If the enemy waits for me, there will be a battle which will decide the fate of this whole country.

Marshal Ney stared at the map in front of him for what seemed to be the thousandth time. His eyes strained in the candle light of his temporary command room to make out tiny labels and notations. Three wooden figures were carefully arranged on the map. One marked Ney's position at Proptor, another showed Diabo's militia at Sadera, and the third indicated where Feraud's scouts had last made contact with Zorzal's army.

Muted conversations were had all throughout the room. Ney's staff officers looked back and forth from the map to each other, each trying to make sense of a certain course of action or proposed plan. Captain Barbier waited with his quill in hand.

Finally, Ney slammed his fist onto the table. His officers jolted up from their discussions.

"We have to march on Sadera," Ney decided with both hands clenched. "There's nothing to it. We'll march and risk it all on the field."

He looked up from the map, expecting opposition.

General Rousseau was always eager to oblige him. "Feraud's scouts have already sighted Zorzal's army moving toward Sadera," he stated dully. "He will join his professional legionaries with Diabo's city militia, and then wait for us at the gate. We will be marching right into the waiting arms of our enemies."

"I know that," Ney growled, "but there's no other option."

"You had a plan when we marched on Proptor," General Courbet pointed out.

"I had a plan," Ney emphasized. "I thought I had more time. We were supposed to handle the outlying Imperial cities separately. Outmarch Zorzal and defeat the Imperial garrisons one by one until we held everything except Sadera itself." Ney rubbed his forehead. "That's all worthless now. The gate is here, and if we don't move on it immediately, we may lose our only chance of returning home."

General Messier shook his head. "Why would they fight us? Surely they're just as eager to be rid of us as we are to go home?"

"It's Zorzal," General Brunelle spat, "who knows what goes on in his head."

"Surely Prince Diabo will see the benefits of letting us leave in peace," Messier insisted.

Ney sighed. "Maybe so," he admitted. "But I think this is a matter of national pride now. Ever since we arrived in Falmart, we've been humiliating the Empire at every turn. Imagine what happens if, after all this, we are simply allowed to march away undefeated."

Courbet tilted his head. "It's an unenviable position to be in."

Brunelle looked back to the map and bit his lip. "You think that they will fight us for the sake of pride?" he asked.

"I cannot honestly say," Ney replied. He looked away. "All I know is that the gate has appeared, and it will open soon. We need to be there when it happens, and I do not particularly care how that has to happen. We can send a peace envoy ahead of us, but if that fails we must be prepared to come with sword and bayonet."

The room was silent for ten heartbeats as the officers fully appreciated their situation.

Rousseau had his hand partway on the map. He tapped idly with two fingers. "The Marshal is right," he finally said.

Every head in the room turned.

Rousseau straightened his posture, his hand reaching toward the wooden figures. "Our situation for once is simple. We have a destination, and we have twenty thousand men to ensure we reach it," he stated with confidence. "Marshal Ney is correct; we have been robbed of options by the supernatural. We have no choice. There is only one plan now." He picked up the figure representing Ney's army and slid it towards Sadera. With a nudge, Rousseau knocked down the Saderan figures.

They fell audibly.

Ney inhaled and nodded to his officers. "This is the end, gentlemen. We have been stranded in this world for months. We were left to fend for ourselves against the odds. We have triumphed, and we have failed. Now, with home in sight, there must be one last push for our survival. This will be our last gamble. Everything is to be staked on this final battle."

Everyone breathed in.

Marshal Ney ripped his sword from its scabbard and held it over the map. "To victory!" he roared.

General Brunelle nodded. He pulled his sword free and held the blade next to Ney's. "Victory!"

"Victory!" General Courbet cried. He too brought his sword over the map.

Colonel Feraud drew his saber and laughed, "Victory!"

"Victory," Colonel Delon grunted, his sword also unsheathed.

General Messier cursed, but he too drew his sword. "Victory."

General Rousseau locked eyes with Ney. The general freed his sword, hovering the blade just over Ney's. "Victory or death!" he bellowed.

And their course was set.


Proptor was abandoned with a measure of ruthlessness.

The Imperial Fleet, pride of Sadera's waters, was burnt to ashes by companies of fusiliers assisted by French sappers and an endless supply of freed slaves. Some of the ships were spared. These ships were taken up by slaves, eager to return to their homelands and with nothing tying them to Proptor. Most, however, were put to the torch, a move that would cripple Saderan naval capacity for the next year at least.

Proptor itself was also given to the slaves. A provisional government was established by the slave officers who had risen to the occasion during the uprising. They created a council to decide how the city would be run. The old Saderan government was imprisoned. Captured legionaries were stripped of their arms and allowed to go free. The provisional government began recruiting a force of militia to restore order to the city, accepting both freed slaves and Saderan citizens. There was talk of a republic being implemented.

Ney figured that the whole affair was pointless. The slaves were outnumbered by the Saderan citizens, and it was only a matter of time until Saderan control was reasserted. Even if the government somehow held on through internal conflict and instability, an Imperial army would arrive to reconquer Proptor eventually.

