Hello everyone, I don't usually do this but I thought I should clarify some things. The battle that takes place in this chapter is between the force left behind to guard the Gate by Legate Galius (the commander of the Imperial Expedition) and the British Army. This Gate guarding force is considerably smaller than the main Saderan force, who have gone off to capture Ulundi from the remnants of the Zulu. So in this battle, its the British with the numerical advantage and the Saderans don't have any wyverns or goblins or orcs. Those come later, when the British have to deal with the main Saderan army. Anyway, enough of me waffling, lets get on with it!
11:00 AM.
26th January 1879.
"Liliana, get my armour!"
Those were the first words out of Colts mouth as he exploded into his tent, earning him a small squeak from Liliana, who had been busy putting away some of his clothes into a chest. She froze, her face the epitome of surprise, only moving when Colt roared at her. "Now, Liliana!"
"Y-Yes, Master!"
Sensing his urgency, the draconian girl swiftly stood up and got his armour off of the peg it hung on in the corner of his tent. At his urging, she began to quickly buckle it onto his body. Over his light undershirt went a chainmail hauberk and then a steel breastplate. Then came gorget, greaves, chainmail coif and gauntlets. Finally, a surcoat was draped over over his body, sewn in his Clan colours, white with a green trim and the fasces stitched onto the chest. Although it wasn't as flamboyant or intimidating as the armour that other nobles wore, Colt had never seen much use in trying to look the best on the battlefield. As long as it protected him, it was good enough.
As Liliana armoured him, she spoke, voice flush with worry. "What's going on, Master?"
Colt's voice was even and his face as still as stone. "I'm afraid there's going to be a battle, Liliana".
She froze halfway through buckling up a greave. She looked up, eyes wide. "A battle? Against who?"
"More natives off this world, I don't know their names. That young idiot Mudra killed one of them and the other used some sort of magic weapon that killed the fools horse. Then he rode off, no doubt to tell his leaders".
"Sir Mudra?" Liliana scowled as she resumed her buckling. "He called me a half-breed when I was fetching some water the other day and threatened to cut my wings off if I talked back".
A frown of distaste came over Colt's face when he heard that. "Well, then you'll be pleased to hear that he's had his leg squashed by his own horse".
That bit of news brought a wicked grin to Liliana's face. "Yes, that's no less than what he deserves".
"Mhm, a shame the friend of the man he killed didn't have time to finish the job".
Finally, Colt stood, decked from head to toe in shining steel. Liliana then opened up the chest kept at the foot of his bed and withdrew from it Colt's sword, the ancestral blade of Clan Formal, Peacekeeper. A longsword, with a blade of castle forged steel, a golden cross-guard, green leather hilt and the fasces sigil engraved on the golden pommel.
Holding it as delicately as you would a newborn baby, Liliana handed it over to Colt, who took it in his own reverent grip. Peacekeeper had been forged for Arthorus Formal, the founder of Italica, by the first blacksmith to have settled in the city when it was still a small trading post on the frontier of the then fledgling Empire. Since then, it had been taken into battle by every head of the Formal clan, and had thus seen countless wars. Despite all the hundreds of years it had been in use, the blade had not weakened or dulled. Indeed, if you were to look upon it, you would have sworn it had been forged only yesterday.
No one truly had an explanation for this. Some said it was dwarven steel, the kind only found deep within their ancient mountain cities. Others said it was magic, an enchantment done by a sorcerer that Arthorus Formal had been friends with. Whatever the reason, the old sword had served its wielders faithfully ever since it had first been forged and Colt knew it would serve him just as well today.
As Colt slid Peacekeeper into the scabbard at his belt, Liliana handed him the final piece of his armour, a great helm. As she passed it to him, her small hands caught his steel covered ones. She looked into his eyes, her own being wide and filled to the brim with concern.
"Please, be careful, Master..." She pleaded.
He gave her a warm and comforting smile and lightly squeezed her hands. "Don't worry, dear. I'm sure that we'll have defeated this enemy within the hour". The reassurance was just as much for himself as it was for Liliana.
"Do you promise?"
"I promise". Colt's voice was firm and earnest.
The answer seemed to satisfy the young maid, who gave a nod and handed her lord his helmet. Holding it under arm, he raised his other hand and lightly ruffled the draconian's silver hair.
"Maaasteeerrrr..." She whined.
With a chuckle, Colt moved his hand from her head and began to leave the tent. As he lifted the flap, he heard Liliana speak behind him. "Good luck".
"Thank you. You stay safe, Liliana".
With that, Colt left the tent, stepping out into the heat of the other world.
Waiting for him outside was a young squire, who held the reins to Colt's personal war horse. A chestnut brown courser, barded in a white and green striped caparison and steel chamfron to protect its face. The animal gave a fond snort as Colt took her reigns from the squire.
"Thank you, lad". He said to the boy, who beamed at earning the gratitude of a nobleman.
"My lord!" A voice cut through this exchange. A legionary ran up to Colt and pointed down the hill to the palisade gate. "My lord, Duke Liru told me to inform you that he has the rest of the men formed up outside and requests your presence there".
"Very well". Colt raised his great helm and slid it down onto his head. His vision narrowed through the slit visor and he promptly pulled himself up onto his horse. "Lead me there".
"Yes, my lord". With that, the legionary turned and jogged off in the direction of the perimeter, with Colt following behind on his steed.
He found Duke Liru just outside the gate, inspecting the assembled Imperial soldiers. The men, 700 or so in all, stood to attention in blocks of a hundred. Their segmented steel armour shined bright in the sun, no doubt polished dozens of times since they had first encamped here. By their sides were the standard gladius short swords and the rectangular scutum shields. Stood behind them were a company of a hundred archers, wearing lighter chainmail armour and leather caps, with their distinctive composite bows.
Formed up separately from the common foot soldiers were the eighty or so knights that Galius had left at the camp. Mounted upon sturdy and swift warhorses, they looked every bit the noble warriors, encased in steel plate armour and hefting up seven foot tall war lances. That wasn't their only weapon though, they also carried heater shields and longswords. Clad in steel and armed with many weapons, the knights were the armoured fist with which the enemy would be broken.
Duke Liru himself wore a set of plate armour, polished to a silvery shine. His most distinctive trait was his close helm, which had a hound crest forged atop it (his Clan's personal sigil), and the yellow cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He lifted the visor and regarded Colt as he rode up.
"My lord". He greeted.
"Duke Liru". Colt looked over the assembled army.
The duke did so as well, and spoke grimly. "So... this is everything?"
The Count of Italica sighed. "I'm afraid so. Galius didn't leave us much".
"Damnit". Liru scowled. "How many men can he truly need to burn down a few hovels?"
"Apparently more than is needed to defend our only way back home". Colt gave a weary sigh. "No matter. I suppose we shall just have to rely on outmanoeuvring the enemy".
"Then we'll need to know what the enemy's formation looks like". Liru opined.
Colt have a nod of agreement. "Indeed, have you already sent out men?"
"Yes, three of my personal riders. They'll have a look around, write down whatever they see and then ride back here. That should give us whatever information we need..."
The men, officer and infantrymen alike, were just settling down for tea when Chelmsford and his entourage galloped back to where they had left the rest of the column just an hour ago. The common soldiers had settled down for a rest it seemed, as the wagons sat vacant and the smoky smell of campfires were on the wind. They found Pulleine and the other officers who hadn't come along sitting around a few small tables, sipping their brews from teacups and discussing this and that over platters of biscuits. They all looked up with some surprise when they saw the urgent looks on the faces of the returning party of riders.
"My lord". Pulleine greeted, putting his teacup and saucer down onto the table with a clink. "I'm afraid we've had all the tea in this pot but I can ask the servants to brew you another one, if you'd like?"
"The hour for a tea party has passed, lieutenant colonel". Chelmsford answered coolly. "Gentlemen, we have a battle on our hands".
Those words had their desired effect and a ripple of shock went through the assembled men. Pulleine's brow furrowed, perplexment clear on his face, and he stammered out. "A-a battle, you say sir?"
"I'm afraid so. It seems these new arrivals, whomever they may be, are not particularly fond of outsiders. They attacked Napoleon".
"Attacked? Good God!" One officer gasped out.
"The scoundrels..." Said another.
"Oh dear..." Muttered a third.
