Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.

"We are running out of soldiers," Prince Diabo said curtly, his fists clenched over their map.

Every eye in the tent was on him. It was the morning before the second day of battle, and a command meeting had been called while the soldiers assembled. Men were squished together around a central table, senior officers from the entire army. The tent they were in was opulent, but it could never match the enormity of the mobile palace that was destroyed at Italica and was thus cramped with servants, legates, and militia captains.

His brother Zorzal was cleaning his nails with a dagger. He looked up from his seat across the table. "Last I checked, we outnumbered our enemy drastically. We can lose more men. There's always more to be found," he said, shrugging.

Many of the officers at the table, all of whom had led their men personally the day prior, flinched at the prince's words. Jegu the Northerner raised an eyebrow. One legate had lost an eye to a Bluecoat skirmisher, and his one-eyed glare held pure unadulterated hatred.

Zorzal didn't notice it; he was picking at his fingers.

Diabo chose his words carefully. "Even given our numerical superiority, these losses are unsustainable. If we continue as we have, we will have no more legionaries to secure the Empire when this battle is over. We cannot simply expect the Saderan militia to become our new standing army. We need to preserve our professional soldiers."

Zorzal's eyes flickered up again before going back to his nails. "Then send the militia forward. They can die instead."

Diabo was close to snapping at him, but his sister Princess Pina stood suddenly and quickly met his eye. Her Rose-Order had been decimated the day before, and she herself was sporting two wounds from a Bluecoat cavalryman, but she was still going to command from the front today.

She addressed Zorzal, "That is precisely what we are suggesting, brother. If we move our legionaries from the hill into the reserve, we can replace them with militia. The legionaries can then react to any unexpected attacks without directly risking them on the battleline."

"I know what a reserve is," Zorzal hissed. "Do not forget that I am the commander of this army."

Diabo pounded the table. "Brother, you are no more our commander than the lowest born militiaman is. You have sat in this tent sulking while I led our men on the field. Yesterday's strategy was mine, its tactics were those of the officers in this tent, and its heroics belong to the men who fought and died for our Empire. You have done nothing. Our sister has seen more battle than you! So do not claim to be anything more than a decorative figurehead, for that is all you are useful."

"You dare?!" Zorzal shouted. He jammed his knife into the table and stood. "This is my army, you insolent pup. You are not prince regent nor will you be emperor. You are merely a second son. A spare! Eclipsed by my seniority!"

Diabo stood as well. "I am more of a prince than you ever have been! You are a usurper who has poisoned father to steal his throne."

Zorzal drew his sword, a gaudy thing with an oversized hilt. Diabo matched him with his own plain longsword.

Every officer in the tent stood at once. Servants fled the tent. More swords were unsheathed.

Loyalties were instantly decided as men drew on each other. Roughly two-thirds of the officers sided with Diabo, primarily militia captains, a certain few legates, and Jegu the Northerner. The others, almost entirely legates, were with Zorzal.

Princess Pina stood unsteadily between the factions. Her sword was still in its sheath. "Will you kill each other on the eve of battle?!" she cried. "This is insanity!"

"Step aside, sister," Zorzal spat. "I wouldn't want to hurt you while I cut down this traitor."

Diabo snarled, "You were right, Pina. I should have deposed him already."

"And what of your argument yesterday?" Pina demanded. "To risk this infighting… to risk civil war while our enemy prepares his attack as we speak! Is that not madness?!"

Zorzal's eyes narrowed. "You spoke of this?" He pointed his sword from Diabo to Pina. "Then you are a traitor as well."

"She is no traitor, you gutless worm. The only traitor is you for-"

A centurion entered the tent at a run. He stopped when he saw the drawn swords and stuttered, "Y-your highnesses… the Bluecoats are advancing at this moment."

Diabo looked between the centurion and Zorzal. He hadn't expected the battle to begin for another hour. Marshal Ney must have gotten his men up early. And if he was attacking instead of…

"Too damned soon," he cursed quietly.

"Brother…" Pina said unsteadily, looking at Zorzal's sword. "What are we doing?"

Diabo glared back to Zorzal. "This isn't over," he said, sheathing his sword and turning for the entranceway. His officers followed suit, and no one moved to stop them. He looked at Zorzal's officers. "I'm going to save our army from destruction. If any of you would like to join me, I'll welcome you gladly."

Zorzal shouted after them, "Cowards!" But despite his shout, he did not chase them. "When the Bluecoats end you, I will dance on your corpses!"


Ney blinked for the sixth time, not believing his eyes. He looked again and saw the same thing. A mile from his position, on the hill they had fought and died over all of yesterday, Saderan legionaries were turning around and marching away. This was in the face of an advancing line of auxiliaries who had been expecting a bloody struggle for the hill. Now they saw their opponents simply leaving.

Colonel Delon's cannons hadn't even opened fire yet.

Men started cheering.

Ney turned to Barbier and demanded, "What the hell is he doing?"

"A retreat?" the aide suggested, but he shook his head. The rest of the Saderan line, the militiamen, were holding their ground. "Perhaps he's consolidating a position further back?"

"And give up the high ground?" Ney said. He rubbed his brow. "Sheer madness."

Barbier squinted then pointed at a disorganized column of militiamen advancing from the Saderan reserve. "There! He must be cycling men in his reserve. Perhaps he wants to hold his elite troops back."

Ney scoffed, "If that's the case then he's chosen a terrible time to do it. We're already advancing; those militiamen will only just have arrived by the time the auxiliaries are climbing the hill. Why didn't the legionaries wait for them to arrive before falling back?"

Barbier just shook his head. "God knows, sir."

"Well… You know what the Emperor says about enemies and mistakes. This may be our opportunity. Order the regulars forward; skirmish order to tie down the Saderan line. Have Feraud cover the auxiliary flank. Tell Delon to fire whenever those reinforcements reach the hill."

Barbier saluted. "Understood, sir."

Ney nodded, and the aide left. Then Ney looked back at the Saderan line and scoffed again, "Madness."


The bodies from yesterday still littered the ground. No one had come to collect them. They were too close to the Saderans for the auxiliaries to retrieve them, and the Saderans had only picked through their own dead. No one had arranged a truce during the night to bury the dead, so they simply were left to begin rotting with maggots and bloating…

Gallio tore his eyes away from the bodies.

Of course they didn't arrange a truce. The Bluecoats didn't care about the auxiliaries. To them, the auxiliaries were expendable. Meat for the butcher.

They passed the tree that marked the halfway point between the two lines. Some men flinched instinctively, expecting a barrage of Saderan cannonfire to greet them. But nothing did. The Saderan hill was empty; it had been abandoned just as they'd begun their advance.

The auxiliaries shot across the field with a spring in their steps. With nothing to oppose them, men didn't hunch down or slow their pace to avoid the inevitable. In what felt like moments, they had crossed the distance to the base of the hill.

