The whole art of war consists of guessing at what is on the other side of the hill.

Ney's army, as men called the mixed Franco-Saderan force Ney commanded, arrived at Castle Tubet just as the first snows were beginning to fall on the mountain tops. They had been in Falmart almost five months now, and now the winter they'd fled in Russia was coming to Elbe. Ney guessed it was either late March or early April back in Europe, but only Chaucer still bothered to properly date his reports these days. Ney was too rusty in his remembrance of the Republican calendar to be certain.

At Castle Tubet there was a messenger waiting for Ney. He'd arrived just the night before with an urgent message from Italica.

TO GENERAL NEY, COMMANDER OF FRENCH FORCES IN FALMART

Headquarters, Italica, 12 Germinal, Year XXI

Situation dire. Zorzal has marched. Saderan scouts seen near walls. Arrives at Italica soon, few days at most, hours at worst. Help requested. Food good, ammunition good, manpower adequate, walls adequate. Vastly outnumbered. Dragon spotted scouting above walls, driven back by swivel guns. Uncertain if message will reach you. Sending multiple couriers. Hope enemy can't read French. Won't tell directly what gate password is in case do read French. Password: name of greatest Frenchman to ever live. Countersign: name of club he belonged to. Will hold out for long as possible. Send reinforcements if able. Long live France. Long live the Revolution.

Signed,

Jean-Pierre Chaucer, Head of Requisitions

Ney looked at the courier who'd delivered the message. He was a young Saderan, barely old enough to ride the horse he'd brought. "How many of you did Chaucer send?" Ney demanded in Elban.

The boy looked away, holding back tears. "Twenty-two," he struggled out. "He said it would be easy, but then the men on horses started chasing us and we… they started killing… and the dragon came… I-I was the only one who made it."

"Get him a bed and something to eat," Ney ordered Barbier.

Ney's army was on the move again in the morning. Having deposited their prisoners at Janku, they were still marching thirty miles a day. It wasn't as brutal as before. The auxiliaries were finally strengthening their legs to marching, and they'd ransacked Castle Tubet's granary so that every man had three full meals a day despite their reduced supply train.

It was ten days to Alnus Hill. No further messages came from Italica, and Ney could only hope that the city hadn't fallen already. They made camp on the same site as the one they'd made when they arrived months ago.

Their astrologer, an old man with stark white hair named Abad, spent the night staring at the stars and jotting things down on a wax tablet. The next morning he burst into Ney's tent without invitation and waved the tablet at him.

"The gate will not open here," Abad declared. "I have foreseen it in the heavens."

"Good morning to you as well," Ney muttered as he put down his shaving kit.

Abad stroked his beard and shuddered. "The gods give me signs. I dreamt of an eagle carrying a skull over a great lake of blood. This is a good omen."

Ney watched him with apprehension. "You said the gate won't open here?"

"That is what the heavens revealed, yes."

"You're certain?"

Abad's head snapped to Ney. "Certain? The heavens are never certain," he cackled.

"But you believe it won't be here?" Ney asked carefully.

"Yes, yes, of course! I said that already!" Abad shuddered again. "I felt the flow of magic shift from this holy place. The gods move it east over the mountains. Where exactly remains to be seen."

"East?" Ney tried to remember the world's geography. "You mean towards Sadera itself?"

The old man's eyes were glazed over. He mumbled, "The gods are playing tricks… Maybe…"

Ney sighed at the man.

Eventually the astrologer wandered out of Ney's tent, still muttering to himself. Ney let him go and finished shaving. Then he had Barbier convene his officers for a command meeting. They gathered in Ney's tent and assembled around a central table with a map of Italica and the surrounding area laid out.

Generals Courbet, Messier, Rousseau, and Brunelle stood leaning over the map. Each general stared at the parchment, occasionally muttering some observation to the others. Opposite to them was Colonel Feraud who had no patience for maps or extensive plans. He played with the hilt of his saber while pacing the tent. Last was Colonel Delon, sitting in a camp chair with the appearance of a sleeping man. He'd barely bothered to glance at the map.

Ney smiled at his officers. There was something familiar about it all; the command tent was like a second home. He nodded at Captain Barbier, sat in the corner of the tent with a quill at the ready, and breathed out.

"I expect you all understand our situation by now?" Ney waited for them to grumble in confirmation before continuing. "Italica is under siege by Prince Zorzal and an army of forty thousand men including at least one dragon. I'm sure you've also heard that our astrologer thinks a new gate is opening. Let me be clear when I say that changes nothing. Gate or no gate, we need to relieve Italica. That city is our best base of supply in the Empire. Elbe is too isolated. If we lose Italica, we lose our ability to operate here, and then we lose any hope of reaching this new gate."

Brunelle had a grin on his face. "We're going to face Zorzal in battle again?"

"He has twice our men," Rousseau shot back.

Messier laughed, "The same number we beat at Aquila Ridge. Besides, this time we have the auxiliaries. We're sure to win again."

Rousseau pursed his lips. "I would rather not rely on our enemy's incompetence again."

"For once, I agree with Rousseau," Ney said. "I'm hoping to avoid a battle. An open battle at least. Instead we're going to cut his supply lines."

Now it was Rousseau's time to grin while Courbet raised an eyebrow.

Ney placed a finger on the map at the dot marking Alnus Hill. "We're here, Zorzal is at Italica, and it seems to me that if we're feeling audacious we have the opportunity to do something exceptionally devastating." He traced his finger from Alnus Hill to Italica then north east to a series of chevrons indicating a mountain range. "Zorzal's almost certainly being supplied from Sadera. That means his supply line has to pass through the Romalia Mountains on the Appia Road using this mountain pass."

Courbet saw it instantly. "You want to slip past Zorzal and cut him off from Sadera at the pass."

Ney smiled. "The pass will limit his numerical advantage and allow us to fortify a position. He'll begin to starve while we feed ourselves off of his captured supplies."

"What's stopping him from trying to force a battle before we make it there?" Messier asked, rubbing his head.