"It is true, gentlemen". Louis-Napoleon said. The young Emperor had been silent for the majority of the ride, no doubt still in some shock from his near fatal encounter with the knight outside the enemy camp, but now he was speaking up. "I rode down to their camp, with another soldier, a lancer by the name of Damien. However, they spoke a langue I have never heard before. I fear everything we tried to do to converse with them only made them angry and eventually, they snapped. They killed Damien, sirs, without mercy. And they would have killed me too had I not dug my spurs in. Even then, they tried to shoot me down arrows. Thankfully, their aim was poor".
The gentlemen all looked appropriately appalled by the royals story and Chelmsford quickly took advantage of it. "It's all true, I watched the whole sordid affair, and according to Colonel Durnford, the enemy are assembling into battle formations. No doubt they shall be here within the hour".
The lords words were like a bullet fired to signal the start of a race. Immediately, the officers sprang to their feet, swiftly putting down their cups and putting on their hats, and then rushing off to prepare their men.
"Get the buglers to sound the form up". Chelmsford ordered to Pulleine, who in turn gave a hasty salute and hurried off to do just that.
"Lord Chelmsford". The Irish brogue of Colonel Durnford came over the noise. "It seems we have some visitors". He pointed one gloved finger out towards the fields.
Drawing his spyglass and bringing it to his eye, Chelmsford scanned the tall, golden grass where the Irishman was pointing. He spent a good few moments looking over every inch of the vegetation as it swayed in the breeze but found nothing. He was just about to reprimand his subordinate when a flash of sunlight off of metal hit his eyes.
Scowling, the lord looked away for a moment before realisation struck him like a speeding train. Quickly looking through the spyglass once again, he saw through the fluttering long blades of grass the sheen of sun against metal.
The source of this glittering then moved and through gaps in the grass, Chelmsford could see a figure kneeling in the dirt, dressed in armour. Roman armour to be specific, lorica segmentata if he remembered the lecture on it that he received at Eton. This Roman was staring hard at them, memorizing every detail, and looked to be scribbling down all he saw into a small leather bound book with a piece of charcoal.
"It appears the enemy has sent out scouts". Chelmsford stated.
"There's not just one". Durnford said, who had gotten his own binoculars out and was likewise observing the plains. He pointed. "Look, there".
Following his direction, the British commander looked down and saw that, indeed, there were two more armoured men knelt in the long grass. Just like the first, they looked to be transcribing everything they saw. He also spied that behind each were horses, hidden behind a cluster of boulders or knelt in the grass along with their owners. No doubt when these scouts had finished detailing every bit of information they could get on their opponents, they would mount up and ride back to their camp, to give their commanders a clear picture of what they would be facing.
Well, they couldn't have that.
"Colonel Durnford". Chelmsford lowered the spyglass from his eyes and turned to the Irishman. "If you would be so kind as to intercept these spies..."
For once, he got a smile from the cavalry officer. "Sir, it would be my pleasure".
With that, the colonel turned and shouted to his native riders. "Basuto, on me! Hyah!"
He dug his spurs into his horse's side and sent it into a gallop down the hill and into the valley, with his loyal riders following swiftly behind him, shouting the ululating war cries of their people. It was a total anachronism, these men dressed in their modern tan uniforms and wielding the most advanced firearms on offer screaming this primitive chant. Yet despite that, as he looked at this horde of horsemen thundering down towards their enemy, Chelmsford couldn't help but find the sight stirring.
Looking around, he saw Louis-Napoleon speaking with a few other lancers, and called over to the Frenchman. "Your Majesty, come and see this. I believe you shall find a measure of retribution for dear, slain Damien".
With a look of curiosity, Napoleon rode over and looked down the hill, seeing the Basuto cutting through the grass like a scythe through wheat, with Durnford at their head. "Colonel Durnford is on the hunt, qui?"
"Qui". Chelmsford confirmed with a smirk, raising his spyglass to watch the proceedings more closely. "And I dare say he has his first prey in sight".
Swiftly moving through the fields, Durnford gave a hasty signal with his hands. Evidently, his men knew what this meant and in a moment their company split into two groups. One went after one scout and the second went after another. The third, Durnford seemed intent on taking himself.
The enemy scout that Chelmsford had first sighted obviously seemed to hear the fierce cries of the Zulu and he stood, a look of horror on his face as he spotted the oncoming herd of whooping warriors. He turned and sprinted off towards his waiting horse, throwing glances behind his back to see where his pursuers were.
Chelmsford thought they intended to simply run the man down but instead, the Basuto came to a sharp halt and then with one deft motion, each one reached down to the sling affixed to their horses saddles and drew from it a Martini-Henry rifle, a carbine model to be precise. Unlike the standard Martini-Henry, the carbine version was modified to be able to fire quickly from horseback, which was naturally invaluable to cavalrymen. Normally, native contingents would not be issued such high quality weapons, however it seemed Durnford had more influence than many (Chelmsford included) gave him credit for.
The Basuto formed into a line and then aimed their carbines. With a single shout in Zulu, a fusillade of shots rang out. The rider, who was just a few steps away from reaching his animal, gave a cry as a multitude of holes went through him. Though there was no doubt his armour could stop a sword or a dagger, the same could not be said for a volley of bullets. The man fell to the ground with a thump, blood already beginning to leak from his multiple wounds.
"That's one". Chelmsford intoned.
Swinging his spyglass around, he saw that the second scout had decided to stand his ground against the charging Basuto. He had most likely seen what had happened to his comrade and perhaps thought that he could fight the native riders off. That, or he simply wanted to go down like a man.
It seemed the Basuto decided to grant him that wish. They continued forwards at a blistering pace and their target quickly drew his sword. He swung as the first horseman passed him by, but all he cut through was thin air as the African dodged his horse out of the way. A second Basuto rode up behind the scout and bowled him over into the dirt. The Roman scrambled to his feet again, swinging his sword wildly as the Basuto circled around him.
The whole affair seemed almost mocking, as the armoured warrior screamed in rage and tried desperately to strike any of his attackers. He shouted out words in his native language, though Chelmsford could not hear it from where he stood. The sight was downright pitiful, this proud soldier with dirty armour and no helmet, swinging his sword at shadows.
Finally, one of the Basuto seemed to take pity on the Roman. The crack of a carbine sounded out over the rumble of the horses hooves and the scout fell down dead, a jagged hole blown through his chest.
"That's two".
Finally, Chelmsford turned his gaze towards the third and last scout. Having seen both of his fellows shot down by the black riders, the Roman had bade a hasty retreat towards his horse. He had already mounted up by the time that Durnford reached him. As the Irishman approached, the scout dug his heels into his mounts side and sent it into a gallop, toward the ridge. Instead of pursuing, Durnford reined in his horse and drew his revolver. Taking aim, he waited a moment or so, a look of intense concentration on his face.
The Roman was getting closer and closer to the safety with every step of his steeds hooves. Durnford would miss at this rate, Chelmsford was sure, but suddenly the cavalry riders revolver barked out a single shot. The scout, who was just a few inches from cover, reeled and then slumped against the neck of his horse. The animal continued on its course, unheeded by the corpse now adorning its back, and it disappeared from sight over the horizon.
"And that's three". Triumph was thick in Lord Chelmsford's voice and on his face as he lowered his spyglass. He turned to Louis-Napoleon. "A good show, don't you agree Your Majesty?"
Napoleon gave a hum of agreement. "Those Basuto are deadly men".
"Indeed..." Chelmsford turned his gaze back towards the plains, where Durnford had rallied his men and were all now returning to camp. "We're lucky to have them".
"What do you mean I can't go into battle!?" Exclaimed Sir Mudra.
The young knight scowled at Colt. He was still dressed in the armour he had been wearing when he sliced open that foreign riders face, although the greave crushed under his slain horse had been stripped away. Instead, his injured leg was entirely bare, with a wrap of bandages around it and a single boot to protect his foot.
He had hobbled out of the camp, using his sword as some kind of walking stick, and shouted to Colt and Liru. The two lords had been in the midst of a discussion on how to array their forces when the time came to take to the field. This debate came to an abrupt end when the impetuous boy soldier screamed for someone to fetch him a fresh horse.
Colt had taken one look at Mudra and bluntly stated that there was no way in all the hells that he was coming with them. At the knights outraged response, he patiently explained. "You're not fit in anyway to fight".
"Not fit?" Mudra scoffed. "It's just a scratch, nothing more".
"Is that what the healer told you?" Colt asked with a doubtful raise of an eyebrow.
"Well, no, but that wench doesn't know the first thing about battlefield injuries. If anything, I'm lucky. If I hadn't stopped feeding that damned horse, it would have been so fat that it would have broken my whole leg for sure".
