"To the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee."
Moby Dick.
…
…
"Um… please, thank you."
The elven girl clapped her hands together and bowed slightly as a servant ladled out a bowl of soup. But instead of gratitude for her thanks, he jumped back in terror even as he continued to hold a full pot, and then scurried out of the room. With her sad smile on her face in the aftermath of that gesture, she picked up a nearby wooden spoon and dipped it in, before she stopped and then looked in front of her.
"Do you want some?"
"No."
She blinked once or twice, and then began to eat. Meanwhile, Napoleon watched her from the other end of the table. A fireplace burned cheerfully next to them.
It had been quite a battle, he thought. Foucard had truly gone nuts upon seeing this girl, and Napoleon had actually been forced to activate his Gandalfr runes and wrestle him to the ground to shut him up. But even then, he continued to rant about the elf girl outside and how they were all going to die. From Napoleon's perspective, to watch a member of what was to become his future Imperial Guard panic and gibber like a shrieking infant was quite depressing.
It's not like he didn't know about elves. He had read about the creatures when he was still back in the Tristain Academy's library. They were a people who lived far away from other humans, in some distant holy land, and the main physical difference between them and humans were the long pointy ears that they possessed. But aside from that, this elf looked like a normal human, with a thin, delicate body, a woven green tonic, and an aura of kindness exuding from her. Well, thought Napoleon, he would have probably to make an exception for that chest. He had thought his second wife, the stupid girl he had married to keep the Emperor of Austria happy and to get a son, had a decent sized bosom, but that was nothing compared to this girl. It was ridiculous and…
Napoleon snapped himself out of his reverie. He didn't know whether their females were all so blessed, but that wasn't the important thing. Elves were dangerous. Because they possessed that holy land in the south, humans and elves generally disliked one another. However, elves possessed a far superior lifespan and magic which far outclassed the capabilities of humans. The books had told him that meeting a single elf was a cause for an entire human army to retreat, and the reaction of his soldiers to this girl had made it apparent that they believed it.
He glanced behind him as he grumbled slightly. He had hoped to meet with this elven girl alone, but Foucard would have none of it. The bodyguard stood behind Napoleon, but he had been joined by Martin and Napoleon's four subordinates. Stewart's back leaned a little too casually by the wall while his hand dangled a mere centimeter away from his sword, ready to draw it at the first sign of provocation, while Napoleon noticed that Robert de Gramont watched the girl without hiding an expression of disgust and hatred. If that wasn't enough, Napoleon had also relented and had summoned the other members of his guard. Fifty soldiers currently stood at attention outside his headquarters, and Napoleon had reluctantly given out orders. If they observed anything going wrong inside the headquarters from the outside, they were to charge in with their bayonets. The degree of awe and fear that this little elf girl who hungrily spooned soup into her mouth struck into the hearts of his allies couldn't help but fascinate him.
"So, you said that your name was Tiffania?"
The elf girl was clearly famished, as she had stopped spooning the soup into her mouth and had just lifted the bowl to drink directly from it. But upon hearing Napoleon's inquiry, she set it down.
"Yes. My name is Tiffania Westwood."
"'Westwood?'" commented Martin. "That's an odd last name for an elf."
The elf nervously pushed her index fingers at that observation.
"Well…that is… I'm only half elf. My father was a human."
"What was his name?" asked Martin.
Martin seemed to remain much calmer in Tiffania's presence, and his voice didn't betray any fear. But it didn't seem to help, as Tiffania once again pushed her fingers together and glanced wildly about, like a trapped animal. That was not a good starting avenue for an interrogation, and Napoleon turned and signaled Martin to stand back before he looked back at Tiffania.
"So, Tiffania. What reason does a half-elf have to come to my headquarters?"
The elf girl blinked at Napoleon for a moment, her expression confused and frightened.
"A-are you willing to help me? A mixed elf?"
"If you didn't think I would help, why did you come here?"
"Well, I didn't have anywhere else to turn to. There's a nearby village, but I don't think they can help me. B-but…"
She hesitated again. Someone sighed in irritation behind Napoleon, but he ignored it.
"Please, Tiffania. There's no reason for you to worry. What is your problem?"
The girl once again pushed her index fingers together out of nervousness before she finally responded with a plaintive voice. Having seen it a third time, Napoleon committed the tic to his memory as she continued.
