Language Genius?

Morin and his five companions pedaled out of San Isidro in no time.

The aftertaste of that pick-me-up still lingered in his mouth, bitter with a burnt tang that made him want to stick out his tongue every so often.

He had honestly never tasted coffee this awful...

The country road was rough and uneven. Their wheels crunched over gravel and clods of dirt as Morin rode, keeping part of his attention on the small map in the upper left corner of his vision.

Perhaps because he had seen the military map at Battalion Headquarters, his own System Map had updated with that information.

He could now see details of the area ahead all the way to Seville, though a translucent layer of fog of war still covered it.

As they advanced, the fog concealing the unknown road ahead slowly receded around them, revealing clearer details of the terrain.

It felt strange, like playing a real-time strategy game and personally controlling a scout unit to explore the map.

"Don't just keep your heads down and ride!" Morin warned the men behind him in a low voice. "Watch the woods on both sides of the road and the high ground. Tell me at once if you spot anything wrong!"

"Yes, sir!" Corporal Baumann answered immediately.

The others raised their heads too, scanning their surroundings warily.

They took it for a routine order from a cautious platoon leader. They had no idea that everything they saw was feeding Morin valuable information and updating his small map.

During the earlier fighting, Morin had more or less figured out how the System Map updated its information.

Any unit that entered an ally's field of vision appeared on the map, whether the ally noticed it or knew what it was.

When it came to giving him an unfair advantage, the System Map certainly did its job...

Their first destination was the next village marked on the map: Alcolea.

Morin planned to scout the outskirts first. If it was safe, they would go in and see what was happening, giving this hastily assembled scouting team a chance to work together.

Then, depending on the situation, they would scout farther toward Seville.

Perhaps luck was on their side. The journey was uneventful; they did not encounter a soul.

A little over two hundred meters from Alcolea, Morin raised a hand. Everyone understood at once and slowed to a stop.

"Dismount. Push the bikes and find somewhere to hide them."

They pushed their bicycles into a dense stand of trees beside the road, carefully laid them behind some bushes, and covered them with branches and fallen leaves.

"Remember this spot," Morin said, pointing to a dead tree nearby that looked as though lightning had snapped it in two. "We'll be coming back here!"

He unscrewed his canteen and took a drink, then motioned for the others to hydrate while they had the chance.

After a short rest, the six men took up their rifles and approached the village in a loose formation.

Morin led the way, his eyes moving between the village entrance and the surrounding houses. His finger rested on the trigger guard out of habit.

He glanced back and saw Corporal Baumann and the other soldiers with their index fingers on their triggers, ready to fire at any moment.

His stomach tightened. He quickly signaled for them to stop.

"Fingers off the triggers and onto the guards! Remember that!"

"I don't want some bastard slipping and shooting me in the ass," he said sternly under his breath, "or giving away all our positions!"

The soldiers looked a little uncomfortable with it, but they obeyed at once.

Keeping to the shadows of the mud walls, they slipped cautiously into the village.

To their surprise, everything was peaceful.

Children chased one another along the dirt road. Near a well, women washed clothes and chatted. A few elderly villagers even sat outside their homes, basking lazily in the sun.

There was no trace of war's shadow here. It was as if they had stumbled into a haven cut off from the world.

That unnatural calm put Morin on high alert.

He decided to question a villager. That, too, counted as civilian reconnaissance.

Morin caught Corporal Baumann's eye. The corporal understood and stepped forward to stop an old farmer passing by with a hoe over his shoulder.

Surprisingly, the farmer seemed startled but not especially frightened by the armed soldiers.

Corporal Baumann pointed toward Seville, made a few gestures, and uttered several words that were not Saxon.

The farmer stared at the tall foreign soldier in utter confusion. He muttered something in another language and waved both hands.

"Sir, he doesn't understand the Aragonese I'm speaking..." Corporal Baumann said, turning back helplessly.

"Are you sure you're speaking Aragonese?"

"..."

Morin frowned and looked at the others.

They all shook their heads. Apart from a few officers in the platoon who could manage simple conversations, none of the rank and file spoke Aragonese.

That was a problem.

Morin was about to give up and look around the village for other clues when the old farmer addressed him again at length.

Then something strange happened.

This time, the unfamiliar syllables reached Morin's ears as if they were being translated on the spot. He understood every word.

"If you're looking for those soldiers in black, they left quite a while ago..."

Morin froze.

He opened his mouth without thinking, and fluent Aragonese came out.

"Sir, do you mean there were soldiers in black here earlier?"

The farmer stared. So did Morin, while Corporal Baumann and the others behind him widened their eyes.

"Uh, Lieutenant, you can speak Aragonese..."

Then a flood of fragmented memories rushed into his mind.

In a brightly lit banquet hall in Dresden, capital of the Saxon Empire, this body's former owner held a wineglass and flirted in fluent Aragonese with an Aragonese noblewoman studying in Saxony;

at an art salon, he discussed the latest paintings in Gallic with a painter's wife;

and on a holiday in Vienna, he spoke the local language badly, but well enough to seduce a maid.

So the former owner of this body—the man General Mackensen had called "a fellow whose bones had been softened by alcohol"—

had actually worked hard to learn all those foreign languages so he could pursue women at the parties and salons of high society across nations during peacetime.

To that playboy, languages were not knowledge. They were keys to the arms of women from different lands.

Damn, the man had talent...

Morin gave his predecessor a silent thumbs-up.

The motive might have been questionable, but right now, that skill was nothing short of a godsend.

"You speak our language?"

The old farmer sounded surprised to hear such fluent Aragonese.

"A little."

Morin steadied himself and continued in Aragonese:

"Do you know how many of those soldiers in black there were, and which way they went?"

"About an hour ago, I'd say. Hundreds of them went past the east end of the village. Made a terrible racket, and they stole several of our chickens!"

The farmer raised a wrinkled hand and pointed toward Seville. "They went that way."

With the crucial information in hand, Morin asked a few more friendly questions about the village and the surrounding terrain.

The farmer answered them all.

Finally, Morin had Corporal Baumann hand over a partly eaten loaf of black bread and pressed it into the farmer's hands.

"Sorry to bother you, sir."

With that, he quickly led his men out of the village.

Back at the bicycle hiding spot in the woods, Corporal Baumann could no longer hold back—and it was not about the bread...

He came closer, admiration written all over his face.

"Sir, you can speak Aragonese? Good heavens, how did you learn it?"

Morin could hardly say it had been to pick up women. He cleared his throat and put on an air of mystery.

"I know a little. Required coursework at the military academy."

He made up the answer on the spot, then immediately changed the subject, his expression turning serious.

"The situation has changed. A Royal Army force several hundred strong left here an hour ago, heading toward Seville."

Morin spread out the rough map and pointed to a spot on it.

"We don't know whether they went straight back to Seville or intend to set an ambush on the outskirts. We need to scout farther ahead."