6. Chapter 6

Kill me. Please.

It was cold again. Bitter winds in the streets of Moscow.

Fire was everywhere. It consumed buildings by the dozen. Spreading, growing, devouring. Jacques once more could not move. His feet were stuck to the ground as if they were encased in ice. The fire came closer. He didn't feel heat from it. Just the bitter cold.

Flames shot toward him. They surrounded him, engulfing his vision, closing in on him. He tried to move. He couldn't. The fire went to devour him like it had the buildings and then-

Nothing.

The fires disappeared. His vision was returned to him. There was a girl on her knees. She mouthed words to him.

Kill me. Please.

Jacques opened his eyes. He moved an inch and his body erupted into aches and soreness. Sun filtered through a crack in his tent, and he let out an involuntary groan.

"You were dreaming," said a voice in German.

Jacques sat up suddenly, ignoring the protests in his muscles. He looked to the voice and was greeted by the sight of the blue haired girl calmly observing him. He rubbed his eyes and she was still there. Not a dream then.

"You're awake," he muttered more to himself than to her. When the quartermaster had returned the girl to him after the march, she'd still been asleep. He'd begun to think she wouldn't ever wake.

Her eyes tracked Jacques, but other than that she didn't move a muscle. Her face held a look of cold scientific detachment. She certainly wasn't reacting like he'd thought she would.

Jacques sighed and searched his tent for his uniform jacket. He found it and put it on, the girl watching all the while. She seemed to be almost… studying him. Each button he did was examined with an eagle like gaze.

"My name is Jacques," he said, hoping to break the silence. "Jacques Duclos. May I know yours?"

"Lelei La Lelena," she responded without shifting her gaze from his buttons.

"Do…" Jacques tried to think of ways to formulate a question. "Do you understand where you are?"

She looked up from the buttons. "We are in the otherworlder encampment are we not? You are an otherworlder. A Bluecoat."

Jacques was beginning to feel the effects of his limited German. His mother had taught him, but that had been a long time ago and he hadn't practiced it very well. "Yes. That is correct."

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked.

"I…" Jacques hesitated. "We found you in… the burned village." He groped for words. "We did not want to allow you to die."

"Thank you." Her voice was passive. "Am I a prisoner?"

He hesitated again. "No… not really. Just…" Jacques suddenly became aware of what day it was. The day of the assault. "I need to go," he spluttered. "Stay here. I'll be back later today and I'll explain everything then. Don't go anywhere."

Jacques grabbed his shako and his musket and practically ran out of the tent. Around him, men of the Ninth Company were piling out of their tents like ants from an anthill. They were expecting to return back to camp later that day, so men elected not to carry their heavy packs into battle and instead simply carried their muskets and cartridge pouches.

For the past day, ever since the Third Corps had arrived at Italica, the artillery had been pounding away at the walls. Jacques hadn't watched, he'd been too exhausted and chose instead to rest his weary body, but now he could see they hadn't been wasting their time. There were two large breaches where the medieval walls of Italica had failed to hold up against modern cannons and crumbled into rubble. The rubble formed ramps that led into the city, but they were guarded by enemy soldiers. Those breaches were where the assaults would take place.

Captain Courbis came to Jacques looking rather grim. He had a piece of paper in his right hand, their orders presumably, and his left hand kept fidgeting with the pommel of his sheathed sword.

"General Messier is leading the assault on the furthest left breach," he informed. "That means our regiment's going to be in the thick of it today. Our company's part of the first wave. We have half an hour to report to the field."

With that, Captain Courbis turned and strode off to God knows where.

Jacques felt his throat thicken. "Right…" Then, because it seemed fitting, he shouted, "Men! You've got fifteen minutes then we're off!"

