NONE SO VILE

28: Damned If You Do

Zolfreun Manor, Losaile, 1810.

Leon stared at the war map laid out before him, the light morning drizzle pattering on the roof of his canvas tent. They were set up on the western side of Zolfreun Manor, because he wanted an unobstructed view of the surrounding woodland. There were no visible signs of the incoming army as of yet, but when there was, Leon wanted to see it with his own eyes.

Sixty-thousand men. Two Angels. Significant artillery. The spirit of his own force was dour. They'd all reached the same conclusions – Leon's force was vastly outclassed. He had near fifty-thousand men. As far as raw bodies went it wasn't too bad a mismatch, but the particulars skewed the odds against him.

Leon's army had been intended as an honour guard, a sabre-rattling force to impress King Deuxmoise and little more. For this purpose, fifty-thousand was a gigantic number, but he had insisted the Emperor should travel with a force befitting his station. It was for show, and nobody had expected they would face actual combat during his visit to Losaile – they were supposed to be allies, after all. Fifty-thousand men, and the vast majority made up of light infantry. There was some cavalry, but not enough, and nothing that any seasoned general would call proper artillery. Against a real force, they would be smashed to pieces in barely an afternoon.

And that's not even counting their two Angels.

King Deuxmoise had betrayed him. His friend, one of the few he'd thought he had left. When exactly that moment had come, Leon did not know. He doubted it was during their deliberations – they'd been at it for nearly two weeks, and that simply wasn't enough time to launch a full-scale invasion of Rennaire.

But perhaps he'd been close. Is it possible I tipped him over the edge? Pushed him into siding with my enemies? It was hard to believe it was real. A New Coalition formed against him, one composed of all the great powers of Midland and united with a singular goal, a singular enemy; Leon himself. Once more he pored over the negotiations in his head, wondering where it all came undone. He'd made Deuxmoise a king… how could he betray him? How could he side with filth like the Royal Tanner? Had his old friend really thought him a tyrant?

“Could I have prevented it?" He wondered aloud, for the fiftieth time.

“What's done is done, your majesty," said Gaspar, the crocodile clearly trying to keep the tired edge from his voice. None of them had slept since Deuxmoise's withdrawal the previous day, and exhaustion clawed at them. “There is no point now dreaming over ifs. We need to act."

Leon nodded, staring down at the pieces before him. They hadn't had enough official stationary to make a proper war map, and so random pieces and knick-knacks had been used to represent different armies and landmarks. Leon's army was a flask, while the New Coalition's force was represented with a small pocket-knife, stabbed into the cheap cork tabletop.

“Will we make a stand?"

Leon ignored the question. He knew they all secretly thought he should surrender. Not that they wanted him to, but that there was no other real choice available. After all, what point was there in struggling if it would lead to nothing but death?

Still. Leon wished someone at least had the balls to come out and say it. Say it to his face, say that he had lost, that he should give up now while he could, that he tried and that he failed. Even Alabaster had gone quiet. They'd had a terrible fight, and Leon knew he'd gone too far, but he'd expected the dragon to bounce back. Instead, he'd been a ghost, staring vacantly into the distance and barely responding when anyone tried to get an answer from him.

If he wants to sulk like the rest, then let him, Leon thought. But he couldn't deny he missed the dragon's barbs, his arguments, that fire deep within him.

“We cannot win a straight fight," Leon said plainly. “We have no way of countering the Angels, and their classical force outclasses us."

“That's right," Gaspar replied.

General Madox cleared his throat. “The uh… the Manor itself is rather defensible. Windows can be broken and turned into gunports. We could consider reinforcing it." The brown-furred fox gestured to the map, where a small coin-purse represented the manor. “See here, your majesty. As the enemy approaches from the south-west, they will have the sloped ground and thick underbrush to contend with. We can drop trees to create obstacles, and if we funnel them correctly, we could nullify the cavalry entirely, and severely impact the effectiveness of their artillery."

Leon sighed. “Are you suggesting initiating a siege, General Madox?"

The fox held a moment, before deciding that he was, nodding. “We have pigeons. We can summon reinforcement. We don't have to win, we only need to survive."

Gaspar scoffed, as if it were all a big joke. He spun about, gesturing at the opulent mansion standing behind them. “Zolfreun Manor is a piss-poor replacement for a fort. It doesn't matter by how many magnitudes we can reduce their artillery's effectiveness, bad cannon is still better than none. Those walls will turn to bloody dust after taking but one load of roundshot," Gaspar shook his head. “After two, maybe three, I wouldn't be surprised if the whole fucking thing comes down on our heads. It's a pretty house, but as for the bones she ain't much good at all."

