"I have no choice but place myself at your mercy, my dear Marshal."
The Duke of Walloon, head of the 4th Tristanian family, a tall, muscular man with a well-trimmed black beard, threw up his hands in despair. While he was in a tent, not a speck of dirt rested on his lavishly red clothes. Across from him, Marshal Gramont sat in his wheelchair, a smile on his face from the joy of his final victory. At the table was the sign of Gramont's victory – the black king, cut off by a white knight and queen, with nowhere to run.
"There is no need for such dramatics, your grace." Robert de Gramont, the eldest son of the Gramont family, cut in. "It is only a chess game."
"Only a chess game?" The Duke laughed. "My dear boy, you know that no one's beaten your father in nearly ten years? Anyone who could outplay the Marshal would be quite the fearsome strategist, indeed. Perhaps you will someday outdo your father, Robert."
"I thank you for the praise, your grace, but such a thing is not possible. I have done the best to meet my father's expectations, but only meet. To surpass them? I am not there yet."
"Only because you push yourself too hard, my son." Marshal Gramont said. "A soldier should know how to relax and enjoy himself. It keeps the mind fresh, just like a long bath refreshes the body after a hard day at work. You could learn something from Vincent in that regard."
"You're telling me to learn to relax, and then you say I should learn it from my younger brother? Vincent is the last person who relaxes. He is always fighting, whether it's in duels, training for duels, or training for war. I must say that he is more intense than I am."
"He does it because it keeps him relaxed." The Marshal said. "I am not saying to be lazy, Robert. But you should indulge yourself from time to time. In between your religious commitments and your military drive, you will burn yourself out far too soon."
"Brimir will give him strength, Marshal." The Duke of Walloon cut in. "Robert's piety should be commended if anything. It shows his strong will and character. My son Leopold is similar. Your army and mine could use more men like him."
"Thank you, your grace." Robert said. "It is as Duke Walloon says, father. If you believe that Vincent's constant fighting can serve as a form of relaxation, then surely reading the holy texts can be another form?"
Duke Walloon and Robert chuckled at their small verbal victory, and the Marshal pouted in mock disappointment.
"Oh, enough." He threw up his hands. "I'll save this talk for later, but that game and this silly conversation have made me thirsty. Robert, bring me some water."
There was a decanter on a nearby table. Robert walked over and filled a glass, before he placed the drink right into his father's hand.
"Ah, thank you. I could use something a bit stronger, but I guess I will wait until after my supper. A good bottle of wine would help me – HACKKK!"
Gramont's words were cut off by a terrible fit of coughing. He doubled over on his wheelchair, emitting the most horrible noises. The Duke of Walloon leaped up.
"Marshal, what is the matter?"
But the general said nothing, his face growing red as a cherry. His face clearly alarmed, Robert hit his father on the back. One time. Two times. On the third blow, done with all of Robert's strength, Marshal Gramont gave a final wretch and a spurt of water splattered all over the chessboard.
"Cough, cough…Thank you son. It just went down the wrong hole, happens from time to time. I'm fine, I'm fine."
Marshal Gramont coughed for a little longer, each time more and more softly. Robert knelt down before him, his expression clearly concerned.
"Father." He said. "I hate to ask you again, but…"
"You want me to step down? Let you take control of the family?"
"No. Never. Not in a thousand years. But I am asking for command of the men just for the war. Are you sure you can-"
"This is my fight, son. I am the one who decided that the Gramonts would fight for Lady Valliere. I could have chosen to stay neutral like many of the other noble families like Touraine. I could have taken Guldenhorf's side. But I did not, and thus honor dictates that it is my responsibility to bear the burden. Not yours."
"But father, I've shown that I am capable. I can fight, I can lead your men to victory. To be perfectly blunt, father, you can no longer even ride a horse. You know that I am capable, so what is the problem?"
Marshal Gramont sighed and rubbed his head.
"Would you really like to know the truth, Robert?"
"Of course!"
"Very well, then." Gramont said. "The problem is that you love your brothers too much."
"What?" Robert cried. "What are you talking about? Of course I love my brothers. How could I not?"
"You know what I mean. Of course, you love Vincent, and Jean as well. But Robert, it was Guiche who you loved the most of all. It's Guiche who you were always worried about whenever you came home from fighting. And it's Guiche who's fighting for the Guldenhorfs – or rather, General Bonaparte"
"Are you saying that you do not trust me?!"
"If you still want me to be honest, son, I do not trust you completely." Marshal Gramont responded. "I do trust you a great deal – otherwise I would not even let you in this tent. But if you are to command my armies, Robert, I need to trust you completely. I'm sure that it will come. But not quite yet."
"I….understand." Robert said. "I understand, sir. But if not me, sir why not let Vincent command? Or Jean?"