"I own an orphanage which houses about 25 or so children. But we can't get food these days because of the war. I can tell that you aren't Albion, but aside from that, I don't know who you are. But, please…"
"That's a lie."
One voice spoke up behind Napoleon, and then the sounds of footsteps could be heard approaching the table where Napoleon and Tiffania sat at. Robert de Gramont slammed his right hand on the table as he glared at Tiffania with unhidden hostility.
"There's no reason to trust you. You are an elf. A monster that can destroy us all. Your orphanage is likely a trap meant to lure and kill our soldiers."
"W-what? I…"
As Tiffania instinctively shuddered out of confusion, Napoleon closed his eyes. Meanwhile, Robert continued.
"So answer me, elf. What are you doing with an orphanage? Why do the villagers trust you to care for human children? No commoner could be that stupid, to trust children to a creature which uses human blood for your dark rituals."
"W-what? But that's not true!"
"Don't lie to me!"
Robert's left hand now slammed down on the table. The rest of the group began to murmur amongst themselves.
"You don't think I don't know the stories, elf? I know the stories about your kind perfectly well. I've heard about how you will fatten up human children in the dungeons of your temples, slaughter them on your holy days, and then use their blood and entrails as sacrifices to their gods. How did you hide your temple by the village? You used magic, did you not?"
"B-but…I…"
"Some kind of elven magic to convince that you wouldn't kill their children? Mind control? Hypnotism? Perhaps everyone in that village is your thrall, and could give you food if you wanted to and you're just trying to-"
"Gramont!"
Robert at first looked at Napoleon, but the Emperor had said nothing. He had continued to sit with his hands folded over his face, staring intently at Tiffania throughout the interrogation. The girl had all but broken down to deep tears as she covered her face with her hands. Instead, Julio stepped forward.
"Elf or not, that girl is a guest of your superior. Surely not all Tristanians treat their guests in such a manner?"
Robert's face flushed white at the mockery laden in Julio's remark.
"Are you mocking me, Romalian priest? You, of all people, should know that the elves are more dangerous than anyone! They must be treated with suspicion at all times!"
"Perhaps. It's true that they don't believe in Brimir, and that really is a problem. But that does not necessarily call for violence. Or maybe you would enjoy that? You do seem to have a habit of enjoying battle, given by your discussion today and that little incident at Jor-"
"You dare!" Robert roared as his right hand swung down.
But then he stopped. Before he could reach his wand, Napoleon had grabbed his arm before it could make a move. The Emperor stared directly into Gramont's eyes as he did so for a few moments. Then Robert moved his face, and without saying anything else, he tramped over to the rest of the lieutenants and sat down on a wooden chair with a huff. In the meantime, Napoleon turned back to Tiffania.
"The sun is setting, Tiffania. You should find somewhere to sleep for tonight. I can give you a decision by tomorrow."
The elven girl now openly sobbed out of fear, though she lifted her heads up at Napoleon's words. However, she shook her head as tears dripped down her cheeks.
"I-I need to get back to the orphanage. P-please, you have to help me."
"There's nothing to worry about, but you'll have to wait until morning as it's too dangerous. Is that all right?"
Tiffania hesitated for a bit, but then she nodded. Napoleon then looked back towards the men and waved Martin over.
"Find her a place in this camp for her to sleep, and I mean a proper place for a lady. I will check on her in the morning to make sure she's fine."
The soldier saluted, and with another gesture by Napoleon, he kindly escorted Tiffania out of her seat. The two walked out of the room, though Tiffania took great care not to make eye contact with the lieutenants and soldiers watching her. As the two left and the door closed after them, Robert spoke up.
"What are you planning to do with her, Captain? You're going to help her, are you not?"
"Yes, I am."
There was a tone of finality in Napoleon's voice, and Robert thus said nothing more. Napoleon glanced over at Stewart, who had chosen to stand at attention after Tiffania had left.
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you have any objection to helping an elven girl?"
"Not particularly. Do you want me to go help her?"
Napoleon shook his head.
"Pick out one of your better lieutenants, as well as 40 men. Get three day's rations for them as well as enough food from the supply trains to feed another 25 – no, make that 26 – for three days. If the situation is dire enough, tell him to evacuate the orphanage and protect the children and the elf."