Ney didn't plan on still being in Falmart when that happened, though. For now, the city was a distraction. Something to divert Imperial forces while he marched on the gate.

He didn't need to hold onto Proptor, and he didn't care what happened to it. French quartermasters raided the city granaries for enough food to sustain them on the march north while soldiers seized boots, gloves, cloaks, and various souvenirs in anticipation for their return home. New wagons were requisitioned to replace those that had broken down. The surgeons took on fresh linen and hard liquors. New horses were provided to the cavalry.

A feast was held that night in preparation for the return. Alcohol consumption was harshly restricted as the men would be marching the next morning, but hearty meals with plenty of meat were served to even the lowliest privates, courtesy of Proptor's now impoverished butchers.

The men of Ney's army were jubilant. They would be going home, finally.

There was a great deal of cheering. Ney could hear it all the way from the governor's estate, where his officers and him were having a polite dinner with certain members of the defeated Saderan upper class. The nobility were terrified of the slave government and also under the false belief that Ney's army would be able to protect them. Ney spent a great deal of time listening to desperate aristocrats plead with him.

When dinner was finished, and the raucous cheering of Ney's men was just starting to ramp up, Ney left the governor's estate. He headed down to the merchants' quarters, where the auxiliaries were bivouacked in the streets, while Captain Barbier followed behind him.

A few auxiliaries had the misfortune of being on watch during the festivities, but that didn't stop them from wolfing down their share of food. They straightened up when Ney stepped into view.

"Marshal Ney, sir!" one of them choked out, mouth full of lamb. He did his best to swallow before saluting.

Ney strode past them with a nod. "As you were," he called out behind him.

The auxiliaries muttered something to each other in Saderan, but Ney continued forward. Men conversing in the street stopped to salute him as he went past.

Some of the division's German officers were having their own private dinner in one of the traveler's inns that lined the street. They were just finishing when Ney entered with Barbier behind him, and all of the officers stood from their seats immediately.

A German captain, a Wurttemberger judging by his uniform, was quick to salute. "We were not expecting you, sir," he said in his accented French. He pulled out a chair. "Please, you are welcome to join us, sir."

Ney gave a genuine smile. "No thank you, captain. I'll only be staying briefly. At ease, all of you."

The Germans relaxed their postures but remained standing.

"I presume everyone is aware that tomorrow we will begin a journey back to our own world?"

They murmured affirmation and a few nodded.

Ney gave his own nod. "I understand that each of you are in command of soldiers recruited locally from Falmart. Obviously, they may have some reservations about leaving for our world. In light of this, I wanted to clarify my position on their service before we set off tomorrow."

The German captain raised an eyebrow. "Your position, sir?"

"Tomorrow morning, any man who wishes to do so is permitted to leave the army without repercussions. They will be honorably discharged from service and can do as they please." Ney carefully watched the German officers' expressions. "However, once we begin marching against Sadera, any attempt to leave will be considered desertion and punished as such. I want you to inform your men of this when I leave so that they have the night to decide."

The German captain seemed surprised. "I see, sir."

"Do you anticipate a significant number of men will stay behind?" Ney pressed.

The captain blinked. "No, sir." He made a face and said, "I actually can't imagine any of them would stay behind, sir."

Ney tilted his head. "And why do you imagine that, captain?"

"They're eager, sir," the captain remarked. "They didn't have much tying them down in the first place, but now that Zorzal razed Italica, there's nothing for them here. My men are ready to follow us to a new home and if they can bloody Zorzal on the way, even better." He seemed to realize something and stiffened. "But that's just my err… opinion, sir."

The German captain seemed to have a head on his shoulders, and some of the other German officers were nodding with him. It occurred to Ney that he'd not spent much time with the junior officers of his army.

"Your name?" Ney asked.

"Captain Jakob Kapsner, sir," the German replied somewhat mechanically.

Ney's eyes scanned the officers in the room for a few moments. "Well, Captain Kapsner, inform your men of my decision regardless." He raised his voice slightly. "That goes for all of you," Ney announced. "Spread the word and make sure every auxiliary is aware of it before they settle down for the night. In the morning, we will see if Captain Kapsner's confidence is well founded."

All the officers replied with some variation of, "Yes, sir," and Ney nodded before turning for the door. Captain Barbier held it open, and they left the officers to finish their dinners.

The two of them returned to their temporary lodgings at the governor's estate. Ney went to his chambers immediately, to catch up on sleep, while Barbier lit a few candles, gathered a dozen staff officers, and settled in for a night of drafting marching orders.

The next morning, an hour after first light, the army was moving.

Ney was at the head of the column. He didn't bother arranging any ceremony with the provisional government for their departure. Instead they just marched out of the city, leaving the slaves to whatever fate they faced. It was a touch heartless, perhaps, but their march signified the beginning of a triumphal return, and Ney had no intentions of dampening the mood with the concerns of a petty state.

At the same time, Tyuule, now once more a queen of her people, led all of her demi-human comrades out the east gate. Ney had given her five hundred muskets, spares from the losses French troops had taken in Falmart. She was off to wage her own war of liberation, and it didn't involve dying so that French soldiers could abandon Falmart.