"Don't be foolish. You know perfectly well why. Vincent is too hotblooded. He is a fine soldier, and perhaps when age has tempered the passions of youth he will make a good commander. But placing him in charge right now would be disastrous. He would fall for the first trap that the enemy would set, regardless of how obvious it would be. And Jean has never picked up a sword for any longer than he needs to.
No. In due time, Robert, you will succeed me to make a fine general. And that day will come soon. But not yet."
"Yes sir." Robert stood up. "But I will follow your orders to the end, Father. I promise in the next battle, to loyally obey your commands, do whatever you command of me, and defeat whoever you order me to. I swear it on my honor and in Brimir's name."
"In Brimir's name." The Duke of Walloon repeated. "That is good, Robert. So often these days the youth forget their loyalty to him. You have raised a good and pious son, General Gramont."
"Thank you, your grace." Robert said. "Father, would you please excuse me? I should like to go speak with Vincent and Jean for a moment."
Marshal Gramont nodded, and Robert left. Afterwards, the Duke of Walloon put a finger to his head, the numerous diamond rings on it dangling and clanking.
"How long will it take for Robert to gain your trust completely?"
"I plan to give him command of my forces after the upcoming battle." Marshal Gramont said. "The reality is…"
He picked up the white king from the chessboard and spun it in his hand.
"I just want one more match. Robert talks highly of General Bonaparte all the time, and it appears that he has left the city of Tristania to join up with Guldenhorf. If he is placed in command, I hope that he is as good as Robert claims – it has been a long time since anyone has threatened to break my 10 year streak."
"Are we speaking about war or chess here?" The Duke asked.
"Is there a difference? Because there really isn't." Marshal Gramont said. "Both war and chess are about maneuvering, about creating the best possible position from where to attack and force your opponent into a disadvantage. It's not so much about fighting, it's about being in a position to win even before the fighting has begun. That's what chess taught me, Walloon. It's how I defeated Germania at the Beuand River. And it's how I intend to win this war for Lady Valliere. Quick, clean, with a minimum of bloodshed. That is how war should be fought."
…
…
"Oh, move faster, will you, you lazy lump?"
A Gallian farmer on top of his cart grumbled as he kicked at his horse. The beast paid no heed whatsoever, hauling the farmer and his pickled vegetables along at his own pace, without a care in the world.
"Downright useless good for nothing, I ought to sell you for glue one of these days." He muttered. "Hey, are you all right back there?"
He shouted at a person who sat at the back of the cart, surrounded by the farmer's produce. He didn't know a whole lot about who he was carrying. He knew it was a girl from her voice from when she had asked him to take her along as he rode to the next town, offering a gold coin in exchange. But since then, she had kept her face hooded and had refused to speak a single word despite his attempts at conversation. Instead…
"Oh, we're just feeling right as rain, you hear me! I mean, sure we've been jostled around like sacks of cabbages and we're surrounded by these smelly vegetables and it's going to take forever to reach our destination and I don't know where we're going to stay tonight with the bandits around and-"
She had a sword. A talking sword. A talking sword that just wouldn't shut up. If the farmer had anything better to do, he would have given up trying to talk to the girl a long time ago, as every single one of his questions was met by the sword's incessant rambling. But well, if he couldn't talk to the girl…
"So, where did you learn to talk, sword? Did you have to learn it like children do, or have you always been able to do that?"
"My name is Derflinger!" The sword cried. "This is the third time I've told you that already, you country bumpkin! I am a great legendary sword, the least you could do is remember my name!"
"Really now? So just what makes you so legendary, Derflinger? Can you spit fire? Make your wielder fly? Heal any injury that your wielded gets? Or are you just legendary for that endless mouth of yours?"
"Oh, so you want to know what makes me so great? Well, I'll tell you! I was wielded a long time ago by-"
The sword's boasting was abruptly stopped by a slamming noise. From his seat in the front of the cart, the farmer couldn't tell just quite what had happened, but it sounded like the girl had slammed the sword back into its hilt.
"Guess even she got tired of him blabbering along like that," he muttered to himself. "Still, a talking sword? Must be some crazy new magic, because I've never seen anything that could make a sword talk. Maybe there's magic out there that can make you understand me, you stupid beast?"
He kicked at his horse again, but it shrugged off the blow. Oh well, the farmer grumbled. He would probably reach the next town in a few hours, let the girl off, and could attempt to sell his produce there. The crop had been pretty good this year, so it shouldn't be too much trouble. If he got lucky, he might be able to get enough to buy a new pan for his wife, and a bracelet for his daughter, and-
"Hey, farmer, you want to know what makes me legendary?"
The farmer's reverie was abruptly broken off by the sword's shouting. Shaking his head in irritation, he looked back as well as he could.
"Sure, go ahead!" The farmer yelled out. "You think of something clever to say?"
"No, not exactly." Derflinger said, his tone a bit colder. "It's just that in between those two trees you're about to pass, there's a magical rune there that will kill your horse."