"If only..." Muttered Colt before he felt Duke Liru pull him to the side.
The noble spoke lowly. "Count Formal, why do you deny the boy the chance to fight? With any luck, he might be slain by the enemy".
"Oh believe me, Duke Liru, I would like nothing more than to throw this young lout to the wolves but it wouldn't just be him dying. Any man he would have under his command would no doubt be slaughtered alongside him".
Just the thought of some poor legionary's having to put their lives in the hands of Sir Mudra was enough to make Colt shiver.
Liru stroked his chin and then gave a nod of agreement. "Hm, yes, I can understand your reasoning well enough".
"What are you two jabbering about!?" Demand Sir Mudra, with the impetuousness of a small child. "If you don't allow to take to the field, my father shall hear of it!"
Colt scoffed at the young man's threat. "Your father? Your father is nothing more than an upjumped banker, who got fat on the backs of more skilled tradesmen".
Mudra's eyes lit up with a blaze of fury at the lord of Italica's words. "How dare you! My father is one of the archmembers of the Merchants Guild, he has more power than either of you combined! He's not "upjumped" which is rich coming from you-"
Their argument was cut short by the cry of a legionary. "My lord!"
Turning, Colt saw the soldier pointing out to the horizon. Cresting it was a figure on a horse. At the sight of it, everyone present, from the common legionary to the noble knight, readied their weapons. However their fears of a possible enemy attack proved unfounded, as the sun caught the metal of the riders armour and it was revealed he was one of their own.
The troops all visibly relaxed, Colt included, until the horse got closer and the state of its rider was revealed.
A solid, clean hole had been blown through the scouts armour. Not as if it had been shot with an arrow and been wrenched out, this looked much... neater. Beneath the hole, a deep, seeping red wound could be seen.
"By the Gods, that's one of the scouts I sent out..." Duke Liru gasped.
Immediately several men ran over to the horse, grabbing its reins and bringing it to a halt, and then pulling the limp body off of its back. Then, as Colt and Liru approached, the corpse's eyes snapped open, wide and filled to the brim with terror. He gave a choking gasp of pain and would have crumpled to the ground if not for the men supporting him. He looked up at the two nobles, eyes filled with both shame and utter agony.
"Duke Liru... forgive me, my lord..." He choked out.
"It's alright, soldier, it's alright. Tell us, what happened? Where are the others I sent out?" Liru asked.
The scout gave a whimper, either from the pain or from remembering what had happened. "W-we managed to reach the enemy's position unimpeded... they are positioned just over the ridge. But... but they must seen us. They sent out men to pursue us, mages on horseback. Corius was slain by their magic before he could even reach his horse. Guldo tried to fight but they ran him down. T-Their commander pursued me... he gave me this wound... but I managed to get away".
Colt stepped up to the hunched figure. "Did you manage to write down the enemy's forces?"
"Y-yes..." The scout pulled from his armour a small leather book.
Quickly plucking the book from the wounded man's grip, Colt flipped through its pages, eyes roving to see whatever details that the scout had managed to write down before he was chased off. Eventually he found them. His face fell slightly as there wasn't much. Nevertheless, it was still something.
"You've done well". Colt told the scout, who gave a weak smile. "Get him to the healers tent, quickly".
As the scout was hastily carried away, Duke Liru approached Colt. "What did he manage to write down?"
"It appears the enemy have positioned themselves on the slope of a hill. Before that hill is a wide plain, with several dry gully's dotted around. It seems that besides those mounted sorcerers, he also sported what looked spearmen, dressed in red".
"Hm... Well, it seems quite obvious to me what the enemy intends to do. They'll position those scarlet spearmen on the hill, with their archers on top and their magicians trying to harry us".
Colt nodded, he had been thinking the same thing. "Well, if that is their plan, then I propose we assemble the men into three blocks. One will distract the main enemy force, whilst the others encircle them from both directions. The archers will be behind the middle block and will pepper the enemy positions. Hopefully it will wear down their numbers".
"And their sorcerer cavalry?"
"Well, when they appear, our own knights will chase them off".
Liru stroked his goatee, considering the Count's words. Finally he gave a nod. "Yes, that sounds reasonable. I never took you for someone skilled in military tactics, Count Formal".
"Well, while my true forte is economics, I have spent enough years on campaign to pick up a thing or two. Get the men into the formation I specified, then sound the warhorns to begin the march".
"Of course, my lord". Liru marched off to do just that, leaving Colt with one last thing to contend with.
Sir Mudra sneered out. "Well? Are you going to let me take my rightful place on the battlefield or will I have tell my father of this disrespect?"
Turning to look into the knights glaring eyes, Colt spoke just a few words. "You may tell him what you like". He spoke to a legionary. "Sir Mudra still looks fatigued. Escort him to his tent to rest".
With a nod, the soldier moved to take Mudra's arm but the knight pulled away. With one last scowl, Sir Mudra limped off on his own towards his tent.
Watching him go, Colt gave a deep sigh. That was one problem down, at least. The deep baritone of the warhorn droning out only reminded Colt of the greatest challenge he would face this day.
The brew was just about done, Joseph could tell. The fragrant smell of the tea danced across his nostrils and made him wring his hands.
"Careful". He said to Davis, who held the mess tin containing the brew over the campfire. The cockney rolled his eyes.
"That's the third time you said that". He said.
"Well, I just don't want it to spill". Joseph replied.
"It ain't gonna spill". Bert reassured the young man.
Joseph gave a chuckle. "It better not".
"Bloody hell, you're like a Chinaman with his opium. You don't see Chelmsford and his lot getting all antsy about a brew". Davis complained.
"That's cos Chelmsford and all the rest don't have a limit on how much tea they can have. If they spill theirs, they'll just get that Indian lot to brew them another pot. This is the first decent cuppa we've had for awhile and I'm parched".
"Fair enough". Davis looked into the mess tin and then gave a nod. "Right, I reckon this is about done. Get your cups, gents".
Both Joseph and Bert dutifully raised their tin mugs. Gingerly, Davis poured them both about a half cup or so of the brown liquid. He gave a wicked smile as he did so. "There you go boys, a nice mug of horse piss".
"Shut up, Davis". Bert said, giving a shake of his head.
"Yeah, you're right. Horse piss would probably taste better". Joked the cockney, chuckling.
Joseph took a sip of his tea and gave a slight grimace at the brews flavour. It was in desperate need of some more sugar but there was a ration on how much a single soldier could get. Maybe they could send Bert over to the quartermaster, see if he wasn't a bit more generous with a big Cornishman breathing down his neck.
Davis gave a similar frown as he tasted his own tea. "Bloody hell, I don't know why everybody but me likes this stuff. Give me a pint any day".
"Ah, that's cos you didn't grow up with it mate". Joseph replied. "Besides, can't be drunk all the time".
"Heh, shoulda told my dad that". Davis said with a chuckle. "Prob'ly wouldn't have fallen off that dock otherwise".
The tooting of a bugle cut their conversation short. It only took a moment to realise the impact of that instrument and the tune that it played. The fall in! Immediately, the three Englishmen downed the rest of their tea, sugar or no sugar, and got themselves looking presentable for battle. Whether it was buttoning up their tunics or, in the case of Davis, pulling on their boots. Finally, they jammed their helmets on their heads and picked up their Martini-Henry's.
"Time to do our bit for old Queen Vic, eh boys?" Davis said.
All around, the rest of the British forces were in a flurry of activity. Infantry were putting out fires and picking up their weapons, cavalry were pulling the feeding bags from their steeds muzzles, the artillery boys were limbering their guns onto the draft horses meant to pull them. Then, striding through the frenzy came Sergeant Morgan, a tall and broad Welshman with a pair of bushy blonde sideburns. He glared at the three men and bellowed out. "PRIVATE ELLIOT! PRIVATE DAVIS! PRIVATE MARSH! What do you you're doing standing around like a load of bloody sheep!? Go on, form up, you lazy sods!"
All three of them winced at the Sergeant's harsh voice and immediately fell into line with the rest of their company. They deployed down the slope of the hill, with Morgan's voice accompanying them the whole way.
"Come on you lot, you're not out for a Sunday stroll! Come on, pick up those feet!"
They dutifully picked up their feet and formed up. Joseph, Davis and Bert lined up with a hundred other soldiers and then knelt. Another line formed up behind them, with a third behind them. This was the three rank firing line. Three other firing lines formed up on either side. Six thousand men in all, every one of them with rifles in their hands and ready to unleash a hail of lead at the slightest provocation.
