NONE SO VILE

02: Guns at Dawn

Zolfreun, Losaile, 1802.

A tactical retreat was a difficult, but beautiful thing to execute. Leon Valoisier stood by his command tent at the edge of the woods, admiring it from afar as his army broke on the Zolfreun Heights like an egg over a pan. The combined forces of Losaile and Danegard were closing in, and although there was no real danger yet, any manoeuvre hinting at retreat always risked a blow to the soldier’s morale. Nobody wanted to play the coward, and Leon had seen time and again what a difference high spirits could make, once the killing began.

But there was no other way. Zolfreun was the perfect place for this battle to happen, Leon felt it in his bones, but only if they pulled back first. 

“General?" Leon glanced back, to his recently-appointed Chief of Staff, Jacques. The rat's uniform was immaculate, assembled over his light grey fur to the letter of the soldier's manual. How typical. Jacques dipped his head, moving mechanically, more similar to a piece of clockwork than a flesh-and-blood man. “Marshal Euran Deuxmoise is here for you, sir." 

Leon was not given the chance to welcome the Marshal as he shoved his way through the staff officer, his own uniform dusty from weeks on campaign, his prized cavalry sabre bouncing on the lean jackal's hip. 

“General!" Deuxmoise barked. His tone was respectful but intense, and Leon suppressed a grin at the man's poorly concealed fury. His ears were kept flat, tail drawing close to his legs as he stopped rigidly in place. “I humbly request a re-examination of our current orders. Am I to understand that the Fifth and Sixth corps are abandoning the Zolfreun heights?" 

Leon nodded, whiskers twitching. He was a jaguar, fit and young, with bronze fur dotted by dark spots. He cut a nice outline despite the campaign filth clinging to his blue general's uniform, gold epaulettes worn proudly on his shoulders. Under more typical circumstances, twenty-nine would have been considered far too young to command such an army, and Leon knew the fact bothered men like Deuxmoise. But Rennaire had been at war for years now, and as more senior Generals were killed in battle, a sort of forced meritocracy had begun to appear in the ranks. Leon had not been originally appointed to command this army, but circumstance and luck had gifted it to him, a fact Marshal Deuxmoise would never be pleased about.

“Your understanding is correct, Marshal," Leon finally replied. “I want everyone off that hill by nightfall."

The old cavalryman couldn't help himself. “God in heaven, man! That hill is the strongest piece of land in the area, I beg you reconsider this manoeuvre, General. The enemy will seize it the moment they arrive."

I hope they do, Leon thought, staring back out from his perch. The Zolfreun flats laid between his command and the heights, tiny heads bobbing in the mist as the various combined divisions began to make camp for the night.

“General?" 

“You have your orders, Marshal, as do the other corps." 

Deuxmoise stepped in close, touching Leon on the arm. “May I speak plainly?" 

“Always." 

“We have fought well since you took command, no doubt about it," the jackal began. Opening with flattery, a classic. “The battles of Hurlitz and Salenco were both exceptionally steered. But that was facing smaller detachments, they were mere skirmishes with the numbers in our favour; it is simple mathematics. We have a force of forty-five thousand. Together, Losaile and Danegard are fielding almost fifty-five thousand. I have been in the army my entire life, and this is not a battle that can be won, especially not when we are abandoning our greatest advantage. I am begging you to consider a full retreat of the army, no one would think you anything less than prudent. " 

Jacques stepped forward, tutting awkwardly. “You received the strategy briefing, Marshal. The General's plan is outlined and your corps forms a part of–"

“Quiet!" The jackal snapped back. “If I wish to be reminded of things I already know, I will ask." 

Jacques tutted, unperturbed as always.

“I agree with you, Marshal," Leon replied. He spoke calmly, watching the men from his army filter off the plateau ahead. Fog clung to the Zolfreun flats between Leon and the hill, and he knew from the previous few days that it would continue to build all night, forming a dense cloud by morning. “This is not a battle that can be won by our forces traditionally."

Deuxmoise lowered his voice. “I was told the infantry are retreating to the hamlet in the east."

Leon shrugged. “A portion of them, yes. But your concerns should remain with the cavalry in your own corps."

