September 13th, 1797

The morning that preceded the most draining twenty-four hours of Francis Alencar's life thus far was calm, still, and overly peaceful. The sky was clearer than it had been in days; the sun warmer than it usually was at that time of the year. It was almost as if nature had a certain presage of the pain that him and his compatriots were about to feel, and was trying to comfort these poor men before any real damage was done. Even the birds chirped and sang, as their heavy boots marched towards the open gates of Canclaux, bidding them goodbye and good luck on their new journey.

Before they could step out of the city and walk through the deadly field ahead, Laupin decided to give them one last speech of encouragement. By his expression alone, it was clear that he was just as helpless and exhausted as they were, and had no hope for their future, nor faith in their survival. But his courage, his honesty, and his denial to back down against the most impossible of odds were traits his men valued more than anything in those dark times, and therefore, every word he said was taken to heart. If he was willing to die by their side, they would gladly give their lives away too.

As he gave them the order to advance, his fellow soldiers straightened their postures, covered their faces with a mask of anger, and tightened their grips on their muskets, ready to fire at any given time. To boost their morale, the fair haired captain begun singing a catchy little song he had heard a few years prior, when the revolution was still in its beginning, and quickly, his voice was joined by a hundred others:

—¡Traitors of the land, we're coming after you! ¡With freedom by our side, there's nothing we can't do! ¡We'll hang you up so high, your head will touch the sky! ... ¡May God grant you forgiveness as you die, die, die! ¡May God give us the strength to stay alive!...  —he shouted as they abandoned the city.

While they walked, Francis observed the formation and display of their troops, and came to believe that Obermann's main plan was to trick the enemy into believing this was a straightforward, clear frontal assault, when in reality, they would most likely maneuver into a pincer movement. And as he guessed, that was exactly what his superiors had in mind.

The idea was that, once they were close enough to Anjou's walls, Laupin's company would split apart from Arquette's, and attack the right flank of the royalist army. The other captain himself would move towards the left, giving space for the cavalry to attack the center. Given the characteristics of the terrain, that bold choice of strategy actually made a lot of sense. The path that they currently marched through was surrounded by a forest to one side and a few hills to the other —places that would slow down and weaken the power of a cavalry strike—.

They reached most terrifying sector of the field, known as the graveyard, after a few minutes of silent walk. The place itself was just as grim as the name suggested. After so many battles and failed attempts of gaining control over Anjou, the amount of cadavers and skeletons that circled the city had grown exponentially. It was impossible, for both of the forces at conflict, to send corporals and cadets out there to retrieve them, so there they remained, in the middle of nowhere, rotting under the clouds, soaking up the humidity of the mud and the rain. The deceased were so many in fact, that at some point the earth was gone from under Francis's feet. The only thing he could see, from where he stood until the horizon, were the colorful coats of the dead. Well, that and the rising smoke of the incoming fire.

—It's beginning! —Charlie shouted by his side, watching the earth explode and fly into the air, falling over their heads like arrows.

Despite their fear they kept walking forward, as the men ahead of them kept dropping to their feet, blocking their path as they died. Laupin, still on his horse, raised his saber to the sky and started moving his men to the right, following Obermann's plan. As the direction of the battalion shifted, their problems worsened. Near the tree line, a small group of royalist artillery soldiers began shooting at them, trying to stop their advance. The grapeshot was effective at delaying their pace, but not at stopping their movement altogether. Two lonely cannons, after all, couldn't repel a horde of tired, angry, blood thirsty soldiers, whose friends had just been killed.

It took the rebels a while but, eventually, they reached the fortification that protected the royalist shooters, and ran straight into a messy melee.

The hand to hand fight was bloody, chaotic, but necessary to stop the use of the cannons.

Francis had just stabbed a man to death when he heard a huge commotion on the field behind him. After striking another foe down with his bayonet, he turned his head around to look at Arquette's battalion, which seemed to be facing some serious issues advancing through the left.

—They aren't going to make it, are they? —Pierre asked, also turning around to look at the disaster in the horizon. 

—I don't think so, no —Charlie said as he passed him by, and gestured forwards—. Let's keep moving.

The fight was intense, but it didn't last long. Lapin and his lieutenant managed not only to take control of the forest cannons, but of Anjou's closest exterior fortification, the watchtower. A wondrous achievement, without a doubt, and a necessary step towards victory. However, from the top, it was evident that the situation on Arquette's side was looking dim. There were far more cannons in the hilltops than expected and his troops were quite literally being mowed down to death. Laupin knew that he couldn't conquer the city without Arquette's support. He needed to intercede.

