defend himself. He thrust his own wand forward at Martin, whom desperately parried. As he did so, he realized that the enemy was casting his own spell in order to crush him.
"Soll la Windy!"
"Speed!"
Martin quickly cast the spell on himself at the same that the enemy mage finished his chant. He moved backward a short distance, managing to dodge the twin blades of wind that had slammed into where he was. The nature and power of the spell caused him to realize that he had gotten into trouble. He was dealing with a triangle class wind mage, while he was only a line. Despite that, Martin didn't hesitate. His opponent was not the first triangle class he had faced, and he had won before.
Once again using Speed, Martin charged forward, his wand in his left hand. The enemy mage had a bored look on his face, as he prepared for another spell which would destroy the line mage. However, right outside the range at which a wand could thrust, Martin's right hand grabbed "something" on his back.
The enemy mage had good combat instincts, but even then his leap backward only managed to avoid an instantly fatal blow as a longsword slashed through his chest. The sword had always been on Martin's back. However, he used wind magic to keep it invisible, so that enemies would be struck before they realized he carried two weapons. However, it was not capable of staying invisible while being wielded, which had caused the enemy mage to realize the nature of Martin's attack and leap backwards at the last minute. The attack still remained good enough. The triangle mage stumbled backward, blood gashing from his chest, and fled using his wind magic. Proud of his victory, Martin gave a howl before moving back behind the lines.
As he did so, he realized that the water mage had already returned from his duel. He was washing blood off of his hands and gave Martin a quick grin as the two acknowledged their triumphs. They had observed it during their fight that the Albion lines were beginning to break. Without sufficient mages to break through, it had turned into a straight melee battle, and the weariness of the Albion troops combined with the fact that they were attacking a fortified position spelled inevitable doom. Soon, victory would belong to Tristain, and they could leisurely pick off the remaining invaders.
But then suddenly there was a cheer from the Albion forces, and the two mages realized something had happened. They looked across the battlefield, and could not see any real change that would merit such a roar of happiness. But then they looked up at a darkening sky, and groaned at what they saw.
The Lexington had arrived, with over half of the Albion Air Fleet. And as the two mages watched, the famous Dragon Knights poured out and began their attack.