"You might as well appeal against the thunder-storm as against these terrible hardships of war."

William T. Sherman

…

…

The Emperor Napoleon sat inside a sparse tent. He was wearing the same uniform that he had worn on since the night of De Poitier's death. His legs were folded, and someone who would have merely glanced at him would have assumed he was meditating. That is, until one would have noticed that both hands were holding his head.

It had gotten worse in the last few days, he observed. From the very beginning, he had noticed that when he had completed his contract with Louise, there was a part of his mind which began to act peculiar. It nagged at him with a strength which was somewhere between a feeling and a whim. As far as Napoleon could tell, his mind didn't belong to him completely any more. Instead, that small part would always proclaim that the protection of Louise was his highest priority, and that he should do everything he could to protect her as opposed to seeking his own wishes.

Resisting it had been easy initially, and Napoleon had gotten used to it over the couple of months he had been in Helgekinia. But ever since he had tricked Louise into leaving Albion, that part of his mind had grown stronger. It wasn't that Louise was in actual danger. The contract meant that he could sense her to a degree, and while he couldn't tell much, he could tell she was safe and alive. Even so, the prodding and the idea that he should prioritize above Louise continued to harass him and say that he should drop everything and go to her side. While he had continued to resist it, it was harder and the effort had currently given him a mild headache. It was annoying, and given the odds he was playing with, he needed every bit of his genius that he could get.

The tent opened and Napoleon looked up. It was Owen Foucard. The soldier of the Imperial Guard had been appointed to serve as Napoleon's personal bodyguard. He saluted at the presence of his captain.

"The others are waiting for you, sir."

Napoleon nodded and stood up. He grasped the scabbard of his saber and lifted himself up, but then he stumbled a bit.

"Sir, are you all right?"

While Foucard was clearly surprised, he did not move from the entrance. Napoleon wouldn't have accepted his help anyways.

"I'm fine, Foucard. What is our status?"

Foucard glanced at him with a quizzical expression, but then suppressed it. The two left the tent and started to walk as Foucard spoke to Napoleon.

"We're at a village which the peasants call New Cromwell. It's about twenty five miles south of Saxe Gotha and is about fifteen miles north of Rosais. It's where we were told to march out by General De Poitiers and Princess Henrietta. In addition to those, we have about four thousand of our men who were attacked at Saxe Gotha whom we were also able to evacuate. The rest were either killed or fell under that foul spell of theirs."

Well, thought Napoleon, technically he had given them the order to march out. Not that Foucard ever needed to know that piece of information.

"Did you get the people I asked for?"

Foucard nodded.

"Martin and I talked to them. They all accepted. But sir, what of Henrietta and the generals? What should we do about them?"

"We focus on saving ourselves first, Foucard. If we are dead, then there's no one left to save Henrietta. We still don't know her status, so we'll have to move quickly."

Foucard opened his mouth, but the two approached a building. It was a small dingy one-floored farmhouse, and a cow idly browsed outside of it for grass. A sentry stood at attention, and saluted the pair as they arrived.

"The other men are ready and waiting, sir."

Napoleon briskly returned it.

"Good job, Williams. You can return to the camp."

The sentry stiffened up a bit.

"You know my name, sir?"

"Of course I do. Robert Williams, is it not?"

The soldier's eyes widened a bit, but Napoleon clapped him on the shoulder before he could say anything.

"Go. Get some rest. Foucard, take over."

Both of the soldiers simply glanced at each other. Then Williams walked off. With a brisk salute, Foucard assumed position outside the house while Napoleon walked inside.

The main room was dingy and musty, but it had still become the temporary headquarters of the Tristanian Army. Four men sat on chairs, but there was not a table. Instead, papers and maps were scattered across the wooden floor. All of them stood up upon seeing Napoleon walk in, and the Emperor couldn't help but smile at the gesture. He had taken plenty of time to know the invading army that he was currently in command of even before he had betrayed Henrietta. As the chain of command had been in disarray, he had launched the opportunity to pick men from the army who would be useful, men whom he had charmed and from whom he could generally ensure loyalty from for the course of this campaign. They were a mix of nobles and commoners alike.