“Watch your tone, Lieutenant," General Madox snapped. “Dire circumstance or not, I am still your superior."

“Then how about you act like it and think before you speak, General."

“At least I have a plan, you insubordinate mong–"

“Enough bickering!" Leon growled, chopping at the air to shut them both up. “Even if the manor could withstand artillery, it won't withstand two Angels, and certainly not for more than a day." He snapped his fingers at Major Caussade, a tan-furred rat in wiry spectacles, jammed on a stool under the corner of the tent with his shoulders collecting rain. “Major, if we send pigeons today requesting a force come to our aid, how long do we wait?"

Major Caussade jumped upright, hefting a huge stack of papers and trying to leaf through them. “A pigeon, sent today? The most adequate force is the Sixtieth Western, based out of fort–"

“A rough estimate, if you please, Major," Leon added.

“Er… yes… if we sent word this very moment…" He leafed through a few more papers. “A lighter force at double march could have potential to reach us in ten days, weather permitting."

Leon met Madox's eyes. “Weather permitting. Lighter force. Nearly two weeks. These are not words that I find conducive with defeating two Angels and artillery. Do you, General Madox?"

“No, your majesty," the fox grunted through his teeth.

“Then it is agreed we are on our own," Leon said, stepping back.

“We're dead, you know." Alabaster glanced back at the mover one shoulder, his red eyes bloodshot. “It's over, I don't know why any of you bother. Fish in a barrel. I guess the good luck had to run out sometime." Silence held in the small tent, the only sound that of Leon's breath, and the patter of rain above them. Alabaster shrugged. “Time to give up." And he walked off into the drizzle.

“Always a good idea to keep an optimist around," Gaspar added sourly.

Suddenly Leon couldn't stand dealing with any of them. “I am taking some air. Please, Gaspar, General Madox, Major Caussade… you're experienced men. Do try to think up some proper strategies before I return."

Before they could even promise to try, he'd left the cover of the canvas pavilion and was walking in the rain. The water felt good as it hit his fur, running down his ears and slipping along his spine. His entire body felt hot, steaming with panic. He had to relax, and think. Demanding the others give him a good strategy was not the same as knowing they would. As always, Leon was on his own.

So many choices, and none of them good.

Attack the New Coalition's army, and lose. Die horribly.

Fortify Zolfreun Manor and try to hold out for reinforcement, without artillery, supplies, or proper walls. Die horribly.

Retreat. The enemy were between Leon and Rennaire, so the only direction they could go would be further east into Losaile. There was no telling what laid back there, and they could easily be sandwiched against another force. Die horribly.

Surrender. The New Coalition would not kill him if he did, Leon knew that much. As much as they might hate him, monarchs were – as a whole – diametrically opposed to the idea of killing 'one of their own'. Tyrant or not he was still an Emperor. At best, he'd be exiled to some godforsaken plot of land in the middle of nowhere. At worst, they'd leave him to rot in jail. Or maybe they'd cut off his nose and tail before sending him on his way, like they did to fallen kings back in Kazmar the Great's day. Regardless, if he surrendered then the New Coalition would slowly undo everything good he'd done. The unification, the better living standards, the greater rights for ordinary citizens… that would all be eroded, until his reign as Emperor was only a distant glint of nostalgia.

Was there a chance of making peace? Deuxmoise's letter didn't leave a lot of room for truce. The New Coalition was strong and they knew it. They had declared war on Leon himself, not Rennaire. Peace would only come if he could first fight back, and show them that pressing him was not a viable option.

The bastards. He hated them all, why did everything have to be so bloody difficult? There was a vision, a clear path to the future of Midland, a future of unity and peace… the grand design. Now that was ashes, because of a few petty men and their fear of change.

Horseshit. You've nobody but yourself to blame for the state of things. Why? Why did you do this? He didn't even know. Why hadn't he simply taken the bad terms with Kiberland, and ended the war? Treaties could always be amended later. Why had he let the Royal Tanner get the better of him, and then become so obsessed with destroying him? Was invading Yaravania ever truly necessary? Had invading Felise truly been his only option?

And what about the Church? There'd never been any call to retaliate so forcefully on them. But he'd wanted to send a message, he'd been hurt, and he wanted to strike out at his enemies and hurt them right back.

Did you even really care about the grand design? Or was that just another excuse to keep fighting? Are they right? Do you love war?

