I could not escape the feeling that something huge and destructive was hanging over all of us.

Jacques woke to pain. He was used to pain, all soldiers were, but this was excessive pain. The type of pain that told of hard exercise or lots of fighting. He'd run too much; that was evident by the fire in his thighs and calves. He could feel the desperation and crises in his joints. There wasn't a muscle in his legs that didn't burn.

But those pains weren't what concerned him. His leg was coated in dried blood, the effect of a javelin's near miss, and hadn't been cleaned properly. It had been numb yesterday, but now it had a curious sting to it. Wounds like that could fester.

He had two deep bruises, both on his back where sling stones had knocked him down twice. That had nearly been it. It was only luck that kept him alive. Luck and the loyalty of his men. He hadn't repaid that loyalty; when his men fell, he'd run. That was another reason he was alive.

Jacques swallowed bile as it all washed over him. He shivered in revulsion.

The wound on his leg began to sting more as he attempted to sit up. He'd slept on his stomach; the bruises were too painful otherwise, and now it was an ordeal to even get on his hands and knees. Nothing wanted to work. His muscles rioted against him, spasming and cramping from simple exertion. He considered just laying there for…

"Fuck," Jacques said. "We're in Italica."

It all came back to him in a great rush, and he realized that he was lying in his filthy, sweat-soaked, disheveled uniform, still buttoned on him, and that his face was coated in dirt, blood, and dried sweat which made him feel like utter filth.

And outside, there was a steady rumble, like distant thunder. The sound of Saderan siege engines pounding the walls with stones.

Vidal was asleep in a chair. Yesterday, she had taken two wounds of her own, cuts during a melee with Saderan legionaries, which had been hastily bandaged upon their arrival at the city. Now she lightly snored, her whole body like a puppet without strings collapsed into the chair. Astier was on a pile of straw on the floor. His shako somehow had remained on his head through the night. Boulet, Flandin, Laurent, Malet, and dozens more men of the Ninth Company laid strewn across wood floorboards.

Jacques made an effort and managed to get off his stomach. They were in a fine room, albeit one that stank of sweat, with magnificently carved furniture and finely made glass windows. He stumbled for the door and opened it.

The corridor was in complete chaos. A dozen different scribes were moving about, carrying sheets of paper and wax tablets. It opened up into a main hall where more men and women sat at desks furiously scribbling, filling out ledgers and modifying accounts. At the center of it was a woman with blue hair.

He knew her immediately. The witch who'd saved Vidal from certain death. Lelei La… something. She seemed at home, dictating orders to an army of scribes.

Jacques made his way through the corridor. The scribes stopped to bow when he went past. Jacques didn't know why.

"Jacques Duclos," Lelei said, turning to face him, her voice perfectly passive. She seemed gaunt. Like how she was after healing Vidal. He could see bags under her eyes as if she hadn't slept for days.

Jacques kept stumbling forward. "What are you doing here?"

"You left me here," she said without malice. She took a chair from an empty desk and pushed it to him.

Jacques collapsed into the chair. "Yes, but why are you still…"

Lelei tilted her head. "Captain Chaucer has made me his assistant. I am quite content here," she said, glancing at his leg. "That wound looks quite bad. Please wait here."

Jacques blinked. "You're going to use magic?"

Lelei didn't seem to hear him. She snapped her fingers and let out a torrent of rapid Saderan which Jacques couldn't follow in his tired state. A scribe rushed out of the room and returned minutes later with hot water. Lelei produced a cloth and began wiping the cut.

"I need to see Chaucer," Jacques said, between whimpers.

She didn't seem interested.

Jacques tried again, "I have orders to report to him. To reinforce-" he made an involuntary noise as she rubbed water into his wound. "Reinforce the city."

Lelei dipped a hand into the water, and it began glowing. She cupped the hand over Jacques's leg, and the pain increased, and then…

It felt like the skin on his leg was being ripped apart.

He screamed.

She held him down.

And then he was out.


When he woke, the stinging in Jacques's leg was gone. He was in the same room as before, only this time it was mostly empty, and he was in his underclothes. Astier laughed at him when he jumped to his feet, bewildered.

"It's midday," Astier said. "The lads are all awake, and we sent our uniforms to be laundered." He was in his underclothes too.

"Vidal-"

"Is in a private room away from prying eyes while he waits for his uniform to be finished."

Jacques rubbed his head. "The company all knows by this point."

"The city doesn't, and I don't think Vidal would appreciate verifying any rumors to our superior officers."

"You're right," Jacques sighed. "Thank you."

Astier slapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you on your feet already."

They left the room and headed to a small courtyard where the Ninth Company had established themselves in the open air. They sat in what had once been the gardens of Clan Formal, rulers of Italica, whose mansion had been occupied by the French to be used as a headquarters. Jacques and his men worked on their kits, polishing away mud and blood, sewing up cuts, and fixing boots. Then, when they were done, they turned their attention to replacing musket flints, sharpening bayonets, and rubbing off rust from barrels. Jacques devoted his time to the Elban sword, which was severely notched in several places. He worked out the notches, drank, ate, and watched men play cards and dice.

All the while, Saderan siege engines pounded the walls.

He only had one encounter with an officer. While collecting laundry from the laundresses, Jacques was approached by a man in a grenadier's uniform. He introduced himself as Captain Raoult, head of Chaucer's personal company of grenadiers who'd been left as the only French garrison in Italica until the Ninth Company's arrival. Captain Raoult congratulated Jacques on breaking into Italica and informed him that the Ninth Company had the night off, but that if the city was attacked, they were to report to the wall immediately.