"Gentlemen. Please sit down. There's no need to be so formal given the crisis we are currently in."

They sat down. Napoleon took a chair as well. He placed his elbows on the arm rests and crossed his fingers before his face. After a further moment where he adjusted his position, Napoleon began to speak on the situation.

"Gentlemen, you know that the situation is dire. We don't know where Henrietta is. Or any of the generals are. We don't know if they're alive or dead.

But saving them, if they're alive, is our highest priority. That means that we cannot evacuate or retreat. We will have to defeat the Albion army with our forces that we possess right here.

Now, Marquis of Touraine. There is something I want to ask you about."

The man to the immediate left of Napoleon looked up. He was a man about as old as Napoleon, though his clear face looked significantly more fatigued and exhausted. His gray hair was magnificently curled, and his splendid blue uniform far outshone that of everyone else in the room. The Marquis was a highly prestigious nobleman. He could legitimately trace his family's descent from noble blood for at least 500 years and possibly longer if he desired. Given such a long heritage of nobility, he easily possessed the right to overrule Napoleon and assume command of the remaining Tristanian forces for himself.

But that was not in his nature. The Marquis was a mediocre fighter and planner, but he possessed sufficient intelligence to know his limitations. As a result, he had been content to sit around and watch others work. He had been one of the easiest men to accept Napoleon's command, as despite or perhaps because of his titles, he had little interest in commanding and less ambition. If it wasn't for the massive dishonor which would have resulted, he likely would have stayed home and not fought in Albion at all. But even with those traits, there was one thing which he was skilled at which Napoleon knew he would need.

"You are a square-class Water mage. And last night, you told me that this spell which turned much of our army into mindless slaves of Albion was a water type. What do you know about it?"

The Marquis yawned at first at the question, and tapped one finger on the armrest.

"Bonaparte, if you want to know how to end that spell's grip on our own men or prevent it from affecting what men we do have in the future, I honestly don't know. But I do suspect that it's a spell which they won't use again."

"Your reasoning is?"

"I have two. The first is that they didn't use it until we were right at their gates."

The other generals nodded, as did Napoleon. He had suspected that much. If Albion could have used that spell repeatedly, the smartest course of action would have to use it the minute war broke out.

"The second is that this spell is simply far beyond the means of any mage I know. Magic that can control the minds and bodies of thousands upon thousands of humans? I would guess that it should run out eventually, perhaps in one to two weeks, but that's something I'll admit I don't know. Even for me, this spell is massively beyond my comprehension. But the fact that it's that powerful means that I doubt it can be used repeatedly easily."

With his observations done, the Marquis sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. In seconds, Napoleon could hear the sound of deep breathing from him.

"Very well," Napoleon said. "I believed that magic spell was our biggest problem. If Albion cannot use it again, then it is time to destroy their armies."

"Respectfully, Sir Bonaparte, I disagree."

As Napoleon heard the voice of another of his subordinates, he couldn't help it as a shadow crossed his face.

"And what is your objection, Julio Chesare?"

The young priest swung his whitish-blonde hair back and casually smiled. He ignored the irritation laced in Napoleon's voice.

"I believe that the Tristanian army faces terrible odds. Consequently, it should retreat, leave Albion, and seek peace. War is a terrible thing. My master, the Pope of Romalia, would be more than willing to begin peace mediations between the two sides."

"Are you insane?"

Another one of the men stood up in anger at those words. His blond hair draped across his head as he glared at Julio.

"Her Majesty is captured! How are we to negotiate without our sovereign? Albion will just leach us dry!"

Julio shrugged in response.

"Well, that is why I suggested my master as a mediator. Besides, I'm sure that discussing the safety of Princess Henrietta would be something which would be part of the negotiations."

"Why you-"

"Robert de Gramont!"

The eldest Gramont brother had pulled out his wand. But he stopped where he was upon hearing Napoleon's shout.

"Please. Sit down. As for you, Julio, no, we will not surrender. I intend to fight around here and win."

"And how will you do that?" Julio scoffed. You have less than 20,000 men. Albion bolstered by that spell of theirs will have more than 25,000. Those are fearful odds."