Leon found himself wandering through the rows of tents his men were staying in. The rain was light but consistent, and it soaked the fabric of their tents and turned the soil to mud. He saw soldiers sitting and staring, half of them with a flask dangling from one paw. As Leon passed they leapt to their feet, proudly snapping a salute and declaring “Glory to the Emperor!"

There was fire in them, Leon saw that much, but so too was there bleakness. The men were experienced, and most of them were well-trained elites. Word got around fast in an army, and he didn't doubt they all knew the stakes. They knew the Emperor did not back down, but so too did they know that there was no chance of winning the coming fight.

He found himself wandering to a bit of drier ground that had been turned into a makeshift field parade. His men were running drills despite the rain, sparring with one another, practising formations synchronised from the flags of their superiors. Leon kept out of sight, watching them from under the brim of his bicorn. They knew death was coming, but still they prepared. They were ready, even eager to lay down their lives for their Emperor.

Leon moved on again, trying to focus on the minutiae of his army, allowing his unconscious mind to ponder his problems. Here, soldiers were firing volleys – four shots to the minute by Leon's count, a damn good pace for muskets in the rain. There, he saw the craftsmen corps stacking up possible barricade supplies, sacks of sand and grain, planks of studded wood, even reclaimed wagons the men had found abandoned around the manor grounds. The mansion as a whole had been picked clean, with furniture and blankets dragged out into the rain as the soldiers prepared for what was coming.

He found his way to a long, narrow stretch of tent. Several different lengths of canvas tarp had been strung together over lopsided poles, each one a poor match in colour and shape for the next. Whatever it was, it was clearly not regulation, and Leon couldn't stop the curiosity that bubbled in within him. As he approached, a nearby fennec in a muddy uniform caught sight of him, and his large cream-furred ears slumped around his head. The young man quickly rushed over, saluting with a shaking paw as he nervously twitched his whiskers, tail curling anxiously behind him.

“Hail to… er, hello, your imperial majesty, may I… may I help you? May I serve?" His voice was high, almost like a woman's. He had soft red-tinted eyes, almost pink. Leon could tell he was young, too young to be fighting in an army. Fifteen, maybe sixteen at most. No stripes on his shoulders – basic infantry, a musketman.

“What's your name, fusilier?"

The fennec blinked stupidly. “Emil." He blanched, realised the mistake, and hastily saluted again. “I-I mean, Fusilier Emil Dieudonné, your majesty!"

Leon smirked, waving him down. “At ease, soldier, please." He made to move past Fusilier Dieudonné and enter the canvas hall, but the boy sidled up in front of him, blocking the entrance flap.

“Is there anything I can assist you with, your majesty?" Dieudonné asked, whiskers twitching on his snout, shaking free the raindrops that had collected there.

Leon cocked an eye, suspicious. Closer now, he could hear the din of many voices, rocking within like a rhythm. “Did they leave you out here as lookout?"

“Er…" The fennec looked as if he were about to consider protesting, but then remembered he was speaking to his Emperor, and hastily shook his head, scrambling out of the way. He piped up as Leon went to enter. “They're good men, your majesty! I swear it, all done treated me right!"

Leon only pushed on through, deftly slipping through the crack.

Inside he found a damn drinking hall. Nobody had noticed him, the soldiers were all seated at the makeshift 'table' that ran down the centre. It was thrown together with barrels, crates, and whatever else they could use as a surface. Dried meats and cheese were scattered over the top like debris, but the real stars of the show were the military-issue tin cups and mugs all sloshing full of ale. Where they'd gotten it Leon could only guess, he was certain he hadn't brought that much grog with him. The men sat arm-in-arm, blurry-eyed and drunk, swinging their cups back and forth as they sang merrily.

“From foreign fields, come Rennairan shores,

Our swords are raised by valiant paws!

A new dawn breaks, a brighter day,

We march on o', come what may!

Beneath the flag, our spirits soar,

Destiny, forevermore!

With hearts aflame and souls abound,

We'll conquer all, our sacred ground!

May cowards feel, our jaguar's might,

May glory guide, through darkest night!

Rennaire lives free, Leon – our star,

Lead us, our sons, us all to war!

A hero's tale, a legend's birth, a force of nature to shake the Earth!

With every step, a victory won, we fight, we bleed,

Till the battle's done!"

A single cry of shared enthusiasm erupted across the hall, the men cheering as they downed their ales, half the liquid pouring down their fronts and soaking their shirts. They banged the table, stamped their feet, whooping and hollering like schoolboys. Leon watched as they clapped one another on the back, swearing their allegiance to Rennaire, eachother, and to Leon himself.