"WHAT?!"
The farmer pulled up his cart sharply, and thankfully this time his horse listened to him. Guess it didn't mind following his orders when he wanted him to stop, huh?
"Hey, is this a bad joke?" He shouted back. "There's nothing there at all! If this is your way at getting back at me, you can start walking right now!"
"No joke."
This time, it was the girl who had spoken. She leapt down from the cart, a large wooden staff in one hand and Derflinger strapped to her side. The hood fell from her face as she jumped, and the farmer couldn't help but be surprised. She wore glasses, which was rare enough, but it was the blue hair that was really surprising. It wasn't entirely unheard of, but there were very few people outside the Gallian Royal Family who had that hair color.
The girl walked past the farmer's cart and went up the path for a bit. Then, she stopped right before the two trees that the sword had pointed out and knelt on the ground. The farmer heard her mutter something, and then saw a circle flash for a moment, before it disappeared. Had she just used magic? Then-
"You must be a noble." He said. "Terrible apologies, my lady. If I had known, I wouldn't have let you ride among those vegetables. If you don't mind-"
The girl ignored the farmer, but raised a finger up to her lips. He instantly shut up, as he realized what she was implying. Someone must have laid this trap for a reason. Were there bandits around?
BANG.
The sound of a gun firing was heard, and then the farmer felt something whizz just past his chest. Realizing the grave danger he was in, he jumped off the cart and hid behind it, away from whomever had just fired.
"Oh, good grief, Michael, how did you miss? He was right in front of you!"
A voice could be heard from the forest. So there was more than one of them, the farmer realized.
"Oh, like 'sorry' is just going to cut it. Come on, let's get out there."
Four men rushed out of the woods. Three of them carried swords, but the last one, a bearded redhead, was holding a wand. The girl stood between the three of them and the cart.
"Well, hello there, cutie." The mage leered. "What's a pretty girl like you doing on this cart? You must be the one who disarmed my trap then with that huge staff of yours."
He licked his lips, but the bandit's companions looked at each other nervously.
"So, Captain." One of them asked. "I guess you want us to leave you alone?"
"Of course, Michael. Most of the time I'm stuck fighting common mercenary scum, but this girl is special. It's been a long time since I dealt with another mage. You three, take the goods while I keep her busy-"
"Windy Icicle."
The girl suddenly cast a spell, and a spear of ice shot out of her wooden staff and towards "Captain." But it was blocked by a magic circle which appeared out of nowhere.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." The other mage said. "Attacking without warning? That's not very ladylike of you. Luckily for me, you can't harm me with your attacks!"
As the farmer watched in horror through the cart wheels, the man's skin glowed a fierce red. It appeared that his skin was inscribed with runes which protected him. From the farmer's highly limited knowledge of magic, that was powerful magic. What was a man like him doing attacking his little vegetable cart? Had he not prayed to Brimir enough?
Captain waved his wand, and all of a sudden a pillar of earth erupted from the ground around the girl, seeking to imprison her inside a dome. But she slashed with her staff, and her ice magic destroyed the earth attack. She fired off yet another spear, but this time it just bounced off the man's skin without inflicting the slightest harm.
"Is that the best you can do?"
While the girl and the bandit traded magical spells, the other bandits rushed over to the cart and began to grab everything that they could carry. Fortunately for the farmer, they seemed to not notice him cowering on the other side of the cart.
"Hm, not bad. Your magic might be stronger than mine." Captain muttered. "But you've got no way of breaking down my runes, and in the meantime my men will take everything you own. And don't try attacking them, I'll protect them from any of your attacks."
The girl said nothing in response. But she moved the staff to her left hand and then drew her sword.
"What's this?" Her opponent grinned. "You're planning to attack me with that rusty piece of horse dung instead? Please. Do you think I'm not protected from blades?"
"Derflinger?" She said.
"With pleasure!" The sword cried out. It shone brightly, and a strange vortex seemed to emanate from it. The vortex latched onto the bandit, and as he watched in horror, it seemed to absorb his magic. His skin turned from that freakish red color to a more normal pink.
"What the – how in Brimir's name?"
The mage's hand shook as he sought to recast the runes, but by then it was too late. The girl rushed up to him and sliced the wand in two.
"H-hey, hold on!" The bandit cried. "You don't want to be too hasty, right? I mean, killing is a sin, you know? If you can just let me go, I promise not to steal again. Just don't – ARRRRGGGGHHHH!"
Without listening to his pleading, the girl stabbed the bandit in the belly. There was another slash, and the bandit fell to the ground, his life essence draining away.
"CAPTAIN!"
The other bandits cried out in horror at seeing their leader so effortlessly destroyed, but this time, the girl pointed her staff at them. None of them dared to move, dared to attack such a powerful mage.
"Drop your goods." The girl quietly said.