“They'll be lambs for the slaughter!" Deuxmoise exploded. “Listen to me boy, you do not know what you are doing here. I can tell you, oh yes! Overnight, Danegard and Losaile will seize the hill, and that resource will be lost to us. In the morning, they will march along the eastern flank and annihilate every soldier you stranded in that village. There are no defensive structures and no time with which to build any. Please heed my words, General, for you are sentencing the infantry to death." 

“Only a portion of it, Marshal!" Jacques piped up. 

“Interrupt me again, and I will have you lashed!" Deuxmoise snarled at the staff officer. Jacques only stared back quizzically. Time and again people like Deuxmoise had tried to bring a rise out of the studious rat, but Leon had never once seen it work. The man was simply unflappable.

“Marshal Deuxmoise," Leon began carefully. “How long do your dragoons need to take back the heights?" 

The Marshal blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback at the fact he may have actually been listened to. He frowned, staring out over the fog. Opposite their position, the retreat was nearly completed, leaving the Zolfreun heights standing alone and empty in the distant dusk light.

“No more than twenty minutes." 

“Are you certain? Twenty?" Leon whirled on him, leaning in close. “Presume it is lightly defended. Do not exaggerate." 

“Thirty, then." 

The jaguar smiled amicably, stepping back. “Good. You have your orders. Move your dragoons closest to the heights, but keep them concealed and await the manoeuvre as outlined." 

“General–"

Leon held up a paw, cutting off the blustering jackal. “Please. I have heard your concerns, but the strategy remains unchanged. This is the way forward, and the only way forward. Return to your men." 

Deuxmoise huffed. “I hope you have prepared your excuses for when Marshal Laurent realises you sent a third of his infantry to their death." 

“Oh, Marshal," Leon grinned. “I have more excuses than you could ever know."

For a moment he expected the man to actually hit him, but instead Deuxmoise smoothed down his own hackles and spun on his heel, marching back west towards Third Corps. Leon exhaled deeply. 

He wasn't nearly as confident as he'd have Deuxmoise believe. The Marshal was completely right in that they were significantly outnumbered, and technically Leon's appointment of General to the Greater Eastern Army had not yet been officially ratified by the Crown. No one had told him to stop, but one wrong step, one over extension, and everything he'd built up over the last twelve months would be snatched away in an instant.

It might yet happen anyway, if only because the older relics of the military couldn't imagine taking strategic orders from someone not yet thirty. 

You could lose it all. So easily. Leon reached up, pinching the edge of his bicorn.  The only way to solidify his latest position was to win a battle many would think unwinnable. To become a war hero, with so much influence the army would revolt if he were taken away. The men already thought Leon was a lucky influence, he'd outsmarted and outmanoeuvred the enemy at every turn so far. But this was different, this battle had much larger stakes, and so much more stacked against them… Retreat is certainly the safer option.

“The Marshal is unhappy, General," Jacques noted. 

“Very observant of you, my friend," Leon replied. “Draft up reports to send back to Albedo. Prepare one for victory… and one for defeat." On the possibility that they could lose the day, Leon had to be prepared, and had to find a way to spin things. That's if, always if. You haven't lost yet.

“Of course, sir." For the past nine months of the campaign, Leon had ordered Jacques to send back regular reports to Albedo. They were reprinted and distributed all over the city, to any man that could read. Leon wanted the people to know him, not just the rich aristocrats, but the common folk too. Leon had grown up dangerously close to poverty, and he knew the value of a hero that you could believe in; someone to keep you going when times grew lean. 

I can be that hero, he thought, whiskers twitching in the frigid air. I can bring the common man hope, and if the Crown ratifies my Generalship… If that truly happened, he could bring real change to Rennaire, put an end to conflict, and truly make it the greatest nation in the world.

But only if you win the day. There was no doubt. A loss tomorrow would see it all dashed.

“Sir," Jacques asked, stepping closer. “I received another report before Marshal Deuxmoise's arrival. The Danegardian field army is being led by the Emperor himself." 

Leon's excitement piqued, and he spun to face the rat. Jacques stared blankly, his common flat-affect expression giving nothing away. “Emperor Ferdinand is here?" 