Stewart nodded in approval and saluted, which Napoleon returned.
"That is all, then. Everyone is dismissed."
Upon those words, everyone began to file out of the building. Foucard and Martin whispered among themselves, but Napoleon could tell that they weren't discontent whisperings. Most of the soldiers, while definitely paranoid of elves, seemed willing to help an orphanage out, or at minimum follow their leader's orders.
However, one person stayed behind. Robert de Gramont remained, his arms folded and his expression filled with frustration at Napoleon's command.
"I don't understand what you're doing, sir. She's an elf! You can't trust her! What if she really will kill those men, what will we do then?"
"Then we will lose 40 men and a good lieutenant."
"Exactly! That's too high of a risk! There's no way we can-"
"Too high of a risk?"
A slight edge lingered on Napoleon's voice.
"You're one of my direct subordinates, Gramont. Yet you're unwilling to sacrifice 40 men for an objective?"
"B-but there is no objective! We don't gain anything by helping this orphanage out!"
"I don't think she's lying, to begin with."
"What?"
Robert stopped at the aside, but Napoleon continued.
"If she was lying, she would have done more under your questioning than babble like a moron. I doubt that girl's capable of lying at all. But even if I couldn't tell, I would still send the men. After all, if she's lying? I lose 40 men. If she's not? Then I gain the gratitude of a creature worth an army by herself. I'd say that's a fair tradeoff, wouldn't you, Robert?"
Even with that analysis, Robert still looked displeased.
"Are you saying that you intend to use an elf? To fight alongside us?"
"Of course," Napoleon countered smoothly. "We are in rather desperate straits, Robert de Gramont. We can use all the help we can get before we clash with Cromwell's army. Now please, depart. I have things to do."
Robert's expression still held suspicion and discontent, but he obeyed. With a snap of his heels, he saluted Napoleon and then left the room. Napoleon couldn't help but chuckle after the last of his generals had left.
"He really is a true Tristanian. His devotion to the faith of Brimir means that he's completely suspicious of Tiffania, but his stance as a loyal soldier means that he never suspected his superior officer for a second.
Ah well, it's not that important anyways. He'll find out when the right time comes. I don't think he'll have a problem anyways."
…
It's a fact of war that it's always the little luxuries that you miss the most when you're on the battlefield.
Oliver Cromwell could attest to that. He just wanted socks. Nice, clean, fresh socks which didn't have holes and which he could actually change out of. But no, he had not brought any socks with him on the night which they had prepared for the attack on Saxe-Gotha, and now they were marching to finish off the remnants of the Tristanian Army without time to collect fresh socks. It was really quite a shame.
He also didn't like the fact that his men so enthusiastically waved at him now. Part of him was grateful at the acknowledgment, and he fulfilled the proper role of a ruler as he waved back at them. But he couldn't help but think back to their faces the day before the attack on Saxe-Gotha. The day before the battle, he had played the role as the commander of the Albion forces. He marched in front of them and exhorted the need to defend their land from invaders and how anyone who died for the Holy Albion Republic in this battle would be remembered for eternity as brave heroes.
They hadn't cheered him, which he had been prepared for given how poorly this war had gone from the very beginning. But what they had done was worse. He noticed their faces throughout the speech, sullen, indifferent, without a care about whether they won or not. And to be ignored, to have his words go through one ear and out the other? That was a fate far worse than being booed by his men.
Now, after the victory they had achieved at Saxe-Gotha, they cheered him. But he couldn't forget those faces which had greeted him and which had frightened him even more than any time that Sheffield had been cross with him. Now he knew that to be a king was truly a terrifying, joyless affair. How could he have ever joked about the idea of wanting to be one?
"Is everything alright, Cromwell?"
He jumped with a start, but then realized that his secretary Sheffield had ridden up to him while he had reminisced, a calm smile on her face. In return, Cromwell faked a smile and shook his head towards her.
"Everything is fine, Sheffield. I don't believe I've thanked you enough for what you've done for our people. Your spell with the Ring of Andvari may have singlehandedly saved our kingdom."
"It was no problem," She responded in a gracious voice. "You know that it is now my duty to serve Albion and you to my fullest capabilities."
"Is that so?"
The words slipped out of Cromwell's mouth before he could think, and he cursed himself for being incapable of shoving them back in. Sheffield's eyes moved, but he quickly attempted to cut her off before she could think about their meaning too soon.
