21. Chapter 18

Upon the conduct of each determines the fate of all.

Ney stared at the map laid out on a table before him. Captain Barbier was the only other person in his command tent, scribbling out tomorrow's orders to be distributed in the morning. The aide had tried to read him Chaucer's report, but Ney had told him to wait until after the battle. It didn't matter how urgent the quartermaster thought his message was, he didn't want a headache, and it wouldn't matter until after he'd beaten the Elbans anyways.

Ney inhaled; he was very close to being finished with Elbe.

The Third Corps, now more commonly referred to now as Ney's army, was now within spitting distance of Duke Cantero's training camp. They'd arrived just before sunset, established a camp, and put out sentries to watch the Elban trainees. The Elbans, in an act of either rash bravery or utter stupidity, had not immediately scattered on sight.

Ney certainly would have run if he was in their position. The Elbans were outnumbered, outgunned, and still in the midst of their training. Attempting to face Ney in the field was suicidal.

And yet, the Elbans were insistent on fighting.

Their commander, one of Cantero's household knights, had sent an emissary demanding Ney's army to immediately depart from the duke's estates. When Ney returned the emissary with a message that they would do no such thing, the Elbans challenged him to a field battle.

The whole exchange was absurd. They had no chance of victory and yet were determined to die against him in battle.

It was, in fact, so utterly lopsided that Ney hadn't even bothered to call a command meeting. He didn't have any fancy tactics or brilliant strategies. His plan for the next morning was to wheel his artillery into range and blast them apart until they surrendered or fled. It would be a brutal, unnecessary slaughter, caused by the foolishness of noblemen.

Everything about this entire campaign had been unnecessary. Prince Teo's seizure of the throne was a pointless powergrab made by someone who was already Duran's heir, and it cost the lives of brave men on both sides. The nobility's schemes were equally pointless attempts to oust a king who sought nothing but the good of Elbe, and it brought the destruction of a good deal of Elbe's countryside. Now this doomed final defiance would achieve nothing except the deaths of thousands of misled Elban boys.

Ney pounded the map with his fist. Months ago he hadn't even known Elbe existed. They weren't Austrians or Russians or Prussians, and they were especially not Englishmen. They hadn't threatened France with annihilation. By what right did he butcher so many-

"Something the matter, sir?"

Ney looked up at Barbier and realized he'd crumpled the map with his hand. He sighed, "No… or rather, yes, but I haven't got a solution, and it's not a major problem. Not militarily, at least." Ney did his best to smooth the crumpled parchment again.

Barbier glanced at the ruined map. "A political problem?"

Ney pursed his lips. "Perhaps," he said. "Really it's mostly to do with morality, but I suppose politics has its place. We're about to slaughter ten thousand Elbans, eight thousand of whom aren't even real soldiers yet, for no reason other than a nobleman's stubbornness."

"And the problem is that this won't make us very popular with the Elbans?" Barbier asked.

Ney made a dismissive gesture. "We're already unpopular. The political problem, aside from the moral implications of committing a massacre, is that this will make King Duran unpopular. He's already on thin ice, and I don't want to waste more time putting down a revolution on his behalf."

"Ah, and why do we have to massacre them?"

Ney made a face. "You were there when their emissary challenged us to a battle, correct?"

Barbier shrugged. "Of course, sir, but I figured we might avoid killing all of them. Perhaps even avoid a battle."

"How do you figure that?"

Barbier gave another shrug. "Most of them are untrained, right?"

Ney nodded. "We've caught them only a week into their training."

"And they're conscripts?"

Again he nodded.

"The way I see it," Barbier said, leaning back in his chair, "we just need them to run, and it's all finished. If we send a regiment of men right at them before they're even properly formed up, I'll bet we can scatter them without even firing a shot, sir. Then we have Chaucer's Boys round them up and pick out their officers so they can't regroup."

Ney rubbed his chin. "You do understand that if they don't scatter, the Elbans will be in a perfect position to charge us and inflict severe casualties?"

There was a look on Barbier's face. A wolfish grin. "They won't be able to if we're fast enough. You just said they're untrained; I'm sure you know how difficult it is to get untrained men into formation. If we go at them while their line is in chaos trying to get organized, they'll run, and we won't have to kill anyone."

"And you don't think artillery will send them running?"

"No, sir," Barbier said. "Rather, eventually it will, but only after a good deal of blood is spilled. We need something actually coming forward to shock them into a rout."