The jaguar twirled back to gaze upon the field, elated as he stared even further into the greying distance. I am in the presence of greatness. Even the enemy respects my ability. It was almost impossible to believe that the Emperor of Danegard was so utterly close. What a prisoner that would make!

“He's been watching my campaign, doesn't trust anyone else to stand against me. Yes… I see it, he wants this war to end tomorrow." With the recent addition of Sixth and Seventh Corps joining them, Leon was now fielding Rennaire's largest army in the west. If they were routed tomorrow, the war would be effectively over.

So much riding on this. It made Leon's blood race, to think how much he was balancing on it. Our soldiers are the fastest, they are well-practised and battle-hardened. It cannot fail. It cannot be allowed to fail.

“You should sleep, General," Jacques added, coming even closer, concern creeping into his voice.

“How could I, Jacques, before a battle like this? No," Leon laughed. Tomorrow would decide the fate of his career, his country, his entire life. He'd be awake all night, poring furiously over the strategies, trying to imagine himself in Emperor Ferdinand's shoes. What would the old wolf do? What would he think? What mistakes might he make? 

“I'll sleep when I'm dead." 

As dawn bled away, Deuxmoise was quickly proven correct. The combined forces of Danegard and Losaile had marched through the night, seizing the Zolfreun Heights like a fox pouncing in the snow. From his position at high command, Leon saw their intermingled standards flapping in the wan morning light. The blazing sun of Losaile, and the twin-headed eagles of Danegard. Alone each nation fielded an impressive army by their own rights, but together they filled one another's gaps.

Losaile's troops were known for their speed – their light cavalry was some of the best in Midland. The Danegardians traditionally moved slower, however their heavy mounted units and fearsome artillery was more than enough to make up for it. Together… Leon struggled to see any major weaknesses.

Peering through his telescope, Leon saw the pride of the Emperor mustering behind the light skirmisher lines on the hill – the Kammerjaeger. An elite unit of armoured riflemen, donned in steel helmets fashioned in the shape of a wolf's head. Rifles fired far slower than the traditional smooth-bore musket, but their accuracy was unmatched. Usually the Danegardians kept their Kammerjaager's held back, if the Emperor was sending them out so soon, he must feel confident. That confidence is a noose I will use to hang you.

Leon's own army was equipped almost entirely with smooth-bore muskets, as he wanted to preserve rate of fire over anything else. It was like a gigantic, deadly game of rock, paper, scissors. Speed beat power, but cavalry beat infantry, and artillery beat everything. There was merit to the Danegardian style, but Leon prioritised speed and ease. The only rifling unit in the Greater Eastern Army was his own personal division – the General's Waistcoat.

What a site to do battle at. He imagined Emperor Ferdinand standing before him, the exceptionally tall wolven emperor sneering down at Leon, as if he could smell the middle-class birth reeking off him. I will make you and every other nation in Midland respect me.

Horns sounded across the fields, the darkness of dawn opening up with each passing second. As Deuxmoise had predicted, the allied enemy took the initiative, dozens of organised ranks marching eastwards down the gentle hills as they approached the defenceless hamlet by the junction. Everything the Marshal had said was correct – the enemy had more men. The village was indefensible. By numbers on paper this battle was not viable. 

But Leon had spent his entire life being told what he couldn't do, and he'd never listened to them before. 

“Will it work, General?" Jacques asked beside him. 

Leon looked down the war map before him, two assistants receiving information from scouts and moving the corresponding pieces of each army around the parchment. It looked like a board game, but to Leon each piece represented a regiment of just over a thousand men. A thousand lives, the glory of Rennaire, all of it resting on him. The pressure was immense. 

And if Deuxmoise is right? Leon chewed his cheeks, watching through the telescope. The village was pathetic, barring intervention the enemy would roll through his infantry like a wave. If this goes badly, you're finished. They might even hang you.

“Then we won't let it go badly," he declared, forcing a grin. “Patience and speed are the key, right Jacques?" 

“Yes, monsieur!"

