26th of January 1879, Near the White Mfolozi River, Zululand
The day was already hot, despite the relatively early hour, and the marching didn't help. Joseph could feel the sweat trickling down his back, and it sent a shiver through him. Tugging at the collar of his red army jacket, the infantryman looked to his side, to see how Davis was handling the heat. He saw with some surprise that the cockney seemed to be taking the high temperatures all in stride. The top button of his tunic was unbuttoned but besides that he had his head held high as he walked, as if he was trying to get every last ray of sun he could.
"Enjoying yourself, mate?" Joseph asked, eyeballing his comrade.
Davis looked over with an airy smile. "Yep".
"Not... hot at all?"
"Nope. I dunno about you, Joe, but I love this weather". He said, before sighing contently.
"Well, glad one of us does..." With a huff, Joseph fell silent and continued on marching. He doubted moaning about the heat would make it vanish. Besides that, everyone else in the column had already made it clear they didn't care to hear any more "belly aching" from him.
Instead, to take his mind off the river he was sweating, Joseph looked out at their surroundings. All around, the plains of Zululand stretched from horizon to horizon, with the tall golden grass only being splashed with colour by the occasional tree. The same sights since they had first marched out from Cape Town. Through this great monotonous ocean, the column snaked through, in search of... well, Joseph wasn't sure anymore.
When they had first packed up camp at Isandlwana three days ago, the rumours had flown around like pollen on the wind. The Zulu had a larger army in the east, they were suing for peace after seeing the size of the British army, they were going to capture the Zulu capital. Joseph had heard all those and more as he had loaded up crates of supplies into the back of the wagons and taken down their tent.
This rumour mill had only gotten stronger as they travelled through the veldt. When they settled down each night, the newest theories would be thrown about over the campfire. Joseph wasn't sure what to think anymore. He had thought the Zulu's would have attacked by now, seeing as how at this point they were deep into their territory. Something was wrong, he could just feel it, and this feeling only made him more agitated.
The heat was making his mood worse. It was at times like this that the young soldier was almost jealous of the native volunteers, who were currently at the rear of the column. They were used to this heat, and didn't have to contend with a wool uniform and a heavy pack on their backs. Instead, the natives wore their traditional loincloth, with only a simple scarlet headband to mark them as fighting for the British. When he had first seen them, Joseph had balked at the obsceneness of their near nakedness but out in the heat of the veldt he almost envied it. The only thing that blunted that envy was the fact that hardly any of them had rifles.
These thoughts were interrupted by a familiar foreign voice. "Fine day, isn't it young Joseph?"
Turning his head, Joseph saw that while he had been thinking, Peter had ridden up beside him. The Boer rode a sturdy looking brown horse, causing him to leer over the troops. Beneath the shade of his wide brimmed hat, his face was twisted up into a smile.
"Uh... yeah, not bad". Joseph replied, squinting up at the old man.
"Am I bothering ya? You looked bored, is all, like you were miles away".
"Nah, just... marching".
"Hm". Peter considered the answer for a few moments, before his grin widened. "Not worrying about the kaffirs, were you?"
"The what?" Confusion was clear on the Englishman's face.
"Ah, apologies. Just a little name my people have for the Zulu". Peter gave a grim chuckle. "So, not the least bit worried 'bout them?"
"No! Just thinking about the heat". Joseph spat back defensively.
The answer made Peter break out into a fit of cackling. "The heat!? The heat!"
His laughter drew several glances from other soldiers, who looked at the Boer in confusion as they continued to march. An angry frown grew on Joseph's face. What was wrong about complaining about feeling hot? "What's so funny?"
The last chuckles left Peters throat and he feigned wiping away a tear. "Oh, just... you. Complaining about the heat, of all things! God in die hemel... here you are, marching off to fight a load of savages, creatures who eat women and fuck cows, and would gladly skin you alive... and you're moaning about the heat!"
"Oi, cut him a break. Joseph here's not use to such hardships". Davis spoke up from beside Joseph. Despite the joke, the cockney was looking at the old settler like he would shit on the bottom of his boot. "Besides, them Zulu aren't as hard as you making them out to be. Ain't a lot they can do when they're getting blown to pieces by a couple hundred rifles".