Ney sat back in his chair and thought. It was a very bold plan, and he liked boldness, but it also risked losing men. He was certain his original plan wouldn't cost a single Frenchman. On the other hand, a bloodless victory was almost too good to pass up…

"Well captain, I think you'll be a general some day," Ney said. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. "I have new orders for you to draft. Have them distributed at first light tomorrow"

Barbier sat up as well, quill in hand. "Ready, sir."

"The 134th Line Regiment will advance at the head…"

Jacques woke to the faint gray light of dawn, the warmth of Vidal pressed against his side, and the sound of knocking at his tent post. It took a moment to blink away his grogginess.

"Come in," he called automatically, only to remember he wasn't alone. "Errr… actually wait outside," he said, pulling up his trousers.

He found his shirt and left it unbuttoned before stumbling through the tent flap sleepily. The morning light seemed dim to him, and he didn't hear the typical bustle of men preparing for action.

Corporal Malet was there, and he saluted crisply. "Sir, orders just came in from the Marshal. Colonel Touissant wants the whole regiment up early. We're leading the attack against the Elbans."

Jacques rubbed his eyes and grunted. The lack of activity suddenly made sense. They weren't supposed to be awake for another hour at least. Then it occurred to him they also weren't supposed to be leading an attack. The artillery was meant to do all the work. What the hell's going through the Marshal's head?

"Christ," he muttered. "Right, then. Wake the drummers and get them to beat the reveille. Find Astier and get him to report to me. I'll be out in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!" The corporal snapped another salute, turned to run, then stopped and asked, "Shall I find Sergeant Vidal as well as Sergeant Astier, sir?"

Jacques blinked. "Err… no. He'll find his way to me."

Corporal Malet's brow raised ever so slightly, but then he was off, running to wake the company drummers. Jacques cursed himself and ducked back into his tent.

"Something going on?" Vidal yawned.

"Touissant wants us up early. The Marshal's decided we're leading the attack against the Elbans."

"Attack?" she mumbled. Her eyes widened. "Shit. I thought we were in for an easy day."

"Same here," Jacques spat. He tugged savagely at his shirt and fumbled with buttons.

Vidal found her trousers, and the two of them struggled to get dressed in the cramped tent. It was harder than expected. Jacques pulled on his uniform coat only to find it was actually Vidal's coat, and he had to scrounge around to find where he tossed his the night before. Vidal made the same mistake with Jacques's shoes. Both struggled to find their shakos.

Eventually Jacques managed to leave his tent fully dressed. Vidal slipped out a few minutes later, hopefully unnoticed.

The sun was still below the horizon, but the morning chill served to wake Jacques from his stupor. Whereas minutes ago the camp had been deathly silent, now it was a hive of activity as men scrambled to get their kits together. The company drummers were beating out a steady rhythm and breathed life into the company. Groggy, annoyed men clambered to their feet with muskets in hand and were herded into order by the company's corporals.

Astier found Jacques and gave a lazy salute before rubbing his eye with the same hand. Vidal found him as well, having taken a detour to make it appear that she had not come from his tent.

Astier yawned. "What's going on, Captain?"

"Our regiment's leading an attack against the Elbans, Marshal's orders," Jacques relayed. "Colonel Touissant wanted us up early."

"The Marshal's gone crazy," Astier grumbled. "All he had to do was roll up the guns and let them do all the killing. No need to risk our lives." He yawned again. "Why are we up early?"

Jacques shrugged. "Presumably so we're wide awake when it's time for the attack. Or perhaps he just wants to fuck with us. It doesn't matter. We have orders, so let's get to it. Make sure everyone gets something to eat then form them up, and we'll join the battalion once I get further orders."

Half an hour later, every man had some sausage or biscuit in him, and Jacques got his orders from Major Beauregard. Their battalion was going to form up in column at the center of the French line. His company had the honor of being in front.

He showed the orders to Vidal and Astier. Both spat.

So much for an easy day.

The Ninth Company, as always, was one of the first on the field. By the time Jacques was marching his men out into the field, men from other regiments were only just beginning to wake up. That was all fine, of course, because those men weren't leading the assault. Other companies soon joined the Ninth to form their battalion, and other battalions assembled so that they together formed the regiment. The 134th Line Regiment formed the center of the battle line while other regiments filled in the flanks. According to Colonel Touissant, the Marshal wanted them to press hard against the Elban center. They'd go forward in column, form line, volley once, then press forward with bayonets.