Almost as if they were holding kittens, the men set down the stolen vegetables. They turned back towards the girl, their eyes visibly pleading for their lives.
The girl's staff nudged in the direction of the woods, and the bandits got the hint. Without even sparing a last glance at their dying leader, they dashed off into the woods. The girl bent down and used the grass to wipe Derflinger clean.
"Ah, much better." He said. "You've gotten much better at handling me over the past few months, Tabitha. Now, where did that farmer get to?"
Slowly, steadily, the farmer came into view. He looked at Tabitha, then back to the now dead mage, and then back to her again.
"Your name is Tabitha?" He said. "You saved my life and my produce, and you are also a noble. Forgive me, my lady. I cannot hope to repay you in return for your kindness, but name anything from me, and I swear I'll do what I can."
Tabitha said nothing at first. She clambered back into the cart, and for a moment the farmer thought that she simply wanted him to just get going. But then she came back, this time holding a map. She unfolded it in front of the farmer, and pointed.
"Lutece?" The farmer asked. "The Gallian capital? You want to head there?"
The girl nodded. The farmer scratched his chin.
"You mind if I ask why you want to go there?"
This time, she just stared at him. The farmer sighed in response.
"That's quite a distance. I originally promised to just take you along until I arrived at the next village, and Lutece is four days from there, assuming the roads are good – and they never are. But I made a promise, and I don't intend to go back on my word.
Tell you what, my lady. I want to stop at the village and sell my produce. Once I do that, I'll take you over to Lutece. Do we have a bargain?"
He stuck a hand towards her. She hesitated a moment, but then Tabitha finally took it and shook it.
"All right then." The farmer said. "Well, let's get back on the road. This stupid horse isn't going to get going without another good kick, and at least now I know I won't need to worry about any bandits with you around."
…
…
The Grand Duke of Guldenhorf rested his hands together as he thought in his tent. He was bedecked in a splendid dark green robe, with the symbol of his family emblazoned on the back. A yellow sun, with a lightning bolt below it. When the Guldenhorfs were a small noble family a long time ago, the legend went, another nearby more powerful nobleman had conspired to seize their then small lands. The Guldenhorf had been forced to retreat to their castle, but on the very first day that the nobleman laid siege, he had been struck dead by lightning on a clear day. The nobleman's soldiers defected in mass upon seeing such a clear sign from Brimir that he favored the Guldenhorf family, and they had grown steadily more powerful each generation.
It's not like he needed a miracle like a lightning bolt right this moment. In fact, there was not that much to be concerned about. While it was true that the Vallieres were the first family, and thus normally the strongest of all, they had assisted in the invasion of Albion while Guldenhorf had stayed out, meaning that his soldiers had not been depleted unlike Karin. On top of that, while the Vallieres did hold far more territory, the Guldenhorfs were wealthy. Fabulously wealthy. Both Tristania and the port city of La Rochelle were far closer to Guldenhorf lands than they were to the Vallieres, meaning that his lands had boomed from trade, a nice cut which went directly to the Grand Duke's coffers. He wanted to do his best to keep Guldenhorf money as a reserve, but in due time, he could field quite a sizable mercenary army.
But still…
Guldenhorf looked at a map of the country. He had split his forces in two. The Grand Duke had a younger brother, and he was currently in the eastern part of Guldenhorf territory, keeping an eye on any Valliere movement with a smaller force. Wardes had sent Guldenhorf a message that he would be keeping the Lady Valliere distracted for some time, meaning that Guldenhorf did not need to worry too much, but one could never be too careful. While his brother was in the East, Guldenhorf had chosen to march south on both Gramont, Walloon, and the other families supporting the Vallieres. He was currently in the southwest part of Tristain – nearly a week's march from his own lands in the north and four days from Tristania to the northeast. But he had failed to move fast enough. The armies of Gramont and Walloon had linked together. Combined, they were in fact still slightly smaller than his own army. But with General Gramont…
Guldenhorf shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He really hadn't planned for that. Given the Marshall's age and infirmity, Guldenhorf had guessed that the Marshall would let his eldest son, Robert de Gramont, command the combined armies. Robert was certainly a capable soldier. He had a very solid record, especially in organizing the retreat at the Disaster at Saxe-Gotha where Her Majesty had died at the hands of the Albion forces. But it was only solid. It didn't inspire the fear and awe which Robert's father created in the hearts and minds of his friends and enemies alike. It was General Gramont, after all, who had been called to defend the realm when Germania had attacked over forty years ago. It was then that he had defeated, at the Battle of the Beuand River, a Germanian force over twenty times his size. Guldenhorf wouldn't deny that he was nervous about the prospect of facing him – it was the reason he had ordered General Bonaparte to come, after all. In case Guldenhorf lost, it would be important that his puppet be around to take the blame.
A guard rushed into the tent.
"My lord." He said, kneeling on one knee. "There is someone here to see you."
