Read Chapter 26: The Battle Begins

The morning air stank of powder and burning canvas. Étienne Moreau stumbled through the drifting smoke, one hand pressed against his side where the blood had begun to soak through his coat in a dark, ugly bloom. Behind him, the munitions tent crackled and spat, sending orange sparks spiraling into the gray dawn. Men were shouting, running with buckets, but their voices reached him as if through water.

He had killed Duval. He had *killed* him. And still the sniper would fire.

Ahead, the road toward Brussels churned with the movement of an army shaking itself awake. Thousands of boots, thousands of wheels, the low thunder of artillery limbers rolling toward the ridge. Moreau pushed through the current of men moving the wrong way, his eyes fixed on the distant spire of the church where Lefebvre's watch had promised the gold would be moved at dawn.

"Captain Moreau!" A voice cut through the din. "Captain! Your orders!"

Moreau turned to find a young lieutenant on horseback, his face smudged with soot, holding a folded dispatch like a shield between them. Moreau recognized him — a staff clerk, one of Duval's men, though the boy likely didn't know it.

"Orders from whom?" Moreau asked, his voice raw.

"The supply train, sir. You're to take command of the third wagon column — ammunition and biscuit. They move out in ten minutes."

Moreau glanced past the lieutenant toward the column of wagons assembling on the eastern road. Smart. Whoever had written those orders wanted him far from the Emperor, far from the review grounds, far from anything that mattered. Duval was dead, but his machinery was still turning.

"Tell them I'm on my way."

The lieutenant nodded and wheeled his horse away. Moreau watched him go, then turned and limped in the opposite direction, toward the livery lines where the spare mounts were kept.

He took the first horse he found — a bay gelding with a cavalry brand on its flank — and ignored the groom's shout of protest. The saddle was still warm from its previous rider. Moreau swung up, gritting his teeth against the fire in his shoulder, and dug in his heels.

The road to the church ran along the edge of the battlefield, where the first skirmishers were already trading shots in the shallow valley below. Moreau pushed the horse hard, staying low over its neck as musket balls whined past, some belonging to friend, some to foe, all indifferent to a single rider in a stained quartermaster's coat.

The church rose ahead, its stone walls pale in the morning light. Moreau hauled the gelding to a stop at the edge of the churchyard, behind a low wall half-collapsed with age. The gold would be in the crypt. He was certain of it. But he was equally certain he wasn't the only one who knew.

He needed help. He needed someone who knew the ground, someone who owed him nothing and could be bought.

"Thought you were dead."

Moreau spun, his hand going for the pistol at his belt. A figure detached itself from the shadow of the church wall, a thin man in a sergeant's coat that had seen better days, with a face that looked like it had been carved from old leather.

Bastien.

"No," Moreau said, letting his hand fall. "Not yet."

"Pity." Bastien stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the blood on Moreau's coat. "You look like you've been through a battle already, and the day's only just started."

"What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I expect. Watching." Bastien gestured toward the church with his chin. "There's a squad of men down there — not regulars, no uniforms to speak of. They've been hauling boxes through the side door for the last quarter hour. Heavy boxes, by the look of their backs."

"The gold."

"That's what I figured." Bastien's eyes glittered. "But they're gone now, and there's just two men left guarding the door. Which means either the gold's still in there, or they've found some other way to move it."

Moreau studied the church. The side door was closed, two figures standing before it with muskets slung. The crypt entrance would be inside, beneath the altar. Lefebvre's watch had been precise about the location.

"I need to get in there," Moreau said.

"Then go."

"I need someone to watch the door. Keep them from walking in on me."

Bastien's lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. "And what do I get?"

"A share."

"Of what?"

"The gold."

Bastien laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "There's a war on, Captain. Men are dying before the main battle's even started. And you're telling me you're going to walk into that church, steal the army's payroll from under the noses of Duval's men, and give me a cut?"

"You know Duval."

"I know *of* him. Scarred major, Emperor's staff. Got a reputation for leaving bodies where they'd be found later." Bastien spat. "Word is he's got his fingers in half the money that passes through HQ."