Colonel Touissant reassured them that the Elbans would break once they saw the columns approaching. They were untrained and demoralized, he claimed.

Jacques felt this was a bit optimistic. They were Elbans, and the plan was to engage them in melee. It seemed safer just to bombard them from a distance.

Why send infantry to take all the risks?

But of course, Jacques knew the Marshal's plans did not take into account the opinion of a mere captain, so he obeyed. The sun rose above the horizon. Men whispered prayers, made jokes, and inspected a dozen minor things. Other regiments gradually fell into place along the battle line.

And far ahead, the Elbans were forming up to oppose them.

Even from a distance, Jacques could tell something was wrong. The solid grey squares he was used to seeing from Elban soldiers were non-existent. Instead, their line was a mess of blobs and scattered men. It curved and bulged in odd places; some of the line even folded in on itself. He saw one blob tumble into another as it tried to find a place in the line.

Perhaps Touissant hadn't been exaggerating.

Fifteen minutes passed, and the French line was fully formed, four regiments of regulars at the front with everything else in reserve. They created a veritable wall of blue and white with a forest of bayonets stretching overhead. Meanwhile, the Elban line was still in chaos. Jacques felt something stir in him. The enemy wasn't ready, and they were.

Colonel Touissant saw it too. He rode out in front of the regiment and drew his sword. "At them!" he roared, sword pointed at the Elbans.

The drums began to beat. Battalion columns sprang forward.

Jacques thanked God that the ground they marched over was solid and dry. It allowed them to shoot ahead, like an arrow from a bow, at a steady pace. The regiments on the flanks were slower to react, but they came forward eventually, and they joined the 134th so that the whole French line was turned into a chevron with Jacques's regiment at its head.

The steady beating of the drums caused his feet to march automatically. As an officer, Jacques wasn't squeezed shoulder to shoulder with the other men; he'd placed himself at the right end of the company a few feet from the rightmost man. Regardless, some invisible force seemed to press him forward so that he was always in step with the rest of the company.

They marched over a grassy field which reminded Jacques all too much of France. It was completely flat, lacking even a smattering of hills or trees. The sun had now risen to illuminate the world, and every man had a good view of the battlefield.

To their far right, squadrons of cavalry spread out beyond the French battle line. Chaucer's Boys, presumably. Meant to clean up after the infantry did all the work.

Behind the line, auxiliaries did their best to keep up with the regulars. They'd never been the best at marching, but they were improving steadily with experience. With them were other regulars who'd been held in reserve.

Also in reserve was the artillery, and Jacques grumbled when he saw them. They were supposed to be doing the work today. Lazy bastards.

Ahead of all of them were the Elbans, little grey blobs which gradually got bigger. Jacques's company had started marching with men making jokes, and there was initially a chorus of laughter to match, but as they continued forward nerves got the better of many men, and the laughter fizzled out. Elban soldiers became ever clearer in the distance.

This was supposed to be an easy day. Why were they facing down Elbans with bayonets? Jacques spat and looked at the distant enemy again.

Because the Elbans weren't ready.

Jacques found that time was inconsistent while marching. It felt like they'd only been marching for minutes, but it must have been longer than that because they were now halfway across the field, and they were only marching at ordinary pace. However long it'd been, the Elban line was still in chaos.

It was almost comical, really. In the time it took for the French to form up and march halfway to them, the Elbans hadn't even managed to get their regiments into order.

Men were milling around, standing awkwardly out of place while officers ran back and forth screaming at them. Confusion seemed to reign supreme as even the officers couldn't work out where to get their units. Instead of proper formations, the Elbans were in blobs which appeared to comprise mixtures of units without any semblance of order. Their line still wasn't straight.

Jacques watched it all with professional disgust. Well-drilled formations were the lifeblood of the infantry, and these Elbans made a mockery of it. Even militia could form up better than them.

He'd now begun to have an inkling of what the Marshal was thinking. Not that he liked it. They were now three-quarters way across the field, and the Elbans seemed significantly less menacing.

Jacques breathed in and then shouted so that the whole company could hear, "Listen here! We'll form line quickly, fire a volley, then give them cold steel! Those farmers will be running before they even have a whiff of us!"

Someone in the second rank coughed. The drummers continued beating.

"Remember we're French!" Astier bellowed. "We don't run. We don't surrender. We kill!"

There was a general rumble from the ranks, men grunting in agreement.