He sniffed, eyes stinging.

“They're good men, your majesty, I swear it," Dieudonné said again, the fennec waiting anxiously at Leon's side. “I know it's… not quite regulation but, they found the ale in the manor's cellars, said we should have a toast before we all die… That is to say… not that I think we'll all–"

“Enough, enough," Leon said, waving his paw down. “It's good, boy, don't fret. What kind of Emperor would strip his men of this kind of joy and camaraderie?"

How could he even consider surrendering when his men showed this kind of spirit? Had he lost sight of what this was all for? It was for them. The men, women, boys, and girls of Rennaire. The people. They were why he'd first fought back against Phillipe, they were his heart, his strength, his courage.

And he was their shield.

Rennaire needed him. The New Coalition had declared war on him, and they were marching on Albedo even now, intent on stealing his home out from under him and ending the war before it could begin.

Because they're scared, Leon realised. They're terrified of what I'll do with a real army at my back. They saw this opportunity and knew it was the only hope they had to stop me.

No doubt they had planned for Deuxmoise's sudden betrayal to send him spiralling, and it nearly had. But the continent had forgotten who he was. Forgotten how he'd killed Angels with his bare paws, forgotten how he'd beaten better, bigger armies time and again. Leon Valoisier had never lost a fight, and he did not intend to start now.

If they wanted to face him, then let them come, let them all come and smash to pieces on his rocky shore. He knew what to do.

He was ready.

Leon woke to the sounds of cannon and bells. He tried desperately to claw free of his dream, panic spiking as he wrestled with the sweat-heavy sheets of his bed. Naked and panting he tumbled from the manor's bed, the jolting slam of the hardwood floor knocking some sense into him. He blinked, still mentally half-asleep. Alabaster had been there, and he'd been sinking while Leon… couldn't reach him? Drowning, someone had been drowning, no… choking him. Killing him. White claws around his throat. Red smears on ivory. Alabaster?

It's just a nightmare. He swallowed the stinging dryness in his throat, pushing the floor away as he stumbled to his feet, staggering to the manor's window. Sleep was caked thick in his eyes, but Leon dug the gunk out, squinting into the blurry darkness. Dawn had yet to come, but he could tell it wasn't far off.

There was fire in the woods. The pine trees were burning and he could smell it. Leon flinched as a cannon volley sounded – too many guns to be his own men.

Gaspar did not bother knocking. He burst into Leon's room with an oil lamp swinging in one claw, wheellock pistol raised in the other. The crocodile's shirt was ruffled and crimped, only half the buttons even done up.

“The New Coalition…" He said breathlessly. “They've engaged our vanguard division!"

Leon actually laughed. “And I see, smell, and hear it."

“Well, er…" Gaspar fumbled, his long scaled snout flapping open and shut. “There's barely ten-thousand men in the chokepoint, your majesty, taking the brunt of sixty-thousand."

Leon swallowed, the knowledge of it spearing through him. For a moment he was those men. Caught out, half-asleep and cold from sleeping in the wet night. They'd heard the guns, scrambled up, and barely been given time to find their formations. They'd shoot blindly into the dark. Bullets would fly, splinters of wood hurling through the air as the pine trees were blown to pieces. It would hurt, and all the while they'd know they couldn't win.

“Who set fire to the forest?" He asked, noting the dense plume of smoke, a bubbling grey against the inky black sky.

“An Angel, so the scouts think," Gaspar replied. “No word of which one."

“It doesn't matter, they're all the same." Leon turned to his cabinet, beginning to dress. “Prepare runners. Have the seventh division push in earlier. We may be ahead of schedule, but nothing changes."

“Yes, your majesty!" And with that the crocodile was gone.

Leon had spent the last two days preparing and speaking with his men. He spoke with them, drank with them, and laughed with them. More than that he listened to what they had to say. He could only do what needed to be done if he was sure they accepted the sacrifice being asked of them.

And damn it, they did.

His fifty-thousand-strong honour guard had no chance against the New Coalition's sixty-thousand-man army. Even without two Angels, it would have been a slaughter.

Overkill, Leon thought, buttoning his shirt. He knew he should not have rejected the Church so harshly. Punishment for the kidnapping of his nephew was reasonable, but damn it all, why did he have to go so far? Mass executions and blanket arrests? A new banishment? If he'd sought proper reparations, or an admission of guilt, perhaps he could have kept the Church and their Angels out of this war. Alabaster tried to tell you. Too late now. He should apologise, but what point was there when he knew it wouldn't be accepted anyway? No, it was better to simply carry on forward. Victory would be his absolution.