"He's dead."

Bastien's eyes widened. "You killed him?"

"I killed him. But his plans are still moving. There's a sniper waiting on the review grounds. She's going to shoot Napoleon if I can't stop her." Moreau paused. "The gold is the only proof I have. If I can secure it, I can go to the Emperor and show him what Duval was doing. Even if the sniper fires, I'll have something to put before the marshals."

Bastien was quiet for a long moment. The sound of cannon fire rolled across the valley, distant but getting closer. The battle was beginning in earnest now.

"You're asking me to help you steal from an army that's about to fight for its existence," Bastien said slowly. "That's treason, even if the man you stole from was a traitor."

"It's the Emperor's gold," Moreau said. "Stealing it back from the man who would have used it to buy Napoleon's corpse is loyalty, not treason."

Bastien considered this. Then he nodded toward the church. "Two guards at the door. There'll be more inside, if the gold's still there. And if it's not, you'll be walking into an empty crypt with a bullet in your head."

"I've walked into worse."

"I doubt that." Bastien drew a long knife from his belt, testing the edge with his thumb. "Alright, Captain. I'll watch the door. But if you come out with gold, I want a full sergeant's pension's worth — enough to buy me passage to England and a farm where no one's ever heard of Napoleon."

"Done."

Bastien grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Then let's go before the shooting starts in earnest."

They moved together across the churchyard, keeping low behind the crumbling headstones. The ground was soft with recent rain, muffling their footsteps. Moreau's shoulder throbbed with every movement, but he pushed the pain down, focused on the task ahead.

The two guards outside the church were smoking, their backs to the wall, their muskets propped beside them. They looked bored — a bad sign. Bored guards meant they'd been there for a while, that the excitement of moving the gold had already passed.

Bastien circled wide, approaching from the guard's blind side. Moreau watched him go, then drew his knife and moved closer to the door.

The sound of Bastien's approach — a cough, a stumble, a curse in French too colorful to be rehearsed — drew the guards' attention. They turned, and Moreau struck.

He took the first guard low, driving his knife up beneath the ribs. The second guard reached for his musket, but Moreau's momentum carried him forward, his shoulder slamming into the man's chest, his blade finding the soft flesh of the throat.

It was quick. It was ugly. It was done.

Moreau straightened, breathing hard, and wiped the blade on the dead man's coat. Bastien appeared at the door, nodding once.

"Clear. Go."

Moreau pushed open the side door and stepped into the cold, dim interior of the church. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old incense. Rows of wooden pews stretched toward the altar, where a single candle burned before a statue of the Virgin.

The crypt entrance was behind the altar, a stone archway set into the floor. Moreau crossed the nave, his footsteps echoing in the silence, and knelt before the arch. A heavy iron ring was set into the stone. He pulled, and the trapdoor lifted with a groan of old hinges.

Cold air rose from below, carrying with it the faint smell of damp earth and something else. Something metallic. Something that made his heart quicken.

The gold was here.

Moreau descended the stone steps into darkness. His hands found the walls, slick with moisture, guiding him down. The light from above faded, and he was surrounded by black.

He felt for a lantern, found one hanging on a hook at the bottom of the stairs. His fingers found flint and steel, and after a moment of coaxing, a flame caught. He raised the lantern.

The crypt was small, no larger than a peasant's cottage. Stone niches lined the walls, holding the bones of previous parishioners. But in the center of the floor, covered in burlap and rope, were the boxes.

Dozens of them. Stacks of them.

Moreau lifted the lantern higher and stepped forward. He reached for the nearest box, pulled at the burlap, and lifted the wooden lid.

Gold. Coins of French mint, stacked in neat rows, glowing in the lamplight like captured sunlight.

The Emperor's gold. All of it.

Moreau stood there for a moment, breathing in the sight. And then he heard a sound from above — footsteps crossing the nave floor. Boots, not Bastien's careful tread. Too many boots.

He blew out the lantern and pressed himself against the cold stone wall, his hand finding the pistol at his belt, waiting in the darkness as the trapdoor above him creaked open.