"That is our job," Napoleon observed. "It will be easier since we will be on the defensive. But that is not to say that I do not have a plan. Jacques Edouard Bernard Stewart, I'd like to confirm the geography."

He glanced at another one of the generals, the scruffiest and nastiest looking of the lot. The clothing of the other men was spotless, but this man's clothes were spattered with mud and grime. When one combined it with the fact that he had a massive shaggy black beard, the initial impression was that of a tramp. But his eyes were bright and beady, full of vigor and life, exactly the traits which a commoner commander needed. Drawing a sword by his side, he pointed it at the maps on the floor.

"About five miles south of New Cromwell, there are a series of hills, with a prominent one located where our center would likely be if we deploy there. There is also a lake directly east of those hills and some woods south of the lake. I would say that the roads there are also good. It's a strong defensive position.

If you like, sir, I could take some of the cavalry and launch a quick raid against the Albion lines of communications. It would be bad for their morale if we struck so soon after their victory at Saxe-Gotha."

"Why not use the dragons for such a strike?" Julio inquired. "Dragons are stronger than horses and can go much faster."

"They're much more visible." Stewart responded. "A raid needs discretion above all else, which is something dragons cannot do."

Napoleon listened to both of them, and then gave his decision.

"Use the horses to conduct a reconnaissance. Be discreet. I want you back as soon as possible, Stewart. Don't conduct any grandiose raids"

The newly-promoted general nodded in gratitude, but Napoleon continued to glare at the maps for a long time. The silence which was created in the meantime was stifling, and three of the men also followed Napoleon's example and looked over what information they had. Julio in the meantime sat back and watched. But after a few minutes of silence, they finally heard two words.

"No way."

Napoleon abruptly moved off his chair and grabbed a map. He turned it around once, twice, three times.

"It really is destiny…" he muttered to himself. "A replica? An exact replica? This is too good to be true."

He continued to talk to himself for a bit longer, but then finally put down the map. The other men noticed that he looked completely relaxed.

"This will be easy. Now, listen up, here is the plan."

…

Louise's eyes snapped open. She gradually stirred a bit, and then rubbed her head and looked around.

She was in a carriage and could see the landscape moving outside. Nothing was out of the ordinary. But it had happened again.

She didn't understand why. The dream of her watching the ship explode, of being enveloped by her light, her spell, had now become a regular occurrence. The nightmare these days hindered her sleep. Louise rummaged through a small pack that she carried inside the carriage and pulled out a mirror. As she looked into it, she could see that her eyes were red from exhaustion and that her overall appearance was pretty bad. If she had chosen to head to the Valliere estate, Cattleya likely would have tried to feed her to death.

But when Louise thought about it, it wasn't just that dream. She had begun to dream of the battlefield at La Rochelle, of the death and the slaughter that had occurred there. She had been kept in the back, far away from the fighting for most of the battle. But that changed barely anything. Instead of seeing the death and destruction from the battlefield, she heard the screams of men dying and the sound of gunfire. And that sound, without any images to accompany it, was just as terrifying as any sight.

Still, she shook it off and put away the mirror. She had told herself the first day she had had the falling dream that to tell anyone else about it wouldn't help herself at all. She still believed it. So in an attempt to distract herself, she began to figure out what she needed to do when she reached her destination.

About an hour later, the carriage finally stopped. Without even waiting for the coachman, Louise opened the door and stepped out onto the grass. With a content smile on her face, she looked up and saw stone towers and walls around her. She had finally returned to the Tristain Academy of Magic, the place which at times she felt was the closest to home.

No one else was in the courtyard, and Louise observed that she couldn't hear any sounds from inside the Academy itself. She realized that the Academy was likely nearly completely empty due to the war, but the lack of hustle and bustle disheartened her. However, she did not come back here to think about the old days. Louise had business to do. With a last look at the stone towers, she quickly made her way to the main tower. Her destination was Osmond's office. She had questions which she wanted to ask him as well as Professor Colbert.

After she made her way up the stairs and stood in front of the imposing wooden door, Louise took a deep breath. Then she knocked.

"Come in."

It was Colbert's voice. What was he doing in the office as opposed to the Headmaster? Despite her confusion, she pushed the door open.