A little after dark, a courier came and ordered Jacques to report to Captain Chaucer's office. Jacques was in his newly cleaned uniform, as clean as a woman's hands and good soap could make it, so he left his men and went with the courier immediately.

He was led into the Clan Formal mansion down a hall to where a dozen men were standing. Most were clearly Italican militia, distinguished by their ramshackle armor, but two were Lelei's scribes, and one was a French grenadier. All of them waited, dispatches in hand, several hollow eyed and unblinking, as if they'd forgotten what they were doing. Jacques was ushered to the front of the line by his courier.

Jean-Pierre Chaucer was exactly as Jacques remembered him. Skinny, tall, and utterly insane. He'd been the 134th Line Regiment's head quartermaster before Captain Alarie, and Jacques hadn't ever lacked what he'd needed under Chaucer's watch. Now Chaucer was Head of Requisitions, Provisional Governor of Italica, and somehow still merely a captain.

"Captain Duclos," Chaucer greeted. "You're the hero of the hour it seems." The man smiled. "I don't suppose you've received any reward for that last bout of heroics."

"A day's rest is plenty, thank you." Jacques returned his smile. "The last time I saw you, I had just been made sergeant-major." He tilted his head slightly. "And you still called people 'Citizen'."

Chaucer sighed. "Yes, I seem to have dropped that habit… I believe I only address Ney and Bonaparte that way these days." He made a face. "Can't let them get too uppity, or they might start believing themselves better than us."

"Speaking of Marshal Ney-"

"Citizen General Ney," Chaucer corrected.

"Marshal of the Empire and First Duke of Elchingen, Michel Ney," Jacques continued. "I have orders from him to place my company under your command for the defense of the city."

Chaucer clapped his hands. "Very good. You can die with us then."

Now it was Jacques's turn to sigh. "Why don't you inform me on the situation here?"

"You know you're not a very respectful subordinate."

"We're the same rank."

"You just said you were ordered to place yourself under my command."

"I was ordered to place my company under your command, not myself."

Chaucer's eyebrows rose. He leaned back in his chair. "I'm not sure we're interpreting these orders the same way, Captain Duclos."

"Probably," Jacques replied.

"I do believe that's the first time you've agreed with me in this entire conversation."

"I find I'm very agreeable when I'm around superior officers. Shame I can't find any here."

Chaucer laughed, a raucous barking. Jacques joined him. A comfortable silence followed which was only broken when Chaucer stood to roll out a map on his desk.

"The situation is quite simple," he said. "There's forty thousand of them out there, and ten thousand of us in here. And even that's a fairly generous appraisal considering most of our boys are militia, and theirs are Imperial legionaries supported by dragons, goblins, and whatever other abominations Zorzal managed to dredge up."

"We have walls," Jacques stated, "and cannons."

Chaucer nodded. "Which is why we're not all dead yet." He traced a finger across the map. "I've dispersed all the men onto the walls. The grenadiers hold the sections of the wall that we blew apart when we first took this city; the militia holds everywhere else. We filled the breaches with gabions. There's a swivel gun at every tower on the wall, sometimes two, and at least one person in each militia battalion knows how to use it. Any questions?"

Jacques studied the map briefly. "Where's your reserve?"

Chaucer looked up. "What?"

"Your reserve?" Jacques repeated.

The quartermaster stared at him.

"You do have a reserve? Men held back who can react when needed," he clarified.

"Ah," Chaucer said, "you're speaking of tactics. I suppose you think that's how wars are won, you being a soldier and all."

Jacques looked blankly.

"Wars aren't won by tactics," Chaucer carried on. "Generals like to imagine that they are, because it gives them reputation and status. It makes them heroes, and that can make them kings. But no. Wars are won by numbers. How many men your army has. How much grain you have to sustain that army. How much ammunition you have until your army can't fight. Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics. In the end, numbers are really the only meaningful factor in war."

Jacques gaped for a moment. Then he shook his head. "If that's true then how is this city still standing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Zorzal has the better numbers. Why hasn't he conquered this city yet?"

Chaucer shrugged. "Like you said earlier. The walls."

"Do you count the walls in your numbers?" Jacques asked.

The quartermaster frowned. "They're a force multiplier. Their presence allows our numbers to count for more."

Jacques looked him in the eye. "Chaucer, if the walls are a force multiplier then surely tactics are as well. The same with morale, courage, training, discipline, and a thousand other things you can't include in numbers."

"Well, yes, but-"

"How many men did Napoleon have at Austerlitz?" Jacques demanded.

Chaucer shrugged. "I'm not certain."

"Less than the Austrians and Russians, right?"

"I suppose."

"And who won at Austerlitz?" Jacques pressed. "The Austrians and Russians?"

Chaucer breathed, "Napoleon did."

Jacques nodded. "Every boy in France knows that. Napoleon had less men, and he won. That wasn't numbers; it was tactics and strategy."

"Fine," Chaucer spat. "Are you quite finished with your point? Your precious Bonaparte is great and brilliant. Let's all now bow to his example and say long live the Emperor! God bless him and his holiness, eternal monarch of the world! Does that satisfy you?"

"What I'm saying," Jacques said with care, "is that these things aren't meaningless. And we should take care not to neglect them if we intend to live."

Chaucer rolled his eyes. "We all die eventually. Just a matter of when." Then he took a long breath and sighed. "You're right. I apologize for my behavior; the siege has been a bit much for me."

Jacques simply nodded.

"Alright then," Chaucer asked, "what do you suggest?"

"Pull a thousand of your best militiamen off the walls and send them to me. I'll form the reserve myself."

Chaucer looked at him. "I suppose I'm going to have to promote you."