Just seconds later, a hundred Saderan militiamen suddenly appeared at the crest of the hill. They looked tired, as if they'd been running. More piled in behind them, and it was clear that they had no formation to speak of.

Gallio watched the militiamen at the top with emptiness in his heart. Others around him inhaled sharply or let out curses and gasps. He just watched. It was as if he was already dead.

He had been used. Betrayed.

They all had.

Now he sought to die well. That was his last solace from the pit of despair that threatened him at every turn. He could die, and it would be over. If Placus was right, they could reunite in his Christian heaven. If not, Gallio would cut his way through Hardy's realm to find them both.

But first he had to die.

"Up the hill!" an Elban sergeant roared. Gallio didn't know him; he'd been put in a new company after yesterday, and he hadn't bothered learning names. They didn't have a captain or any lieutenants due to high officer losses. He knew that at least.

Men around him matched the roar and went up, but Gallio remained quiet. He pumped his legs and gripped his sword. He didn't have his buckler. It was lost somewhere on the field. He didn't have his helmet either. He hadn't seen the point in wearing it.

The militiamen watched them from their position at the top. They had big shields and sturdy spears, but they were militiamen. Many had no armor. Many more only had helmets and gambesons. They didn't look like the professional Saderan legionaries.

In fact, the closer they came the more they looked like the auxiliaries.

Fitting.

Gallio felt the auxiliaries around him charging up the hill.

He saw the militia huddle together in a thin mockery of a shield wall to receive them.

The men I will kill today are nothing more than unwitting tools for their masters.

The men with me are the same.

So be it.

And then he hit them.

For three heartbeats, Gallio was acting without thinking. It was a blur of motion all around. He finally came to when he saw the horror on the face of the young Saderan in front of him, as Gallio pulled down his shield with his left hand and stabbed him over it with his right. In that instant, Gallio was an uncaring monster loose in their ranks without any fear of death, and they screamed.

Gallio killed them. He hacked apart a boy wearing no armor but a kettle helmet then thrust through an older man's tattered gambeson. Someone's spear came at him, but he parried it and chopped away the Saderan's fingers like a knife through carrots. Someone else dropped his spear and grabbed at Gallio, too close to thrust, but the man had no grappling experience and Gallio had plenty. Gallio threw him over his hip, cut wildly to keep the others back, let his boot crush the man's skull, and threw himself forward. He cut again, catching the head of someone who was too poor to afford a helmet. Then he pulled down a terrified man's shield to gut him with his sword.

A space cleared around Gallio as the militiamen backed away in fear. Behind him, the rest of the auxiliaries had engaged the front line, but he was four ranks deep into the Saderans and no help was coming for him.

Not that he wanted it. This was his last day, and he was going to go out well.

He charged at the closest Saderan, parried his thrust, pushed into his shield, cut his throat, and moved to the next. Gallio knew his situation was precarious because he was surrounded on all sides, and men would be closing from behind. Despite which, he pressed. His adversaries parried or died. He cut through three more men and kept going.

His next opponent stabbed him just below his ribcage. It struck Gallio as he closed with him, his left hand going for the Saderan's shield. But Gallio's gambeson was eighteen layers of good linen, and it stopped the blow from killing him outright. Another man would have backed away, but Gallio's intention was death, so he kept going forward and thrust into the open armpit of the man whose spear was now hopelessly tangled.

Gallio felt the pain course through his body, and it galvanized him. But it wasn't going to kill him. He had to keep going.

He ripped his sword from the dead man's corpse and stepped forward. The militiamen stepped back from him. They began to back away as fast as they could drag their big shields. Their mob of a formation compacted in on itself as men in the front tried to back up. Then, like a dam giving way, the men in the back ran and everyone else began to follow them. Down the hill, leaving the auxiliaries at the top.

Gallio found himself alone in a sea of corpses. Other auxiliaries were behind him, but he had gone so far forward that there was no one in his immediate vision. He felt his wound throbbing. Felt the blood that coated his whole body, sticky and warm. Felt sweat and exhaustion. But he was alive. He was not in heaven or hell. He was still in this world.

He knelt amidst the corpses.

He looked up, and then, almost without volition, he screamed, "WHY?!"


Ney could feel victory in his palm. He hadn't expected this, hadn't hoped in his wildest imagination it would go this well. But something had changed, and now he was going to grasp the decisive victory he so desperately needed. The hill was finally theirs after so much blood.

Ney pointed at the distant Saderan army. "You see that?" he said to Barbier. "He's shifting militiamen from his main line to try and retake the hill. Look at how much he's weakened his left flank! He's leaving the farmhouse nearly empty!"

Barbier squinted to see the distant blocks of soldiers. The central Saderan line was engaged in a game of cat and mouse with French skirmishers. The French carefully fired at them from a distance, but everytime the Saderans made an effort to charge them, the skirmishers simply scurried away. To the far right, what would be the left for the Saderans, blocks of militiamen were being led away from their earthworks and defensive positions to join a growing mass of men marching against the hill on the opposite end of the line. The hill which was currently occupied by the victorious auxiliaries.

And to the far rear, almost detached from the battle entirely, the Saderan reserve was motionless. Thousands of legionaries stood and waited, watching the battle. Doing nothing.

"Why isn't he committing his reserve?" Barbier asked, somewhat astonished. "Is this a trap?"

Ney hesitated as he considered the possibility. But finally he shook his head. "I think there has been some breakdown in their organization. The legionaries are no longer cooperating with the militiamen. Perhaps a sudden aversion to casualties? Or some kind of mutiny? Whatever the case, it is going to cost them this battle."

Barbier gave a confident smile. "Shall I have Colonel Delon take up position on the hill, sir?"

"No," Ney said, shaking his head. "Or rather, have Delon split his battery. Half is to position itself on the hill. The other half is to assemble on our right flank, opposite to the farmhouse. And have Captain Duclos lead the reserve there. When he is ready, he is to assault the farmhouse and drive out the Saderans so that Delon may position his other half battery there."

Barbier blinked then gave an uncharacteristic laugh. "We're going to pincer them from both flanks and enfilade their whole line!"

Ney merely grinned like a fox.


Jacques saw the battle unfolding, though he could not quite understand it. Whatever was happening with the Saderan army baffled his conceptions of warfare. There was movement back and forth but an immobile reserve. Meanwhile they had seemingly abandoned then tried to reoccupy the hill on the far left and…

He just couldn't make sense of it.

But at very least he knew that it was their turn again. The Marshal's aide was riding to him.

"Forward to the hill?" Jacques guessed when the aide slowed his horse near him.

"No, captain." The aide pointed to the far right where a farmhouse had been fortified by a line of earthworks. "The enemy has weakened their left flank in order to retake the hill on their right. The Marshal orders you to seize that farmhouse so that Colonel Delon may move up his artillery and fire from that position. Understood?"