Ney glanced at Feraud. "I believe we have enough cavalry to screen our movements sufficiently."

"It'll be a fight," Feraud admitted. Then he shrugged. "Saderan cavalry isn't worth shit. I'll throw back their scouts long enough for you to get past."

Messier kept glancing at the map. "So we cut his supplies and fortify our position. Then what? He won't just wait to starve."

"Three options," Ney began. "The first is that he throws himself at us. He sends his whole force at our position hoping that he can break us, and we devastated his army with earthworks and firepower. That's the ideal scenario because then the war's as good as done just like that. The second is that he falls back. Italica isn't the only Imperial city on this side of the mountains; he'll head to Rondel if he chooses to abandon his siege. But that means we relieve and reinforce Italica, and he's still cut off from Sadera. We'll be in a superior position if he does that."

"He could still threaten us from there," Messier pointed out.

"Perhaps. But then we just have to face him later when we have better odds."

Rousseau cleared his throat. "And the third option?"

Ney inhaled. "The third option is that he takes Italica before his supplies run out, and he uses it as his new supply base. If that happens, we're in deep shit. He'll isolate us in the mountains and then we'll have nowhere to go but further into enemy territory. I don't even want to consider what happens after that."

"Italica cannot be lost then," Courbet stated. "Can we trust Chaucer to hold long enough?"

"Maybe," Ney muttered. "But I'd rather not chance it. Once we get closer we'll try to sneak reinforcements into Italica. At very least the knowledge we're in the area will help him hold longer."

"It appears to me that this is a very complicated plan," Brunelle noted.

"It's the best I can give you," Ney replied. "Any more questions?"

There were, as always, many more questions. The small details were gradually worked on and tiny flaws discussed. Ney's plan was far from perfect, and it never was going to be. Regardless, by nightfall they were all at very least satisfied with it.


It was another week of marching before they came near Italica.

Ney's army was sixty miles from the city when Feraud's advanced scouts reported contact with the Saderans. Almost immediately, skirmishing between French and Saderan horsemen began with Feraud deploying the entire corps cavalry, intent on blinding Zorzal and hiding the main body's movements.

It was quickly evident that Feraud's men were far better than the enemy. Every French cavalryman was a veteran of Russia and in some cases Spain, and they knew this 'little war' very well. Chaucer's Boys were still inexperienced, but they had the benefit of French guidance and excellent officers.

It was more than the Saderans had. By the end of the second day of skirmishing, Feraud's men had suffered only a handful of casualties and delivered nearly three times that against the enemy. They fought in streambeds and bushes. At crossroads and forests. Each side pressed for minor victories to slowly drive back the other.

And as the cavalry waged its skirmish war, the infantry and artillery was making steady progress circumventing Zorzal's army.

They weren't marching thirty miles a day anymore. The Saderan siege camp was only a day or two away at most, and Feraud hadn't yet managed to fully pen in Zorzal's scouts. If the worst came to pass, Ney didn't want his men exhausted on the eve of a battle, so he had ordered a slow pace. They moved in small bursts, ten or so miles a day, and screened their movements with light infantry in case something slipped past Feraud's outriders.

The army moved in a circular path, avoiding the main road in favor of smaller trails. Their goal was to completely avoid the Saderans besieging Italica and march past them unseen.

By the grace of God and Colonel Feraud, they'd managed to remain undetected thus far.

In distant Italica, something burned and sent smoke billowing that was visible for miles. Ney had no idea what was happening in the city, but a few cavalrymen had managed to inch close enough to get a look at Zorzal's siege works. According to them, catapults were bombarding the city constantly while men built ladders to scale the walls.

Ney should have felt anxious but instead he felt confident. His plan was in action, and it was up to the fates if Italica would hold or fall. For his part, the cavalry had been performing excellently, and he was five days at the current pace from slipping past Zorzal.

Men were in good spirits, because they were winning skirmishes at little cost. There was an energy in the air. Everyone was ready to do their duty and do it well.

Which was good, because suddenly Zorzal dismissed his old cavalry commander, and the little war of skirmishes became big in the span of a few hours.

The rumor was that Zorzal had arrested the old commander for being too cautious and risk averse. In his place was a mercenary cavalryman. His name was Jegu as Ney learned from a Saderan prisoner, and he hailed from the north, some distant tribe famed for its horsemen which had devastated the Empire centuries ago in a great war that still lived in its citizens' memories. Apparently Jegu didn't care much for history. He'd ridden south with a few hundred of his tribesmen to earn Imperial silver by fighting the strange otherworldly Bluecoats. Now he had command of Zorzal's entire cavalry contingent. According to Ney's prisoner, Colonel Feraud was now famous in the Saderan camp, and Jegu wanted him captured alive.

In an instant, pressure on the front increased dramatically.

Jegu concentrated his cavalry, five hundred Northern mercenaries and a couple hundred spare Saderan horsemen, and began hunting the small bands of Feraud's cavalry that roamed Italica's countryside.

French and auxiliary cavalry, outnumbered by an order of magnitude, fled before them. The tides were now turned. Near a forest south of Italica, Jegu's men caught two groups of Chaucer's Boys and butchered all three dozen men. Then they ran down a dozen French chasseurs and butchered them too.

Responding quickly, Feraud ordered in all the small groups and concentrated his own force to counter the mercenary. Then he went after Jegu with four hundred Chaucer's Boys and two hundred French cavalry.

At a streambed just west of Ney's camp, almost within sight of it, Colonel Feraud's cavalry emerged over a small hill and slashed into Jegu's vanguard. They were like a saber cut; they passed very quickly and left a great deal of blood behind.

Jegu's Northerners countered their slash, emerging from behind the vanguard in good order with bows in hand, sabers tucked close at hand, and a short fur covered man leading them. Screaming war cries, they came after Feraud's men, loosing arrows then immediately swapping to sabers as the distance closed.

The two forces went right at each other.

