16. Chapter 14

A fortified place can only protect the garrison and detain the enemy for a certain time.

"Here's to the siege," Astier laughed, a cup of wine in his hand. "May it last forever!"

A cheer erupted from the men of the Ninth Company, gathered around a campfire with cups of wine in hand. The cups were raised, and men drank greedily. Jacques felt himself warm up as he emptied his own cup. Their fire flickered and so did a thousand other campfires, casting distant shadows over the walls of Castle Tubet and the cliffs of the Tuba Mountains.

"And to wine!" Corporal Boulet roared, throwing an empty bottle into the air. It came down and shattered with a great smash, much to the delight of the men.

The siege of Castle Tubet was a break for the regular infantryman. No marching, minimal duties, and no dying. The only hardship they had was occasionally being called upon to help the sappers dig out a new entrenchment. Not all sieges were like this, many were dominated by bloody assaults and continual fighting. But the Marshal hadn't ordered any assaults, and the Elbans weren't conducting sorties, so this was a rare breed of quiet and peaceful siege. As such, many men had taken the opportunity to enjoy the finer things in life, including wine 'requisitioned' from nearby towns.

Corporal Flandin belched upon finishing his cup. "Wine is proof God wants us to be happy," he snickered.

Boulet popped the wax seal of a new bottle. "You read that in the Bible?" he asked while pouring new drinks.

Flandin gave a lazy eye. "No, but God told me himself."

"You're a mad bastard," Boulet cackled.

"Mad as a march hare," Flandin replied. His eyebrows waggled.

A look of understanding passed between them.

Both took a long drink from their cups before Boulet began humming quietly, "I saw the wolf, the fox, the hare."

"I saw the wolf, the fox drinking," Flandin added with a grin.

Their eyes met again.

"I spied on them myself!" they laughed together.

Someone at the fire had a flute and began to play, his fingers creating a trill melody. Most men knew it, and they quickly took up the tune.

"I saw the wolf, the fox, the hare

I saw the wolf, the fox drinking

I saw the wolf, the fox, the hare,

I spied on them myself,

I saw the wolf, the fox drinking."

Another flute was produced, and the player followed the first man's lead. A few men sprang to their feet and began dancing. More men joined in, reciting lyrics they'd learned as children and in alehouses. Their voices joined to form one chorus.

"I heard the wolf, the fox, the hare,

I heard the wolf, the fox singing

I imitated them myself.

I heard the wolf, the fox, the hare,

I imitated them myself,

I heard the wolf, the fox singing."

Dancing continued on beat to the song, men stomping their feet and clapping their hands. Most men were singing now, Jacques included.

"I saw the wolf, the fox, the hare,

I saw the wolf, the fox dancing

I made them dance myself.

I saw the wolf, the fox, the hare,

I made them dance myself,

I saw the wolf, the fox dancing."

They reached the end of their lyrics, and the flute players continued on for a few more notes. Their trill tune slowly died, leaving a silence in its wake. Men sat back, smiles on their faces, and took sips of wine. A few men let out content sighs while others giggled to themselves.

Jacques lay back. He was on the ground because none of them had chairs, but there was a crate he'd scrounged up to use as a backrest. Astier was sitting across the fire, and Vidal was next to him. Their corporals and a dozen privates helped them form a ring around the fire. The rest of the company had set up their own fires which dotted around their section of the French siege camp.

"Sergeant Astier," Corporal Laurent, one of Vidal's corporals, suddenly addressed. He slurred a bit because this had clearly not been his first cup. "What the hell are we even drinking?"

"Wine," Astier grunted. He was pouring himself a new cup.

"Yes, yeshh…" Laurent agreed. "But what type of wine?"

Astier snorted at the inquiry. "What kind of question is that? It's wine."

"What…" The corporal gestured vaguely with one hand while downing a mouthful. "What vintage? What year?"

Astier looked at the bottle in his hand and shrugged. "Doesn't say."

"There's got to be something," Laurent insisted. "Every wine is some type of vintage."

Astier didn't seem interested in vintages, so Jacques said, "As far as you should be concerned, it's grape juice. I wouldn't want to be forced to reprimand you for unauthorized drinking."

Laurent's eyes slid over to Jacques. "Of course, Captain. A very fine grape juice it is."

Jacques met his eye and lifted his own cup. "Indeed."

Laughter burst out from Vidal and a few others. It spread around the entire fire, and didn't die out until they all remembered there was wine to go around. Vidal finished her cup still giggling.

"When we crossed into Russia, my old captain threatened to shoot any man who disobeyed regulations," Vidal said. "But you…You are a very strange sort of captain."

Jacques considered that and shrugged. "I'm a very inexperienced officer. I haven't gotten a chance to shoot any rulebreakers yet."

She gave him a doubtful look.

Jacques grinned and refilled his cup.

Corporal Flandin let out a long sigh. "Fucking Russia. That much ice and snow isn't good for people. Causes them to go crazy."

Boulet nodded with vigor. "You know they eat fish eggs in Russia. Seen as some kind of delicacy."

Astier spat. "Bullshit. I never saw people eating fish eggs."

"Do fish even lay eggs?" Laurent questioned before filling his cup again.

"It's true!" Boulet insisted. "Only the nobles can afford them, so that's why you've never seen it."

Astier rubbed his head. "What's wrong with the rest of the fish?"

"Peasant food. Nobles can't eat that sort of stuff," Boulet replied very seriously.

"Fucking Russians," Flandin snorted. "Too crazy to eat real food."

"You mean like cooked snails or buttered frog legs?" Vidal suddenly asked. She shared a grin with Jacques.

Flandin didn't come up with a response to that.

"At least we're not like the English. You can't even call their stuff 'cooking'," Astier derided, and everyone at the fire grumbled in agreement.

"Who's got the flutes?" Boulet abruptly asked. "Talking about food makes me want another song."

"That's what food does to you?" Flandin snorted.

"The Song of the Onion," he explained.

"Ah, a good song."

Two soldiers produced their flutes again, and soon music once more filled the air. Everyone sang this time because everyone knew the song's relatively simple lyrics. A nice song about loving onions and hating Austrians. Someone found the drummer boy, and soon he was beating away at his drum, adding to the song. Other fires heard the tune and picked it up as well so that a hundred men were singing in chorus, spreading the jovial atmosphere. When that song finished, they moved on to another, continuing relentlessly. Folk songs and military marches alike were sung into the night. Drink continued to be passed around. Toasts were said, and wine bottles were emptied, and men became very drunk. Dancing started. The drunker they got the easier it became. Or maybe it just seemed easier. They leapt like Turks and went in a circle like Bretons and did the Farandole like Occitans, and they drank all the while.

