…
…
"There is no value in anything until it is finished."
Genghis Khan, of The Mongol Empire.
…
…
"Prince Leopold Katwijk Marie-Amierre de Walloon. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."
"As am I, Your Holiness."
The Prince of Walloon courteously genuflected before the Pope of Romalia. Prince Leopold was a dark haired man, cold-eyed but handsome and with a chiseled jaw, clad in granite-hued armor bearing the red lion Walloon coat-of-arms over his breastplate. Contrary to his fierce appearance he had a gentle, polite voice. The Pope could not help but give a small chuckle, as he warmly beckoned the prince.
"Oh, let us drop the honorifics here. You are senior to me in age and we are not very different anyway. Perhaps the Papal duties have robbed me of much of my youth."
"Not so, Your Holiness."
The Pope smiled. "Well, Leopold. Is there any way I can help you? I'm sure you've come a long way from Tristain and it's not simply to take a stroll in my beautiful city."
"There's a war in the making back in Tristain," the Prince of Walloon said. "Perhaps it has already broken out. I'm certain of it. The Duke of Walloon has asked me to heed your concern, Pope Vittorio. Since the death of Her Majesty Henrietta and her mother the former Queen, may Brimir rest them in peace, much has happened in the kingdom."
"Indeed. I am informed of that."
"A schism has formed between the nobility, and these two factions are locked in a bid to contest the Crown and throne of Tristania. I grimace at this sight, Your Holiness, after all is it not the will of Brimir that only those of royal blood may possess the Crown? And since the death of the remaining direct descents of the royal family, there is only one other family with the proper lineage to ascend to the throne and inherit the Crown."
"It is the Vallieres, isn't it?"
The prince nodded.
"Your Holiness, the Duke of Walloon has committed to support Lady Karin Desiree de la Valliere in taking her rightful place as heir to the throne and the Queen of Tristain. Of the five great families, the Gramonts and the Montmorencys have also allied themselves with the Vallieres. Only the Grand Duke of Guldenhorf, and Lord Wardes the Elder and several other less prominent nobles have refused to acknowledge Lady Valliere's right."
"It is the will of Brimir. The opposition, I mean."
The Pope turned away, seemingly detached for a moment.
"Pardon, Your Holiness?"
The Prince of Walloon was slightly puzzled by this remark. But the Pope turned to him again.
"Leopold, have you ever wondered why the Vallieres have not been met with unanimous support if they are truly the rightful heir to the Crown of Tristain? If Brimir, in his benevolence, has bestowed the Vallieres the right to rule through their bloodline which is of the only royal descent remaining in the kingdom - and he has, I'm quite certain of it - why does some of the nobility contest this? I've heard all of what they have had to say: that Lady Karin is possibly a tyrant. That she's a cruel despot of a ruler. That she'll take everything for herself just because she can. Well suppose that she does? What difference does it make, she is still the rightful heir to the throne, as good or bad of a ruler she may turn out to be; because contesting this is not just opposing the right of a royal to rule, it's opposing the will of Brimir. Now, who would do such a thing?"
"To be frank, Your Holiness, I am not sure. A heretic, perhaps? Must it be that the nobles doubt the will of Brimir? After all, He is awfully quiet all the time."
The Pope smiled at the prince, more than amused with his keen intellect. He turned around and paced very slowly.
"You have a point, Leopold. And yes, it may be a heretic. Or rather, simply someone who does not believe in Brimir."
"I have good reason to believe that Duchess Karin Desiree de la Valliere is a just woman. She is an honorable person. Otherwise, I would not be here."
They were interrupted by the sound of the massive brass cathedral door creaking open. A young, blonde-haired boy peered from between the gap in the doorway. He had an angelic face, like one of those saints etched on the reliefs in the Romalian cathedral.
Julio Chesare noticed the presence of the Prince of Walloon, and accordingly spoke very quietly.
"Your Holiness, the messengers have just arrived."
The Pope and the prince merely glanced at Julio.
"My birds have brought back very urgent news, and not all necessarily good…"
"Well bring them in, Julio, and read them to me; I trust you that much as my familiar," the Pope finally said. He turned to Leopold who was still standing beside him. "Would you like to hear about the word from Tristain? I think you should."
Julio Chesare silently walked up the nave, keeping his footfalls soft as if trying not to rouse some unseen spirit. He stopped before the two men just at the bottom of the altar and set out the letter in his hands. The red Tristanian Royal wax seal broke cleanly and he took a short moment to skim over the menacing letter with his eyes.
"'A message to the Pope of Romalia, His Holiness Saint Aegis XXXIInd, Vittorio Serevare. We urgently request for your intervention, in light of these grim turn of events. The Crown of Tristain is threatened to fall into unrighteous and ill hands, and the conflict to restore order and power to its just pedestal escalates day by day. Men, their wives and the children of Tristain bear with the misplaced sense of liberty the rebellious nobles opposing the Vallieres suffer from. If the Inquisition brings down the punishment of Brimir upon these treasonous folk, all will be just and the war shall come to an end. I am weary, Your Holiness. My army was defeated badly at the border of my estate before Marshal Gramont could come to the rescue. The Duke of Richemont was reported to have been slain in the battle inside of the village. The Grand Duke and his airships still menace the Gramont fleets. The rebel army is commanded by a commoner, a Familiar of the Zero. He goes by the name Napoleon Bonaparte. By the time this letter reaches you, they may have marched between Marshal Gramont and my army, completely preventing Lady Valliere from joining us.' Signed, the Duke of Walloon."
There was a stark silence in the room for a very long moment. The three persons in the emptiness of the cathedral did not move.
"I must leave now, Your Holiness."
Leopold Katwijk Marie-Amierre, the Prince of Walloon spoke. He did not waste any time to even hear the Pope's answer, as he turned around and began down the altar steps.
"Prince. I know you have come to ask me the same thing. I surmised it was your father who had sent you to ask. You have always been modest to even demand something of that matter yourself."
"Yes."
"I cannot march the Inquisition army across to the Tristanian border. If I do so, it will arouse interest and contempt from the Kingdom of Gallia and perhaps even the Germanian Empire. The King of Gallia is a very mercurial man, and he will most certainly use this as a pretext to dipping his toe in the whirlpool. They must stop this war as soon as possible. Otherwise, I fear this will taint everything beyond the border and then this war shall consume us all."
"That is what I shall do, Your Holiness. I must return as soon as possible to retake command of our army. I am one of the few who can bring an end to this madness."