Leon knew he could not defeat the coming army, but that didn't mean they did not fear him. His reputation was a weapon he could use as much as any gun. The enemy was terrified of what he would do if he reached Albedo. They wanted to cut him off like the head of a snake, and finish the body while it thrashed without him. He could not surrender here, and he could not fight either.

He had to run.

Leon's situation was like that of a peacock facing down a rabid mongoose. The new victory condition was simple survival, and the only chance he had at delaying the New Coalition was to puff up his own force as much as possible. The enemy could flatten him with one push if they wanted to, but they'd be wary of overconfidence, for these armies still remembered how Leon had taken advantage of that before. So deftly had his strategies worked that every time the enemy seemed to find a mistake, pouncing upon it only seemed to play into his paws. They'd remember that, so much so that even when he truly was weak they would hesitate to strike, fearing another misdirection.

The New Coalition knew they had the advantage, but as to how great it was, they couldn't be sure. The enemy still did not know how he defeated Angels, and so they couldn't be too sure-footed when deploying them. They didn't know that Alabaster needed corpses for it to work, and even if they did, they didn't know that Leon didn't have any with him.

Smoke and mirrors will win this battle. A charade of the grandest proportions in living memory, a mimicry acted out with a hundred and ten thousand soldiers. Leon couldn't help but admire the sheer gall of it.

So his honour-guard-army had been broken apart. Split up into divisions of varying strength and placed strategically around the manor's woodland. Their plans were intricate and complex, but he had faith his men could carry them out to perfection. And if they couldn't it wouldn't matter for very long anyway.

Affixing his tricorn, Leon made his way through the manor's busy halls. The whole place was alive now, soldiers running back and forth, scouts carrying reports, runners already panting as they sprinted around helping the subdivided army communicate with itself. Leon's plan was clockwork, every piece had to come together at just the right moment, with just the right sequencing.

Outside, he joined Gaspar and Alabaster, the trio following along the manor edge as they went towards the north. Leon's own division was gathered several hundred metres away, little more than five-hundred men. There were soldiers only, no support staff. They'd travel fast, light, and rough, eating what they could carry.

“What are our positions?" Leon asked, stopping at the war map. Dawn had cracked the sky now, pink blades of light lancing through the darkness.

“It's fucking chaos," Alabaster snarled.

Gaspar shrugged, gesturing at the war map. “Vanguard is eating shit right now, no other way to put it, your majesty. The seventh is pushing up from the south, but it doesn't look like the enemy has taken the bait yet."

“What about the Angels?"

“Still in reserves, that fire's for show, putting the fear of flame in us."

“Alright," Leon sniffed sharply. He could feel the anxiousness of his own men at his back, shifting in place, squirming all together. They wanted to move, and he knew they didn't like the idea of turning their backs on a fight. Neither did he, but it had to be done. “We wait until the Angels commit."

Over the next few hours, Leon played chess with the lives of a hundred and ten thousand souls.

The seventh division rifles flanked around the New Coalition force, but were broken back by dismounted dragoons firing through the treetops. Light bled into the sky, and screams filled the air. To the west of the manor, the air was thick with gunpowder smoke, the intermingled cries of both forces twisting over one another like a nest of vipers. Lines of soldiers marched over the uneven ground, musket butts buried in their shoulders as they fired as one.

“The seventh is gone!" A runner cried, doubling over as he coughed up his lungs, struggling to report to Leon and Gaspar. “They're… just gone, your majesty… wiped out they are!"

“The first of their Angels," Leon said knowingly. “Send the fifth in – wait boy, I'm not done speaking. Send the fifth in, but have them adopt a wide, sawtooth formation. I want large lateral gaps in the ranks." The young raccoon boy nodded, snapping off a shaky salute before kicking up mud as he sprinted back off.

The New Coalition took that facade well. At first they slowed, thinking that the sawtooth ranks might be layered to allow for a deeper spread of gunfire. Leon swore as he realised they'd seen through his ploy, however, the enemy dragoons circling around and crushing the men's flank. The fifth division didn't stand a chance, slow to pivot as the dragoons opened fire with their carbines, Leon's men scattering to the hills as they coagulated with the other nearby divisions.

“We're bleeding hard," Alabaster cautioned him.