Cheers and shouts were yelled out, but no one came to stop them because the whole French siege camp was similarly engaged. They kept going with more songs so that Jacques felt he was drunk on both wine and music. Auprès de ma blonde, La Marseillaise, Ça Ira, and many more. Rank had long disappeared. Jacques was not a captain but rather a comrade. They enjoyed themselves without any restraint.

At some point, Jacques had drunk too much to know when, they ran out of wine. He volunteered to be the one to get more, if only to clear his head, and Vidal offered to help him.

They made their way through the camp guided only by occasional fires and continued to its edge, a network of trenches and dirt ramparts. The earthworks were intended to protect against a sortie by Castle Tubet's garrison, but at the moment they were only guarded by a handful of sentries.

Astier had told Jacques they were hiding looted wine in a dugout built into the ramparts. According to him, the top brass rarely came by there, so it was perfect for hiding things from officers. The irony of him telling that to Jacques was lost in his cup of wine.

Jacques and Vidal stumbled their way through the web of earthworks and found Astier's stash after ten minutes of groping through the dark. The dugout was at the very forefront of the entrenchments, a tiny outpost connected to the rest of the network by a thin trench. Crates of wine bottles lined either edge, turning the dugout into a cramped space.

"One crate?" Jacques asked.

"Two," Vidal grunted.

"Mhmm…" Jacques replied.

He stepped forward to lift a crate only to immediately slip. It was dark, and he was drunk, and he fell face first into the dugout's floorboards. A groan escaped his lips, but Jacques couldn't muster the courage to get back to his feet.

"Fuck."

Vidal tried to step over him and nearly tripped; she was fairly drunk herself. "You'll live, just get up." She steadied herself and gave a violent hiccup.

Jacques made it to his hands and knees before deciding the world was spinning too much to stand. He crawled forward, up a firing step, to where a half-wall of dirt reinforced by wickerwork provided good cover against potential incoming fire. Jacques crossed his arms on the edge of the half-wall and rested his chin against them.

Vidal, giggling, stumbled forward and found herself in the same position at Jacques's side. Cold air swept over their faces, and Jacques was trying very hard at that moment not to puke.

"You ever seen a castle like that?" Vidal asked. She was staring into the distance, where moonlight illuminated Castle Tubet. "It's like a fairy tale."

"Strasbourg has walls," Jacques said. His head was spinning less. "Big star shaped ones made by Vauban. Nothing like this."

She breathed out. "Smolensk had walls like these, but they weren't built into a mountain. I don't know if anything in our world is like it."

Jacques felt better now. The world wasn't spinning anymore. "You know, we can't stay here forever."

"In the dugout?"

"At Castle Tubet."

Vidal turned to face him, examining Jacques closely, but Jacques kept his eyes on the castle. The two keeps on either cliff guarding one massive wall that secured the mountain pass. A formidable fortress.

"We're wasting time just sitting here," he tried to explain, in spite of the wine he'd drunk. "Prince Teo must be gathering new men in Elbe. The longer we wait the harder this becomes."

Vidal didn't say anything. She studied Jacques as he studied the castle.

Jacques's head was now swimming with future possibilities. "The Marshal will order an assault soon. Once we have enough ammunition from Italica to blow holes in the walls, he'll send us up there. A lot of men will die."

He felt oddly complacent with that knowledge. Maybe it was the wine, but Jacques felt calm looking at the castle. It was clearly impossible to take without losing thousands, so Jacques could acquit himself with that knowledge. All he had to do was fight well. If thousands died, it wasn't his fault, it was just an inevitability. It was all very different from his usual outlook.

Vidal was still watching him, and that seemed odd, so he tore his gaze from the castle and returned her look. She wasn't deterred by his stare, and the silence between them became very noticeable.

Jacques scratched his chin. "All that's for later, I suppose…" he mumbled.

Vidal pursed her lips. "You know what we should do?" she suddenly asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Try and stand up?" Jacques replied. "See if I can lug one of these crates back without falling?"

She leant nearer. "I don't think we're in the same conversation."

"You mean the siege?"

Vidal sighed. "You're so much more intelligent on a battlefield."

Jacques had no idea what she meant by that.

He decided to stand. And when he did, the world didn't collapse into blurry shapes instantly, so he figured he was alright to walk. He took one step before his legs gave out on him, and he half-stumbled to the ground. A groan emanated from his body.

"Jacques…" Vidal sighed before putting one of his arms around her neck and lifting him to his feet.

She helped him to his tent. They hobbled their way back through the camp until she could gently set him on his bedroll. She came back a few minutes later with a jug of water, and he looked at her, barely comprehending what was happening.

"Drink this," she demanded.

Jacques obeyed, not really understanding why. He was too preoccupied to understand. His mind was on Castle Tubet and the siege.

By some miracle, Jacques woke up without a headache. He couldn't remember much from the previous night. A lot of drinking. Some song and dance. Castle Tubet. Then it hit him all at once.

I know how to win the siege.

Jacques wiped some drool off his face, straightened out his uniform, and exited his tent. He immediately went to find Astier and Vidal. Jacques found the latter nearby his tent, or rather, she found him. Vidal approached him quickly.

"Last night... Can we…?" she began.

"Later," he said, though Jacques had very little idea of what she meant. The siege perhaps? They would be talking about that shortly. "Do you know where Astier is?"

They found the sergeant nursing a cup of something hot in one hand, rubbing his head with the other, and groaning about everything. He cursed when Jacques and Vidal approached but managed to get to his feet regardless.

"I swear to Christ if I've got to go on sentry duty…"

Jacques shook his head. "I have an idea for how we can win this siege."

Astier stared at him with something bordering between contempt and annoyance. "You seriously couldn't choose any other morning to have your brilliant idea?"

"I thought of it last night."

Vidal blinked and stared at him.

"Can't even fucking remember last night…" Astier muttered. He grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Shouldn't you be telling this idea to someone higher up? Major Beauregard? General Rousseau? The Marshal?"

"I can't. I'd have to… reveal things that I can't reveal. It's only going to involve our company because of that."

Astier stared at him, perhaps trying to discern if Jacques was playing a joke. When it became obvious he was not, Astier pointed at the distant walls of Castle Tubet. "You want to take that with a single company of men?"

"Just listen, alright?"

"Better be something very good."

Jacques nodded enthusiastically. "Alright, this is what I'm thinking we can do."