—I can't leave him behind... —Francis overheard his superior mumble as he leaned over the edge of the parapet, taking a look at the chaos ahead—. Lieutenant Marais!

—Yes, monsieur! —the slim man ran to his side as quickly as he could.

—I need you to hold our position while I'm gone.

—Gone, monsieur?

—Captain Arquette needs my help over there —Laupin stated, then pointed towards the gardener and his peers, recognizing them from their previous battle together—. The five of you!

—Monsieur!

—Come with me! We're returning to Canclaux; I have to warn captain Leroy that Arquette needs backup.

The men shared a look of uneasiness, but agreed nonetheless, and followed Laupin as he descended from the top of the tower.

—Do you know how to ride a horse?

—Yes, monsieur —said Charlie, Francis and Jacques.

—No, monsieur —replied at the same time Séverin and Pierre.

—Well, we'll make do —he said as they reached the ground—. We have few horses anyway; we'll have to share. Porcher! Tremblay! —he screamed at the few mounted officers that accompanied his company—. I'll need to borrow your horses. I have to return to Canclaux.

—May we know why that is, monsieur?

—Look at the horizon... —Laupin couldn't hold back his anger—. I'm not letting hundreds of men die without a reason. Now step down!

The trio looked at each other for a second, before giving into this command, dropping down to their feet and walking away.

—I'll go fetch my own horse, I expect you to be ready to leave when I return —Laupin said to Francis' group next.

—But monsieur, there are only two horses. Assuming we're sharing...

—One of you will be left, yes... That man rides with me —the captain was quick to add, before running off towards the cannons they had just conquered, where he'd last seen his stallion.

—Well... —Charlie hung his musket on his shoulder—. Pierre, since you're the youngest and I'm the oldest, you come with me —he mounted his saddle with one swift move, and offered a hand so the boy could get up as well—. Jacques... can you help?

—Sure thing —the blacksmith rushed to his aid, after seeing the younger officer struggle to raise his body over the horse.

—Since Francis is just as heavy as you, I don't think you should be paired together —Charlie kept talking—. One of you will have to stay with Séverin, and the other...

—With the captain —realized the former gardener, sharing a worried look with his colleague. None of them wanted to share a saddle with Laupin—. Alright, Jacques. I think there's only one way of settling it —he looked at the ground, grabbed one of the thousands splinters that rose from the grass, and pointed it towards the blacksmith—. The childish way. – he joked, as the man grabbed the other side of the stick—. Whoever gets the bigger size wins?

—Sure —he played along for laughs, snapping the thing in half. To Jacques' surprise, luck smiled in his favor—. Guess it's me and Séverin then.

—Crap... —Francis muttered under his breath, as the amused blacksmith walked away, victorious.

And like that, the pairings were settled. Charlie would ride with Pierre. Jacques with Séverin, and Francis... with their captain.

Fantastic.

It wasn't long before the man himself returned, on top of his white horse, pleased to see that his orders were followed smoothly.

—I see you're ready to leave. Great —Laupin smiled with relief, before offering his hand to Francis, helping him up and onto the saddle. As he accommodated himself on the horse, the captain took the chance to explain to the group what was their mission:— As I said before, we're going back to Canclaux to get captain Leroy's help. Captain Arquette's lines are about to break, and we cannot let that happen. We'll do whatever we can to help them, and return in an hour to the watchtower, so we can all invade Anjou at the same time. Understood?

—Yes, monsieur.

—Let's go then! —he shouted, as he began his race against the clock to save the lives of countless soldiers.

----

The battle had been going for at least an hour when they finally reached the left wing of the field, along with captain Leroy's men.

The skulls had been holding back their central attack until Arquette's position was fixed, and therefore, only began their assault when the reinforcements reached the base of the hill, where Arquette was still struggling to gain dominance over the royalists.

—¡GREGOIRE! —Laupin shouted from the top of his horse, being showered with the dirt from a close range explosion.

Calling Arquette by his first name must have worked, because the tired captain turned around to look at him, somewhat dumbfounded.

—You're here —he mouthed, stumbling forwards as Laupin dropped down from his horse, alongside Francis and his team—. Thank God!...

—Greg, you're bleeding —the fair headed captain held the weakened man in his arms, then looked around for help—. You need to be taken back to Canclaux immediately!

—I can't... Leave my men here...

—Leroy and I will handle this, so save your breath. That wound in your leg needs to be treated right now —Laupin's frantic eyes met Francis'—. You! Can you take him back to the medical tents?...

—Of course monsieur, no need to ask —the former gardener replied, following the command as quickly as he could.