As each side was made of professionals, neither backed away at the last moment. The two forces spread out wide, looking for a flank or some opportunity to exploit, and then they threaded each other. Each man passed between the horses of his enemies until he emerged from chaos having fought for perhaps ten seconds.

A smattering of bodies was left on the ground.

Both sides rallied instantly.

The Northerners formed up closer together this time and charged again, so Feraud's men did the same and charged as well. But at the last moment, Captain Heidler broke from Feraud's formation with fifty dragoons and led them perpendicular to the charging squadrons.

The two sides impacted again. Their close formations forced a melee to develop where men and horses dueled. Men from both sides fell in bouts of violence.

Then Captain Heidler turned the flank of the Northerners and led his fifty dragoons into their side. Jegu's formation promptly exploded into fleeing men, leaving a few dozen as corpses on the ground.

Colonel Feraud hastily led his men forward and harried the fleeing Northerners. They killed three score more, but the Northerners were just as practiced as they were, and they soon outpaced Feraud's tiring force before killing several men with arrows, forcing the pursuit to halt.

That was the last action of the day, and the Northerners, having lost a great deal more than Feraud, retired to their camp in defeat rather than risk another fight.

Before they did, however, the Northerners rode to just out of musket range and roared together, "Oorah! Oorah! Feraud! Feraud!"

The short man in furs saluted with his saber then led the Northerners back to their camp.

Feraud let them go.

The next day, Feraud attempted once more to dominate the Italican countryside. He managed for almost the full day, but then Jegu arrived to contest him again. The two sides engaged each other again. The first pass was much like the first day, both forces threading each other then rallying. However, on the second pass Jegu's men abruptly broke away and began fleeing. Feraud's men pursued them as was their nature, and it was then that Jegu was proven to be a canny old fox.

In a heartbeat, their fortunes shifted. Two hundred heavily armored Saderan knights, previously hidden by thick brush, charged Feraud's men and scattered the pursuers. A hundred Chaucer's Boys were hopelessly slaughtered by Saderan lances. Feraud rallied his French cavalry before true disaster struck, but the action forced him to cede ground to Jegu's now pursuing cavalry.

They clashed once more that day. Saderan knights proved a frustrating anvil while Jegu's Northerners were a decisive hammer. Feraud was forced to pull away before he fell into another trap by flanking Northerners. That meant more ground lost, and Jegu, the old fox, nearly pressed them against the main army. Fortunately, the sun was setting by then. Both sides had to retire for the night.

But it was fox versus fox, and Feraud had learned his trade facing Russian Cossacks. He engaged Jegu again at first light, and when the Northerners made their feigned retreat again, he pretended to fall for it. French and auxiliary cavalry went on another wild chase against the Northerners.

Meanwhile four six-pounder guns dragged by horses followed up behind the cavalry.

Just like before, the Saderan knights emerged to counter charge Feraud's men; only this time the French and auxiliaries scattered left and right, leaving all four guns unlimbered and ready to fire directly in the path of the knights. They unloaded canister shot into the knights and broke their charge instantly.

Feraud's cavalry turned to pursue, and only then was it revealed that while all that had occured, the newly minted Captain Koda had led four hundred auxiliaries hidden behind a gentle slope on an extended flanking maneuver into Jegu's rear. Jegu managed to extricate his Northerners, but his Saderan horsemen and knights were caught in the trap and forced to surrender or be butchered.

The Northerners again shouted "Oorah! Oorah! Feraud! Feraud!" even as their allies were beaten.

For the rest of the day, French cavalry owned the Italican countryside. The Saderans didn't even bother trying to sneak scouts past them. Their foragers refused to gather supplies.

"I've pinned his ears back," Feraud said pleasantly when he returned from his last patrol for the day. "Too many of theirs are dead now, and they've lost the will to contest us. We'll have a pleasant march from here on out."

Ney considered that for a moment then said, "You've beaten their cavalry, but Zorzal has more than just cavalry in his army. He can still face us."

Feraud scoffed. "That may be true for a pitched battle, but this is a cavalryman's war. Cavalry's the only thing quick enough for the skirmishing and scouting we're doing now. He can send infantry if he wants, but they're too slow to make any real progress against us."

"Stay cautious; he still has tricks up his sleeve," Ney warned.

"Like what?" Feraud rolled his eyes. "What does he have that can face us in this kind of war?"

The next day, Feraud's question was answered.

French and auxiliary cavalry scattered across the Italican countryside at first light. They continued picking off Saderan foragers and scouts in small groups. Feraud himself led a group that made a daring attack on an enemy supply wagon, burning it in open daylight for all to see. By midday they'd truly penned in Zorzal's siege camp. Men feared to leave its safety; Chaucer's Boys roamed the exterior picking off stragglers.

Then a screech pierced the sky, and everything went to hell. Three monsters descended from the clouds and, at the behest of their Saderan riders, began hunting the French and auxiliary cavalry like giant birds of prey.

Ney was checking up on the light infantry screening the main column when the beasts began their bloody work. It took ten minutes from the start of their ear piercing screeches to when the first of Feraud's cavalry began streaming back shouting, "Dragons! Dragons!"

Around him, voltigeurs and chasseurs began to look at each other. There wasn't a need to say anything. Everyone knew what was going through their minds.

More cavalry retreated in terror, and it was then that the dragons came into sight. They flew like giant hawks. One roared so loudly that Ney felt it wash over him. Some of the light infantry decided it was time to run.

Ney kept watching the sky. Another dragon swept up from the ground and dropped a very unfortunate hussar from a horrifying height. He screamed as he fell.

The screaming ended abruptly.

Feraud came bursting through a line of bushes on horseback. "We need to fall back!" he shouted, waving his saber through the air. "Let's get out of here!"

Ney took a moment to glance at the cavalryman. He had already considered that option. "If we fall back, they'll find the main column," Ney retorted.

"We can't fight them!" For the first time, Ney thought he saw fear in Feraud's eyes. A level of panic that was uncharacteristic for Feraud. "Christ almighty, we need to go, now!"