By the time he was done explaining, Astier was no longer grumbling as much and Vidal was fiddling nervously with her fingers. They both had wide eyes and quietly considered the plan. Jacques held in a breath, waiting for their opinions

It was Astier who finally broke the silence. "We'd still need more men. A company just isn't enough. Once we get through the gate it'll take time to bring up men from the camp. We need some on hand, and I know that we can't tell-"

"Captain Kapsner," Jacques found himself saying. "We can trust him. He'll bring his company of auxiliaries to back us up."

He looked to Vidal for approval. She nodded.

"What's that? Roughly two hundred fifty men," Astier whistled. "Against a garrison of eight thousand."

"They won't be expecting it," Jacques offered. "And we won't be outnumbered forever. Once we've got the gate, men from the camp can flood in."

Astier scratched his neck. "We get past the main gate and then what? There's still fortresses on either cliff. You plan to storm those as well?"

Jacques shook his head. "The central wall has paths leading directly on top of the walls of both fortresses. Once we're through the gate and on the wall, we just need to go quick enough to secure a foothold on the fortresses. Then we have all the time in the world to lug a few cannons up the paths and obliterate the keeps from above."

"And you plan to secure this foothold with two hundred fifty men?"

"We'll be reinforced," Jacques promised. "And they'll be surprised."

It sounded insane, he knew. It was insane. He wanted to storm the most impressive fortress he'd ever laid eyes upon while outnumbered thirty to one. All in the dark, of course. It was against all the rules of war. This sort of plan was what made historians dub people 'the Rash' or 'the Fool'. But Jacques had an inkling that it might just work.

The Elbans were at their breaking point, they had to be. Two-thirds of the army had been destroyed. Almost all their noble knights were gone. Those that remained were peasant levies, not professional soldiers. It would be dark, and no one would know what was going on, and they wouldn't be able to see just how few men were attacking them, and most of all, they wouldn't be expecting an attack. Jacques figured that once they'd made it through the gate and they were on the walls it would be all over. The Elbans would panic, fall back to their cliffside fortresses rather than counterattack, and cannons could be brought up to finish the job.

They just needed to get past the first gate. The big one reinforced a thousand times over. The one positioned to allow devastating enfilading fire in the case of an assault. The one that couldn't be forced open by anything less than a dozen batteries of twenty-four pounder guns. The one Jacques was gambling on being able to get past.

Astier glanced at the distant castle. "Fuck it. I'm in."

"We can take it," Jacques said.

"Or die trying," Astier muttered.

Jacques finally looked to Vidal. "Well? I know it's a lot to ask. If you're not comfortable with it, we don't have to go through with this. We'd be telling the whole company."

She met his eye. "Of course I'll do it," she said and gave a bright smile. "I was just trying to remember where I put my dress."

Jacques had originally intended to conduct his plan that night, but it quickly became apparent that wasn't a realistic expectation. Men of the Ninth Company woke up with splitting headaches and foggy memories. They weren't in any condition to be fighting anytime soon, so Jacques postponed the plan by two days and gave strict orders that there would be no more drinking in that time. Astier and Vidal explained the plan to their corporals, and they disseminated it to the men.

Meanwhile, Jacques went to ask Captain Kapsner for his help.

"You are insane," Kapsner laughed when Jacques finished. "Absolutely mad."

"It can work," Jacques insisted.

"A night attack does provide much room for confusion," Kapsner conceded.

"Once we're through the gate, we just need to move quickly and seize the footholds while they're panicking."

Kapsner stroked his chin. "Ja, I believe you. But it would be easier with an entire regiment."

"You know we can't do that," Jacques said, frowning. "My sergeant's secret can't be revealed to anyone else."

Kapsner sighed. "I know. I'll be sure my men aren't telling anyone about her. Can we not at very least inform the Marshal? If he had men set aside to be ready-"

"No," Jacques asserted. "Our superiors can't know about her. Besides, we'll be less noticeable sneaking up to the walls with less men. Once we're through the gate and she's out of her disguise, we'll call for reinforcements."

Kapsner nodded slowly. "Alright. If you think it can be done, I'm in. I'll have my men prepare."

Jacques had once learned in the streets of Italica that sixty men made a lot of noise when they moved. Now, approaching the gate of Castle Tubet with four times that number, Jacques was harshly reminded of that lesson.

They advanced in the dead of night. The sun had set long ago, but every man was very awake. They'd slept during the day so that they were prepared for this attack and the night that acted as their shield. The darkness was like a cloak that covered them from potential watchers, but it did nothing to muffle the collective ruckus that two companies of men made when moving.

He was suddenly glad he'd decided to do this with only his two hundred fifty men. If he'd gone up with an entire regiment, they'd have been heard instantly.

Jacques winced at every loud step and snapped twig. He grimaced as uniforms ruffled, combining to create a constant noise following their advance. Back in Italica it hadn't been a problem; Jacques had simply been too paranoid and no one was actually watching them. Here, however, there was most certainly a sentry on duty, listening for odd noises.

But it was too late to second guess himself, so Jacques had them keep going toward Castle Tubet's main gate.

He felt naked. There were no trees or bushes for a mile from the wall because they'd all been cut down to remove any cover from potential attackers. In the dark, everything made a ridiculous amount of noise, and Jacques thought they'd been spotted several times already.

Jacques knew they were too far away to be seen in the dark, but that did nothing to cure his heart's feeling that he was sticking his head into a guillotine and the Elbans were waiting to drop the blade.

He could see torches on the wall above the gate. It was too far to make out the men carrying them, but they were beacons in the night sky. He counted six which meant there were at least that many men waiting for them on the wall, probably a good deal more.

There were eight thousand men garrisoning Castle Tubet. Jacques was wagering only a few dozen were guarding the walls. Well, their officers probably wanted hundreds to be guarding the walls at any moment, but men are lazy, and the siege had been very quiet so far.

They continued forward for a couple hundred paces, and then they were suddenly at the base of the great gate. No one cried out at the noise they generated. No one spotted them. They'd made it.

Now for the crux of Jacques's plan.

The men were split into two groups. It wasn't a clean division by company like Jacques had envisioned, auxiliaries and regulars were intermixed in both groups, but it would work. One group took a position on the left of the gate, pressed close up against the wall so they wouldn't be seen when it opened. The other group positioned themselves similarly on the right of the gate.

He quickly went over his kit. Jacques didn't have a musket, but he had a pistol tucked into his uniform, and his sword, the Elban sword from Italica, was strapped securely at his side. Everything was set.

"Vidal!" Jacques hissed as quietly as he could.