Their march also proved that Captain Kapsner had been right. When the auxiliary officers mustered for the march, most had their full complements with them. There were a few awkward sods who had never quite fit in and chose to take the opportunity to leave, but they only numbered a few hundred which was far better than Ney had expected. Most auxiliaries were choosing to take their chances with the French.

So, when Ney abandoned the slave government of Proptor to its fate that morning, over twenty-thousand men marched out the gates with him. Almost a third were auxiliaries.

In fact, Ney had the opposite of the problem he'd expected. The auxiliaries wanted to come with his army, but so did the slaves. Thousands of them. Any other time, Ney would have welcomed thousands of eager recruits, but this time he had to turn them away. He didn't have time to train them, to instill discipline, to make them into soldiers. Without training, all they were was a liability to his army that would slow his march. So he turned them away. At the gates of Proptor, he had them driven off at bayonet point. All because they would slow the army's march.

And they were marching quickly.

It wasn't quite a forced march. Ney expected to be fighting at the end of the march, so he couldn't afford for them to be exhausted from marching. But Ney also couldn't be too slow.

He didn't know how much time he had before the gate opened. Abad, his astrologer, was generally unhelpful and refused to give definitive answers. From their previous experience, Ney expected that the gate would only open for a brief period of time. He couldn't afford to miss that period and be stranded, so he had to make it to the gate, defeat Zorzal, and be ready to march again before it actually opened.

All of that entailed a fast marching pace. He was fortunate that the weather was holding up. An early winter storm would spell disaster, flooding the countryside and turning roads into rivers of mud. Ney needed solid roads and a quick march if he was to make it in time.

He had decided on twenty-five miles a day.

It was funny in a way. That was the pace he'd set when the army first marched against Italica. The pace had nearly killed his army, and only desperation kept them going all the way to the city. Men had cursed his name with every breath for forcing them to march twenty-five miles every day.

Now the men didn't even blink. They laughed, because all of them were now veterans, and all of them faced worse. Twenty-five miles was nothing.

Of course, it helped that they were all getting full meals this time. And they hadn't just emerged from the hellscape of Russia.

They ended their day of marching at a small lakeside village along the trade road. The village had already been drained of supplies when the army passed it on their march to the sea, but that didn't matter, because this time Ney's army brought along a wagon train filled with food from Proptor. The locals were angry and fearful, but the French left them alone.

Morale was high. The men had plenty of food, everyone had fresh kits, and they were finally going home. Cheerful attitudes carried over from the prior night's feast. The sound of laughter could be heard from fires all throughout the rows of tents.

And that was good, because now they were less than a day's march from Sadera and things were about to get dangerous quickly


In the morning, Colonel Feraud led the army's entire cavalry force to reconnoiter the enemy at Sadera. He spread them out perpendicular to the road in scattered groups of a few dozen to form a screen that would shield the main column marching behind them. It would take a miracle for any of Zorzal's scouts to slip past them.

The road they followed took them over flat fields. An hour after setting off, they crossed through a shallow stream and then ran into a deeper stream that their horses couldn't get over. The bridges were intact, so Feraud wasted half an hour calling in his scattered force to get them over the bridges. On the other side of the stream bed, Feraud found hoof prints. Deep tracks, the kind that warhorses made.

That told him a great deal.

Feraud was alternating his commanders to keep them on their toes. After the streams, he scattered his force again and sent Captain Heidler to manage the right flank while Lieutenant Duret, a bold if somewhat dull cuirassier, was on the left.

That left himself and Captain Koda in the center. Koda was still getting used to the role. He was a farmer's son, and the extent of his experience before joining Chaucer's Boys had been poaching rabbits with his brothers. But he had the touch. Feraud could see it now. The boy knew more than he let on, and his mind was getting sharper every day. His French was also quite good for an auxiliary.

"See that big barn there?" Feraud asked as they rode. There was an abandoned farmstead a little further along, and the barn overlooked the road. "What do you do if a hundred Northerners are using it as cover for an ambush?"

Koda tilted his helmet slightly up and chewed on his lip. "Have they seen us yet?"

Perhaps not the most brilliant question, but it showed the boy was engaged.

"From a position like that, they'll have spotted us all the way back at the streams," Feraud explained. "And that's if they didn't set up a lookout somewhere further back."

Koda furrowed his brow. He looked back and forth between the barn and the distant streams. Finally, when Feraud had almost given up on him, he squinted.

"Do they know we've seen them?" he asked.

Aha.

Feraud grinned. "Not until you tip them off."

The boy went back to chewing his lip. They were getting nearer to the barn. A small forest lay beyond the farmstead, and the road cut through it. Feraud had the time to note that someone had ridden a horse at a gallop through the barn's open doors. Their tracks were all over the road.

Koda sniffed and said, "So they'll charge us from the side when we ride past the barn."

"Yes," Feraud replied. He narrowed his eyes and looked over the forest again.

"I suppose…" The boy's eyes flickered from the barn to the road. "I suppose I'd pull back to the bridge and sound a general recall. Then, if they don't run immediately, wait until Heidler and Duret are here to surround them."