"Anyway, that was quite the fantastic magic there, Sheffield. How were you capable of accomplishing such a feat?"
The smile completely vanished from Sheffield's face, and her eyes now noticeably narrowed.
"It is a magic I learned from Rub al Khali, my faraway home. I do not think you will ever be capable of learning that magic for yourself, if that is what you are asking."
Cromwell nervously laughed at the cold statement.
"Of course, of course! I never intended such a thing. It just made me curious, that's all. Rub al Khali must truly be an interesting country! I should like to visit it someday."
Sheffield shook her head.
"It was only through a quirk of fate that I was able to cross the great desert which separates Helgekinia from Rub al Khali, Cromwell. Besides, a ruler does not have time to do such things."
There was nothing more said between them for a minute or two. Cromwell fidgeted about on his horse, while Sheffield remained expressionless, though she snuck small glances at the Albion leader every now and then.
"Cro-"
"Ah! General Wentworth is up there! I must speak to him about the plans for the war!"
Cutting Sheffield off, Cromwell gave a small wave to Sheffield before he kicked his horse and rode on ahead. He glanced behind himself at his secretary, who gave a wave back.
Nevertheless, the gesture brought no joy to Cromwell's heart. That conversation had only cemented his suspicions. He knew that without Sheffield and what she did to the Ring of Andvari, he never could have defeated the Tristanian army, but the more he thought about it, the less and less he liked it. He really didn't know anything about her. She told him that she came from that faraway land of Rub Al Khali, but who knows whether anything she said was true, especially since she never bothered to describe what that exotic country was like no matter how much he needled?
Even if she was telling the truth about that, he didn't know anything else. He didn't know her past, what she fought for, or even the magic that she had used to turn the Tristanian soldiers against their lord, as she intentionally remained vague to such inquiries. After all, Cromwell thought, people don't just give away entire kingdoms unless they have a very good reason, and yet he had no idea what that reason really was for Sheffield. True, she had talked about it being a stepping-stone for a later incursion into the Holy Land, yet the more he thought about it, the more he realized what an unlikely ideal that was. Who knew whether she was really working for Cromwell, or someone else? He didn't know. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that was bad.
As he rushed through his thoughts, Cromwell's horse finally caught up with Wentworth. He was a young dashing man, at least 30, who possessed a fine brown beard and enjoyed fancy uniforms. Ignoring the receiving salute, the ruler of Albion signaled the general to ride a little closer to him.
"What is it, your Excellency?"
Cromwell hesitated for a moment, and he threw one quick glance at Sheffield. As far as he could tell, she had continued to watch him intently while he had ridden ahead. That settled his decision. Nudging his horse, he moved even closer to his general and spoke to him in a voice just loud enough so that Wentworth could hear over the din of the marching army.
"I want you to take one of your spies and have him track Sheffield at all times. Tell him to report everything directly to me. Anything she does that's even remotely unusual, I want to know."
Wentworth blinked in confusion, and then turned and stared back at Sheffield for several long seconds. While Cromwell groaned in frustration at the suspicious movement, he resisted the urge to smack the head of the general, as that would have no doubt made things stranger and more suspicious for her. But at last, the general turned back towards Cromwell and nodded resolutely.
"Very well. It will be done by the end of the day."
Cromwell relaxed at those words, but then the general continued to talk.
"You also want to hear about the latest reports, do you not, Your Excellency?"
"Reports?" Cromwell paused on that word idly for a bit. "Oh, yes, the reports! About the war, of course. Against Tristain. That would be good to hear now."
The general decided to ignore Cromwell's confusion.
"We're currently about a day's march away from the village of New Cromwell. We believe that the enemy army is somewhere to the south of it, as there's a series of hills which can make for an excellent defensive position. Hopefully, the usage of our… new… soldiers can demoralize them."
The general lingered on that word with distaste. As useful as the spell was, Cromwell saw from his tone that Wentworth did not enjoy the magic which had turned the Tristanian soldiers against their comrades.
"What about Tristanian's fleet? What do we know about them?"
"As far as we know, they're resting at La Rochelle. They'll have to wait until their army arrived there to evacuate them given that they need to have a port to have them embark, and Tristania in general doesn't possess enough dragon knights to make a difference. Under the current circumstances, I don't believe that they'll play a factor in this next battle. It's just our army versus their army. No other reinforcements or anything like that."
