…
…
"If I cannot move heaven, I shall raise hell."
Virgil.
…
…
There must have been more than a thousand Popes that had been before him, and will be after him. Time after all waits for no one. Far back as surviving written history allows, in the 6,000 years that had passed as far as the Church of Brimir was concerned the conflict against the Elves was never over. The great God-mage Brimir had sacrificed his life ages ago in order to wipe out the scourge that had been threatening humanity, and had nearly succeeded. Since then, from the first Pope to Vittorio Serevare, the present Pope of Romalia, the duty and the vision of fulfilling what Brimir had designed to accomplish had become their lifelong mission: their raison d'être.
Whether that was the whole truth to the story, nobody really knows now for sure. In six thousand years, much of written history had been burned, ruined, and rewritten. Besides, what was truth really but a series of lies agreed upon?
Yet even as these thoughts coursed through his head, Vittorio Serevare remained steadfast. He was the beacon of light for Romalia, entitled Saint Aegis the 36th. He was the reigning shield over all of Halkeginia, anointed and predestined by Brimir himself for a higher purpose. Vittorio believed this. It was fate—it was inescapable, unchangeable, inevitable. Men too often are led to believe that they can decide for themselves what they shall make of their existence but that was a deception; Brimir decides all.
While the sun rose over the city of Romalia, Vittorio stood in the deep catacombs of the Grand Cathedral. He had dismissed all of the acolytes and so he was alone in the dark.
At the altar, the Founder's Round Mirror hung on the wall in front of him.
Pope Vittorio Serevare could see his own reflection in it. And then he can see more. For as the Void mage of Romalia, the Mirror was an artefact of a dark age long before his time, and which was only viable to him and his ability to see through it.
The Pope could see a great war.
Humans and Elves fought each other in a brutal war, with both sides incurring great losses. The Elves, with their arcane and wicked magic that wrought death upon scores and scores of men, and the human kingdoms; legions of the old marched across burning plains, ploughed by warfare and seasoned with corpses and blood, with implements of a weapon that were neither empowered by magic nor divine blessing. The humans once had weapons of mighty devastation of their own. All of these ensured that the war would continue raging on for a thousand more years, and that was after another thousand years of peace had already reigned after the first great war.
The last great war in Halkeginia was three thousand years ago. Beyond that, history becomes nearly impossible to discern from myth and truth.
Through the Mirror, the Pope could see.
In the beginning, the humans and the elves did not fight each other. They both lived in relative indifference, if not harmony, tolerant of each other's existence.
Then without warning or form, an abysmal portal opened. Not a soul knows for sure whether it leads straight to the ninth lowest circle of Hell or God's heaven. What came out of that portal became the prime archenemy of both humans and elves. Myth and legend would have many names for these warmongers of Hell's gate, and one of them made them known as the Varyags.
The humans were weaker than the elves. Brimir hailed from a single nomadic tribe of the first human mages; they were the Magi. This clan was small enough that they could relocate constantly and avoid ever facing the threat of extinction. And so they did—Brimir, as legend and history retells, was the greatest mage ever to exist. He used his abilities to their utmost extent in order to open portals and escape with the Magi clan again and again, and again. They fled the war as the Varyags pushed their expansion into Halkeginia, perhaps even driving the elves back as far into the deserts of the middle continent.
Then Brimir first used his Void powers to inflict the first and final blow upon the invaders and destroyed them all. This spell of unchained devastation was so thorough, that the Varyags were never heard of again. The portal from whence they came from was gone.
The specifics on what exactly Brimir had done, or what kind of power Void magic really was, was lost to time and history. But Brimir did open a portal of his own.
A portal to a greater Hell.
That, perhaps, was the true power of the Void.
Brimir did the same thing for the last time when he opened Shaitan's Gate.
The story trails off from there. This lethal gate was opened for a brief amount of time and it decimated half of all the elves in Halkeginia. This gate was located in the middle desert, in the far east of the Halkeginian continent where the elves now live six thousand years later. The elves guard this gate as if their lives depended on it, because it does.
On Brimir's death, the Void splintered into four essences, and thus gave birth to the four Void mages that would exist at any given time for the rest of the ages. It would take all four of these Void mages to open the gate in the desert and unleash Hell to cleanse Halkeginia of the elves once and for all.
That was the vision almost every Pope has had in their hearts since Brimir. It was why every few hundred years or so, a crusade into the deserts of Nephthys, to the east of Halkeginia past untamed lands inhabited by barbarians and demons, to bring the fight to the elves and reclaim possession of the 'Holy Lands' beyond the sea, and to invade the Rub' al Khali peninsula which is the very heartland of the elves, all to usher in the final judgement happens. It was fate. It was Brimir's will. But up until now, it has always failed.
Pope Vittorio Serevare froze. His hands tensed on the glassy surface of the Round Mirror.
This time it wasn't the past he was seeing anymore.
Death, and a war that did not discriminate. A portal from Hell; and out of it, what would be the end of the world as he knew it. Not just of the elves, but of all civilization. This one did not show a premonition of it failing; meaning, it would succeed.
He tore himself away from the Mirror in such haste that he slammed onto the ground on his back. He gasped in pain, His face was burning and his eyes were wild. He scrambled like a ghost had taken possession of him, got onto his feet and hurried out of the cursed catacombs as fear gripped his bones for it could have been just as well the Devil himself that had been the one to show to him how close the next Great War would be.