"I am certain of that, Leopold. Go forth, then. I shall pray for Brimir to guide you - may you not be stopped until peace is made. I am sorry to have disappointed you, Prince. I hope you will not resent me for this."
The Prince of Walloon simply gave a kind smile.
"I will not. After all, it was not I who expected otherwise. Thus, I am not disappointed."
Once the Prince had left the cathedral, the Pope's facade dropped. The cheery light in his eyes vanished, and he kept his hands crossed behind his back.
"Julio."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
"Napoleon Bonaparte. We've met him before, during the war in Albion, and at Saxe-Gotha. He is the one in command of the Alliance army, is he not?"
"Yes, Your Holiness."
"No doubt that the dukes and counts still hold an influence within their opposition, but that general… He is not one to be puppeteered. This war has begun quicker than I've anticipated, but when shall it end? Who is vying for the Crown? It can't be Guldenhorf. It must only be the Vallieres. But then…" Pope Vittorio Serevare stopped.
"Julio Chesare, you will send a diplomat to the Germanian court, and some spies to Gallia. Find out what is the position of Emperor Albrecht and the Germanian nobility in all of this. And we need to get in touch with the leader of the opposition, Napoleon Bonaparte, and more importantly his summoner - the Valliere daughter of the Duchess. As for King Joseph… Brimir have mercy, if he also dabbles in this war."
…
Lord Wardes the Elder drew in a sharp breath of air.
His lungs were attacked by a vicious stab of pain, like an icicle had skewered him through. He was shivering all over. His face, his arms, and his entire body was drenched with cold sweat.
But there was no blood, and his arms, oh his arms - they were still there, intact and had not been lopped off by the Iron Duchess. It was almost a fragment of his imagination. But he knew better - everything that had happened was real. What he felt was real, what he experienced was physical, and the trembling of his limbs attested to that.
Such are the newfound properties of the arcane and vulgar art that he had been pursuing. At the same time as it was agonizing, the sensations were utterly exhilarating. To possess a human body not his own, and to experience every sense from it, and to be assured of his safety. He will not die, not while channeled into another vessel of flesh. Of course it came with a lot of terrible consequences, but what great progress didn't?
Wardes found himself lying on the floor, inside a dark and barren room of a peasant. He almost forgot that he had taken refuge here, an innocuous place where his enemies would last look for him. He was in a small town, just outside his estate, in Guldenhorf territory. Of course, it was still very close to the Walloon and Valliere lands, and if they had decided to invade the Grand Duchy of Guldenhorf he may as well have been caught while unconscious of it. But they had not. Wardes felt small rodent claws tickle the crook of his shoulder.
"Lady."
The little rat squealed, its sinister red eyes peering back up at her master.
Wardes the Elder crawled himself to sit up against the wall, still too weak to stand. He pulled his shirt close, rubbing his arms. The rat started to morph, growing larger and swelling until it was the size of a kitten. It continued to swell, until it was staring Wardes, in his sitting position, in the face and did not stop there. Lady had grown to the size of a very large monstrosity, bigger than five horses combined, and threatened to destroy the peasant hut they were in. Wardes gasped in fright. But the rat familiar merely opened her mouth. Out of it slid the maid Siesta.
The rat shrunk to its miniature size in the next moment, leaving the maid lying on the floor in front of Wardes. Siesta's body was gruesomely abused; her clothes lay in tatters, bloodied and utterly ruined. Her breasts lay exposed, her skin coated in the rodent's saliva after being carried in its mouth, appearing now like a newborn infant, Siesta's lithe being still enveloped by mucous excess. Her right arm was severed to the ligament at the shoulder, and the left was crushed and torn at the elbow. In some ways, Lady's saliva had helped staunch the bleeding, if it didn't kill Siesta with an infection first.
Her eyelids were slightly closed and her mouth left open, but her chest continued to rise and fall. She was breathing. Her eyes however remained milky-white, the deathly color of the damned.
Lord Wardes the Elder sighed. His lips curled to a smile. The smile turned into a sick grin, and he started laughing maniacally, staring at the mauled and naked body of the girl.
"Should I kill you now?" Wardes asked, talking to the unconscious body on the floor. "Eh? Well, that would be a waste. No, my sweet. Bear with me a little, there is more to come."
He peered out of the far window across the room. It was probably nightfall already. How long had he slept? A whole day? Was this the following night already? Anyhow, Wardes thought, a little less confused now. He could leave the town tonight, evade the patrolling royal knights on the highways, and by tomorrow be at Tristania. There was much to still be done. And he had to know what had happened to the little alliance of nobles since he had disappeared two days ago.
…
…
The Alliance army resumed the march the next day, at the break of dawn.
It would have been preferable to have started moving two hours earlier at 3 o' clock, Napoleon noted. But the men were adequately rested, and after yesterday's victory, there was now high morale circulating among the troops.
The early morning scouts had reported that the army of Walloon had already moved nearly twenty miles away, hurrying northeast to be joined by Marshal Gramont's and the Royal Army's forces. Whether the former had already reached Walloon, there was no certainty of, but Napoleon knew it was not of importance. Even if the Valliere and the Montmorency estates had mobilized and combined forces with Marshal Gramont, even if they had invaded the Wardes estate - after its Lord sided with the Duke of Guldenhorf and opposed the royalists - he was now in a rolling position. A dragon rider had arrived mere minutes ago with the news of the Gramont army abandoning but a small garrison their powerful position on the hills between the capital city Tristania and Count Noyon's army. If the Count retakes that height, Napoleon pondered, their line of communication would at once be secured again. However, if the marshal takes initiative and attacks the count while he is isolated…
Napoleon shook his head. Then Count Noyon would simply retreat. That was all there is to it. If Marshal Gramont dares, Napoleon would simply double back as the Count executes a fighting withdrawal, and if the marshal does not take care, it would simply be a repeat of Marengo. It was foolproof. Napoleon scoffed at the idea he should even doubt for a moment his success.
For the first time in what felt like ages, he was at the head of an army no larger than 35,000 strong. How long had he spent in this world, this Halgekinia? Four months? Six? Not even a year, that he was sure of. Time passes fast when one is lost in the dreams. It was unbelievable. Only two months before his abdication at Fontainebleau, he was also in the same position as now, in command of an army only a little bigger than the medieval force that was now under him, and facing an enemy that outnumbered him by five to one, and with his beloved France menaced on all fronts. He would've won yet again, if that bastard-traitor Marshal Marmont had not given up Paris as quickly as a damsel before a brute…
But I digress, Napoleon shook his head again. Once again, for the first time in a long while, his command was small enough that he was able to exercise direct supervision and control over nearly every element in the Alliance army. He had sent cavalry and griffin knights in four directions to scout and report any movement. He was receiving new information every quarter of an hour, and while the royalists were busy meeting up for a tea party in the invaded Wardes estate, his Alliance army would be swinging south to prey on the marshal's son Jean Gramont's garrison.