She came forward, wearing the dress Lagos had made for her in Italica. In the dark, he could only barely make out its light green, elegant design. An Algunan style, Lagos had said. He was counting on that.

"You ready?"

She bobbed her head. "Of course."

"Good luck."

Vidal took a deep breath then straightened her posture. She strode out into the open, away from the wall, in clear sight of anyone who bothered to look down from the wall's catwalk. She carried herself differently. In her long dress and illuminated only by moonlight... She didn't look like Sergeant Vidal. She was different... That's all that could be said.

"Help! Please help!" Vidal cried out in rough German. "Oh gods let me in!"

Three men appeared over the wall's embrasures and looked down. One of them had a loaded crossbow while the other two had torches. Their eyes went immediately to Vidal. They didn't see Jacques or the men pressed up against the wall.

"Who's there?!" one with a big nose called out.

"It's a lady," a young man said.

"Please help me!" Vidal cried again. She'd practiced the German words with Jacques for hours like an actress preparing for the theatre.

"Who's there?!" Big Nose repeated. "Speak up or I'll-"

The third man, wearing a black scarf, shoved Big Nose. "Ey! Don't talk to a lady like that!"

Vidal chose that moment to start crying. She brought her hands to her face and began sobbing loudly. It was very convincing.

"Oh look what you've done now, you oaf," Young Man sighed.

Big Nose looked distressed. "I-I didn't-"

"Not another fucking word from you!" Black Scarf hissed.

Young Man peered down at Vidal who was still crying her heart out. "Oh gods, what do we do?"

Black Scarf called down to her, "Miss it's alright! Where are you from?"

"Alguna… Not speak good Elba language..." Vidal choked out between sobs. "Please… help..."

"Alguna?" Big Nose questioned. "How'd she get here?"

"Must've been those bastard bluecoats," Young Man spat.

Black Scarf nodded. "She must have been taken as a slave by those barbarians. Let's get her inside."

Big Nose wasn't convinced. "We can't bring her into the castle! You know our orders!"

Black Scarf shoved Big Nose again. "I thought I told you to shut your mouth." He looked over the wall. "We're coming to help, just stay there!"

Vidal, still sobbing quite convincingly, now fell to her knees in dramatic fashion.

"Come on," Young Man muttered, and the three of them disappeared from the wall's embrasures.

Vidal managed a glance at Jacques while they were gone. In spite of the sobbing only moments prior, she had a massive grin plastered over her face.

The great gate shuddered, and Vidal's grin disappeared, replaced by incessant tears. The gate swept inward, its reinforced wooden doors splitting down the middle to reveal the Elban sentries. They didn't see Jacques or his men hidden up against the wall.

Young Man approached Vidal, and she suddenly sprang to her feet, wrapping her arms around the young soldier. She kissed him, and Young Man's face turned beet red. The other two whistled at them.

"Now!" Jacques roared.

The Elban sword came free of its scabbard, and Jacques appeared from the shadows behind Big Nose. Black Scarf yelled a warning, but Big Nose didn't have time to turn.

He hit the man at a run. The Elban sword went through his back, its tip bursting out the other end, and Jacques's momentum caused them both to tumble to the ground. Big Nose died an ugly death, coughing up blood beneath him.

To his side, Astier put his bayonet into Black Scarf's sternum. He didn't go down immediately, so another man's bayonet was thrust into his chest. He also died choking up blood.

Young Man, stuck in Vidal's embrace, didn't initially recognize what was happening. When he did, he found himself trapped by Vidal's strong arms, unable to run free. Vidal killed him with a boot knife she'd kept hidden in her dress.

Jacques scrambled to his feet and wrenched free his sword. Frenchmen and auxiliaries were emerging from the shadows, weapons drawn. The great gate was wide open. He turned to Vidal.

"They were drinking," she said, wiping her lips. "I could smell it on his breath."

"Uniform," Jacques grunted.

She nodded and called, "Corporal Laurent!"

The corporal came running up to her, two muskets in hand and a stuffed haversack over his shoulder. Laurent handed Vidal one of the muskets and the haversack before scurrying away to rejoin the others.

"Get changed. You've got maybe thirty minutes before men from the camp start coming up," Jacques warned.

"Got it," she breathed out, already working on getting off the dress.

Jacques turned and found Astier.

"I've sent Flandin to get our reinforcements," Astier relayed. "What's next?"

"Up the wall quick as we can," Jacques said.

He already could hear shouting from the top. Their entrance hadn't exactly been silent, and the sudden movement of two hundred fifty men definitely alerted whoever else was on the wall to their presence.

Frenchmen surged through the gate. Above them towered the massive wall of Castle Tubet. Built into the wall was a stairway leading straight to the top. It was perhaps a hundred steps to the top, and on top of the steps stood a huddle of Elban soldiers. There were maybe three dozen, staring wide-eyed at the enemy who'd just breached their fortress.

Jacques's men stood in a bunch at the base of the steps. There was nothing for it. Someone had to go up first. Everyone hesitated.

They all looked at Jacques.

That's how it was then. They looked at him, and he had to go. The glorious benefits of being an officer in command. He got to lead the charge. He got to die first.

"Follow me!" Jacques bellowed. He started up the steps.

It was terrifying. He had the Elban sword in one hand and his pistol in the other, and it was very dark the whole way up. His legs felt like lead climbing those steps, but he couldn't stop because then the man behind him might accidentally skewer Jacques on his bayonet. As he went up, he had time to think of just how exposed he was. Jacques knew the Elbans had crossbows, powerful mechanisms that would put his foolishly unarmored self down with one bolt. He'd seen Big Nose with one. But for whatever reason, no one was shooting at him.

Well, it was very dark. Maybe they just couldn't see him. Maybe they were too terrified themselves.

A sudden crackle of musketry gave Jacques the confidence to keep going. The Elbans were standing on the steps with torches in hand, and they weren't cloaked in darkness like Jacques was. Frenchmen at the base of steps took aim at the Elbans with leisure. Their abrupt flashes of light and deafening cracks dropped maybe a dozen men before Jacques was even near the top. He saw one Elban get hit, falling the whole height from the stairway until his body slammed into the earth, and then…

And then, Jacques was at the top. His fatigue was gone instantly. The steps were wide enough for three men to stand, and those three Elbans almost didn't see him coming. Jacques shot the first one, emptying the pistol into the man's chest, who clutched the wound and fell backwards, right into the men behind him. Jacques swung at the next. It caught him right in the temple so that the Elban sword severed through brain and skull like chopping kindling. The third man thrust at Jacques with a long spear held in two hands. He dodged it, or rather the Elban had simply missed in the dark. Whatever the case, Jacques advanced, and he threw his empty pistol at the man. The Elban sword swung high to low while the man was distracted, and it amputated at his left wrist. Then Jacques thrust and killed the man without consideration. There were maybe twenty Elbans still standing at the top of the steps.