From where he knelt, Joseph had a view of the land stretching out in front of them. A wide and relatively flat plain of tall golden grass, broken up by the occasional tree or dried up gully. The sky was bright and blue, with the sun gleaming down.
"Private Smith, get those range markers pegged out there! At the double!" Joseph could hear Sergeant Morgan bellow out.
Joseph watched as two figures jogged out from between the lines and into the fields. A normal soldier and a drummer boy, who looked to be no older than ten or eleven. The drummer clutched a number of wooden stakes in his little arms. They would peg them down every hundred yards, so the troops knew if their enemy was in rifle range and wouldn't waste a bullet.
"Tell you what, I wouldn't want to be in their shoes". Joseph muttered to Bert, who nodded.
"Yeah, not the most glamorous..." He petered off.
Furrowing his brow, Joseph gave the big man a nudge. "What?"
Bert simply nodded in front of him.
Following his directions, Joseph looked over and felt any words he had die in his throat. There, cresting the horizon, was an army. Not an army of Zulu though, as Joseph had been expecting the whole journey through this damned wilderness, no... this was something else entirely. Instead of animal pelts and leather, the soldiers in this army marched in full metal armour, even under the heat of the African sun.
Instead of the cowhide shields and short spears they had been drilled to expect, this lot carried tall, rectangular shields that looked like they were made from wood and iron. They also had spears and these were long and topped with vicious looking metal points atop them. They moved in tight formations, their weapons securely by their sides, steadily advancing through the grass.
Behind these formations were a horde of others on horses. These ones were even more armoured than the foot sloggers, dressed head to toe in shining metal. Even their horses were wearing armour. Seeing them, Joseph suddenly thought of all the old daft stories his mum would tell him, when she was trying to get him to go to sleep, back home in Croydon. The knights, in gleaming armour and riding noble steeds, were brought to life in front of his eyes.
He closed his eyes, wondering if the heat had finally gotten to his head. When he opened them though, they were still there, the light of the sun catching off the steel of their armour.
"Jesus..." He heard Davis murmur beside him.
The words gasped out by that wounded Zulu echoed in Joseph's ears as he watched this mob encroach on them. Metal men...
It was a magnificent sight, Chelmsford couldn't deny it. Through the magnified lens of his spyglass, he could see every little detail in the Roman troops. From a boyish looking recruit wearing armour that was slightly too big for them and looking positively terrified, to a grizzled veteran with greying stubble on his face and small dents and scratches all over his armour.
The Romans marched in three block formations, with what looked to be a few hundred men in all. Following closely behind the legionaries looked to be archers, wearing comparatively lighter armour, consisting of a chainmail shirt and leather cap. No doubt so they could move swiftly about. At the head of this army was a single man, wearing the same segmented steel armour as the rest of the infantry but with the skinned pelt of a bear adorning his head. He held aloft a pole, upon which hung a purple banner. The sigil on this banner was one that Chelmsford had never seen, some sort of golden winged cross, with a roaring dragon behind it.
Then, the pièce de résistance as Napoleon would say, the knights. Lustrous in suits of gleaming steel plate, hefting up tall lances and with swords or axes by their sides. The vibrant and colourful plumes on their helmets fluttered in the wind. Looking upon them brought to Chelmsford's mind all the lectures he had sat through in his younger days at Eton. Hastings, Agincourt, Bosworth. Just some of the battles he had learned of where the knights of Europe clashed. Looking down now, it was as if those legendary warriors had emerged from the annals of history to test them, to truly see if the British Army was worthy of being their successors.
"My lord, is something the matter?" Crealock suddenly intoned.
Chelmsford lowered his spyglass and turned to look at his friend. They were both sat upon their horses, looking down on the battlefield from atop the hill. A few metres away, the Royal Artillery crews were hastily setting up their guns.
"Just... taking it all in, Crealock". Chelmsford answered.
"Ah yes, it's quite the sight, isn't it?" Agreed Crealock, turning to look upon the advancing enemy. "I'm still trying to understand it all really, sir. I mean really, one minute we're in search of the Zulus, the next it seems we're to put down Caesar and his legions".
"Well, personally I find the prospect of facing Caesar quite a bit more appealing than the Zulus. A much more dignified enemy to take up our time, wouldn't you agree?"
Crealock gave a vigorous nod. "Oh yes, definitely sir".
"Although..." Chelmsford raised his spyglass and looked over the approaching Legion, lowering it when his suspicions were confirmed. "Hm, I suspected something was missing".
"What's missing, my lord?"
The British lord nodded to the Roman ranks. "Those monsters that Durnford and his men found a few days ago. There aren't any here".
Crealock hesitated. "Is... is that... not to your liking, Lord Chelmsford?"
"Well, I had hoped to see how well they would fare against a volley or two from our guns. Oh well, I shan't cry over things that could have been, we shall have to make due with this". Chelmsford said with a disappointed sigh.
"Indeed, my lord".
As Crealock spoke, Stuart Smith, overall commander of the Royal Artillery approached them on his horse. He was dressed in a dark blue Royal Artillery uniform and, as befitted a man of his rank, a white pith helmet. He gave a crisp salute, lowering his hand when it was returned. "My lord".
"Captain Smith". Chelmsford greeted. "Are your guns ready?"
"They are my lord". He gestured in front of him. In the time taken for Chelmsford to look over the Roman formation, the men of the Royal Artillery had managed to array their arsenal on the hill. "Seven cannons in all, sir. Mountain guns, firing canister and shrapnel shells. Which you would prefer, my lord?"
"Hm". Taking a moment to consider, Chelmsford raised his spyglass once more to observe the advancing Romans before deciding. "Some shrapnel would be best, whittle down their numbers for the infantry".
"At once sir". With another salute, Smith turned to the gunners waiting patiently for their orders. "LOAD SHRAPNEL ROUND!"
At once, the gunners went to work, hefting up the required shell and sliding them into the muzzles of their pieces. Although not as advanced as their breech loading cousins, the muzzle loading cannons still had their place in a modern army, being able to be transported quickly and were cheaper to produce.
As he watched them work, Chelmsford turned to Crealock. "I believe it's about time to show the Romans that their time has come to an end".
With their guns all loaded, the artillery crews stood at the ready. Stuart Smith looked back one last time at Chelmsford, who in turn gave him a nod. That was all the man needed, it seemed, as he turned back to his men.
"NUMBER ONE GUN! FIRE!"
"Here, this spot will suit us". Colt spoke, dismounting from his horse. He had lead Duke Liru and a few knights for protection to a small hill, which provided a good view of the field. Colt also took off his helmet so his vision wasn't limited by the visor. A lone tree stood atop the hill and under the shade of its branches the whole battlefield could be seen.
The three formations advanced steadily through the waves of long, golden grass. From here, the assembled men, moving as one, looked like some great steel beast making its way through the fields. The sound of tramping feet, the clinking of armour and the shouts of the centurions echoed through the plains. The heads of their spears flashed in the sunlight.
The heavy cavalry was just behind them, urging their horses on with exclamations or a slap or a digging of their spurs into the animals sides. No doubt they were all eager to sweep into the enemy ranks, to use their strength in armour and horse to avenge the wound given to their fellow knight, Sir Mudra. Colt only hoped the older and more experienced of them would rein in the more reckless members of their ranks.
"Count Formal". Duke Liru's voice drew Colts attention away from his army. The Duke was looking through a telescope out into the horizon. "I see the enemy army".
Liru handed over the telescope and Colt took it, looking through towards the distance. The words spoken by the Duke proved true and across the plain their foes had deployed into their formation. It seemed to be there were a few thousand soldiers, dressed in scarlet coats and brown helmets, carrying what looked like spears. Their formation was one that Colt had not seen before, there were four blocks of men and they had arranged themselves into three lines, with their spears at the ready.
"It's as you said, my lord. They have arranged themselves on that hill".
Colt didn't respond to Duke Liru's words, instead focusing on what lay beyond the Redcoats spear wall. On top of the hill, several men dressed in black and wearing white helmets sat atop horses, observing the army's arrayed in front of them. The Redcoats leaders no doubt. Standing beside them was another Redcoat, holding a flag that fluttered in the warm wind. Colt squared onto it immediately, memorizing the banner under which this army fought. A red and white cross, with an x of the same colours intersecting it, on a dark blue background.