They would meet up first with the Grand Duke, whose airship fleets would crush and scatter the remaining Gramont fleet from the sky, while the Count's columns rapidly marched and ran down opposing garrisons in their path - no, much better if they completely bypassed it and thus threatening to trap it. It was likely they would also come across elements of the Duchy of Montmorency, whose army may have already been assembled. Nevertheless, it was all coming together.
What the Grand Duke of Guldenhorf and the three Counts were chasing after, however, was a decisive battle against Marshal Gramont. Napoleon grimaced. Hell would freeze over before he handed such glory to them on a silver platter. If he went and found a battle against the marshal and won, it would be a loss for him. No, he had to get rid of the other duke first. The Duke of Richemont was more valorous than he gave him credit for, Napoleon thought, leading the charge at the head of his men. His death was a stroke, a fluke, a very fortunate one for Napoleon but no more of such would follow. In another lifetime he would've been the next Marshal Ney. Or perhaps his opinion of the duke simply rose once he was dead.
Napoleon concluded his monologue. He slowed his horse and rejoined his chasseur squadron, while the three Counts and their entourage rode ahead on the far right along the main road.
The rest of the march went by relatively smoothly, encountering little resistance as they marched near the Walloon estate border and crossed into the fringes of the Montmorency territory. A light skirmish of intimidation had occurred at the vanguard, and Napoleon's squadron was close enough to witness it with their eyes. Knights on white horses and full-body plate armor menaced their scouts in the prairies. There had been smoking fireballs exchanged between the nimble mounted mage-knights from both sides, and no actual fighting occurred. The weather had turned cloudy during the afternoon, threatening rain, and they decided to camp at a town called Saint-Lenor. Napoleon later was informed that the knight squadron they had encountered was merely a detachment of the army of Montmorency, which had begun marching in the opposite direction, northwards to join the royalist forces.
…
Captain Jacques Edouard Bernard Stewart had issued orders for his cavalrymen to bivouac on the wheatfields just outside of Saint-Lenor. As the rest of the infantry marched past his cavalry squadrons, now swelling to a brigade of over 2,200 horsemen after being joined by the fallen Duke of Richemont's remaining men-at-arms, he watched. The general and the Valliere girl both headed into the town to meet with the counts and nobles, leaving him and the captains and lieutenants in charge of the detachment.
As the troopers were busy hammering pegs into the ground and pulling up tents, peasants came to help unload the bales from the wagon train once it had arrived. The knights and men-at-arms began organizing into a game of charging and lancing at helmets, which they had stolen from dead Walloon knights, erected on pikes. The chasseurs from Captain Stewart's squadron led their horses to graze on the green wheat. The Guard battalion was once again patrolling the camps. Captain Stewart however was burdened with reorganizing the squadrons and appointing new, prospective lieutenants for the cavalry.
At the treeline, some ways away from the rest of the camp, a small group of dragoons practiced with their muskets. A few of the troopers still carried the actual 'dragon', a cumbersome and heavy hand-cannon which gave them their particular name. The crack of gunshot would roll down the wheatfield towards the camp, and the smell of powder would make their eyes tear up wonderfully. Cartier Martin de Walloon and Guiche de Gramont both participated in this drilling.
"Shaky hands, Guiche?"
"That's nothing."
"What is it, nervousness?"
"Not really. I just don't like trampling over good crops."
Guiche pulled the trigger. His shoulder was sore from the brutal recoil of the musket, but he had marked his shot. The gun roared with smoke and fire, as the torso of the earthen dummy exploded, before it collapsed into a little pile of dirt. A moment later, it began to rise and morph into a shuffling humanoid again as Guiche uttered a spell to replenish it.
"Why don't we head into the town? What we need now are good, sweet village girls," Martin huffed.
"Because, my dear lieutenant, Captain Stewart has said to lay off from carousing in the village. We mustn't forget we're not in friendly territory anymore."
After the other dragoons had fired off, it was young trooper Emil's turn to fire his shot. He raised his musket, notching it expertly in his shoulder and training it at the dummies, and fired. The bullet struck the earthen dummy square in the head, decapitating it effectively.
Martin whistled.
"Emil, were you a musketeer before a trooper?"
"Naw. I was a fowler before I enlisted in the duke's cavalry. I can shoot a cock's head off from a hundred yards while it's taking off."
"You lie! Not with this wretched thing, you can't."
"Oh, but we used a longer rifle than this here for hunting birds," Emil explained.
"I hear the general insists on giving every one of the soldiers muskets," one of the troopers chimed in.
"Won't that be grand? If the brutes from Germania see us, they'd laugh us off the field."
They saw a noble knight ride up to them. His massive steed whinnied as its rider steered it aside. Captain Paul Filibuster Camembert slid open his steel visor to glare at the men.
"That's enough practice, gentlemen. Return to the camp."
"Is there food already?" Emil immediately asked.
"No, it is not time for supper yet," the captain said irritably. "Any news from the road?"
"The Montmorency knights are gone sir! Up north, they all went." Martin answered.
"Very well, General Bonaparte will be inspecting the dragoons and as per order, the best shots are to be prioritized, given full cartridges."
"Why don't we go down to the villa, the one with the orchard, owned by the baron of Liege? Let's see if there's still wine in the cellar," Emil continued.
"You will do no such thing."
"Are you perhaps a pious man, sir Captain?"
"In three-quarters of an hour, I want to see you all back with your squadron!" Captain Paul Camembert ordered sternly.
As soon as the captain rode away, Emil scowled.
"How noble-some," he said in an ugly voice.
"Say what you will, the captain is a very good knight. Remember, he's been around for years since leaving the monastery at age eighteen," reminded another trooper again.
"Well! That's true enough. But I hate nobles, all dukes and counts with a passion: and I'm sick of all these young aristocrats fresh from school ordering us around, when they haven't yet even spent a fortnight on the field, just because they can do magic tricks."