The Professor was alone as he stood next to the desk of the headmaster. He held a vial of liquid in his right hand. Even though he had invited Louise in, he continued to stare at the vial and ignored Louise's presence. After waiting a few seconds more, she gave a small cough, which caused him to look up.

"Oh, well this is a surprise. How wonderful to see you, Louise! Just give me a second and-"

BOOM

Colbert set the vial down. But the minute it touched the wooden desk, it exploded in the Professor's hand. Louise instinctively closed her eyes and jumped back in reaction, and she felt a fragment of glass whizz past her cheek. As the sound faded away, she gradually opened one eye, only to arch an eyebrow in surprise. She saw glass scattered around the office and especially around the desk, but Colbert was unhurt. He looked only somewhat surprised, but with a small grumble he looked at Louise.

"So, how are you doing? You have been gone a while, Louise. Would you care for something to drink?"

The Valliere girl shook her head and pointed at the glass fragments.

"What were you doing there, Professor?"

"I was trying out a new experiment. Discovered a new liquid just yesterday, but well, it has a habit of doing that. That was the third time today. I'm glad I decided to protect myself this time.

But enough about myself. I'm surprised to see you, Louise. I had heard that you were fighting in Albion alongside Her Majesty."

Louise shrugged at the inquiry.

"Things happened. But where is Headmaster Osmond?"

"Ah."

Colbert's expression became gloomy upon hearing those words. He settled down in the Headmaster's chair and fidgeted with his fingers before he responded.

"Old Osmond has resigned."

"What?"

As Louise gasped, Colbert continued.

"A lot of the noble families were still angry with him after the Fouquet disaster. He resigned, and left me to run this academy. He's gone back to his estate for now."

"But it wasn't his fault! I heard what happened! He had to give up the Staff of Destruction in order to save the students! He should be rewarded for that, not removed from his position."

Colbert shook his head at those words.

"I know, Louise. I know. But a lot of the nobles don't care about that. They know that their children were put in danger. Some were harmed. The de Grandple family was the one that fought the hardest for his resignation because of what happened to their son Malicorne. Since their children were harmed, they had to blame someone. And we still don't know where Longueville – excuse me, Fouquet – is right now, so someone else had to take their wrath."

Louise still couldn't believe it. Old Osmond was gone? He had been a part of this academy for years upon years, she heard. How could he be forced to resign because of such an unpreventable disaster?

"But I'll ask, Louise. Why are you here?"

Her train of thought about Osmond was broken by those words. Louise reminded herself about why she had come to the Academy. It wasn't because she wanted to know about its current state. She had something far more important to do, as depressing as Osmond's departure was.

"Professor Colbert. I know you've researched on it. What do you know about Void magic?"

Colbert had also been thinking about his old friend the Headmaster. But upon hearing that question, he straightened up. He pulled up the chair and looked at Louise. He could see it from her expression. She was resolute, determined. The old Louise, the one who had nearly cried as her summoning had nearly failed, was gone. Colbert could see that there was something which she believed she needed to do or know. And so because of that, Colbert knew he couldn't refuse.

"Very well, Louse Francoise le Blanc de la Valliere. What is it you that you wish to know?"

…

Tramp tramp tramp

The sound of soldiers marching could be heard for miles upon miles as the Albion army marched south. Their heads were held high from the victory they had received. While most of them had yet to learn of Henrietta' death, they all knew that they had won a great victory when the enemy was at the gates of their capital.

Yet the mood was not entirely joyous. Throughout the long column, whispers and little pieces of conversations could be heard as they pointed to the head of the column. Cromwell himself proudly rode at the front on a brilliant white horse. But directly behind him were the soldiers who had defected from Tristanian oppression and had welcomed the cause of liberty. At least, that was what the soldiers had been told.

However, at the end of the column, a pair of soldiers couldn't help but wonder as they chatted to one another.

"Did you hear what happened when Jones tried to talk to those soldiers?"

"What do you mean?"

"They don't talk to anyone; they keep to themselves all the time."

"Hmmm… maybe they feel guilty about helping us? You can't trust a traitor, you know."

"It's not that. They don't talk. At all. Jones tried to offer them some beer, and they said nothing. And their eyes. He says they're really creepy."