Jacques took a better look at the farmhouse and made some mental estimations. It was well fortified, but it also now lacked manpower. He nodded. "Understood."

"Best of luck, captain," the aide said. He spurred his horse and rode away.

Just as yesterday, Jacques walked out so he could face the entire reserve. "Forward again!" he yelled.

The men of the reserve cheered back. Yesterday's fighting had done much to cement their confidence. A lack of casualties could do that.

"Let's go!" Jacques shouted, and the drummers began their rhythm.

They marched over curiously empty ground. Ney's army was entirely on the offensive. The regulars were engaging the line opposite to them with skirmishers. Scattered skirmish lines were right in the face of the enemy militiamen, firing away and generating massed clouds of smoke. Even their main lines were well in advance so that if needed the skirmishers could fall back to the safety of a close order formation. The auxiliaries were, of course, the furthest forward with their line occupying the hill that now threatened the Saderan flank. The cavalry was also forward, guarding the auxiliaries on the left from being outflanked.

Only Colonel Delon's artillery was anywhere near Jacques's reserve. Half of the artillerymen were moving their guns towards the hill. The other half were heading in the same direction as Jacques but going far slower. It took a lot of effort to drag cannons.

"I think this is it," Vidal said as they marched. "We do our jobs well, and we've won."

Astier shook his head. "There'll be more fighting. You'll see. There's always more fighting."

Jacques didn't comment. He wanted it to be over, but Astier's words were all too often true.

They reached the point opposite to the farmhouse in what felt like mere minutes. It must have been longer, but for Jacques time always seemed to warp when he was marching. Things happened too fast or too slow. Nothing ever went as he expected.

Regardless, they were opposite the enemy position, and Jacques could see Saderan militiamen on their earthwork ramparts. They'd built the ramparts to either end of the farmhouse so that it acted as a strongpoint in the center of their fortifications. Men were pointing at Jacques's reserve. He could see at least a few militiamen spanning crossbows.

"Don't halt!" Jacques roared. "Advance in column!"

He led them directly at the farmhouse. His men were in a battalion column, the easiest formation for quick maneuvering but limited in terms of firepower. Theoretically, he should have ordered his men into a line before launching an attack, but that would take time, and Jacques didn't want to give the Saderans an opportunity to call for reinforcements.

Besides, Jacques didn't intend to engage in a shootout with an entrenched opponent. He was going to rely on cold steel.

"We won't stop for a volley!" Jacques shouted so his men could hear. "We'll go right at them with bayonets!"

Their column crossed some imaginary line, and the militiamen on the ramparts began shooting at them. Heavy quarrels rained down on them. A grenadier in the company to their left dropped down, a bolt in his chest. His blood leaked onto the ground.

Another grenadier pushed forward into his space, and they continued forward. Corporal Laurent flinched as a bolt struck his shako. It went tumbling into the field behind him.

A dozen men from various companies died in the second volley of crossbow bolts. The militiamen weren't numerous nor well trained, but their crossbows were well made and the column was an easy target. The third volley killed another dozen.

Jacques judged the distance then drew his sword and held it high in the air. "Charge!" he cried before breaking into an all out sprint at the ramparts.

The Ninth Company sprinted after him, followed shortly after by the grenadiers of the reserve. Militiamen with crossbows drew swords or shifted back to be replaced by men with spears and big shields.

Jacques's men flowed up the earthen ramparts like a wave. They clambered up the steep slope and while the militiamen stood like sentinels at the top.

Jacques was one of the first men to the top. The instant he was in range, three men thrust their spears at him while he was still on the slope.

Jacques panicked to parry, stumbled back, and fell backwards down the slope. He rolled all the way down but managed to get to his feet at the bottom.

The rest of the Ninth Company was now ahead of him, pushing up the slope, and the Saderan militia did not give an inch. Two Ninth Company men, veterans of a dozen battles, were gaffed like fish by a boy with a spear as they tried to crawl up the earthworks. A grenadier tumbled down the slope with his head crushed by a thrown rock. Another Ninth Company man was hacked apart by two grey-haired Saderans.

Jacques forced his way to the top. He pushed through a clump of men and was suddenly at the front. For a few seconds, his sword was everywhere. The boy with the spear died; another fell forward, tripping in his own disemboweled guts. One of the grey-haired Saderans lost every finger on his sword hand to Jacques's fury.

But the militiamen refused to give ground. Three men began to pound Jacques's guard with spears and another covered his comrades with a big shield. Jacques could do nothing but step back.

More Ninth Company men surged up the ramparts to support him. They fired their muskets into the melee before joining with bayonets. It was too little, and the men they killed were quickly replaced. Militiamen pressured them from all sides. Corporal Malet fell, killed by a boy with an axe, and one of the grenadier lieutenants went down, head smashed by a shield.

Jacques ripped his pistol out of his belt and fired point blank into the man with the big shield. He cut at another, parried, cut again. He thrust from a high guard into the throat of a man with a sword and buckler. His sword went high to low, parrying a spear thrust from the left.

"Back!" Jacques roared. He parried another thrust and took two steps back.

Some of the men couldn't believe it. The Ninth Company had not been stopped since their first assault on Italica. It had retreated, yes, but it had never been outright halted by the enemy in battle. Not since Jacques Duclos had taken command at least. To be stopped now by a force of militia was…

"Back!" Jacques roared again, and that snapped some men out of their astonishment.

Slowly, the Ninth Company backed away from the ramparts. They dragged their wounded while militiamen at the top loosed crossbow bolts and threw rocks. The rear grenadier companies reached the bottom faster; they began sporadically firing at the ramparts to give the Ninth Company cover as they retreated.

"Was that Malet?" Vidal asked Jacques at the bottom.

"Yes," Jacques spat.

The grenadiers continued firing, peppering the ramparts with lead as they backed away slowly. Saderan crossbows were strictly inferior to French muskets, but the militiamen had their earthworks as cover and the grenadiers had none. Men on both sides dropped dead in droves.

"Look," Jacques said to Vidal and pointed. "Colonel Delon's artillery is almost here. If we don't take this position now then the artillery isn't in place in time, the Saderans slip away before we enfilade them, and we have to fight them again tomorrow. We can't delay this; timing is crucial!"

The artillery was indeed coming. Vidal had a look of exhaustion and defeat on her face; most of the Ninth Company did. But he could tell she understood him by the way she sighed. Now he just needed everyone else to follow.

"Ready everyone?" Jacques called with all the confidence he could muster. "Fast as you can to the top. Everyone kills at least one. This is it!"

Some men looked at him in bewilderment. They couldn't believe they were going up again.

Jacques forced himself to sprint at the ramparts, and a heavy quarrel flew past his head. He raised his sword and shouted, "Charge!"