—The infantry needs to take control of the cannons on the top of that smaller hill... —Laupin said to the rest of his men, and pointed at the green lump of earth that rose nearby—. But it can't do that if the path towards the top is blocked by royalists and all of our cavalry units are busy at the moment! So!...

By the time the blue eyed officer had finished his explanation of how to attack the hill to his colleagues, Francis was gone.

Along with him on top of the white horse, facing his back, and clinging to his coat like a scared little kid, was captain Arquette. He moaned in pain every minute or so, barely able to keep both of his eyes open, but he was still alive. The former gardener was focusing solely on that.

—Are we there y-yet?

—We're close, monsieur... —Francis whispered, as they trotted through the piles and piles of corpses—. We're very close. Hang on.

Very few men remained in Canclaux. But thankfully, those who did were able to recognize Arquette's mat of hair from the distance and ran to his aid, opening the gates so that him and his rescuer could come inside.

—Where's captain Laupin?

—What happened?

—Is the battle still going?

—I have no time to answer, just help me get captain Arquette out of the horse for God's sake! —Francis dropped to the ground and pulled his superior down from the saddle, as a few other hands helped him support his weight.

The wounded captain was laid down on the floor with ease, while some soldiers ran away to look for a stretcher. As he descended, he grabbed the lapel of Francis's coat, begging him to look at him in the eyes.

—Thank you... for saving me... for taking me o-out of there... —Arquette swallowed down his pain, shaking like a dog left outside in the rain—. Take this... —he then removed his golden wedding ring, and with unsteady hands, gave it away—. If I don't make it... p-please... ask Laupin to give it to my w-wife...

—Monsieur, you'll be okay...

—PLEASE! —his coarse voice cried, and his whole face crumped in pain.

—Alright, alright! ... —the cadet nodded, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze—. I will.

—T-Thank you...

—Francis, monsieur. My name is Francis Forestier.

—Thank you... Francis —the captain mouthed again as he was carried away, and the former gardener was forced to return to the horse, and back into the battlefield.

---

After crossing the graveyard once again, Francis was left alone in the middle of the terrain, without knowing exactly where to go. The watchtower was secured, and it seemed like their enemy had finally realized that fighting over it was useless, choosing to abandon the cause, and flee.

The Skulls had opened a huge hole in the center of the royalist company lines, and forced them to regroup near the hills, where an enormous, threatening cloud of gunpowder hid away the true heart of the battle.

Francis now had a choice to make. He could play safe and return to the peaceful side where once he was, near the woods, or... most likely, choose death by going towards the higher grounds.

Though his heart begged him to join Laupin's efforts of taking over the hills, the stench in the air made his stomach jump around in his belly, and bile climb up his throat. He could become a part of the mountains and mountains of dead bodies beneath him very soon if he decided to be bold and head towards the left flank. He was well aware of it. But, then again, he was mounting Laupin's horse, and he couldn't return to the watchtower without the company of his captain, or his mates. He would be ostracized and probably jailed for it.

—Fucking hell... —he breathed, irritated, and chose the only path left for him; the one that took him to the high grounds.

Even in the middle of the chaos and ruckus of the fight, finding his captain's white and blue coat moving around between their foes, skirmishing like a serpent through the royalist soldiers as he killed them, wasn't as hard as one might have believed it was. What Laupin had in kindness and modesty he also had in rage and strength. He didn't need a firearm to slay his opponents; with a few quick slashes of his saber, they were down on the ground, drowning in their blood. It was impressive —and quite frankly, unnerving— to see him so excited to finish off the life of these bastards.

—CAPTAIN! —Francis screamed from his saddle, using his own sword to cut down the men ahead of him.

—FORESTIER! I WAS WAITING FOR YOUR RETURN! —the man smiled, running to his side. As quickly as possible, the cadet helped him up onto the horse—. WE NEED TO HEAD OVER THERE! —the captain used his weapon to gesture towards the space between the hills—. I SENT YOUR FRIENDS THERE, TO STEAL SOME ENEMY CANNONS! THEY SHOULD BE WAITING FOR US!

—ALRIGHT MONSIEUR, HOLD ON!

Doubling the speed in which they moved —and subsequently leaving the stallion beneath them extenuated— they managed to reach their destination five minutes earlier than expected.

Whilst the bigger hill still was completely filled by royalists, the smaller one had already been taken from their hands. The cannon fire, therefore, changed direction from the field, to the hills. And now, both batteries where attacking each other.

—FRANCIS IS BACK! —Charlie shouted from the top of his lungs, as they fired another round into the air.

Meanwhile, Francis himself realized that the horses of his colleagues were nowhere to be seen. Most likely, the animals had run away out of fear, stressed out by the loud bangs, screams, and explosions of that hellish ambiance.