Leon breathed out slowly as he watched the enemies march, heart pounding. Between him and them was a sea of fog, the heavy mist clinging thick to the Zolfreun flats. Leon had been down in it only two days earlier, and he knew that at this time of day it reached well over a man's head. It was impossible to find your way without proper signage. Still, as the cold began to bleed away into the crisp autumn morn, he felt his nerves rise. 

Artillery began to fire. He could just barely make out the puffs of black powder, Danegardian cannonshot slamming into the first makeshift barricades of the village, effortlessly blowing the modest hovels to pieces. The bulk of the enemy was shifting east, but many still held the rear guard of the Zolfreun Heights, watchful over their precious hill. 

The men at the front ranks of the Danegardians took a knee, rifles to their shoulders, firing volley after volley downwind into the hamlet. Leon's infantry fired back, their smaller cannons pathetic against the overwhelming force bearing down on them. Men were ripped apart by lead, the rear ranks quickly stepping in to fill their place. Tight formations won battles, there was no other way, to scatter was to open to the rank, and then chaos would spread like fire. 

Hoofbeats interrupted Leon's thoughts, and he turned to see one of Marshal Deuxmoise's men – a grey rabbit – slide from his horse, snapping a crisp salute out at Leon. 

“General! Marshal Deuxmoise requests permission for his divisions to launch!" 

Leon licked his teeth, telescope pushing hard into his socket as he tried to wrench more detail from the battle. “Not yet." 

Men were dying out there. The battle had begun in full now, thick cloying smoke filling the air, the heavy Kammerjaeger division crushing anyone they came into contact with. The corps left in the hamlet had no elites, and no chance. Long rows of firing men braced and shot, marching deeper into hell to the sound of drums and gunpowder. Thankfully, Losaile had not yet deployed a cavalry charge – but it was coming any moment now. 

You think you've caught me in a trap, Emperor? Found the chink in my armour? Leon wanted to laugh. Was he losing, or winning? It was impossible to tell. Wait too long, and your life is over, Leon.

“Monsieur, he demanded I insist!" Said Deuxmoise's man, the rabbit shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “He claims the time is now, or never." 

“Oh yes, I can picture his claims now," Leon replied absently. He watched the Zolfreun Heights keenly, struggling now to make out the finer points as the air filled with smoke. The sun was coming faster now, and soon the fog of the flats would melt away. 

“Perhaps it is time, General?" Jacques suggested. 

“They haven't committed yet," Leon hissed. “Damn it, what's keeping you all?" He needed the enemy to go all in on their assault of the village. “They're holding back, why?" 

Something in the village exploded, buildings falling in on themselves. The Rennairan soldiers were strong, and they held their lines, but from the outside it wasn't looking good. 

Just as the marshal had said it would be, it was a slaughter. 

“They are sending their cuirassiers!" Jacques cried, causing Leon's telescope to whirl back towards the hilltop. 

The heavy cavalry of the Losaile force was leaving their perch, their curved cavalry sabres rattling as they began the heavy charge down towards the village. 

Yes! Leon's heart surged, relief flooding through him. It had worked, he could practically see Emperor Ferdinand celebrating his upposed 'victory'.  

“Sergeant!" He practically shoved the rabbit to his horse. “Back to the Marshal with you, tell him to attack at once! And remind him he promised me thirty minutes, not a second more!" 

“Y-yes monsieur!" The rabbit replied, giving his mount the spurs and charging off towards the west. 

The commands bled into one movement. Leon felt as if he was the army, imagining himself above the battlefield, his orders manifesting immediately. 

The enemy ranks marched deeper into the village, fully committing their force to the fight. Only the faintest trickle of defenders covered the hill, Emperor Ferdinand having swallowed Leon's deception. The force at the junction had been left intentionally weak, a deliberate provocation too good to resist. 

Marshal Deuxmoise's light dragoons rushed up towards the heights, their mounts churning the ground as they charged. The rear guard broke quickly as the dragoon's carbines fired a charging volley into the clump of men, their sabres drawn a moment later as the light cavalry slammed into the enemy, eviscerating their formation

Further cavalry and support skirmisher lines followed the dragoons, marching double-time, firing their muskets five rounds a minute into the scattered force. 