The beaten Ninth Company reversed direction to follow their captain.

Jacques was already rushing up the slope. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, he'd never start running again.

He leapt over a fallen grenadier, stepped past two dead Ninth Company men, and suddenly he was near the top, and two militiamen with spears were staring down at him.


"Your highness! Your highness!"

Prince Diabo lifted his helmet's visor to look down at the courier from his horse. The man had dismounted his own horse and was kneeling before Diabo, his head lowered.

"What is it?" Diabo snapped. He was just about to lead his hodge podge collection of militiamen in an effort to retake the hill, and he was running out of time.

"Your highness, the Bluecoats have launched an attack on the farmhouse! The left is hard pressed. Captain Aper is requesting reinforcements. He says he lacks the men to hold his position."

Diabo swore. Captain Aper was a reliable man, a master in the tailor's guild who served the Saderan militia part time as all guildsmen were required to do. He'd been with Diabo at his first disastrous battle against the Bluecoats, and he'd been vital during their retreat to Sadera. If Captain Aper needed reinforcements, the situation was bad.

But the situation was also bad on the right, and Diabo needed every man he had to retake that damned hill.

"Tell him that if he can hold for forty minutes, I'll send him all the reinforcements he could hope for."

The courier nodded hurriedly and moved to mount his horse.

"Wait," Diabo said. "Go to my brother first. Ask him to send his legionaries to support Captain Aper. Beg him, if you must. Promise anything you need to get his men in the fight."

"Your highness, Prince Zorzal has refused to see your messengers until-"

"Just go!" Diabo commanded. He realized his tone and gave a soft smile to defuse it. "I simply ask that you try. If he refuses then tell Captain Aper he must hold."

The courier nodded. "Yes, your highness," he said before mounting his horse and riding off.

Diabo sighed. He knew he was losing the battle, but if he could just stabilize the situation until nightfall it would be all he needed. He spurred his horse and rode over to the head of the formation of militiamen, really not much more than an organized mob, where his sister and what remained of the Rose-Order formed the vanguard of Diabo's force.

"Bad news?" Pina guessed as Diabo reigned his horse in.

"The left is being pressed," he replied. "We're going to have to be fast. I promised reinforcements I don't have, so once we retake the hill I'm going to cannibalize this force to shore up the left."

"And Zorzal?"

"A petulant child who would rather see us destroyed than the Bluecoats. I assume he has some notion of attacking whoever comes out victorious, but that's sheer folly. If we hold on for today, we can deal with him during the night and have his troops for tomorrow's battle."

Pina nodded. She pointed to the Bluecoat position on the hill. "The Bluecoats are bringing up their artillery, but it's slow going. I think we need to beat them there, or we'll never retake the hill."

Diabo squinted to see the artillery. He could maybe just catch a glimpse of bronze, but it was hard to see with so many men on the field. It didn't matter; he trusted Pina's judgement.

"Let's get going then."

Pina nodded.

One of her knights called out, "His highness advances!" and someone else dipped their rose banner so that it pointed forward. All across the formation, banners dipped. On the far left was the red and gold of the goldsmith's guild, then the checkered white and black of the cobbler's guild, the solid blue of the bowyers, the azure and gold of the armorers, and so on. The final banner to go down was the purple dragon of the Imperial standard which was positioned by Diabo himself.

Diabo nudged his horse forward, and the formation began to march like a great lumbering beast. Even in this moment of crisis, Diabo couldn't help but feel pride. This was the army of his childhood imagination. It was not perhaps the disciplined legions of Sadera, but it was his, and he was responsible for it. Long ago, he had given up the idea of leading Sadera's armies to glory in favor of politicking at court, but now it all returned to him at once.

And an insidious thought came with it.

I will be emperor.

But that was for later. Instead he focused on the hill and the rapidly nearing Bluecoat auxiliaries that occupied it. There were four thousand of them on the hill which meant Diabo's men outnumbered them maybe three to one. He hadn't had a chance to properly count the force he'd scrounged up. It was the most he could gather without risking the Bluecoat regulars driving through his center and even then he'd perhaps weakened the left too much. Maybe it was enough; maybe it wasn't. They were attacking up a hill against men who had nothing left to lose. Meanwhile, Diabo's militiamen had plenty to lose with homes, professions, and families to return to in Sadera.

What Diabo did have was Jegu the Northerner, the best cavalryman on the whole continent, guarding his flank. He had numbers. He had good officers. And he was leading his men personally.

If that wasn't enough, so be it. It was what he had.


Jacques Duclos did not wait to parry. The two militiamen hesitated, and that cost them their lives.

Jacques put power into his legs and jumped forward up the slope. His sword tip caught one through the face then whipped to the side, ripping its way out of the man's head, and came down to deflect the second man's latent thrust. He grabbed the spear shaft, and the militiaman didn't have the training to know how he needed to respond. Jacques cut up low to high then back down high to low along the same line and killed him on the second cut.

Jacques had only a moment to breathe before he was set upon by three more militiamen. They were clearly crossbowmen who'd drawn hand weapons as they lacked spears or shields.

They also lacked experience.

The first to come at him swung his axe from a high guard, but he was overeager and showed his intention too early. Jacques retreated a step, judged the distance, and then flicked a cut at the man's axe hand mid swing. His sword went up, hitting the man's wrist just as it was coming down.

The man's hand fell from his wrist. Not fully; it hung from a strip of flesh where Jacques's sword hadn't quite gone through. But the axe swing was voided, and the man fell to his knees, clutching his severed hand while screaming.

Blood poured from the man's stump. The others looked at it, terrified.

Jacques killed one while he was distracted. Then he got the other in the back as he turned to run.

To his side, the Ninth Company poured up the rampart and into the opening Jacques had cleared. A ripple of fire sounded out as men reached the top, fired blindly into the packed militiamen, and then charged forward to join Jacques.

He quickly found himself at the tip of a wedge of his men and resolved to push. Everyone went forward with him. They charged into the mass of Saderans who had not yet decided whether they should engage the French or retreat.

Jacques's men made that decision for them.

It was no longer an equal fight now. The militiamen had lost the advantage of their earthworks when Jacques managed to push over the top and secure a foothold. Now they were outmatched and maybe even outnumbered. Jacques was only just realizing how few the militiamen were.

Bayonets went forward and reaped the militiamen. With their line pierced, the men still holding the remainder of the rampart could no longer dominate the slope with their spears. Grenadiers poured into the gap opened by the Ninth Company while others clambered up the rampart and created more openings.

More musketry sounded out. Men standing on the rampart now began to deliver continuous fire on the militiamen from their elevated positions.

Something instantly changed in the mental equations of the men fighting. It was suddenly clear to everyone that the Saderans could not hold their position. Like a flock of birds, the militiamen began to scatter.