Which mean that they didn't have a quick escape from the place. They would have to run for their lives, if something went wrong.

—You need to return... —the former gardener thought out loud, as he saw another round be fired.

—WHAT? —Laupin screamed, behind his back.

—MONSIEUR! —Francis turned his head to snatch a look at his superior officer—. MONSIEUR, YOU NEED TO HEAD BACK TO THE WATCHTOWER! LIEUTENANT MARAIS IS WAITING FOR YOUR RETURN!... AND YOU'LL NEVER MAKE IT ON TIME IF YOU STAY WITH US HERE! THERE ARE NO HORSES LEFT BUT THIS ONE! IF SOMETHING GOES WRONG!...

—THEN WE'RE SWITCHING OUR PLANS AND I'M STAYING! I'M NOT LEAVING ANY OF YOU BEHIND!  —Laupin replied immediately, and dropped to the ground as to prove his point—. MARAIS WILL KNOW WHAT TO DO WHEN THE TIME COMES!

—BUT MONSIEUR!...

—TRUST ME! —he smiled and tipped his hat, before running away like a playful kid.

—FRANCIS! —Charlie spoke to him again, over the deafening sound of the battle—. GET DOWN HERE AND HELP ME BLOW THESE BASTARDS UP!

Sighing one more time, the former gardener agreed. He dropped from the saddle and reluctantly released the reigns of Laupin's white horse.

The creature ran away as soon as he let it go. It crossed the grass, the stones, and disappeared into the mist downhill, taking Francis's hopes of returning home alive with it.

With a sore sigh, he fixed his tilted hat and ran towards his team.

—WHAT DO I DO?

—HAND ME MORE AMMUNITION! WE'RE RUNNING LOW! —Jacques screamed over the cacophony of explosions, and pointed at a pyramid of wooden boxes, filled to the brim with round shots, a few feet away from them.

Francis pushed it across the floor, without breaking a sweat. He then grabbed one of the balls and handed it to the blacksmith, who inserted it into the cannon —along with the gunpowder— with one smooth shove. Next, Pierre used a rammer to push the sphere to the bottom of the barrel, Charlie pushed a match into the vent, and Séverin used a linstock to set it on fire. During the entire process. Laupin stared at the group with his arms crossed, impressed by their coordination and natural ability to work as a team.

The other soldiers that were fighting alongside them weren't as proficient. Their shots were slow, and barely grazed the enemy forces. Laupin knew that they wouldn't be able to keep up with his peers if they kept working so poorly, so he decided to send the faulty soldiers on a different mission. They were to cross the land that divided the hills, and melee with the gunners and grenadiers that hid in the high fort while the crossfire kept going above.

—Why'd you send them down there, monsieur? I don't think they'll be able to climb to the top...  —Francis moved closer to the captain, genuinely curious as to what he had in mind. 

—Oh, they won't. I'm sure of that —Laupin nodded, then jumped back in surprise as a cannonball exploded to his left—. But I need them gone, because of what I'm about to do next! HOLD THE FIRE!

His men turned around to look at him in shock. They were being showered with bullets, shrapnel and solid shots, it was madness to stop firing back.

—When I give you my order, all of you drop to the floor! —he lowered his voice as he moved closer—. We'll force them to halt their fire!

—What?

—NOW! —he shouted, just as a ball hit the wall of bricks of the fort, raising a cloud of debris up in the air.

Without an option, they followed his command, and played dead.

—What are we doing? —Charlie questioned once the dust settled.

—We are waiting for them to turn their cannons away from us.

—What?!

—If we don't shoot at them for some time, we'll trick them into thinking we are dead, and they'll give up on trying to kill us. They'll move their guns towards the field once more. No sane men would waste ammunition on corpses —Laupin explained, and crawled closer to the wall that protected them from the incoming fire. Slowly, he rose over his knees and peeked over the bricks, checking if his plans had worked. He did that a few times, until he drooped down, laughed, and spun his head around, confronting his men—. See! They moved the cannons, and the muzzles are now facing the forest! We're safe!

—What now, then? —Séverin asked, still clinging to the linstock.

—Now we start firing again —his smile grew wider, and his eyes sparkled with excitement—. At the count of three, we stand up, load the cannon, and shoot... One... Two...

—Three —Charlie cut the chase, and they hopped onto their feet again, quickly loading the barrel before they were discovered.

Instead of using a common solid shot, they decided to start their assault with the most lethal type of ammunition: grapeshot. The first attack was highly effective, so they decided to repeat the process a few times more, until Laupin told them once again to hold their fire.

—Why are we stopping, monsieur? —Francis asked.