In the morning, Jacques felt like hell. Again.

The men had breakfast and then Jacques got to work. Astier and Vidal inspected the men's kits to ensure nothing was out of order. Then, once that was done, he assembled the Ninth Company in front of the Clan Formal mansion so that the fusiliers were all nicely packed into formation. They stood straight, as if on parade, and made an imposing sight for pedestrians and scribes.

At midday, a stream of ragged militia began to flow toward the mansion. They didn't arrive in formation, instead coming in small groups of men casually chatting to each other. When they saw the Ninth Company, the groups would stop and gape.

"This is their best?" Astier whispered.

Jacques gave him a stern look. Then he strode forward and found the militia officer.

The officer in question was a pot bellied man with balding hair. He wore no uniform other than a gambeson, and the only thing that distinguished him as an officer was the blue armband on his right arm. He stepped forward when Jacques approached.

"Lord Strabo, at your service," the officer greeted in Elban.

Jacques frowned. "You're an hour late."

"Am I?" Lord Strabo asked with a tone of indifference.

"Yes, and you should be 'Major Strabo', not 'Lord Strabo'," Jacques stressed.

Lord Strabo scoffed. "I am the second son of Camillus Strabo. I will not use a lesser title."

Jacques was short of patience. "As of now, you're demoted to private. Take off the armband and get out of my face."

"You have no authority to command what I do," Lord Strabo protested.

"By order of Provisional Governor Chaucer, I have authority over all militia forces assigned to the reserve."

"I outrank you!" Lord Strabo shouted.

"No, you do not," Jacques said. "Also by order of Provisional Governor Chaucer, I have been made an acting colonel in the Italican Militia."

Lord Strabo looked to his men for support, but the militiamen were merely gazing in idle curiosity. Finally, he threw his armband to the ground and snapped, "I don't have to be part of this mummer's farce." He began to storm away from the mansion.

"Private Strabo, if you attempt to withdraw without authorized leave, it will be considered desertion."

"You invaders have no proper authority!" Lord Strabo spat, still walking.

Jacques gave a curt nod to Astier. The sergeant stepped out of formation with two fusiliers and marched to Lord Strabo. There was a cry as Astier hit him in the stomach with his gunstock. The fusiliers seized the man by each arm. They began dragging him toward the mansion.

"Lock him in the cellar for the time being," Jacques whispered as Astier passed by.

The sergeant nodded, and Lord Strabo was pulled, kicking and screaming, away from the soldiers. Jacques cleared his throat and stepped toward. The militiamen eyed him up.

"Who among you speaks Elban?" Jacques asked in that language.

A short, balding man stepped forward. "I do, Colonel."

"Lagos?" Jacques coughed. "Don't you have a tailor shop to be running?"

Lagos, the very tailor who'd made Jacques's uniform, smiled at that. "If the city falls, my shop will be little more than ashes." He looked Jacques up and down. "You've been busy. I see you've still got the sword, though."

Jacques nodded. "Do the officers in this regiment speak Elban?" he asked.

Lagos shook his head.

"You're Strabo's replacement then. Congratulations, Major."

"Gods save us," Major Lagos muttered.

"Get your men formed up," Jacques ordered. "From here on out, we're going to be the best soldiers in this city. Understand? The fate of Italica may well depend on us."

Lagos nodded and shouted words in Saderan. Gradually, the militiamen formed their ranks, spears in hand. By the time Astier returned, Jacques had just finished inspecting each company. They were good, despite what their prior indiscipline might have indicated, and Lagos was harsher than Jacques in correcting flaws.

Then Jacques stepped to the center where everyone, Italican and French, could hear him speak. He brought up Lagos, so the man could translate to Saderan. Then he brought up one of his company's Germans to do the same for French, because Lagos didn't understand French, and Jacques would speak in German.

"Men of the reserve!" Jacques boomed. "We have been tasked with the most important role in the defense of this city. It is also the most difficult." He smiled and waited a moment for Lagos and the German to catch up. "Every time Zorzal attacks the walls, we will be there to face him. We will fight in every assault and every sortie. Wherever he comes, it will be us who run to the fight. When the walls fall, it will be us who form a wall of bodies against Zorzal's hordes. If we fail it is not just our lives that will be ended, but also the lives of every woman and child here. And if we succeed…" Jacques grinned. "If we succeed, we will earn the right to fight Zorzal again the next day, and the next, until we've convinced him that this city is not worth the blood we make him pay. So I say to you, men of the reserve, the lives of thousands now rest on our shoulders. Slack, and Zorzal's men will be slaughtering innocent women and children in a matter of weeks. But give everything you have, and I swear to you that this city will stand against that butcher!"

They cheered him. Jacques somehow hadn't expected that. It hit him like a wave. Frenchmen shouting and yelling, and the Italicans roaring their approval with one voice.

They believed.

It was more than Jacques did.

Regardless, Jacques began training them. Not in fighting; Captain Raoult's grenadiers had already taught them the basics of spear fighting, and Jacques didn't feel he had the time to do more. Instead, Jacques taught them marching. Fast marching.

The city of Italica, in all its glory, stretched from wall to wall a single mile. That meant that, from the Clan Formal Mansion in the center of the city, it was only half a mile to any part of the wall.

Jacques wanted to be able to react quickly to wherever he was needed. A few minutes could make all the difference in an assault. He wanted his reserve to be capable of marching through the city quickly and effortlessly.

So Jacques had them practice marching.