A few meters from the commanders and their flag bearer were several strange looking objects. They looked like long black iron tubes, sitting on two wheels. Some sort of siege weapon? Colt would have to examine them once they captured the hill.
"Hm, I can't see any archers in the enemy formation". Colt noted.
"Perhaps they haven't discovered the bow?" Suggested Duke Liru. "Well no matter. It only makes our job easier".
Colt nodded and turned to a messenger that had accompanied them to relay his orders to the centurions on the battlefield. "Order the men to pick up their pace".
With a nod, the messenger mounted his horse and went galloping down the hill, rapidly catching up with the advancing walls of legionary's.
It was as he was taking a second look at the Redcoats position that Colt saw the strange siege weapons come to life. The collection of men operating them, garbed in dark blue, stood at the ready. A man on horseback, who looked to be an officer judging by the white helmet he wore (Colt wondered for a moment as to the significance of those white helmets to these people), shouted an order to those he looked over. Though the Count of Italica could not hear it, the operators of the nearest black tube clearly did, as they swiftly began to do something with their black tube. They loaded something into it, what looked like a brass cylinder and then quickly stood away. One stepped forward and picked up a length of rope attached to the weapon and then, with one last shout from their commander, gave it a sharp tug.
From this distance, the sound of the tube firing was no more than a thump but Colt saw through the spyglass the barrel of the weapon belch out a cloud of smoke and a quick flash of flame as it sent something hurtling skyward.
"What was that...?" Colt thought aloud.
Duke Loris began to speak up. "Perhaps some sort of signa-"
The nobles words were drowned out as a resounding boom roared out over the field. Before Colt's eyes, an explosion engulfed a portion of the centre formation of legionary's. It was as if the very ground beneath the men's feet had erupted. The soldiers caught in the blast were sent flying, with limbs torn free from their bodies. Those not slain scrambled away or fell back in shock at the carnage inflicted upon their friends. Screams and cries sounded out as those unlucky enough to have survived being in the blast saw the true extent of their wounds.
A young soldier (who really looked to be no more than a boy) grasped what was left of his right leg, now nothing more than a bloody and ragged stump, with tendrils of viscera and scraps of skin dangling from it. An older man, no doubt a veteran of many campaigns, screamed himself hoarse that he couldn't see. He clutched his face and from between the cracks in his fingers, blood ran bright and scarlet, like wine from a tankard.
"Gods be good..." Colt whispered out, lowering the spyglass from his eye with trembling hands. Behind him, he faintly heard the sound of one of his guards vomiting and Duke Loris beginning to murmur out a small prayer to the Gods.
Colt raised his spyglass once again, to see what the wielders of this terrible weapon were doing, only to feel his heart plummet to the depths when he saw what was happening. The other weapons, six in all, began to fire as well.
Hell was unleashed on the Empire's forces.
The tightly packed formations, the Imperial Army's true forte, proved to be their undoing here. The explosions ripped through the ranks, the armour of the legionary's proving to be wholly useless against the power of these strange weapons. The metal buckled and crumpled under the explosive force and their wearers were blown sky high, their bodies ripped apart into bloody chunks.
Hardened warriors screamed like small children at the sheer power they were witnessing. Some, the ones with weaker stomachs or those who believed they had too much to live for, turned and ran, throwing down their spears and shields in their haste to escape the carnage. Normally any soldier seen deserting his comrades would be immediately chased down and taken prisoner, to face punishment at a later date. Now though, with chaos enveloping the once organised ranks of the legion, it seemed no one could be bothered to try and catch the fleeing men.
The agonised cries and whinny's of the horses came out above the din of explosions and yells of the men. Even the knights and their steeds were not safe from the hail of fire being inflicted upon them. The horses and their riders were blown to pieces or ripped apart by the terrible shards of metal that flew out from the explosions like quills from a hedgehogs back.
Despite the utter destruction being unleashed on the assembled warriors, the faithful centurions still did their best to rally their panic-stricken men. They barked out orders, calling for everyone to stand firm and keep up the advance.
The centurions were some of the finest soldiers of a legion, having earned their rank through labour and toil, learning how to lead troops on the blood soaked battlefields of the Empire's frontiers. They had had fought some of the worst monsters of Falmart. Saw their brothers in arms be cut down by orc berserkers, impaled by centaur lances or vaporised with mages spells. Through all of this, they had become seasoned and accustomed to the horrors of the battlefield.
All of this contributed to the centurions standing firm in the face of the enemy... magic. And it was that unwaveringness that inspired or emboldened those around them to not make a run for it. Instead they steeled themselves, gripping their spears tightly as they fixed their gaze on those who had killed their friends and brothers, the creatures in red still sitting on that hill. Fury no doubt flickered and then roared into life in their hearts.
Under the urging of their centurions, the legionary's began their advance once again. Although their formation had been broken up and they lose many friends, they were still going to get that hill and enact their vengeance.
Colt watched all this from his hill, pride welling in his chest at the bravery he was seeing. These men... these brave men... they were truly an Imperial army. Courageous even under the harshest of circumstances.
"Soft-headed bastards". Davis said with a derisive snort.
Joseph couldn't disagree. He, along with every other man deployed on the hill, had witnessed the Romans had come under fire from the British artillery. Joseph had watched with an open mouth at the destruction unleashed on the armoured soldiers. Cannonfire had ripped through their tightly packed formations, wounding loads and killing plenty more.
Besides firing drills back in Pietermaritzburg, this was the first time Joseph had really seen the full power of an artillery battery. The sheer power of the cannons and the sight of those that power had been used on sent a shiver down the young Londoners spine. Just the thought of being on the receiving end of a bombardment was enough to make him want to run.
But the Romans didn't run. Despite all the horror, they kept up their advance, coming straight at them, in spite of all common sense.
"Aye, stupid aren't they?" Bert murmured to Joseph's side. The rest of the line also had similar looks, incredulousness and scorn clear on the faces of every man there.
"FRONT RANK, PRESENT!" Sergeant Morgan's voice brought Joseph's attention back to the task at hand. Looking out across the field, he saw that the surviving Romans had reached the first range marker. Now, the medieval soldiers were within reach of a rifle
At the order bellowed, the front kneeling ranks of the three British lines raised and aimed their rifles squarely towards the charging Romans. Joseph glanced to his left and right, seeing Bert and Davis doing the same. Taking a deep breath, the young soldier squeezed his left eye shut and stared down the sight of his rifle with his right.
He wondered, for a moment, as to what to aim for. Should he just fire in the enemy's general direction or focus on a specific soldier? Knowing there was really no moment to wonder, he decided to square onto one target, a single Roman soldier in the front. His finger graced across the trigger for a moment, waiting and waiting for the command.
And then the command came.
"FIRE!" Roared Sergeant Morgan and with a single squeeze of his finger against the trigger, the rifle in Josephs hand cracked. The front line came to life with the thunder of thousands of rifles being fired at once, sending a storm of lead towards the Romans.
Joseph didn't even look at the effect of the volley, too busy clicking open the breech of his rifle and sliding in a new cartridge. As he did this, Sergeant Morgan called out again.
"REAR RANK, FIRE!"
The thundering boom of the second volley damn near made Joseph go deaf. This time, he got a front row seat in witnessing the effect of mass rifle fire. Despite the long range, the sheer number of guns firing meant that many bullets still found their mark. The lead shot easily pierced the metal plates of the armour the Roman's wore. Puffs of blood flew from the wounds, like a posh woman's perfume.
The survivors of this second bombardment weren't given any time to breath as a third volley from the final line roared out, sending yet more lead death to tear through the Roman ranks.
It was as Joseph watched the enemy fall that he saw a load of dark objects fly into the sky from behind the Romans. Squinting his gaze as he looked upinto the bright sky, the young man realised all too late that the things falling down onto them now were a hail of arrows.
"Fucking hell!" He shouted as the missiles descended on the British line. He slammed his eyes shut, hearing the thunk, thunk, thunk of the shafts burying themselves into the dirt all around. Then, even worse, the unmistakable sound of a scream of pain and the fleshy sound of an arrow finding its mark in a man.
Raising his head and opening his eyes, Joseph looked around. It seemed the rest of the boys in the line had done the same as him, ducking down but not moving from their position. With a sigh of relief, Joseph also saw that most of the arrows had fallen short. The agonised groans of an injured man made him turn his head though. The one man unlucky enough to have been hit was being quickly dragged away, with the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder.