Back in the camp, Captain Stewart and his lieutenant Owen Foucard were surveying their troop. By some stroke of fortune they had procured bearskin hats in excess for the entire squadron of fifty men. All of them had tasted battle now but they were all professionals, the elite of the general's little regiment, so there were no casualties. Unlike the rest of the troopers, who still wore green tunics issued by the royal depot, Captain Stewart and Foucard both wore the blue with white lapels uniforms Napoleon had issued to the Guards. In this manner, and though they were barely aware of its implications, they looked similar to the legendary Grenadiers a Cheval de la Garde that was yet to be recreated.
Lieutenant Owen Foucard, dark-skinned and with a balding head, his square-cut face adorned with a wiry black beard, and standing at over six feet tall he was the largest man in the whole squadron. The heavy bearskin hat, the new boots, the Guard uniform and his great black warhorse elevated him to a monstrous stature. He was not wearing any armor at all, even the average man-at-arms was armed more heavily than him, but Foucard radiated some awesome force that made him appear nigh invincible. As he led his troop patrolling the camp, he rested his straight sword flat on the front of his right shoulder so that every soldier's eyes gleamed when the steel reflected the red dusk.
By this time, Guiche and Martin both had returned with their troop. The baggage had arrived; the Guard sergeants distributed to the rest of the troopers muskets and cartridges. The weapons were not all perfect of course, having been requisitioned from the nearby towns and villages, and some of the troopers hardly even knew how to swab and load a firearm. Nevertheless, Captain Stewart and lieutenant Foucard were both present to instruct the newly-formed dragoon squadron. Since they set up camp, everyone had been watching the Guard battalion drilling with live ammunition, impressing everyone with outstanding rapidity, and now began a slow process of educating the rest of the soldiers on the usage of the weapon. The general himself, dressed in the familiar blue uniform of a Guard colonel, was with the bivouac and Guiche spotted Napoleon talking to one of the troopers, teaching them how to operate the muskets. Afterwards, Napoleon disappeared into his tent.
Louise found him behind his desk once again. Napoleon was consulting his maps, and aside from the noise outside the cotton marquee tent, only a quill scratching the paper was heard from him. Louise stepped forward.
"Napoleon. You've said that you have a plan to win. To beat Marshal Gramont and his army. But you've never really told me exactly how."
"Do you have an assessment, Louise?"
Napoleon put away the quill and glanced up at her expectantly.
"Since we're marching south, I think you are planning on defeating the marshal's son first. After that, we'll march back up to fight Marshal Gramont now that we have no enemies behind us. Is that right, Napoleon?"
"That's a fine assessment Louise. Very proper. However…"
"What is it exactly?"
"Louise Françoise. We've talked a lot about war. But let us step back for a moment, and I reiterate another matter: we will win, Louise, but what then?"
Louise blinked. She opened her mouth but did not say anything immediately.
"What do you mean 'what then'? I thought you had it all figured out!"
"Think of your answer very carefully."
Louise stopped, pensively silent for a minute. "You wanted me to rule all of Tristain. After we defeat the marshal and… my mother, I'll become a Queen."
"Incorrect Louise."
"I don't understand. It is what we are doing now, isn't it? If we defeat Marshal Gramont and his army, we shall go back to Tristania and I'll become the Queen. If we don't win a big battle first, we will never secure a peaceful end for the country."
"War is not a means to an end in itself, Louise. War is politics. Remember that. It is a means to a political end outside of itself. A good ruler will know this: conflict never exists for its sake - there is always a political agenda behind it. Human nature may be belligerent at heart, but it's in the blood to scheme; to usurp. Winning over Marshal Gramont and your mother Lady Karin will be useless if you do not know how to utilize that victory to secure our interests. Us winning tomorrow or the next day after that will not simply end with you becoming Queen and a happily-ever-after. That's politics. And then, we have the other nobles to worry about…"
"Well, I didn't think so."
Louise sank into one of the chairs in the tent. Her face looked exasperated, and barely able to remember all what her partner had just said.
Napoleon grinned at her affectionately.
"Let me put it into a story for you, Louise. Before you brought me to this world, only a short few years ago I was the absolute master of Europe. There is not a king nor general who could defeat me in battle. They may force me into a draw, but at the end they all fall under the unstoppable power of my army. And an army's power always lies in its leader. They feared me, so they refused to even face me once they learned of my presence on the field.
"There was a giant empire called Russia who dared oppose me. When she did so, I raised a massive army of a proportion unlike anything you've ever seen. Even in my world, this was unprecedented. For the first time in history the whole of Europe marched with one man - behind me. More than half a million soldiers trained for war, a thousand heavy guns, and another hundred thousand cavalry. The earth itself shook wherever we went, and no river was wide enough that we could not cross it. No fortress, no kingdom could withstand us. It took three days for the whole army to even cross the Niemen into Russia, that's how colossal it was. We marched five hundred leagues from my nation, enough to conquer the whole continent. All of that of course was not quite enough to rule the whole continent. My point is that while it's necessary to be able to make war, and win, you must also know how to solidify the result of that war. Your victory must be transformed. You must succeed in taking power and succeed in keeping it."
Louise now spoke very softly.
"And you failed, Napoleon?"
Napoleon did not answer. He stared at her.
"That's a very strong word, Louise. We cannot measure anything diametrically. No, if that's what you're asking. But…"
Napoleon turned around. He strode over to his desk and stopped in front of his maps. Louise followed him, watching him with wide, piercing eyes.
"Why do you lie, Napoleon?"
"Me? Lie?"
"You told me about how you summoned a very, very big army and marched a very long way and invaded a giant empire and all that. Why don't you just admit it?"
"Admit what- "
"That you lost!" Louise sighed. "Napoleon, it's obvious. Do you take me for a fool? Everyone loses!"
Napoleon was initially surprised at her exclamation. He gave a grunt.
"The Russians were cowards. They ran away and refused to fight. It doesn't count, Louise!" Napoleon shouted.
"You were defeated! And there's no shame in that - how can someone like you, mister Emperor sir, get so great and unstoppable without losing before?"
Louise said, dripping with sarcasm on that one remark.
Napoleon huffed, not looking at her. Louise threw a jab at his belly, causing him to glare at her.
"Oh, Louise. Shut up."
But the Emperor chuckled. Then he and Louise both broke into laughter.
"Louise, I just lost my empire, my army, my country - and my family, did I mention that? - and you kidnapped me from my world. And you're laughing."
"I'm sorry, I can't help it!" Louise cried, doubling over.
Napoleon shrugged, rolling his eyes.
"Molto bene. Fair enough."
"Look at me, it's alright to admit to a loss. Everyone loses eventually."
"If you put it that way…"
The emperor shrugged again.
Louise pouted with a sigh. "Why am I not surprised? You're hopeless, Napoleon."
…
The Alliance continued to march the next morning. A scouting vanguard had been sent ahead of the army and the Counts hoped that there were to be no more incidents of enemy knights being encountered along the way. The Duke of Montmorency's army had continued to march northwards, and by now it had been confirmed that the road to Tristania was once again virtually open, with only a small Gramont detachment posted as garrison on the hills before Count Noyon's army.
Napoleon was at the tip of the spearhead as usual. He found out that the mystical Gandalfr runes imbued on the back of his left hand, which gave him an unprecedented burst of power and physical energy whenever he handled a weapon of any sort, could be very useful in many circumstances. He kept his hand tucked in his greatcoat, only lightly grasping his now reloaded pistol, or otherwise resting on the pommel of his sabre at his hip, just enough for the runes to do its magic at a fraction of its effect. This, in addition to the rate at which things were progressing was more than comfortable for him and so Napoleon was well-rested and moved around with terrific vigor. He spoke with his troops again, even taking aside one of the dragoons - the young trooper Emil - and commending him for being one of the squadron's most proficient shots; he brought in the village priest during the early morning to hold a short mass in the name of Brimir, which pleased the barons in the Duke of Richemont's brigade, and finally inspected the newly reorganized squadrons with Captain Stewart, Foucard, Cartier Martin and the two newly-appointed squadron captains Baron Sainte Janviliers de Macey and Sir Paul Filibuster Camembert, before they set off to march.
But by this point, the progression of events within the army did not escape the far more watchful eyes of Count Kundera. He had been ever more suspicious of the familiar since the death of the Duke of Richemont, but this was so due to the noticeably increasing influence and command of Napoleon Bonaparte over the alliance army. While the nobility had unanimously appointed him as the titular 'chef d'Alliance ' he was only meant to be a temporary field commander at best, and a figurehead for the whole time. It was unexpected that he now held a potent, direct command of a replenished cavalry brigade and essentially leadership of the fallen Duke of Richemont's infantry column. This was a serious problem, as Napoleon had started early on with accustoming the men to his presence and as a result, he had consolidated his own position.
There had been an argument once again the previous night, and Napoleon had obediently left the tent when asked to do so, as the three Counts discussed matters between them. Count Kundera was unwilling to allow Napoleon control of the prestigious Richemont brigade. So that morning, the Count was resolved to lead at the vanguard as well. There was nothing to be said of it.
The vanguard was split into three groups with the centre led by general Napoleon and Captain Stewart's chasseur squadron, tailed by lieutenant Cartier Martin and the freshly-armed dragoons, and a squadron of Richemont knights taken over by Count Kundera. The left and right vanguard wings were led by Baron de Macey and Paul Camembert respectively: the latter, Count Kundera trusted since the knight had been a confidant to the late duke. The Count could keep the familiar under his watch as long as he was around to reel in Napoleon whenever he arrogantly called decisions.
"Ah, finally! It's underway," Guiche sighed, hearing a bugle cry out to signal another squadron forward.
But no, there was no sight of Jean Gramont's soldiers yet. They were crossing a flowery sedge meadow under dark clouds, and Guiche was increasingly worried that it would begin to rain. Maybe the brook ahead of them would swell, and then the rest of the march would be delayed. Worse still, the flimsy paper cartridges in his pouch could get ruined. His musket felt like a bag of rocks on his shoulder. A few paces beside him was Martin, now proudly wearing an iron cuirass, and the grouchy trooper Emil just behind them. Not far ahead they watched the grey-cloaked figure of their general as he rode with the Count. All of a sudden Martin exclaimed.
"Guiche, I'm seeing white horses now!"
"Where?"
Cartier Martin drew his sword and pointed at the spruce treeline beyond the meadow's edge. Everyone started to notice as well.
"See?"
"I see it," Guiche answered, squinting. He instinctively grasped at his gun.
"Five royal knights - now ten, perhaps more. Do we attack? Or will we cross the brook first?" Martin muttered.
"Let's wait for what Captain Stewart says."
Trooper Emil did not say anything, but was nodding along in silence. Throughout the whole time he held his musket at arms, as if anticipating the worst. In fact, the enemy which were now appearing from the forest were not at all royal cavalry, but none other than Jean Gramont's elite knights.
Napoleon was quick to notice this: the fully-armored knights, riding milk-white horses and brandishing lances with blue and gold pennons amassed in increasingly dense numbers. The Gramont prince was not yet spotted, however. Captain Stewart already gave a loud order for the dragoons and the chasseur squadron to move forward in skirmishing order, elongating their lines so that there would be no chance of a surprise.
"Sire, shall I order Foucard and the Guards to secure the crossing?" Captain Stewart asked.
"Not quite, soldier," Count Kundera suddenly interrupted. He wheeled his horse in front of the retinue, and faced Napoleon.
"We should deploy my brigade - the Duke of Richemont's brigade now, to push back the Gramont scouts. Because that's all they are: not the vanguard," Napoleon said, furrowing his eyebrows.
Count Kundera scowled.
"I give ze order from now on," The Count turned to a knight beside him. "Tell ze Count of Burgundy to begin crossing the brook. And call Sir Camembert on the right flank, vat he must also cross now with zee men-at-arms and we will follow suit."
Napoleon kept his lips drawn in a tight line. He glanced at Captain Stewart, who was patiently waiting for his word.
"Captain, cross your chasseurs over the brook now and secure our front."
Captain Stewart nodded, before shouting the order to his men and riding forward. At this, Count Kundera was visibly shocked. Then his expression turned into brewing rage.
For the first time, Count Kundera addressed the familiar in his full, proper name.
"Napoleon Bonaparte. Is it not yet clear to you zat when you have been appointed as zee Head of the Alliance, vat was expected of you iz to follow zee role which has been given to you: and that is to lead our Alliance to victory by following our decisions, and not making up your own?!"
"Respectfully, Your Grace. Your decision is to destroy Jean Gramont's army first. I am simply relaying that order phrased in a different way."
Count Kundera was incensed at the retort of Napoleon, who was responding uncannily with a Gallian attitude. "Don't be smart with me, familiar. You may have wormed your way up the chain of command thanks to the Duke's death, but you will not fool me. You've fooled your master, actually convincing her that you two are equals when in reality you are just a familiar, that girl- "
"She has a name, Count," Napoleon said coldly. "And Louise Françoise de la Vallière is not just a 'girl'. I ask that you do not disrespect her in that way."
"Bastard child! No - even worse, she's an outcast. Lady Valliere threw her out of ze household for a reason. She's a wretch of a mage, and you are ze worst thing vat could have happened to her."
Napoleon froze. He stared at Count Kundera, who laughed in his face cruelly. But Napoleon showed no reactions. Of course, was he to be fooled? Did the Count really think he could goad the Emperor into attacking him, while his loyal knights stood behind him, waiting for an excuse to cut him down? Putain, Napoleon inwardly grimaced. Well, he had been through worse. Count Kundera had now caught wind of his intention to consolidate his control over the army, but to what extent? No doubt everyone, Guldenhorf, and the other Counts want to kick him down. They just needed a reason to detain Napoleon, and if it comes to blows, execute him.
Captain Stewart and the chasseurs had already started fording the brook, and in the midst of their verbal melee, they did not notice a line of Gramont troops already stepping out of the treeline in pike formation. The Count and the general were very close to the frontline, but they paid no attention to it even as the cavalrymen started raising a noise.
"Count Kundera," Napoleon smiled, beginning to laugh as well. "You need me to defeat Marshal Gramont. You need a commoner like me so you can take all of the credit from my victories."
The Count opened his mouth to speak, but it was at that moment that a hail of arrows suddenly fell upon them all.
Rage suddenly broke out, as they realized that longbowmen were hiding behind the treeline, and the meadow was a trap. Napoleon broke off, surrounded by his retinue, as he glared ahead. Their momentary setback had cost him the initiative to charge forward, therefore subjecting them to this attack. A few cavalrymen and their horses were hit, and they would suffer more if they did not start moving soon. Count Kundera himself put on his plumed helmet and started spurring his men.
Napoleon went straight into action. While Captain Stewart was already across the brook and had wheeled his squadron to the left, threatening the Gramont knights at that point, the dragoons were all ordered to follow. The Count's knights rode up from the rear now and began galloping into the brook, crossing en masse. The archery had stopped their initial attack and possibly retreated. So did the thin line of pikemen, which began inching back into the forest. Jean Gramont must not want a battle, Napoleon decided. Then he was enraged, realizing the Count would once again hinder his attempts to pursue by withholding the cavalry from him.
Cartier Martin crossed the brook at the head of his squadron. They all held their muskets tightly now for fear of dropping it, and gave a cry as they presented themselves before the enemy.
"Now's the time, Guiche! Start shooting at the footmen!"
Guiche hesitated for a moment, seeing a line of pike soldiers in brown tunics, as he shakily trained his musket at them, the same way he did with the earthen dummy the previous day. The massive animal below him was whinnying impatiently, stopping to a trot.
He pulled the trigger. Immediately his vision was blinded by a cloud of putrid smoke, and he heaved violently. His ears rang, and he felt a pang of fear.
"Guiche. Do you hear me? Guiche!"
Cartier Martin seized his arm.
"Yes! I hear! Now let go of me Martin, I don't want to fall down."
Emil rode up beside him, his brown, round face now giving a happy smile.
"Don't fall asleep now, Guiche. If the royal knights find you, they'll butcher you alive. A snoring boy: not very convincing."
To prove his point a little further, Emil reached down with the smoking barrel of his musket to prod at a body on the grass. It was a young dragoon, a fellow trooper of theirs, with an arrow lodged in his right eye.
"Do you see? Guiche, he's not moving- "
"Fine, Emil! Fine!" Guiche said angrily.
"Let's wheel back to make way for the other troopers while we reload our shots," Cartier Martin finally said.
The firefight was furious, but almost quite brief as they stopped to painfully reload and the Gramont soldiers hurriedly started retreating. They heard their Captain cursing angrily at this, as the chasseurs drove off the enemy knights. Guiche found himself clumsily handling his musket, taking very slowly to even begin priming his gun. Martin was there to guide them. The other troopers and Emil had gotten off several shots, some of which had found their lethal mark in an armored knight's chest or a pikeman's face - though none of them were really sure if they were hitting anything.
A string of their own knights rode past them, seemingly headed for the centre of the forest as if to charge the disappearing Gramont soldiers head on. Guiche had finished the last phase of reloading his musket, ramming the shot down the barrel with a rod, and he took aim again. There was another wave of gunfire, this time not from their side, but from the treeline. Dragoons! The enemy also had dragoons: Guiche was amazed to see knights near the trees, firing off with short, brutish-looking handguns. Piles of dirt, raised by some earth mages lay before them and a tree had started burning down after a freak fireball spell had struck it. Then Guiche, still aiming his gun, saw from the corner of his eyes Count Kundera.
A deafening crack went off somewhere near him. Guiche thought he had been shot, but no, he was unharmed. He looked up again and saw that the back of Count Kundera's helmet was torn open. A bullet had smashed its way through the iron and thick spills of maroon blood started painting the Count's beige cape. The body rode around for a short while before Count Kundera slid off of his horse.
Guiche was horrified, and so were the troopers when they saw the Count on the grass, lying without quivering. The chasseurs and their knights were still ahead, chasing off the enemy so not everyone was instantly aware of the catastrophe. But in no less than a minute, there was an uproar.
"Emil, you shot him!" A trooper rode forward, damning him.
"I did not."
"Don't lie, everyone saw you shoot across!"
The dragoon in question, the young Emil, still holding the smoking barrel of his musket whipped a cold glare at his fellow cavalryman.
The Count's knight retinue came over and was mortified, and then there was a lot of yelling. A lot of curses were thrown around, and a nobleman had already brandished his wand, torn between killing someone for this wretched fluke, and punishing the whole dragoon squadron involved. The tension was at its breaking point and Guiche the whole time had been watching Emil as he emotionlessly stood before the dozens of swords pointed against him.
Before the crisis could escalate into something more lethal, Napoleon Bonaparte had returned and cut into the circle.
"Enough is enough! First, the duke, then Kundera. If the enemy is informed of us losing two important commanders subsequently, they'll wreck us."
All of the knights were still highly strung and on edge, and some of them were shaking with rage. The dragoons on the other hand were all deathly silent, fearful of the consequences. Napoleon scoffed inwardly. Captain Stewart slowly moved forward.
"Sire, may I have a word?"
Napoleon did not answer. He dismounted and stepped towards the body of the count.
The darkened sky had begun to tear up. Heavy drops of rain slowly fell. The surrounding chasseurs and Edouard Stewart also got off their horses. The rest of the elite chasseurs forcefully dispersed the crowd and formed a protective ring around the Emperor and the captain. Napoleon gave strict orders to wrap the Count's body in a clean silk sheet. Four men cautiously lifted the lifeless body onto the sheet to wrap it. The blood seeped through the cloth like a deadly painting, but nothing could be done.
Napoleon turned to his lieutenant. Stewart saw the serious glint in the Emperor's eyes, and immediately turned rigid to attention.
"Sire, the Count- "
"Tell your men that they will be executed should they open their mouths."
"Sire, we all saw what we saw."
"They will be punished by the rest of the nobles! They will not care even if it were of enemy action, and worse - which I now shall desperately fight to prevent - they'll want to punish the men for this death. They have to blame someone. They already want to depose you, Stewart," Napoleon whispered viciously. "But I will not allow that. Do your duty captain. Silence the men, and I will be the one to deal with the Alliance and the rest of the Counts. And then, perhaps we can still salvage ourselves from the worst of it."
Captain Stewart bowed his head, ultimately returning with absolute obedience. "Understood, Sire."
"What happened was that the Count was shot in the head by Jean Gramont's knights," Napoleon said quietly. "That is what had happened. And even if it were from the men, discovered, it was a freak shot. The soldier - Emil, was his name? Captain Stewart, you will keep him within your sight at all times from now on. Soon you will understand - it is in my power to save our army, so do it."
"Understood, general." Stewart followed quickly, "Bonaparte. The count is dead. Who will lead his soldiers against the marshal?"
Napoleon stared at his lieutenant. His silence was the answer itself.
Guiche de Gramont had watched the whole fiasco before him with wide eyes, even as the chasseur guards herded them away. He could not believe it. Even less, he was doubtful to believe that a blind shot had killed the Count. For Guiche knew that trooper Emil was a fowler, a sharpshooter. But he kept silent, and tried to forget about the whole thing. Emil had now completely disappeared. Something did not feel right, and most of all Guiche feared he would be punished along with his troop for this accident. In that case he had to believe his general, Napoleon Bonaparte could save them from the worst of it.
…
Through the rain, the flagship and pride of the Guldenhorf airfleet, the Thunder, slowly began its descent from the gray sky, an awe-inspiring sight for the Alliance soldiers but perhaps one of the most frightening for those on the wrong side. Its majestic canvas masts were rescinded, revealing a web of riggings, and at the stern, the green flag of the Duchy of Guldenhorf with its yellow sun and lighting bolts hung from a length of a pole. The massive battleship was bristling with a hundred guns, arranged in three decks, and six large drum-like structures protruded from what was the keel of the vessel - in those drums were a kind of translucent rock-crystals that glowed a faint light. Wind Crystals, Napoleon thought as he observed in silence. The ships from this world were truly, impossibly bizarre. The Thunder was perhaps as big as one of those menacing man o' wars that the British Royal Navy used to pester Bolougne, preventing the French from ever invading Great Britain. Surely, a broadside from such a warship would blow anything out from the sky which was a good thing since the Alliance claimed complete air superiority over Tristain, in control of fifty-six war-suited airships.
The other ten airships, including the sleek sister-ship of the Thunder, the frigate Lighting, remained in 'anchor' a thousand feet in the air, motionless and impervious to the wind and rain. The Thunder dropped an iron anchor this time on the grass and a gangway was thrown from the starboard. The Grand Duke and his retinue climbed down shortly. There on a trampled wheatfield outside of the small village, he was met by the nobles, and the three Counts and the general who were also present to meet him.
It did not take long for the Grand Duke of Guldenhorf to learn of everything that had happened during the past two days. As soon as they entered the marquee, the Grand Duke exploded.
"This is all because of your stupid antics, captain!" the Grand Duke shouted. "Arming the peasant horsemen with guns? Hell!"
Napoleon had no words this time. He simply looked straight at the Grand Duke. There was nothing to placate his anger with, and it was not without good reason: it was true that they could not lose the only individuals who were keeping the Alliance from collapsing - that was how the Grand Duke saw it. They had lost two allies, and even Napoleon was prudent enough that this could be devastating to the morale of the army's soldiers.
The Grand Duke was already aware as well of what was happening. And so he decided to finally put down the general by a notch, to ensure that order was restored within the army.
"From now on, I will be taking command of the Duke of Richemont's and Count Kundera's armies. You, Bonaparte, will be relegated back to your little guard battalions and your stupid artillery. After we take Jean Gramont's garrisons, and we rejoin Count Noyon… you will be facing a trial within a military court. I will be detaining you."
"I understand, Your Grace."
"Do you?" Duke Guldenhorf said. "Richemont is dead, and now so is Count Kundera. You, as the head of the alliance, are responsible for this tragedy."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Get out of here, captain. I do not wish to see you after this catastrophe. Go and lead your battalion, and this time I am taking all of Richemont's cavalry back."
Napoleon obeyed.
For the rest of the day, there were no more unwanted incidents to occur. By the afternoon, the army was back on its feet and marching with renewed speed. Surprisingly, not many soldiers found out about the death of Count Kundera, as Grand Duke Guldenhorf himself had been the one to order that this information be contained so as to avoid a breakdown of spirit from the men. The remaining Counts however, knew exactly what was beginning to unfold: Guldenhorf had always been eager to become the undisputed head of the alliance, the main power within their circle. This was Grand Duke Guldenhorf's attempt to take advantage of the situation and consolidate his authority. That was the two Count's reckoning, and it seemed exactly like the truth. The Grand Duke had already made his move by confiscating all of the guns of Napoleon's dragoon squadrons, save for the Guard battalion which was only left out because it was perceived as too insignificant. Count Marmont already hated the Duke of Richemont for being offensively ill-tempered, and he had begun to despise the Grand Duke as well, as he and Richemont were thick as thieves. The Count of Burgundy was indifferent to the rat-nosed Marmont, but he himself had no choice if Guldenhorf exerted pressure on him. If Guldenhorf wasn't the de-facto King within the Alliance yet, he would be soon if they allowed him to take out the only puppet that was keeping them from going at each other's throats: the commoner-familiar, Napoleon Bonaparte.
The army was intact, but the circle of nobility was beginning to turn on itself.
Nevertheless, they marched. The Grand Duke boarded the Thunder again and set off with his fleet. Count Marmont and the Count of Burgundy took to lead their armies the best they could. General Bonaparte was relegated to his regiment, in command of his Guard battalion, and reunited with Louise. His partner had been faithfully supervising the artillery train, where she learned more along the way from the lieutenant officer that accompanied her, and Louise was happy enough not having witnessed the fiasco that unfolded at the front.
An hour before evening set in, they had finally caught up to the elusive Jean Gramont and his small army of veteran mounted knights, longbowmen and trained infantry. The series of earthen redoubts atop gentle hills had been bypassed by the Allied march through Montmorency territory, thanks to Napoleon's direction, rendering the Gramont garrisons utterly useless and forcing them to leave, lest they be surrounded. This time, both parties engaged; the battle was a short affair, fought in a clearing before a village at the forest's edge.
There was nothing complex about the battle this time, it was simply decided in the beginning by the Alliance's overwhelming numerical advantage. Jean Gramont was surprisingly judicious, Napoleon noted, as he watched Count Marmont throw a cavalry charge which succeeded in finally forcing them to retreat again into the woods, quickly letting go of the village. If the Gramont lost, he had an open avenue of retreat. In any way Jean Gramont's army was already bled, and Napoleon had finally spotted the young commander, clad in a bright bluish-steel suit of armor, leaving the field. Of the estimated six thousand troops of Jean Gramont in the south, a third had been killed or captured in the twin engagements that day.
In the skies, to the west, a skirmish between the nine Gramont ships and Grand Duke de Guldenhorf's powerful fleets ensued. The Gramont flagship, the Honor, had disengaged safely by sunset but the fleet had suffered badly. The Duty was completely battered on the portside, and they lost one ship, which sank to its destruction in the obscure woodlands, while the remaining eight limped away, mercilessly pursued by the much slower Guldenhorf ships. The Grand Duke had sent a griffin knight with a message: "We are driving all Gramont ships before us, and we will destroy them all by tomorrow! Rejoin Count Noyon; I shall meet you all at the hills. Jean Gramont has failed and his brigade is shattered. We shall face the marshal now with complete control of the skies."
That night, when Louise entered Napoleon's little tent she expected him to be either busy writing behind his creaky table again, or pacing around, consulting his maps and entertaining the concerns of his officers. Instead, she found him reclined on an old chair. Napoleon appeared to be asleep, his arms folded on his chest and his collars upturned to his cheeks. His peculiar looking hat remained on his head however, Louise noted.
She hesitated at first, feeling sympathetic as her partner looked completely drained, but before she could utter a word Napoleon cracked his eyes open and glanced at her.
"Do you need something, my friend Louise? It appears so. What is it?"
"Napoleon. I know that one of the Counts died at the frontline. Is it true? What happened to him?"
"Shot in the back of the head. A freak bullet. It happens, Louise. I myself didn't believe it at first but muskets are notoriously poor weapons even in my world."
"They say that one of our soldiers was the culprit."
"Well, Louise." Napoleon grunted indifferently. "Would you blame them? This is war. Anything can happen."
Louise looked down at the tips of her muddy boots. She rubbed her fingers against her palms, feeling Napoleon still gazing at her.
"You still haven't told me exactly how we're going to fight Marshal Gramont. How will we do it, Napoleon? I've come here to personally report that the marshal has successfully met up with my mother - or atleast, have already joined forces with the Royal Army. I haven't heard anything from my mother or my sisters. Honestly, I'm starting to feel worried…"
"What is it Louise? What were you doing today?"
"I was in the saddle all day - but no, that's not it. I just have a bad feeling about it all. I don't know, Napoleon. Like fate or Brimir has something bad in store for us."
"Don't say that, Louise!" Napoleon snapped at her. He instantly shook his head and sighed. "I'm sorry for raising my voice."
"I've thought about what you said last night," Louise said softly. "If you want to hear what I think: after we defeat Marshal Gramont and my mother, we will have to confront the other nobles. I know that the grand duke, Guldenhorf, is planning to remove you from your position, Napoleon. You know that, right? I'm afraid he might even hurt you - and then me after we're done fighting the royalists. And I know that the duke thought of this as well. Napoleon, I don't know how we are going to help ourselves from this situation. This is something nobody has ever prepared me for, not even my mother. What shall we do?"
Napoleon chuckled softly.
"Tell me your assessment, Louise."
"I think we have to kill them. The Grand Duke, the Counts, and the nobles who try to threaten us."
Napoleon burst into unrestrained laughter.
When he was finished, still breathing hard and with a playful grin on his face, he faced Louise. She was now red and irritated at being embarrassed.
"I absolutely love your conclusion Louise. Petite chére, she who I knew months ago could never even come up with such a possibility." Napoleon sighed. He now looked at her and stood up.
"But that's enough of that. I know how we'll win this war and finish it gracefully."
"How?" Louise exclaimed.
Napoleon shushed her. "Quiet now, Louise. You see, here is a lesson we may both begin to review beginning tonight: not all wars are concluded by a decisive battle. Sometimes, as in chess, a single decisive move is all that's needed to checkmate."
"You mean we don't have to…"
"Yes. We don't have to fight Marshal Gramont and Lady Karin in order to win this war. Not in this campaign. What did I tell you, Louise? War is simply politics. The nobles have never understood that the winning move has always been in front of us from the beginning, and so hasn't your mother… they were in a losing position from the beginning.
"So, Louise. I think it's high time for me to teach you how to be a good ruler."
He began to explain it to his partner. And as the scheme dawned upon her, she became restless into the night. It was suddenly so obvious indeed, so surprisingly sound - it was simply intelligent, was all that she could describe about it. A Scholar's checkmate to the brilliant Marshal Gramont's opening - and an utterly devious move that would topple the Grand Duke de Guldenhorf's power and finally secure them, Napoleon Bonaparte and Louise Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière, as the undisputed power within not just the Alliance, but all of Tristain.
And not even a single drop of blood needed to be drawn this time.
How come Napoleon had not told her about it from the beginning was also soon explained to her by the Emperor. Napoleon taught Louise: "When your enemy is making a mistake, we must take good care not to interrupt him so that when it is your turn to make a move, you shall punish him for it."
And so the very next day, as the army of the Alliance began their victorious march back towards Tristania, the Emperor and the Zero rode at the very front of the column, side by side. They raced towards reuniting with Count Noyon's army, ahead of everyone, and they would be the first there. The Grand Duke on the other hand would be the last to arrive.
The Grand Duke de Guldenhorf had no idea of the coup d'etat that awaited him on the ground.
.
.