"But sergeant," someone in the third rank said, "I'm a Croat!"

Laughter joined the rumble.

"I'm a German!" another piped up.

"I'm Portuguese!"

"Polish here!"

The whole company laughed, pushing away nerves and fears. Only veterans laughed before battle, and Jacques's men had served from Russia to Elbe. They were now close enough to discern the faces of the Elbans, but the call to transition to line still hadn't come.

Astier gave a slight grin. "We're all French now, you bastards!"

The French columns marched right up to the Elban line, if one could even call it that, before the drums beat out orders to form a battalion line. The Elbans were still in chaos, and their order hadn't improved with the onset of the French transition. If anything it became worse.

Jacques halted his company while the rest of the battalion formed up around them. He was so close to the Elbans that he could see the rust on their armor. Everything about them reeked of incompetence. Most looked too young for war.

Many began to stare at the French. Even officers turned to look.

Everything seemed to stop. The French finished forming into lines, and the Elbans no longer attempted to drag themselves into formation, prefering to stare at Frenchmen opposing them. The air became eerily silent. There was no movement from either side.

Something nibbled at Jacques.

"Gentlemen of Elbe!" Jacques suddenly roared, striding out ahead of the line. He had no idea what possessed him at that moment. "Who among you would like to die first?"

The whole of the Elban line flinched.

Jacques drew his sword and called, "Make ready!"

The call spread to other companies. Men began to back away.

He held his sword high. "Present!"

As hundreds of muskets dropped into place, the Elban line started to shuffle back. Men stared down their deaths, and some tried to push their way through their own ranks. Many in the rear scrambled backwards.

Jacques felt the nibble. Something deep in his being.

"Gentlemen of Elbe!" he cried again. "Send my regards to hell!"

The next word out of Jacques's mouth would have been the order to fire, but Elban morale snapped first. In that moment, the whole center of the Elban line broke and took off running in a chaotic rout. Hundreds dropped their weapons on the spot. Soldiers stampeded away from the French, pushing and shoving to get clear. At least a few men were trampled by their own fleeing comrades. Panic spread like a plague to the Elban flanks, and soon they too were in a wild retreat. The entire army's will seemed to break. Once started, there was no going back. The ill-trained recruits ran and didn't look twice. No one, not even the veterans who served as officers and trainers, remained to face the French. They just melted away.

For a moment Jacques was dazed. Then something flowed out of him, and he realized what had just happened. The whole line had shattered like glass.

"Shoulder arms!" he ordered.

His men hesitated, having been so close to opening fire, but then they uncocked their muskets and shouldered them. Relief flooded the company all at once, and men started whispering to each other.

To their far right, Chaucer's Boys were riding like the wind after the fleeing Elbans.

Jacques blinked, just in case he was dreaming.

He wasn't.

So he stood there staring.

"Now will you read Chaucer's letter, sir?" Barbier asked, holding the paper out for Ney.

Ney's brow moved. "What is in that letter that you must be so insistent? Is it not more pressing that we have ten thousand Elban prisoners whom we now must feed, house, and watch?"

Barbier was resolute and said, "I think you'll find it is quite urgent, sir." He pushed the letter into Ney's hands.

"Christ above," Ney muttered and began to read.

It was full of the usual arrogance and bluster as well as Chaucer's typical roundabout way of writing, but as he read further it became evident why Barbier had been so insistent. Prince Zorzal. A new army. Italica under threat. Something about cannons and a woman with a halberd.

"Why didn't you show me this sooner?" Ney immediately demanded.

Barbier writhed with exasperation. The righteous indignation of aides everywhere.

Ney knew he was being unreasonable, so he turned away and stared down at his map. Chaucer said he could only hold out for a week, but Zorzal hadn't begun marching yet, and that meant he had time. Still, the report was more than two weeks old, so any estimation of that time was at best a well placed guess.

Ney needed to move immediately, but he couldn't just march to Italica with ten thousand Elban prisoners in tow. He also couldn't let them go or they'd oust Duran in a matter of months.

Did he even still care about Duran?

Then there was the matter of the mage he was promised…

But if Italica fell…

Did he really trust an upjumped quartermaster to be able to defend the city against forty thousand Saderan soldiers? Could Ney even beat forty thousand Saderan soldiers? Aquila Ridge hadn't been easy.

Terror Belli.

