April 29, 1429 — 06:00 AM

  The Fortress of Saint-Loup

  Lord Talbot stood on the battlements. He was not eating breakfast. He was watching.

  The sun rose over the Loire, long shadows scraping across the plain. Eight hundred yards away, the French army stood perfectly still.

  "No siege towers. No ladders. No trebuchets," Talbot muttered. "What is he doing?"

  Sir William Glasdale narrowed his eyes. "He’s lined up carts. Twelve bronze tubes mounted on wheels."

  Talbot scoffed, but his hand tightened on the parapet. "Cannons? At this range? They might as well spit at us."

  He spoke with the confidence of a man whose world had always obeyed him—Agincourt, Crécy, Poitiers. A world where English longbows ruled, and French toys failed.

  But Talbot was looking at the past.

  He didn’t see the screw-elevators adjusting by degrees. He didn’t see the pre-measured powder cartridges. He didn’t see the greased axles.

  He was seeing the future, and mistaking it for a toy.

  At the base of the tower, a young longbowman felt the earth tremble. Not from siege stones. From something alive. He whispered the oldest English prayer:

  "God willing, the Frogs break first."

  He didn’t know God was about to resign.

  The Battery

  Napoleon sat beneath the Royal Standard of France. Three-knot wind. Favorable.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Jean Bureau stood pale at his side.

  "Range?"

  "Eight hundred yards, Sire. But we’ve never—"

  "Physics does not miss, Jean." Napoleon gestured to the cannons—twelve bronze Apostles, sleek and lethal. "Grand Master. Battery fire. All guns."

  Bureau looked down the line of gun crews.

  They had been terrified peasants yesterday. Today, they were technicians.

  He raised his arm. "READY—!"

  "FIRE!"

  CRACK—BOOM!

  The world convulsed. Smoke swallowed the battery.

  It was a geological event.

  Napoleon raised his telescope.

  Four shots wide. Five too high. Three struck home.

  Three was enough.

  The tower’s rotted base convulsed under impact.

  "Reload! Tight powder! Aim for the footing!"

  This was not one bombardment—it was a process. Volley after volley, the guns chewed the earth and hammered the ancient foundation.

  Five minutes. The earth pulped.

  Eight minutes. Mortar burst and stones groaned.

  Twelve minutes. The tower’s base buckled like wet bone—but the gate and sally-port remained intact, a wolf’s mouth waiting to disgorge Talbot’s knights.

  Exactly as Napoleon intended.

  On the ridge, Jeanne felt every blast travel up her bones. This was not thunder. Thunder warns. This… unmakes.

  She clutched her banner.

  Lord… is this Your hand? Or his?

  She feared both answers.

  Phase Two

  "Advance to three hundred yards—trot!"

  Gun teams surged forward.

  Inside Saint-Loup, Talbot froze. "He’s using them… like field guns."

  "Archers! Form line!"

  On the French side—

  "Unlimber! Stakes out! Load—CANISTER!"

  Talbot saw the equation forming: arrows ready. Cannons nearly loaded.

  "LOOSE!"

  Arrows blackened the sky. A gunner fell.

  Napoleon did not move. He sat exposed on his white stallion, ignoring the death hissing past his ears.

  "Hold your nerve, Jean."

  "FIRE!"

  RRRRRIP!

  Thousands of iron pellets erased the longbowmen. The wounded tower—cracked by earlier volleys—shuddered, leaned, and slid into the moat with a geological groan.

  Talbot stared at the ruin. "That… was impossible."

  The King's Bait

  Blood trickled down Talbot’s cheek. And then he saw it—the Royal Standard moving forward, not back.

  Napoleon rode with it.

  "The Dauphin… he is here."

  A savage thought formed in Talbot's mind: If I fall, he falls...

  "Signal Glasdale! Raise the Black Flag! Tell him the King is on the platter!"

  He drew his sword.

  "OPEN THE GATES!"

  "FORWARD! TO THE LAST MAN!"

  Everyone thought the cannons missed. Even Talbot thought so. In this chapter, the Emperor demonstrated a masterclass in tactics: Artillery isn't just for killing men; sometimes, it’s for shaping the terrain. The battlefield is now a chessboard full of traps, and Talbot has just thrown himself onto it like a pawn.

  "FORWARD! TO THE LAST MAN!"—Sounds heroic, doesn't it? But veterans of the Emperor know this: When he lets you charge, it’s usually because he has already dug your grave. The infantry line is about to break. The real brutality is starting. Gamaches has kept his sword in the scabbard for a whole chapter. In the next part, it comes out.

  [Read Part 2:THE ANVIL]