"General Bonaparte, is it?" Guldenhorf softly said. "About time. I sent for him nine days ago, and he only finally arrives. Bring him to my tent at once."
"Pardon, my lord?" The guard responded. "It is not General Bonaparte."
"What? Then who is it? And why should I pay attention to whoever he is?"
"She, my lord."
She? Guldenhorf could only think of one woman who would demand an audience from him. But Karin was away deal with Wardes. Even if her business had already concluded, there was no way she could make it all the way to western Tristain so quickly, and there was not another woman who would demand an audience besides-
Oh.
"You mean?" Guldenhorf sighed.
"Yes. She is here." The guard said.
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. What was she thinking? But there was nothing that Guldenhorf could do at this point.
"Very well. Tell Beatrice that she can come see me."
The guard nodded and left the tent. A short while later…
"FATHER!"
A young girl of 15 years old rushed into the tent. Her hair was also blond like her father, though it was done up in two large twintails. An escort of four armored knights, the sun and lightning of Guldenhorf on their chests, followed her.
"Leave us."
With a wave of his hand, the Grand Duke dismissed Beatrice's escort. She grinned and kissed him on the cheek
"Are you pleased to see me, Father?" She beamed. "It feels like forever since I last saw you."
"It hasn't been that long, Beatrice. We spoke right before the last conference, just before this war began. And you were supposed to go back to the Academy. So while I am always happy to see you, Beatrice, what do you think you're doing here? Why did you leave?"
"You sent me back before the war began, but that changed everything." Beatrice answered. "I wanted to see the war. I wanted to see the soldiers. I should get some experience with fighting, the way I see it, and who knows when I will get another chance."
"Beatrice." The Duke sighed. "War is not something you can visit like you're going on a picnic lunch. It's a bloody, serious business, and this war is particularly. The Guldenhorfs could become the greatest family in Tristania and could with some luck, rule Tristain for at least the next hundred years. Or we could lose it all. The stakes are far too high for you to go traipsing around."
"Well, if the stakes are so high, then I should be here." Beatrice said. "I am your heir, am I not, Father? If this war is so important to the family, why should I not watch and learn, if not take part myself?"
"You may be the heir, but you still need to learn more about the feminine arts, Beatrice. How to dance, to sing, to make polite conversation. You need to be more lady-like."
"Matilda can learn that." Beatrice shrugged. "My younger sister can learn those arts, while I run the family. That is, unless…"
She narrowed her eyes, and the Duke grumbled in response. He knew what she meant by that trailed off sentence. Even if she was complaining now, Beatrice did love her father, and her mother, and her younger sister, and would obey her father's wishes. But that didn't mean she loved everyone in the family.
"I have told you, Beatrice. I have told you a thousand times, and I will tell you a thousand times more. Yes, William was to be my heir. But he betrayed the Guldenhorf honor when he eloped with that commoner. I have utterly no intention of seeing him rule the family. None."
"If you were to forgive him…"
"Yes, he would become the heir, Beatrice. He is older than you, and he is a boy. But I will never legitimize him. I swear it on the Guldenhorf name, my own life, and the souls of my father and mother. Do you understand?"
Beatrice said nothing at first, but she finally nodded. She understood. For now. But it was always just a temporary thing. The next time she got told to act more ladylike, she would begin to suspect her father again.
The minute I am gone, the Grand Duke thought, she will almost certainly have him assassinated. Well, there is nothing I can do about that. Still, I guess she's right. If she is here, she might as well learn.
"Anyways," He continued. "I guess there's nothing for it. I will not send you back to the academy, Beatrice. You are free to roam around as you please and do what you will."
"Thank you, Father!" His daughter cried.
"But," Guldenhorf said, "I will expect you back here every day for supper. And I will ask you about what you have seen and learned. Every single day. Do you understand?"
Beatrice nodded. But at that very moment, the guard came in again.
"My lord, General Bonaparte has arrived."
"He has? Finally?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Well, send him in." Guldenhorf said as he reached for a wineglass.
"About that, my lord?"
"Yes?"
"General Bonaparte insists that you come see him."
Guldenhorf picked up the wineglass in both of his hands. He spun the top around in his left hand, in no mild surprise.
"He insists, you say?"
"Yes, my lord."
"W-what impudence!" Beatrice sputtered. "How dare General Bonaparte make demands of my father?! Is he not just a commoner?"
"Stop, Beatrice." The Grand Duke cut in with a smile. "General Bonaparte insists? Well, it's a harmless enough request from someone who thinks he's more important than he really is. I have been sitting in this tent for too long, a little exercise on my horse wouldn't hurt. Do you know where he is?"
The guard nodded.
"Very well then." The Grand Duke stood up. "Take me to him. Beatrice, I would like you to come along."