Feraud nodded, and they rode a little further up the road.

"Well is that the right answer?" Koda asked.

They were now just passing the old farmstead, and Feraud was certain a force of cavalry had been there before them. There were too many tracks for a simple merchant caravan, and the hoof prints were all iron shod, military issue if he'd ever seen them. There had been a fire at some point near the farmhouse.

Feraud bit his lip. The fire was recent and still had a faint wisp of smoke. Whoever had used it was still nearby.

He looked into the forest again and saw something in the brush move. It was only the slightest movement. Maybe some kind of wildlife. Maybe not.

"So was I right?" Koda asked again.

Feraud blinked and looked back at the boy. He was so clearly eager for approval, and his eyes beamed in a way that reminded Feraud of a younger version of himself.

"I can't say," Feraud finally answered.

Koda looked disappointed.

"Look," Feraud said, "any plan has the potential to work. Some plans are better than others, but so long as you're doing something, you're doing better than nothing. Things go to hell all the time. I can't remember the last time everything I planned actually worked. You just need to keep doing something until the enemy makes a mistake."

"But is my plan a good plan?" Koda asked, trying to hide the whine in his voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Feraud saw a tree branch twist against the wind near the road. It came from the same area of forest as the last movement.

Feraud grinned wildly. "We're about to find out," he cackled. He twisted in his saddle to face the squadron's trumpeter. "Sound a general recall," he ordered and then stood up in his stirrups to roar, "Everyone back to the bridge!"

A shrill sound rang out as the trumpeter sounded his instrument. The cavalrymen immediately began to turn for the bridge.

"What's going on?" Koda shouted, bewildered by the sudden action.

"Your plan!" Feraud shouted back.

As if to punctuate Feraud's reply, a long, thin scream suddenly erupted from the treeline.

"Aiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyai!"

More than a hundred Northerners emerged from the forest in a wave of horseflesh and men. The Northerners outnumbered Feraud's force by more than half, and they burst into a gallop as soon as they were free of the trees.

"The bridge!" Feraud repeated and spurred his own horse into a gallop.

Koda mimicked him. His horse snorted at the sudden command but jumped into a gallop regardless. Others followed, and soon every cavalryman was galloping as fast as they could for the deep stream behind them.

Feraud felt the wind in his face and the spirit of battle in his blood. He flowed with his horse over the road, joined as one like the centaurs of myth. Feraud cackled madly.

They flew past the farmstead all at once. The Northerners were on their tail, but Feraud's troopers were gaining a slight lead.

In the distance, Feraud heard trumpets sounding the general recall.

An arrow whistled past Feraud's head. Some of the Northerners had their stout horn bows in hand and stood in their stirrups to loose arrows at Feraud's troopers.

One arrow landed in the hind leg of a horse, and both the horse and the dragoon on top of it tumbled to the ground in a bloody mess. Another arrow sprouted out the back of an auxiliary so that he dropped from his horse coughing blood.

The stream bridge came into sight.

Behind, the fallen dragoon was cut down by passing Northerners.

A dozen arrows fell just short of Feraud's troopers. They had gained some more distance, and the Northerners had to range their shots again.

Far to the left, Feraud spotted a distant group of Chaucer's Boys riding for the bridge. To the right, there was more trumpeting.

Feraud reached the bridge and slowed his horse to a halt. The others copied him. He immediately turned and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Face the enemy! Here we go boys!"

Neither side flinched. The Northerners screeched their battle cry again while Feraud ordered his troopers. They pressed into a deep column and drew sabers. The bridge wasn't large enough for a wide array which was good, because it gave them a chance against the more numerous Northerners.

Feraud had a moment to breathe the fresh air, admire his squadron's finely disciplined column, and grin with professional admiration. Even the auxiliaries with him were formed up perfectly.

It was simply flawless.

And then the Northerner charge went home, and everything went to shit.

At once, the squadron's perfect column disappeared. Northerners swept onto the bridge, pushing against Feraud's troopers with sabers in hand. Northern horses slammed into Feraud's formation. The straight face of the column became instantly jagged. Northern horsemen pressed their way into openings while French cavalrymen counterattacked at every opportunity. Horses reared up against each other and bit at necks or struck with iron shod hooves. Sabers went back and forth. Blood spilled. Corpses began to drop from riderless mounts.

The equine mass would not let up. Men from both sides pushed to replace their comrades. Trapped horses squealed and screeched.

Feraud's sword arm moved before he could even register what happened, and then he was fighting. His horse was chest to chest with an ugly Northerner. Feraud struck with his saber, was parried, and the ugly Northerner struck back. Things happened quickly. Years of muscle memory guided his movement. Feraud's blade snapped back, covered the blow, immediately countercut, was parried once more, and snapped back again to cover his opponent's second riposte.

The ugly Northerner was good. They continued to exchange blows, quick flicks at each other's heads which became a rhythm of ringing steel. Cut, parry. Cut, parry. Cut, parry.

Feraud's mare backed just a step, and the rhythm was broken. The ugly Northerner leaned out too far from his horse in his fervor and gave up just the slightest bit of tempo. Feraud capitalized immediately; his next cut was too fast for the Northerner to stop. His blade swung high to low. It carved open the man's face without the slightest resistance.