Ney tapped the map. "New marching orders!" he called to Barbier. "We're going to conduct a forced march to Janku. Thirty miles a day. Leave most of the supply train; we'll forage on the way. Send a courier to Feraud at Castle Vatspol; he's to meet us as Janku with the duchess' family and his whole contingent. Burn the grain stores and abandon the castle. He has five days from the moment he receives this message. We should arrive at roughly the same time."

"And our prisoners, sir?"

"They come with us. Forced march. God save any who can't make the pace."

Ney's army left the estates of Duke Cantero, much to the relief of the local peasantry, without inflicting the same devastation that Duchess Triana's people had been subjected to. They dismantled their hastily built camp, assembled on the road to Janku, and then began marching straight back the way they'd come at a breakneck pace. Frenchmen cursed the sudden change. Elban prisoners breathed a sigh of relief.

Their relief didn't last long.

Gallio had nearly puked when he'd heard the orders. Thirty French miles, the equivalent of twenty-seven Saderan miles, every single day. All the while carrying pikes, armor, and their individual kits. Oh, and of course they had to build a camp at the end of each day as well.

Fucking French. Their infantry marched at the speed of cavalry. Gods only knew how war was fought in their world. It was probably all marching.

Regardless, Gallio wasn't an Italican thug anymore. He was a soldier now, so when the orders came to march thirty French miles, he did exactly that. His company marched the distance, built its part of the army's camp, and then dropped to the ground groaning. Gallio's whole body felt like it was made of lead. Captain Kapsner had the gall to tell them that this was the easy part.

The captain was unfortunately correct.

Gallio woke the next day with his legs on fire, and his muscles in rebellion. He got up only through sheer spite. Then, of course, he marched thirty French miles under the torturous Elban sun with a pack overloaded with equipment. Every step was an ordeal, every shallow hill a mountain, and every hour a decade. Gallio muttered to himself to keep his mind off of things, barely intelligible one-sided conversations about the world and his place in it. When that grew dull, he began cursing. Gallio cursed the French, cursed the Elbans, cursed the Empire, but most of all he cursed every fucking pebble in his gods-forsaken boot. He considered cursing the gods.

On the third day, men began dropping out of the column. They weren't deserters or cowards; they just couldn't keep going. Gallio waved to them as he went past which made Captain Kapsner stride over to reprimand him for damaging morale. By that point, they'd been marching twenty miles, and Gallio didn't care. He rolled his eyes and bit his tongue to avoid latrine duty.

Fucking French.

Another day passed, and Gallio began wondering if he should lighten his pack just a bit to smooth the march along. Did he really need all that extra stuff? Surely he could do without some of it.

Naturally it was just when Gallio had decided that he definitely didn't need all of it that Kapsner announced the sergeants would be inspecting kits each morning. That was the end of that plan.

Fucking French.

On the fifth day his company was visited by Captain Duclos who apparently wanted to speak with Captain Kapsner. The company had just finished setting up camp, and men were sprawled across the ground haphazardly. Placus was lying next to Gallio, and Marcus was busy dumping water over his head. Every bone in Gallio's body ached.

Despite that, Gallio had enough humor in him to shout, "Eh, Captain! March treating you well?"

Captain Duclos stopped mid stride to look over. There was a flash of recognition in his eye before he replied, "Not too bad. The weather's nice here."

Marcus choked on his water and began coughing violently. Placus's head snapped over.

Captain Duclos grinned. "This isn't anything. When we marched against Italica we did the same pace with half rations. You auxies have it easy."

Gallio blinked a few times.

"Ask anyone," the captain laughed. "What we're doing now is nowhere near as bad as it could be." With that, he strode into Kapsner's tent.

Marcus groaned. "You hear that?"

Gallio shook his head. "He's exaggerating; no one can do that."

"But what if it's true?" Placus asked. "They did get to Italica very quickly."

Gallio rubbed his brow. "Fucking French."

The next morning, Captain Kapsner announced that they had a special duty for the day. "It's the Elbans we captured," he explained. "They're not real soldiers, and they don't know how to march. There's been a great deal of complaining. The Marshal's afraid that they might try a revolt if they aren't watched, so we're reinforcing the 134th's guard contingent."

Placus groaned. "So we march and watch prisoner now, yes?" he asked in his broken Elban.

"Seems like a lot to do, sir," Marcus added.

Captain Kapsner gave an infuriating shrug and said, "You'll manage. Just be glad we're eating full meals."