"I would have come even if you hadn't wanted me to." Beatrice cackled. "Does the Zero always follow him around like a lap dog? It would be nice to meet a classmate after leaving the Academy."
…
…
Napoleon Bonaparte waited on his horse on top of a hill. Captain Stewart rode alongside him, alongside about 30 cavalrymen. Louise waited behind him, and behind him, his column of soldiers rested by the road. It had been a tough three days of marches, one which had pushed even Napoleon hard. But if he was going to get his men used to the tough, rapid, disciplined marches that he liked, he had better start now.
"Here he comes." Stewart observed. "Guldenhorf doesn't have much of a bodyguard escorting him."
Napoleon had camped about ten minutes away from Guldenhorf's camp, and the streaming of banners, namely the yellow sun and lightning, could be seen waving over the numerous tents. From there, seven horsemen rode towards Napoleon. As they rode closer, Napoleon could see the Duke of Guldenhorf, five armored knights, and then a girl around Louise's age. If the similar hair color was any indication, then she was likely the Duke of Guldenhorf's daughter.
"Louise." He asked. "Do you know that girl?"
Louise rode up and looked at the riding figures. She drew in her breath, and her eyes narrowed.
"Beatrice." She muttered. "That over-pompous prig."
Napoleon would have asked what she meant by that, but at that point, Guldenhorf and his escort reached the base of the hill. As he watched, they rode up the small hill next to Napoleon and arrived, though Napoleon still sat above them. Beatrice was alongside her father, and their bodyguards were behind them.
"General Bonaparte." The Duke of Guldenhorf said. "It is a pleasure that you have finally arrived. I am glad to see that you have the time to answer my summons. I was afraid you were too busy managing the drunks and thieves of Tristania, but there is a war to be fought."
"I was administering justice." Napoleon responded. "If it requires managing drunks and thieves, then so be it. Surely Brimir will not grant victory to the unjust."
"A wise statement. You clearly know Brimir well." Guldenhorf answered. "May I introduce you to my daughter, Beatrice? I should also like to show you my Luft Panzer Ritter, knights who are sworn to follow me to the death."
Guldenhorf raised a hand, and one of the knights dismounted. He pulled out his weapon, an oaken staff with a metal tip of sorts. It was peculiarly shaped, like a bent "E", with circles in places of where the points would be.
"I would advise you to close your eyes, General." Guldenhorf whispered.
Napoleon did not. He watched as the knight twirled his staff around his body, once, twice, thrice. Then he pointed it at a tree, and shouted a word which Bonaparte could not understand.
BZZAAAAAAP!
A lightning bolt shot from the knight's staff and turned the tree to a scorched ruin. Guldenhorf looked at Napoleon.
"Fairly impressive, is it not?"
"It suits your sign." Napoleon coolly said. "Tell me, do all of these knights possess that ability?"
"These men here do, who are sworn to protect me with their lives. But pardon me, General Bonaparte, where are my manners? You and your men must be tired. I believe I have a suitable location for your men to camp, right next to our men. There is a nearby stream and some trees to chop firewood."
"Sorry, Duke Guldenhorf." Captain Stewart cut in. "I believe we will want to find our own place. Not yours."
Guldenhorf wheeled his horse around towards Stewart.
"And who might you be? Certainly no noble, judging from your dress. At minimum, you should address me as 'my lord.'"
Stewart did not appear to be cowed in the slightest by Guldenhorf. Instead, he reached into a pouch, and pulled out some tobacco and a strip of paper.
"Captain Jacques Edouard Bernard Stewart at your service." He responded, rolling a cigarette all the while. "Your offer may be good and all, Duke Guldenhorf, but I want to see if there's anything better. Perhaps something a little farther away from your camp."
"A little farther away? What exactly are you implying?"
"I don't imply anything, Duke Guldenhorf, I speak straight. The fact is that I'm not willing to tru-"
"Stewart!" Napoleon declared. "That's enough!"
Stewart looked over at Napoleon, but Napoleon looked over at Guldenhorf.
"Pardon Captain Stewart. I would be willing to take up camp at your location, without a moment's delay."
"R-really?" Guldenhorf said. "Surely you would like to inspect the area first?"
"Why? I trust that you picked out a suitable area for my soldiers to rest in, have you not? We are allies against a common cause, my lord. It seems proper that we should work together."
"Y-yes…well, that is so…"
"Of course, it would be best for my men to receive some food after they set up camp. My men are tired and hungry, and we did not bring much food in my haste to join forces with you. Would that be fine, my lord?"
"Fine, sure." The Grand Duke snapped irritably. "It is good to see that you have arrived. Tomorrow, I should like to meet up with you. There are other noble families here, who will want your presence as we discuss how to defeat Gramont and Walloon. Count Kundera in particular will be pleased to see you again."
With a wave of his hand, Guldenhorf and his men turned around and rode back. Captain Stewart glared at Bonaparte, but the general just smiled.