"No," Ney snapped. He cursed himself for not having prepared for this moment. Chaucer had warned him, and he was still caught by surprise. Foolishness. "We need Delon and his cannons. Get him up here, now!"

Uncertainty flickered in Feraud's eyes, but then he saluted, and his horse was galloping.

Ney's gaze returned to the sky. Another hussar was caught between the jaws of two dragons, and they ripped him in half as he shrieked for mercy. His blood rained down onto the grass, a sight that imprinted itself in Ney's mind.

Someone fired a carbine at one of the beasts, but it did nothing against the dragon's hardened scales. The man who'd fired was torn apart by razor sharp talons as retribution.

We need cannons. Cannons had killed Prince Teo's dragons. They weren't invulnerable, just difficult to kill. But Ney didn't have cannons with him. He had a dozen companies of light infantry, and Feraud's scattered cavalry. If he was fighting men…

Ney's eye tracked one of the dragons soar through the sky. Its rider directed its movements using a complex harness, sending it flying after another group of French cavalry. Each beast seemed to be under the complete control of its rider. Its human rider.

"Shoot at the riders!" Ney suddenly ordered. He had all around him light infantry, chasseurs and voltigeurs, the best marksmen in his entire force. "Shoot the men!"

There was hesitation. Many looked at him with fearful expressions. A few more decided that fighting dragons was too much for them and chose to flee.

Ney roared, "Are you men? Stand with me! Are you France?!"

There were distant screams; a dragon caught up with two of Chaucer's Boys and was ripping them apart. Men flinched. More began running.

Ney made his decision. Cooling his rage, he dismounted with all the authority he could muster. The light infantry turned to look at him. Ney slapped his horse's rear, sending his best hope of retreat galloping away from him.

The men stared. Many who'd been starting to slink away stopped.

"I am Ney!" he shouted so they could hear. He marched to the nearest man, an indecisive voltigeur whose whole body trembled. With one fluid movement, Ney ripped the man's musket out of his hands. "I am a Marshal of France! Those are merely men up there!"

He raised the musket into the air. A dragon soared overhead, and Ney tracked it carefully, leveling the musket as closely with the rider as he could manage. He pulled back the hammer and took a breath.

Ney squeezed the trigger.

The musket billowed out smoke, and the dragon kept flying. He had not the slightest clue if he'd hit the rider or not.

He didn't need to.

There was an electrifying effect that came after he'd pulled the trigger. Chasseurs and voltigeurs, encouraged or shamed to action by Ney's display, took up their muskets and aimed for the dragon. Some of the fleeing men returned to their positions, refusing to meet Ney's eye.

A rippling volley erupted from the ground as, by some common consensus, men let off their shots together. It spread from one end of their skirmish line to the next. A rolling thunder of musketry.

Far above, the dragon wailed.

Its wings were torn apart. There were no hardened scales protecting the dragon there, just muscle and sinew. The effect of hundreds of muskets had torn holes through the wings, and the dragon stopped gliding like an eagle.

It shuddered. Then it began to fall.

That hadn't been the plan.

The rider was still alive; not one bullet had managed to strike its actual target. Ney could see him, desperately struggling to maintain control of his plummeting mount. It was futile, and he knew it. The dragon's wings had been shredded by the inaccuracy of muskets.

It hit the ground with a thump. Its body tunneled into the dirt, and one of its wings was twisted at an angle it shouldn't have been. The dragon's neck was in the ground. It didn't move.

The light infantry erupted into cheers.

Ney shoved his musket into the arms of the man he'd taken it from. "Reload!" he demanded. "There's still two more of them!"

"Reload! Reload, you bastards!" came from sergeants everywhere. Men remembered the danger and grabbed for musket cartridges. Ramrods went up and down. Men finished and looked hesitantly for a new threat.

Silence.

No screams.

No movement.

Even the breeze had died.

Where did they go?

Ney felt sweat drip down his uniform. The skirmish line was shuffling a little. Men fiddled with bits of kit, and they shifted their weight uneasily. Heads swiveled left and right.

"Cannoneers here!" someone called out.

Ney's head snapped to the right, and he saw Colonel Delon with a battery of horse-drawn bronze six-pounders. His men were quick to unlimber them, moving the-

"Dragons!"

They came sweeping down at a high angle, almost vertical. Their backs were to the sun which blinded men and had probably hid them. Both gave ear piercing shrieks.

They were fast, and they were coordinated.

The man next to Ney, the very same whose musket he'd borrowed, took aim and fired.

Other men fired too. Most didn't hit anything, panicked shots into the blinding sun at a range and angle far different than they had expected. But not all did, and when hundreds of men fire at once, something is bound to get hit.

One of the dragons roared its pain and faltered.

The other did not.

It swept into the skirmish line like a diving eagle. Its claws raked through a dozen men, ripping torsos apart and tearing huge gashes through individual limbs. The rider had a lance, and he speared two men with it before his dragon flapped its wings and flew away from the ground.

The second dragon dived into the ground. Its rider had been killed by musketry, and the beast was in too much pain to realize it needed to pull up. There was a second thump, and the dragon broke its neck on impact.

The remaining dragon went for another dive. It didn't come at such an extreme angle this time; it approached almost flat and dove through the skirmish line again. Half a dozen men were killed in the blink of an eye. Then it rose to prepare for another dive.

But this time, the men had finished reloading.

A torrent of musket fire hit the dragon when it swept down. It cut apart the dragon's wings.

The rider wasn't stupid; he'd seen what'd happened to the first two dragons, and he adapted rapidly. He pulled the dragon closer to the ground when its wings began to lose integrity. By the time the dragon could no longer fly, it was already on the ground.

The creature opened its maw and screeched until Ney's ears rang with its pain and anger. It began to run.

Four taloned legs dug into the ground and threw up clods of earth as it charged the skirmish line, head low and forward, snout pointed, teeth baring. It was less an eagle and more a charging bear. The ground thudded with each step.

It was coming right at Ney.