At first they started slowly. They went up and down Italica's streets at a normal pace, mapping out the routes they'd need to take to reach different parts of the wall. He had them go north to south, west to east, and a dozen minor routes through winding streets. Then, when Jacques was satisfied they could do that fine, he had them do it all again at accelerated pace. They went skittering across cobbles, pushing through streets, and each time got better at maintaining discipline while they did it. The militia tired quickly, but Lagos was a firmer officer than even Jacques, and he kept them going despite the complaints.

Finally, as the sun was just dipping below Italica's walls, Jacques stepped to the head of the formation, and called out, "Time to run."

Men groaned.

Then they ran.

And when the orange light of sunset swept over the city, and men were flagging from constant exercise, Jacques led them to the mansion shouting, "Always finish well! Finish as you started!"

When morning came, the mansion was filled with the groans of a thousand men. The Ninth Company ate breakfast intermixed with the militia, at Jacques's urging. Men exchanged bits of Saderan, French, and Elban over fried bacon and hardtack.

Then Jacques ordered them into formations, and they marched the whole day. At the end, just like the day before, Jacques strode out to the head to call, "Time to run." They groaned and ran.

On the third day, Chaucer came out to watch Jacques's training. "Won't they be tired if the Saderans attack?" he asked.

"Only if they attack today or tomorrow," Jacques replied. "After that, they'll be used to it. In a week, it won't even slow them down."

Chaucer raised an eyebrow. "What if they attack today or tomorrow?"

Jacques shrugged. "Then we fight tired."

"You know I'm supposed to be the crazy one, right?" Chaucer laughed. "By the way, I intend to send Citizen Strabo to the guillotine for desertion. Would you care to testify to his crime?"

"I'd rather not kill him," Jacques said. "Let him go, and let him send slaves to take his place."

Chaucer shook his head. "For a nobleman, Strabo's fairly poor. He doesn't have enough slaves to do that, which is why I suppose he came himself in the first place."

"Then let him serve as a private. Preferably somewhere away from me," Jacques advised.

"You're too soft," Chaucer sighed, but he said nothing further.

Chaucer elected not to join them in their daily run.

On the fourth day, Jacques was confident they knew their way around Italica well enough that he didn't make them spend the whole day marching. Instead, he found a dozen lengths of rope and split the men into teams. The Frenchmen grinned, and for the next five hours, teams of men pulled against each other while those on the sidelines made bets and cheered.

But when the sun began to set, Jacques walked up to the tired men to yet again call, "Time to run."

Then, on the fifth day, Saderan siege engines breached the walls.

Jacques was just getting the men ready for marching when a man on horseback came galloping down the street. The man, a militiaman by his gambeson and helmet, jumped off the horse and ran straight to Jacques.

"Sir, the west wall has been breached!" he reported, saluting smartly. "The Saderans are preparing an assault as we speak. Major Scato requests reinforcements."

"Shit," Jacques muttered. Then he shouted, "Lagos! Get the militia ready to move! Vidal! Form the-"

Another man on horseback, this one a French grenadier, galloped to the mansion. He leapt to the ground and saluted. "Sir! Captain Raoult reports legionaries gathering near the southern gabion wall. He thinks they're going to try an escalade soon."

Jacques blinked.

Vidal appeared behind Jacques. "Orders, Captain?"

"It's a simultaneous attack," Jacques realized. "He's going after the breach and our gabion walls because they're the weakest points in our perimeter."

"Should we split the reserve, Captain? Reinforce each point with half?" Vidal suggested.

The sound of a swivel gun firing echoed through the city. Two more followed, and then another, this one from the south instead of the west.

"No, that'll only let them grind us down, "Jacques muttered, mainly to himself. He closed his eyes, and envisioned the city. Then his eyes reopened, and he snapped, "We need something decisive. We'll take the whole reserve, break the assault on the breach, and send them fleeing back to their camp. Then we'll shift to the gabion wall in time to do the same there."

Jacques didn't wait for Vidal to respond. He stepped to the front of the Ninth Company; Astier had had the foresight to get them formed up when the first messenger had arrived.

"Zorzal has breached the west wall!" he cried. "Let's drive him back!"

There was a cheer, then the company was moving at a quick, accelerated pace. Drums beat out the march. Jacques looked back to Lagos, where he was still trying to get all his companies into order.

"Follow up on our rear!" Jacques shouted to him.

Lagos nodded in affirmation and continued spouting a steady stream of enraged Saderan. Several of the militia companies, those with the most order, began following the Ninth Company.

They swept through the streets of Italica and arrived at the west wall in a matter of minutes. A slim section of the curtain wall had been blasted apart by Saderan catapults so that rubble spilled from it like a long ramp.

In the sky, two dragons circled over the wall, screeching at the defending militia, neither daring to descend. Both of the wall's towers still stood, and they each housed bronze swivel guns. All the swivel guns were pointed toward the dragons, the gunners daring them to fly lower. But three dragon riders had already been lost to the French, and neither rider was keen on being the fourth.

On the ground, however, monsters were assaulting the breach.

The militia were scattered without formation, fighting desperately in the rubble. The rubble was terrible ground for fighting. Men with spears did their best not to trip while those with crossbows had a field day, sniping from the towers and what remained of the wall.

The monsters they fought were pig-faced beasts, larger than men, with greenish-gray skin. Most were armed with little more than clubs, and none of them wore armor. Despite this, they tore through the militia. The monsters were strong; Jacques saw one of them knock a man clean off his feet with just his fist, and they outnumbered the militia holding the breach.

Orcs. Jacques thought, remembering his mother's folk tales. Fucking orcs.

"We give them a volley then we charge them! All three ranks at once!" Jacques called, if only to drown out his fear.