Gallio had just enough discipline in himself not to spit at his captain. Marcus and Placus grumbled, as did dozens of other men in the company. Then they were off, and they headed to the back of the column where the Elban prisoners were.

To call the prisoners men would be misleading. They were boys, and they looked like worn out rags. Their bodies were covered in dust from head to toe with beads of sweat creating brown streaks down their faces. Most of them had blistered feet from the incessant marching. They spoke in grunted whispers so that the whole mob of prisoners was reduced to a muffled collection of grunts that went silent anytime a Frenchman came near. Many looked like they could barely stand, let alone march. No one would look Gallio in the eye.

"What are we doing to them?" he spat to Marcus. "They look like slaves."

Marcus glared back. "I was a slave. This is nothing like slavery."

Gallio said nothing.

The auxiliaries formed their column at the back of the mob of prisoners. When the call to march came, they went forward with pikes shouldered and forced the prisoners to move with them. There was a sense of mild panic as the Elbans did their best to shuffle forward, ignoring pain and fatigue. Some men tripped, but they quickly picked themselves up lest they were trampled by the auxiliaries. No one stopped to help.

They marched like that for the rest of the day, fear driving the prisoners past their normal limits. Gallio had thought he'd had it bad, but this put it all into perspective. By the end of the day, he didn't feel the same fatigue he'd felt days prior. Instead he felt dirty, disgusted by the world.

Gallio woke up twice that night. Both times he told himself he was getting soft and shut his eyes until sleep came.

They had the same assignment the next day. The boys looked worse, skinnier somehow, and many only got to their feet when they saw the array of pikes form behind them.

The call to march came as always, and Gallio went forward with his company. He chewed a piece of hardtack to pass the time. The prisoners ahead were slogging in every sense of the word. They didn't sing; they didn't even speak. It was all they could do to breathe and take one more step. Sometimes they tripped and fell, or flopped to the ground and lay in the dirt. Each time, the boy in question would scramble to their feet before the column of auxiliaries could trample him. So far none had been too slow.

It grew darker slowly, and Gallio found he was able to track time based on how tired his body was. His legs were just about feeling like sacks of lead when Elbans began trying to run off. They went off in ones and twos, slipping to the side of the road and into the undergrowth. Most times, a Frenchman would level their weapon and shout in poor Elban for them to stop or be shot. Sometimes it worked; sometimes the boy would keep running.

Gallio imagined a man would be able to track the army's progress based on the corpses lining the road.

Fucking French.

Dinner that night was served with roasted chicken and fresh lamb. The delicious aroma served as a beacon for soldiers everywhere, and the smell alone revived Gallio a great deal. They didn't question just where the animals had come from nor did they ask about the burnt out farm they'd passed on the road.

Marshal Ney had abandoned most of their supply train to increase the pace, and foraging was never pretty. It was best not to think about it.

In the morning, Captain Kapsner told them they were going to be guarding prisoners again, and every man groaned.

They assembled again at the back of the mob of prisoners. None of them were standing, and Gallio felt a pang of guilt that he quickly squashed. When the call to march came, none of them stood.

Captain Kapsner hesitated then drew his sword. "On your feet!" he demanded.

There must have been some agreement amongst them; a mutiny of sorts. Most Elbans barely even glanced at him.

He walked forward. "I said, on your feet!"

Again no one moved.

The captain glanced between the prisoners and his men. Kapsner's sword moved ever so slightly, his fingers rubbing against the hilt. "Run and pull some of the contingent up here," he quietly growled to Placus who by sheer chance was closest to the captain. "A battalion at least, or we're all going to have a bad time."

Placus scurried off, dropping his pike to the side of the road. He ran back, past the company, headed down the road where the rest of the prisoner contingent was waiting in column.

Minutes later, eight French companies appeared like wings sprouting from the sides of the road. They were marching rapidly, and they joined Gallio's company on either end, so that the prisoners were now presented with a veritable wall of armed men.

There was some commotion among the prisoners, but they continued to sit. They were done suffering.

An officer on horseback exchanged rapid words in French with Captain Kapsner. He rode away while Kapsner turned back to Gallio's company.

"Pikes ready!"

Gallio moved automatically.

"Level!"

A hundred spear tips lowered at once. Three ranks of steel suddenly presented themselves to the prisoners.

"Forward! Step!"

The whole company inched one step ahead.

"Step!"

All at once, they moved.

"Step!"