The Emperor's marshals realised what was happening too late. As the fog began to clear, they realised how much of Leon's forces had been hidden in the blanketing mist. A wave of cavalry smashed into the side of the Kammerjaeger, ripping through the enemy forces and splitting their men apart. Chaos erupted. Infantry followed up from the flats, seizing on the enemy's confusion. There was no cohesion to it, half the enemy tried to make for the village, while the other half tried vainly to retreat to the heights.

Leon knew he was asking a lot of his men, it was difficult to march and shoot uphill, but they had the benefit of surprise.

“Thank goodness it worked," he whispered to himself. If Danegard or Losaile had even half-suspected so much of Leon's forces were waiting in the fog, their tactics could have destroyed everything. Now it was too late, and the tide was turning. The enemy had left the hill, thinking themselves safe, and the blow to morale at being caught out so effortlessly would be devastating. Leon grinned, the distant choir of screams and gunshot music to his ears. 

Order and control were what won battles, Leon knew that, and in one decisive blow he had smashed the enemy to pieces. Their forces were split in two, unsure which way they should be fighting, the Rennairan infantry from the village using the momentum to go on the offensive, volley after volley of deadly musket shot blowing apart the half-turning Danegardians. Even the kammerjaeger's division was faltering, unsure who to kill.

The remainder of Leon's scattered infantry joined Marshal Deuxmoise's brigades at the top of the Zolfreun Heights. They had to sprint in ranks, a difficult task for even the most well-drilled units. As soon as they reached the former enemy encampment the front two ranks fell to their knees, instantly firing their muskets. 

It was the most beautiful thing Leon had ever seen, and he knew they would be writing about it in history books for decades to come. Emperor Ferdinand and the Court of Losaile would no doubt claim how filthy and underpawed a move it was, but Leon did not care. Victory was victory, and if things continued playing out the way they were, it was all but assured. 

“General, I received a scout report," Jacques said, flicking his papers as he stepped up to the jaguar's side. “Bad news." 

“Let me have it," Leon replied, grinning. Nothing could break his spirit now, unless Danegard had somehow been hiding another ten thousand men in the woods, victory was his. It was only a matter of time. I can taste the parade. 

“The enemy is fielding an Angel." 

Leon went cold. Ten thousand men would have been better. 

“Danegard don't field Angels in their armies," he said, dumbfounded. Neither did Rennaire. In wartime any civilised nation would accept the gentleman's agreement to avoid using the powerful mages. If you fielded one, it forced the enemy to do the same, and that was a recipe for mutual destruction. 

“I believe he is allied with Losaile," Jacques said. 

“Fuck." Leon's army did not have an Angel, in fact he despised them. They were too cruel, too difficult to command, and too powerful a tool to use on ordinary men. The Church claimed the Angels had the blood of God running in their veins, that that was the source of their power. Leon did not know if it was true. What he did know was the raw danger even one possessed. Half the time they end up killing more men than they save.

“Who can we send?" He pieced through his divisions, his remaining units. His manoeuvre against the Emperor was more complex than anything Leon had seen before, and due to the imbalance of numbers, he had committed almost every division he had to out-smarting the enemy. I fell into my own damned trap. 

“Damn it, Jacques, who do we send?!"

“We have no elite units, monsieur," Jacques said plainly. “It is too late to retreat, each major corps is engaged. There are some dragoons left over from the scouting party?" 

“Light cavalry thrown onto an Angel? It will eat them without a second thought." Leon closed his eyes, pushing his thumbs against his lids. “So close, so fucking close." 

He could hear it now, out there in the distance. There was a thunderous clap, like no other sound found on a battlefield. It was unnatural, the kind of noise that pierced your belly and brought your breakfast back up. Deep, echoing, harrowing, a scream from a mystic dimension. 

I can't lose this, not when I'm so close. If Leon lost this battle, Losaile and Danegard would win the war. Rennaire would be even worse off, left starving and poor with no army to show for it. There would be no choice but to give in to every one of the enemy's demands. It could start a death spiral for the entire country.