The ugly Northerner's horse panicked without a rider to control it. The horse pushed back into the mass of Northerners, creating a flaw in the enemy's formation.

Feraud didn't even need to think, he just acted. He pressed his mare straight into the flaw and was suddenly alone in a sea of Northerners.

Feraud threw blows in every direction. His arm was faster than a cat's paw yet as strong as an ram's horns. Every blow sunk deep into flesh and came out with a spray of red. His horse moved under him, turning and turning while Feraud reaped the Northern horsemen.

In the distance, groups of French and auxiliary cavalrymen appeared on either flank of the Northerners. They were drawn to the fighting by the sound of trumpets signaling a general recall.

Feraud felt a new fire ignite in him. He knew Jegu was somewhere in the melee, and he was running out of time before Jegu noticed just how much danger the Northerners were in.

"Send 'em hell!" he roared.

He spurred his horse forward. His mare was a true warhorse, strong and vicious. It snarled and smashed into a Northern horse directly ahead, collapsing the smaller animal and its rider all in one movement. Feraud's saber lashed out, scoring good hits on the next Northerner in front of him. The man was still recovering from the shock of suddenly facing Feraud, and he died for it. Feraud rolled his wrist, using the momentum of his last cut, and mangled another man's throat even as the previous one was still falling from his horse.

A gap opened behind Feraud. Like an axehead into wood, Feraud began to split apart the Northerners. French cavalry flooded behind him, widening Feraud's gap and preventing him from being surrounded. He went forward, unrestrained and without mercy, deeper and deeper into the Northern formation as it unraveled from behind and to the side.

A horn sounded out from the midst of the melee. It rose above the sounds of men fighting and dying, echoing clearly.

Then suddenly, like water flowing from a hill, the Northerners cleanly disengaged from the melee. Their horses turned with practiced precision, and they galloped from the bridge. Feraud watched the Northerners make their perfect escape, flying away gracefully and with minimal casualties.

Only for them to be struck in the side by Captain Heidler and a squadron of Chaucer's Boys.

Chaos reigned immediately. The auxiliaries came from the east and chewed into Jegu's right flank. The Northerners became bogged down once more, forced to turn to their new foe, their retreat ruined by the appearance of Captain Heidler. Men began to panic. The horn blew hopelessly again and again.

Seconds later, Lieutenant Duret led his squadron of cuirassiers from the west into the backs of the Northerners. His heavy cavalry mulched them. Feraud bellowed laughter. Jegu had mistimed his retreat, or he'd missed the flanking cavalry entirely. His rival was on the edge of utter annihilation.

The Northerners were used to running from fights like this, but now they were trapped in the jaws of an angry wolf.

Feraud raised his bloody saber high in the air. "With me!" he called to his men on the bridge.

His men needed no further urging. They trampled over the corpses of friend and foe alike and shot forward from the bridge like an arrow from the string. They were not well formed, but that no longer mattered. Their mass was all that was needed.

The charge went home straight into the vulnerable flank of Jegu's Northerners. A row of men and horses were simply knocked flat by the impetus of it, and Feraud's troopers smashed through men as the ties of kinship and tribal connection that held the Northerners together rapidly fell away, and the Northern formation unknitted. Men turned their horses to flee as individuals. Men trampled past their neighbors, desperate to escape Feraud's charge, the spears and sabers, the hooves of warhorses. Surrounded on three sides, there was only one way to go for them.

Back and back. Their retreat was no longer perfect. All order was gone. Men thought only for themselves in the face of total destruction.

Feraud found that he was suddenly riding over open ground. Corpses carpeted the ground all around. The Northerners were fleeing ahead of him. His men were cheering behind him.

As Feraud stared at the fleeing Northerners, Koda walked his horse next to him. The boy had a shallow cut on his cheek, but his spear was dripping blood. "What now?" the boy breathed.

Feraud's eye flickered over. "We've broken them," he said with relish. "Now we chase them all the way back to Zorzal."

Feraud stood in his stirrups and twisted to face his men. They looked at him, tired, bloody, and yet eager. Feraud grinned.

"Let's get the bastards!"

And they galloped after the fleeing Northerners.

The next few hours were spent on the heels of the enemy. Jegu, for all his brilliance, had no more tricks up his sleeve. His men were decisively broken, and they would not rally. Twice, he tried to counterattack with the handfuls of men he could gather, and twice he was beaten away.

After pushing their horses at full gallop to try and outpace each other, both sides were forced to slow down due to the sheer exhaustion their horses faced. A horse could be killed by making it work too hard, so the chase devolved from an all out sprint into a measured walk. The Northerners never left Feraud's sight, and yet they also were able to keep a good distance from the French cavalry.

But that was fine with Feraud because with each mile they went, Zorzal's army got closer and closer. In terms of pursuits, it was one of the easiest ones Feraud had ever been a part of. He had no need to actually catch Jegu, and Jegu had no interest in fighting Feraud again, so they both walked.