The French to their sides weren't moving. Their bayonets were nowhere near as frightening as the auxiliaries' pikes, and they were only there in case things went poorly. Gallio didn't want to imagine what firing their weapons would do to the prisoners at this range.

"Step!"

Gallio's pike edged dangerously close to the mob of Elban prisoners.

"Step!"

The prisoners began scrambling to their feet, no longer confident they could stop the wall of pikes. Perhaps it was never confidence and instead just exhaustion. Regardless, the pikes put an end to those thoughts and replaced them with fear.

"Step!"

An Elban could've reached out to touch Gallio's pike if he wanted. Some began to shuffle.

"Step!"

The whole mob now flinched from the pikes, and they backed away. They shuffled onto the road and away from the pikes. Any resistance was gone now. Sharp steel made sure of that.

Captain Kapsner looked relieved, satisfied even. He sheathed his sword and bellowed, "Raise pikes!"

Something flowed out of Gallio. He let go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. His pike joined a growing forest of pike shafts above his head while the poor Elbans ahead of him huddled in terror.

Everything began to normalize. The French moved back to their positions on the road, and the prisoners began marching forward, driven by Gallio's company. In the end it was all just a show of force. A threat to keep the Elbans marching. No one died.

What would we have done if they'd resisted?

Gallio didn't like the answers his mind imagined.

He kept his mind busy with marching and for once was glad for the relentless torment. The pebbles in his shoes and pain in his thighs kept away thoughts of massacre. They marched the whole day, another thirty French miles. By the end, blessed soreness was in every leg muscle, and he had managed to push away the morning's events.

He slept poorly.

The next day they marched again. Gallio was back to cursing everything which meant things really were normal again. And it was just before Gallio's legs began to feel like they were being torn apart by wolves that the city of Janku appeared in the distance.

"Order! Order! There will be order in this assembly!"

King Duran watched the supposed head of the Assembly of Lords vainly smack his gavel against a desk. He was ignored by the crowd of nobles, each roaring over one issue or another. The man, some minor baron deemed inoffensive enough to all parties to preside over the Assembly, seemed to give up on the gavel.

It was all one massive sham. The Assembly of Lords was nothing more than power hungry nobles trying to snap away at Duran's authority while pretending to represent the people. He had known it when it first was brought to his attention, and now he was more than certain.

Duran watched the nobility with something akin to a snarl. Nearly a hundred minor nobles mixed with a few powerful ones. Vultures, all of them.

There was nothing noble about anything that had occured. Duran had tried to avoid the Assembly for as long as possible, but with Ney gone and only fifty royal knights to protect him, it had been inevitable. The first few invitations he'd been able to refuse, but they soon stopped 'requesting' his presence and began demanding it. He'd practically been dragged to their meeting place. His guards were 'encouraged' to remain at the Royal Palace. His attendants had openly refuted entry.

They were assembled in a merchant's warehouse, one of the few buildings in Janku with a room that could fit so many nobles at once, and a fitting expression of their open greed. The room was in chaos. There were at least twenty arguments occuring in different places with earls, barons, and other variously titled lords roaring at each other as if by virtue of their loudness they could convince the others they were correct. Two fist fights had already broken out, and Duran was certain another was shortly on its way.

It hadn't begun like that. The Head was able to begin things with full command of the room, introducing Duran, and allowing him to be seated. Once that had been done, however, the lords began arguing and any semblance of agenda broke down. There was quite some contention over whether he should be addressed as King Duran, as befitting his royal position, or Duke Duran as that was the highest non-royal title he held, and he was after all considered only a lord for the purposes of the Assembly. It was this crucial discussion that had thus far occupied the attention of the hundred or so lords in the room.

"Order, gentlemen! Order!" the Head once more attempted. Only a few even deigned to glance his way.

"The Assembly will be silent!" a distinctly female voice suddenly snapped.

That managed to quiet the room, and Heads turned to see Duchess Triana stand from her seat. She was one of the only noblewomen in the room and one of the three most powerful nobles in Elbe.

Those were the real powers behind these squabblers: Duchess Triana, Duke Cantero, and Duke Sallent. Of them, he knew Triana and Cantero were actively collaborating for his downfall. There were rumors of bandits burning Triana's estates and an army in Cantero's, but so far nothing certain had deprived them of power.

Duchess Triana nodded to the Head. "Shall we begin our actual proceedings?"

There was some grumbling, but then Duke Cantero also stood and said, "Yes, let us begin."