Fuck.

He had a long heartbeat to look into its purple eyes, flecked with black, its narrow pupils, the rage it clearly held. There was nothing he could do.

The air roared. Not the ear-piercing screech of the dragon. This was a deep throated boom that swept over Ney in an instant. The roar of a cannon.

A six-pound iron ball, forged in Italica and propelled by locally made powder, struck the dragon square in its chest and tore through scales, flesh, muscle, and organs. Three more went off in rhythm like an unholy drum. They too blew open the dragon's chest with iron balls, ripping apart its innards so devastatingly that the beast had no lungs to screech with.

Ney had less than a heartbeat to savor the accuracy of Delon's cannons. Then he was knocked flat as the dragon's corpse tumbled into him with the force of momentum.

Ney was dizzy. He was on his back. His head felt like it had been bludgeoned with a club. There was a man coming towards him. His greaves clanked as he came nearer, and Ney was glad to know he hadn't been deafened by dragons and cannons. His chest hurt. His ribs too. Ney blinked and rubbed forehead.

My men don't wear greaves.

The dragon rider shouted and thrust with his lance. It came toward his chest, but Ney rolled and it hit the ground an inch from his hip. He got to his feet.

Drew his saber.

Cut wildly.

He cut low to high off the draw, left to right across his body and into the dragon rider's chin. He didn't register any of that, his body merely acted according to experience and practice. The rider's helmet had come off at some point, so Ney's blade met no resistance except flesh and bone.

The man was dead before he hit the ground, and then Ney felt everything hit him at once. His head throbbed; the world spun. He steadied himself on the dead dragon's corpse.

Someone came over.

"Sir, are you alright, sir?"

Ney spat blood. "Feraud," he gasped. "Order Feraud back out there."

Ney fell to the ground.

"Sir!"

Ney looked up, his head suddenly hurting less, and groaned. "Fuck it. I'm not getting back up. Find me a stretcher."


Jacques had a feeling of dread when he was ordered to report to General Courbet's tent. It was always General Courbet that gave him the special assignments. Jacques was too damned successful.

He didn't want to do some daring act of heroism. He didn't want to root out more spies. He just wanted to march like any other soldier and fight when the time came. He wanted Maria curled up against me, my arms around her…

Jacques shook his head.

He sighed and knocked the post for General Courbet's tent. He heard a bit of ruffling before the general said, "Come in."

Jacques stepped through the flap and saluted. "Reporting as ordered, sir."

"Ah, Duclos. Ready to do something heroic?"

No.

"Yes, sir."

General Courbet grinned. "Excellent; I want you to reinforce Italica."

"Italica?" Jacques coughed. "Sir, the city's been surrounded. How am I supposed to do that?"

"I want you to take your company, break through the enemy siege lines, and reinforce the city." General Courbet shrugged. "Actually, Marshal Ney's the one who wants that. I just convey his orders."

Jacques blinked. "You want me to break through a fortified siege camp?"

"Exactly," Courbet said. "Now you're getting the hang of it. When you make it through, head for one of Italica's gates; the password is 'Robespierre' with the countersign being 'Jacobin'. Once inside, report to Head of Requisitions Chaucer."

"Sir, is this really necessary? What good is-" Jacques tilted his head. "Chaucer as in Jean-Pierre Chaucer?"

Courbet nodded. "The one and only. You know him?"

"He was my regiment's head quartermaster before Captain Alarie replaced him."

"Even better. You know what he's like then."

"Yes, sir."

General Courbet clapped his hands. "Chaucer requested reinforcements, and the Marshal thinks this is the best way to get them through. Even a single company will do wonders for Chaucer's ability to hold out."

"That's if I'm able to get through to him, sir," Jacques gritted out.

"Captain Duclos, you've seized a castle. Surely this won't be any more difficult."

"Castle Tubet was manned by levies!" Jacques protested. "And it only worked because I could get through the-" he stopped himself.

General Courbet leaned forward. "Yes, Captain?"

"Because I found the gates open," Jacques finished lamely.

Courbet smiled and leaned back in his camp chair. "You're a bright man. I'm certain you'll find a way. You have a day to prepare. Any longer, and we can't guarantee the countryside will be free of Saderan cavalry. We've got them penned in for now."

"Yes, sir," Jacques grumbled.

"Any questions?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent; you're free to go, Captain."

Jacques saluted again. He spun on his heels and left the tent briskly.

Astier and Vidal were sitting around a cookfire arguing. Earlier that day, Corporal Laurent had managed to shoot a deer, and now the whole company was going to have it for dinner. Astier insisted they should put it in a stew, but Vidal wanted to grill it directly over the fire.

"You'll waste the flavor," Vidal insisted.

Astier snorted. "You'll just end up charring it to ash. At least my way we get to eat it."

Vidal rolled her eyes. She caught sight of Jacques approaching and said, "How about we have a third party decide. Captain, do you want the deer grilled or ruined in a stew?"

"We have a special assignment," Jacques mumbled.

"Of course we do. We already knew that," Astier dismissed. "But should we have venison stew or burnt deer tonight?"

"We have to reinforce Italica by breaking through the Saderan siege camp," Jacques continued.

Vidal stood and put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll figure something out."

Jacques looked at her and sighed. "You're right. If we make a distraction in the camp-"

"Oh no," Vidal interrupted. "I meant the deer. We already knew you'd have a plan for the other thing."

Despite his best efforts, Jacques smiled.


They ended up having grilled venison that night.

In the morning, while the rest of the army prepared for another day of marching, the Ninth Company broke from the column and headed towards Italica. A pair of hussars nodded at them as they passed which meant the countryside was free of Saderan cavalry. Men of the Ninth Company nodded back.

It took the whole day and more for them to march the distance to Italica. Jacques guessed they went maybe thirty miles in just that day. Everyone was tired by the end. Despite that, morale was high for some ungodly reason. Jacques couldn't make sense of it. From what he gathered, his men were excited to be on special assignment. Astier said they enjoyed being 'the best'.