"RIGHT, YOU LOT. FACE FORWARD". The bellowing Welsh voice brought Josephs attention back. The Romans, despite all their losses to the rifle fire and the cannons (which they were still being shelled by), continued their beleaguered charge. They had lost their formation along with a good deal of their men but the rain of arrows had given them enough time to close the gap a bit.
They were close enough now for Joseph could actually properly see the faces of a lot of them. The spittle flying from the mouth of their leaders, the angry scowls on some of them, the wide eyed terror of others.
"FRONT RANK". They all raised their rifles once again. Joseph decided to once again pick a specific target. A big bloke in the front, who's armour looked a bit fancier than the rest. A commander probably, judging by the blue eye painted on his shield. "FIRE!"
The Martini-Henry bucked in Joseph's grip as he squeezed the trigger.
It looked like the Romans had learned a bit in the few minutes since they were first subjected to a volley, as they raised their large shields, hoping they would block the bullets no doubt. While that might have worked at a distance when the shot was less powerful, at such a close range as this they were about as effective as parchment.
The bullets punched through the wood of the shields, sending shards and splinters flying in all directions, and shredded through the soldiers hiding behind them. It seemed that Joseph hadn't been the only one aiming for the officer with the fancy shield, as three bullets struck him. One buried itself into his chest, another through his leg and a third slicing through his shoulder. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.
That final volley was that one that broke them. Their numbers torn down by the massed rifle fire and still under bombardment by the artillery, the Romans turned and ran. Weapons, even whole pieces of armour, were dropped in order to run quicker. Their commanders tried to stop a few, blocking their path or bellowing at them to stand their ground. All they got in return was a shove to the dirt or even a sword through the chest from the most terrified.
Their flag, dropped by the slain banner bearer, was trod underfoot by the sandaled feet of the men who were meant to be fighting for it. The whole thing was a complete and utter rout, helped along by an indiscriminate shot from a few Brits.
"I reckon that's them done then". Bert muttered.
"Yeah". Joseph replied, barely speaking above a murmur. He squinted through the clouds of gun smoke drifting across the field, watching their enemy run like hell away from them.
Then, over the tramping feet of the running Romans and the boom of the artillery, came another faint sound. The unmistakable tooting of a bugle. That same bugle was then rapidly drowned out by the deep drone of a hundred pairs of horses hooves. The source of both sounds suddenly came charging out down the hill. A hundred lancers, in their dark blue and white uniforms. The red and white pennants streamed from the shining steel points of their lances.
Just behind them came the Basuto, hollering their war cries and firing their carbines from the saddle, with their commander, Colonel Durnford, at their head.
The mass of cavalry thundered through the dust and smoke, smashing into the back of the retreating Roman's. Lances were thrust out, skewering the soldiers. Others were simply bowled over by the charging horses, getting trampled and crushed under the animal's ironshod hooves.
The lancers didn't get to kill with impunity though. A few of the braver Romans turned, trying to fight off the cavalrymen. Those warriors who hadn't dropped their weapons swung and hacked at the horses and their riders, even managing to bring down a few. Up close, the Romans were obviously deadly. These were small victories though, and most of the medieval soldiers were too petrified to fight and were simply swept away by the British cavalry.
It was like one last slap on the Roman's arse, seeing them off for good, courtesy of the British Army.
Davis suddenly spoke, voice full of shock. "Bloody hell, mate..."
When Joseph looked questioningly, the cockney just gave a weak nod to the young man's head. Putting down his rifle and slowly reaching up, Joseph pulled his helmet from his head. There, jutting out of the top, was an arrow. It had pierced through the cloth, only being stopped by the padding.
Joseph gave a choking gasp as he looked down at the missile that could have very well gone straight through his brain. Every other man in the three firing lines were watching, all having the same dumbfounded expression, even Sergeant Morgan.
And then... the young Londoner began to laugh. It began as a small chuckle before blooming into a full on cackle. Gradually, the rest of the men became infected with his mirth, breaking out into fits of joyous laughter, all of them happy and grateful to be alive.
"They're breaking, sir, they're breaking!" Crealock declared.
Indeed they were. Under a hail of gun and cannon fire, the Romans (what was left of them anyway) were making a mad dash for safety. It was, as Chelmsford had expected, a near total victory. Besides that little scare when their archers had come into range, the Romans had barely gotten near the infantry, and those who had had been soundly blasted away from the close range musket fire.
And the final nail in the Romans coffin had then come storming down the hill in a storm of dust and bugle calls, with none other than Louis-Napoleon at its head. With a cry of "Allons-y!" the Frenchman had thundered off, lance in hand, followed by his fellow horsemen.
It was all Chelmsford could do to not burst out into triumphant laughter. He settled for a wide smile.
"I dare say we have finally secured Britain's place, Crealock". He said. "That of Rome's successor".
"Indeed, my lord". Crealock agreed, nodding. "I couldn't have said it better myself".
The cannons were still firing, lobbing shell after shell towards the dwindling enemy. It was as he was looking upon the impact of the cannonade amongst the legionaries that Chelmsford sighted something on the other side of the battlefield. Quickly grabbing his spyglass and bringing it to his eye, he gazed across the plain. On a small hill, beneath a tall tree, several men stood or sat upon horses.
He initially mistook them for more knights, who had escaped the earlier bombardment, until he saw that the symbols on their surcoats were different to the Winged Cross the rest of the legion fought under. He realised that they must be the enemy commanders.
His mind racing, Chelmsford slowly lowered the spyglass. Then, he looked to Stuart Smith, who was still keeping a close eye on his cannons. "Captain".
The commander of the Royal Artillery quickly straightened up. "My lord".
"Captain, can you see that hill? The small one with the tree growing on it?"
Smith brought up the binoculars which hung around his neck. "Yes, yes, I see it. I say... Who the devil are that lot?"
"I suspect the commanders of the rabble your guns have been hammering this past hour. Tell me, are they are in range?"
"Well..." Smith said, looking upon the hill and its occupants for a few moments. "Yes, I believe so, my lord. Do you wish for us to fire on them?"
"If you wouldn't mind". Chelmsford said.
"Not at all, sir". Smith wheeled around to a trio of guns and called on them to readjust their range. Then when they were all properly set, he bellowed out. "Number 2, FIRE!"
"It's over..." Was all Colt could say.
His shoulders sagged, as if all the weight in the world had been dropped upon them. They had lost...
Despite his mind screaming at him to look away, Colt continued to stare hard at the sight in front of him. The shattered remains of his legion, running from the field as fast as they possibly could. And yet, even now, with their victory obviously secured, the Redcoats still unleashed their magic upon their defeated enemy. And then, for one last punch, their own cavalry had taken to the field. What was left of the legion didn't stand a chance, as the riders rode down upon them.
"My lord..." Duke Liru's quavering voice rang out. At Colt's silence, he persisted. "My lord... Count Formal!"
Finally, Colt looked around. Duke Liru stood, shivering despite the heat of the day. The small guard they had brought with them stood around restlessly, obviously wishing they were anywhere else.
Liru's brow was furrowed, every line in his face radiating anger. Anger at whom, Colt did not know. Either the Redcoats for killing his men, the legionary's for running in the face of the enemy or Colt for ordering them forward in the first place, he did not say. Instead he simply said. "We should fall back to camp, Count Formal, and evacuate immediately".
"Evacuate?" Colt wondered if he had heard the man right above the boom of the Redcoats magic.
"Yes, evacuate". Affirmed the Duke. "Across the Gate. There is only death in this world, for all of us. If we get across the Gate, we can gather reinforcements and lead a counterattack".
Back across the Gate... Colt's mind wandered back, to thoughts of Italica, thoughts of home. Reuniting with Myui and the rest of the girls, sleeping in his own bed, browsing the markets of his city. Even just seeing the green grass and forests again, after days of nothing but the dry featureless plains of this world. And the heat... It would be springtime at home now, with warm days and chilly nights and cold rains sweeping through to prepare the soil for the summer
With all of these dreams drifting through his mind, Colt gave a vigorous nod. "Yes... yes... We need to get back to camp. I need to get Lili-"
He was flying.
The last letters were still on Colt's tongue as he sailed through the air, with dust all around. The sound of the explosion that had sent him skyward still rang in his ears, deafening him to everything. He fell to earth just as quickly as he had left, with the crack of his armour covered back hitting the dirt being the first sound to reach his ears.