It took longer than fifteen minutes to assemble, but the Ninth Company was still one of the first companies to arrive on the field. Jacques's position in the line as sergeant-major theoretically should have been behind the company with the lieutenant while other sergeants stood on the wings, but they didn't have a lieutenant nor did they have any other sergeants. To make up for their lack of officers, Jacques chose to take a spot on the left wing while Captain Courbis took his place on the right wing. Corporals Vidal and Astier took positions closer to the rest of the men.

Gradually, the other companies arrived on the field and filled out the landscape. Technically once they entered the field they were no longer companies but rather platoons, but the terms were used interchangeably, and most didn't care about the difference.

They formed together with other companies in their battalion to create one large column. The Ninth Company was second in line on the right of the battalion column. Jacques looked around and made sure that the company was aligned with those to its front and back. They were, so there was nothing to do but wait.

He was well positioned to see what was happening, and Jacques got a good look when their battalion major received a messenger presumably from General Messier. Nerves formed in his stomach, but he suppressed the urge to puke and stood firm.

"Battalion column prepare to advance! Double pace!"

Men shifted at the major's shouts. There was a brief moment of anticipation as captains reviewed their companies, and then they were off.

Drums beat a steady rhythm that footsteps fell in line with. They drummed a quick double pace that sent the battalion rushing toward the walls of Italica as one. Hundreds of muskets moved together with bayonets fixed, creating almost a forest of steel that approached the breaches.

Ahead, Jacques could see what they were up against. The breach they were heading to had a mass of rubble in front of it. This rubble formed a sort of ridge that they would have to climb up in order to enter the city. On top of the ridge, a few hundred enemy defenders stood waiting for them. There was also an artillery piece, a massively oversized crossbow that shot out spears rather than bolts, ready to fire on the French.

The beating of the drum continued and they came ever closer.

Jacques had marched against cannons and muskets at Borodino. He was well aware of what it was like to face down the crack of a thousand muskets or the bellow of cannons firing canister. But he had never marched against crossbows and ballistae. Jacques was unprepared for how eerily silent they were. Rather than a loud crack like a musket, crossbows instead gave out muted thwacks that could only barely be heard over the drums and marching.

The battalion was hit by a volley of crossbows. Bolts streamed overhead or made solid thunks when they found targets in flesh. The ballista launched its oversized bolt and it streaked through one of the companies, crippling or killing half a dozen. Naturally, the front companies got the worst of it, but the Ninth Company was not immune. Beside Jacques, a soldier, Damien, he recalled, sprouted a crossbow bolt from his chest and fell to the ground with a choked groan.

"Close up!" Jacques shouted. It was echoed by dozens of other sergeants and corporals. "Close up! Close up!"

More thwacks and thunks came. Jacques had to resist the instinctive urge to hunch forward as if passing through a rainstorm. Head high or low, it made no difference when dozens of bolts streaked into their tightly packed ranks. At least with his head high the men could see he was still alive.

"Close up!" he shouted again as another wave of bolts fell upon their ranks. More died this time. Jacques counted seven dead before his counting was interrupted. "Close up!"

Men shuffled together as they marched, closing the gaps that had formed from the dead. They strode over the corpses of dead men without looking down. Those who were merely wounded limped out of line and screamed for help.

Someone in the company, a kind hearted fellow presumably, threatened to leave the column to help a man with a bolt through his leg. Jacques glared at him and shouted "Leave the wounded! Keep going forward!" The soldier fell back in line.

Jacques hadn't heard the battalion major give the order over the screams of wounded men and the shouting of sergeants, but drums beat out a new call. Form line.

The companies in front of Jacques's halted in place. Captain Courbis, with Jacques's help, led the Ninth Company sideways then forward until they helped to form a solid three-rank line encompassing the entire battalion. The companies behind the Ninth did the same and soon there was a wall of blue facing the enemy.

The defenders on the ridge did not halt their crossbows when the French did this. They continued pouring bolts into the battalion, emptying ranks which were then promptly replaced by other men.

"Make ready!" came a shout that Jacques echoed. Hundreds of men cocked their muskets as one.