As they went on, the land became flatter and less forested. Farms seemed to carpet the countryside whereas before they merely dotted it. They were once more returning to the Saderan heartland.

Noon came, and Feraud was becoming certain they would not fight again that day.

He could see ahead that the Northerners were eating their lunch in the saddle. They didn't look like they wanted a fight. They looked beaten and tired.

Feraud's men looked tired too. They'd been riding since dawn, and they'd fought. But while Jegu's men were downtrodden and miserable, Feraud's were laughing and making casual conversation. That's the difference that victory made.

Feraud watched the Northerners for a moment longer. They really didn't look like they wanted to fight.

He made his decision.

"Koda! Get up here!" he shouted.

The boy rode over from his squadron. "Sir?"

"Come with me. I need you to translate." Feraud nudged his horse and began trotting toward the Northerners, leaving his own men behind.

"W-what?" Koda spluttered. He got his own horse into a trot and came up beside Feraud with wide eyes. "Should we be doing this? Won't they kill us?"

"I doubt it. But I might be wrong."

Koda looked between the Northerners and the French cavalry they were leaving behind.

Captain Heidler began to ride toward them, but Feraud waved him away. If Feraud really was leading them to their deaths then at least Heidler would be able to take command. Koda settled into his saddle, seemingly accepting his fate. They rode closer to the Northerners, and Jegu's men watched them cautiously.

"If this does get us killed, then for what it's worth I apologize," Feraud said. He shrugged. "It won't though."

Koda inhaled and slowly exhaled.

Four men detached themselves from the Northerners and rode back to meet Feraud and Koda.

"Drop your weapons," their leader demanded. He had a scraggly beard but otherwise looked fairly charming. Koda was attentive enough to translate his demand.

Feraud smiled at the man and pushed his horse past him. His horse side stepped as one of the other men tried to grab him, and then he was free. The man looked bewildered, but Feraud simply rode on at a light canter, leaving him and his retinue behind with Koda.

He approached the main body of Northerners. They eyed him warily, hands on sabers.

"Jegu?" he asked politely.

A short man rode out of the body of Northerners. He was covered in furs, and his eyes twinkled when he came forward. Feraud recognized him instantly.

"Jegu," he said.

Jegu nodded and nudged his horse forward so that they were practically shoulder to shoulder. "Feraud?" he asked.

Feraud nodded back.

Jegu's face immediately broke out into a big smile. "Brother!" he roared in Saderan. He leaned over from his horse and embraced Feraud, pounding his back. Feraud laughed and embraced Jegu back.

Jegu said something in Saderan. He spoke so rapidly and with such a thick accent that it was entirely incomprehensible.

Feraud shrugged and jerked his thumb at Koda who was in the process of being harassed by the four Northerners.

Jegu made an understanding noise and shouted to his men in their barbaric Northern language. The charming looking man with the scraggly beard shouted something back, and he brought Koda to them. The boy looked terrified.

Feraud clapped Koda on the shoulder. "Tell Jegu here that it's good to finally meet him, and that he's a right bastard in the field with all his tricks. Oh, and thank him for not killing us."

The boy's hands were shaking, but he translated what Feraud said well enough.

Jegu nodded enthusiastically and said something in reply.

"You have killed more of my men than any Saderan ever did. You understand war, and I would be ashamed to kill you," Koda translated.

"Ask him if he's willing to switch sides. Then we don't have to kill each other."

Koda's eyes darted between the two men.

"He says that doing that would be unwise. He believes you are going to lose, and he says that even if you did win, you would simply go through the gate and leave him here to face the Empire alone."

Feraud tilted his head. "Tell him that if we win, he can loot the Saderan camp and ride away to his home before the Empire is able to stop him. We won't be stopping to loot, so it's all his if he joins us."

Jegu let out a burst of laughter. He spoke rapidly, his smile never leaving his face.

"He says that you're right, but you're still going to lose."

Feraud shrugged and asked, "What if we start winning?"

Jegu matched his shrug, still smiling.

"Then we shall see," Koda translated.

"Good enough for me," Feraud replied. He turned his horse away from the Northerners and said to Koda, "Thank him for his hospitality. Let's hurry back to Captain Heidler before he does something foolish. We should get back to pursuing our friends here."

Koda said their goodbyes, and they rode back to the French cavalry. Captain Heidler was glaring when they returned, but he didn't say a word. He'd long since learned that he wasn't going to win an argument like that.

The rest of the pursuit was a very civilized affair. There was an unspoken agreement that there would be no more fighting for the rest of the day, so both forces continued at a walk along the road.

Twice, Jegu stopped to rest and water his horses by streams, and Feraud agreed to stop with him both times. The two forces intermingled with each other despite the killing they'd both done just hours before. The auxiliaries acted as translators while Frenchmen and Northerners asked each other questions. Some men exchanged gifts. Others puffed up their chests and glared at each other.

No one died.

Two hours after noon, Jegu rode back to Feraud in order to inform him that they were nearing Zorzal's army. It was decided that, in the interest of not appearing to have been fraternizing with the enemy, Jegu's men would enter the Saderan camp at a gallop with the French in hot pursuit before Feraud broke off to conduct his reconnaissance.