"You don't know 'em like I do. I remember once, about twenty years back, I emptied my whole revolver into one. Did take any notice? No! He just kept coming, screaming like a rabid dog. It took a blast of buckshot from this beauty to finally put him down". Peter nudged the shotgun slung over his shoulder.
"Ah, bollocks". Davis replied, waving off the story. Joseph thought the same. He had heard the same kind of tall tales from the older blokes of the regiment when he had first arrived and had even believed them at first, but quickly learned the truth when he saw Bert take on one of the native volunteers. He had sent the African sprawling to the ground with a single punch.
"Oh, you can dismiss it all you want, but its true. They're vicious cunts". The conviction was strong in the Boers voice as he spoke.
"You haven't heard the rumours then?" At the sound of the question, Joseph, Peter and Davis all looked behind them to see Bert shouldering his way past other soldiers to walk beside his friends.
"Alright, Bert? Finally caught up?" Joseph said, grinning at the big man.
Bert gave a huff and wiped at his red face. "Yeah, bloody hell, this heat is a killer..."
"Oh, not you too..." Davis spoke exasperatedly.
"What rumours?" Peter asked, curiosity in every wrinkle of his face.
A smug smile grew on Bert's face as he realised he had the attention of the Boer. "Well, you didn't hear it from me, but apparently... the Zulu got wiped out".
That bit of news drew several sceptical looks from his audience of three. "Bollocks..." Davis said, disbelievingly. "Who the hell could have beat em, there's no one out here but us".
"I don't know, the bloke I heard it from didn't say. Said he could get fifty lashings if he got found out. All he said that he heard it from one of Chelmsford's servants, one of them Indians, in exchange for some stuff for his pipe".
Davis scoffed. "Well there you go then, all he told you was a little fairy story dreamt up by some brownie who was just looking to score some tobacco".
"Hm, maybe..." Peter looked to be thinking hard. Then he looked down hard at the three Englishmen. "But... if it is true, well... you boys will be up for a hell of a fight".
"I was thinking soup for lunch". Chelmsford announced.
Durnford looked over to his commander, eyes narrowed in confusion, as if soup was an entirely new concept for him. "Soup, m'lord?"
"Yes, soup". Chelmsford repeated. "The cook makes a delicious broth, he use these particular spices from India-"
"Are you sure that it's right time to be thinking of lunch, m'lord?" The Irishman questioned.
With a scoff, the lord replied. "I presume you shan't be joining us then?"
"No, I'm afraid not. I was going to join up with my men and continue to scout ahead".
"Well, you are more than welcome". Chelmsford said dismissively.
With a nod and a rather half hearted salute, Colonel Durnford brought his spurs to his horse and then galloped off into the plains, his Basuto following closely behind. Chelmsford was glad to see him gone. For the past two hours or so, ever since they had packed up camp, they had ridden at the head of the column, the vanguard for the long stream of British and colonial soldiers and wagons making its way through the wilds of Zululand. In those two hours, Durnford had made it crystal clear that he was a less than ideal travelling partner. With him gone, the conversation could turn a bit more pleasant.
Reigning in his horse (a splendid white thoroughbred) Chelmsford looked to Crealock, who had moved up to his side as soon as Durnford had taken his leave.
"Was that Irishman making a nuisance of himself again, my lord?" Crealock asked, a look of sympathy on his face.
Chelmsford waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing that I have not come to expect from people of his... heritage".
The remark earned him a chuckle from his subordinate. "Yes, quite".
The sound of trotting hooves made both Chelmsford and Crealock to look as Henry Pulleine reigned up beside them. His hand instantly went up in a crisp salute. "My lord".
Returning the salute, the British commander regarded Pulleine coolly. "Is something wrong, lieutenant colonel?"
Pulleine took a moment to adjust his white pith helmet before speaking. "No, my lord. I've just come to inform you that Stuart Smith and his men in the Royal Artillery believe the gatling gun is ready for deployment when the time comes".
"Ah, finally". The news brought a smile to Chelmsford's face.
"Excuse me, my lord, I fear I don't know what you speak of". Crealock spoke, brow furrowed and a puzzled look on his face. "What is a gatling gun?"
"A remarkable new weapon". Explained Chelmsford. "Apparently, it can fire at a rate of two hundred rounds a minute and only requires a crew of four or so men. That's the firepower of a whole company of riflemen in just one weapon".
Crealock gaped. "Good God!"
His reaction only brought more mirth to the lords face. "Indeed. The Americans used them in their civil war and by all accounts, its a very efficient and very deadly weapon".
"Yes, it sounds like it. I certainly wouldn't want to face one of them on the battlefield. But wait, my lord, if its an American weapon, how did the Royal Artillery come to acquire one?"
"We purchased it for quite the sum, apparently. If the reports about this weapon are true, however, it should be more than worth the price". As Chelmsford finished speaking, the sound of rapid hoofbeats made everyone, from the officers to the lancers escorting them to the regular infantryman, turn their heads.
Cresting the horizon, Colonel Durnford and his Basuto riders were galloping at full speed toward the column. As he reached Chelmsford and the other officers, the Irish cavalryman pulled hard at the reigns of his steed and brought the animal to a skidding halt, sending up a plume of dirt.
There was a thick sheen of sweat on his face and he spoke hurriedly. "My lord!"
"Colonel Durnford!" Chelmsford greeted, waving away some of the dust thrown up by the cavalryman's rather dramatic return. "Back again so soon?"
"For good reason. We found them, sir, we've found the enemy camp".
The sight in front of him reminded Chelmsford very much of the old paintings that adorned his state home back in England. A military camp lay stretched out across the plains, practically a sea of tents, campfires and horse lines. Hundreds of figures flitted this way and that, armour shining in the midday sun. Through the spyglass, Chelmsford could see every face, young and old, bearded or clean shaven. They did what most soldiers did when in encamped, looked for ways to pass the time. They lounged in the grass or in their tents, drilled vigorously at what looked to be some sort of ad-hoc training yard, a few even seemed to be playing a primitive form of rugby. Their cheers and whoops mingled with the chatter and the whinny of horses to create an ululating hum that Chelmsford could hear even from where he knelt, behind a hill a hundred yards or so from the camp. Surrounding the entire campsite was a palisade, made from stakes of dried wood tied together with hempen rope. A rather rudimentary fortification, probably only erected a few days ago.
It all honestly reminded Chelmsford of his own army whenever they encamped. Perhaps a bit less organised in its layout. Not to mention that it seemed their officers lived apart from their soldiers, judging from the cluster of brightly coloured tents sitting apart far from the other camp. Then there was the... temple standing tall on the largest hill. Some sort of church? Or was it the first building of a settlement about to be built? Whatever it was, it stood out like a sore thumb amongst the golden and barren plains of Zululand.
"Is it them, my lord?" Crealock called up to where Chelmsford and Durnford were kneeling. The officer stood at the foot of the hill with a company of lancers and Durnford's Basuto.
"It certainly seems looks like it". Lowering the spyglass from his eye, Chelmsford stood, brushing off some of the dirt on his white riding breeches. "Right, the only thing to do now then is to go down there and say hello".
"And who shall we send to do that, my lord?" Crealock queried.
Looking around, it seemed that most men present looked rather pensive at the idea of riding down to the camp. Chelmsford couldn't blame them, he supposed, the prospect of just waltzing up to a foreign army who had proved that they were rather lethal to outsiders would be more than enough to make any man cautious.
Finally, one volunteer came forward. A young man, in his early twenties, with well groomed black hair and a short moustache. Although far from ugly, you would never have known from looking at him in his neat and simple uniform that he was royalty. Louis-Napoleon, one of the oddest people to accompany this expedition. If it hadn't been for that whole mess with the Prussians nine years before, this boy would be living in Versailles, enjoying all the luxuries awarded to the Emperor of France. Chelmsford almost hadn't believed his ears when he had been told that this young man, this exiled emperor, would be accompanying them. Thankfully, the lords fears had proved unfounded and the boy hadn't made too much of a nuisance of himself. In fact he had been eager to serve the whole journey.
That would explain why he was doing this then. The would-be Emperor spoke, voice thick with his French accent. "I shall go, Lord Chelmsford".
"Shall you, your majesty? I don't believe that would be particularly wise, if you don't mind my saying. You're far too valuable a target" Chelmsford replied.
Napoleon squared his shoulders. "Monsiegneur, I came here to Africa to fight, to do my part in paying back those who took in my family and I when we were cast out from our home. Please, allow me to do at least do this".
Mulling over the Frenchman's words, Chelmsford finally gave a weary nod. "Very well then... but take a man with you. If you even suspect them of hostility, you are to ride back at once".
After checking his sabre and revolver were safely at his side and his appearance looked presentable, Louis-Napoleon set off at a swift gait, with a lancer following behind him. Chelmsford, along with Crealock and Durnford, watched intently from behind the ridge. Though he did not show it, Chelmsford could feel anxiousness clawing at his heart. The certainty that he had felt travelling through the veldt all these weeks, the belief that they would simply sweep aside the Zulu and he would return home with one more credential to his name, it was all gone. It seemed as if the whole damned affair had been turned on its head.
Idly scratching at his forehead with the tip of his quill, Colt stared down at the parchment in front of him. Another letter, documenting the transfer of the livestock captured from these lands. A hundred heads of cattle, another dozen or so goats, a few of those spotted big cats and some sort of huge, murderous badger that had apparently spat acid at the men who had captured it.
This had been his reality for the past few days, a deluge of reports to write out pertaining to the dozens of wagons trundling through the Gate daily. Each one was filled to the brim with whatever valuables that this land held, whether they be the various crops taken from the natives fields to the mounds of spears and shields captured from the enemy, to be sold as trophies, surplus for arms merchants or to the colosseum. No gold or gems yet though, the Emperor was bound to be disappointed. Then again, would that be such a bad thing?
Shooing away such thoughts from his mind, Colt looked back down to the parchment and re-dipped his quill into the ink pot. To his surprise however, all the sharpened bone met was glass. Looking over with a furrowed brow, he saw that the pot was completely drained.
"Have I really been writing that much?" With a sigh, the lord of Italica looked over to Liliana. The draconian maid sat on his bed, scrubbing at a stain on one of his togas. "Liliana, would you get me some fresh ink?"
"Of course, Master!" Standing to her feet (well, talons), she rushed off outside. Colt was barely settling down in his seat when Liliana flew back inside. From the gust of wind and the way the maid hastily folded her wings behind her back, Colt guessed that "flew" really was the perfect word to use.
When she handed over the pot, Colt looked up into her red eyes, using the same gaze and tone he did at home whenever Myui had done something unruly. "What did I say about using your wings?"
He thought he saw the dragon-girl blush, though it was hard to tell from her scarlet skin, and she looked away. "I-I didn't".
"Liliana..." He intoned, raising a single eyebrow.
With a defeated sigh, the maid flopped her arms down and slumped over. "You said to never use my wings when not in Italica".
"Ah". Colt raised a finger to stop her. "Italica and all the farmlands in a fifteen mile radius".
"Of course. I'm sorry, Master, it's just... you seem very tired lately. I just want to help as much as I can". Liliana said apologetically, biting her lip.
"Its alright, dear, no need to apologise". With a long, weary sigh, Colt looked back with disdain to the table and the scroll sitting on it. "Blame Galius, the bastard..."
Unscrewing the cap of the pot and dipping his quill into the fresh ink, Formal began to write out the number of bulls being transported across the Gate today. However, he only managed a few letters when he sensed a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head. Looking around, the noble saw Liliana looking at him with a furrowed brow.
"Something wrong?" He questioned.
"I'm just... confused, Master. Whenever you speak of Legate Galius, you always seem... angry. Yet whenever I see you meeting with him you always seem like such good friends". The half-dragon shrugged, her confusion evident.
With a huff, Colt laid his quill back onto the table and leaned back into his chair. He gave a shrug of his crossed arms as he spoke. "Well, Galius saved my life".
"He did?" Liliana's jaw dropped, revealing her razor sharp fangs.
"He did. Fifteen years ago, I'll never forget that day. I was still a young man then, on my first campaign, so I was obviously quite arrogant. I had a few victories under my belt, thought I was the second coming of Octavius the Titan. It was that belief that earned me a dead horse and a knock to the head from a tribe of orcs. They were all prepared to sacrifice me to whatever demons they worshipped, when all of a sudden I hear this voice call out. "There won't be anymore lives lost today, except yours!" Not the wittiest line in the world, I know, but at the time it was the cleverest thing I'd ever heard. Galius came charging in on his horse, followed by a whole legion. After they'd taken care of all the orcs, Galius came up to me. I thanked him, obviously, promised him all the riches of Italica for saving me. He just clapped me on the arm and said, "lad, just promise me that one day, if I'm ever in the same situation, you'll do the same for me".
"So you're trying to pay back your debt to him?"
"I am".
"Aw, you're always so honourable, Master". Liliana beamed at him. "Well, I understand now why you're always so quick to help him, even though he is..."
As she trailed off, Colt finished for her. "Rough". At her thankful nod, he continued on. "Yes, he makes no secret of his dislike of demi-humans like you. He's like most of the lords of Sadera in that regard. You need only hold your head high though, Liliana, one day, I am sure, we will all be equal. It may be long after both of us have returned to dust, but it will come".
"I hope so. Now, shall I get you some water, Master? You look parched".
"Yes, that would be-" Colt's words were cut off by the sudden entrance of a young squire. The boy burst in through the tent flaps. His doublet and skin shined with sweat and his eyes were wide. He looked ready to say something but suddenly doubled over, taking a few long and ragged breaths of air. Finally he managed to choke out a few words. "My... lord..."
"By the Gods, son, take a breath". Advised Colt, looking at the young soldier in surprise. Liliana too looked quite taken aback by his explosive entrance. As the squires breaths became more even, Lord Formal spoke. "Has something happened?"
"My lord... There are a pair of riders... from the west." He panted out
"The west?" Had Galius sent scouts out to that way? "Are they ours?"
"No, my lord. I've never seen their uniforms before. I think... I think they are natives".
"What!?" Shooting to his feet, Colt immediately made for the tent flaps. "Liliana, stay here. Lead me to these riders, boy".
"Y-yes, my lord". With a wipe of his damp forehead, the young soldier got up and started walking. Behind him, Colt dimly heard Liliana call out to him to be careful.
More natives... They couldn't have come at a worse time. They were ill prepared for a battle, Colt had to admit. When Galius had marched out to capture the Zulu capital, he had taken with him the majority of the legionary's, most of the heavy cavalry, what was left of the auxiliary beastmen and all of the wyvern riders. That wasn't even counting the siege engines (the trebuchets, the catapults and the scorpions). All Colt had with him now were six hundred foot soldiers, a hundred or so cavalry and a company or two of archers. Maybe their discipline and tactics could see them through, but if the natives had bigger numbers... Perhaps now was not the time for battle, maybe he could negotiate with them, convince them to become vassals to the Empire...
As the squire lead him towards the perimeter of the camp, a figure ran up. A man of middle age, with cropped brown hair and a goatee, dressed in a white toga and yellow sash.
"Duke Loris". Colt greeted.
"Count Formal, I see the boy brought you here". The Duke said, a concerned look on his face.
"Where are these riders?"
"Just up ahead, Sir Mudra has ridden out to speak with them".
"What!?"
That young fool, he couldn't be trusted! Colt broke into a sprint, rushing towards the perimeter of the camp. As he ran, he could see legionary's standing and staring out to the horizon. As he passed by the last tents and through the palisade gate, the Count could see what had them transfixed.
Sir Mudra, the young knight, sat atop his war horse, already dressed head to toe in steel plate, though he wore no helmet. In front of him, also on horseback, were the two native riders. The sight of them made Colt come to a slow stop. They weren't like the Zulus, they looked... they looked like them. Pale skin, brown and black hair, they even wore real clothes. Quite smart looking clothes too, uniforms if he could guess. A black tunic and dark blue trousers, with white straps across their chests and on their heads were tall white helmets. Narrowing his gaze, Colt saw that by their sides were shining steel sabres as well some sort of small metal and wood contraption, perhaps a tool of some kind? He wasn't sure.