The Ninth Company marched until they were only a few yards from the melee. At this range, it would be difficult to miss. The melee had pushed past the ridge of rubble that marked where the wall had once stood, so that many of the orcs were elevated above the melee, and the fusiliers had a clear line of fire on their mob.

"Make ready!" Jacques demanded. He drew the Elban sword while hammers were cocked.

"Present!" he continued. A hundred muskets dropped into place.

"Fire!"

The world flooded with noise and light. Smoke billowed into the air, forming one massive cloud where the Ninth Company stood. Deep, inhuman screams mixed with angered roars. Jacques didn't wait to see the effect they'd had. He didn't want to know.

"Forward!" he roared in French and then Saderan. "En avant! Procedite!"

The orcs, dazed by musketry, became aware of them in the last moments, as Jacques struggled over scattered rubble. Fusiliers slammed into the orcs like a rising tide. Militia piled in behind, adding weight to the push, so that the orc mob was shoved back two steps before they even really had started fighting.

Jacques was one of the first into the fighting. He immediately cut hard, high to low from the left shoulder, at the first orc in his way. The Elban sword bit into flesh, muscle, bone, and then was free as Jacques ripped it out of the orc's newly made corpse.

The French formation did not survive first contact with the orcs. On rough ground, it all devolved. Two mobs pushing against each other.

Jacques had killed the orc facing him, so he powered into the gap. He was done commanding, done with having the weight of the world on his shoulders. This was just fighting, and Jacques had become quite good at that.

He shot forward, thrusting all the while, and caught a seven-foot tall orc off guard. A foot of Elban steel lodged itself in the orc's abdomen. But somehow the creature didn't die.

It roared and swung its club at Jacques. By sheer instinct, Jacques went forward, past the swing, so that it swept through air. He found himself pressed against his opponent's torso.

A horrific stench filled his nose. Sweat ran from his brow.

Jacques got one hand on the orc's chest and pushed as hard as he could. It was a little like shoving a boulder. The orc was moved only slightly, but it stumbled on rubble, and fell to the ground. That allowed Jacques to free his sword and thrust again, this time to the chest. The orc squealed but tried to grab his leg, so Jacques wrenched his sword up and thrust a third time. And only then did the orc die.

Jacques had a moment to free his sword, breathe, feel a flicker of fear. Then he was fighting again.

Four orcs faced him now, because Jacques had pushed deep into their mob. Each of them was at least a foot taller than Jacques and smelled of rotten pork.

The furthest to his right swung with its club. Jacques's sword shot out instantly to parry, and the shock of that blow instantly reverberated through his arm. For a moment the whole arm felt numb.

Another club shot at him, forcing Jacques to take a step back as he parried. Again, he felt the full force of it. His hand started to hurt, gripping the Elban sword. Jacques continued to back away.

They closed on him like angry bulls. Each pushed forward on its own accord, shoving past comrades without care. One tripped, falling, as another tumbled into it.

That was all the opening Jacques needed.

In half a heartbeat, Jacques reversed direction. He practically leapt. The Elban sword's point plunged into the face of the orc to Jacques's left, and then, pivoting off the orc's head, he slammed his pommel into the head of the orc to his right; Jacques stepped forward and cut right to left through the third orc's neck, decapitating it, even as Jacques's boot cracked the skull of the tripped orc against the rubble.

Four orcs died in as many seconds. Jacques had never fought so well in his life.

Fusiliers and militia surged forward.

"Kill them all!" someone bellowed.

And they did.

After the sixth orc, Jacques stopped counting. His sword was sticky with blood; it flowed over the hilt and onto his hand. The orcs didn't like to defend themselves, Jacques found. They merely attacked and attacked. Their relentless endurance kept them going beyond what a man should have been able to survive. Militiamen would spear an orc through only to be bludgeoned to death when the orc walked further onto the spear just for the chance to kill. They took to fighting the orcs in trios. Two would spear an orc through the belly to fix it in place while the third went for the head. The orcs also didn't like to cooperate. They fought as individuals, even at the expense of those around them. Hundreds died, because Jacques's men fought together while the orcs refused to. Their strength helped to compensate, but it wasn't enough to stop the French and Italicans from gradually butchering them. Numbers told, and bringing the entire reserve meant the orcs were outnumbered at least locally.

But the orcs also didn't like to run.

Jacques hacked and hacked. He hit with everything he possessed. His blade cut flesh, his pommel cracked bone, his boots stomped down the fallen, and he fought harder than he had ever known. He killed with ruthless precision. It was easy to do when facing inhuman monsters, because he felt guiltless while doing so.

The men of the reserve kept pushing. Pushing and killing. They pushed so far that eventually they were fighting beyond the curtain wall. The orcs simply wouldn't give up, so the men fought downhill, outside of the walls of Italica, pushing the orcs down the ramp of rubble made by Saderan siege engines.

Streams of blood ran down the stone rubble, causing some men to slip. Many militiamen had broken their spears and resorted to swords, daggers, and whatever else they could find on the ground. French fusiliers stood at the top of the rubble ramp and began firing into the orcs from their elevated positions. Smoke and screams filled the air as men continued to kill.

And then…

And then Jacques found himself standing with his sword coated in so much blood it dripped onto the ground, Astier next to him, and Vidal ripping her bayonet out of an orc's skull. In front of them, there was nothing but the no man's land between the city and the Saderan camp.

The orcs had not broken.

Jacques's men had killed all of them.

Above them, the dragon riders saw what happened and fled. Their dragons flew away without so much as even a skirmish. Men in the towers jeered them as they went.

"Emroy, oh god of death, I will build a hundred temples for you!" someone cried.