The captain didn't reply. Instead, he pointed his finger forwards. Blowing away the expectations of their peers, the group of disastrous soldiers that were sent downhill had actually managed to reach the fort by foot, and were taking control over it.

—YES! BLESSED BE GOD, YES! —Laupin screeched at the sight—. WE FINALLY HAVE BOTH FLANKS SECURED!

—And what do we do now?

The man removed his hat from his head, dried his sweat with his left sleeve, and put it back in place.

—Now we attack Anjou, Gontaut... and put an end to the royalist uprising in the south.

Except, that didn't really happen. At least, not as quickly as he had hoped it would. The beginning of the Battle of the Graveyard might have been promising, but as soon as the revolutionary army walked into the city, the whole situation shifted against them. 

Bellow their feet, under the streets they raided, a carefully crafted net of tunnels had been dug, and filled with powder kegs, for months on end. This stock wasn't meant to be a weapon of destruction initially. The royalists simply wanted to hide their ammunition well. But this is what it became, in the end, when one desperate royalist soldier went underground and gave his soul away in the name of their victory.

And the demise of the rebels, from then on, was unavoidable. From the beginning, the undertaker had been patiently waiting for their arrival, sat upon a throne of barrels, dressed with the dark shades of the black powder inside.

All it took was for one lonely match to fall over the path of destruction, and half of the terrain bellow the city was thrown into the air. The rain of dirt, debris, pulverized bricks and rocks buried men, women, and children alike, not discriminating between races, genders, status, ranks... even the innocent lives of the animals they raised was wiped out from existence. With one huge ball of fire, all of them were gone. Soldiers, rebels, and civilians alike... gone.

Francis barely recalled the moment it all happened, as it was so sudden and unexpected. But if he had to describe the events through his own eyes, he would put it in simple words: it was as if he had been struck by lightning. The energy that flowed through him shot up and backwards, making him fall over the wall of a nearby cabin, and slam his head hard against the wooden planks behind him. He touched the ground as a deafening roar wounded his ears, and the heat of the blast burned his bloodied skin.

As he came to his senses, the adrenaline rush kept him numb to any pain, but made the world around him blurry, almost unreachable. He tried to get up and managed to do so, after a few failed attempts, using the rubble to support his frail body. He heard someone call his name in the distance, but was so out of it still, that he couldn't make up who it was.

Slowly, the realization of what had happened begun kicking in. He was in Anjou. The city had been blown to pieces. The royalists had run away. His battalion had been annihilated. His friends were missing. He was alone on enemy grounds. Thousands of random civilians were murdered by the blast.

—I have... I have to leave —he babbled, searching for his musket.

He found one a few steps away, although he wasn't sure if it was actually his. But, in the end, it didn't matter. After all, the original owner might as well be dead.

—Francis! —he heard the voice again, and turned his head around to see Charlie, stuck under another wooden wall, trying to get out.

As quickly as he could, he made his way across the wreckage, and knelt beside the blond, helping him escape from his prison.

—Are you hurt?

—Only my arm, I think —he answered as he was pulled out from under the planks—. It ain't too bad if I'm still awake and thinking.

—I guess it's not.

—HEY! HELP! HEEEEEEEELP! —another voice screeched from their right, where the flames from the explosion still burned.

—It's Séverin! —Charlie realized, and jumped up to his feet, following the direction of his screams to find him.

The boy was trapped —just like Charles was, a few seconds earlier— under a mountain of bricks and splintered wood. Next to him, a blazing inferno heated the masonry around him, creating a hellish furnace he alone could not escape from.

—We got you, hang on! —they began removing the rubble as he screamed in pain, begging for mercy.

The former gardener, not bearing the sight anymore, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, and pulled him out with all the strength he had left in him. In that moments, all of those years of physically draining hard work had paid off. He was able to remove the student before the fire reached his torso, and burned him alive. Charlie used his damaged jacket to put out the flames that lit up both of his legs, which they couldn't save in time.

—You're alive! You're alive!

—IT HURTS!

—I know, I know... But you will live. You'll see your family again; I'll make sure of it —Francis promised, still short of breath, then looked around the field, thinking what he should do next—.  We need to find a horse.

—A horse? —the older soldier asked, running a hand through his golden locks of hair.

—We need to move the wounded back to Canclaux.

—That's impossible, there are too many.

—We have to try —he insisted, fighting against his own hopelessness.

—Alright —Charlie said, after a brief moment of doubt, as they heard Séverin's cries get louder and louder—. Alright, let's do it.

—Do what? —a new voice joined the group, whose heads spun around to find no one but Jacques, alive, breathing, and still in one piece—. What are you planning?

—Finding a horse, getting the wounded out of here; are you okay?

