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I sigh. “You know my Earth military history is close to zero. We’ve done Hastings once before, but the others don’t sound familiar. Except maybe Gettysburg—something to do with a famous address?”
Napoleon shakes his head disapprovingly. “How can you spend so much time on that world and not know these things?”
I shrug. “War is one of the worst things humans do to each other. Why should I learn about it?”
He turns back into his red devil form. “So ignorance is bliss? That’s your excuse?”
“I don’t need an excuse.” I make our surroundings a serene hill where, according to Napoleon, the battle of Hastings took place. “You like battles, and I don’t.”
“I don’t like battles. I win them.”
“Sometimes I think you do this just to torment me,” I mutter under my breath.
He grins. “I don’t, but it’s a nice bonus.”
Straining my powers, I make thousands of soldiers appear. The uniforms and positions were all provided by Napoleon with nauseating attention to minute details.
Immediately, I feel tired. Aside from blood, gore, and losing faith in humanity, I don’t like these war reenactments because they severely drain my power—too many little details to manifest at once.
Making us float above the soon-to-be battlefield, I add a few more details here and there and inform Napoleon that I’m finished.
He frowns. “This time, I want the cavalry to start off there.” He points at a spot at the base of the hill.
I sigh and move the soldiers and horses where he wishes.
“This is going to be so cool,” Pom exclaims.
I stroke his fur. I guess one redeeming thing about this unpleasant task is that it’ll entertain my looft. Maybe I’ll feel less guilty about not spending as much time with him as I should.
Turning light orange, Pom asks Napoleon, “Will you be William the Conqueror or King Harold II this time around?”
“King Harold.” Napoleon glances at me as if to say, “See? Some people aren’t as ignorant about these things as others.”
“Doesn’t that mean you’ll lose and get shot with an arrow?” Pom flies over to perch on Napoleon’s shoulder, and I resist the temptation to call him a traitor.
“Not if I win,” Napoleon says with cocky confidence, then looks at me. “Ready?”
I nod, change him to look like Harold, and teleport him to the top of the hill so he can take command of his forces.
Then I strain my powers once more.
All the soldiers come to life, and war cries ring out as two armies face each other. Arrows fly. A shield wall goes up. Horses leap forward. Napoleon/Harold shouts orders at “his” men. Bucketloads of blood are spilled onto the green grass.
Not for the first time, I wonder how this works. Is a part of my subconscious controlling those thousands of soldiers on the battlefield, or is Napoleon helping as well?
Eventually, Harold’s forces win.
I turn him back into Napoleon, who looks disturbingly happy—especially for someone whose army has sustained thousands of casualties.
The next three battles consume a lot more time and dream power. First, Napoleon has to describe all the details to me for what feels like days. Then I have to build it all out and animate the soldiers. By the end of it all, I feel like a squeezed lemon that got run over by a bus.
“Thank you.” Napoleon squeezes my shoulder—something he knows he’s only allowed to do in the dream world. “You kept your end of the bargain, so I’ll keep mine.”
“Good. Here.” I make two copies of the werewolf appear in front of us, one with side burns, one without. “His name is Hans Stubbe. I need his location.”
Napoleon rubs his chin. “I know this one. Nasty piece of work. Come see me in the bar—I’ll wake up and head over there. I’ll tell you where to find him and decide how much to charge you.”
“You agreed to keep the cost reasonable.”
He grins. “I agreed on four battles.” With that, he poofs out of existence, and Pom and I find ourselves back in the tower of sleepers.
“That’s what I get for teaching him how to wake himself up,” I say to Pom and exit the dream world as well.
Turning to face Valerian, I explain that we need to make a trip to my guy’s favorite hangout.
“Let’s go,” he says and ushers me to his private flying car, which gets us there so quickly that we end up sipping drinks until Napoleon arrives.
“Napoleon, this is Valerian,” I say. “Valerian, this is Napoleon.”
“Pleasure,” Valerian says evenly, his expression unreadable.
“If you’re who I think you are, the pleasure is all mine,” Napoleon says, managing to look even more like a little devil.
I put down my empty mug. “Where’s Hans?”
“First things first,” Napoleon says and blurts out an enormous sum.
Before I can even start to haggle, Valerian says, “You’ll have it.”
Puck. I forgot to tell him to never agree to the first number Napoleon names. Hopefully the Senate will let him expense this.