Jacques didn't think; he merely continued. The Elban sword swept forward, unstoppable, and caught a man right across the chest. He wasn't wearing armor because they'd been lazy and were drinking, and he died because of it. The others were now frightened, and they fought worse because of it. Jacques lashed out with his sword again and was parried by a spear shaft. But the man flinched, and that let Jacques slip past the shaft to thrust into his throat. Jacques barely understood what he was doing at this point. He was acting on instinct and half remembered sword lessons from a German hussar he'd once shared drinks with. But the Elbans were afraid, and that made everything so much easier.

He pushed forward and found himself off the steps and on the wall. The Elban sword soaked itself in blood, opening a man's throat, and he discovered very quickly that he could use his left hand for more than just sitting at his hip. Jacques parried a spear thrust down. The Elban was slow to pull it back, and Jacques grabbed it with his free hand. Then his sword went unopposed into the man's chest. They were drunk, he understood at some level. He swung again and cut through some unlucky fellow's jaw, acutely aware that only two days ago he and his men had also been drunk. Jacques advanced again and faced down what seemed to be the last of the Elbans.

There were men at Jacques's side, Frenchmen and auxiliaries. He hadn't noticed them while he'd been fighting, but it was evident they hadn't cowered. Most auxiliaries had bloody swords, and Frenchmen were pulling bayonets from bodies. They moved to help Jacques against his few remaining foes.

"Kill them all!" Jacques roared.

The Elbans turned and ran.

Some of Jacques's men chased them, and while they did that, Jacques had time to recover himself.

He sank to one knee. All the fatigue came back to him instantly. He felt his lungs were ready to give out on him. Only after a minute of hard breathing did he look around him. The top of the wall gave him an excellent view of Castle Tubet's interior courtyard. It was dark, but he could see specks of lights, men carrying torches, moving frantically back and forth. Like a stepped on anthill. Chaos mixed with panic. To his left and right were the twin fortresses that guarded the edges of Castle Tubet.

"Kapsner!" he shouted, now remembering the rest of his plan. "Captain Kapsner!"

"I'm here," the German said from behind.

Jacques blinked a few times. "Detach twenty of your men to hold this gate, and I'll detach twenty of mine. Then take the rest of your company and get us a foothold on the wall of that fortress to the left." He pointed with his sword as he issued the command. "I'll take my company and do the same on the right. If we go quick enough, we'll have the walls without much of a fight and this whole thing is over. Otherwise, we've just got two new sieges."

Kapsner was a seasoned soldier and a good follower. He didn't hesitate to follow Jacques's orders in spite of them being the same rank.

"Astier!" Jacques shouted. "Vidal!"

His sergeants materialized out of the darkness. Vidal was in her uniform now, once more looking like a youthful man. Astier had blood smeared on his face.

"Vidal, grab twenty men as quickly as you can, and have them hold this gate against whatever counterattack comes for it. Astier, gather the rest of the company. We're going after that fortress."

They didn't question him.

And there was the mark of a good soldier. When a plan was being made and ideas thrown around, they could question him all they wanted; they had every right to make their opinions known. But when that plan was finally in action, and men were dying, and the difference of ten seconds decided lives, they just had to trust him and obey.

And so, they followed his orders. Because they were good soldiers.

Jacques led his company along the wall. Castle Tubet's main wall, the one that guarded the valley, was directly connected to the outer walls of the two fortresses positioned on either cliff. It seemed like a major oversight to Jacques, but then again, he didn't build fortresses for a living. What he did know was that if they just followed the wall, they'd eventually find themselves overlooking one of the fortresses.

So Jacques did exactly that. At some point, he realized that all the Elbans had all run off. They weren't facing any opposition on the main wall, and they easily passed along it.

The main wall ended when it reached the cliff face, but a smaller wall had been built on top of the cliff, and there was a set of stairs leading up to it. He ascended them with none of the same vigor he'd ascended the previous wall with. Jacques, Astier and three others made it to the top first, and-

"Oh Christ."

And they found where all the Elbans had run off to.

A legion of men swarmed at them. A tidal wave of Elban soldiers. But then he saw they were a very poor excuse for a legion or for soldiers. The Elbans were poorly armed, equipped only with short swords and long daggers, and they were unarmored, and most importantly none of them carried shields. They weren't in any sort of formation; there wasn't an officer among them. It was very clear they had just stumbled confused out of bed, but at the same time there were oh so many of them.

Four muskets exploded with light instantly, and the Elban charge died before it could really begin. Bayonets were presented forward. More Frenchmen reached the top. More explosions of light and smoke. Only a few actually died to musketry, but the effect was far greater than that. The Elbans slowed to a crawl and then began to back away. Jacques knew an opportunity when he saw one.

"Get the bastards!" he shouted and then charged them with his sword.

Fusiliers charged with him, and they slammed into the Elban legion.

Instantly, Jacques was cutting. He cut forward, and the Elban sword sliced through the man in front of him's belly. The man stumbled, and as he stumbled Jacques had all the time he needed to step forward and cut overhand from his shoulder; the Elban sword flashed up, powered by his hips, his arm, his shoulder as he leveled the blow flat, right to left.

The man mistimed his parry.

The Elban sword removed his head.

Astier saw the opening Jacques had created, gored an Elban with his bayonet, and followed him in. Fusiliers filled in behind them. A wedge began to form, driving into the Elban mob with Jacques and Astier as the tip.

Jacques led on. He parried a short sword then riposted and gutted the user. The Elban sword cut down a new man then continued forward and was thrust into another. Jacques dove deeper into the melee, and his men followed. He cut, parried, riposted, pummeled, and generally brutalized his way through the Elbans.

Beside him, Astier thrust with his bayonet. Three fast jabs into the crowd of unarmored Elban men. Each came back with fresh blood on the tip. He thrust again, harder, and planted the bayonet into a man's chest. The man screamed, grabbed the musket with both hands, and fell back, taking the musket with him in his death throes.

Astier struggled too long to keep it.

Another Elban attacked. His short sword thrust out from the crowd and caught Astier in the side. The sergeant looked down to see his own blood. Then he fell.

He followed me, Jacques thought.