Cromwell nodded in approval at those words.
"That's good. We'll end this war as needed. After that, we'll try to secure peace with Tristain."
"Are you sure about that course of action, sir? Tristanian will be in chaos once this army is destroyed and they learn of Henrietta's death, and Gallia will soon attack them as well. I do not believe we should seek a negotiated peace. Instead, we should attempt to re-invade Albion and liberate the country for the good of our Republic."
"We didn't declare war to conquer Tristain, general. We declared war because they wouldn't give up the Prince of Wales to our justice. We have captured him, and thus have fulfilled our objectives. If we attack in order to try to conquer all of Tristain, Germania won't idly sit by this time. Besides…"
Cromwell once again looked back on Sheffield for a moment before he turned back to the general.
"We have to make sure that the revolution at home first is truly secured from foreign enemies. That is my biggest responsibility as the protector of Albion."
…
Napoleon looked out at the setting sun, but he continued to grumble as he stood upon the top of one of the hills to the south of New Cromwell. There was so much to do, and so little time. It had been about a day and a half since he had discussed affairs with the elf, whom had recovered from Gramont's interrogation and her initial fears. Stewart had dispatched a small force with the elven girl to find her orphanage and secure the area, and while they ran the risk of running into the Albion army, the village and the orphanage were supposedly fairly isolated, making that unlikely.
But there were other problems. Destroying the entire general staff at Saxe-Gotha and replacing it with himself did pose severe military consequences. While he normally avoided a hierarchical, rigid system of command in favor of directing several independent armies, he didn't really have a choice here. He had recruited his men and lieutenants in an attempt to replicate the independent armies of his past, but there wasn't enough time before the battle. Even now, as he looked out of his telescope at the Albion army which now was only about 5 miles away from Tritstain's army, they had to figure out their own staff and loyalty and such matters. He would have to direct this personally to a larger degree than was normal for his commanding style.
A footstep tramped on the grass behind him, but instead of acknowledging the visitor, Napoleon only pulled out a map of the area and read over the terrain once again. It really was an exact replica of that battle so long ago, at the peak of his might, when he had battled a colossal Austrian and Russian force.
"What is it, Julio?"
The young Romalian priest bowed respectfully to Napoleon before taking a few steps forward.
"I'd like to reexamine our various roles in the battle one more time. Could you explain it to me again?"
Napoleon stared at Julio suspiciously for a bit. Then with a sigh, he knelt down on the hill and spread out the map. There were a series of drawings indicating the positions of the Tristanian and Albion forces.
"Stewart mentioned these hills which we're currently standing on, and advised us to form a defensive line around them, correct?"
Julio nodded in response.
"We will do no such thing. Tomorrow we will abandon these hills to the enemy."
Julio opened his mouth in confusion, but then shut it. That was interesting, Napoleon noted. He had met Julio during his examinations of the Tristanian while it had rested at Saxe-Gotha and instantly distrusted the boy. He was too smooth and too suave as his little jibes with Robert de Gramont proved, but the main problem Napoleon had was that Julio's loyalties didn't lie with Tristain or Albion. Instead, he worked as a priest under the Pope of Romalia, and had been apparently been dispatched by the Pope to minimize casualties. Still, he couldn't deny the boy's prodigious skill. The boy knew how to fight and map strategy, and also possessed considerable skill at riding dragons, something which Napoleon obviously possessed almost no knowledge about. And while the boy's initial loyalties had been a concerned, he had been shocked and horrified by the magic which Albion had been used as well as concerned about the fate of Princess Henrietta, and thus had committed himself temporarily to the service of Tristain.
"We will let the enemy have the hills, and will at the same time weaken our right flank who will hide behind a series of streams and river located behind the river. Cromwell is headstrong, and if Touraine is right, he will need to attack sooner rather than later anyways or risk the spell which controls our men collapsing. I will take advantage and invite an opening on our right flank."
"Then you intend to strike with your left flank as there won't be many Albion men left on the hill, correct?"
Napoleon looked up from the map as he noted Julio's observation.
"Not bad, Julio. That was a good strategic insight. Your master should feel proud."
Julio bowed at the compliments, but Napoleon chose to continue to speak.