Now that he was closer, Colt could hear the conversation being had by Sir Mudra and the two strange riders. Well, attempting to be had. Every word the more talkative native spoke, Colt couldn't understand any of it. Sir Mudra evidently couldn't either, and it seemed to be thoroughly angering him.
"Speak normally, man! By the Gods, do you savages not even know the common tongue!?" Exclaimed Mudra. The native he was attempting to talk to seemed to pick up on the knights mounting frustrations and so turned and began hurriedly speaking with his fellow rider in their strange language. Unfortunately, this only seemed to make things worse.
"What are you babbling about!? Some sort of plot? We'll see about that!" With one swift move, Mudra drew his longsword from its scabbard. "DIE, YOU DOGS!"
"Mudra, NO!" Colt screamed.
His words came too late and Mudra swung his blade at the closest rider. The steel ripped through the man's flesh, opening his face diagonally from the temple down across his nose and into his jaw. Blood sprayed from the wound, speckling Mudra's breastplate and the other native's smart unfirom.
Mudra whirled around, a crazed look on his face, ready to cut down the second rider. However whilst the knight had been busy slicing open his partner, the other native had hurriedly drawn that strange metal and wood device from its small leather pouch at his belt. The fool had missed his sabre in a panic, Colt thought. He was just about to scream out again at Mudra to stop when there came a great bang from the device, accompanied by a quick flash of fire and a puff of smoke from its small barrel.
The war horse Mudra was riding gave a terrible scream as a bloody hole was blown open in its neck and the beast slumped down to the ground. Sir Mudra had no time to jump from the saddle and his left leg was promply crushed under his horse with a sickening crunch. Almost immediately, the young knight began to scream in pain.
The native rider instantly reared his horse horse and dug his spurs into its side, sending it into a swift gallop away from the Imperial camp.
As Colt watched the rapidly escaping native, he heard Duke Loris give a hoarse and panicked shout. "ARCHERS! STOP HIM!"
Whirling around, Colt saw that during this encounter the Duke had brought out a group of archers, in their chainmail armour and leather caps, with bows at the ready. At the order, the archers immediately drew arrows from the quivers slung around their waist, nocked them to their bows and loosed them all at once, in the span of two seconds.
The arrows shot forth into the sky, arcing over and then falling in the direction of the rider. Thankfully most of them fell short, only finding purchase in the dirt, though a few came perilously close. Ultimately though, the native rider managed to get away unharmed and left Colt with a murderous rage boiling inside of him.
A snarling frown spread across his face and he turned his searing gaze towards Sir Mudra, who was still pinned beneath his slain horse. The young knight had tears in his eyes as he tried to push the animal off of his injured leg.
"For fucks sake, help me you idiots! My leg!"
At his words, several legionary's raced out from the camp, hurriedly pushing up the corpse and freeing Mudra's mangled leg. The steel had concaved in and even the slightest touch by the knight made him yelp in pain. As he nursed his leg, Colt stormed up, fury on his face and in his voice. "What in the name of all the Gods is wrong with you!?"
"What's wrong with me!?" Mudra screeched back. "I was only doing what we came here to do!"
"And what is that, hm? To kill needlessly? To put everyone here in danger?" Colt spat.
The next words of the young mans mouth were mocking, despite the obvious pain he was in. "Danger? From those barbarians? Please, they didn't even wear armour".
"Neither did the Northborn, but that didn't stop them from sacking Akuteku". Duke Lirus said, stepping up beside Colt before speaking to the Count apologetically. "My lord, I apologise for ordering the archers to fire. I panicked and did what came naturally to me".
"It's alright, Duke Liru". The anger in Colt's chest simmered down, like coals in a fire, and he gave a frustrated sigh. "This isn't good".
"Obviously it's not good, look at my leg! Get me some help, now!" Squawked Mudra, glaring up at the two lords.