Jacques did not wait to savor victory. He instantly turned to the closest man he could find, a grenadier corporal whose name he didn't know, and said, "Run to the artillerymen and tell them the farmhouse is secured. They need to get their guns up here immediately. Understand?"

The corporal nodded and took off running.

Jacques took a breath and slumped against the earthwork rampart. His hand was stuck to the hilt of his sword, glued to it with sticky blood, so he worked to free it.

Only then did he realize his left shoulder was seeping blood.


They reached the base of the hill, and Diabo dismounted his horse. If Diabo was going to lead his men, he needed to be on foot with them. He slapped the beast so that it ran off then drew his longsword.

He raised his sword so everyone could see it and began walking up the hill.

It was a longer walk than he'd expected. In that walk, he had all the time in the world to consider... everything. His failures. His cowardice. His flaws.

He wished that he had devoted more time to training. He'd given it up, thinking it useless for a life at court. Now he hated himself for that decision. In his vivid imagination, he saw himself being thrown to the ground by Bluecoat auxiliaries. Saw himself stabbed to death by peasants with daggers. Saw a Bluecoat regular shoot him through his armor. Saw himself pounded into submission by swords. Saw his leg ripped off of him by the deadly iron balls shot by Bluecoat artillery.

Saw every time he'd been criticized in the training yard. Relived every painful fall, every bruise, every humiliation as Zorzal beat him down with a weighted practice sword, as his brother continued to beat him even as he cried from the ground and his bones cracked while his master-at-arms laughed and Pina begged him to intervene.

Zorzal was always like this, he realized. A strange thing to realize as he was about to face potential death.

If I survive, I will put him down, he promised himself. It calmed him to do so.

Then he was cresting the top of the hill, and four thousand Bluecoat auxiliaries were waiting for him.


Gallio saw the prince coming at his part of the line, and knew this was his chance.

The prince was obvious. He was the only man in a full suit of plate armor. He stood at the front of a mob of militiamen, resplendent in brilliant plate armor whilst surrounded by the poorest of soldiers. The only others wearing plate armor were women, rose knights. The same who'd killed Placus and Marcus.

Gallio wanted to hate them with every fiber of his being. It would be so easy. But he knew deep in his mind that they too were merely tools. They too had been used. So instead he focused on the prince.

The prince was not a tool.

He was the master.

Gallio was going to die today. He had hoped to do it already, but fate had other plans. Now he understood what those plans were. It all aligned so perfectly as if put in place by a god. He would not be allowed to die meaninglessly for the Bluecoat war. He had a purpose. His death had a purpose.

Gallio saw the prince and knew what his purpose was.


The two forces closed on each other like waves crashing together. Bluecoat auxiliaries waited until the Saderan militiamen were just about to reach the top, and then a great rolling drum beat sounded out, and every auxiliary charged down the hill into them.

Both forces roared in Saderan.

It was an explosion of steel when the two lines collided. Spearheads went forwards and ended dozens of auxiliaries in the first seconds of combat. Their long weapons held every advantage on first contact. Steel tips punched through gambesons and came out bloody.

But not every spear hit its mark. Many more were deflected away by the auxiliaries with their swords and bucklers, and then the advantage of reach disappeared as auxiliaries closed the distance. The massive shields of the militiamen proved a hindrance in the face of a rapidly closing enemy. Auxiliaries pressed in against the militiamen, compacting the ranks. Their swords reached over the big shields, thrusting down into their users with ruthless efficiency.

Militiamen behind the first ranks thrust spears over the shoulders of their comrades with varied effectiveness, but men at the very front were too close to the enemy to use their long weapons. Many dropped their spears in favor of swords, axes, maces, or even simple daggers and knives. The auxiliaries meanwhile continued pressing, pulling down shields and cutting high into the faces of their foes.

For the militiamen it was literally an uphill battle. The high ground gave the auxiliaries many advantages. Most prominent was the momentum of their charge which continued as the sides pressed into their close melee. The militia line bent in the center where the charge was strongest, and it threatened to break. On the flanks, superior numbers meant that the militia line overlapped that of the auxiliaries, but even there the momentum of the charge prevented them from enveloping the auxiliaries.

On both sides, men fell. Wounded men were dragged away from the fighting by their comrades at the rear. Some wounded men fell and simply did not get up, exhausted or unable to.

Other men were dragged away only to then insist on rejoining the fight. Many more men were left screaming on the ground while others tried to stop them from bleeding out.

The fighting continued, and neither side seemed quite willing to give in yet.


Prince Diabo killed two auxiliaries within seconds of the lines closing.

It was so easy, gut wrenchingly so. They came at him in their gambesons and kettle helmets, and Diabo's full plate armor made him shockingly invulnerable to everything they threw at him.

He was so amazed at how easily he'd taken the two men's lives that he did not realize the rest of his force was backing away from the Bluecoat charge. He suddenly found himself isolated from his men and surrounded by Bluecoat auxiliaries.

Sword blows rained on him like hail. He felt every one, even through his steel armor. And his beautiful helmet became dented in five places. He was forced to one knee by a powerful hammer fisted blow from an auxiliary with no helmet. The swords continued to fall on him, one after another.

But what would have killed an unarmored man a dozen times over left Diabo relatively unscathed. He forced himself to focus all his strength into one leg. He used his longsword as a crutch, pressed against the bloodsoaked soil.

And he stood.

His sword whirled up into a guard. His visored helmet darted up. Diabo cocked back his arms then-


Gallio watched the prince cut a man's head off with one blow from his longsword.

A horizontal sweeping cut immediately followed which caught two other auxiliaries and went through their gambesons like they were made of butter, opening their stomachs so that their guts spilled out before them. The other auxiliaries fell back a pace, and that space gave the prince enough time to thrust through the chest of another.

Gallio was the only one who did not back away. He became the primary target instantly.

The prince stepped at him and threw a very simple cut from his right shoulder at Gallio's head. Gallio held his ground, refusing to back away like the others. He had to cut into the blade to cover the prince's huge blow, but he made his parry, one handed against the prince's two handed longsword.

He riposted immediately and rang the prince's helmet like a bell.

Gallio saw that his opponent was slow to defend. He threw a second blow and a third, aware that if he gave up his initiative he may not be able to stop another of the prince's heavy swings. And because of that, he pressed. His opponent parried and parried.

His third blow struck the prince's helmet again.


Diabo took the cut to the helmet and felt himself seeing stars. He stumbled, trying desperately to parry wherever he could. But he lacked the instinct, and he couldn't focus with his ears ringing and his vision blurred.

He was hit again and went to one knee. The pain stunned him for two sickening seconds.

Another blow slammed into his helmet.

In the desperation of the moment Diabo abandoned defense and cut blindly at the auxiliary even as he was pounded by steel. The auxiliary, who had no armor other than a blood stained gambeson, stumbled back to avoid the blade only to trip over a corpse and fall to his back.