—Peachy —the blacksmith's sarcasm actually made Séverin laugh between is tears—. I can't see out of my left eye... My ears are still ringing... But otherwise, I'm think I'm good.

—Can you help us out, then?

—Of course.

—Great, then help me get Séverin up on his feet again —Francis said.

—Eh... I don't think he'll be able to walk, since his legs are, well... charred.

—We'll carry him, between the two of us —the former gardener answered, already on the process of sitting him up—. Come on, he needs us.

—Fine —Jacques agreed, and as the wounded screamed and cried some more, they pushed him up, holding him by his arms and shoulders—. Where to now?

—Back to Canclaux. Charlie... —Francis threw him his musket—. Be on the lookout. And if you see a horse, grab him, we'll need it

—Yes, monsieur —he joked, but did as requested.

Somehow, the earlier smell of the graveyard seemed like a field of roses, compared to the rotten scent of the carnage around them. It was repulsing, nauseating, and displayed the ghastly power of death.

After fighting for so long, Francis realized that killing wasn't the worst thing about war, but the thought of being killed, and joining the tapestry of bodies beneath him; of having his organs set out on display on the dirty ground, of turning into a banquet for the earth and its insects alike, of having his cold, shredded flesh eaten by the hungry beaks of the crows above. It was the thought of dying in such an honorable way, and having his sacrifice be discarded, ignored, and stepped on by other living creatures, what made with shake with fear.

As he walked alongside his brothers in arms, the only thing he could think of was Laura, and how much he wished to see her again. How much he desired to walk through the garden of her palace, holding her hand when no one was around to see, kissing her behind the trunk of a willow tree, under a curtain of leaves, and making her blush whenever his mouth said something his mind didn't approve of, but his heart profoundly meant. He wished to return to her side once this disaster was over, with enough money in his pocket to travel the world, enough fame in his name to do it freely, and enough experiences to know he should never look back. That was the only reason he kept moving forwards, instead of giving up. The faraway possibility of holding her between his arms again, and sighing, knowing he was home.

—It's Laupin's horse! —Charlie shouted, out of nowhere, and ran off to the left, getting a hold of the scared animal.

He caressed the skin of the white stallion, trying to calm it down. Eventually, he managed to do so.

—Jacques, get Séverin up on that saddle and take him to the medics. Once he's in safe hands, find help and get back here —Francis said, with clear relief.

—I will. Be careful around this place while I'm gone.

The blacksmith mounted the creature first, and from the saddle, he helped the other men raise the wounded student's body up. Once they were settled, Jacques ran to the horizon as swiftly as he could, leaving his colleagues behind to find other survivors on their own. A mission which turned out to be harder than both of them had expected.

—Shit!... Another loose arm! —Francis threw the severed limb away, swallowing own vomit—. God grant me strength... How many have we rescued already?

Charlie turned around to count. Approximately half an hour ago, they had decided to lay down the half-alive men they had found on the grass of churchyard —the only place in the entire city that wasn't filled with mountains and mountains of debris—. The clearing was small, but allowed them to locate their way back to the wounded better, as they kept scavenging the area for more people to save.

—We have... thirty-five.

—That's not enough. We have to keep moving.

—Royalist! —the blonde raised his musket up and with his bayonet, stabbed a man he saw standing in the shadows of a nearby building.

The farmer dropped to the floor with a thud, along with his gun. Francis dropped his own weapon down and picked the new one up, after realizing how clean and well preserved it was.

—This looks like it belonged to a high ranking officer —Charlie commented, then pointed to the stock—. See, there's a scripture down there.

—It's a name... Augustin Athanase.

—Athanase? That's a royalist general. He used to work for King Armand, before King Henry took over... I didn't know he was hiding in Anjou.

Charlie walked inside the building from where their fallen foe had suddenly emerged. Inside one of its rooms, they found a huge table, covered by maps and little wooden pawns, that indicated the movements of the royalist forces. Around it, on the chairs, three dead men were sitting, staring coldly at the papers. Their heads were split open, destroyed by close range shots; they had been executed before the big explosion happened. The suspects of the crime were also dead, although laying on the floor, close to the exit door. Two were members of Arquette's infantry; one, of their own battalion.

—Lieutenant Marais —Charlie knelt down, shocked by the sight—. He made it to the city. And he's...

—Dead —Francis agreed—. Indeed.

They stared at the unmoving body for a few seconds, completely devastated by the discovery. The former gardener, a little less affected by the loss, removed the coat from one of the bodies on the chairs, and covered their fellow officer with it.

—Come on... —he then extended his hand to Charlie—. There's nothing we can do for him.