"Jesus Christ, our lord, why have you…"

"Hardy below save…"

"God's mercy…"

"Back into formation!" someone else spat. That cry was taken up by a dozen sergeants. "Back into formation!"

Men stumbled back through the breach in the wall. They seemed to do it in some kind of daze. Jacques himself had to pull himself out of the breach. He managed to find the front of their formations and straighten himself up.

They still had to defend the gabion wall.

"Time to run," he called. The same call he used at the end of each day.

Some of the men laughed.

Then they ran. The men of the reserve followed him, running down the streets of Italica as if they had not just fought the most brutal battle of their entire lives against inhuman monsters. As if three hundred of their comrades had not just been killed.

They ran all the way to the southern wall, arriving in just six minutes. Six exhausting minutes which reminded Jacques of all the strain his body had taken.

When they arrived, they found slaughter.

The southern gabion wall was garrisoned by Captain Raoult's grenadiers. Unlike the west wall's breach, the gabion wall had been attacked by Imperial legionaries with scaling ladders. Jacques could see the bodies piled up. The grenadiers had been pushed back from the wall itself, but they were still fighting doggedly to keep the legionaries from breaking into the city. A melee had developed where legionaries and grenadiers fought in bloody hand to hand combat.

No one gave the order to charge, but the men of the reserve did so regardless. They pressed against the backs of the grenadiers, suddenly reversing the fortunes of battle. Many grenadiers fell back, allowing the new arrivals to take their places on the front.

Jacques managed to make his way forward so that he was staring down an Imperial legionary. The legionary thrust immediately, his spear launching at Jacques's head.

Jacques parried, his arm relieved to no longer be facing orcs. He stepped forward, sword sliding across the spear shaft, and slicing through the legionary's fingers. The legionary screamed; he dropped his spear. Jacques took another step, pulled the legionary's shield down with one hand, then pushed the tip of the Elban sword through the legionary's nose. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Jacques stepped forward and cut at another man. He was parried, but there was no counterblow. He cut again, and the same thing happened.

There's something behind them, Jacques realized. The legionaries had their attention elsewhere. They kept looking over their shoulders. They weren't focused on the men in front of them like they should've been.

Men around Jacques took advantage of that fact. Distracted men made bad fighters, and the militia used that fact to kill soldiers who should've been superior to them in every way. Legionaries began dropping quickly.

It was beginning to feel like murder to Jacques. There'd been no problem when the enemy had been inhuman monsters, but the legionaries were very human. Their screams were no different from any other man's.

There was a lot of screaming behind the front ranks of the legionaries.

He killed a man by stabbing into his knee, killed another with a swing to the neck, and felt his stomach begin to turn as he ended another's life. More fell as the Ninth Company pushed forward with Jacques. They carved a path into the enemy. And as his men pressed the legionaries further and further back, Jacques thought he heard what sounded like a giggle.

Finally it was too much. The legionaries were not orcs. They were human, and they knew how to run. Something changed, and then they were flowing back towards the wall, clambering over to get out of the city.

It quickly became a rout. Men trampled each other to get free of the fighting. The furthest twenty simply threw down their spears and surrendered.

With the melee cleared, Jacques could see what had been distracting them. A girl in a black and red dress, wielding a halberd too large for her to carry.

He knew her immediately. How could he forget? The nightmares she'd given him. The men she'd butchered…

You're supposed to be dead, Jacques's overworked mind protested.

The girl was surrounded by corpses. Dismembered bodies lacking limbs or heads, some even completely sheared in half. There was no blood on her despite it. Only her halberd showed signs of battle; it was covered in the gore she'd inflicted.

"Rory Mercury, at your service." The girl said, bowing. Her lips curled into a sickening grin. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Jacques felt his blood go cold. He wasn't sure if his company of fusiliers could take her. He wasn't particularly eager to try. But in front of him was a bloodthirsty murderer, and he had to do something.

"Lagos, take the men back to the mansion and get them rested," he found himself ordering. "Astier, have the Ninth Company escort our prisoners to suitable lodgings. I'll catch up."

His gaze never left Rory Mercury. Jacques's hand was gripping the Elban sword very tightly. He was breathing quickly. He still wasn't sure what he was about to do.

"Captain," Jacques felt a hand on his shoulder, "this is a bad idea," Astier cautioned.

A second hand touched his other shoulder. "Let's get back to our barracks; the fighting's over," Vidal said.

"I…" Jacques felt something flow out of him. "...right."

He turned his back on Rory. In an instant, fatigue hit him like a wall. The rush of battle disappeared, and in its place came the urgent desire to collapse somewhere.

But as he stumbled away, a sharp giggle echoed through the street.


It was cold. Bitter wind blew through the streets of Moscow.

They fed into a mass of flame. A fire spreading like a wave across the city. The growing inferno advanced through Moscow's buildings, tearing through wooden houses and consuming everything in its path.

He couldn't move.

A girl was on her knees.

Kill me. Please.

Jacques's finger tightened on the trigger.

Kill me. Please.

Jacques woke with a gasp. He shuddered. His hands were shaking, but he couldn't get them to stop. He felt sweat running down his back. He tried to breathe slowly.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamt of Moscow.

The sun had just begun to peek through the window of the Ninth Company's room in the mansion, so Jacques decided against going back to sleep. He wasn't certain he could if he tried. Instead, Jacques gathered his uniform, buckled on his sword, and stepped into the hazy morning air.

He chose a direction and then walked. Orange light was beginning to shine over the walls. The morning coolness felt good on his face.

Someone was baking in an outdoor oven. The smell of fresh bread floated through the street Jacques was on. Warmth, richness, life. He stopped to breathe in the smell.