“I know, don't you think I know?" Leon snapped his fingers at another boy. “You, to the manor, tell all the divisions there to begin firing. I don't give a damn if they won't hit anything, I want more noise, more chaos."

The young man took the orders with a nod, dashing off at pace. Leon continued to eyeball the war map, Gaspar adjusting the pieces as new information filtered in. The pocket-knife of the New Coalition inched towards the coinpurse representing Zolfreun Manor, but not fast enough. Leon swore and cursed, demanding to know – at nobody in particular – why the enemy wouldn't push further in.

“They have the numbers! Yellow sows." The Angel was used sparingly, almost as if they feared to lose it. That was good. What was bad was when it finally lashed out, burning what was left of the fifth and eleventh divisions off the face of the planet. “Damn!" Leon snarled, slamming his fist down on the war map hard enough the pieces all jumped. “How hard is it to kill one fucking Angel? They aren't invincible!"

Nearly four hours passed like that, before Leon heard the gruff gravel of General Madox's voice. “Where is he, damn it? For once please just get out of my way, Lieutenant Gaspar, where the fuck is he?"

“General," Leon called over a shoulder, eyes still locked on the map. He ordered the third division back, trying to keep them out of range of the enemy cannons.

The dour fox shoved his way up to Leon's side, huffing. “Your majesty, pardon my bluntness, but why in all hells are you still here? We'll be out of men soon enough, that Angel is cutting us to the quick!"

“Not yet," Leon insisted. “They haven't dug in enough, they could still pivot."

“My men are dying out there, Emperor, dying so that you can actually get away from this shithole! You owe it to them to make it worth something!"

“Watch your tone," Alabaster growled.

“The time for tone and decorum is dead and buried, Monsieur Rafiq," Madox spat. “Like the rest of us will be soon enough."

Another scout came dashing in. “Your majesty!"

“Speak."

“The third and first divisions have been engaged by the enemy, sire, full engagement!"

A second scout appeared, an otter with a face smeared in blood and mud. “S… sire," he panted. “The second division has met the enemy during their skirmish, Major Nue is seeking advice."

“Fuck, fuck," Leon growled. The second division was located to the north, meant as a small buffer between the battlefield and his own unit. He'd been planning to hold them back until he made his final retreat, so as not to make the misdirection too obvious.

If the New Coalition is already searching north… they might suspect what he planned to do. They declared war on me, not my army, I am the sole target here.

“Your majesty…" Madox said.

“No," Leon replied, chopping at the air. “Tell Major Nue to initiate a full charge, sink deep into the enemy lines if he can. Teeth and bayonets." The scout ran back off.

“What are we waiting for?" Alabaster asked.

“Everything has to come together just right," Leon said, tersely. Why couldn't they see that? Too early, or too late, and they'd be finished. The battle was progressing, he couldn't just up and leave it, didn't Alabaster and Madox see how many orders he was giving? What would happen without him in place?

My excellency has crippled this country, he thought. It was impossible to think it with humility, but that didn't make it untrue. Rennaire needed him like a babe needs its mother. No, it's even more than that, and that's my greatest failure – I am not leading Rennaire.

He sucked in a breath.

“I am Rennaire." He barked at another runner, they were all exhausted, but none complained. “You. Get to the first and then the third, tell their command to initiate a slow retreat. Slow, hear me? I want them to be fought back, to show weakness towards the enemy. Give them a little skirt and let the dogs chase it! Got it?"

“Yes, your majesty!" And the runner was off.

“Will he listen to you? You'd think he was deaf, I'm not afraid to say it," Madox was asking Gaspar, who merely shrugged. The fox raised his voice, throwing it at Leon. “Your majesty, the time is approaching! Hell, the time is now!"

“Where's the second Angel?" Leon mused, rubbing at his jaw. “Which divisions are still unengaged?" He was running out of men, they were bleeding faster than a slit jugular. “Get the ninth down there… out of the manor, they aren't bothering with the house anyway… get them onto the field and round off the third!" He spat again as he lost another division to those dragoons.

“Yes, your majesty!"

“My Emperor, the plan! I'm begging you, sire, please hear me!" Madox insisted, but Leon ignored him, leaning deeper into the war map. He could practically see the battlefield from above. The riflemen were taking their knee in the front lines, firing a volley. Reloading. As they stood the next rank marched up, knelt, fired. Like clockwork, a beautiful rhythm. Enemy cavalry rounded on them, they needed to form a square to fight it off, but the New Coalition's riflemen were preventing freedom of movement. A scout confirmed it, the first division was shattered like glass by the enemy cavalry.