—Yeah... —the older soldier snapped out of it, and stood up—. It's better if we go —before they left the building however, they stopped to take one last look at the maps—. Wait, Francis...

—What?

—Why are there pawns with the flag of the Ruhm empire here?

The former gardener, who was about to step out of the room, returned to his side. He looked around the table for answers, and quickly found them.

Under the fingers of an old and wrinkled man, a bloodied letter was carefully hidden. He pulled the envelope from under the still hand, and knowing that it possibly contained something of importance and worth, began reading the message it carried right away.

And what he discovered left him agasp.

—They've declared war on us. Five days ago —he explained as his eyes glided over the document—. And King Henry, he's... —suddenly, he felt as if all air had left his lungs—. He's been guillotined.

—What?!

—The royal family is dead. Lievre is now being administered by the republican directory, who is calling for the establishment of a National Convention... Which means that the monarchy fell, and we're now a Republic.

—We won the war —the realization hit them with the intensity of a thunderstorm.

—We won the first war.

—What do you mean?

—I mean that... —Francis raised his grey eyes from the paper—. The Ruhm empire has officially declared war on us. They wish to avenge the death of Queen Leopoldine, who was the sister of their emperor, Ferdinand the second, and was married to King Henry. She was executed too.

—God have mercy on us...

—This is why Laupin was so excited when we took control over the hills... Mosella, Roman and Canclaux are secured. If we managed to make Anjou ours, we'd have a strong line of defense in case our southern neighbors decided to invade us, which apparently, they have.

—We have to find him —Charlie ran a hand through his shocked face—. We have to check if he's alive. He needs to see this!

—I know... Do you remember where he walked off to, when we arrived here?

—I think... —the blond followed him outside, still perplexed by the news—. I think he went to meet with Leroy.

—And where?...

—I don't know... I only remember him walking towards the mills —he pointed towards the far end of the city—. I think Laupin noticed that the royalists were escaping, and wanted to get Leroy's help to stop them before they left, but... then the explosion happened...

—Let's head to the mills then, and we'll start looking there.

—Yeah... —Charlie agreed, not thinking of a better way to find their missing captain—. Let's do that.

---

They walked around the rubble for hours, searching for him. In the meantime, Jacques had returned with a handful of healthy soldiers, taken the wounded men they had rescued back to Canclaux, and found Pierre alive and breathing, stuck under a doorframe of a fallen building.

The pair themselves had also retrieved more people from the ruins, although their captain was nowhere to be seen.

—We've managed to find eighty-three men, and that bastard's still missing.

—Maybe he was blown to pieces.

—I'll only believe that when I find his head —the blond came to a halt, trying to catch his breath—Good grace, I'm exhausted.

—I am too, but we have to find him. Laupin didn't abandon us at the hills when we were being shot at from every possible angle. We can't abandon him now.

—I know... —Charlie straightened his back, and used his musket as a cane to keep moving—. But we've searched everywhere.

—I'm not giving up hope yet —Francis removed his haversack from his shoulder and set it down on the floor—. Sit down and rest. While you're at it, take care of this for me, will you.

The blond, too tired to argue, sat down on a large, broken slab of clay, as the former gardener kept moving around, feeling lighter now that he wasn't carrying the bag. Around ten minutes later, Charlie shot up to his feet, as Francis' screams were heard in the distance.

—I FOUND HIM!

—WHERE?

—OVER HERE! —Francis raised his gun up and waved it, catching his friend's attention.

Not very far from the mills they had come from, next to the steaming remains of a hut, there was a large crater on the surface of the earth, about the size of a four-horse carriage. On the lowest part of the slope, buried under a huge pile of dirt and mud, was Laupin, awake and alive.

—What... happened? —he asked, as he slowly came back to his senses—. I saw a ball of fire emerge right in front of me and then... I was overcome by darkness.

—The royalists exploded half of the city so they could escape... We still don't know how, but... That's what they did.

—How... how many?

—How many what, monsieur?

—How many are dead?

Francis and Charlie shared a look.

—We don't know monsieur... probably more than two thousand.

—Christ... —Laupin breathed as his upper body was released from the dirt, and his saviors were finally able to hook their hands under his armpits and pull him out of the earth.

Next, he was laid down on the ground, over his back, so they could check him for injuries. His left leg was bleeding quite a lot, now that the pressure of the fallen debris wasn't stopping the force of the hemorrhage. The gardener was quick to remove the white cravat he wore on his own neck, which he used to tie a tourniquet, right above his knee.

—That should do it for now —he said, before taking his haversack back from Charles, putting it on, and with his help, pulling the officer up onto his feet—. I know it hurts, monsieur... But you'll be fine.