He stepped forward, completely exposed, the Elban sword swinging, and raked the crowd with the tip of his blade. Blood poured from two of them, and the others backed away.

The Elban sword swung out again, and Jacques took another step, past Astier. It cleaved a gash into the nearest man's face and killed him outright. The crowd continued to cringe away.

He had no defense to speak of. No guard. No way to parry. He was just swinging, and he couldn't find it in him to care about those details.

He stepped, and this time, a dozen fusiliers stepped with him. Bayonets went forward. Elbans fell backward. They pushed into the confused, underarmed, disorganized, unarmored, demoralized mob of Elban soldiers and slaughtered a great many, mortally wounding many more. Blood spilled like water from a fountain. Against a helpless crowd, Jacques cut and thrust and swung and stabbed, and...

And for once it didn't feel like murder.

Because Astier was bleeding out on the ground.

The mob broke and ran. Who could blame them? They were never going to win in that situation. There was only one sensible option left, and they took it. The French suffered maybe three casualties in exchange for dozens. But one of those casualties was Astier.

Jacques found his sergeant on the ground where he'd fallen. Corporal Boulet was with him, holding pressure onto the wound opened in his side. The sergeant was still awake, muttering curses and trying to push Boulet away.

"Go, damn you! I'm fine, just go!"

Jacques knelt, and his mouth was suddenly very dry. "I…"

"God dammit, I'm fine!" Astier snarled. He locked eyes with Jacques. "You don't have time for this. You need the walls!"

Jacques knew he was right. He looked at Boulet. "Bandage him up as best you can then get him to Sergeant Vidal. Understand?"

"Yessir!" Boulet replied.

"Hurry then!" he snapped, and the corporal began working on Astier's wound.

Jacques led his men onward. There hadn't been any real formation to begin with, but their clump came apart even further as they went on. Vidal was at the gate, Laurent was with her, and Malet was nowhere to be seen. Flandin had gone for reinforcements, Astier was wounded, Boulet was playing doctor.

Jacques had no subordinates to delegate to. All he had was the volume of his shouts and his sword to use like a baton. Enough to get men following him but not for much else, especially in darkness. So their clump came apart as they went on. Nothing to be done about it. He just had to keep going and pray for the best.

His prayers were answered.

They made it to the fortress wall. Below them was chaos and fear. Men running left and right, fleeing from the wall, streaming into the inner keep of the fortress which stood as a final citadel against attacking enemies.

Jacques pieced together what must've happened.

They'd come through the gate unexpectedly, a feat that shouldn't have been impossible. It was dark, and no one could get a good look at the French, and they stormed up the wall so suddenly that there wasn't any time to fully comprehend the situation. The drunken, unprepared sentries on the wall were massacred. Then, Jacques's company thrust across the wall, routed a giant mass of similarly unprepared men, and sent them fleeing in terror back to the only safe rallying place they knew; the fortress.

Of course, that meant all their comrades coming out of the fortress, prepared to fight off the French attack, were immediately greeted by a wave of fleeing, panicky men who swore up and down they'd just been attacked by the legions of hell themselves. And in that situation, their comrades did a very reasonable thing and started to flee as well. So in the end, most of the Elbans fled right back into the fortress and were trying to get the gates shut before the massive army they'd heard about came crashing down upon them like Satan's unholy hellfire.

Only, there wasn't a massive army coming. There was Jacques and a company of fusiliers. But no one could see well enough to know anything, and when men panicked they rarely stopped to consider if their panic was justified. Then, they saw Jacques's men appear on the fortress wall, and they realized the only safe place was the inner keep, so they all started to cram themselves into there.

It was a lot of luck, yes. But that luck was built upon a solid plan and quick, decisive movements. It all came together to create the disaster unfolding upon the Elbans at that moment.

Ah, fortune. It does favor the bold.

There were a few dozen Elbans still left on the wall. These were the bolder men, and they'd chosen to sell their lives against the legions of hell in order to buy time for their comrades to escape.

Jacques didn't want them on the wall where they could see just how few his men numbered. He wanted them in the keep, blinded and confused by panicked masses.

"Forward!" he demanded. "Drive them from the wall!"

There was a crash when French bayonets impacted Elban shields. These men were better prepared than their predecessors. Most had shields and spears, and a few had armor. It made this task much more difficult because French fusiliers had neither shields nor armor.

But the Elbans were peasant levies. Men drawn from farms, given cheap equipment, and barely trained. Jacques's men were veterans of Russia. And perhaps now they could even be considered veterans of Sadera. They crashed, bayonets biting on shields. Jacques was at the front; he thrust the Elban sword, and it caught on an Elban soldier's shield, and then Jacques was fighting.

He was fighting just to stay alive and not give ground. The Elbans were desperate, ruthless, and much better equipped, and before Jacques had breathed a hundred times, a spear had grazed his arm, and he was bleeding from the leg. It was brutal. Men were thrusting blindly on both sides because there was only dim moonlight, and in those conditions that's the best they could manage. The fusiliers were better fighters, but the Elbans were better protected. Men screamed and died and fell.

Jacques killed a man. He didn't really understand how. His sword had gone into the darkness, struck something, and come back with blood dripping. Whatever happened, Jacques had a moment.

He struck to his right, against an Elban positioned diagonal to him. His swing was clumsy, but it drew away his shield, and a fusilier used that to kill him with a quick thrust, putting his bayonet past the shield under his arm and into his lungs.

An Elban from the second rank stepped forward to face Jacques. He thrust his spear forward, but he was slow, and Jacques was thinking quickly. His sword parried it up, and Jacques grabbed the shaft with his free hand. He pulled the man forward then killed him, cutting high over his shield into his face.

Jacques went forward a step. There were plenty of Elbans left, but they were slow to replace the men at the front. An opening was forming.

A spear came at him, and Jacques nearly died. He didn't, only because it was dark and the spearman missed his face by an inch, instead scoring a deep graze against the side of his head. It went back, like a snake preparing to strike again.

Jacques had time to prepare himself. He had his sword in one hand, hilt down by his waist, point low turned backward, right leg forward, side facing the Elban, like how the German hussar had taught to defend against a bayonet. He watched the Elban spearman ready another thrust. Their eyes locked, each daring the other to move.

The Elban thrust, abruptly, unnerved or perhaps impatient. The spear shot forward.

Just like the hussar had said in Poland. Let your opponent make the first mistake.

Jacques's sword moved quickly. Left to right, like a much better fencer than he was, and his blade swept into the spear's shaft. Steel bit into wood. Jacques's swing had leverage over the thrust. It knocked the spear up and away, voiding its thrust in one go.