Not to mention what would happen to him. Leon's days of being a General would be over. He'd had a good run, but Deuxmoise was right, he'd over-committed his forces, been too arrogant and sure of himself. But it had almost worked!

“Do you know which one?" He asked Jacques, and the rat checked his notes. 

“I… believe it to be the fifth – Hashan." Leon nodded tersely. There were only ever a hundred Angels in the world, and the Church kept meticulous notes on each of their numbers. “The men call him the Finger Mage." 

“Bastards!" 

The jaguar threw himself at the war map, mocking up tight ideas, trying to imagine how he could use what little men he had left. The infantry in the village had been fighting for hours, the cavalry at the heights had joined the melee in the centre of the field. Artillery moved too slow, and most units were caught up and engaged already. 

There's no way to make it work. His whiskers twitched, tail flicking in aggravation. Except… 

Leon rose up. “The General's Waistcoat, order them ready." 

“B-but General," the rat stammered, confusion spreading over his face. “That division is to ensure your safety, if you send them out to the field, who will defend you?" 

“They will!" Leon exclaimed, stepping to his armourer and taking a rifle, fixing the bayonet. “Because I'll be with them." 

“General, you mustn't! Who will command the battle?" 

“You, Jacques. The Marshals have their orders, they all think themselves much smarter than me anyway, they should manage on their own!" 

Leon headed down the path from his command tent, meeting up with his guardsmen. They were on foot, rifles up, shortswords hanging by their hips. Their long blue and purple greatcoats fluttered in the wind, royal sashes strapped to their bodies. 

“Is something wrong, General?" The captain asked, as he saw Leon approach. The guns in the distance meant they had to shout to be heard. 

“There is an Angel on that field, Captain!" Leon cried back. Another deep echoing howl resonated out across the flats, bouncing through the trees. “It'll kill every one of our men if we don't stop it first." 

The Captain shrunk back. He was the head of an elite unit, but even he did not like his chances against one of God's monstrous children. Everyone knew the stories; that it took an Angel to kill an Angel. 

“The consequences, General, are you sure it is wise?" 

“I've had enough of people questioning me!" Leon snapped back. “Ready the men, we move in light formation. Remember the words – God's in his heaven, Captain." 

“And all is right with the world," the Captain shot his eyes towards the clearing sky. “May he ignore us today." 

“Damn right, man!" 

They moved fast. The General's Waistcoat were soldiers of exceptional quality, and they kept their ranks loosely ordered as they jogged towards the battlefield. Things grew louder the closer they went, and as his division reached the edge of the village, Leon's lungs were already burning for the powder filling the air. 

Men were dying everywhere. Blood was smeared across every surface, the pained cries filling the air, the volleys a constant and unending rhythm. The heartbeat of war. 

Leon rushed up to an artillery sergeant, a burly bear barking orders as his heavy cannon fired further up towards the heights, blowing chunks in the confused middle of the enemy. 

“General?" The bear spat, eyes bulging as he shot off a shaking salute. “Apologies, monsieur, but what are you doing here? Are we routed?" 

“Far from it!" Leon screamed back. The sun was in the sky now, but down here it was dark. The bear looked absolutely terrified of him. What a pity, Leon thought. “I heard there's an Angel down here!" 

The bear had clearly been trying to avoid the thought, and he nodded, gritting his teeth. “Yes, General. They've already taken the north side, I'll say he brought down the steeple." 

Ironic, Leon thought. For supposedly divine creatures, the Angels rarely seemed to have much reverence for their distant father. 

“God watches us today," the bear said fearfully, cowering beneath the clouds. 

“Keep your head down, fire into the enemy, and he will pass over us," Leon replied, clapping the sergeant on the back. 

He turned back to his riflemen. “Men! The Finger Mage is in there!" He pointed deeper into the city. “We are going to go in! And we will come back covered in the blood of God!" 

They cheered together, fixing their bayonets.

Either that, or we'll wind up dead, and then they can demote me as much as they like. 

