Chapter three.

Waterloo Part 2.

Wellington and his staff trotted down to meet Picton at his position. The ground was becoming a veritable alien surface as stones and ballistae bolts thundered overhead, smoke rising in the air with every impact.

Their crews were working overtime, that enemy commander was smart, and he was attempting to force Picton to fall back!

Smoke billowed overhead as Wellington arrived. Men of Picton's 5th Infantry division were sitting on their backsides, only the flag bearers standing up, banners in hand. They all looked up with faint recognition as he and his officers passed with the franticness that seemed to seize all men in tense situations.

He stopped his horse beside Picton, who had been smoking a cigar, and raised his hat a bit in greeting.

"Seems like he's swinging his weight to you ,Picton."

"I've never seen guns move so smoothly." he complimented the Franks grudgingly. "And neither have I seen catapults move this swift either."

"Our unlikely ally and foe both, move their respective artillery with the lightness of a pistol." Wellington agreed. "I doubt if Byland's brigade will stand."

As if in response to his remark, the Saderans let loose another barrage of stones and bolts, that savaged up said Byland's brigade. Taking a drag, Picton wasn't worried in the slightest.

"Never mind. Let him have a taste of it."

"If they don't run first." Wellington retorted darkly.

Piña watched in fascination at the Francovian lines. An officer with a white lining on his hat rode up. Trumpets began to ring as the lines steadied themselves. She and the rest of the knights watched as the officer removed his hat, revealing a shock of red hair, and waved it in a flourishing motion before waving it towards the Saderan lines. The battlefield had become a fantastic sight of rising plumes of smoke and fire as the sound of drumbeats joined the trumpets, followed by the tramps, of booted feet.

Two entire formations began advancing down the hill towards the Saderans, a chilling sight. At the same time, Tullius's Legion had begun its advance towards the Edenite lines, having linked up with Andronicus and destroying the brigade holding the front.

Picton and Wellington, having now dismounted, with Picton having his umbrella resting on the shoulder, watched the whole show while analyzing it quickly at the same time.

"They are coming on, in a very old style," Wellington said in a slow, calm tone

"And so, we'll have to meet them, in the same 'old' style."

The battlefield lit up, cannon fire flashing and fizzling out of existence like Christmas lights. On one side, it was the Francovians pushing up to the Saderans, while the Saderan commander, seemed to be in a state of shock as he realized he was in a tight spot as he sent out yet another legion to advance to the Edenite, Wellington walked slowly, before stopping beside Picton on the other side, he looked on, nodding his head slightly.

"This one's going to take careful timing," he remarked as he turned and walked towards Copenhagen.

For the men of the 3rd Legion, under the command of Count Colt Formal, ruler of the city of Italica, they gulped and stiffened their nerves. They could not see their enemy very well, but they could see them, a line of blue with red plumes, a sea of death!

"Men of the third!" the count called as he rode past them. "Sons of Italica! Have no fear!"

Some of the younger legionaries, the ones who had been cocksure and full of themselves a few days before, were now suspiciously faithful. Their faces weren't so smug, and self-assured now, as they realized that they could, and most certainly would die soon. And they hacked out quick prayers to the entire Falmartian pantheon, voices shrill and whispery. The veterans were quiet, and stoic. They raised their pilums, weathered faces empty save for a certain sense of quiet resignation. They had survived thousands of campaigns, and many had made peace with the fact that they had used up their luck.

"You will…not let me die, yeah? C'mon old geezer, tell me!" a young legionary, probably a farm boy who had still been picking shit out between his toes, hissed at a veteran of the Southern campaigns.

"Keep calm Sonny." the older man's voice was a soothing baritone, low and like a balm for the nerves. The youth felt little better though. The veteran spat out a gob of phlegm, before returning his eyes to the front. He could see the column clearer now as it came close, and he could see the source of the drumbeats too.

Children. Some children looking quite old, while others were no older than seven or six. Boys, all of them young boys with green tunics with gold lining on the chests, white breeches and longboots, red collars and cuffs, the same cylindrical cap with visors, plumed with red like the marching horde behind it, lugging miniature knapsacks and having huge drums, shining gold with blue tops, a white rope, and these things were strapped to their chests.

"Their thunder sticks can go through these easily!" the younger man whined, hefting his scutum. "What's the use, they aren't arrows, and have you seen some of the wounded guys? It is beyond what our surgeons can heal!"

"But these men bleed the same as any other man." the veteran replied calmly.

"But we'll be dead before they come in range!" the younger one snapped, fear clearly painted on his face for all to see."

"Not all of us will die." the older man attempted. As if in response, there was a whistling shriek and a boom. A large group of men down the line were gone, reduced to a bloody, smoking crater filled with guts and ichor. Groans of the wounded soon erupted and were heard.

"Good god!" the youth shrieked. "They're all dead! Those were forty men right there!"

"Calm yourself lad!" the older legionary snarled bestially. "It won't do you any good if you are panicking! Panic kills men more than combat ever does. Keep your wits about, and you'll survive."

The younger soldier stifled a sob and tried to steady his weapon. The veteran nodded approvingly.

"That's it lad, that's it. Keep your head clear, and support your fellow legionaries, and you'll survive even an engagement with a demi-god."

Count Formal stiffened himself as he steadied his horse. Instead of his usual attire, he wore a suit of Lorica Segmenta and plate armor. He thought of his only daughter, Myui, his only heir, and was too young for the role of Italica's ruler if he fell in battle here. The vultures would soon smell meat if he did, and would swoop in to exploit her youth and naivete, Her future, and that of Italica's, seemed bleak.