"Present!" More shouts came, and muskets were leveled toward the enemy. A pair of muskets swung into place near Jacques's head.

"Fire!"

The world flashed with bright light. Jacques's musket kicked into his shoulder, and clouds of smoke washed over him. The smell, dense and acrid, caused his nose to flare.

There was a part of Jacques that hoped that would be it. It wasn't unheard of that a single volley could break an enemy. He hadn't been able to see the full effect of their volley, but it had to have done something. He prayed the enemy would turn tail and run at their first encounter with musketry. That would've made everything easier. Less dangerous. It would have saved lives on both sides.

The enemy did not run, and Jacques's face turned grim. They would have to drive them out with cold steel.

French drums beat out a new order. At the same time, that order erupted as a single yell that every officer, sergeant, and corporal gave at once.

"Charge!"

A guttural roar by the men soon drowned out that order. It was a growl that turned into a scream. The battalion threw itself forward, passing through the thick clouds of smoke from their volley, and falling into an all out run at the breach. Men at the front placed their bayonets at waist level like spears while the men behind them kept their bayonets pointed up, lest they accidently stab a comrade. Jacques ran with them, bayonet gleaming on the end of his musket.

Try as they might, the Ninth Company was not the first up the rubble ramp. That honor belonged to men who'd formed the center of the line. They had less distance to cover, so they were the first up the ridge and into the enemy. By the time Jacques arrived, a thick melee had emerged between bayonet wielding attackers and spear wielding defenders.

He charged until he encountered the enemy. Two men faced him, each carrying a spear but with no shield and no armor. These, he realized mid charge, are not real soldiers.

They took a step back, surprised to see the charging sergeant. Jacques went after the leftmost one, sprinting forward to plant his bayonet into the man's sternum before he could use his spear to defend himself.

Steel sank into flesh. The man died.

He yanked his bayonet out of the newly made corpse, just in time to parry a thrust from the second man. Jacques made a counter thrust. The man batted Jacques's bayonet to the side, and was completely unprepared when Jacques brought the stock of his musket as a bludgeon against the man's face.

A sickening crack signalled a broken skull. A soft gurgle came when Jacques finished him off with his bayonet.

Jacques realized there were no more thwacks from crossbows or cracks from muskets, replaced by the clash of steel and the screams of dying men.

French forces were winning. The rush of battle made it hard to think, but that much was obvious. These defenders were not real soldiers. They were a ragtag militia. Where are the-

A battlecry came from beyond the melee. Jacques caught a glimpse of Imperial legionaries, heavily armored and well trained, charging to the aid of the militiamen. Speak of the devil.

It was hard to say when exactly Jacques began running. He certainly wasn't the first. French resolve shattered when they saw fresh Imperial reinforcements charge into battle. It started as a trickle, lone men who abandoned the fighting and fell back, then became a rush when men noticed others falling back. Few men were cowards, but no one wanted to be there alone when the hammer fell. Morale crumbled and the battalion was routed, turning into a wave of fleeing men.

The Imperials did not pursue the battalion. Doing so would mean leaving their defensive position on the walls, so they allowed the French to run. The Frenchmen were in full retreat.

Eventually, officers managed to stop the rout. With danger no longer present, men were able to reform in their companies and regain a semblance of order. Jacques had to drag a few men into formation, but for the most part their company reformed well, albeit slightly smaller than when they had started the day.

"Duclos!" Captain Courbis's shout tore through the screams of the wounded. The captain approached him, his sword still drawn and slick with blood. "We're leading the next assault! The other companies will form up behind us. No stopping for a volley this time, we'll charge them in column and break them with the bayonet. Understood?!"

Jacques nodded, a thousand worries flowing through him. "Yes, sir!"

They formed the battalion column again, and this time the Ninth was at the head. A sickening feeling came over Jacques. Last time they'd managed to avoid the worst of it, but now they were going to be drawing the most fire. He fought down the feeling of hopelessness and replaced it with merciless determination.