The Head was evidently grateful. He produced a piece of parchment and began, "King Duran," many lords glared, but he continued, "You are here to answer charges of corruption, mismanagement, and tyranny. It is the expressed view-"

"Charges?" Duran roared, "You presume to charge your king as a criminal?!"

"-the expressed view of this Assembly that you have abused your power as King of Elbe to-"

Duran scowled at the man. "By what power am I called here to answer charges? What authority? I am your king; the gods gave me that authority. What gives you yours?"

The Head stumbled, "I-I… The Assembly sees that-"

"The people of Elbe give us our authority," Duke Cantero sneered. "Now answer your charges."

Duran balled his fists. "I do more for the people of Elbe than any of you who pretend to judge me, so again answer by what authority do you charge me? I will not answer to a body with no authority!"

"Our authority is sufficient, Duran. It is yours that is in question," Duchess Triana stated.

Duran narrowed his eyes. "If power without law guiding it may change the law then nothing is sacred and none can be free of tyranny."

"We are here by authority of the people, whom you and all who came before you are beholden to."

"And how is it that you have come to represent the people?"

At last Duke Sallent rose. "The nobility of Elbe have been tasked with protecting Elbe since the very beginnings. The people are included in that understanding."

Duran met his eye. "The king is also tasked with protecting Elbe, is he not?"

"Enough of this!" Duke Cantero hissed. "I move that Duran is guilty of all charges and shall be punished accordingly. All those in favor will-"

The doors to the room burst open.

Men in blue and white uniforms suddenly began to flood into the room. They carried the distinctive wood and metal staves used by Bluecoat soldiers. They spread to the walls, blocking off potential exits.

At their head was Marshal Ney.

"Citizens, you have been dissolved!" the Marshal shouted, sword in hand. He turned to Captain Duclos, a knight of Elbe by Duran's own hand, "Foutez-moi tout ce monde dehors!"

Captain Duclos marched forward with two sergeants at his side. "Everyone in this room is under arrest! Come quietly or face the consequences."

There was instant panic throughout the nobility. Two men tried to draw daggers and received musket butts to the face for it. Most attempted to run and found the doorways were blocked by Bluecoats. Many went for the windows, only to be pulled down by their ankles and beaten for it. Duchess Triana was singled out by Ney and personally apprehended by two Bluecoats. Duke Cantero had a sword but was tackled before he could use it.

Dozens of the richest and most powerful men in Elbe were apprehended in a matter of minutes. And all around Duran, lords crowded to plead forgiveness.

In the aftermath of the storming, Ney's men placed their new captives into house arrest in a collection of cramped apartments near the Royal Palace. They were technically guilty of treason, at least by Duran's reckoning of the law, but he was not eager to cut off the heads of a significant number of Elbe's nobility. Instead, Duran intended to pardon them each individually, picking out the worst offenders to make examples of.

With Duchess Triana's family as hostages and Duke Cantero's levies in chains, there was nothing they could do to oppose him. Especially so after he immediately pardoned Duke Sallent and received his support in return. His reign was secure at last.

"Took you long enough," Duran said when he finally was able to meet with Ney. "They were getting ready to take my head."

Ney shrugged. "I've seen a king lose his head. Your Assembly was nowhere near extreme enough for that."

"Well I appreciate it regardless. I've got to-"

"We won't be here long," Ney interrupted. "The Empire's decided on war again. I need to head for Italica immediately."

Duran frowned. "In that case, I'll be brief… I can give you what I've promised. The gold's coming from seized estates, but I can get the bankers to loan you hard currency in exchange for notes promising repayment. As for the mage, I've already spoken with an astrologer from the conclave. He has-"

"You said you'd be brief."

He stretched his arms and let out an exaggerated yawn.

The Marshal tapped his finger impatiently.

Duran smiled. "Fine, brief it is then. A new Gate is going to open soon. Somewhere in the Empire. The astrologers have confirmed it. They'll know more as time passes, so the one I spoke to is willing to travel with you until then."

Ney stared for a long time.

"A new Gate?"

It has been more than a while since I last updated. Really I've just been incredibly busy, so there's not been a lot of time for me to write. In the process of writing this chapter I also discovered that I'm definitely a little rusty due to the long break, so forgive me if it's not up to the usual quality. Really it's been the reviews that kept me going to get this chapter out, so I have to thank all of you who have reviewed.

I'm still very busy, so it might be another long wait before the next one. Thank you for being patient.