…
Appearing out of a sparse thicket of elms and birches, a group of Halle knights rode, scouting and observing the grassy clearings of the western border of the Wardes estate. They were the avant-garde, the elite of their order, and so mounted on mostly white or grey-spotted stallions, and decked in shiny, well polished and modestly gilded suits of full armour, the small detachment of all-female knights were a stunning sight to see in the meadows. The red manes of their helms, which hung Minerve-style behind them, and their striped lances with red and white pennons fluttering in the breeze, bearing three pink fleur-de-lis on the white top stripe signifying their loyalty to the Vallieres; all of these maintained an impeccable image despite the rest of the Royal Army. For the first time in ages, they had marched out of the Halle estate from the northeasternmost border of the kingdom, to fight and win back Tristania.
At the head of this detachment was the Grand Dame, whom all of her pupils called Miss Dupuy. She was a Manticore Knight first, and out of the group was the only one who rode the manticore which also happened to be her familiar. Her magical affinity with fire and wind was no more than a line mage's, and the most glaring thing about her familiar was it was an outlier of a manticore that couldn't sustain flying, much less fly high. But it was a brutal beast, massive-bodied, with a hide as white as ice, its fur spotted like deer, and completely in contrast to her master's demeanour. What she lacked in magical skill, she made up for with mastery over her art in killing.
At least for her, that was what it amounted to, but she kept that treacherous thought to herself. Because good knights were supposed to be good. They didn't kill; they served justice.
Of the Order of the Knights Halle, and in all of Tristain for that matter, Miss Dupuy was the only Grand Dame left, and in reality she was one year away from having a peaceful retirement at the age of twenty-five. A girl was born into circumstances to be raised into becoming a Grand Dame, and that was her life; her purpose for the next 25 years. They were rare, and they served the purpose of leading orders, and being the incarnate examples of what a good knight is. She didn't necessarily believe so—but what she felt didn't matter. How the Grand Duchess was once the example of valour within the Manticore Knights, Miss Dupuy thought, she must become one to her own comrades.
Now they were spying across the flowery field another troop of horse-riders. They were the men in green uniforms from the other day again. Several of the knights began talking amongst themselves.
"They don't look like men-at-arms to me."
"Why, those dandies don't even wear any armor except those stupid bearskin hats!"
"They're getting very close, though. If we charge them, we might catch them…"
The troop of green chasseurs-a-cheval were wheeling around in a string, their fur colbacks covering the top of their heads, the men whooping and gawking at them standing at the treeline, before galloping away again. They carried sabres in their shiny brass sheathes, and some were holding up lances as well.
The Grand Dame spoke.
"We shall do no such thing," she said gently. "We are here to test the strength of their reconnaissance, and to prevent them from doing the same. That is all."
A blonde-haired girl, her aide-de-camp whispered. "They're all over the place. And the main road between the capital and La Fere, five miles to our north is swarming with these rebels."
Miss Dupuy smiled. "That would mean their lines are stretched; they are trying to give the impression of a larger force, when this is just a screen."
"Then we can break them!" Another knight enthused. "We may even make headway and push as far as the stone farmhouse, only three miles and there, we can garrison it until reinforcements arrive…"
"They will swarm us. They will quickly swarm us in this sector, and they've thought of it too."
"With all due respect, Your Excellency, these are mercenary troopers. They don't even have proper armour. They can't hold us."
"Lianne, observe their compositions. These are not mercenaries," Miss Dupuy said in a methodical voice. "I've seen them up close at La Fere, during the armistice. These are light cavalry, and that's exactly why we must be careful. Our warhorses tire easily; theirs are made for pursuit. And these greencoats, they seem to be carrying pistols. Maybe the Grand Marquise is wealthy—she is a Valliere anyways, and if she's armed her scouts with pistols and muskets, it must mean they are very serious about repelling us. This is the first time I've seen something like it. You'll be shot before you cover the distance."
Her aide-de-camp conceded. "You are very sharp, Your Excellency."
As if on cue, the green chasseurs advanced at a trot pace, very boldly, until they were about eighty or so yards away. Then they pulled out something from under the sheepskin flaps of their saddles and leisurely took aim. At first, they thought they were wands. Gunshots rattled in the air.
The knights all panicked and stirred their horses, as white smoke billowed around the faces of the enemy horsemen.
"Madame! Please, get back into cover! You're going to get hurt!"
Miss Dupuy was unfazed. To her aide's amazement, she had already taken off her helmet and pulled out a powder box from her saddlebag and began to powder her hair with a duster as her usual habit.
"Lianne, you're shaking as much as your horse. If you've heard the shots, then that means you're not dead yet."
"That's not funny, Miss Dupuy."
Miss Dupuy smiled. The rest of her group pulled themselves together shortly, realising they were unharmed. The pistols did very poorly at such a wide range—in fact they were blanks—but they weren't completely safe. Seeing their grand dame unperturbed restored a sense of equanimity, and the knights glared back down again at the field. Perhaps the chasseurs, those rogues, were eager to make an impression upon the Halle knights. One of them was daring very close now and waving his hand, grinning at them stupidly.
"Hullo!" the chasseur trooper called out.
"What rogues! Refusing to fight honourably in pitch!" Aide-de-camp Lianne muttered. "And this is against the armistice rules too…"
Miss Dupuy continued to smile at the green trooper, and watched as the string of chasseurs turned tails and trotted off. She laughed softly.
"Persistent fellows, aren't they?"
"Yes. Oh, look. There goes another squadron of them: this time they're in dark blue, and they're all armed with spears. Some light cavalry, huh?"
"They're rotating their pickets every two hours or so..."
"How clever!"
"Yes. Well, they're strong on this front. If the Marshal wants to outflank the rebels, he'll have to cut south maybe thirty, forty miles or more. Who knows? But what's important is that we're not seeing any griffin or dragon knights around for some time now. That's what we're scouting for, and that's good. Lord Grandjean will be able to launch his mission any night now."
"What's the baron planning to do?"
"Her Highness Lady Karin tells me that she has devised a plan to cause a revolt in Tristania and the next cities. This should give us an opportunity to win back some of the people. Did you know that the general with whom the Marshal was playing chess with yesterday is her daughter's familiar?"
"The Valliere exile? Louise Francoise?!" Lianne started.
Miss Dupuy nodded. "I have to say, this seems like a devious plan. Not a lot of people know this, but that General Bonaparte is a familiar. I don't think the city or even their army would be happy to find out that they are obeying and being ordered around by a familiar. And well it's not just that. What do I know, ah. Come now, let's return to the town."
…
Of the 3rd Chasseurs-à-Cheval regiment, the first company of the first squadron was always the most elite. It was only customary that the second company in the second squadron was just as disciplined. Yet here they were, acting with astounding braggadocio and impertinence while on scouting duty.
Cartier Martin de Walloon found himself suddenly promoted to Captain of the 2nd company. Guiche de Gramont, right beside him, was sous-lieutenant. All sixty of them were soldiers of the twin battles in what they dubbed the 'Opening Campaign', as it happened in early spring. Most of them had been in the dragoons beforehand, and a lot of moving and reorganising had been taking place since their return to Tristania.
Since then, Martin and Guiche were chasseurs; and Guiche decided he was liking it better this way. Soldiering was a brutal life; then again, it wouldn't be fair to complain about it for all of them had shared hardships every step of the way. Guiche had marched as a simple fusilier of their General's 1st Imperial Guards; had been transferred to the dragoons along with Martin for the battles of Vaupoisson; and in the south, battled against his older brother Jean de Gramont; and now, a cavalier of the chasseurs-à-cheval. He felt pleased with the headway he was making. Besides, now with the cavalry, there was a little less of the painful marching for them, and anyway the guard sergeant Turpin terrified him. The Guards were too serious. Guiche realised a trooper's life was his calling.
He grinned again as they surveyed five miles south of the main road between Tristania and La Fere. They had bivouacked for two days at a farmer's ranch, and one of their fellow troopers was a superb cook, so it made everything so much more bearable - even luxurious. The weather was sweet, and they sported themselves by putting on a show in front of the enemy scouts and occasionally firing blank shots to throw a scare at them.
"Ah, now! That's enough frolicking for today," Captain Martin shouted.
Another dashing cavalier, whom they all knew as lieutenant Lepic wheeled back his horse and rejoined them. He grinned carnivorously.
"Look sharp now, boys! We must make it a habit to impress the ladies."
Those beautiful female knights atop white steeds were a spectacle when they appeared out of the woods. There was one, which they assumed was the captain of the party, who was riding a frightful-looking beast. It looked like an oversized snow lion, with scrawny-wings sprouting out of its back. The chasseurs marvelled at such a creature. They now all turned around and the three leading officers began to lead back their company to their camp. They heard the squadron of chevauxlegers, lances bristling high, wearing pretty blue coats and breeches, trot up en masse to take their place at the particular meadow. Guiche rode beside Martin.
"It's about time to return to the city."
"Right you are, Guiche. This is the last of our field assignments for now. Let's rejoin the squadrons. It's a relief that we didn't get swooped up by those griffons we've seen in La Fere. Am I right, lieutenant?"
Lieutenant Lepic scoffed. "We'll cut 'em up good if they dare. Those birds seem juicy too, and maybe corporal Vermont can make a fricassee out of them eh?"
Cartier Martin pulled out a crumpled list from his breast.
"Now, there's a few more things we've ought to do once we get back to Tristania. Lieutenant, we'll drop by the mayor's office this evening to pick up the rest of our uniforms, saddlecloths and some other stuff. We're all going to get another pistol - which is what we need, a good brace of these puppies - and then a sabretache, extra spurs, gloves, and everything else. Thanks to all of you, for pooling three hundred of our hard-earned écu together, we're getting a good deal from the mayor's commissariat."
Guiche hummed. "Finally. Now, at least we'll go off dressed properly when up against the enemy."
"You can take the rest of the day off Guiche—and all you all, of the company," Martin announced to everyone. All of the chasseurs were pleased. "Lepic and I will go to the office. We'll meet up at the Charming Fairy Inn tonight and have a round of drinks or ten!"
…
Trevise di Giucono, the new mayor of Tristania had been commissioned in charge of the capital city for over a month now, but still, the rapidity of every development brought forth to him each week left him exerted to the maximum of his capabilities. He was a commoner, an educated one at that, who had worked as a notary outside of the city in a small textile village, and in his entire life had never been put in charge of such a grand responsibility as he held now. He wondered why every other older, more-experienced Tristanian official had been passed over instead of him - but he did his job faithfully. Trevise was thirty-six, well-kempt with a tanned face and a pleasant demeanour, but the fact that he was Romalian by blood, that he had a distinctly Romalian accent and an unusual surname, gave him much trouble with the other officials who unreasonably disliked him just because he had spent eight years of his childhood not growing up in Tristain.
Now, Trevise watched as another pair of troopers strolled up the hallway toward his blackwood desk. The volume at which the petitions, orders, updates and assignments came in from the army, the new arrondissements of Tristania, the extremely demanding newly-formed Assembly of Tristanian nobles, and the general complaints from over two hundred thousand citizens made it absolutely necessary to move his office during the day in the cavernous antechamber at the very foot of the mayoral building. This damned civil war meant work turned from tedious to egregious.
The troopers stood in front of him. One of them, the mayor recognized as Cartier Martin de Walloon, who had been present with General Bonaparte's retinue when they first entered his office. Trevise raised his eyebrows upon recognizing that one of the troopers in front of him was also Romalian, with sharp eyebrows, handsome, a large nose and the devilish smirk of a horse bandit, although he doubted the soldier would go around boasting about it.
"Buongiorno, signore," the Romalian trooper greeted loudly. "We bring a follow-up for our company's provision orders. We can pay for it now."
"Very good."
Cartier Martin on the other hand simply smiled as he dropped a clip of papers and a heavy pouch of gold coins on the blackwood desk. Mayor Trevise began to peruse it minutely, then glanced up.
"I take it we're having Romalians in our army now as well?"
Martin laughed. "Ahh, not exactly sir."
"What is your name, son?" Mayor Trevise glanced up again at the other fellow.
The trooper introduced himself with a grin. "Fiorenzo Lepic di Brioni de la Seruriere. First lieutenant of the second company, second squadron, 3rd Chasseurs-à-Cheval."
"You are from Aquileia, yes?"
"That's right!"
"I've been there. Quite a stunning city. What in Brimir's name has you this far in Tristain?"
"I was an equerry, sire. I took care of horses for a baron in Romalia, but I done left."
"Stole a horse to here, did you? Bueno! I know the lot of you, troublesome fellows looking for the irresistible lure of opportunities."
The mayor stared suspiciously while the lieutenant kept grinning, using his sabre as a little crutch to lean on as he stood.
"Lieutenant Lepic here has already fought under General Napoleon Bonaparte," Cartier Martin said.
"At Vaupoisson?"
"Yes, that's it, signore!" Fiorenzo Lepic nodded. "I was with the general's elite squadron, and served as part of his honor guard on our way back here."
"Well I've heard plenty from it. I see here, there's also a note from your colonel. What is it that they are demanding of me again?"
"A follow-up of the new uniforms to be worn by our regiment."
"Good grief, I know how much you boys want your fancy new costumes, but there's no way to make the tailors sew any faster! It's as if you're all on a festival parade when this is war - and two dresses, a parade one and another for campaign? Are we Gallians now, eh, with this sort of extravagance? We've even commissioned the Royal Armory already, and it was a debacle to deal with the chamberlain…"
"The uniforms do something for the men," Martin explained. "They're beginning to believe they're proper soldiers now; it inflates their spirits like balloons, it makes them encouraged to march, being dressed-well, and jump straight into the fire, and turns them proud."
"Have you received one of the medals the General was giving away?"
"Not yet."
"You should. That General Buonaparte nearly drove the men wild giving them airs yesterday on parade when he started awarding every common soldiery with a knight's honor. It was unbelievable, I tell you."
"We should parade too tomorrow," Martin insisted. "And we'll need the complete accoutrements for our company right away. The other squadrons want their gears too."
"Gad! That'll be five hundred pieces, for good measure."
"And don't forget the depot squadron: we're trying to whip up those new recruits and they need proper cavalry boots, spurs, braces and some more busby hats. Why don't you have the popinjays in the palace make themselves useful?"
"Those pen-pushers! Well my commissariat and the Royal Armory don't exactly get along; we're rivals of sorts."
Cartier Martin put his hands on his hips as the mayor finished reading the first page of the ledger. The mayor looked up.
"Lieutenant Lepic," Mayor Trevise said. "Will you give your word to serve with complete obedience, loyalty to the Crown, and not to thieve while on your duty?"
"Signore! I am an honorable Romalian, as you can see…"
Mayor Trevise did not trust the smile on Fiorenzo Lepic's face. The chasseur was one of those roguish, boisterous types. Not a mercenary at least, but still… If Tristania were more fortunate, the sooner the General would turn these troopers out of the city. He said, "very well. Be informed that the provisions will be distributed tomorrow morning at your camp quarters. Is there anything else?"
"Five thousand more muskets and pistols. And a hundred artillery pieces plus more packs of cartridges and ammunition for all of it."
"Stop joking around, De Walloon!"
"And new saddles," added the lieutenant.
Martin snickered. "Ah, but we do need that many."
The mayor sighed exasperatedly. "The arsenal is empty! If you want, the royal armory is still full. Suppose the cavalry will have to make do with golden suits…"
"Oh no, for some reason the General is foregoing armor almost completely! Except for the cuirassiers—but those men are brutes. We're having every blacksmith in the city help in breaking down and requisitioning the metal into more guns and bayonets."
"That will take a year at least."
"General Bonaparte intends to do it in six weeks."
"Impossible!"
"He wants to build new artillery cannons and carriages to move them and muskets just like the late Queen's Musketeer Knights, but these guns will be even better. Do we have any more horses available?"
"Those royalists are not simpletons. They've taken it all—all of the cavalry horses from the city stables. No fools, eh? They don't want us taking advantage," Mayor Trevise laughed. "How does the general intend to do this? I know they're taking advantage of the royal coffers, but nobody can buy time! There are so many new names on the general's Military Household… I will read his memorandum right now. Go, tell your officers I've received the follow-up."
…
Guiche de Gramont traipsed down the cobbled streets of Tristania, with a spring in his step and high spirits. The sun was dipping over the horizon, basking the beautiful city in cool, mellow light. He continued to wear his spotless green chasseur uniform proudly, striding confidently. He winked and gave playful little salutes at every young girl he passed by along the boulevard. He tipped his fur hat. He strolled around by himself admiring the commotion of their capital.
As he reached an intersection in the High Quarters, he saw a familiar blonde-haired girl standing at a terrace, leaning on the stone railings. She was slumped over, cheek in one palm and elbow on the sill, watching the people and the berlines go by down the street. In this manner, she was like a damsel waiting for a prince.
"Oh Your Highness, Miss von Guldenhorf! How do you do?"
Guiche ran up to the terrace and called to her.
Beatrice Yvonne von Guldenhorf blinked. She looked around then saw Guiche standing below her on the curb. She glared at him.
"Shut it, Guiche."
"What's the matter?" Guiche grinned. "Ah, right. Well, I heard about what happened to you and the Grand Duke. Got a chunk of your properties sequestered I hear. I'm sorry about that."
"Don't act as if you're any better off than me, Gramont-exile."
"Touché," he shrugged. "So how's it going between you and Louise Francoise?"
"Don't even say another word!" Beatrice snapped. "I can't stand to hear her name."
"But I hear you're being made a part of her peers in the palace."
"Yes, but only because they need my father's alliance with them. Whether they like it or not, my family still commands the whole Air Fleet."
Guiche made his way to the nearby stairsteps and climbed up on the terrace and approached her.
"You seem downcast, Beatrice. Why is that? I've always liked it when you had that smug, cute little smile of yours. You were very pretty then; still are."
Guiche sauntered up beside her flirtatiously. He curiously gazed at her.
"Hullo!" Beatrice flushed red and glared with disgust. "Your debauchery knows no bounds, Guiche. I'll never forget how you spun Katie a marvellous farce back at the Academy. If Montmorency were here, she'd strangle your guts…"
"You are too cruel, Beatrice! I was just trying to be nice, eh!"
"I see you've joined a different group of peasants now."
"Troopers," Guiche insisted. He showed off his green campaign uniform, spinning around. "Look here. This is the uniform of the 'chasseurs'. How fine, don't you think?"
"Yes. You'll cut an outstanding figure on the battlefield, especially with a knight's lance poking out of your chest like that."
"Well," Guiche sighed, smiling. "I can't say I hate it. And you, Beatrice? I would've thought you've left to go back to your mansion. I didn't know you're still here in Tristania."
She shrugged, muttering. "I decided to stay anyway. What about you?"
"Oh, me?"
"Do you have a lot of money with you?"
"Aah. Not a lot, as you can see I've already been sent out of my own house so…"
Beatrice scoffed. "I figured. You poor sap!"
"I'm lodging at the Charming Fairy Inn. It's what my company could afford."
"Oh no! You poor sap, you're not serious! But… since I'm feeling benevolent today, you could lodge in with me."
Guiche de Gramont began to grin effusively. "You're alone in the city?"
"I'm living with my governess; for the time being, with my father busy I'm staying here at the high quarters."
"Would you be so kind as to also take in a friend of mine? His name is Cartier Martin de Walloon."
"Is that so! Well bring him later, the dullard. I wonder where you picked him up. Another duke's son…"
As both of them stood on the terrace side, Guiche yawned, stretching his arms out. Cleverly, like an Albionese merchant he settled his arm back down to subtly hang it around Beatrice's shoulders.
"W-What the heck do you think you're doing, Gramont?"
"I told you that I liked you, Beatrice."
"Hullo! And your girlfriend?" she asked incredulously.
"She is so far away, and I yearn for a girl's company. Like a rose, I shall wither without it."
Beatrice was now blushing madly. She leapt up and seized Guiche's collars. She shook him furiously.
"You are such a fool!"
"I still like you—there you go. I've said my part, sweetheart. You have really nice golden hair, much prettier than Montmorency's. And this whole marching-and-fighting thing is really making me blue, that I could just fall in love with you any day now, I swear."
"We barely knew each other. Stop fooling around!"
"Nobody has to find out. Why, love is the most peculiar of secrets."
Guiche winked at her smugly. It was too much. The next thing he knew…
"Oof!"
Guiche doubled over, gasping. Beatrice, her cheeks still burning red, had jabbed him in the stomach generously. The Gramont was notorious even back then at the Academy for being a libertine braggart, and actually a very charming one at that. She was frustrated to see that Guiche hadn't changed - if anything Guiche seemed cheerier now.
"Get out of my sight, Guiche!" Beatrice squeaked, pointing him off.
Guiche de Gramont chuckled in between hiccups, grinning. Beatrice stood in front of him, pouting indignantly at his antics.
He began to step away and waved. "I'll see you later, Beatrice! Oh and yeah, I've always wanted to get a kiss from a missy—"
"Fool!"
…
The Army of Tristania, as it was now renamed, was encamped in several cantonments within and outside of the capital walls and in the suburbs. Returning from the triumphant campaigns in the south, against the isolated loyalist armies of the House Gramont and the Duchy of Walloon, they numbered just around 28,000 fighting men.
Since returning to the city, Napoleon could expect another 10,000 drafts or so to supplement his numbers. But extensive works needed to be done. Napoleon had planned on initially dividing the Army of Tristain into two Corps, each with their own services and logistics required to function as an independent army in their own right, for a limited amount of time. But first, he would have to build it into a truly powerful war machine, one that was designed to not just win them this war, but win them a new empire.
Napoleon shook his head.
At the evening palace ball, Napoleon conversed with his colonels and the different personalities of the city. The people in the ballroom could be distinguished by their clothes and their uniforms; naturally, Napoleon's entourage were in full dress uniforms. The nobles wore their sophisticated liveries.
The importance of really strengthening the army was a subject that came up more than once. Plenty of the nobles he had met and those from the Assembly agreed.
There were very serious setbacks. They had most of the means of provisioning an army of thirty thousand. But first of all, the city simply did not have the infrastructure for producing the required volume of components for making new arms - muskets for one. Andre Giono, the influential printer and businessman that he was nowadays, had carried out Napoleon's instructions for commissioning the construction of a new pattern flintlock musket and bayonets to rearm the whole army infantry in the future. Giono had succeeded. With the uncanny help from clockmakers, and working in conjunction with veteran gunsmiths, they've produced a design almost identical to the ones Napoleon used in France. In addition they'd also made blueprints for variations of dragoon muskets, carbines, and cavalry pistols. The problem was they didn't have enough gunsmiths nor the facilities to mass produce them immediately. They were lucky if they could reach a quota of 2,000 good-quality guns in six weeks.
It was the same with his intentions for creating a powerful artillery arm in the Army of Tristania. Napoleon found plenty of capable artisans and blacksmiths who were willing to do the job—for varying prices anyway, and usually Napoleon had to haggle with them fiercely regarding that. The circumstances were challenging. It had come to the point that they had had to draw unlikely help from carpenters, woodcarvers and the royal mathematicians; Napoleon needed to fabricate the same machines for making cannons he had once seen in his graduate years in Paris. That was a long time ago, and the truth was he hardly knew how they worked. For how good of an artilleryman he had been, he never found out how exactly bronze guns were drilled in a machine.
They had sufficient raw materials. They could settle for casting bronze barrels; that was what all of the blacksmiths insisted. Napoleon wouldn't have it. The carpenters were flabbergasted when Napoleon ordered them to devise a way to drill out the bores of a gun barrel that was cast as a solid cylinder. For them, it was absurd. They'd have to find a way then.
Grand Duchess de la Valliere and Marshal Gramont were at the head of the biggest army assembled in Tristain in decades. The kingdom of Gallia was doing a suspicious lot of moving their armies along the southern borders. Romalia was quiet but observant as usual, and they weren't completely neutral; they had the powerful Inquisition army to deploy whenever the Pope ordered so. And finally there were increasing rumours of a Germanian intervention.
If it did happen, Napoleon thought darkly, it would be a savage defensive war perhaps. Just like before. Just like 1814.
Colonel Owen Foucard cleared his throat as he stood to the side behind Napoleon.
"Sire, there is a lady who wants to see you. She is in the parlour."
"Who?"
"A Germanian woman, it would seem."
Napoleon shrugged. Then he smiled at Foucard. He continued to listen for a few more moments in the conversation taking place between Andre Giono and another magistrate, then excused himself in a moment and walked out of the ballroom.
Once he had walked down the stairway, he found that there were only a few people in the extensively furnished, warm palace lounge. There were a few gentlemen and ladies conversing with each other pleasantly, relaxing at the settees over some wine. The new gendarmes stood still, posted like sentries made of marble, at regular intervals and flanking the main door of the parlour.
Napoleon spotted a lady standing by the vestibule of the doorway. She wore an extravagant, strikingly Parisienne-looking cream coloured dress with frilly pleats and laces. A hair cover adorned with great, white feathers was draped on the right side of her dark voluminous hair. Napoleon briefly wondered, despite the inherently-backward era of Halkeginia, just how similar everything seemed to Europe. He approached the woman and once he was a step behind her, cleared his throat. The lady turned around.
Napoleon immediately scowled, hiding his shock.
"Why, you're no Germanian."
"Yes."
"I was not expecting you at all, Sheffield."
Napoleon stepped away, his eyes narrowing into razor slits. Sheffield smiled at him delightedly.
"I have heard a lot about you, my fellow familiar. About how you've beaten duchesse de la Valliere twice and taken over Tristania. I must admit I am now very interested~."
"Ma foi, you are a spy."
"Not at all. Honestly, my master had sent me here to check on you but personally, I am interested to see how you are doing—and all of this."
"He has sent you to spy on me then."
"Ah~ but no," Sheffield sighed, giggling. "Like I said, word goes around. People are beginning to hear of your greatness, emperor. King Joseph has been reading Tristania's newspapers religiously. Sometimes it even annoys me - it's all he ever pores into for weeks now, and he completely ignores me unless he's sending me on a mission to fetch them, the stupid papers."
Napoleon spoke in an extremely sardonic voice.
"Tell me what His Majesty wants now."
Sheffield pouted. "You are very rude, Napoleon. Are you not going to invite me to the ball?"
Napoleon briefly glanced around him. For some reason, no one was taking notice of the peculiarities of this woman: Sheffield did not look anything like a Germanian girl. Her skin was sickly pale, and there was no pretty makeup on her face except the same dark teardrop-like slit of paint under her eyes and her mauve lips. Like those mysterious Romanian gypsies who practice 'witchcraft' he saw in Bavaria, Napoleon thought. Except this was true.
The guards gave short looks at him but did not budge. A nobleman walked by but did not hint at noticing. Something was disturbingly askew, Napoleon suspected. Foucard said it was a Germanian girl, not…
"I do not know what kind of magic you have pulled, but you're an illusion, aren't you, Sheffield?"
Sheffield raised her eyebrows.
"You are very sharp, Napoleon. Why, how did you know?"
Napoleon turned aside and stared out of a large window. He spoke very softly, as if monologuing to himself. It was also so as not to look deranged, talking to empty air.
"Ahh, Napoleon… you don't have to worry. Look at me. I appear to everyone else as a beautiful Germanian girl. Only you, however, I am allowing to see me as I am…"
"None of these people seem to notice you. Except for Foucard, and it wasn't really you who he saw. It was a… trompe l'oeil, as we call it," Napoleon sighed.
He threw a sharp glance at Sheffield.
"You should get to the point, familiar."
Sheffield was visibly insulted. She stared at him with cold eyes. "We are both the same."
Napoleon could not restrain himself from laughing.
"King Joseph has sent me to inform you that he is willing to give back the artefacts: the Music Box and the Wind Ruby."
"The ring and the Music Box? Perche?"
Sheffield tilted her head as she put her hands on her hips. Napoleon remained cautious.
"What does he want?"
"He wants that elf."
"What elf—" Napoleon's eyebrows rose. "Ah, that elf."
"I will meet you in person, at a halfway village southwest."
"Well you can go back and tell King Joseph that I refuse."
"Eh?" Sheffield stammered. "You didn't even think about it yet."
"I do not need to think about it, è evidente. The fact is, if he's willing to give back those two magical items—and yes, I knew they were very valuable—it would be for something more important or crucial to his interests. I do not know what Joseph wants with that elf we found in Albion, but I've learned a lot since these past few months: everyone seems to always have some kind of issue or prejudice with elves. They are strange, unholy, or dangerous; that kind of nonsense. I do not share the same issue. But thanks to you, Miss Sheffield, it seems like it is true after all.
"Now, tell me why Joseph wants Tiffania. What for, hm?"
"I wouldn't dare," Sheffield ground out.
Napoleon scoffed.
"My dear; It doesn't matter to me, anyways."
"Oh, Napoleon. Trust me, you do not want to get on my master's bad side. I know you've cut a naughty little deal with him. My king can reverse all your gains with a single motion. If you don't make this deal, you are making a grave mistake. The fact that he's even sent me here to offer you a deal at all is a testament to his benevolence. You should be grateful, Napoleon," Sheffield said haughtily.
Napoleon finally turned to face her.
There was a small inconspicuous smile on his lips. His grey-blue eyes, like a feline's, seemed to have turned a deeper, darker shade of steel. That smile on his lips gradually began to grow wider.
He stepped in front of Sheffield, staring straight at her.
"So, what are you and Joseph going to do? Tell everyone that I killed Henrietta?"
Sheffield flinched. Napoleon smiled.
"Spread papers about me that I was the one who usurped the army and murdered De Poitiers? That I deliberately left Saxe-Gotha exposed for your Reconquista and Jean-Jacques Francis de Wardes to storm the church and kill the Queen and all of her entourage? Ma foi… Do you know, every night now, I keep dreaming of them. Henrietta, Captain Agnes, De Poitiers, Kundera and Richemont. Dead. Waiting for me at a table in purgatory. In fact, they weren't the only ones in the dark. But of course it made sense that they'd haunt me, because it's all true. I usurped them all.
"But oh, Sheffield. Who's going to believe you?"
The look of pure amusement in Napoleon's eyes was disturbingly insidious. Sheffield inwardly shivered. He was the Devil—yes, after all he was still the familiar summoned by that void mage they used to call Zero—and this one may just as well have come straight from Cocytus' frozen hell. There was something about this man that unsettled her more than the king of Gallia. Just what did that blasted Valliere girl summon?
Sheffield scowled, glaring back. She didn't notice herself getting backed against the windowsill.
Napoleon continued to gaze at her for another moment. Then he burst out laughing. It was a contagious, wheezing kind of laugh which garnered some attention from the nearby gentlemen sitting in the lounge, but nothing too disturbing. They must've thought it was something unusual Napoleon saw out on the street. It was far unlike the Mad King of Gallia's ugly, rough cackles that disgusted those who heard it.
"I was just fibbing with you, my dear. I would prefer to have another meeting at a more comfortable time though. I am preoccupied at the moment, and this affair can wait."
Sheffield furrowed her brows and glared at him intensely. Then in a blink of an eye, she was gone in front of Napoleon.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and opened them again. She was nowhere to be seen, and the parlour remained as tranquil as it was before. Sheffield was truly gone. What bizarre illusive magic, Napoleon inwardly thought.
"Napoleon."
Just then, Louise was walking right up to him. She was wearing a dress with a turquoise cloak for the evening ball.
She pouted at him. "What's the matter with you? Come, let's go back inside."
"Of course."
Louise gave an uneasy sigh. "The armistice is only good for six weeks. In that time, Napoleon, I think Marshal Gramont and the duchess would form some kind of plan to defeat us."
Napoleon crossed his hands behind his back as usual. He watched his partner's face. Louise's pink hair hung in curls over her forehead, something she must've had a valet done for the evening. She had a very pensive look in her eyes.
"What do you think they're planning to do, Louise? Humor me with your assessment."
"They'll prepare to besiege this city," Louise theorized, raising a finger. Her expression was doubtful though.
"But that will be a really, really complicated and humongous work. No—they'll go after our undefended towns and villages first. If they skirt the city and push north, they'll be invading Grand Duc de Guldenhorf's territory. It's like you've taught me; they'll attack where we are exposed, and they'll try to lure us into a battle of their own dictation. As it stands, Napoleon, we control roughly half of Tristain and a good bit more than the Grand Duchess and those rebels…"
Louise smiled a little. She laughed dryly. Napoleon glanced at her.
"What's wrong Louise?"
"Nothing. I just thought of how… ironic it all is. You know, the other side, they're also calling us rebels too I'm guessing."
"Well, Louise. Good people are always so sure they're right."
Louise sighed. "Aah! This is getting more and more difficult, despite the fact we've made some successes."
"Well it is. When I became a general, I was only twenty-four. But you, Louise? You're not even seventeen yet. But I do remember you've mentioned that you'll have your fête on 6th August."
"August? What's that?"
Napoleon chuckled.
"It's known as the eighth month, back in my world. We call it 'August'."
"Well, here we call it the month of Nyð."
"Well I forget! And it doesn't easily roll off my French tongue."
"It's pronounced 'neeth'," Louise explained. "Napoleon, why is it called August anyway?"
"It is named after a great Roman emperor from a very long time ago; his name was Augustus."
"Do you think you would get your own month too?"
"Aha, we'll see Louise!" Napoleon laughed a little. "Which reminds me that one of the things we must do to improve the state of Tristain is to introduce a new calendar. It will make things so much more simpler, and it will help us conduct timetables during campaigns with extreme precision. Ah, there is so much to be done indeed."
"You've never really told me when's your birthday, Napoleon…"
It's on the 15th of August. How curious, isn't it?"
"Ah, well it must be fate," Louise joked, smirking.
"Yes."
Napoleon seemed to be ensconced in his thoughts again, Louise wondered, watching him. The emperor stared at the walls as they very slowly walked up the hallway. She coughed a little and spoke again.
"Anyway. I did some maths of my own, Napoleon. And it occurred to me it would be nearly impossible to procure enough weapons for our whole army. We won't even have ten thousand muskets by the end of the month, the 'flintlock' ones, if that's what you want to arm everyone with. Tristain just doesn't have that kind of capacity at all, and remember it's been such a long time since a war has really happened… we just don't have it. A gun just really isn't something you give to a common soldier!"
"I'm actually pleased that you did your own calculations, Louise. And that is quite correct."
Napoleon gave a nod, smiling. "But there is a way."
"How? Because I don't see it. We're trying to build more artillery pieces too, right? That's going off quite roughly already, and we just don't have all the things needed for it, in time at least. I don't know how you'll surprise me this time. And don't even think of trying to obtain weapons from Gallia or Romalia anyplace else. It sets a bad precedent for our country and we're in a bad position of fighting against our own people, while everyone else is watching. They say Germania is planning to invade us, now I'm not sure but it is quite…"
"Louise, you do remember the Prince of Wales, yes?"
Louise stopped. She looked up at Napoleon pensively.
"What of it?"
Napoleon grinned, his mind already set to work. "What do you say we pay a visit to His Majesty the prince?"
"Right away?!"
"We'll march two-thirds of the army to La Rochelle, where they can receive better equipment, provisions and uniform, and there they'll also get very invaluable training."
"It will be just like Boulogne," Napoleon said, reminiscing for a moment. "Molto bene! It will be good practice for you Louise as the Grand Marquise to learn to parade your army through your municipalities; it keeps your citizens afire with great ardour and enthusiasm for you. Your mere presence would excite them. From La Rochelle, we can receive aid from Albion. They are indebted to us since we saved them from the Reconquista, don't forget that. It will be your responsibility to meet with the Albionese court and the prince of course, but I will accompany you there."
Louise thought hard for a minute. She asked slowly, "when do we leave?"
Napoleon reached out to pinch Louise's ear well with no warning.
"Tomorrow if it makes you happy."
"Oh no! You'll really be the death of me!"
Louise complained, annoyed as she shook. Napoleon laughed, tousling her hair dotingly as they started back up the stairway.
"Chin up, Louise. We'll depart for La Rochelle on Wednesday, and by Sunday take a skyship to Albion, and then travel to Londinium. It'll be 'Void' day then so I'm hoping the traffic won't hinder us at all. You'll dine with the prince. I'll deal with arranging for the purchase of supplies and trading for equipment we need. We should use these six weeks from the armistice of La Fere to its full advantage. Now come on. Let's go back and have a little dance at the ball, we can do the quadrille."
…
…
I am still trying to stay as accurate as possible with the canon story universe, especially with the ZnT origin story.