The agreement satisfied both sides, and as the Saderan army came into view, both sides spurred their horses and began hollering at each other. A cloud of dust was kicked into the air. The Northerners came thundering down the road while Feraud's men nipped at their heels.

Imperial legionaries immediately called an alarm. Men rushed into position. A reserve of Saderan knights appeared with admirable timing.

Feraud saluted Jegu with his saber and ordered his men to break off the pursuit.

His cavalrymen withdrew from the Imperial army before the Saderans could consider launching a sortie against them. The Northerners fled into the camp, and Feraud retired to further up the road where he could observe the Saderans safely. Legionaries eyed them warily. The Saderan knights stood ready in case they were needed.

Feraud would have preferred a nice hill to overlook the enemy army, but the Imperial heartland was remarkably flat. There were only two hills in the area, and Zorzal's men had occupied both of them. One rose from the ground half a mile from the road. Imperial legionaries dotted the top. It appeared to anchor the right flank of what was intended to be the Saderan battleline which stretched for a full mile, cutting through the road and finally ending at a farm house that had been fortified with earthworks. A strong position.

Behind the line was the Saderan camp, massive in size. Judging by the number of tents and campfires, Feraud estimated there were perhaps a hundred thousand men in the camp. Of those, maybe twenty thousand were Zorzal's legionaries and professional soldiers. It was easy to spot their well disciplined section with orderly paths and lines of tents. The rest were clearly Diabo's Saderan militia, easily distinguished by their chaotic arrays of tents and lack of proper latrines.

The second hill was roughly a mile back from the Saderan camp. There weren't many legionaries on top of it, and the hill itself wasn't remarkable, but it stood out from the landscape clearly because at its peak was a grand structure of white marble and cyan crystals. Its center was clear, lacking magical power, and the structure itself was a little different from his memory of it, but Feraud knew it immediately.

The gate.

It was a glorious sight. They were almost home.


Marshal Ney's army made camp that night only four miles away from the Saderan positions. They arrived too late in the day for a battle. Darkness would be soon to come, and a night battle with forces this large would be utter hell to coordinate. Neither side was up to the task, but the men knew that everything would change in the morning.

French soldiers could see the gate from their forward sentries, and suddenly everything was real. Home was only a few miles away. They were leaving.

They just had to fight through Zorzal first.

By the time Ney arrived, Colonel Feraud had already sent him couriers with a full report of his scouting expedition. He'd already discussed the plan for tomorrow's battle with his officers while on the road. A flanking movement was out of the question. It was too dangerous to do while so close to the enemy, and maneuvering further back would cost precious days without a guarantee of success. They just couldn't risk the gate opening before they had defeated Zorzal.

There was nothing to it. They simply had to win on the battlefield.

They had the technology, tactics, and most importantly morale. Hopefully, it would be enough to overcome Zorzal's numbers.

Ney looked out at the Saderan camp and watched the distant pin pricks that were enemy campfires. There were just so many of them.

He turned back to his tent.

His body ached. He'd been on his horse all day and, as much as he loathed to admit it, he was getting older. Back in the day, he'd practically slept in the saddle. He remembered riding across the Low Countries as a young hussar, totally invincible. Now…

He was supposed to be in bed.

Captain Barbier stood uncertainly by his tent flap.

"Early night, sir?" his aide asked.

"That eager for bed, are you?" Ney asked.

Barbier shrugged. "Tomorrow's going to be a big battle; I was going to find something to eat first."

Ney nodded and found that he couldn't remember if he'd eaten yet. Maybe a little here and there. The Emperor often skipped meals…

He looked at his tent and had an idea.

Ney turned from his tent, suddenly decisive. He walked toward his command tent, only a few minutes from his personal tent. Barbier ran to catch up.

"Sir?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

"Have the army assemble for review. I want to address them."

"This late, sir? It'll be dark by the time-"

Ney gave him a look.

Captain Barbier saluted. "Yes, sir."


Jacques was in his tent, filling out paperwork on his squat little camp desk, when the regimental drummers began to beat the reveille. His head snapped up immediately.

"What the hell?"

Vidal was also in his tent. She was helping him with the paperwork, a quill in one hand and the company's roster in the other. She looked out a crack in the tent flap and asked, "Are we under attack?"

Jacques belted on his sword and grabbed his shako. "Let's find out," he sighed, stepping out from the tent.

Outside was a state of chaos. Men were running to and from different places, gathering their items and packs. Others were urinating on campfires to extinguish them or hauling down great pots of stew which had been cooking over said fires. At the center of the chaos, Astier was shouting orders and directing men to their positions.

Jacques ran over to Astier. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

Astier shook his head. "All I know is that the Marshal just ordered the whole army to assemble." He bit his lip and said, "I don't think it's an attack. Colonel Touissant mentioned that the 134th is being positioned close to the Marshal, whatever that means."

Vidal emerged from Jacques's tent in her full uniform. "A speech?" she suggested as she hurried over. "Maybe the Marshal wants to give a speech?"

Jaques looked at the sky. The sun was getting close to setting which meant that by the time they were dismissed it would probably be dark.