—I didn't have the chance to ask... —Laupin said, grimacing—. What are you two still doing here?

—We're rescuing survivors, monsieur.

—Survivors? But it's too dangerous...

—We're cadets of the revolutionary army, monsieur —Charlie laughed—. Everything is dangerous.

—Well... I can't say you're wrong —he laughed back, as they kept moving through the desolated area—. How many have you saved?...

—With you? I think we're at eighty-four... Right, Francis?

—Yes... but, if Jacques and the others are also helping, I'd raise that number to a hundred and something...

—Wait... You're telling me that the both of you have saved the lives of almost ninety men? On your own?

—Well monsieur, we've pulled them out of the field... But I'm not sure how many of them will actually live —Francis's eyes avoided his, as they overflowed with tears.

—Still, what you have done is exceptional... —Laupin replied, in awe.

—We just did what we thought was right, monsieur —Charlie filled in for his friend, giving him the time to regain control of his emotions—. But at least we have some good news! Captain Arquette is alive, Anjou is technically taken, and King Henry is dead.

The captain's eyes widened.

—How do you know that?...

—We found a letter, inside of what it seemed to be a royalist headquarter... I can't reach it now, since it's inside my coat, but I remember clearly every single word it said —Francis explained in a somber, serious tone—. The monarchy is over, the revolution was successful, but the war goes on.

—So you also know about Emperor Ferdinand's plans to invade our country.

—We do, monsieur. And we also understand the importance of taking over Anjou. That's also one of the reasons why we kept walking around this field... We need to save as many soldiers as we can, because this city cannot be left unoccupied. We need to hold our ground.

—The future of the republic depends on it —Charlie agreed, as they got closer and closer to the churchyard.

While they were gone, Jacques and the few men that remained had installed three tents, were the surgeons, butchers and doctors could work operate on the injured. Outside, the wounded were lined up in rows. The closer they were to the tents, the worst their shape.

—Captain, let's go inside... Someone needs to take a look at that leg...

—No, leave me here. I'll wait in the line.

—We can't do that, monsieur.

—I want to be with my men.

—Monsieur, the bullet that's lodged in your leg will kill you if it's not removed soon —Francis insisted, dragging the man forwards—. It's not up to discussion.

—Lay me down, it's an order.

—With all of that groaning, it is not —Charlie replied, and helped the former gardener pull the reluctant officer inside—. CAPTAIN LAUPIN IS HERE!

Suddenly, every head in the shelter turned to them. A few men —some of whom were rescued by the pair of cadets themselves, a few hours prior—, approached them and took the injured captain out of their hands.

—Here, you should sit down —a butcher brought them a couple of stools, and his assistant, two cups of greyish water.

From that moment on, things became blurrier than they had been all day long. Francis's recalled a man named Frederick helping them remove their boots and dry their sore, wet feet. He also remembered how he cleaned the mud, ash, and blood of their eyes with a sponge, and gave them a piece of bread so they could eat. Normally, that type of kindness would never have been received by officers of a rank so low as theirs. But after all they had done for their battalion, it didn't seem like it was enough.

—Captain Arquette sent a cart here to pick captain Laupin up, and take him back to Canclaux, so he can rest —Francis listened to Frederick's words with a confused expression, as his hearing slowly started to return—. Laupin asked for the both of you to come with him.

—I'm not going... Use my space in that cart to carry someone who really needs urgent care back to the city. I'm fine —Charlie replied, somewhat irritated.

—The soldiers with the worst wounds have already been taken back there. Only the ones we know aren't going to make it are still in here. Get out while you can —Jacques joined the discussion, crossing his arms.

His head had been dressed with large pieces of linen cloth, and his left eye declared lost forever.

—How's Séverin? —Francis's raspy voice asked.

—He lost his right leg from the knee down, but the left one is still salvageable, from what the doctors said. He's already out of here.

—Pierre?

—He's helping the search parties, trying to get to the last living soldiers buried underneath the rubble. I'll take care of him, don't worry.

—Alright... —Francis stood up, and urged Charlie to do the same—. We'll see you both at Canclaux, hopefully?

—Sure thing, flower boy —the blacksmith joked, and shook both of their hands, before walking out of the tent.

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Author's note: Hey there, readers... I just wanted to share yet another old drawing of Francis and his friends, that I made before I started writing this book. This is actually the first one I ever drew, and it was also inspired by one of my nightmares:

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Also, since some people don't believe me when I say I keep having nightmares about 18th-19th century battles since I was a kid, I thought it would be nice to share with you a drawing I made when I was six years old, on my mom's personal notebook, after I dream a soldier shot another in the head:

For your consideration: