Chrétien de Parthenay

Former Wendake/Huronia (Modern-Day Ontario Peninsula)

Day by day, the campaign continued. Battle by battle, the French forces pushed forward, heading straight into Seneca territory. More attacks came, of course, but they were never large, drawn out offensives. They would come at night, or at random during the day, whenever the snow fell and the wind blew. The low visibility was a hindrance to both sides, but the Iroquois never fought long—always a quick assault, then scattering to the wilds. Chrétien and the others would always try to pursue them, but often in vain—they ran quickly, and no one wanted to chase them too far, for fear of being turned upon.

While the invading force had not lost many numbers thus far (Chrétien’s company, in fact, had let to lose a single soldier), the Iroquois’ methods were effective in another way. Rather than reduce their numbers, these staggered and rapid attacks had effectively broken up the French from one enormous mass to several smaller units, spreading them apart across the terrain. In the beginning, Chrétien fought each battle besides Le Vicomte, and Le Marquis, and Athasata. By now, however, he found himself and his Deer Warriors alone, a situation which worried him greatly. Thankfully, the Iroquois kept attacking the same way they had been—light and sporadic. But if they realized how isolated the Deer company was, if they attacked with a coordinated force large enough, Chrétien and his men would be completely wiped out.

As Chrétien saw it, such an attack was not just a possibility that warranted some caution—it was an inevitability, the natural conclusion of the Iroquois’ tactics thus far. They were drawing them out on purpose, luring them away from any reinforcements before swooping in on all sides to crush the stragglers. Because of this, Chrétien had made the decision to stop moving forward, defying Le Marquis’ wishes for him and his company to serve as expendable bait for the French marines. Jikohnsasee agreed as well—they would turn around, and regroup with the other forces before continuing on again.

In the end, perhaps the decision didn’t matter. Perhaps it only served to make things worse. There was no way to tell, after all, how things could have gone, what would have happened differently. After the dust settled, Chrétien tried to comfort himself, thinking it would have been worse if they had not changed course. But then again, if they hadn’t changed course, there was a good chance it would have never happened in the first place.

It began with a whistle. It was one Chrétien and all the Deer warriors recognized. While it sounded like the coo of a male cardinal, they all knew it to be a message. They had trained to make the calls of different winter birds, with each bird carrying a different meaning. This way they could communicate with another across longer distances and even when separated, without rousing the suspicions of the enemy. The cardinal’s call signaled to the company that one of their scouts had spotted the enemy.

Immediately the company broke into action, halting their steady march and scattering. The men took defensive formations behind trees, their eyes peeled for any movement. All the while they began to slowly creep towards the direction of the call, trying to rendezvous with the scout.

Chrétien made it to him first. His name was Antesonk. He was one of the younger men in the company, a year or two younger than Chrétien, if he had to guess. His hands were unsteady with a musket, and he was somewhat skittish, but he was slippery and quiet, which made him a valuable scout. Chrétien found him at the top of the hill in front of where the company first heard the call, hiding behind a tree trunk.

“What have you found?” Chrétien asked him.

Antesonk motioned past the trees and down the hill. Chrétien looked to where he pointed—a troupe of about fifty Iroquois walked through the forest. This was exceedingly rare. The company never found the Iroquois idling or walking like this. Gyantwaka suspected that they hid in caves or in dug-out bunkers during the day, and didn’t move around unless absolutely necessary.

As Chrétien sized up their numbers, Jikohnsasee joined the two from behind.

“What news?” She asked.

Chrétien nodded downhill.

“Not good,” she said.

“What should we do?” Antesonk asked.

“This is an opportunity,” Chrétien said. “We’re always on the defense against them, and we’ve hardly made a scratch in their numbers. We should ambush them.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jikohnsasee said. “They outnumber us by a dozen or more.”

“It’s just numbers,” Chrétien replied. “We can overcome numbers.”

“Don’t be overconfident,” Jikohnsasee warned. “We’ve won the last few battles easily, but as soon as we underestimate them, all of us are dead.”

“I’m not underestimating them. Just think about it: we rush them from behind, kill ten or so while they’re caught by surprise. That evens the numbers out, and shreds their morale to nothing. Hell, they might flee immediately afterwards.”

Jikohnsasee thought for a moment, watching them move.

“They’re heading in the direction of the French companies,” Jikohnsasee said. “They must have caught their trail, and are on their way to ambush them.”

“Then we’ll be doing our comrades a favor,” Chrétien said with a hint of sarcasm. “We’ll try to corral them as they run, herd them towards our allies from the northwest. It’ll be a sweeping victory.”

Jikohnsasee mulled it over.

“It’s a good plan,” she admitted. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. I’ll get the men into position.”

The company moved quickly and quietly around the base of the hill, using the trees to cover their approach. It was relatively hard to sneak around like this in the day, with all the leaves gone from the trees and no snow to obscure vision. But the company of Iroquois all had their backs towards the Deer men, making their way steadily through the forest. Jikohnsasee must have been right—as they got closer, Chrétien could feel the Iroquois’ energy. They had clearly found some quarry, and their eagerness to pursue it left their flanks unguarded.

Slowly, slowly, the Deer men crept forward, using tree trunks, boulders, and snow banks to hide themselves. They all gathered behind cover a stone’s throw away from the Iroquois’ rear guard. Chrétien looked at Jikohnsasee, and she nodded back at him. It was time. She motioned to the warriors, and each of them abandoned their hiding spots, breaking into sprints towards their prey.

By the time the Iroquois heard rapid footsteps and turned around, it was too late. The Deer warriors annihilated a line of them in the rear with a fierce charge, ramming them with their bayonets. As soon as they did, they slammed the bodies to the ground, twisting their muskets to detach the bayonets. Bayonets, like spears, had the rather awkward tendency to stick inside an impaled corpse, and were a pain to remove in the heat of battle. Removing them as quick as they could freed the muskets up, and now they were ready to fire.

By now, the whole company was alerted to the attack, but the Deer continued, firing a volley of their now-primed muskets into the enemy. Another handful of Iroquois dropped, and the ones who survived immediately scattered, forming a wide berth in the forest. This was new. So far, the Iroquois liked attacking in coordinated bursts, like crashing waves. Chrétien and Jikohnsasee had created many tactics to exploit these tendencies, like their modified pike and shot volleys. Now, they were spreading out as far as possible, trying to surround the Deer on multiple sides. They were learning.

“Don’t let them outflank us!” Chrétien barked, realizing their strategy. “Keep charging forward! Break and trample the front line!”

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The men obeyed, and continued to sprint in the same direction. Abandoning their usual tactics meant they could no longer afford to reload their muskets, but that was alright. After all, once a musket was fired, it made for a perfectly serviceable war club. The Deer grabbed the barrels with both hands, using it to bash through the Iroquois that were trying to reposition. Many of them tried to fire back, but their bullets found no purchase, grazing an arm or cheek if not missing entirely.

Then came the chaos of battle. With all the guns fired, the combatants became locked in a melee, gruesome and relentless. Everything became a blur—Chrétien often found himself losing his senses in the midst of the fiercest combat. Not a blindness, really, but rather an acute focus, like a horse wearing blinders. Once he started fighting like this, everything else faded from his mind—the cold wind that bit at his face, the fear of death, the guilty conscience that screamed as it was doused in the blood of other men. Instead, his mind kept itself open to any stimulus, making his reactions lightning quick.

An Iroquois in front of him raised his club above his head for an overhead swing, and Chrétien lunged forward immediately upon seeing it, piercing through the man’s exposed stomach with his rapier. Another came from behind with a tomahawk, and Chrétien stepped out of the way, rounding the corpse he had just made. The tomahawk came down, slamming right into the skull of the man’s comrade. And now that it was stuck, Chrétien counter-attacked with his own tomahawk, slicing the man’s neck open. He had taken it from the body of Tadodaho, a trophy from his first victory.

Faster. Faster. Chrétien moved through the snow like a razor, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. He spent every waking hour learning warfare and swordsmanship as a child, and he spent every waking hour in the New World pushing his body to its limits. Now, he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, an instrument of death. There were no thoughts in his mind but how to kill, as quickly and as brutally as possible. In the deepest bowels of his psyche, as he cleaved a man’s head from his body, a horrifying thought came to him: that he, in many ways, had become his father. Scourge of the battlefield, terrorizer of weak-willed men. He butchered the Iroquois with a mechanical efficiency, just as his father butchered the Vaudois. Don’t do it, his conscience screamed at him. Don’t become the monster he was. But it was such a small voice, so quiet, drowned out by the sounds of men roaring and metal clashing. And so it was snuffed out like all his other thoughts, his mind thinking only of the rising tide of battle.

Only, as he came to realize, his over-focused mind could be a hindrance as much as it was a boon. A bullet caught him in the shoulder, snapping him out of his bloodthirsty trance. It was not until then that he realized they were losing. Badly. Despite him having killed five Iroquois by himself, the rest of his company were in shambles. Chrétien whirled around, trying to figure out why. Their forward charge had been successfully halted, and the Iroquois had successfully repositioned, forming a circle around the Deer warriors before slowly closing in from all sides. But there was no way a frontal charge with himself and Jikohnsasee could be stopped, not unless—

Then he saw her. Jikohnsasee stood in the snow twelve paces from him, completely still, like she was caught in some sort of spell. Chrétien’s heart shuddered with fear, and he began to run towards her. Only, she wasn’t dead—in fact, she was completely unharmed. Yet still she stood like a statue, completely and totally paralyzed, her eyes lost somewhere. An Iroquois warrior ran at her from behind, musket raised to bash her head in. Chrétien sprinted as fast as he could, intercepting him and gutting him with his tomahawk. He turned on his heel, looking his co-chief in the face. It was paler than he had ever seen.

“Jikohnsasee!” He screamed, but she gave no response, like she couldn’t even hear him. He had never seen her like this, not even remotely. What the hell’s going on? They could not fight like this—any troupe of soldiers crumbled as soon as their commanding officer fell, and Jikohnsasee was their strongest fighter.

He saw a flicker of movement in her face—her eyes, slowly wandering to and fro. He turned, following her gaze. Across the snow, past the piles of dead men, there was a man. Iroquois, fighting his Deer comrades. But just one look told Chrétien he was a cut above all the others. To say he was huge was an understatement—he was the tallest man Chrétien had ever seen, probably as tall or taller than Jikohnsasee, which he had thought impossible. He took on four of the Deer at once like they were playthings, knocking them into one another, wielding two muskets as clubs in each hand. He was a monster, how Chrétien imagined Tadodaho would have been without the drugged wine. But why was Jikohnsasee frozen? She had fought men before, probably men of his caliber. What

All of a sudden, Chrétien heard footsteps behind him, and he whirled around to see Gyantwaka quickly approaching.

“We need to retreat,” the old man said.

“Clearly,” Chrétien said. “What the hell’s wrong with her!?”

“Not now. Run now, explain later. We’re losing men.”

Chrétien did not hesitate—he would not lose any more, not if he could help it. He plugged his mouth with two fingers, whistling loud enough to echo through the battlefield.

“Deer Men!” He screamed. “Full retreat! Carve a path through to the northwest! If you can’t run, take as many with you as you can!”

Gyantwaka grabbed Jikohnsasee by the arms, leading her through as Chrétien escorted the two out of the battlefield. It was a complete and total nightmare—the mountain of a man behind them slaughtered the four Deer that tried to take him down before hunting down any others close enough. Chrétien helped carve a path through for the ones that were still alive, but like his men, his confidence was shattered, his fighting flame snuffed out. He didn’t feel like an instrument of death anymore—just a cornered animal, trying desperately to claw its way out. They ran as fast as their legs could carry them, leaving their guns and fallen comrades behind.

The Iroquois gave chase for a while, but turned to flee themselves once the French marines reinforced them from the northwest. Thankfully, Chrétien had spoken to Le Marquis about reminding his soldiers that not all the warriors with brown skin were the enemy, and how to delineate between his and Athasata’s companies and the Iroquois. The marines formed a protective wall as Chrétien and his men made it through, collapsing onto the snow from exhaustion. Chrétien’s shoulder screamed from the bullet wound, and he had suffered two bad cuts on his rib and back. He grit his teeth, trying to ignore the pain, but the adrenaline of battle had left him, and now his whole body felt like it had been crushed into a fine paste.

Still, he could not rest. Not yet. He forced himself to stand, ignoring every warning his muscles gave him. First, he needed to check on Jikohnsasee. She was not far—she knelt in the snow, her mind still lost somewhere. Gyantwaka helped her to her feet, and escorted her to a tent to rest before moving to tend to the injured Deer. And there were many—nearly everyone had suffered something awful. Thankfully, the marine doctors broke into action as well, unfolding cots and helping the ones with the most severe wounds onto them. The marines started erecting new tents around them, and worked to light a fire to ward off the cold and prevent frostbite. Chrétien grit his teeth as he looked at his brothers-in-arms. I can’t complain, he thought. What do I have? A bullet, a scrape? That isn’t anything compared to these. He passed by the scout Antesonk. He lay on the cot, writhing in anguished misery. His left hand had been completely severed, and his right eye had been shot, leaving only a black socket dripping with viscera. Jesus Christ.

As he passed each cot, he made a tally. Antesonk, Hatindesonk, Araenre. He marked each comrade’s name in his mind, trying to find out who was missing. All the while, he made sure to look them in the face, to be sure who they were, and to see the nature of their injuries, no matter how gruesome or bleak. These injuries were his responsibility, and his fault. Even if Jikohnsasee had frozen, it was his idea to ambush them in the first place, and it was him who got lost in the battle. In these past two weeks, he had begun to think he was earning his place as their commander. Now, he knew he hadn’t. A real leader wouldn’t lose sight of his men. I didn’t even notice they were losing until I got shot, for Christ’s sake. I’ve failed them.

In the end, he counted the Chonnonton Company’s losses at seventeen soldiers. Ten he could not count among the wounded, killed somewhere back on the battlefield. Another seven died from their wounds later that night, including Antesonk. Their company was already tiny, and now they had been reduced to a mere twenty-one men. Five battles the company had emerged victorious, not losing a single member. Now, they had suffered their first defeat, their numbers reduced by almost half. Even the ones that lived were beaten and maimed, some with injuries that would last the rest of their lives. Chrétien’s mind reeled from the pain in his heart and body. He took a step away from the camp, then another, heading back in the direction of the battlefield. I have to bury them, he thought. I have to bury my brothers. They’re out there right now, alone in the cold. I have to bury them.

In the end, his body did not let him. He had suffered his own injuries, and his muscles, in all their fatigue, simply shut down. He fell onto the ground, lying in the snow. Gyantwaka saw him, and called to another Deer to help him into the medicine tent. Chrétien’s consciousness waned, and he tried in vain to flail against their grasp. No, he thought. Let me go. I have to go to them. I have to—

And then his mind collapsed too, unable to hold on any longer.