Jacques leapt forward.

Desperate, the Elban released the spear and raised his hands. Jacques's sword came down. The point missed his naked face by a finger length and impaled him through a hand, thrust through with little resistance then slammed into his helmet.

The Elban stumbled, and Jacques followed. The sword ripped itself from the man's hand. Jacques punched with his hilt and its steel construction crushed the Elban's nose. The man fell, and the sword plunged into his neck.

Jacques allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath. Then another, because he wasn't attacked, and the Elbans chose that moment to break and run.

They fell away like rain from a roof, off the wall, to the inner keep where they could be safe. They all ran at once as if they'd planned the whole thing. All of them except one.

An Elban knight.

Seven fusiliers surged at him to cement their victory, and in that moment they showed complete disregard for the whole order of knighthood. This was no peasant levy. He was armored head to toe in a full plate harness. His two-handed longsword was raised high. The knight saw the fusiliers, and Jacques swore he saw the knight scoff, outnumbered seven to one, as they charged him from three sides.

His sword was like a living thing. The knight stepped out, cut, and a French fusilier folded over his spilling guts. He blocked a second thrust from another man, batted it aside in one motion, and severed the fusilier's neck in the next. Then he stepped through, rotating his body so he threw the corpse at its comrades, thrusting instantly to pierce through a third's eye. A fourth thought he could stab the knight in the back, but his bayonet bounced uselessly against steel plate. The knight turned, a demon from hell, and snapped a cut that severed every finger from the fusilier's hand. He advanced, using his pommel to crack the man's skull like an egg. Then he turned again and snapped two more cuts that lacerated the fifth man's torso. The sixth and seventh men tackled him together, but the knight knew a few tricks as well. His steel clad arms and elbows, weapons in their own right, lashed out and mangled one fusilier so badly he died after the third blow. The last took a gauntleted punch to his head and fell. He cried and begged. Finally, the knight drew a long dagger from his belt and used it to silence the last man's desperate pleading. All that in the time it took for Jacques to breathe eight good breaths.

That's why Elban knights are the best in the world.

The knight stood. He sheathed his dagger, pulled free his sword, then looked directly at Jacques. The knight lifted his visor to reveal the face of a young man, perhaps Jacques's age.

"I am Sir Luca of Peris," he said.

Jacques shuddered. His men had backed away, leaving an open space around Jacques and the knight. His limbs were bleeding. His head was bleeding. Everything hurt, he doubted he would get far if he tried running, and for some reason his men seemed to think he wanted this to be a single combat.

Warm blood dripped down his face.

It was an effort in itself to keep his sword held.

"Captain Jacques Duclos," he managed to say, "of Strasbourg."

The knight nodded. He saluted with his sword, raising it one handed in front of his face then back down again.

Jacques mimicked the salute and waited to die.

The knight slammed down his visor. He put his sword into a high guard with the sort of mastery that required constant training from early childhood. Jacques could never hope to match it.

The knight came forward. His steel sabatons clattered on the stone they stood over. The knight's helmet turned, just ever so slightly, so that it looked past Jacques to-

Crack.

A cloud of smoke engulfed Jacques. The knight dropped to the ground, a hole through his visor.

Jacques felt a sudden urge to just collapse, but that would look very bad to the men. He stood there leaning on his sword and staring down at the chaos that occupied the inner keep.

He turned around, and men were dragging wounded men to the side.

Astier stood just behind him, his musket stretched out still smoking. Very slowly, he lowered the musket. He suddenly grimaced and held onto the bandage at his side.

"Sorry, Captain," he managed. "You weren't going to win that one."

Jacques wanted to ask a thousand things. What was he doing there? Why wasn't he with Vidal like he'd ordered? How was the wound? Was he going to pull through?

Instead he laughed. He laughed and laughed as fusiliers took up positions on the wall and poured fire into Elbans below, forcing them into the inner keep. He kept laughing even when French reinforcements arrived from the French siege camp to reinforce his men and complete Jacques's insane plan.

He put a hand on Astier's shoulder. "I most certainly was not."

General Courbet himself arrived to relieve him of command, and Jacques handed over the burden eagerly. The general had brought with him two regiments of regulars who poured into the gate held by Vidal and then came to secure the twin fortresses.

The extra men sealed the Elbans' fate. Captain Kapsner's assault had apparently managed to yield similar results as Jacques's, albeit with higher casualties. Now the Elbans were trapped in either fortress' inner keep, unable to get out even if they tried.

Thousands had already surrendered. The ones who hadn't been garrisoned at the keeps didn't have anywhere to run, and they certainly weren't going to keep fighting. It was just a few thousand hold outs, split between the two keeps, who refused to give up.

Jacques suggested to General Courbet that they might bring up cannons to the walls and finalize their victory. He agreed quite sensibly, and Colonel Delon personally led a team of men to drag a few bronze six-pounders up the steps to the wall and then positioned them facing down on the fortress. They fired one shot which smashed through the castle's roof and brought down stone bricks with its power.

The Elbans sent out a man to ask for terms of surrender.

General Courbet said there would be no terms, only unconditional surrender.

The Elbans balked at this, so Courbet sent them back into the inner keep and ordered a bombardment.

Meanwhile, word reached them that the other fortress had accepted unconditional surrender.

Delon's cannons had a perfect angle, and the inner keep hadn't been designed with cannonfire in mind. The bombardment collapsed a part of the roof, and then they could hear screaming coming from the inside. Another barrage collapsed some of the wall. The thunder of guns slaughtered dozens with each shot.

It was very evident the Elbans couldn't remain there for long. However, for some reason they also refused to surrender.

Instead, they tried a sortie. Hundreds of men gushed out from the inner keep, and they were met and checked by volleys of French musketry. Positioned up on the walls, French infantry were perfectly safe from the sortie. The Elbans had to cross a long courtyard, go up a flight of stairs, and then face down an equal number of Frenchmen who hadn't just run all that way. All the while, they were under terrible enfilading fire from muskets and horrific barrages of canister from cannons. Suffice to say, the sortie didn't work.

After that needless slaughter, a man wearing a wolf helmet came out to offer his surrender personally.

"That's Prince Teo," Vidal whispered when the man approached Courbet.

They were too far out of earshot to have any idea of what was being said, but everyone stared at them regardless.

Jacques squinted his eyes. There wasn't anything that looked 'princely' on the man. "How do you know?"

"Who else could he be?" she replied. "It's got to be the prince."