Sometimes it felt like Jacques was the only one who worried.

When they arrived, Jacques immediately hid his camp in a large ditch. With Feraud's cavalry out in force, there wasn't much chance of Saderan scouts finding them, but Jacques was cautious. He forbade the men from lighting cook fires and ordered noise to be kept to a minimum. Jacques posted concealed sentries at every spot he could find. Astier and Vidal set a watch rotation.

They had an uncomfortable night, but that was a small price to pay for secrecy. None of the sentries reported anything. Jacques barely slept regardless.

The sun rose early in the morning, and Jacques was already on a ridge, laying flat on his stomach, watching the distant Saderan siege camp. Vidal and Astier were with him, even though he'd insisted they could go back to sleep, because they were good soldiers and better friends.

Say what one might of Saderans, they had a very industrious army. Their siege camp began perhaps a mile from Italica, well out of cannon range. It surrounded the city on all sides. Facing Italica were lines of contravallation, earthworks and fortifications which protected the camp from attacks by the city's defenders. They choked the city, cutting it off from the outside world and boxing in its citizens. To parallel these defenses, the Saderans had also constructed lines of circumvallation. These were fortifications built by the besiegers to protect from an enemy outside of the city. It meant that any attack on the besiegers would have to fight through a series of earthworks, ditches, and palisades in order to get into the actual camp.

In effect, the Saderans had built their camp between two walls, dual fortifications which kept the besieged Italicans in and the French relief force out. Jacques had to get through both of them.

Inside the two walls was the guts of the Saderan siege camp. Rows of neatly ordered tents lined the interior. There must have been at least a thousand cook fires, probably more, which gave off thin wisps of smoke all around Italica.

Three things caught Jacques's attention instantly.

The first was a carpenter's workshop slightly off to the west of the camp. From Jacques's vantage point, he could see they were building siege engines. Dozens of men worked shirtless in the morning air, carving away at wood and fastening rope. He counted three catapults and six ballistae with many more engines under construction. The wooden machines looked rather flammable to Jacques.

Next was a supply depot. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary; there were dozens more around the Saderan camp. It held food from what he could gather, and it wouldn't have been out of place even in a French camp. What interested Jacques, however, was how close it was to the exterior wall. Someone had made a mistake, and it was almost right next to the ramparts. If we made an assault there…

Finally was the Saderan horse herd, nearly a thousand horses fenced together inside the camp. There were actually three horse herds, but Jacques was looking at the biggest one to the east. The Saderan army's war steeds and draft animals were kept there. Jacques could only imagine the havoc a thousand panicked, freed horses would create.

Astier crawled next to Jacques, staying low just in case someone was watching the ridge. "What's the plan, Captain?" he asked.

Vidal crawled over as well. She looked expectantly at Jacques.

"Simply attacking is suicide; I think we need to cause a distraction," Jacques replied. He listed out his potential targets, carefully indicating with a finger. "I want to attack one of those then rush for Italica while the Saderans are in chaos. There's going to be a new moon tonight, so we'll do it then. The Saderans won't be able to figure out what's going on in the dark."

Vidal considered that and scratched her neck. "We'll only have time for one of them. Which were you thinking?"

"The siege engines," Jacques said. "If we burn those, it'll help us hold onto the city once we get inside."

Astier looked at the carpenter's workshop for a long moment. Then he turned and said, "With respect, Captain, those engines are deep into the camp. If we go after them, we might not make it." His head turned back to the siege camp. "That supply depot on the other hand… We could snap that up easily."

"I agree," Vidal breathed. "Better to be safe. We just need a distraction, and the depot will do that."

Jacques glanced back at the camp and reconsidered. "Alright, we'll go after the supply depot. Tell the men to get rest if they can. It's going to be a long night."


Night was indeed very dark.

The new moon meant there was no moonlight to illuminate the countryside. Even just getting Jacques's men out of camp was difficult. Men tripped, got lost, or wandered in the wrong direction. There were no lanterns or fires to help, because those would reveal them to the Saderans. Jacques had intended to launch his attack at midnight, but by the time they were moving all together, he knew he was late.

They set off toward Italica in pitch darkness, an hour or two late for Jacques's own plan, moving too fast. During the day, Jacques had studied the route they needed to take for hours. He knew every field they needed to cross, every irrigation ditch they needed a bridge for, and every farmhouse they'd pass by.

In the dark, all of that meant nothing.

Jacques hadn't appreciated just how totally the darkness could change a landscape. He thought he knew where he was going until one of his men nearly fell into a drainage trench. That meant they were heading west, not north like they needed, so Jacques tried to correct their movements. He followed the ditch in the direction he thought was north, only to stumble across another ditch that wasn't supposed to be there.

Jacques knew he was burning time. He looked for the lights coming off the walls of Italica, dim little pin pricks that regardless were clear in the darkness, and discovered he was still heading the wrong way.

Resolutely, he pointed himself toward the lights and walked, his men stumbling behind him and making too much damned noise. He thought he knew where he was going and where he needed to go. Only, Jacques soon found yet another ditch in his path, and he couldn't find the bridge needed to cross it. He didn't want to risk clambering through it in the dark, so he went parallel to it, hoping to find the bridge.

The bridge only materialized twenty minutes later. By then, Jacques truly had no idea where he was. His heart was pounding. Anxiety was coursing through him, and he was sweating through his uniform. They still weren't anywhere near the Saderan camp.

Astier came up beside him. "You think we should just head for the lights and pray?"

"No," Jacques said, because then they'd have no idea where they would end up.

Of course, he was lost anyway. The night was burning away from him.

"Actually, yes," he said. "Let's just head for the lights."

Astier chuckled. "Good. I was worried we were lost."

Jacques laughed. It was a completely forced laugh. There was nothing genuine in it. But Jacques was supposedly a fearless leader, and he needed to appear that way. What led me to this moment? he wondered.

They went toward the lights.