Leon flinched as a claw seized his arm, peeling him away from the map. Alabaster stared right into him, and then smacked him across the face. Leon blinked, first numb, and then incredibly angry.

He brandished his paw like a knife, stabbing a finger at Alabaster's face.“There's a battle out there–"

“–that you will lose if you stay," Alabaster snarled, cutting him off. Behind him, Madox and Gaspar nodded their agreement.

“We need to go now, your majesty," Gaspar said. For once, Madox had the wisdom to stay silent.

“But…" Leon glanced at the map, then back at his advisors. “My war."

“Will be far greater when you reach the heart of the fatherland," Madox said. “It needs you. I will take over here, personally."

Leon saw the wisdom. The New Coalition army was not as engaged as he'd wanted, but it was the best he could hope for. I'll work with what I've got.

“Fine." Leon stepped up to meet the brown fox, holding his gaze. “General Madox. You're a hero for this effort, and all of Rennaire will remember you."

“Thank you, your majesty," the fox bowed. “Remember my men. Now please, I beg you, sire, save our home."

Leon was already gone. Gaspar and Alabaster stuck close to his heels as he rounded the front of his men, all on foot and listening anxiously to the battle taking place barely a thousand yards away.

“SOLDIERS OF RENNAIRE!" He bellowed at them, punching himself on the chest. “ARE YOU WITH ME?!"

They all rushed to their feet, raising their rifles into the air. “HAIL!"

Gaspar stepped forward, sucking in a breath to roar like a cannon. “GLORY TO THE EMPEROR!"

“AND GLORY TO RENNAIRE!" The crowd echoed back.

Leon paused, giving one last look through the narrow window formed in the gaps of the pine trees. He saw little more than smoke and fire in the distance. So much wanton destruction, it had to be worth something.

“Am I doing the right thing?" He asked Alabaster.

For a moment there was silence, followed by a small voice. “I think you're asking the wrong person."

He could not explain why, but that reply skewered Leon's heart worse than any bayonet ever could. Swallowing the sudden tears that threatened to overtake him, he turned, waving for the five-hundred rifles of his division to form into columns. Gaspar helped cordon them into order, the party adopting a triple-time march as they headed north-west away from the manor.

It was a balancing act. Leon kept them from straying too far north. While it would put more distance between him and the enemy, if they lost too much time moving laterally the New Coalition army would be able to react, pivoting when they learned of the deception. But likewise, he couldn't stray too close to the fighting and risk being caught up in the engagement. So they threaded the needle, his division four-men wide, practically jogging in loose formation as they scrambled over rocks, slipped in the underbrush, and pressed on westward.

Leon's heart was in his mouth the entire time. His body pulsed with anticipation. Nobody spoke as they moved, the sounds of cannon and gunfire slowly falling into the distance as they put space between themselves and the enemy.

“We're not going to hold this pace," Gaspar told him, sidling up. “The men are exhausted as it is."

“No slowing, not yet," Leon breathed back, glancing over his shoulder as if he could see the enemy coming. “It's a long way home, but the enemy… they are fat and slow. The more distance we put now, the faster we can go."

“The bulk of the army is fat, but they'll send horses, dragoons, cuirassiers."

“Let them come," Leon said. “Lighter units will be small in numbers, and they have to find us to fight us."

“They'll dog us all the way to Rennaire."

“They're the ones that want to, let us show them our homeland, if that's what they desire."

Gaspar laughed at that, falling back to help yell orders at the riflemen, encouraging them to keep the speed.

They kept that pace for another two hours, until the sun was well on its way down in the sky. Finally Leon allowed them all to slow, briefly pausing to water the men at a river. The echoing potshots of the distant battle still bounced through the forest, but they were growing fainter with each mile marched.

After four more hours of slower-paced marching, Leon finally called for them to stop, dusk well and truly blanketing the forest. In a perfect world they'd have kept going, but the men were ragged, and the darkness was beginning to make the march treacherous – there was no use for soldiers with twisted ankles. He found a small shelter bordered by stubby, moss-covered cliffs, and had Gaspar organise rounds of watch.

“Have we gone far enough?" He asked the crocodile, once the men were settled. The moon was rising, barely a sliver of glowing white in the sky, stars scattered like dust about it.

“Far as we can go, your majesty," Gaspar cautioned. “This forest is dense, we'll move quicker once we reach the prairie near the border. Their men need rest too, and they can't travel by night any better than we can."