Hashan, the Fifth Angel, stood in the centre of the village, smoke curling around him. He was a deer surrounded by rubble and gore, dressed in a tattered grey coat fluttering in the wind. A flat yellow halo glowed faintly a few inches over his head, as if attached to his antlers by invisible strings. From his chest came his namesake; four thick fingers opening out on either side of his ribcage like the underbelly of a spider, each digit as long as man's arm. They clenched and stretched, plucking at the threads of reality. 

Every Angel's ability was different, but chaos and power unified them. 

Leon pointed around the village square, directing his subdivisions to various locations. No ranking shots would be useful today, their only hope was to overwhelm. 

Leon heard the Angel laugh, and one finger twitched, a small cannon nearby blowing apart in a smokeless eruption, the following thundercrack deafening in the chaos of battle. 

How do I stop you? He wondered, creeping around the village edge, four men close by his side. The first of his sub-divisions had made it to a rooftop, and they dropped to one knee, sighting their rifles on Hashan. The Fifth Angel spun as they fired, lead melting in the air and spattering across the deer like raindrops. The fingers on Hashan's chest all clenched at once, as Leon's gourd rose as the skin was shredded from the men in an instant. Their bodies collapsed without screaming, pink musculature exposed to the cold air. 

That isn't promising. The chances of an ordinary man killing an Angel were low, but not impossible. There were tales of great warriors centuries before that had managed the fact. I don't need one of you, Leon thought. I have an army made up of the greatest soldiers in the world. I am the greatest soldier in the world. 

The war swirled around the village like a cyclone, cavalry and infantry clashing again and again out on the Zolfreun flats. Leon put the greater battle from his mind, his plans were in motion, the only thing between him and true victory was this bastard, Hashan. 

There was an empty cannon laying off to one side, the bodies by its large wheels dressed in the blue of Rennaire and the yellow of Losaile. There. 

“Move around, fire, fire!" Leon cried, pointing and gesturing. Two more divisions appeared amongst the rubble, letting loose volleys on the Angel. It howled as Leon moved, that hideous sound screeching out through the air as bricks were sent tumbling into the sky, dust spitting up and clogging their lungs. When it spoke, it barked in the harsh Losailen language, laughter accompanying.

Leon slid by the cannon, grunting as he and his four men quickly dragged it around by the barrel. The General's Waistcoat began unloading their rifles into the Angel's rear, drawing his fire. Each time the deer effortlessly blew them away, even as the next squad began to fire, drawing him around in a constant carousel of death. 

Leon's men sponged out the cannon barrel, stuffing in black powder before he himself shoved the grapeshot inside. What other General would be so willing to get his paws dirty? 

There was no time for formality, there was only chaos. The Angel had yet to even be touched by their attacks, his disgusting extremities flexing each time a new massive explosion sounded. The village was almost flattened, the entire south side already shredded to pieces.

“FIRE!" Leon screamed. 

The Waistcoat had been decimated, but they did their job. The Angel's back was to Leon as his cannon fired, the ball flying forward and blowing through the deer's spine. Blood and bone sprayed out onto the filthy bricks of the village. The jaguar's ears rang, utterly deafened. Hashan stumbled and Leon ran forward, his rifle slung over one shoulder, his straight-sword out and raised. 

Hashan hissed in a way he didn't know deers could, and as the Angel turned Leon hacked at it with both paws. His sword bit into one of the foul, enlarged digits, blood gurgling as the creature screamed. Hurts, doesn't it? 

“God's in his heaven now, you bastard!" Leon cried, leaving his sword embedded in the thing. He drew his rifle around, diving to the side and rolling as a long line of continual explosions erupted where he'd stood only moments before. The wheels were blown off the cannon, the metal of the barrel crumbling like ash. He threw himself to the ground as another squad opened fire, a bullet knocking through one of the deer's antlers. 

Leon shoved up from the mud, teeth gritted, a hiss deep in his throat. His family had always been on the cusp of poverty. It was a miracle he even made it to officer's school, and another that he was appointed General. He gained his military prowess through study and work. It was hard, but he'd earned it. 

What did you earn? He wondered, shoving the bayonet of his rifle into the back of Hashan's skull. The deer roared, arching back, eyes crazed as it tried to get a glimpse of him. 

God's in his heaven.

“All's right with the world," Leon whispered, and then he pulled the trigger.