Whoever he was, the man with the wolf helmet accepted an unconditional surrender. The remaining thousand or so Elbans came out of the keep unarmed and submitted themselves to French captivity. They were marched out of Castle Tubet, to join their fellow prisoners in the French siege camp.

It was now morning. The sun just barely peaked over the Tuba mountains, and Jacques was reminded of just how tired he was.

He meant to find somewhere in Castle Tubet, a nook with a bed or chair he could collapse into, but General Courbet cornered him before that happened.

"General!" Jacques saluted crisply in spite of exhaustion. "Something wrong, sir?"

"The Marshal wants to see you," General Courbet said. "His new office is on the top floor of the fortress we didn't have to blast to hell. I wouldn't keep him waiting."

That was bad. It was never a good thing when superiors asked for men like that.

"Sir!" Jacques turned to leave.

"Freshen up before you go," Courbet advised him. "You look like shit."

He felt like it too, but he wasn't going to say that to a general. Instead he nodded firmly and took his leave. On the way, Jacques found a trough used to water horses and did his best at cleaning up in that. He still looked like a man who'd been fighting, but at least he wasn't unpresentable.

Jacques entered the Marshal's office with a feeling of dread. That dread doubled when he realized that it wasn't just Marshal Ney in the room but also King Duran. He'd only ever seen him from a distance, but the king was unmistakable.

"Captain Duclos, reporting, sir!" He did his very best salute, but it didn't hide the exhaustion he felt.

"At ease, Captain."

Jacques relaxed his position.

"I'm told you speak German?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," The Marshal said, switching to German. "We shall continue like this for the benefit of my companion here."

Jacques swallowed.

"You were the one who started this assault?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you did so without asking the permission of or even deigning to inform any of your superior officers?"

What could he say to that? It was obvious what he'd done. Gross insubordination, and if the Marshal was feeling fancy desertion. Maybe he could add conspiracy onto that as well. Oh, his plan had seemed so clever when he'd first thought of it.

"Yes, sir," he repeated. There was nothing else he could say.

The Marshal furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"I saw an opportunity, sir." Jacques's mouth was very dry.

"You saw an opportunity?"

Jacques squirmed a little under the Marshal's gaze. "Yes, sir. I couldn't just let an opportunity like that pass by, sir."

"An opportunity..." the Marshal mused. "How did you get through the gate?"

There it was. The question that he couldn't answer. Not truthfully, anyway.

"We found it open, sir."

The Marshal's eyes swept over Jacques. His glare was a frightful thing. "You found it open?"

"Y-y…" Jacques took a breath. "Yes, sir."

"So the Elbans just left the gate open?"

"It would appear so, sir."

"What are you hiding?" The Marshal's glare was unwavering.

Jacques desperately fought the panic inside him. "Nothing, sir."

"You know I could have you shot. Summary execution for insubordination and desertion."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?

Jacques again fought back panic. "No, sir. I'll accept the charges, sir."

Finally, the Marshal looked away and sighed. When he looked at Jacques again, it was no longer a glare. "But that would be a very poor way to repay you."

King Duran stepped forward. "You know that in your assault you captured my son? He's very shocked at the whole affair."

The panic was still very present in Jacques. "I must apologize for potentially harming your son, sir. It was not my intention-"

"Apologize!" Duran laughed. "Boy, if there is something in this world you should apologize for, this is not it."

"You've done well, in spite of your insubordination," the Marshal continued. "But I cannot reward you for these actions myself. That would set a bad precedent and lead to a lot of foolishness."

"Fortunately, I am not you," King Duran said. He looked at Jacques and commanded, "Kneel."

Jacques hesitated then obeyed, the remnants of fear not fully having died out. The king drew his sword.

"Jacques Duclos, I am told you are a commoner by birth, but nothing ennobles men like a life of arms."

His sword smacked down hard on Jacques's shoulder. Too damn hard. He was nursing a bruise there.

"By the virtue of your great deeds and on my royal authority," King Duran continued.

His sword pressed down again, onto Jacques's other shoulder. He still didn't fully understand it.

"I dub thee knight."

An hour later, Ney was sitting in his office reading casualty reports. They'd lost men in the unplanned assault, but it was far fewer than they would have normally. All in all, a good thing, though he'd have preferred to know about it before it happened.

There was a knock at his door.

Ney put down a report. "Come in!"

It was General Courbet. "I've compiled a list of all our notable prisoners. Mostly nobility loyal to Prince Teo. Would you like it?"

"Set it on the desk," Ney grunted.

Courbet did so. "You'll have to meet with Prince Teo, you know. The war is over, and King Duran will want his throne back."

"I'll talk tomorrow. I'm too tired for today."

"I think everyone's tired after last night."

Ney gave a pained grin. "Well the assault wasn't exactly planned."

"Captain Duclos seemed to think he was responsible for dictating the army's actions."

"Perhaps."

Courbet raised an eyebrow. "And instead of punishing him for insubordination, you gave him a knighthood."

Ney chuckled. "Worse than that. He lied to my face, and I still didn't punish him. But it was Duran who gave him the knighthood, not me."

"A minor distinction," Courbet sighed. "At very least you should have given a public reprimand. We can't have captains lying to their superiors deciding when the army launches assaults."

"Maybe," Ney conceded. "But Captain Duclos is a rare thing in the army. I would do well not to discourage him."

Courbet frowned. "Why's that?"

"Fortuna has blessed that man," Ney said. "And I will not be the one to stand in the way of good luck."

This chapter was inspired by Bascot de Mauléon, a Basque mercenary from the 14th century who captured the town of Albi by disguising himself and his men as women and using falsetto voices so that the garrison let them in. It's in Froissart's Chronicles, trust me I didn't believe it at first either.

The whole layout of Castle Tubet in this chapter is based purely on a tiny picture from the Gate manga depicting it. For those wondering, yes Castle Tubet is a canon place in Gate. No I didn't create it, I just expanded on it. In the manga I believe the JSDF uses helicopters to fly into it and the fortress just surrenders because they're all super badass and can't be stopped by anything and everyone loves them no matter what.

For those wondering, the song sung by Jacques's men at the start is called "J'ai vu le loup" (I saw the wolf). It's a French folk song that is quite catchy, and is probably my favorite folk song out there. You can find it on YouTube. I highly recommend checking it out; the English translation I wrote down doesn't do it justice.

This is probably my last chapter for a bit. I'm getting busy again, and that never bodes well for productive writing. Maybe I'm wrong though. That's happened a lot before.

If you enjoyed or hated this chapter, go ahead and leave a review. I do read them, and sometimes I'll respond to one if I feel like I need to.