“But they can cycle, and they've horses," Leon said. His earlier confidence had fled him, and now he couldn't stop wondering if they should go just a little farther. “They'll know by now what we've done. They'll be coming for us."

Coming for me.

Gaspar gave a grunt. “It's a long journey on foot, even double-time, even with a force this lightweight. It'll be a hard stretch, and we always knew they'd be dogging our heels the entire way. Wasn't it you who told me, nothing done easy is worth doing at all?"

Leon did not reply to that. He knew it was for the best, but it still felt wrong to abandon his men at Zolfreun. A part of him wished he had stayed to fight, even if it meant dying in a brutal last stand. If I am to die, please, let me die on a battlefield.

“Have a scout party put together," he said eventually. “Eight men, volunteers only, cycling out in shifts. Go back the way we came, spread out and search for any following sorties."

“Your majesty…"

“Humour me, my friend, please," Leon said. “I don't want surprises."

Gaspar was reluctant, but he eventually agreed, putting the scouts together and sending them out. The anxiety was still pounding at Leon's back, but he felt more at ease. In leaving behind his greater force, he left behind all the intelligence of his scouts and advisors. They were running blind now, and he'd be forced to act more on instinct than information.

So be it.

That night, Leon did not sleep. Most of the force didn't. Instead they all sat up listening, waiting for any hint of an attack. The New Coalition had arrived at Zolfreun Manor sooner than expected, and nobody wanted to be caught unawares again. When he decided the worry would never let up, Leon went to find Alabaster perched beneath a fern. He sat down a few feet across from the necromancer, who stayed quiet, etching runes into small charms and whispering to himself.

“How can you see in this darkness? I've a cat's sight and can still hardly make out my paws before my face," Leon asked. It was past midnight. They had no fires, and no light save for the sliver of moon hanging in the cloudy sky.

“You forget I am a mystically powerful sorcerer," Alabaster replied. He glanced over at Leon, his pupils appearing like two illuminated mirrors.

“Oh," was all Leon could say back. “Then… what are you doing?"

“I am preparing."

Leon let his head fall back, listening to rustles of Alabaster's tools on the rune as he stared out into the night. It gave his mind something to fixate on, the tiny scratches, the little shifts of cloth as the dragon adjusted himself.

Sleep must have come eventually, because Leon was shaken awake by Gaspar. The crocodile stood over him, eyes bloodshot, the pale pre-dawn light a pinkish-grey in the skies behind him.

“Your majesty, wake up."

Leon growled, accepting a claw and letting Gaspar haul him to his feet. His clothes were sticking to him already, mud and sweat and damn knew what else.

“What is it now?" Before he'd even finished the words, he saw the scout waiting on the rock behind them. He was a lean horse, and one sleeve of his uniform had been torn free, bloodied gashes running up his arm. His eyes stared vacantly at the ground.

Leon brushed Gaspar aside, going right to the man and kneeling before him.

“Soldier, hey, soldier," he snapped his fingers before the horse's face. “What happened to you, where are the others?"

“We went far… your majesty…" The scout swallowed, sniffing. Leon saw blood caked in his nose, under his fingernails, bruises showing at his neck. “Too far."

“You found the enemy."

“An… and…" He shook his head, saying the word in barely a whisper. “An Angel." Leon forced himself to wait patiently, allowing the scout to catch his breath. “She caught us. She killed them with… with ice, the others. There were some dragoons too, I think, with her. Mounted units."

“How did you get away, son?" Gaspar asked, squeezing the horse's shoulder.

The scout looked up, meeting Leon's stare. “I'm not a coward, your majesty. She let me go. She said… said she wanted you to know it was her that was coming. That… you slipped through her claws once… but… not this time."

“She let you go?" Leon asked, cocking his head.

“We've met her before," Alabaster said, stepping out of the shadows. Leon flinched, he hadn't even realised the dragon was there. “An ambush at the fort during the first campaign in Yaravania, orchestrated by the Speaker. You remember?"

Leon did. His entire support staff had been decimated, shredded to pieces on frozen spears inside the keep. She'd meant to kill Leon while the soldiers were away, but hadn't expected him to actually fight on the front line.

Gaspar blanched. “You mean to say one of their Angels is hunting us? But why send our man back, why let us know that they're coming?"

“It's the forty-fifth," Alabaster hissed. “She's famous because she enjoys killing other Angels. There's a sport in it, and Leon's the competition. That's all this is to her, you see, a new challenge." Leon nodded slowly. He knew her name, and it was all he could bear to say aloud.

“Leutgard."