There were several more ditches to cross, and Jacques spent a long time finding bridges. It was by no means a straight line to the camp; they zig zagged all across the farmland of Italica.

Suddenly, they went up a gentle slope, and Jacques could see the enemy camp. By this time, all the cook fires were merely flickering embers and glowing coals, but there were so many of them that, in the darkness of the night, the camp seemed to glow. Men with lanterns patrolled the earthworks and palisades.

Jacques went for the nearest gate. They were unbelievably close to the camp, but in the darkness they may as well have been invisible. The men on the ramparts looked tired.

It was only when they were a hundred feet from the gate that a sentry called out, "Quis es?" Who are you?

Jacques wracked his brain for Saderan words. He'd learned some from the auxiliaries. Finally, he settled on, "Amicis." Friends.

"Quid dicis?" the sentry asked, his voice uncertain. What did you say?

"Amicis!" Jacques called back again. Friends!

And that satisfied him.

Thus are the fates of empires decided. By the incompetence of a few.

Jacques's men filed through the gate. It wasn't a proper gate, merely an opening in the wall where men could force a chokepoint. They walked right through, and the sentry on the wall didn't bother them. It was too dark to distinguish their uniforms.

Thank God they hadn't set a password.

They were now in the camp, and Jacques had no idea where they were. He looked around; the rows of indistinguishable tents were no help. But there was a smell in the air. Something pungent and thick.

Horse shit.

Jacques followed his nose. It seemed absurd to simply walk into the Saderan camp, but here he was. No one was awake at this hour of the night. They walked past hundreds of sleeping legionaries.

Then they found the horses. The Saderan army's largest horse pen. Not his original intention, but good enough. The stench of a thousand horses washed over them. Four men helped him swing open the fence gate that penned them in.

Jacques took a look at Vidal then Astier. They both nodded, so he drew his pistol in one hand and raised it toward the night sky. He pulled the trigger.

And a thousand horses began running.

The horses flooded out the open gate. A horse has to be trained to become accustomed to gunfire, and these horses had never had that luxury. They bolted into the camp, spreading far and wide, diving through tents.

"Time to go!" Jacques shouted in French.

Because suddenly the camp was filled with men.

Three dozen unarmored men blocked their path, shouting in Saderan, pointing at the horses. It was too damned dark. No one could see anything more than silhouettes.

Jacques drew his sword, the Elban sword, and held it as high as he could. Then, in his cleanest French, he shouted, "This way!"

His men understood, and the Saderans didn't. Jacques charged into the unarmored men with the Ninth Company at his back. Two of them died, and then they scattered from the Frenchmen.

"Come on!" Jacques encouraged. "To Italica!"

They ran toward the city and burst out of the lines of tents into some kind of drill yard. There someone had assembled a cohort of legionaries, but they hadn't had time to arm themselves or get into armor. Jacques blinked.

"At them!"

His men needed no further urging and charged with their bayonets. The legionaries, aware of the sudden enemy, counter charged. It was too dark for any sort of battle line to be maintained, so the melee devolved into isolated skirmishes between determined individuals. Some legionaries fell back, others ran forward with daggers and short swords.

Jacques tried to be at the front, but really there was no 'front' to speak of. He was dragged forward, back, until he finally emerged to face three legionaries with daggers.

He wished he was with the main army. He wished Courbet had left him alone.

Jacques turned to the leftmost man, took a gliding step at him, and lunged. The Elban sword thrust forward. The man tried to avoid it, but he died with two feet of Elban steel in his stomach.

He turned, the Elban sword ripping free of the man's corpse, and covered a thrust by the middleman. The man was quick with his dagger. Jacques had to parry a second thrust; then his sword pivoted off the man's blade, and he put his guard right into the man's mouth.

Teeth sprayed. The Elban sword came up then down, left then right. Jacques opened the middleman's throat with one clean cut.

The third legionary was apparently too loyal to flee.

Jacques pointed the Elban sword to create distance. Far out of reach of the legionary's dagger, he swung at the shoulder. With only a dagger, the legionary could never hope to parry. Jacques's swing blew past the blade and buried itself into the legionary's collarbone. The legionary spat blood before he died.

Jacques looked around him, regained his bearing, and charged into the backs of another clump of legionaries. He killed one before the rest fled.

The cohort of legionaries was gone now. Men were either dead or fleeing.

But the Saderans had good officers too, and even as Jacques's company had cleared off the first cohort, a second and third were assembling. He wasn't sure they knew what was happening in the darkness, but Jacques didn't want to wait to find out.

"Keep going!" he shouted; his voice was growing hoarse. "With me!"

Jacques took off running.

His men burst through more rows of tents. Everything was in chaos. Horses raced through the camp, tearing down tents and trampling men. Fires were raging in several places where tents had been knocked into cook fires. Confused legionaries worked to deal with both crises. All the while, men screamed that they were under attack.

But to the east, the sun was coming up. They had taken too long. Jacques had been late to his own plan, and now he was going to pay for it. The sun was still just a faint line of red over the horizon, but it was going to rise like a guillotine over their necks.

Jacques's men continued their panicked rush. Cold sweat went over Jacques. They were in the middle of the enemy camp, and the only direction Jacques knew was 'to Italica'. He could see better with every passing minute; that meant the enemy could too.

They stumbled through another line of tents, and someone shouted, "Hyacinthum tunica!" Bluecoat!

Things just had to get worse and worse.

Jacques's head shot toward the voice. It came from a group of skirmishers on their right, men who'd armed themselves with javelins, slings, and bows. They saw the Ninth Company, and missiles started flying at them.

"Shit!" Astier spat. The man next to him fell with an arrow in his chest.

Two more fusiliers were hit. A sling stone struck Florent in the head and shattered his skull. A javelin hit Brunet, diving a two fingers' length into his heart. Both were dead by the time they hit the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jacques saw a cohort of legionaries lining up on their left flank. They didn't have armor, but they had the presence of mind to pick up spears and shields. Their centurion was calling out orders and pointing right at the Ninth Company.

Skirmishers to their right. Legionaries to their left.

Disaster. Disaster after disaster.

They needed a miracle.

"Ready to charge!" Jacques called out.

Men looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was. Jacques took a deep breath. He was speaking French; the Saderans couldn't understand him.

"When I say charge," he bellowed, as loud as his throat and lungs could manage, "we go fifty paces toward the archers, turn left and run for Italica as if a demon was at your heels. Let's not die in this God forsaken camp!"

There was a cry, half war cry and half grumble.

"Charge!" Jacques called, and they went at the archers.

The Saderans had been expecting it. They broke as soon as they saw the Frenchmen coming, and only one of them was caught by the charge. The rest of them fled.

On Jacques's fiftieth stride, he suddenly turned left and ran like an Olympian. His men followed, and they were off toward Italica like a class of frightened boys. Every man knew that the higher the sun rose, the more likely they were to die. They needed to get to Italica now.

But the skirmishers had never been truly broken. Mere seconds after Jacques changed direction, the skirmishers began to regroup for a pursuit.

After a few minutes of running, Jacques looked back and saw them gaining. They didn't have armor, of course. Their kits were lighter than a fusilier's. And they hadn't been wandering through the dark for hours.

They started shooting. Arrows and stones fell around them.

A sling stone struck Jacques's back. Thank fortune it was a glancing shot, but it hurt like the devil, and Jacques was knocked to the ground. As he rose, another stone hit his back, then an arrow shot past his face, and a javelin clipped his leg, and Jacques thought, Fuck, this is it.

He got his feet under him and turned.

A wave of smoke washed over him, and one of the Saderans fell to the earth, his life leaking out from the hole in his stomach.

Astier lowered his musket, nodded to Jacques, and took off. Vidal fired her musket before doing the same. A handful of Jacques's men stopped to return fire.

Saderans fell. It was enough of an opening for Jacques to run.

His breath was like a forge's bellows. He sucked in air the way a drunkard sucked wine, and his legs burned like the fires of hell. The wound on his leg was curiously numb, but the places he'd been struck by sling stones ached with excruciating pain. Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes.

Jacques was the last man to the ramparts, the interior ramparts which defended against the city rather than outside threats. There were sentries on them, but the Ninth Company blew through them, scrambling down into the no man's land between the city and the camp.

Missiles continued to rain down on them. Four more men were hit and went down, but Jacques didn't have time to check if they were alive or not. He couldn't stop running.

They had come back for him. He didn't do the same.

He would hate himself for it later.

Jacques's feet crunched on gravel. His whole body felt like molten lead. The skirmishers continued to gain on him. The sun was out. He was a very good target.

An arrow landed next to him. Another struck the man four paces in front of him. More thudded into the ground.

Jacques screamed. Anger, rage, frustration, despair, hopelessness, it all came out at once. He screamed and sprinted forward, tears mixing with sweat. He summoned power in his leg he didn't think he had and sprinted.

And then the arrows stopped.

There were shouts and cries. Pain and terror. Jacques risked a glance behind him, peering through sweat, tears, the misty light of dawn.

The Saderans were fleeing. A dozen of them were down and the rest were running. Crossbow bolts covered the bodies like the spines of porcupines.

Jacques turned away from the Saderan camp, still in chaos chasing horses and putting out fires, to the walls of Italica. There were men on the walls, men with crossbows.

"Robespierre," Jacques gasped with what little breath he had. "Robespierre!"

"Jacobin!" someone cried from the ramparts. "Jesus Christ, where did you people come from?"

The gates opened, and Jacques's company flooded in. A dozen French grenadiers and twice as many armed Italicans stood staring at the Ninth Company from the inside. The gate was quickly slammed close as soon as they were through.

Jacques slumped to his knees quite spontaneously and breathed.

Then he dragged himself to his feet and tottered to where Astier and Vidal were slumped against the city walls.

"We're in," he said. "We've done it. We're safe."

His sergeants seemed, for a moment, dead. But then Vidal opened one eye, almost lazily, and then the other. Astier shook himself and rose unsteadily to his feet.

The Italicans were cheering. A growing crowd of men and women was forming before the Ninth Company, and a tall, skinny man in an officer's uniform was approaching them.

Jacques felt blood dripping down his leg.

"Christ!" Astier spat. "We're not safe. We're in fucking Italica."


This is the longest chapter I've written in a good amount of time, probably because I enjoyed writing it so much.

There's a lot of action here. I intended primarily to depict the sort of warfare that never shows up in books and movies: scouting, skirmishing, and screening. In the real world, cavalry dominated this sort of thing which is why Colonel Feraud played such a prominent part. In the fantasy world, however, I think dragons would be a major advantage which I tried to depict a little here. At the same time they're not invincible, though.

Also what I wanted to explore was night assaults, primarily just how difficult they are for both sides. You can't see anything in the dark, and that works both ways. I hope I portrayed that well.

I think I've gotten back into the swing of things. I don't feel as rusty as I did last chapter, and I feel good about this chapter. Of course that might be hubris, and it might be a terrible chapter. That's up for you readers to decide. So please review to tell me. Reviews are my primary source of inspiration other than it being fun to write. I certainly don't get paid to write this drivel.

A small glossary for siege terms I used:

Lines of Contravallation: A series of fortifications, usually earthworks or something similar, which faces towards an enemy city/castle/fort. These are meant to make it difficult for the defenders of a siege to sortie out and attack the besiegers. They can also be used as bases to launch assaults from or get closer to the walls safely.

Lines of Circumvallation: Like lines of contravallation except these face outward rather than inward. These are designed to protect the besiegers from an outside force such as a relief army. It makes breaking a siege much harder and helps to prevent reinforcements from being slipped into the city/castle/fort.

As a side note, the most famous example of this is the Siege of Alesia in which Julius Caesar built both lines of contravallation and circumvallation to protect his army while besieging Vercingetorix and defending against a Gallic relief army. There are many more examples of this in history, but most people know this one due to Caesar's prominence.