Jacques went to the oven. A woman with graying hair had just pulled out a batch of bread rolls. Another woman, her daughter perhaps, was brushing them with butter and garlic. The older woman looked up when he approached.

"You are the bluecoat hero," she stated, as if heroism annoyed her. The daughter stared at him with wide eyes.

"How much for a roll?" Jacques asked, in his best Saderan.

The daughter immediately handed one to him. It was warm and delicious, and it was gone before Jacques could really savor it.

The older woman sighed, "Don't bother. I made too many, anyways."

"Thank you," Jacques said.

She nodded and snapped something at the daughter in Saderan too rapid for him to follow. Jacques smiled. He kept walking.

The street opened to a courtyard with a well in the center. Two boys were playing with sticks while a stray dog watched them from an alley. Jacques walked to the well and sat at its step, feeling the morning sun slowly wash over him. The boys were pretending to be knights. He helped himself to cool water from the well.

Eventually the dog walked over to Jacques and sniffed his hand. There was a little butter on it from the roll. Jacques let the dog lick it off. He petted it with the other hand. When the dog was finished licking, it curled up next to Jacques's feet.

One of the boys approached Jacques. "Are you a bluecoat?" he asked.

"Yes," Jacques said. "I'm also a knight."

The other boy perked up. "You're a knight?"

Jacques nodded. "The King of Elbe knighted me."

"Can I touch your sword?" the first boy asked.

Jacques shook his head. He scratched the dog's neck and smiled. "Maybe when you're older."

The two boys went back to playing with their sticks. Jacques sat with the dog, watched them play, and felt content.

Then there was a great crack. Then three more; thud, crack, thunk. The city's walls shook for a moment each time. Dust was kicked into the air, slowly falling to the street. The dog scurried back to its alley, and someone called for the boys to come inside. Seconds later, the walls shuddered from impact.

Because the Saderan siege engines had begun their work again.

By the time Jacques had returned to the Clan Formal mansion, the men of the reserve were cooking breakfast over fire pits dug into what had once been a noble garden. French and Italican soldiers chatted while bacon sizzled. Jacques found Astier and Vidal sitting together with a militia officer.

"Morning, Captain," Astier grunted. He had a mug of something hot in his hand and was sipping on it carefully.

"Colonel," the militia officer greeted with a heavy accent. He was adding some kind of leaf to a pot of hot water.

Vidal nodded and muttered, "Captain." She had a mug as well.

Jacques nodded at them all. "No exercises today. Tell the men to get some rest today but that I want them to be alert for tonight. There'll be fighting."

Astier raised an eyebrow. "Fighting? Are the Saderans planning another attack?"

"No," Jacques said. "We are."


An hour after the last light of sunset had disappeared over the horizon, Jacques Duclos led the Ninth Company to the west wall. The militia had been left behind, because Jacques now had some experience with night fighting, and he didn't want to have a language barrier in the dark. Besides, his plan only required a hundred or so men, and Ninth Company fusiliers were the best soldiers in the city.

"Simple plan," Jacques told his sergeants and corporals when they arrived. "We go out the breach the Saderans made, silence their siege engines, and we come back in through the gate. The men there know to open it. Password is Marengo. Countersign is victory."

The breach in the west wall had been cleared of corpses. Those bodies were cremated at Chaucer's orders to prevent disease. The rubble had also been cleared, allowing easier movement through the breach without risk of turning an ankle. Chaucer was in the process of filling gabions with the rubble to refortify the gap, but for now it was a clear space.

A militiaman appeared out of the gloom. He spoke Elban, but neither Astier nor Vidal did, so he was passed to Jacques. The man looked at them in something like awe.

"This is the Ninth Company!" He bowed reverently, leaving Jacques to stand awkwardly. "You are the famed Duclos then." He knelt to the ground and lowered his head. "I am honored, sir. A hundred of my men guard the breach; we are at your service."

"Stand," Jacques murmured. "What's the situation out there?"

The militiamen hesitated to his feet. "The Saderans like to skirmish with my boys at night, sir. Men with crossbows. They snipe at us, and we snipe back." He grinned wickedly. "In the morning we usually count more of their corpses."

Jacques nodded. "We're launching a sortie against their engines."

"So soon after their last attack?"

"That's the best time to do it."

The man stroked his chin. "You'll have to fight them just outside the breach, then. They're already out there skirmishing."

Jacques sighed. He didn't really want to fight more than he had to. He wanted this to be quick.

Out in the darkness, Jacques could hear an officer haranguing his men.

"We'll go quick and sweep them away," Jacques called. "To the breach. Quickly now."

Dark figures moved forward. In the night, their shakos made them look like giant men. They had over a hundred men in the company; the result of consistent losses and occasional replacements. Jacques led them up the fallen curtain walls. The rubble had been cleared, but the ground was still rough and uneven. Men fell with curses and sheepishly got back to their feet.

Jacques noted that a few men were carrying wooden kegs. Astier was one of them. Jacques gave him a questioning look.

"Last minute gifts from Chaucer," Astier said. "Don't worry. I'll handle them."

Jacques nodded.

As they approached the slope of the fallen walls, Jacques ordered his men down and began to count. There was a lot of noise down the other side. Then a series of muted thwacks sounded and five dozen bolts scattered against the fallen walls. In response, thwacks erupted from the Italican side, sending half as many bolts into the darkness.

"Forward!" Jacques ordered.

He did his best to move quickly. Only a sliver of moonlight and the dull orange glow of lanterns on the wall illuminated the area. The exhaustion of the last few days tormented him as he ran, and he knew that if he fell, he probably wouldn't get up.