"You don't say. It doesn't take a lot to freak him out."

"It's different, Smith! It's weird. I've seen them myself, though I've never talked to them. And when you look at them, there's something weird about them, something I don't like. It's like looking at a corpse. Have you ever seen those new soldiers?"

"Nope. Besides-"

"So what are you talking about, you louts?"

The pair of soldiers abruptly looked to their right as another voice broke in. A well-built muscular man now marched alongside the soldiers, though he notably stayed out of the column. As opposed to a proper military uniform, he wore a travelling cloak, but his face couldn't help but draw the soldiers' attention. His hair was white, but the left side of his face was covered with burn scars. Even so, he gave off a leering grin as he stared at the unfortunate pair. Even with no rank or insignia on his chest, they could tell that they were talking to a superior.

"S-sorry, sir! We won't be doing it again!"

The column continued marching, but the men behind and in front of the pair couldn't help but glance. Meanwhile, the man who now marched alongside the soldiers continued to grin next to them.

"You're sorry, you say? But how do I know it's sincere? You could start to talk about something bad the moment I leave, am I wrong?"

There was no response. These men were new recruits, pressed into service in the aftermath of the Battle of La Rochelle. And now they were confronted by this strange man who was their superior, who strode alongside them casually. A man who they somehow knew could kill them instantly.

"Oh, what's wrong? Did I burn off your tongue? Oh, no I didn't, not yet that is."

The strange man used his left hand to lift his cloak, while his right hand pulled out a metal rod. He started to wave it around.

"Ah, I should burn you. I want to smell that wonderful scent, the clash of wills and lives and-"

"Menvil!"

The white-haired man stopped and turned around. As he did so, the column continued its march, and Menvil whipped his head back and snarled at the escaping soldiers. But as he heard the flapping of wings, he looked up, though his expression did not hide his irritation as Wardes's griffin landed besides him.

The traitorous wind mage was also covered with a travelling cloak, which managed to conceal his missing right arm. His left hand gripped the reins. Even with his ruined face, he stared with contempt at the mage in front of him.

"So, what did you think you were doing by harassing the column and those men?"

Menvil gave no indication that he had heard Wardes's question. Instead, he stowed the staff under his cloak, and then sarcastically bowed.

"A pleasant day to you, Wardes. Water magic really is impressive these days, isn't it?"

Wardes instinctively removed his single hand from the reigns and flexed the fingers a few times at those words.

"You didn't answer my question, Menvil."

"Oh, I was just going around chatting with the men and ensuring that discipline was in the ranks. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"The problem is that by 'discipline' you actually mean 'an excuse to start burning people'. You're just a mercenary, Menvil. Go back to your small squad and stay out of the way of the proper soldiers."

Menvil stared at Wardes for a moment. Then he suddenly pulled the metal rod out of his cloak and pointed it at the Knight Captain.

"What the!"

Wardes's left hand moved to his belt where his wand was, but he was too slow. He had still not gotten used to riding and casting with only one arm. By the time he grabbed his hand, Melvin chanted one word.

"Fotia."

A jet of flame shot out of the rod. It shot past Wardes, but he could still feel the intense heat on his face. However, while his left hand gripped the hand, he did not bother to withdraw it. He could tell that at the close distance they were at, Menvil had intentionally missed, though it did not stop him from shouting.

"What in Brimir's name do you think you're doing, you flame maniac?"

Menvil put away the wand, and then pointed to his right. Throughout the entire conversation, the column had been marching past them, south to the confrontation with the remaining Tristanian forces. But as the soldiers marched past the pair of mages, Wardes noticed that almost all of them broke discipline when Menvil unleashed his spell. Some looked behind them, at a large tree which had been hit by the fire spell. Others whispered and talked to each other about what they had seen. They continued to move, but the strict rows of disciplined men were slowly but visibly breaking apart.

"Those are your proper soldiers, Wardes. They are ordinary people, whom are amazed and frightened by that small spell. Half of them don't want to be here as it is right now even after that victory. What do you think they'll do when they get to the battlefield? The only ones who will obey completely are Cromwell's pet zombies."

He hoisted the cloak over himself and then turned around with the column.