He rubbed his brow. "Let's just hope it doesn't take too long."

The Ninth Company was, as usual, the first company to be assembled. They arrived at where Major Beauregard was gathering the Third Battalion. The major gave Jacques an appreciative look, and then they waited for the rest of the battalion to arrive. When that happened, they marched to join Colonel Touissant and the other battalions of the 134th Line Regiment.

That brought them to an area of open ground where Marshal Ney was supposed to address the army.

Their regiment wasn't the first one to arrive, but neither was it the last. Organizing men took time, especially when doing it last minute. Many officers were holding lanterns because of how late in the day they were assembling. No one wanted to have to march back to their bivouacs in the dark.

But when the entire might of the heavily augmented Third Corps was arrayed on the field, it almost did seem worth it. More than twenty-thousand men stood at attention.

They formed a single front with deeply set columns. Blue uniforms stretched across the line, dotted by various splashes of white, yellow, red, or green that came from the various French and non-French uniforms in the Third Corps and finally supplemented by thousands of plain gambesons belonging to the auxiliaries. The cavalry was formed on the right, both French horsemen and Chaucer's Boys. The artillery was formed on the left, the actual cannons still at camp but gunners standing proudly regardless.

At the front were the officers. Jacques could now recognize them even from a distance. Generals Courbet, Messier, Rousseau, and Brunelle, who commanded the infantry of the Third Corps, were mounted in a line at the center. To their left was Colonel Feraud, commander of the cavalry, resplendent in his hussar uniform. To their right Colonel Delon, who led the artillery, was staring daggers at his gunners.

And finally there was Marshal Ney. He was on his horse in his full dress uniform, blue and white with gold lining and a red sash, far too clean to be the one he typically wore in the field. His large hat made him an imposing figure, and his Marshal's baton was held firmly in his fist.

"Soldiers!" he bellowed with the voice of a god. "This is the battle you have so much desired. The Imperials now attempt to block our return to France. It is up to you to get past them!"

As he spoke, muttering echoed throughout the men. Only those at the front could actually hear what was being said, so they repeated it to those behind them. When it reached the auxiliaries, it had to be translated twice: once into German-Elban and then again into Saderan.

"You have fought gloriously throughout this land," the Marshal continued. "You have seen things only known in stories and legends. You have beaten odds even the Emperor would be envious of. Now it is time to return to your homes. For some of you, it is time to find a new home, and to you I promise that France will welcome you with open arms."

The Marshal held out his baton in the direction of the Imperial army.

"Act as you did when your courage defeated two armies! As you did at Italica when you stormed the walls of that mighty city! At Aquila Ridge and where you have already defeated this Saderan princeling! Act as you did with Prince Teo! Act as you did at Castle Tubet, at Janku, at Cantero's estates, at Italica, at Sadera, at Proptor! Act as you did then, and you shall know victory for all time!"

The army cheered. In three languages, they cheered for the Marshal and for themselves. Their roar swept across the whole field and went so far it could be heard by the forward scouts of the Imperial legions.

Then the Marshal raised one hand, and the cheering fell away. His eyes swept over the front of his army.

"Captain Jacques Duclos, step forward," he called.

Jacques blinked. He tensed, unsure of what to do.

"Captain Jacques Duclos, step forward!" the Marshal called again.

Jacques's body moved without him. He stepped out of the Ninth Company's line and into the gaze of an entire army. Vidal grinned at him as he passed.

Jacques choked down a breath. He felt out of place; felt that he should run or find some place to cower away.

Every eye was on him. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back, the aching of his infected wound.

He went forward.

"Captain Duclos's deeds no introduction," the Marshal announced. "At every opportunity, he has distinguished himself. In every action, his Ninth Company has performed exceptionally. He has shown himself to be valiant!"

Jacques found that he was in front of the Marshal. He stopped and saluted as cleanly as he could. "Captain Jacques Duclos, reporting, sir."

The Marshal dismounted from his horse. His aide took the reins, and the Marshal walked up to Jacques.

When they were close, Marshal Ney leaned in and whispered, "Relax, captain, the battle's not until tomorrow."

Jacques did his best to nod.

The Marshal held up his baton and lifted his voice again. "Captain Duclos, as the highest French authority in this land, I bestow this honor on both your company and yourself. Do not disgrace it." He tapped Jacques gently on the chest with his baton. "I hereby name you and your men tirailleurs of the Imperial Guard."

A roar erupted from the army, and Jacques felt ready to faint.


Some day I'll write a story just about cavalry skirmishing. It's a very interesting topic that's entirely neglected in most media. Good cavalry was indispensable before armies became motorized.

Anyways, I think this chapter is the beginning of the end. I'm currently planning on the next few chapters being shorter in length as part of one multi-chapter battle. That may or may not change, but the end is here regardless. The story couldn't go on forever.

I don't know how long it will take me to finish up these last few chapters. As I say in pretty much every chapter at this point, I don't have a ton of time to write. I love writing though, and I love this story. I fully intend to leave this as one of the few finished stories on this site.

So that's that. Thank you to everyone who has stuck through this story. It's long, I know.