"We'll retake the heights. That'll split the enemy in two between the group defending the heights and the group attacking our right flank. We'll demolish the enemy defending the heights. Then we will secure it and focus on destroying the last group with the bulk of our forces.
"I truly am impressed, Bonaparte. But how sure are you that it's going to work? It seems to be fairly complicated."
"It's not that difficult. In fact, it's one of my simpler plans, and more importantly, I've used it before, on a field called Austerlitz. But you said you wanted to know your role, right?"
Julio nodded in assent, but then he looked up from the map. Napoleon could hear the sound of approaching hoof beats, but he also heard a single person shouting along with the horse.
"Captain Bonaparte!"
It was Stewart. The subordinate galloped away on his horse and waved his hat with its feathery plume repeatedly as he attempted to attract his master's attention. Even from so far away, Napoleon could see the sweat beading down his neck.
"To the southwest! Look to the sky, the sky!"
Napoleon looked in that direction, and at first he could see nothing more than the clouds. But then he noticed some faint black specks coming from the setting sun. As Julio looked on in confusion, Napoleon opened his telescope and looked through it in that direction.
He could make them out be the flying ships which were so common to this land but which Napoleon still found to be so bizarre. But while Napoleon couldn't see any clear signs of a flag or insignia on the ships from this distance, it was strange.
"Stewart, our ships are docked in La Rochelle, which is to our southeast. And Albion doesn't have enough ships for us to worry about. So whose ships are coming from the southwest?"
"Gallia!"
Stewart finally managed to get his horse besides Napoleon and Julio, though he did not dismount.
"Those are Gallian ships!"
Napoleon continued to look in the telescope.
"Gallia. Stewart, do you know why they would be here?"
The new general shook his head.
"No, but it isn't good. Gallia's always been friendly to Albion, and they didn't condemn the Reconquista like all the other countries did. They could be fighting on the side of Albion! They could drive our fleet away, and then we would be trapped, or they could attack us here or-"
"Could."
"What?"
Napoleon's expression hadn't changed in the slightest from his news, which confused Stewart. This was a cause for panic. The Gallian ships were fully capable of destroying the Tristanian army. But his leader showed no more concern for this than if Stewart had ridden up to Napoleon telling him that one of his favorite pairs of boots went missing.
"They 'could' do that. Hold position. Do not attack the Gallian ships. I want to know what their intentions are first. Julio, return to your position and prepare for the retreat tomorrow."
Stewart gnashed his teeth together out of apprehension and worry, but both of Napoleon's lieutenants understood the importance of the chain of command. They saluted and left the scene, leaving Napoleon alone with his thoughts. It was only when Napoleon was sure that his subordinates could not see him that he stomped one foot on the ground.
…
"They came!"
Cromwell had been tired. Having arrived at the small village of New Cromwell, he had made himself comfortable in the Mayor's office and had finally procured some socks. But he had remained tired and exhausted this entire time, as he couldn't suppress the fear of the future battle. But with the latest news, he couldn't help but dance a little jig in delight. Gallia had come! He had sent the report of Henrietta's death directly to Joseph hoping that those news would finally persuade that lazy and flirtatious king to get out of his stupor and fight with his secret ally, and his plan had worked! A vast Gallian armada had shown up to help him defeat the remaining Tristanian forces! He had done something right, by himself, without any prodding or aid from Sheffield! At last, he showed his independence!
He wouldn't need Sheffield after they defeated the Tristanian forces, and he didn't trust her anyways. He'd have her executed. Yes, executed, not imprisoned. You couldn't trust a witch like her to remain in jail long anyways. And then he'd solidify his base of power, and make sure of the security of Albion, his country. Not Wales, not Sheffield, not anyone in the world! Albion belonged to him and him alone!
A messenger jumped into the room as Cromwell continued to dance.
"Your Excellency, His Majesty King Joseph of Gallia himself is here on those ships! He wishes to send you a message of greeting, and thus asks that you show your location."
The mayor of New Cromwell was a short fat corrupt little man, but Cromwell didn't mind as he had taken care to stock his office with fine liquors and wines which he now sampled. Tilting a bottle back into his mouth, he nodded to the messenger in an indication of approval for the request.
