4. Chapter 4

Remember, gentlemen, what a Roman emperor said: 'The corpse of an enemy always smells sweet.'

Those were the Emperor's words. Words meant to inspire courage before battle and urge men to fight their hardest. Jacques had believed the words when Napoleon first spoke them. Now, he couldn't help but ponder just how false they were. Enemy corpses didn't smell sweet. They smelt like any other corpse; a thick stench of death that made Jacques want to hurl. That stench was everywhere.

The French were victorious. Hours earlier, Marshal Ney, having just beaten the northern enemy in a decisive battle, had marched back to rescue General Messier's rearguard and crush the southern enemy. Victory was assured as soon as the Marshal's troops entered the battlefield, but sporadic fighting still went on in various places as enemy forces either made valiant last stands or surrendered to the French.

Fortunately, Jacques's men were not required for these cleanup actions. They'd fought hard, and now they could rest. Jacques was looking forward to a warm meal before collapsing in his tent. He deserved it. How many soldiers of the Grande Armée could say they fought ogres and lived? He deserved a rest.

First, though, he had to speak with the captain.

Jacques stood outside Captain Courbis's tent, patiently waiting for his turn. A guard was posted outside, and he had calmly explained to Jacques that the captain was busy. Jacques could just barely see the outline of a man speaking with Captain Courbis. He couldn't really make out what was being said. Something about an officer? Courbis was angry, that was sure.

A man exited the tent. The guard stepped inside briefly, spoke a few words, stepped out, and nodded for Jacques to enter. Jacques fixed his uniform as best he could, it was filthy from battle but there was little to be done about that, and walked in.

Jacques snapped a salute. "Sir!"

Captain Courbis was sitting behind a small camp desk. His face was perfectly straight, but Jacques could feel tension in the man, like a loaded musket prepared to fire. The captain acknowledged Jacques with a grunt. "What is it, sergeant?"

"Casualty reports, sir." Jacques did his best to appear calm.

The captain took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. "How many did we lose?"

"Two wounded and two dead." Jacques's fingers twitched when he spoke. The casualties weren't high by any means. They were actually fairly low for a company that had been in the thick of the fighting. A few months ago, Jacques would have considered these numbers to be nothingless than a blessing. But a few months ago, Jacques hadn't been a sergeant. Now these were his men who had been wounded. His men who had died.

If I had done something different could they have survived? Could someone better have kept them alive? I shouldn't even-

"-return to their posts?" A question from Captain Courbis flew past him.

He blinked. "Sorry, sir?"

The captain tilted his head slightly before saying, "I asked you who are the wounded and if they will be able to return to their posts?"

Jacques spent half a heartbeat wracking his brain. "Lucroy and Gilson, sir. Lucroy got cut with a sword, but the surgeon says he'll be fine. Gilson took a spear to the arm; doctors had to amputate."

Would Gilson have his arm if I wasn't the sergeant?

The captain seemed unphased. "And the dead?"

"Private Léger and Lieutenant Vernier, sir" Jacques replied immediately. Both names were drilled into his conscience. Léger was the soldier who'd wanted to stop marching, but Jacques had gotten him moving again. "Léger got killed when they stormed the ramparts, and Vernier-"

"-was a damned fool," Captain Courbis finished for him.

Jacques blinked. "Sir?"

"I was there too, sergeant. Vernier didn't know when to run, and now I don't have a lieutenant. Worse, none of the other companies can spare me a replacement, so now I'm the only officer in this damn company."

The captain stared at him. Jacques chose to remain silent.

"You've been promoted," the captain declared, breaking the silence. Courbis tossed him two golden patches, similar to the stripes sewn on Jacques's sleeve but these instead denoting a sergeant-major. "Congratulations."

Jacques felt his breath hitch.

"You'll be filling in for both the duties of a sergeant and a lieutenant, so really it's just more work, but look on the bright side." Courbis smiled. "The pay's better."

That was supposed to be a joke. No one in the Third Corps was getting paid, not while they were completely cut off from France. Jacques didn't find it very funny.

"Is that all, sir?" he asked.

The captain's smile faded. "You're dismissed. I expect a day or two of rest before the Marshal has us marching again, but have the company ready to move regardless."

Jacques saluted. "Yes, sir."

Being a sergeant, Jacques reflected, had certain benefits. Namely, he didn't have to share his tent with anyone else. The tent wasn't any larger than what the rank and file slept in, but not having to share it with three other men meant that it felt massive. The moment that Jacques returned from meeting with Captain Courbis, he entered it and collapsed into his bed roll.