But Jacques crossed the top of the breach and started down the steeper slope to the outside world below. Men were together, their uniforms rustling to make a unified noise. Shakos really did make men look taller, and in the dark that made for an intimidating sight.

There was movement on the edge of the escarpment. Jacques was confident they weren't facing legionaries. They were the army's skirmishers; men not suited to hand to hand fighting.

Jacques grinned and felt the spirit of battle flow into him. His men sprinted the last ten yards.

Then they hit them.

The first twenty men were caught off guard and died. Their screams came suddenly and broke the silence of the night. The next twenty had perhaps five seconds to register that. Then they died too.

Jacques's men gave a great shout in French, German, and even Saderan, and then they surged further into the skirmishers. The Saderans scattered instantly.

Jacques didn't hesitate. He pointed his sword at the Saderan siege batteries, twelve massive catapults, almost six hundred feet away.

The ground was hard and dry, and was much easier to run on than the breached walls. His company dashed over it. They didn't keep a formation; that would've been impossible at the speed they were going. Instead, they were a rough clump with a forest of bayonets above them.

The siege engines launched together. Massive projectiles flung toward the walls and impacted with cracks. They were coated in burning oil, so that the crews could see them in the night and make corrections, and there was an odd beauty to the soaring flames.

"At them!" Jacques called in French. "Take the battery!"

The Saderans didn't see them until it was too late. Jacques was scrambling over an earthwork when one of their engineers finally cried out. Jacques was the first into the battery. He cut at the engineer, and the Elban sword sliced through his outstretched arm and killed him messily.

Eight fusiliers scrambled in after him. They gutted the other engineers with bayonets. It was well lit, because the engineers needed light to work the catapults, and that light meant there was nowhere to hide. Fusiliers hunted them like rats, cornering men against their earthworks and butchering them.

Jacques wanted to set fire to all the catapults, but they proved somewhat resistant to flame, and he spent too much time getting the first one to light. Instead, he contented himself with having men hack apart ropes and smash whatever they could. Astier and the men with kegs laughed before tying together lengths of black rope. He said they should get ready to run, and Jacques agreed.

A patrol of legionaries appeared at the edge of the battery. Fusiliers fired into their ranks from the earthworks, and the legionaries were driven off.

"Time to go," Jacques ordered.

Vidal let a third of the men away. They moved swiftly while the rest of the men covered their retreat. They ran all the way back to the wall. Then she fired her musket into the air to signal they'd made it.

Another patrol emerged from the darkness, but their officer's shouting gave Jacques's men ample warning, and they were greeted with a volley of musketry. Only a handful tried to scale the earthworks where they were bayoneted.

Corporal Boulet was digging through a line of trunks when he stood up and said, "They've got wine here!"

"Leave it to you to find wine in the middle of a fight," Corporal Flandin snickered.

Men looting the battery looked up and laughed. A few hefted the trunks and began carrying them back toward the walls.

Astier ran up, his face black. "Run!" he cried. "Run! I have lit the kegs!"

Jacques had only a vague idea of what the sergeant meant, but he forced himself over the earthworks and pumped his legs.

And then the Ninth Company scrambled up the slope of what had once been a curtain wall and made their way as best they could down the far side, back into Italica.

There was a massive burst of flame, a huge white cloud, and then a single enormous clap of thunder. Everyone was either knocked flat or leapt to the ground.

Jacques got to his knees. The whole world was ringing.

"What the hell did you do?!" he asked Astier.

The sergeant laughed and pointed at his ears.


Crown Prince Zorzal El Caesar, heir and regent to the Empire, first born of Emperor Molt Sol Augustus, conqueror of the Warrior Bunnies, savior of Falmart, and doom of the Bluecoats, heard the explosion from his tent.

His slaves were frightened, but Zorzal was beyond such a pitiful emotion. No. The regent of the Empire was not frightened. He was enraged.

In an instant, he summoned his war council. His pitiful subordinates who could only marvel in his power. Only the Northerner did not grovel, and for that, Zorzal would have him killed. Eventually. For now, he was too useful.

"WHO WAS RESPONSIBLE?!" he roared. Zorzal was calm. He was always calm. He always had control.

"Your highness," one of the pitiful generals spluttered, "Legatus Marius had command of that battery."

Zorzal's head snapped to the man in question. "Well? Is this true?!"

The man babbled, "S-Sir, I was surveying the wounded. At that time, Legatus Silvio had command."

"Lies!" Silvio shouted. "You were in command!"

"Your highness, this man is responsible for the failure."

"No, your highness! It was Marius!"

Zorzal ignored them. He waved his hand, and his guards took both men. "Have them blinded. Then cut off their hands and send them to be beggars."

The guards bowed. Both men screamed as they were led out of the tent.

"Someone better have good news," he spat to the rest.

One stepped forward. He was a centurion. Zorzal only vaguely recognized him.

"Your highness." The centurion knelt. Good. "The mercenaries we have sent for from Rondel will arrive shortly."

"More orcs?" Zorzal scoffed. "Useless fucks. They have only failed my commands."

"No, your highness," the centurion said. "Not more orcs."

Zorzal rolled his eyes. "Well? Out with it!"

The centurion lifted his head and smiled. "Ogres, your highness."


I find that not enough books or stories portray sieges. It's all massive field battles. Even when there are sieges, most of the time neither side actually does anything. Books tend to ignore the constant skirmishing, sorties, and assaults that define siege warfare. I aim to make my account more realistic. Obviously there are still flaws in my understanding of a siege, so take it all with a grain of salt.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Again, reviews are my primary motivation, so go ahead and tell me if you liked it. Or if you hated it, go ahead and tell me that. I read them all regardless.