"Direct hit!" Chelmsford exclaimed, allowing himself one laugh as he lowered his spyglass. He had earned it after all. The top of the hill had been engulfed in a fireball once the shell had hit, with the Roman commanders being hidden from view by smoke. "Splendid shooting, Smith!"
Captain Smith gave a humble smile and a shake of his head. "Ah, my lads are the ones you want to thank sir".
The commander of the British gave a nod of agreement and looked to the expectant faces of the Royal Artillerymen, who's piece had been the one to fire the lucky shot. "Indeed. Well done, gentlemen. Be rest assured, you shall all receive a mention in dispatches and I will ensure you shall be the toast of the officers table tonight!"
Chelmsford deigned to ignore the somewhat disappointed looks on their faces.
The sky was so beautiful. A light cyan it was, bright and vibrant, with just a few little tufts of cloud drifting across its expanse. The only thing to mar this tranquil sight was the pillar of smoke curling up lazily into that lovely blue sky. Was someone trying to get a campfire going?
Colt's mind suddenly came racing back to him and so too did his memory. The explosion... the Redcoats magic...
Sitting up with a groan, the head of the Formal clan looked around. The hill had a newly blown crater in it, the earth scorched and the last of the acrid smoke dissipating as Colt slowly got to his feet. He wiped away some of the dirt caked across his armour before his eyes found a flash of red amongst the dry gold grass and brown dirt.
The two legionary's who had been guarding both him and Liru had been caught directly in the blast. The magical blast had blown them to pieces, whole limbs torn off by the sheer power of the Redcoats weapon. Colt could feel bile building in his throat at the sight of the desecrated corpses but he swallowed it back down with a shiver. Now was not the time.
Turning away from the gristly sight, Colt's eyes centred on the tree and the figure slumped against it. Duke Liru clutched at his side, blood oozing between his fingers and dribbling from his mouth.
"Liru!" Colt said with a gasp. He began to stumble towards the Duke when the sound of hooves tearing through dirt made him freeze and then whirl around.
Approaching him was one of the Redcoats cavalrymen, galloping towards Colt with the speed of an enraged goblin. He was so close that Colt could see the shining silver badge on the mans white helmet, could see the spittle flying from his mouth, see the sheen of sweat on his pink face. He could see the lance heading straight for his heart.
In half a second, the instincts he had drilled into themselves from all of his past campaigns leapt into action. He immediately crouched, drawing Peacekeeper as he did so. The old blade gleamed in the sun and becoming a silvery blur as Colt sliced out. The longsword bit through the charging horse's leg with ease, the shimmering steel cleaving through the flesh in a spray of dark blood.
The animal gave a terrible scream as its leg was severed. It lurched forward, crunching down onto its head and sending its rider flying from the saddle. The Redcoat cavalryman's war cry morphed into a yelp of terror as he fell face first into the dust.
Colt was on him instantly, raising Peacekeeper and bringing the point down into the mans back with a bloody squelch. The cavalryman gave a choked gasp, clutching at the grass as if it was life itself. Ever so slowly his grip slackened and then with one last exhale, he died.
Taking several deep and racking breaths, Colt got to his feet, passing the slowly bleeding out horse and kneeling down beside Liru. Reaching out, he gave the Duke's shoulder a a gentle shake.
Liru's eyes flickered open weakly. He opened his mouth, attempting to speak but only letting out a pained grunt and clutching his side. Finally, he managed to spit out a few words between gritted teeth. "Count... Formal... You're alive..."
"I am, somehow". Colt replied, feeling something wet rolling down his face that wasn't sweat. Reaching up, he dabbed a finger to his head and came away with a spot of red on his digits. He had a cut on his forehead.
"Gods... Gods have mercy... My lord, I-I don't think I can... ah... I don't think I can get up".
A quick look down to the Duke's torso confirmed that about the only thing stopping his guts from spilling into his lap was his arm.
"Y-You must go... my lord. Take... Take my horse. Ride back to the camp and... ah, escape through the Gate. Bring all the fury of the Empire down on these... savages!"
With that last exclamation, Duke Liru's head sagged against his chest. Tentatively pressed his fingers against the mans neck, Colt felt no pulse.
With a deep and sorrowful sigh, he got to his feet, grunting at the sharp stab of pain that the action sent through his side before stumbling off towards the Duke's waiting horse. The loyal beast of burden had skittered off when the explosion had gone off but it had steadfastly returned to its master. A tragedy then, Colt thought, that it had come too late.
He pulled himself up onto the saddle with difficulty and set off, leaving the chaos of the battlefield and the gruesome scene on the hill behind.
Colt rode with all his haste, clicking his heels against his horses flank more times than he could count, scything through the grassy plains as fast as he could. His eyes were glued to the horizon, straining to see the camp, to see what was ostensibly safety. Finally, after who knows how long he reached the promise land.
The Imperial camp lay sprawled before him, with the Gate sitting regally atop its hill. It was exactly as they had left it, a little over two hours before. The only difference were the haggard looking figures slumped around the tents. The survivors of the battle, those who had run from the Redcoats first magical barrage. They sat in groups, eyes wide and vacant, skin and clothes stained dark from smoke and blood. Some rocked back and forth, clutching their knees like children.
A few looked up at Colt as he rode through the camp, eyes either empty or, worse, filled with absolute hate. He was the one who sent us into that slaughter, they were no doubt thinking, whilst he sat back and watched. Colt was just glad that the bravest of them died charging the Redcoats, and the rest shirked away from pulling him from his horse at the mere sight of Peacekeeper in its scabbard.
He picked up the pace as he approached the nobles camp, his mind entirely focused on getting to Liliana and packing up all his possessions. So intent was he that he didn't even notice the horse and rider cutting through the lanes to his side. He only avoided barrelling straight into it and sending both of them scrabbling to the ground in a tangle of both human and equine limbs when the other rider pulled sharply on the reins and brought his steed to a skidding halt, barely managing to stop within an inch or so of Colt.
"Watch where you're going, you fucking idiot!" The voice of Sir Mudra brought Colt smashing back to reality.
Sir Mudra sat atop his warhorse, dressed in silken travelling clothes with a cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His bad leg was still bandaged. What really drew the eye though were his horses saddlebags. They bulged with all kinds of treasures; Jewellery, exquisitely made pieces of armour, clothes made from bright dyed wools and silks, gilded pieces of cutlery, even the ornate hilt of a sword poked out.
There was no way all of that was his, Colt thought, his family was rich but not this rich. That was when the Count noticed the decoration placed in the golden pommel of the sword: A single sapphire, carved into the shape of an eye. The blue eye was the symbol of Clan Teeqo, who's patriarch now laid slain with all his men on the battlefield but a few miles away. If Mudra had his sword then...
"You're looting!?" Colt whispered, utterly appalled.
The knight had the common decency to at least look somewhat embarrassed. "I-I'm only taking what's mine anyway. All of the men I took these from had debts to my family's bank. I'm only taking what is owed to us".
"And do you know that most of the men you took those from our now dead!?" Colt spat out.
Instead of looking shocked, Mudra simply stuck up his chin impetuously. "Even more reason to take them. I wouldn't want to burden their widows with debts that weren't theirs".
For a moment, Colt was tempted to jump down from his horse, drag Mudra down from his own and throttle the little bastard there and then. But the sight of his tent, just a short distance away, made him instead opt to give one last glare to Sir Mudra and then, for good measure, spit at the ground beneath his horse's hooves. He then quickly rode on, letting the bankers son make off to the Gate with his ill gotten gains.
He reached his tent and hurriedly dismounted Liru's horse. Bursting through the tent flaps, his eyes instantly found Liliana, who sat quietly at the foot of his bed. Her whole body, from the tensed shoulders to the bitten lip, made her worry clear. At the sight of Colt though, she shot up, staring at him with eyes as big as plates. She spoke timidly, her voice laced with the distinctive quavering of fear. "M-master...?"
Of course she would react that way. Colt could only imagine what he looked like. Wild, crazed, with wide eyes and messy hair, not to mention the gash marring his forehead. He didn't worry about his appearance though, the only concern in his head was their safety. "Liliana, get every packed up!"
"W-what!?" She stammered out, still staring at him like he was some mad vagabond who had wandered into the tent.
Colt didn't even give her a response, instead quickly running over to his chest, beginning to fill it with his valuables. The clothes he could leave, but his books, his prized quill, his campaign journal, those were all shoved into a haversack.
"Master, please, what's going on?" Liliana's voice made him pause for a second.