"I couldn't care less what you think about me, Wardes. Same for Cromwell, or Sheffield, or those pathetic useless men over there. But you ought to remember. Its men like us, and you, who will decide victory. Not a useless mob."

Without saying anything more, Menvil marched off at a pace which would put any of the regular soldiers to shame. Wardes watched the mercenary's back for a moment and then gave a sigh of disgust. Gripping the reins once again, his griffin took to the skies.

…

Crows cawed in the sky as the sun began to set. The soldiers of the Tristanian Army flitted back and forth, securing firewood and other supplies to get through the night. Food these days was not a significant problem. The superiority of the Tristanian Air Force meant that the supply lines were completely guarded, and thus wagons of food and other equipment steadily marched north from the port in Rosais.

Meanwhile, Napoleon rested in the headquarters. Behind the farmhouse was a small pond. No one had tended it because of the war and so the water was dank and murky. Nevertheless, the bank remained a nice place to sit. Foucard was inside the farmhouse, as Napoleon had requested to be alone. He wanted to rest outside.

But even so, he continued to think. Time was of the essence. He had secured command of the army, but that wasn't permanent. He didn't know what the status of Henrietta or the rest of the generals was yet. But if she was dead, then it wouldn't be too long until the news got out to Tristain, which would certainly result in political chaos. He wanted to strike before that happened.

Fortunately, he knew from his scouts that the Albion army was marching south, with Cromwell himself at the head. He was glad to know that Albion sought battle as well. His men would begin marching to those hills which Stewart had mentioned tomorrow, and then he would activate the next operation. Hopefully it would go as well as it did last time.

Feeling a little better, Napoleon picked himself up and decided to enter the farmhouse. But then he heard a rustle. There was a series of bushes on the other side of the small pond. And now that Napoleon looked closer, he saw that one of them was shaking. He slowly moved his left hand towards the sword at his side, preparing to activate the Gandalfr runes just in case.

"Kya!"

A figure fell out of the bushes and tumbled into the pond. There was a great splash, and then a moment of silence. The seconds passed, but no one came up to break the water's surface.

Napoleon moved instinctively. Despite everything he had done since he had entered this world, he wasn't the type of person who would let someone die for no good reason. Disrobing himself, he jumped into the water. He slightly grumbled about how filthy the water was, but fortunately the level was only a little deeper than his own height. With a combination of wading and highly ineffectual swimming, he made his way over. Dragging him – no, he realized as he got closer, it was a female – he lifted her light body up to the surface. She did cough up water when she reached it, but gave no further reaction.

"Hang on there!"

Napoleon shouted those words of encouragement and then made his way to the bank. Fortunately, it appeared that Foucard had heard the noise of him entering the water, and now he stood at the bank waiting for his captain. As Napoleon got close, he waded in and dragged both of them ashore.

"Sir, you could have gotten me to rescue her! You shouldn't have done that yourself!"

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders, water dripping off of him as he dropped her on the bank.

"It wasn't difficult. Fortunately, it looks like she's alright."

He had wondered what kind of person it had been who would try to sneak towards the Tristanian headquarters, though as he looked at her, the answer to that question became pretty obvious. She had blonde hair, a… very nice chest, and it appeared that she wasn't wearing much clothing to begin with. There was really only one conclusion.

"She's pretty bold for a prostitute, trying to head directly to the headquarters. Foucard, check her pulse."

The large man bent down, though he couldn't help it as he "accidentally" grabbed her chest for a moment. Still, he brushed her hair aside, and felt her neck as he looked at the girl's face. Suddenly, Foucard leapt up as if he had been shocked, and his face had turned pale.

"Sir, get inside! Get inside!"

Foucard all but tackled Napoleon and dragged him in the house. The Emperor choked out a few words in surprise.

"What in damnation are you doing?"

"What are you talking about, sir? It's an elf. By Brimir's name, it's an elf! We have to get you out of here for your own safety, NOW!"

Ignoring any complaints Napoleon had, Foucard threw him inside the farmhouse and leapt after him. He then slammed the door behind him, leaving the girl by the pond bank. But her pointy ears moved a little bit in reaction to the loud noise.