March 08th, 1798

From the 500 horsemen under Francis' command, only 352 survived. That meant that 146 of his comrades were dead. And from the living, more than half were wounded. In simple words, for him the battle had been a disaster.

As a leader he had suffered losses before, but never to this extent. What happened in Anjou with the explosion wasn't his fault, since he wasn't in charge, but this... This was. Even if the other survivors refused to admit it, he was to blame. And he felt pressured, because he knew he had to do better next time.

Every rider he allowed to die, was one more husband, son, brother, uncle, and friend that wouldn't return home to their families. Every single wounded soldier that was taken to the medical barracks was one less player on the board, and one step closer to defeat. And now that their King was dead and their dreamed republic was rising over his body, they couldn't lose. The future of their country, of their children, of their legacy, was on the hands of officers like Francis, and they had to excel. He had to excel.

As stated by Laupin, a counter-attack from the Ruhmnians was expected, especially from their cavalry, but the heads of the revolutionary army had underestimated their enemy's strength. Even with the aid of Major Luckner, their cavalry was outnumbered and outgunned. Their 1800 ragtag riders couldn't stand a chance against their opponents' 2500 dragoons. It was a brutal warfare.

Still, somehow, they had won the battle in the end. Battered and bruised, they had won. Francis had to give it to the man; general Obermann's use of their cannons was the work of a genius. The heavy artillery fire he imposed upon their foes made them retreat by force, bleeding and screaming. He had mowed them down to dust, just as he had promised. And he was rightfully applauded for it.

But this particular victory didn't taste sweet to anyone, let alone Francis, who actually found it bitter and acidic, to the point of sickness. Because it was accidental, and achieved thanks to despair. Which was an irritating thought, if considering that all of their previous victories thus far had been carefully planned and fought for.

This profound disgust and anger was also explained by the fact that he had seen one of his closest friends, Charlie, get wounded by shrapnel right in front of him.

And to be fair, all of these countless reasons for his rage were perfectly understandable. He wasn't mindlessly furious, as he had been in his previous engagements with the enemy. No, now he was fully aware of his feelings and his thoughts. Which honestly, turned him into a mightier and even more terrifying beast.

Because despite being lucid and level-headed, he still wanted revenge against those Ruhmnian twats.

So, with Major Luckner's permission, he switched places with Verdi and took control over his hussars' squadron again, leading the remaining men south, to hunt down the fleeing Ruhmnians.

He chose to bring along the hussars because they were part of the light cavalry —which meant they had smaller, faster horses, and could chase the men they were after more easily than the cuirassiers—. Also, they were better trained, and were well acquainted with him. They wouldn't flee if something went wrong, and wouldn't abandon him to die in unknown territory either.

Also, they wanted revenge for their fallen friends as well. They had a good motive to stay and fight until the end.

This swap of positions worked. Him and his riders managed to kill at least a hundred lost and abandoned Ruhmnians before reaching a safe distance from their main campsite.

It turns out these bastards were stationed at the ruins of a medieval castle, not very far away from Marsan. But Francis couldn't move forward with a direct attack, because he knew it would be a suicide mission. He'd need the support of his commanders and generals to do so. He'd need the brutality of the infantry and the heavy fire of the artillery to get inside that fortified camp. On his own, there was nothing he could do.

So, he went back to the citadel.

—Where is general Obermann? —he asked a random soldier that crossed his path, once he dropped down from his horse.

—On the western watchtower, monsieur... I think.

—Thanks.

—Monsieur...

—Later.

—But you're wounded...

—Later, I said!

Francis didn't care about the man's protests at all. He limped his way to the tower with a scowl on his face, chewing tobacco to ignore his hunger. As he moved, the could feel the worried looks of the people all around him, burning into his back. But he couldn't give two shits about himself. He had to warn his superiors about what he'd seen out there.

—Jesus fucking Christ, Forestier —Arquette cursed his name upon seeing him, and Obermann turned around from his blackboard to find out what the commotion was about.

The generals, commanders and captains of the 5rd Division of the royalist army were all congregated in the top of the tower, where a table with a huge map, candles, pencils, compasses and rulers had been installed for their use. Some high officers were talking around it, moving figurines and pawns through their surface, while others, such as Laupin, were eyeing the faraway fields with the help of their spyglasses.

—I just came back from the south. I found the Ruhmnians campsite —Francis said, then casually strolled towards the table. He pointed at the ruins of the Keaches castle on the map, staining it with his bloody finger—. They are here.

—May our Lord have mercy... —Laupin, upon seeing the weakened state of his captain, almost dropped the telescope.

—Today's attack won't be the only one. We faced the first brigade today. But tomorrow... Tomorrow they might attack with the second. And I think they might have another camp at their disposition. Because I didn't see their horses there. The dragoons fled somewhere else... My suspicion is that they have three brigades in total. We could be talking about 30.000 men...

—Shit... —Munsch said under his breath.

—I know, the situation is dire. But if we attack the castle campsite first, we might be able to win...

—No, Forestier... I'm not scared about a new attack. General Pollock is coming in from the east to aid us. We'll be fine.

—Then?

—You need a medic, now —Laupin walked towards him in a hurry, and only after seeing his terrified expression, Francis realized something surely was wrong with him.

But he still was running high on adrenaline.

—I'm fine —he tried, and failed, to release himself from his commander.

—No, you're not. Everyone here can see that you're not. Let's go.

—I can't go, I'm needed here...

—Forestier —Obermann spoke over him, and his concern was evident—. Do not rebel against your superior's orders. Go see a medic, now. Camille...

—I'll take him.

—But monsieur...

—Do you wish to spend the next week in jail? —the general raised his left brow.

—No monsieur —the captain replied after a few seconds of hesitation.

—Then move. Go.

Only then, Francis decided to listen, and allowed himself to be taken outside by Laupin. He was basically dragged to the medical tents, were he was immediately sat down and examined by one of the field doctors. He knew he had been slashed on the forehead by the blade of a bayonet earlier, but he had no idea that his whole face was dripping with blood, and that he looked like a nightmare-ish demon, until a small mirror was thrusted into his hand. Ten stitches were needed to close the wound. And then he found out that he also had a huge cut on his arm, which need twenty. But the energetic distress of the battle was such that he barely felt any pain. The bottle of cognac that was given to him to sedate him didn't do anything but worsen this state of mental numbness.

—Give him at least three days to rest —he overheard a doctor say to Laupin, and immediately stood up.

—One day is far too much. Three is complete insanity. I'm not staying still while my men die.

—If you don't stay still now and rest until your health is restored, your men will die —Laupin replied—. You're staying in bed.

—Bed? But the enemy is coming!

—They suffered great losses today and they'll need some time to regroup. Tomorrow they won't come, and if these clouds don't dissipate, it's probable that the day after they won't show up here either.

—Then we should attack first! Have a go at them while they aren't expecting us!

—And lose our precious gunpowder because of the rain? I don't think so. Besides, you said it yourself, they may have another campsite hidden somewhere. What if we try to attack, and they call up their backup? We'll be trapped in those ruins, with no way out. We'll be squashed like an insignificant fruit fly...

—Not if we plan everything right!

—Forestier! —Laupin lost his patience—. You will rest, or so help me God, I will demote you! I don't want you fighting anyone until that wound on your forehead stops bleeding! Do you hear me?!

The threat made Francis shut up for good, and sit down again. Against his will, he would have to spend the next three days resting.

—Yes, monsieur.

—Good! Now drink up your cognac, and lay your back down!...