"Men! Prepare to march!" he shouted, suddenly feeling encouraged. "Let's go and get killed."

Then the drums beat out again. Jacques hadn't heard the order shouted, but the drums made it clear what was expected. Double pace. Once more, the battalion column surged forward. He found that his feet were moving automatically, moving step by step to the merciless beating of the drums, and bringing him ever closer to Italica's walls.

Like before, it was eerily silent when the defenders loosed their first volley of crossbows. A hundred soft thwacks were drowned out by the marching of men. Bolts rained down onto Jacques's company like a god hurling lightning bolts onto mere mortals. He heard the gut wrenching thunk of bolts impacting men, and Jacques kept his head up and his legs moving.

"Close up!" he shouted in chorus with a dozen other sergeants. "Close up and keep going!"

A man at Jacques's side, Laurent, began faltering. His eyes were fixed to the ground which was littered with the dead from the previous assault as well as this one. He almost tripped over a man who had three crossbow bolts stuck in his stomach, curled up in a ball with a desperate plea on his face.

Jacques grabbed Laurent's arm and pulled him forward, past the corpse. He looked at him, eyes wide, and Jacques leaned into his ear.

"Don't look down!" he ordered. "Don't look back! Keep your eyes forward and on the enemy!" Another volley of bolts descended on the Ninth Company and several more thunks reached his ear. "One step after another! Keep going!"

Laurent swallowed, blinked rapidly, and nodded, picking up the rhythm of the drums once more. He stayed in formation, and faced down another volley without missing a step. More thunks. Men hunched their heads as if those few inches would make all the difference when bolts dropped like rain onto them. Jacques fought the urge and kept his head high.

"Close up!" he shouted again. It was all he could do really. "Close up, damn you!"

Then he saw their major nod to a captain, and the drums changed their steady double pace cadence to a thrilling rhythmic heartbeat. A roar rose collectively from officers, sergeants, and corporals. Jacques's voice was lost in the yell.

"Charge!"

The men growled as they shifted into a mad dash to the breach. Imperial defenders let loose another volley, and dozens died, but it was not enough to halt the impetus of the French charge. They had been driven back once. Now they wanted blood.

Unlike before, the Ninth Company was the first into the breach. Jacques was there when the French column collided with Imperial defenders. In a mad rush, they tumbled over the front rank, bayoneting those who had not fled, and then impacted the second rank with a clash of steel.

Jacques's bayonet found its purchase in the armpit of an Imperial legionary. These were the real soldiers. The militia was nowhere to be seen.

There was no confused melee like last charge but rather a push between two bodies of men, each equally as determined to take ground from the other. Jacques was packed tight in the formation. His world became himself, the men on either side of him, and the three men opposing them.

His bayonet came free of the man he'd killed.

A spear was thrust at him, so he knocked it aside and counter thrusted. It seemed he would kill again, but at the last moment, a second legionary batted the bayonet away with his shield, protecting his comrade. Frustrated, Jacques attempted to close the distance and drive his buttstock into the man's face, but a collection of spears were promptly thrust in his direction, and he had to abandon the attack.

They're better than us at this, Jacques realized as he watched the man next to him get his bayonet stuck in a man's shield before receiving a spear to his chest. Far better.

He decided to change tactics. Another man stepped to his side, taking the place of the one who'd died, and Jacques focused on the man in front of him.

Jacques sent his bayonet high. The legionary brought up his shield, protecting his face but also blinding himself in the process. The bayonet instantly shifted target, deceptively going low and sinking into the flesh of the Imperial's knee. There was a scream, and the legionary's leg collapsed out from under him. Jacques could then safely plant the bayonet into his neck.

The Imperials were wavering. Jacques could feel it. They were better in the melee, but the French had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of men. Just one more push would be all it took to send them running. Just one last advance.

But then he heard the cries of a hundred more men. The clanking of heavy armor moving in a mad rush. Imperial reinforcements. Jacques felt his resolve crumble. The French column did not trickle away like before. It happened at once, a panicked rush that created a wave of desperate men fleeing from the breach.

"Stay damn you!" he shouted. Just one more push and it would all be over. "Stay and fight!"

But the men did not listen, and Jacques too was forced to run. He managed to get a glimpse of the victorious defenders as he stumbled away. A woman with bright red hair stood on the ridge looking relieved. A woman? They have women fighting for them?

He was breathing hard when he made it down the rubble ramp and back to the staging area for their assaults. Captain Courbis was there, wrangling men back into formation, and Jacques could see their company was now significantly smaller than it had been before.

He looked back to the breach, and his breathing became shallow. Hundreds of blue uniforms littered the ground in front of Italica and on the walls there was a hedge of bodies. A tear fell from his eye. This could have been over. They could have taken the city. If they had just pushed a bit more. The Imperials were so close to breaking. If he'd just done a little more to encourage the men that would have been it. He'd failed, and now more men would have to die.

He marched over to his captain.

"Sir!" he choked with a tight salute. "I would like to offer my resignation from the position of sergeant-major, sir!" Another tear fell as he caught a glance of wounded men limping away.

Courbis spun to face Jacques, and a look of confusion crossed his face. "What?"

"I said I would like to offer my-"

"I know what you said, damn you!" he bellowed suddenly. "I want to know why!"

Jacques's hands trembled. "I was unable to prevent the rout, sir."

He stared at Jacques with something akin to disbelief. "I just lost half my company," the captain spat. "I am not going to lose the only half-competent sergeant in this goddamned regiment. Your resignation is refused!"

Jacques stood there as if he'd been slapped. He swallowed bile that had formed in the back of his throat. "Yes, sir!" He clenched his teeth. "Shall I get the men ready for another assault?"

Courbis shook his head. "We've done our part. Now it's someone else's chance to get killed. Have the men form up in the back. I expect some other poor bastards are going to take our place."

Jacques saluted again. The thrill of battle was fading and weariness overtook him. He moved to round up stragglers back into formation, but his limbs felt as if they were made of lead. His musket fell from his hand. He sank to his knees.

Jacques stayed there for several minutes just existing. His thoughts were empty. He stared into the distance and simply kneeled there. Jacques would have stayed for longer, but Corporal Astier approached, so he forced himself onto his feet.

"Sergeant," Astier greeted. He had blood on him, evidence of hard fighting.

"Corporal," Jacques returned. "What is it?"

Astier, as always, was straight to the point, "Have you seen Corporal Vidal?"

Jacques wracked his brain. The last he'd seen of the boy was before the second assault when he was busy getting men back into formation. Then everything happened, and he'd lost track of him. He shook his head, and dread came over him.

Astier sighed and glanced at the field of bodies in between them and Italica. "I haven't either."

Ney watched the assaults on both breaches fail. The leftmost breach had almost managed to get through, but it was ultimately repulsed when the Imperials committed their reserves. It was midday now. They were running out of time.

"Sir!" General Courbet said as he approached Ney. "General Messier reports his assault has failed. General Brunelle reports the same. Heavy casualties from both."

"I saw," Ney replied dryly.

"Sir," his aide-de-camp said with an uncharacteristic hint of nerves. "Perhaps we should withdraw. Another day of bombardment would make a large difference, and we would lose less men."

"No."

"But-"

"We can't wait a day and you know it," Ney hissed. It all came down to logistics in the end. Ney's corps would run out of food by tomorrow, and if they didn't seize the supplies in Italica they would begin starving. Men would desert en masse, and discipline would break down. He'd seen it happen before. They needed to take Italica today. There was no other option. "Send Messier's regiments to the reserve. General Rousseau will take his place. He is to push hard on the next assault and keep fighting no matter the losses."

Courbet blinked. "Are you sure, sir? Casualties will be high. Perhaps-"

"We don't have a choice," Ney growled. "If we had food, I would bombard this city for a full week before committing to an assault, but we don't have that luxury."

"Yes, sir," Courbet affirmed. He saluted then ran to speak with the cavalrymen who served as their couriers during the siege. One of them galloped off to inform General Rousseau of the plan.

It took ten minutes for Rousseau's regiments to replace Messier's. Even from a distance, Ney could see the difference between Messier's tired and beaten men and Rousseau's fresh soldiers from the reserve. Ney glanced at the breach they were going to assault. He saw hundreds of dead and dying who from a distance looked like tiny blue specks. More blood was going to be shed.

"Damn it all…" he muttered as he grabbed a horse. "Courbet! Inform General Messier that he has overall command. I'm going down there."

The aide-de-camp nodded. "Right, sir. I'll have a messenger tell him that." He walked over to one of the cavalrymen, said a few words, then grabbed his own horse.

Ney sighed. "I don't suppose I can convince you to stay behind?"

"No more than I can convince you not to go," Courbet retorted.

"You are aware of the high chance I may get myself killed doing this?"

"Then I'll die right with you, sir."

There was no stopping him, so Ney spurred his horse toward where General Rousseau was assembled. Courbet followed close behind. They dismounted when they arrived and handed off their horses to a passing courier. General Rousseau was giving some final commands to a colonel.

"Ready for the assault, sir!" He snapped a salute at Ney's approach. Then he frowned. "Do you intend to join the advance, sir?"

"It's the only place I'll do any good," Ney replied.

Rousseau's frown didn't dissipate, but he did nod. "Right, sir. Let's begin shall we?"

Ney nodded. He strode out in front of the regiment and shouted, "Men! Come and see how a Marshal of France meets his death!"

Soldiers who could hear him broke into cheers that spread throughout the ranks. Bayonets were fixed tightly onto muskets then the men waited. Moments later, the order was given to advance, and the drums began their steady cadence. The battalions surged toward the walls.

Once the first companies of each battalion had passed, Ney led Courbet and Rousseau forward. He felt himself fall into the familiar rhythm of the double step automatically. Two decades of war had etched the sound of the drums into his bones. Courbet and Rousseau were the same.

Casualties from the first two assaults began to appear in front of the column, and the defenders used this to mark that they could let loose their first volley. Ney's heart leapt when he realized he could actually see the projectiles raining down around him. Few crossbowmen bothered to aim at Ney's small cluster, so he was relatively safe; they chose instead to send bolts into the tightly packed masses of infantry where it was almost guaranteed they would hit.

"Close up! Close up!" came the eternal mantra of sergeants and corporals everywhere. They shouted to be heard, competing with the screams of the stricken. "Close up!"

Ballistae, Ney discovered, were roughly analogous to cannons at this range. The massively oversized crossbow launched a giant bolt, and it carved its way through ranks of men. Streaks formed in the column as men met their maker, but they quickly disappeared when sergeants shouted, "Close up!" and soldiers filled the gaps.

Now, Ney decided. We need to go now.

"Sound the charge," he told Rousseau. Ney ripped his saber from its scabbard and held it high for all to see. "Forward!"

Drums were quick to react, shifting their tempo into a rapid and aggressive beat. A cheer bellowed from the ranks of men, and they broke into a run, formations disappearing in the rush to close with the Imperials. Crossbows spat bolts into the charge, dropping many but doing little to stop the momentum. Ney found himself leaping bodies and dodging crumbling men as he went forward. Rousseau was to his right and Courbet to his left but beyond that Ney's sight was only the enemy in front.

"With me!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Into the breach! With me!"

He thought he heard answering shouts, but it was impossible to tell amidst the noise of hundreds of running men. Ney scrambled up the rubble ramp, followed by a mass of French soldiers. He had somehow made it to the front of the column. Rousseau was with him, doing well to keep up with his climb. Courbet had disappeared, lost in the mass of men behind him.

His breath quickened. His footing nearly slipped. Rousseau fell behind. A bit of rubble was sent tumbling. Then he reached the top and faced the enemy.

Three legionaries stood in his path. They had spears, shields, and armor. Ney had his saber. He dove forward, catching the rightmost one off guard and carving a bloody mess through his exposed face. Then he made two desperate parries and threw a sloppy riposte that was stopped on the other two's shields. Another legionary replaced the man Ney had killed, and the marshal found himself outmatched and outnumbered. He backed away, parrying multiple spear thrusts in desperate gambits to avoid being hit. He could only defend and-

A wave of Frenchmen collided with the Imperials. Ney was suddenly no longer outnumbered. Muskets with bayonets dueled spears and shields in deadly contests of skill and willpower. Men from both sides choked out screams. French fusiliers and Imperial legionaries died in droves.

The French were winning, Ney could see. Imperial legionaries were dwindling in numbers, replaced not by professional soldiers but by poorly trained militia. One shove would be all that it took to break them.

"Follow your marshal! Follow Ney!" he screamed above the din of battle.

Then he thrust himself into the enemy and prayed they would listen. A spear nearly skewered him, and a shield came dangerously close to bashing in his brains. He found himself under attack from three directions, and knew he would die if help did not come.

"Follow Ney!" was roared from the French mass. The fusiliers surged into the enemy like a stampede of cattle. The Imperial center buckled. Together, the French punched a hole clean through the Imperial line, bursting out the other side like a hammer through glass.

They were now in the enemy rear, and French infantry ruthlessly exploited this fact. They began surrounding and isolating groups of the enemy before methodically butchering them one by one. Most tried to surrender. Some were successful, throwing down their weapons in time to avoid being bayoneted, but others were not and could only scream for mercy in a language the Frenchmen did not understand.

An Imperial counterattack materialized as their commander, a red headed figure wielding a large sword, committed their final reserve of men. Ney rallied the French to him. They formed around their marshal then advanced to meet the incoming Imperials. A collision between the two forces occurred, and a confused melee emerged from it.

Ney faced the red haired commander. Their swords clashed. Ney's heart thumped in his chest. They both fell back a pace. Their swords clashed again.

It was during the second clash that Ney realized he was not fighting a man. A woman? She was young. Her face held a look of determination and desperation. A deadly combination.

He swung again. It was a strong cut, intended to slash through her from shoulder to hip. She parried, using two hands to effortlessly flick the blade away with her sword, but then hesitating and failing to follow up with a riposte.

Ney breathed hard. She was good, though not perfect.

He attacked again, this time with a quick thrust. She batted it away, and Ney retreated three steps back before she could capitalize on the opportunity.

She swung at Ney, and he was pushed into the defensive. Her sword moved like an angry hornet, striking high then low then high again in rapid succession. His saber moved in conjunction. Cover high, guard low, block the thrust, deflect that cut, parry- Ney saw an opening. Parry there, riposte to the wrist, disarm. He used his saber to parry one more blow then immediately launched a counter cut to her exposed wrist.

Steel met flesh. The red haired woman screamed. Her sword fell.

Ney shot forward. The heavy guard of his saber collided with the woman's face, sending her to the ground in a heap. That was the end of it. The sight of their commander dropping to the ground was enough to convince the Imperial forces that further resistance was a futile endeavor. Those that could ran; those that couldn't dropped their weapons and hoped for mercy.

"It's over…" he said mostly to himself. He looked to the woman at his feet. She watched him with fearful eyes. "It's over," he said in German. "Surrender the city."

She gave a tiny nod.

Chapter 6 as promised. Not much to say here, just thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. As always, I appreciate feedback but at the end of the day I'm an amateur writer so keep that in mind. Don't know when the next chapter will be, things have picked up and I'm getting more busy with life.