Diabo was on his feet seconds later. Apparently that was enough time for two of the other auxiliaries to regain their courage. They came at him with their swords, and Diabo didn't bother to parry. He just flicked cuts at them and trusted in his armor to protect him. It did. The two auxiliaries died.

He turned to see his opponent scrambling to his feet.

Diabo began charging.


Gallio had a moment of real fear when the prince nearly cut him open. It was instinctual and irrational. He was going to die anyway, so it didn't matter if the prince opened his guts. But it happened regardless.

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, face in a pool of someone else's blood, and then back up, scrambling to his feet before the prince could pin him down. He wiped his eyes to clear the blood.

The prince was already coming at him. He had his longsword in a high guard, and he was running forward like a sprinter.

He came into measure and threw a very predictable cut from his high guard, straight down, intent on cutting Gallio in half.

Gallio stepped off line to the right and covered the blow so that it sheered off his blade like rain from a roof.

Gallio continued by throwing a descending cut immediately which slammed into the black plate of the prince's armor. He threw a rising cut as well but it was out of measure because the prince stumbled away and was facing with his back turned towards him.

Gallio charged him. The prince wasn't facing him, so he couldn't skewer him on the way in. Gallio wrapped his arms around the prince's armored torso-


Diabo had no idea what was going on. His charge had missed, somehow, and then he felt a sharp pain in his back and was tumbling away. He tried to turn, but he felt arms wrap around him.

They tumbled to the ground together. Diabo felt the auxiliary on top of him, his arms now moving to pin Diabo's limbs to the ground. The other man was stronger than him. Diabo's armor gave no strength and only sapped his stamina with its extra weight.

The auxiliary pulled a long dagger from his belt. He brought it down, aimed at Diabo's visor, and Diabo only just managed to grab the blade to stop it from coming down into his face.

Three other auxiliaries, seeing him now on the ground, regained their courage and came to help finish him off. Diabo felt his legs being restrained and his arms pulled away. He screamed, feeling himself being laid out for slaughter.

The dagger came at his visor again, and Diabo's hand wasn't there to stop it. He turned his head at the last second so that instead of going through the visor it merely scoured the side of his steel helmet.

He screamed again, desperate energy entering his body. Without any intention beyond desperation, he twisted his torso and in the same movement flailed his arm at the men holding him down. His steel clad fist rose like a mace and shattered the jaw of the one trying to pin his arm.

Then, suddenly freed, Diabo pried free his own dagger from his belt and began wildly stabbing at the men.


Gallio was stabbed twice in the stomach before he knew what was happening. He felt the pain and saw the blood, but he just kept going. The other auxiliaries scampered back, some of them with ugly red splotches rapidly forming through their gambesons.

Gallio knew he was already dead. He'd known that since yesterday, but now he could feel himself dying. The two wounds were both fatal.

He had a purpose though, and he would accomplish it with his last breath if needed. With every last bit of strength he had left, Gallio began thrusting the point of his dagger at the prince's eye slits.

The prince struggled and struggled. His hands grabbed for Gallio's dagger, but Gallio kept thrusting. He missed the eye slits twice, each time catching on the steel edges.

Somewhere, in some distant world, a Bluecoat cannon fired and its boom echoed across the entire battlefield.

And then Gallio's dagger just went in. He practically fell on it as it suddenly met no resistance and plunged into flesh then bone and finally brain.

The prince was no longer struggling.

Gallio rolled off of the prince's corpse. He could feel himself weakening with each heartbeat. He knew it was time.

He lay back against the bloody grass and felt the warmth of the sun on his face.

His last thought was, Marcus. Placus. I'm with you now.

And then there was darkness.


Colonel Feraud watched the Saderan militia as French cannons finally reached the top of the hill and began pouring grapeshot into their line. He watched a second battery of cannons, this one positioned at the farmhouse on the opposite end of the battlefield, open fire with roundshot that tore great gashes into the formations of militiamen in the Saderan center. He saw hundreds, thousands even, cut down by the cannons.

He knew it was over.

So Feraud spurred his horse and rode directly at the Northern cavalry who had been skirmishing back and forth with him all day. His cavalrymen followed, keeping their squadrons admirably well together as they rolled over the field.

"Jegu!" he roared over the bellowing cannons.

The Northerners rode forward to match the French.

Feraud ordered his squadrons to halt. Then he rode forward with Captain Koda at his side, leaving Captain Heidler behind in case something bad happened. Ahead, Jegu likewise rode out alone from his men.

Then met halfway between the two cavalry bodies and immediately clasped hands.

"Your side is losing," Feraud stated in French with Koda relaying his words.

"Yes, we are," Jegu replied through Koda.

"My offer still stands. If your men join us right now, you can have free reign to loot the Saderan camp after we win."

Jegu gave a crooked grin. Then he turned his horse so that he faced his men. In one motion, he reared his horse while drawing his saber and flashing it in the air.

"Oorah! Oorah! Feraud! Feraud!" he shouted.

"Oorah! Oorah! Feraud! Feraud!" the Northerners roared back.

Feraud grinned widely. "Form your boys up on the left of my squadrons. Follow me closely; we're going to ride into the rear of the Saderans and break their center. Then we'll run their army down until it's nothing but dust."

Jegu nodded and galloped towards his men.

Feraud did the same, cantering up to his squadrons with Koda at his back. "The Northerners have decided to join us!" he announced, and the men shouted their approval. A great number let out boisterous laughs or mocking cheers. "Let's end this battle!" Feraud called.

He spurred his horse forward, and the squadrons followed right behind him. They rode over the fields on the far end of the Saderan line, passing by Jegu's men. When Feraud's men rode past, Jegu wheeled his formation so that it came riding up on Feraud's left, an impressive display of horsemanship and timing.

The Chaucer's Boys adjacent to the Northerners called out light hearted jeers in Saderan. The Northerners in turn taunted them by showing off riding tricks on their horses.

They turned right and flew deep into the Saderan rear, now riding behind the Saderan battleline. Feraud could see Saderan legionaries to his left, men who had spent the whole day sitting in the reserve. Now they were forming up as if they intended to advance. Pure foolishness. They'd already lost. To attack now would just mean being blown apart by cannons.

Feraud decided to ignore them. They couldn't stop him anyway. More glory for the artillerymen.

Instead he led his men cantering further toward the center of the Saderan line.

At some point, a few hundred knights, the last remnants of the Saderan cavalry, rode at them with some notion of contesting their movement. That notion was instantly dismissed when they rode close enough to notice Jegu's men riding with Feraud's.

Outnumbered entirely, the knights fled from their advance. Their officer turned them north, towards Sadera, likely realizing the battle was lost.