"We lost, dear". He answered simply, resuming his packing.
"Lost!?" The shock was evident in the draconian's voice. No doubt her whole life she had only seen victories for the Empire's army. This was no accident, Colt knew. The defeats, few as they had been over the years, were always hidden from the average Imperial citizens view. So as not to drag their spirits down, was the reasoning given by the Emperors advisor.
"Yes, lost". Colt said, all matter of fact. "And we need to get everything packed up and escape across the Gate before the enemy bare down on us".
"I...I..." The tone of Liliana's voice made Colt stop for a second time. The maid, shaking life a leaf in the wind. She looked... scared. Instantly, Colt to his feet, once again taking her hands in his.
"It's okay". He said softly.
"I just... I never really thought there was actually a chance of you losing..." She said, her voice tight. "I know it makes me seem foolish but I've never really-"
"Liliana". Colt said, making her stammering come to a stop. "I understand. It doesn't matter now, anyway, we're getting out of here. We're going home".
"Home?" She repeated, voice filled with hope.
"Hope". Came his firm reply.
At that, Liliana gave a small but brave smile. "I'll get to packing, Master".
She set, hastily packing up her own supplies as well her masters. Colt was about to start helping her, only to freeze when the sounds of the outside reached his ears through the cloth walls of the tent. The unmistakable sounds of screams and shouts.
Running over to and wrenching open the tent flap, Colt shoved his head out and gazed out to the common camp. His heart dropped straight down into a deep pit in his gut at what he saw. The Redcoat cavalry, both their lancers and the black skinned sorcerers described to him by the scout, were sweeping down onto the Imperial camp. The riders in dark blue and white shouted the typical cries of a knight or soldier whilst the black sorcerers bellowed some kind of queer ululating chant.
Whatever their preference for war cries, the assembled horde of cavalry charged down into the Imperial camp. The legionary's, already traumatised by their first experience with the Redcoat army, didn't even try to put up a real defence. Despite the fact that the enemy horsemen were forced to go through the single gate in the palisade that surrounded the Imperial camp, allowing for a prime opportunity to create a bottleneck, the majority of the legionary's ran for their lives. They ran for freedom and safety, which could only mean one thing: The Gate.
Their retreat allowed the enemy cavalry to swarm through the camp, running men through with lances or striking them down from a distance with those fire spitting staffs. Colt knew they would be sweeping through the nobles camp in no time and there was no way he could outride them on the exhausted horse he had outside.
For a moment, despair ran through Colts mind. Escape looked impossible. But then a thought suddenly shot to life in his mind. He looked around to Liliana, who was still packing her clothes.
Colt spoke up with a deep and resigned sigh. "Liliana".
She looked up, brow quirked in confusion. "Master?"
"You need to go. The enemy... they've breached the camp, they'll be here in no time".
At his words, Liliana tensed up and extended the long white claws from her fingers, the draconians natural weapons. Despite her earlier fear, she was still willing to fight. Colt quashed that quickly though. "No, Liliana! You can't fight them all, they'll kill with their damned magic".
"I-I could fly above them and... and swoop down on their heads! They wouldn't see me coming!" The half dragon girl declared. "Please Master!"
"No! I won't allow you to sacrifice yourself needlessly". Colt walked up and rested his hands on Liliana's slim shoulders. "Listen to me, you need to use your wings. Fly through the Gate and escape".
"B-But... but what are you going to do?"
"Me?" Colt gave a shrug. "I'll surrender. They seem like the types to treat nobility well. I hope so anyway".
"NO! Master, you can't! Come, I'll..." Liliana clutched her white hair desperately. "I'll carry you!"
Despite the situation, a low and sad chuckle left his throat. "You're strong, dear, but not that strong. Besides, I need you to carry something far more important".
He hastily unbuckled his sword belt, with Peacekeeper still interred in its scabbard, and handed it over to Liliana. "You take that and you carry it back to Italica. I'll not let those natives get their hands on it".
She stared down at the legendary and ancient sword held in her shaking hands and then looked back up to Colt. Slowly, beads of tears appeared in her scarlet eyes and she promptly launched herself against her master.
It almost knocked him down but the he quickly balanced himself and brought his arms securely around Liliana, holding her in a firm but gentle hug, listening to her sobs whilst stroking her long silver hair.
Eventually her crying petered and Colt took a step back, holding her at an arms length. "Liliana, promise you will take it back to Myui. Promise me".
"I-I promise". Liliana whispered out. Then, she softly pressed her lips to Colts cheek.
"Stay safe, Master".
"Thank you, Liliana, for everything".
With that, she fully unfurled her wings. They stretched out to their full height, every muscle and tendon tightening and tensing. Then with a single flap of both limbs, she shot out of the tent. Colt sprinted out as well, to watch her go.
He had always liked watching her fly, back in Italica. There was something surreal to it, watching someone that looked so human cruising through the sky, but also something truly beautiful as well. The simple grace with which she glided through the air, swimming between the clouds with just the flaps of her wings.
That was how he had found her, all those years ago. She had only been a little girl then, not nearly as fast or agile as she was now. Her young age hadn't stopped a load of drunken town guards chasing after her on horseback, shooting at the young draconian with crossbows and laughing all the while. They only stopped when Colt and his personal guard stepped in and promptly had them all arrested.
He had found the exhausted young girl a few miles away, sat up in a tree and watching him with a terrified gaze. Eventually he had coaxed her out with gentle words and hushed reassurances. He had taken her back to Italica, raised her alongside all his other maids, letting her stretch and use her growing wings all the while.
Now she used those fully grown wings to soar above the tents, heading straight for the pitch black maw of the Gate. She wasn't the only one, with dozens of legionary's all staggering or sprinting into the giant temple-like structure. Liliana dropped down low, gliding over the heads of the shocked men and then simply disappeared into the solid blackness of the Gate.
Colt let a single breath and closed his eyes, filled with elief that at least Liliana would be safe. She would take Peacekeeper back to Italica, to be used by Myui when her time came.
A metallic click made Colt's eyes snap open. Slowly he turned around and saw a man mounted upon a horse and pointing a wand of metal and wood at him. The soldier wore a dark blue uniform, with a tan coloured hat that had a deep black feather sticking out of it. The mans cool blue eyes bore into Colt's own.
The Redcoat officer spoke, some kind of command by his tone, though it all sounded like nonsence. Raising his hands to the sky, Colt wondered briefly what his own fate would be.
And that's another chapter in the bag! Quite a large chapter as well, as you can probably tell. This was the first big battle of this story and the longest chapter so far, which is why it has taken so long to get out. It was quite hard to write at times but I got there in the end! The next chapter should take somewhat less time to write and will be considerably shorter than this. Also, I'd just like to say a quick cheers to soberan 123 for discussisng with me details for the story. Anyway, thanks for reading and stay tuned!
UN Peacekeeper: Indeed, more fool they.
Evowizard25: Thank you for your compliments! And yes, it will be very straining for the British to defeat the main Saderan force. They will have to contend not only with Saderan wyvern scouts but also Zulu's who haven't surrendered as well as the sheer distance between Pietermaritzburg and where they are now. The Saderans didn't really get to show their true military muscle this chapter, but they will later on. As for the Boers, yes there will be a lot of tension between them and the British, especially now something as valuable as the Gate has appeared. Also, don't worry, the politics will come soon.
Perseus12: Well, we shall see. One of the main reasons the British annexed the Transvaal was due to the fact that there were loads of valuable minerals there. All of those minerals now pale in comparison to the Gate, so it may be that tensions are even more inflamed than our universe. As for allies across the Gate, well that's a real possibility. The British Army recruited plenty of native contingents from their recently conquered territories. You can see that with the Natal Native Contingent in the Zulu War. Now, the Congo is another matter entirely, and the British might not even see the use in a single piece of territory when they have an entire world to themselves. Then again, greed knows no bound. Gods knows the Congolese would probably prefer the British to Leopold.
soberan 123: Yes, I sort of addressed things like both the British and Saderan advantages, such as the British artillery thoroughly whittling down the Saderan numbers before they even reached the infantry and the Saderans managing to bring down several lancers in close combat.
ATP: I'm not sure. They'll definitely look into anti-air weapons and probably consider the anti-balloon gun, though that might be a bit slow for firing at fast moving wyverns.
FrederickVonSchadel: Are you mocking me? Only joking. Hope you enjoyed!
daggercloak000: Well, considering they were at war only a short time ago, expect there to be some roughness in how they treat each other.