Even so, Cromwell's chest couldn't help but puff up with pride. Joseph had no doubt been difficult to work with, given his work ethic or rather lack thereof. But now on the battlefield, this king of possibly the mightiest nation in Helgekinia now acknowledged Cromwell as an equal. That truly was an indication of the success he had obtained as ruler of Albion.
He half danced, half lurched to the balcony of the Mayor's house and watched as the flag of the Holy Republic of Albion was raised in front. He couldn't help but giggle in delight as he continued to watch the incoming Gallian ships as they got closer and closer. In the far distance, he knew that the opposing enemy no doubt watched the spectacle of these Gallian ships as they sailed into Albion. He wondered what they thought. Perhaps as exhausted as they were, they would just throw their arms down and flee right there. That would be good. Then he wouldn't have to fight at all.
Gradually, gradually, the Albion ships flew into the village of New Cromwell and past the Tristanian army. Cromwell watched his army stationed nearby as they began to cheer the Gallian arrival.
BANG BANG BANG.
As he struggled to open a second bottle of wine, Cromwell couldn't help but grumble as someone loudly knocked on the door
"It's open, it's open," he cried out.
With another loud bang, the door to the office swung open. Wentworth stood in the threshold. His face was pale with shock and horror, and without a word he rushed up and grabbed Cromwell, whom instinctively latched onto his general's arms in return.
"W-what are you doing, man? Why are you panicking?"
The general abruptly let go of Cromwell and grabbed the desk. He was trembling throughout his body. Cromwell couldn't tell why.
"M-my spy… Sheffield…"
Sheffield, thought Cromwell through the haze of alcohol? Who was that? Oh, right, Sheffield. The secretary he intended to execute and who was no longer a threat.
"Oh, her? You have impeccable timing, Wentworth. I no longer need to worry about Sheffield in the slightest. Call off your spy. She's no longer a threat; I'll take care of her myself later."
"..."
Wentworth mumbled something which Cromwell couldn't hear. But even then, a sixth sense within his body slowly began to pierce a haze through the alcohol.
"I couldn't hear that, Wentworth. What's wrong?"
With that question, Wentworth lit up, and once again grabbed Cromwell.
"My spy tracked her! Followed her over the past day! And she rode off about four hours ago, and so he followed her.
AND SHE BOARDED A GALLIAN SHIP! Your Majesty, Sheffield's a spy of Gallia! We can't trust her! We can't trust Gallia! We need to get out of here now and get our army to-"
In his panic, Wentworth had continued forcing Cromwell back towards the balcony. And then the two looked at the Gallian ships. And in their shock and horror, they realized that dozens of them had arrived in New Cromwell, and their cannons were pointed directly at the Mayor's building where the Albion flag had been raised.
"Oh, no…"
Wentworth gasped out those words, but then he heard a small giggle from his master.
"Your Excellency?"
Cromwell's eyes lit up. With a single smooth gesture, he grabbed Wentworth's arms and tossed the general over the balcony. Wentworth flailed helplessly as he flew through the air, only to land in a cart of hay underneath.
"Ptooh! Ugh…"
Groaning and spitting clumps of hay and grass out of his mouth as he struggled to extricate himself from the cart, Wentworth looked up at the balcony. He saw that Cromwell was also looking down upon him, the leader of Albion's expression filled with a peculiar serenity.
"Get out of here, Wentworth. Your king commands you to live, for my sake as well as Albion!"
The tone of those words made it clear that it was not a request. It was an order, the last order given by the final leader of the Holy Republic of Albion. And Wentworth knew that it had to be obeyed, as he struggled out of the cart and dashed off. But even as he did so, he heard the last loud remarks of his master.
"I am Oliver Cromwell! Leader of the Holy Republic of Albion! I am nobody's puppet! Not Gallia, not Joseph's and not you, Sheffield!"
Cromwell extended his arms to the sky as he addressed the Gallian ships. For the first time in his life, his voice spoke without the slightest hint of the fear which had plagued his life.
"I will curse you both, traitors alike! Brimir will curse you! I do not know what you are after, but I swear that I will come back from the grave! And your dreams will turn into ashes, and your desires into dust! When you are destroyed, not by me, perhaps not by Albion, but by someone greater than you scum, remember my anger and my wrath!
AND CURSE THE DAY YOU WERE BORN, YOU-"
And then the cannons from dozens of Gallian ships fired upon the building where Cromwell stood.
The building was demolished in an instant.