Some knights cried, "Turncoats!" as they fled, and the Northerners responded by casually loosing arrows at them. There was laughter all across the squadrons.

Feraud ordered a halt. They were close enough to the enemy's center. He reformed his cavalrymen to face the backs of the Saderan militia holding the center. Jegu mimicked him on the left. Some of the militiamen had spotted them, and they desperately tried to tell their comrades. One block of men tried to wheel around to face them, but it was slow going and easily became disordered. Most were too focused on the fusiliers skirmishing to their front and the cannons firing on them from the sides to notice the cavalry behind them.

Feraud waited until the artillery battery at the farmhouse finished firing another salvo. Then he raised his saber and called out, "Send 'em hell!"

Trumpeters blew into their instruments. The cavalry broke into a gallop.

To the left, Northerners screeched, "Aiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyai!"

The militiamen offered no resistance. Many tried to flee when they saw the cavalry charging from the rear, and their formations disintegrated long before Feraud's men hit them. There was no great collision but rather a thousand individual massacres as the horsemen rolled through the mob of militiamen and sabered them relentlessly. Any attempted resistance was in vain; there was nothing a lone man could do against a charging horse. They'd lost the second their discipline was forgotten.

Feraud burst out the other end of the Saderan horde with a clump of hussars and cuirassiers around him. His saber was bloody. His horse was enraged. He halted a hundred yards away from the Saderans and began to reform his men as they emerged from the massacre, fully intent on leading a second charge into the mass.

The Saderan center was shattered and with it the whole battleline. Formations of militiamen that hadn't been hit by Feraud's initial charge were reeling away from the chaos. All across the line, Saderan banners were being waved up and down as if communicating a code. Men were dropping their shields all across the line. Some removed their helmets as well.

Feraud had no idea what it all meant. He spat and began to ride forward to lead another charge.

Jegu galloped at him and seized the reins to his horse. He was yelling something, and Feraud's knowledge of Saderan was too rudimentary to understand.

He jerked his reins back and raised his sword again, ready to charge a second time. But Jegu pushed his horse in front of Feraud's, stopping him in his place. The Northerner shouted at him again.

Feraud looked at him incredulously. He considered striking Jegu down and riding forward anyway. The spirit of battle was in him, and he wanted blood.

Fortunately, Captain Koda came up beside him. "He says the Saderans are surrendering!" he yelled into Feraud's ear. "It's over! We've won."

Feraud took three deep breaths to comprehend what he was hearing.

"Fuck," he exhaled.


Princess Pina fled with what little remained of her Rose-Order from the hill.

Behind her was devastation. Thousands of bodies littered the slope, most of them fallen militiamen. They had lost the race to the hill. Bluecoat artillery had arrived and massacred them from point blank with devastating firepower. Somewhere in the chaos, her brother had fallen and now there was no order at all.

Most of the army was surrendering. Some were fleeing toward Sadera. A few isolated pockets were still fighting.

It didn't matter anymore. The only thing that did was her duty. Her promise.

Pina headed for the legionaries.

The legionaries were far to the rear of all the fighting, and they had sat there in the rear all day despite pleading messages to commit them. Their absence from the battle had made all the difference in the world. Without them, Diabo had been forced to shift men from all across the line, weakening parts in order to strengthen others which was then relentlessly exploited by Marshal Ney's quick advances.

When Pina arrived, the legionaries were in marching formation. They were now finally preparing to enter the battle. Pointlessly.

Pina strode past the legionaries, heading straight for their center. The men watched her as she went past them. Many had looks of uncertainty on their faces. Some even had the dignity to look guilty. As she neared the center, a centurion stepped out and tried to block her way, but Pina's rose knights shoved him aside and the centurion relented.

She reached the center of the legionaries and saw her brother in his burgundy armor. He was standing next to his horse, his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. He wore an expression of triumph as he turned to face her.

"Ah, my traitor sister," Zorzal laughed. "I hear our brother is dead. Have you come to beg for my forgiveness now?"

Pina never broke her stride. She kept walking directly at her brother.

"I was just about to order the advance," Zorzal continued. "Kneel and pledge allegiance to me, and you may join me in victory. The Bluecoats are now exhausted. I will strike them while they are weak and-"

In one motion, Pina drew her sword and cut into her brother's head. Zorzal had no time to react. The blade went two inches into his skull. For a moment, Zorzal twitched, his face twisted in surprise, but then he collapsed like a puppet without strings.

The legionaries watched from their formations. None of them moved to stop her.

Pina took her time mounting her brother's horse. She turned it so that she was now towering over the legionaries. They looked up at her, helmets tilting in the sun.

"Both of my brothers are dead," she announced. "The battle has been lost."

Some of the legionaries began murmuring.

Pina took a deep breath. "There is no purpose in sacrificing your lives to attack the Bluecoats now. Thousands are dead; the Saderan militia has been routed. Your efforts, no matter how brave, will not change today's events. The Bluecoats have won; they will leave our world through the Gate, never to return."

Many men looked down. Others wore expressions of guilt, anger, even fear.

"But our war is not over yet!" Pina shouted. "The Empire has been fractured by this conflict, and it is up to us to mend it. I intend to return to Sadera and save our nation. I intend to save our way of life." She looked out to the horizon and pointed her sword. "Join me," she proclaimed, "and I will save the Empire!"

There was silence, and for two inglorious heartbeats Pina feared they would simply walk away.

But then there was a rumbling in the mens' throats.

A cry came from one end of the formation, and it quickly spread down the lines.

It grew more coordinated and louder with each repetition and became a chant. The chant proclaimed just one thing.

"Ave, Imperatrix!"

"Ave, Imperatrix!"

"AVE, IMPERATRIX!"


Ney's army occupied the Gate to the sound of endless cheering.

The Saderan army had come apart the moment their center broke with entire divisions worth of men surrendering to the closest French regiments they could find. The artillery ceased firing, and it was reported that they had not even run out of ammunition as Colonel Delon had predicted. Northern cavalry ran free and ransacked the abandoned Saderan encampment, leaving the field with saddle bags full of valuable trinkets and a herd of spare horses being dragged behind them. French infantry surged forward to occupy the Gate. The auxiliaries collapsed where they stood, exhausted from their fighting.

Marshal Ney had no use for the tens of thousands of prisoners taken. Initially, he tried to ransom them. But it was quickly discovered that there was no Saderan authority to release them to. The legionaries had departed shortly after the battle's finish and with them went any leadership to negotiate with. Ney didn't have the time to track them down. Instead, he had the militiamen disarmed and then let them go.

He could have massacred them, but Ney was losing his taste for bloodshed.

Ney was in a strange position after the battle, because for the first time he really had no orders to give. He had the army set up camp on the hill with the Gate. He had men sent out to find wounded men and take them to the surgeons. He made sure work parties went out to bury the dead.