He knew why Captain Stewart was upset. Guldenhorf had clearly offered him the spot to at best, keep an eye on him and at worst, to attack him. Stewart had foreseen that. He likely would have picked a spot further away from Guldenhorf to prevent that situation. But that was Stewart's weakness. He frequently failed to grasp the big picture.
Sure, Guldenhorf would be able to monitor Napoleon, but Napoleon would be able to monitor Guldenhorf as well. No doubt Guldenhorf thought himself to be oh so clever by putting Napoleon there, but the reality was that it wasn't a major concession for Napoleon. It would not necessarily be an optimal location despite whatever Guldenhorf had tried to claim; but as Napoleon had arrived here after Guldenhorf, no doubt the Grand Duke had already taken all the optimal locations. The Grand Duke's location was probably not great, but it was highly unlikely that it was someplace truly terrible, as he had to anticipate that Napoleon would demand to inspect the place first.
In addition to all that, by readily and easily agreeing to what Guldenhorf had proposed and without preconditions, Napoleon had taken the winds right out of Guldenhorf's sails. Guldenhorf, with his demonstration of his Luft Panzer Ritter, was clearly irritated by Napoleon's demand that he come meet him and had come anticipating a fight or an argument of sorts. When Napoleon refused to give him one, Guldenhorf didn't know what to do. He was so befuddled that he had readily agreed to give Napoleon needed supplies of food, something he would have never done if Napoleon had argued with him about the camp's location. Napoleon had given up little, and managed to secure needed supplies with a smile and a refusal to argue, which was far better than what Stewart would have done. He couldn't help but grin as he watched the six horsemen ride back down the hill.
Hold on a moment. Six? The knights were there, and so was the Duke. But where was his daughter?
"Hoooohh. It's been a while, Zero. So what have you been doing these days?"
Beatrice had ridden up in front of Louise. The two girls glared daggers at one another.
"Nothing that matters to you, Beatrice. I'm surprised you would leave the Academy. Your groupies chose not to follow you out here to the battlefield?"
"My friends, Louise. No, they couldn't come. Fortunately, I got father's permission to come out here since I'm going to inherit everything he owns some day. Unlike a certain girl who got kicked out of her own family for being a failure."
"Well, if your father is the one who gave you permission, why don't you go crawl behind his back? Or did you not notice he left?"
"Bahahahahaha!" Beatrice laughed. "Oh, you have to be kidding me! You, Louise? You, of all people telling me to stop waving my father as a shield? Do I have to go over every single time in your past, every single class where you'd blow everything up and you would then go crying that we all couldn't laugh at you because you were a Valliere? There's an old saying about pots and kettles, you know!"
"Why you!" Louise grinded her teeth. "I challenge you to a duel!"
"And I decline. Why should I duel with someone who's no longer a noble? Instead, I'll be off. It was so good chatting with you again, Zero."
With another final laugh, Beatrice wheeled her horse around and rode back down the hill. Louise ground her teeth, but said nothing back. Napoleon rode up to her.
"Another one of your rivals at the Academy? I never heard or saw her when I was there."
"She was away a lot." Louise said. "Whenever her daddy wants her around, she leaves for some reason or another. And she's not my rival, Napoleon."
"Really? Seemed fairly heated to me."
"Kirche was my rival. Beatrice is my enemy. I wanted to surpass the former. I want to destroy the latter, that pompous, spoiled prig. She looks down on everyone, treats them like her servants, and has a bunch of "friends" who will do whatever nasty thing she wants them to do."
Sounds like someone I used to know. Napoleon thought. Someone who made me try to dress her the first day she summoned me to this world. Well, except for the part about having friends.
Needless to say, Napoleon kept that thought to himself. But he couldn't help but think. If he hadn't been summoned, if someone else had, an ordinary person perhaps, would Louise have changed? And really, would she have been all that different from that arrogant blonde girl riding back to the camp?
He brushed off the thought. It was an idle and pointless speculation. There was no reason to waste his time thinking of what might have been – given that he had done in his life, he could spend several lifetimes wondering about that. He looked over at Captain Stewart, who was puffing away on his cigarette.
"Have the men set up camp at the location which Guldenhorf provided for us. I intend to take some time getting the lay of the land, as well as the nature of Guldenhorf's forces. Louise, I want you to come along with me."
Stewart saluted. The men began to march south towards Guldenhorf's camp. Napoleon however rode south-east, Louise following him.
"Where are we going?" She asked.
"The first rule of war is to know the terrain. I am sure that Guldenhorf have maps which he will give me tomorrow during the war council, but there is no substitute for personally looking at it. Gramont and Walloon are likely south-east of Guldenhorf's camp, so let's take a look at what we can find."
And with those words, Napoleon spurred his horse on faster, climbing up the mountains to analyze the likely future battlefield.
…
…
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The young man struggled on his knees, vomiting blood all the while.