Outside, Jacques could hear an almost carnival atmosphere among the men of the Ninth Company. The victory over the enemy seemed to have dissipated the exhaustion they all felt from battle, and men sat around the camp laughing and shouting at one another. Someone had produced a bottle of vodka, technically against regulation but Jacques wasn't going to reprimand them, and it was being passed around the company with vigour.

Jacques couldn't see where they found the energy. The victory felt shallow for some reason. Reporting casualties to Captain Courbis had left him shaky and drained, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into the nothingness of sleep for a few hours. Beneath the exhaustion was a small sense of dread. His recent promotion placed even more responsibility onto his shoulders. He already felt inadequate as a sergeant, but now he was a sergeant-major filling the roles of both lieutenant and sergeant. He had no training for this. Little to no experience. If his men died in battle it would be his fault.

Jacques glanced at his desk. The tiny wooden thing that carried a stack of papers he needed to fill out. Supply requisitions, daily sick lists, infractions, and all the other things he needed to sign off on for a company to function correctly. He also needed to track down Private Léger's and Lieutenant Vernier's next of kin, so they could be informed of what happened when the Third Corps returned to France. If they returned to France.

He knew he needed to work but found he couldn't lift his head from his bed roll. The thought of picking up a pen at that moment sent his entire body into revolt. Maybe if I just close my eyes for a few minutes…

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

Sergeant Levett was there. He guided men into a large mansion. They dragged out gilded furniture, fancy paintings, armfuls of jewelry. The fire was ignored.

"Duclos!" Levett shouted. "Duclos get in there!"

Jacques's feet remained planted. His throat felt thick.

The sergeant left him. He entered the building and came out pulling a girl by her hair. She was beautiful, and there were tears in her eyes. Levett shoved her to the ground. More tears. Levett snarled.

The girl locked eyes with Jacques. She mouthed something in Russian. Jacques could barely speak the language, but he understood.

Kill me. Please.

He had his musket. The metal was cold to the touch. He cocked it.

Levett hit the girl again. More tears. Her eyes remained fixed on Jacques.

He raised his musket, and felt the wood stock rest against his shoulder. His finger curled around the trigger. It tightened.

Kill me. Please.

Jacques jerked awake, heart racing and a cold sweat on his brow. His hands trembled as the dream slowly faded. He laid perfectly still, feeling the soreness in his limbs and staring into the white fabric of his tent.

There was a knock on the tent post. He stood, desperately eager for some kind of distraction.

"Who's there?"

"It's me," Vidal replied from outside.

Jacques let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Come in."

The corporal ducked into the tent. He had a large bruise forming under his left eye which drew Jacques's stare for a few moments too long.

"From the battle," he explained. "One of the bastards got me good with the butt of his spear, so I repaid him with the tip of my bayonet. Surgeon says nothing's broken."

"That's good…" Jacques said, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable. Vidal looked too young to be more than seventeen, yet here he was talking about killing people. Jacques cleared his throat. "What was it you wanted?"

Vidal stiffened a bit. "I was wondering if you'd like your dinner brought in."

"I suppose…" Jacques had been eating his meals alone in his tent ever since he'd been promoted to sergeant with only a few exceptions. He looked back at his desk full of paperwork and his bed roll haunted by memories, and Vidal seemed to read his mind.

"You're welcome to eat with the rest of the company, sergeant."

Jacques hesitated. "I wouldn't want to interrupt anything."

"You wouldn't-"

"You know how it is. The men can't have the same sort of talk when the sergeant's listening in." That was how it was with Levett anyway.

"You ate with us during the battle," Vidal protested.

Jacques sighed. "That was… different." They hadn't set up any tents while they were awaiting the enemy in their dirt fortress, so Jacques hadn't been able to hide away.

"Come and join us," Vidal said with enthusiasm only he could muster. "I think you'll feel better."

Jacques chuckled. "Alright, you've convinced me. But don't let my presence change anything."

Dinner was already ready when they emerged from his tent. Several large pots were placed over fires, carrying a stew consisting of anything edible that could be found which was then boiled until it was soft enough to consume. Men sat in circles around fires, eating from bowls, playing cards, and talking.

Vidal led Jacques to one of the circles. He recognized Corporal Astier among a group of a dozen or so men. They opened up to make space for the two of them, and someone handed Jacques a bowl of stew. It had meat from a type of animal they'd found roaming the countryside which resembled a cross between a cow and a bear. He gobbled it down quickly. Jacques hadn't realized how hungry he'd been.

At first, Jacques's fear seemed to have been justified. The laughs and joking immediately died down when their sergeant arrived, and the circle ate in awkward silence. Hoping to break that silence, Vidal began introducing the men which provided a dozen names that Jacques immediately forgot. Soon the silence returned, even more awkward and uncomfortable than the first time.

Corporal Astier was the first to break through this silence. He abandoned his usual gruff demeanor and said, "My parents used to tell me stories about giants and ogres. I didn't think they were real."

Vidal eagerly seized this scrap of conversation. "My ma used to say if I didn't do my chores that she'd feed me to the river giant. Used to terrify me."

"My mother used to tell me about a friendly mountain spirit who appeared as a giant," Jacques offered. "These ones didn't seem very friendly."

"I've never heard that one," said one of the men, who was named either Laurent or Lazar.

"It's a German tale," Jacques explained. "My mother was from Strasbourg."

"Speak any German then?" another man asked.

"Ich spreche etwas Deutsch." Jacques was certain that he'd just mispronounced at least half of that, but it caused a round of laughing and cheers.

"Plenty of Germans in the Third Corps. Lots of Croatians and Portuguese too," someone else commented.

"I know a Croatian fellow who's with the artillery," another offered. "He can drink any man under the table and still ask for more."

"He's clearly never met me then!" a man boasted.

It went on like that for a good while. Bit by bit, the tension melted away, and Jacques allowed himself to relax. All of the men were veterans of Russia, and they began sharing war stories. Very few of them, as Jacques found out, were originally from the Third Corps. Most of them had been men left behind from other units who'd then been picked up by Marshal Ney's rearguard.

He also discovered another thing; they all looked to him for reassurance. He was the sergeant. He was the one who was supposed to know what to do. It was both flattering and terrifying. Jacques didn't know any better than they did, but for some ungodly reason he'd been thrust into this position, and now he was the one who had to make decisions. When they got to the subject of his own war stories, he told them about his part in the Battle of Borodino, charging at gun emplacements with his bayonet fixed. It wasn't anything special, tens of thousands of men had done the same, but for some reason when he told his story everyone looked at him with awe. Do the stripes really make that much difference?

Eventually the sun set and men excused themselves from the fires. Some stayed up to play cards, but Jacques was not one of them. He entered his tent, took one glance at the pile of paperwork he still needed to do, and fell into his bed roll.

Jacques slept undisturbed that night.

"So he told me!" Colonel Feraud moved his arm through the air as if drawing an imaginary saber. "He told me to send 'em hell and by God did I do just that!"

There was a collection of laughs from the officers gathered in a circle around a campfire.

Feraud clapped General Courbet on the shoulder. "You should have seen them! Runnin' like chickens from a fox!" He swung his imaginary saber through the air. "I must have gotten at least two dozen myself! Later when they saw me riding, saber gleaming, they threw down their swords in a mad terror!"

Another collection of laughs burst out from the officers. Even General Courbet had a smile on his face.

"I'll tell you something! For all their fancy armor and their long spears and their big shields, they haven't got it in them to face proper cavalry!" Feraud puffed out his chest. "It takes a hussar to show them what real horsemen look like!"

"Colonel Feraud," Ney greeted as he approached the campfire.

The hussar immediately snapped a quick salute. "Sir! I was just telling the other officers about the pursuit you ordered me on. Beautiful display that was. Let them grind up against the infantry then let loose the cavalry to send 'em hell!"

Ney raised an eyebrow. "Are you referring to the pursuit you conducted in the north or the one here in the south?"

"Both, sir! The lads did damned good work during both of them! Care to join us? I was just getting to the good part!"

Feraud's enthusiasm was infectious, and Ney found that he was grinning. "Of course, colonel. As much as I'd love to hear the rest of your story, I need to speak with General Courbet."

Ney's aide-de-camp stood from the fire and approached Ney. Courbet's uniform, as always, was flawless with no sign that he'd only hours ago been fighting for his life as part of General Messier's detachment.

"Sir," he greeted while giving a perfect salute.

"Enjoy serving with Messier?"

The edge of Courbet's mouth turned up with the smallest of grins. "As much as I enjoy General Messier's keen eye for defense, I am not entirely disappointed to reattach myself to your command, sir."

"I hear Messier led a counterattack in person."

"Yes of course, sir. I was with him when he did it."

"Do any great acts of valor?"

"I fought one of their officers."

"And?"

"He nearly killed me, and I only survived due to the timely arrival of your force."

Ney smiled and clapped him on the arm. "Good man."

Courbet's grin grew ever so slightly. "I presume you're here for an update on the situation?"

"Yes, I've been busy wrangling supply wagons into order. The pursuit went well I expect?"

Courbet gestured to where Feraud was continuing to recount his version of the pursuit with boisterous claims and exaggerations. "They started running when you came onto the field, so Colonel Feraud's men had a field day. The enemy tried to put together a rearguard, but General Rousseau smashed through it in a matter of minutes, and most of their army surrendered. From there it was just a matter of riding down the runners."

"Casualties?"

"Not even notable. I believe it totals to bit more than three hundred, and many of those are wounded men expected to recover."

"How many prisoners did we take?"

"Eight thousand, more than half their army. I estimate there's maybe three thousand dead and all the rest escaped. We also managed to capture a significant number of horses, so we'll be able to remount most of our cavalry." That would make Feraud happy. Ney's corps only had three hundred horses, so most of the cavalrymen had been forced to fight on foot until now.

"Any of the…" Ney cleared his throat. "Monsters?"

Courbet shook his head. "All four were killed in battle. We have a team of surgeons examining the corpses."

Ney breathed out a sigh of relief. When he'd first heard that Messier had fought giant ogres he'd dismissed it as madness. However, he'd since seen one of the corpses with his own eyes and the reality of the situation was forced upon him. Is it really so strange? We saw a structure materialize out of thin air and transport us to another world. Are these monsters so strange compared to that?

"And our supply situation?"

Courbet scratched his head. "We captured a significant amount of food from the enemy encampment. It's enough to feed the corps and our prisoners for a week. We'll still be reliant on foraging, but this grants us some reprieve."

Ney stroked his chin. That was good, but he didn't like the fact they didn't have a supply line to fall back on in case there wasn't enough forage. "And our ammunition?"

"We brought a substantial amount of gunpowder with us," Courbet replied. "The corps could fight maybe four more battles before we start running low."

Ney nodded. That was enough for a short campaign, but if things dragged on they'd need to find a way to replenish their ammunition on their own. He doubted the locals could sell them it, but if they had the resources they could manufacture it themselves.

"Anything else I need to know?"

"One thing, sir. We captured a prisoner that might interest you. I believe he is the enemy commander."

"That could be useful," Ney mused. "But without a common language to communicate through, there's nothing to be gained as of now."

Courbet smiled. Not a grin like before but a full smile. "Sir, I believe you should speak with Colonel Feraud about the prisoner."

Ney tilted his head slightly. "Right." He looked over to where Feraud was still telling his tale. "Colonel! I believe I need to speak with you."

Feraud paused his story and apologized to his audience before striding over to Ney and Courbet.

"This about One-Eye?"

Ney blinked. "Who?"

"The fellow I captured. He's missing his left eye, so I've been calling him One-Eye."

Ney looked to Courbet for confirmation. The general nodded.

"I suppose you'll want to know all about him then," Feraud beamed. "See, after we'd finished rounding up most of the army, I sent a few squadrons to go and round up anyone who'd run. I was leading one of those near a good patch of forest when a man on a horse came galloping past us. Naturally I was up for the chase, so I drew my saber and galloped after him!" Feraud mimed drawing an imaginary saber. "The fellow was a good rider, but I was better! I came up right behind him and sent him tumbling straight to the ground! That's when One-Eye started cursing at me. I'm sure if I'd understood what he was saying I'd have been very offended but-"

"Could you get to the point, colonel." Ney's patience for storytelling had worn thin.

Feraud chuckled. "Well that's just the thing, sir! As he was swearing at me from the ground, I think he was speaking German."

"German? You're sure?"

"Of course not! I've never spoken a lick of anything but French and a bit of Spanish in my life, but it sure as hell sounded like German."

Ney turned his head to Courbet.

"We've confirmed that some of the prisoners speak a dialect of German," Courbet said, answering the unasked question. "Prisoners from the south speak German; the prisoners from the north speak the language we encountered before."

Ney turned back to Feraud. "Thank you, colonel. You have been very helpful." As soon as Feraud returned to continue telling his story to the other officers, Ney looked at Courbet. "Were the theatrics necessary?"

The general shrugged, and Ney thought he could see an ounce of mischief in his eye. "Would you like to meet One-Eye?"

Ney sighed. "Yes, but I hope you've asked his real name."

"The Lion of Elbe?"

Courbet nodded. "That's what he called himself."

"I'll presume that's a title, not a name." Ney and Courbet approached a tent that was serving as a makeshift prison. "Anything else he called himself?"

"King Duran."

"Sounds Spanish."

"I assure you, sir, he speaks German."

"Elbe is a river, correct? Passes through Germany and Bohemia?" They stopped outside the tent, and two guards stood at attention.

Courbet nodded again. "That would be correct in our world, but for our purposes in this world it is a vassal kingdom of the Empire."

"The Empire?"

"From what I've gathered, it is a continent spanning nation that dominates this world. I believe both the initial army we faced in Russia and the force we fought in the north were from the Empire."

"Good to know." Ney ran a hand through his hair. "Anything else I need?"

"You don't need a translator?" Courbet asked.

Ney shook his head. His hometown was a French enclave in Saarland, and he'd grown up bilingual in German and French as a result.

"That is all then. I'll stay outside in case you need me."

Ney entered the tent. Laying in a bed roll was a man with brown hair, a full beard, and an eyepatch over his left eye. Ney removed his hat and cleared his throat. The man opened his one good eye and looked at Ney.

"Who are you?"

"Marshal Michel Ney at your service," Ney replied with a slight bow. "You are King Duran, the Lion of Elbe?"

"Yes, that would be me." Duran rose from the bed roll and sat in a small camp chair. He gestured to a second camp chair. "I presume you are the commander of this otherworldly army?"

Ney sat in the camp chair. "Indeed. And you are the commander of the army we beat?"

Duran pursed his lips for a moment. "One of them at least. I have not heard much, but am I correct that you defeated the legions of Legatus Kota El Tiberius?"

"I've not heard that name, but we defeated an army from the Empire in the north."

The king leaned back in his chair and stared into nothingness. "I must ask then…" He looked back to Ney. "How did you do it?"

Ney raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Our scouts reported that our combined forces outnumbered you more than two to one. How did you beat those odds? I have seen your magic, it is…" He gestured vaguely with his hand. "Impressive. But not enough to change odds like that. Are you such a masterful commander that you could do this?"

Ney suppressed a chuckle and briefly thought of Napoleon. "I am not a masterful commander, but I did learn from one."

"I would very much like to hear how you defeated us."

"Well…" He considered the request. The Emperor had always warned against teaching enemies how to conduct war. At the same time, this was an opportunity. "Perhaps you would accept a trade then. Information for information."

The Lion of Elbe narrowed his eyes. "What information do you seek?"

"Nothing sensitive," Ney hastily replied. "I wish to know more about your world. I am as equally ignorant of your world as I presume you are of mine. I would like to understand it."

King Duran seemed to ponder this for half a second. "Deal. Tell me of how you beat our armies, and I will answer whatever questions you have. You have my word as a warrior."

Ney grinned. "And you have my word as a soldier." He stroked his chin before beginning, "It was rather simple, actually. My scouts reported that you had two separated forces marching to join together then meet my corps in the field. Is that a correct assessment?"

Duran nodded. "Legatus Tiberius was leading the seventh and eighth legions from Italica to the north. I led the army of Elbe and a coalition of forces from other vassal kingdoms from the south."

"My force was outnumbered badly." Ney stated. "If I had allowed you to join, I would have been crushed in battle. So I led my corps on a rapid march to get in between your two armies and prevent you from joining together."

Duran's face scrunched up with confusion. "But you were then surrounded on two sides. How did that benefit you?"

Ney shook his head. "I only would have been surrounded if I stayed in place. Instead, I left a small portion of my men to face your army while I sent the majority of men to attack Legatus Tiberius's."

Ney's plan seemed to click for Duran. "The force I fought was meant to delay me. Your real army crushed Tiberius's then doubled back to crush me."

"I was still outnumbered when I faced Tiberius, of course, but superior technology and good generalship made the difference."

"You exploited our separation to defeat us separately."

Ney grinned. "Defeat in detail."

Duran frowned as he seemed to consider something. "But what if Tiberius and I had chosen to combine our armies earlier? What if we had marched to face you as one? What if I had managed to beat your delaying force far earlier or chose to march around it?"

"There are a thousand things that could have happened in hindsight," Ney answered with a shrug. "But you didn't do any of that, so the plan worked."

The Lion of Elbe seemed uneasy with that response, but he accepted it nonetheless.

"Now," Ney said carefully. "I have some questions that I would like you to answer."

"Courbet!" Ney called when he exited King Duran's tent an hour later. "Call a meeting. We need to decide what our next course of action is to be."

His aide-de-camp immediately hurried to inform Ney's commanders.

The sun had set and the moon was rising by the time the commanders of the Third Corps had assembled in the command tent. They huddled around a table where a map, a real map captured from the enemy, not a crude outline drawn by Feraud's scouts, was laid out across it. A golden franc was placed to represent the position of the Third Corps. Ney quickly dispersed what information he'd gained from Duran, and then sat back and watched.

"We are completely cut off from France," General Rousseau declared. "The course of action is clear, negotiate with this Emperor Molt before he sends four more armies to smash us."

General Brunelle shook his head. "We have just won two major victories! To negotiate now would be showing our weakness. We should push forward to Sadera, besiege the capital, and force the Empire into a peace like Napoleon did with Austria."

"Agreed!" Colonel Feraud announced. "We've got them on the run! We can keep them there!"

"Let's not act rash. We beat them, yes, but they can replace their losses and we cannot. Negotiating now while we are still undefeated is the best course of action," General Messier encouraged.

Colonel Feraud launched into a tirade about aggression and keeping the enemy off balance. Ney sat back in his chair, quietly listening to his commanders argue. He caught the eye of Captain Delon, the only commander who had not yet made his opinion known, and winked. Delon raised an eyebrow. He'd been around Ney long enough to understand what was happening.

It was a trick Ney had learned while fighting under the French Republic during the Revolutionary Wars. Back then, the command structure was chaotic due to the effects of the Revolution. While Ney technically had command over his subordinates, he was really more of a first among equals during the Revolution. By allowing his subordinates to argue with each other, they would eventually tire themselves. At that point, Ney could propose his own plan with little opposition and his subordinates would spend less time advocating for their own ideas and more time improving Ney's proposal.

Ney listened to the commanders tire themselves for half an hour. By then, neither side had made any progress in convincing the other of the benefits of their plan, and they had begun to simply repeat points they'd made earlier.

"Men," Ney said, standing from his seat. "I have a proposal."

The argument immediately died. The commanders, tired of the constant back and forth, looked to Ney with something akin to relief.

"Our situation is obvious. We are isolated in this world, and the enemy we face has the resources to send army after army against us until we eventually fail. Therefore it is necessary to negotiate favorable terms with the Empire."

General Rousseau opened his mouth to speak, but Ney silenced him with a raised hand.

"However," he continued, glaring at Rousseau. "Our position here is untenable. We are entirely reliant on forage to feed our army, and eventually we will no longer be able to collect enough supplies from this area. If we were to negotiate now, Emperor Molt could stall us long enough that we starve."

There was a bit of grumbling from Rousseau and Messier but nothing serious.

"What I propose," Ney said, pointing to a spot on the map, a medium sized circle with a label denoting it as a major city. "Is we seize this city by storm, and secure our position before negotiations begin. From what I have learned, it should be prosperous enough to supply our army, and it controls a major intersection on the road to the Empire's capital. From here, we could secure good terms with the Empire."

There was a silence when Ney finished explaining his plan. It was General Brunelle who first raised a concern about the plan, and in the coming hour several other concerns were brought up as well. The plan was gradually modified and improved. Details were hammered out, and eventually every commander deemed it suitable. General Courbet transcribed specific orders based on the overall strategy, and then the commanders left to prepare their men.

The next morning, Ney's corps began its march to Italica.

Shorter chapter than before, but that's because there's no battle in this one. I've tried to impart the logistical vulnerability that Ney's corps is currently facing and the fact that logistics are the primary motivator for Ney's planning. I find all too often that people ignore logistics when writing stories such as this, so I hope to do better. At the same time, I'm also concerned that it may be seen as boring.

One more thing is the use of German as a common language between the French and Saderans. Honestly this is just something out of pure convenience. The writers of Gate essentially just brushed past the issue of a language barrier by having Itami learn the language pretty much instantaneously. I found this very annoying as learning a language, especially one completely different from your own, is hard. However, having the entire story go on without complicated conversations between characters from Falmart and characters from France would be hell, so I decided for convenience sake to have the language of Elbe be German (or at least close enough to German that they can communicate). The reason for German is because Marshal Ney grew up bilingual in German and French, so it's convenient.

I don't think I used any Napoleonic terms I haven't explained before, so no glossary for this chapter. Thank you for reading this story. I do appreciate feedback, but keep in mind I am a very inexperience writer. I'm still fairly busy, so unfortunately I don't know when the next chapter can be ready.