But beyond that, Ney had no clear objective. Most of the minutia was taken care of by his officers. General Courbet, the hero of the hour for both seizing and holding the hill on the Saderan flank, set about recording losses of men and supplies. General Rousseau and Colonel Delon worked on establishing the camp. General Messier organized duty lists and assigned men to tasks.

Ney did nothing. He did his best to wash off the grime of the day and sat in a camp chair reading reports. Men came to him to ask questions, and he answered them.

Of all people, Ney deserved the least to be sitting down in the shade. He hadn't even fought, not personally at least. But he was tired, and he was older than most of the men in the army.

By sunset, Ney's tent was pitched, and the logistical realities were beginning to hit him. He had not really considered what would happen after they had reached the Gate. Or even, for that matter, what would happen if the Gate did not open immediately upon their arrival.

His army had food for six more days in the field. More could certainly be foraged, but he was hesitant to send out foragers for fear that the Gate would suddenly open and men would be stranded. A more pressing problem was water. The hill they were encamped on was defensible and it was where the Gate was, but it lacked an easy source of water. Brigades of men had to be assigned to carry water from a nearby stream just to sustain them. It would only get worse if they had to encamp there for an extended period. And then there was the issue of latrines and the general health problems that came with camping in the field rather than being billeted in a town.

There was also the consideration of what was going to happen after they entered the Gate. What were they going to face? Ney thought through many possibilities that he hadn't even considered before. Would they emerge in Russia again, having survived unimaginable odds, only to be run down by Cossacks? Would they emerge in the same time period, or would they be face to face with actual Romans when they came out? Would they even be returning to their own world?

Ney went to sleep that night with a head full of problems. Problems without easy solutions.

So he was very relieved when, just before dawn, Captain Barbier shook him awake and said, "Sir, the Gate has opened."


Apparently, it seemed fitting to everyone except Jacques Duclos that the Imperial Guard should be the first company through the Gate.

Jacques was happy to be returning home. Happy just to be alive quite frankly. But he wasn't eager to be the first one through the Gate. It felt like he was the only one who considered that they were going to return not to France but to Russia. That was after all where they'd left from.

Jacques remembered the feeling of Cossacks watching his every move. The harsh cold that bit at his every fingertip. The vast emptiness which lacked food to forage. He was not eager to return to Russia.

His shoulder hurt too. During the battle, he'd reopened his wound from Italica, and it was far more painful now that he knew it existed. He hadn't even felt it during the battle, but now it ached every time he moved his left arm. It was still infected too. Though the surgeons assured him he would be fine.

Everyone assured him that it was going to be fine. From the surgeons with his wound to the Marshal with his plan to send the Ninth Company through the Gate first.

So as the dawn light just started to peak over the horizon, Jacques and the Ninth Company were assembled before the Gate.

A long column of men was arranged behind them. The first time they'd gone through the Gate, it hadn't stayed open for long, so the plan was that everyone was going to go through at once. The Imperial Guard, really just the Ninth Company, had the honor of leading the column. Marshal Ney was the last man in the column; he had insisted that if anyone was to be left behind it would be him.

Jacques would have switched places with him in an instant.

"Everyone ready?" he called out to his men.

He didn't need to ask. Everyone else was grinning ear to ear, abundantly eager to leave Falmart behind and return home.

"Right," Jacques sighed to himself. He raised his voice to roar, "Company, advance!"

The Ninth Company entered the Gate.

For a long time, there was nothing. Endless darkness. No light, no sound. Nothing.

Then there was light, and Jacques blinked. He realized that he had been walking forward despite it not feeling so. He walked towards the light.

The first thing that Jacques noticed when he emerged from the Gate was that he was standing in front of an abandoned church. The air was cold, and the ground was muddy. Different from the warmth of the Saderan heartland.

The second thing Jacques noticed was the sound of cannonfire.

"What's going on?" Astier asked. Jacques hadn't even noticed him arrive behind him. The entire company was there.

"A battle?" Vidal muttered.

Jacques looked around, but he couldn't see much. The church they were at was partially overgrown, and a treeline obscured his vision to where the cannons were firing from. Still, the sound of cannons was clear. And beyond that, the faint undertones of men and horses.

"Set up a perimeter and send a messenger back that it's safe to begin marching through," Jacques ordered. He pointed to the old church's bell tower. "I'm going to climb up and try to figure out what's going on."

The Ninth Company spread out to guard the Gate while a man ran back through it.

Jacques entered the old church. Its door had rusted off its hinges, so he carefully stepped over the rotting wooden remains. He found the ladder leading up to the tower; it looked sturdy enough.

Up in the tower, something made a noise.

Jacques pulled his pistol from his belt and cocked it. With his pistol in his right hand, he climbed the rungs of the ladder using his left. A small trap door covered the top. He aimed his pistol up and carefully opened the door.

A boy looked down on him. His eyes were wide, and he stared at the pistol.

Jacques pushed his way into the tower. "All ok," he said in Russian as he lowered his gun. "Peace. I peace."

The boy looked at him oddly. "What?" he asked in German.

Jacques switched languages instantly. "It's ok. I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy nodded. "I-I just came to see the battle."

Jacques looked out from the bell tower and indeed saw a distant battlefield. Smoke was rising from the cannons as both sides pounded each other. Jacques could just make out different standards and uniforms. It was a great battle with tens of thousands… maybe even hundreds of thousands of men on each side. He could see Austrians and Russians marching together in great columns of men. Even a few Prussian divisions were with them. And they marched against a massive French army which held positions stretching over dozens of small villages south of a larger city.

Something had happened. In Russia, the Austrians and Prussians had been allies of France. They must have switched their allegiances. And if that was the case…

"Where are we?" Jacques asked the boy.

"We're near Rödgen," the boy replied.

Jacques blinked, trying to see if he knew where that was. Germany certainly, but he wasn't sure he'd ever been there.

He pointed at the distant city. "And what place is that?"

The boy tilted his head.

"Leipzig."


You know in my original plan for this story, all the way back in 2020, this was supposed to be the last chapter. My intention back then was to leave it very open ended with the reader being able to decide how they think the alternate Battle of Leipzig would go down. Obviously this would be incredibly unsatisfying for many readers, so I've opted to change that part of the plan.

However, next chapter will in all likelihood be the last chapter of this story. We've now left the world of Falmart, so anything beyond this is really no longer a Gate story. I do not have the talent, time, or knowledge necessary to depict what an alternate Napoleonic Wars would look like. So next chapter will be the alternate Battle of Leipzig, part of it at least, and then that's it.

So there's that. Honestly this story could've ended easily right here. A lot happens in this chapter, and it wraps up a lot of plotlines. We're certainly at the end; next chapter won't be as long as this one. I just want to thank everyone for reading, reviewing, and generally just sticking with this three year long journey.

Truly, thank you.