"Yes, yes, stop whining like a child, man". Count Formal pointed his finger towards the legionary's who had helped to get Mudra's leg free. "You men, get Sir Mudra here to a healers tent. Duke Liru, sound the alert and get the rest of the men in formation".
With one last glare toward Mudra, Colt spoke grimly. "It seems we have a battle on our hands..."
How had it gone so wrong so quickly? That was all Chelmsford had thought as they had watched Louis' fellow lancer be cut down by that armoured scoundrel. Thankfully, that wretched excuse for a knight quickly found himself trapped after his horse was on the receiving end of a shot from Napoleons revolver, letting the young royal make a break for safety.
They had watched him all the way, urging him on like he was a jockey at Epsom, as arrows fell all around him. Thankfully, by the grace of God, he made it, disappearing round the hill and coming to a screeching halt as he reached his comrades. The other lancers and the Basuto gave a cheer as he dismounted, giving him many slaps on the back.
Louis, though, looked thoroughly shaken. Quickly pulling off his pith helmet, he ran a quivering hand through his sweat soaked black hair. He looked up with wide eyes as Chelmsford and Crealock approached.
"Ah, s-sir". He seemed to remember the proper procedure and gave a limp salute, which Chelmsford returned eagerly. "I-I am sorry, monsiegneur, I am just... merde ... that bastard killed Damian. We didn't mean to anger him, we just couldn't understand each other. I even tried switching to some français but..."
"It's alright, you majesty, you did all you could. And you certainly showed that bugger as well, didn't you?" Chelmsford replied, giving the Frenchman a comforting smile.
Louis chuckled. "Qui, though I do not like killing animals, especially such a fine horse as he had".
"Yes, a waste. Never mind though, there are always more-"
"My lord!" Durnford's cut the exchange short and made everyone look up the hill, where the Irishman still knelt, looking through his spyglass at the enemy camp. "My lord, that "Roman" camp, their troops are arming and getting into formation. It looks like they want a fight!"
"Do they?" Chelmsford took a moment to look around at the faces of the men stood around him, both lancer and Basuto. All of them held the same expression. Resolved, determined, ready to enact whatever plan he gave them. These invaders had taken first blood and made their intentions clear. It seemed they were going to war after all.
Chelmsford squared his shoulders and spoke in a level resolute tone. "Well then, let's give them one!"
And I reckon that's a good place to end it on. Thanks for reading another chapter of my little story. Sorry to leave it on such a cliffhanger! I'll try and get the next chapter out, quick sticks, but it may take a bit because there's a lot to write. It will be the first proper battle between Britain and Sadera, and I'll be doing a lot of researching on tactics for both sides, though I'll probably be looking more into Roman and medieval tactics as opposed to British tactics, since I already know quite a bit about the latter. Speaking of researching, I found out about Louis-Napoleon reading about the Zulu War and after learning about his story and his last stand, I knew I just had to put him in here. Definitely expect to see more of him in later chapters. Now then, onto reviews:
Perseus12: They'll most certainly try but it will be difficult. There's a lot of bad blood between the British, the Boers and the Zulus, as they were all at each others throats before the Saderans came barging in and turned everything on its head. We shall see if they can unite together for the greater good.
ATP: Maybe, I'm still debating whether to just leave her as minor character or expand on her more. Maybe she will marry an Englishman, though I'd hate to see how their children would look.
Ceebarus: Thank you! Yeah, I wanted to make the conflict a bit more nuanced, as both sides have their own bigotry's and expansionist goals. By the way, I really like Green Fields and Shells, especially how you wrote the Saderan's reactions to No Man's Land.
Arieg: Although I couldn't find a way to fit in a honey badger sicking some legionary's, I did give it a reference. Maybe there'll be more honey badger in the future, it could fit in pretty well at the Imperial colosseum.
TorstenL: Yeah, I originally got the idea from Victoria's Gate and I've always been interested in Victorian times, ever since we did it at school. I am actually planning for a few future chapters to take place back in dear old Blighty, so you can expect a full on Victorian London experience then.
Thanks to everyone who left a review and feel free to give a new one for this chapter. I always need more feedback. Thanks again for reading and I'll see you all next time.