W-where….am I? What happened? I….I was walking and….there was that thing and-
"Argghhhh…ahhh..."
He screamed again and spat out more blood. It was bad. Very bad. He had been out on his free day. On the streets, having picked up the latest magazine in the middle of the day. And then it had turned dark. All of a sudden he had been swallowed by some unavoidable blackness which had grabbed him off the streets before he could even breathe.
It was still dark, but not as dark as that horrible blackness. But it was cold. Somehow, the man could tell, he was underground. But how was that possible? He had just been, not 30 seconds ago, wandering outside. It was a warm sunny day, he was enjoying himself and-
"BLECH"
His legs completely gave way, and he vomited more blood. He tried to raise his hand to cover his mouth, but his arm did not respond. It was almost as if it had been cut off.
No, he realized as he craned his head as little as he could move it, his arms were there. Both of them. They just refused to move as he lay there, bleeding uncontrollably from his mouth. And now that he realized it, a portion of his chest on the right side was missing as well. It was as if the blackness which had swallowed him had taken a bite out of him there, a bite which caused him to lie in a pool of his own blood.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The young man heard a sound. Something…hitting the floor. A few moments later, he could feel someone's presence standing above him. Another man, it seemed. But drained and weak as he was, he could only tilt his head slightly, not enough to see anything else about him.
"Hmmmmm. Well, he is alive, at least, for now. So it is not a complete failure."
The person walked forward, and then the man felt a rod or perhaps a cane of some kind push him around onto his back. He groaned in pain from the impact. Even on his back, the other person was standing just outside his vision. He could see that he was wearing robes of some kind, but nothing more.
"You're missing a lung." He heard the voice speak. "Parts of your spine, perhaps. Definitely your stomach, that's why you're coughing up blood like that."
The boy tried to open his mouth, to ask so many questions. What had happened to him, where he was, who was speaking to him. But all he did was cough up another mouthful of blood. It spattered on the person's robes, but he did not react at all to that.
"A pity. Perhaps if Touraine was around, he could heal this, but this is well beyond my meager capacities. I shall have to try again at a later date, when I am not preoccupied with other matters."
He leaned forward and began to prod the boy again. The boy tried to protest and swat the cane away, but his arms still refused to move, and the blood leaking out of his mouth kept him from speaking. He finally gave up and let the stranger do as he pleased.
"Hm?"
There was brief flash of light on the boy's left hand. The person jumped down onto one knee and grasped it. Even though he couldn't see the person's face, the boy could feel how intensely he was staring at his left hand.
"It was only for a second…" he heard. "But it happened again, even though it should be impossible. There's already another who has those, but the signs, they're not without precedent. The man with the green hair, that other one with the golden-brown eyes…there's been a few people who have had that marking as well."
The person stood up and began muttering to himself. The boy slowly managed to turn his left wrist around and look at it. He could see nothing on it. But even so, the person above him continued to mumble.
"Blast it!" he finally grumbled. "There has to be a pattern behind it. Most of them are already dead when they arrive. But a few manage to live, though they end up dying soon. And then a few of those who manage to live have that mark. Why can they have it? Why is it always that mark when there is already another? And what is the secret I'm missing?"
The person turned around and began to limp off. The boy couldn't believe it. This person was clearly the reason why he was in this state, barely able to move and bleeding everywhere. Was he going to abandon him like this? To die? This couldn't happen, this couldn't happen to him, this couldn't happen to him!
"Help!"
It was a short yelp, all he could say before the inflow of blood once again prevented him from talking. But it had caught the person's attention. He looked back at him.
"Help, you say?"
He made no move to actually do so, but at the same time he did not turn away. The person just stood there for several moments more, before he finally spoke up.
"I cannot save your life, boy, if that is what you are asking for. Your injuries are too grievous. It would require a truly great Water mage to save your life, and even if there was one nearby, there is no way I would let anyone else in here anyways. It would not be in my best interests, especially given what's about to transpire."
Water mage? The boy thought. What are you talking about? Just get an ambulance! And call my mother, she needs to know-
"But I can help you, boy. I can grant your death, and thus your life, meaning, a far better end than leaving you to bleed out your last moments in this world, not even knowing where you are. To die with purpose. It is something which so many people in this world have sought their entire lives and failed to achieve. Be honored."
Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap.
He hit the floor with the rod he had been poking the man with. The sounds echoed to form a pattern in the room.
"Feed."
Nothing happened for a moment. Then the man heard a sound.
THUD
Of something…incredibly huge. It sounded like an elephant walking. Panicking, the boy turned his head towards the direction of the sound…
And didn't even have time to try to scream.
The last thing the boy saw was a streak of white as it dashed towards him.
The last thing the boy felt was its teeth sinking into the back of his neck.
Munch munch.
Crunch crunch.
Gobble gobble.
Gulp.