But he shook his head, banishing those thoughts. He would survive, live to see another sunrise in this strange new world, and live to see his beloved child again. And even if he died, should the gods will it, then he would leave Myui in good hands. His staff would look after her and would keep her safe. He had to focus on the battle here, and now. And so he did exactly that, even as iron projectiles killed groups of his men and the drumbeats drove some of the younger of his men mad, he stood straight, dismounting from his mount and unsheathing his blade. He would fight alongside them like a common soldier, like the old Saderan way.

For the men of Picton's 5th Infantry division, the same fear gripping them, as they heard and imagined the disciplined sea of steel march towards them in a momentary lull between the artillery fire.

The bloody dragons were harassing the cannon again and as such, the Saderan formations were marching unopposed through the battlefield. They could not see their foe, on the count of the damn hill in front of them.

"Gin up, boys." a sergeant in the Inniskilling attempted lightly as he poured the spirit into the proffered cups the men held out. "Get it while you can. The Saderans'll have it out of you in a minute anyway!"

The men gulped down the ration in one go at the NCOs remark. Nothing like a bit of steel to harden the soul. They wiped wet mouths with their sleeves, not shaking as the alcohol dulled their fear.

O Connell watched as the Sergeant poured it down his cup, before walking off. Tomlinson and Mulholland were the only ones with none, Tomlinson was scratching his chin looking on ahead inquisitive, while the older Mulholland was dazedly praying with his rosary.

"Dick?" O Connell offered, holding out a beaten white cup with scuff marks to the blonde private next to him. Tomlinson shook his head.

"No thank you." he bit a nail tensely as the corporal turned to the other man, looking at the hill that seemed to mock them, with its ability to obscure the view of their fate.

"Have a cup of gin." O Connell said to Mulholland sarcastically. "With his majesty's compliments. Remind me to thank him, next time we visit the palace."

"Would you say there are many of them?" Mulholland asked dazedly as O Connell took a sip, causing the other man to look at him as if the other was drunk.

"Look I'm not god am I? To see through a hill?" he pointed out with the mug targeted towards the offending physical formation.

"It's like…it's like the whole of bloody hell, is coming up out of the ground." Mulholland crossed himself quickly as if casting a barrier.

"Nothing frightens me more, than being next to a friend of the Almighty!" O Connell groaned as he watched Mulholland kiss the crucifix and store his rosary safely down his pocket. He looked to Tomlinson for support but found none, he just made a sound of disgust before gulping the gin as the other crossed himself again. He filled his cup again with the second, undrunk cup and downed that too, before throwing both cups away. And just in the nick of time too, as just after he had finally grabbed his musket, the officer called out the dreaded order to the entire regiment.

"The 72nd will prepare to advance!" the cry announced. O Connell stiffened, thinking back to the strange caramel-skinned girl he'd found last night. His only thought, was if the little lassie was being looked after back at camp, a strange thought considering the newly promoted corporal didn't exactly see himself as a 'parental' type. He needed to get himself checked after this, if he survived at all that was…

The first Saderans had finally appeared at the top of the hill, horseback mounted officers with bloody red plumes in their helmets, and a full line of spear-toting infantrymen in a full suit of light armor bringing up the rear. How these lads thought they would be able to take a crack at the Edenite with spears, was not known.

Tomlinson watched the tall, armored men at the front of each loose formation. They had the skins of wild beasts wrapped around their armor with the taxidermized maws resting on their helmets. He could see lions, wolves, and a few other strange creatures he could not recognize. They were carrying eagles, not unlike those used by Boney's own troops, the ancient remans used to call them aquilifiers. He wondered what they were thinking, perhaps they were just as scared?

Uxbridge had arrived to watch the battle from the position of the Scots Grey's. Ponsonby was next to him at the head of the regiment. He turned to him, offering a small container of snuff.

"Before we go, Uxbridge?"

The earl and hussar looked at him before leaning down to take a pinch. His eyebrows went up and he smiled, he'd never really had Ponsonby's snuff so this should be an enlightening moment.

He took two sniffs, one for each nostril, savoring the snuff with a grin and a light laugh, and then it bloody well exploded down the back of his nose like a mailed fist. The intensity of the small pinch actually made him cry out, causing Ponsonby, who was in the middle of taking a sniff of his own, to whip his head to look at Uxbridge with a jolly smile.

Uxbridge looked like a man recovering from a round of flu.

"Savage stuff, Ponsonby." He commented with a pained gasp. The commander of the Scots Greys had a serene smile on his face though, as he looked on at Uxbridge like a reproachful mother.

"You don't see it's like anymore." He laughed wistfully as he looked down at the small snuff box. Before turning back to Uxbridge.

"My father left us a hundredweight. Down to the last ounce. An old Jew at Alexandria had the blend."

Uxbridge let out a sharp sneeze. "Blend?" Uxbridge exclaimed in shock at the revelation once he had recovered.

Ponsonby laughed again softly as he turned his gaze towards the battlefield.

"My father, poor fellow, was killed by the Franks. It never should have happened. His horse got bogged down in a muddy field and the brute just gave up."

He gave Uxbridge an almost mournful look.

"Seven damn lancers had him like a tiger in a pit." He turned to look at Uxbridge.

"Bad luck, eh Uxbridge?"

Uxbridge said nothing for a moment, still processing the entire thing.

"Yes, damned bad luck." He agreed. Ponsonby nodded his head, turning to look back at the front.

"Yes, particularly bad luck. He had 400 better horses at his stables back at Hatton."

Hougoumont, 2 pm.

The situation at Hougoumont was deteriorating badly. Thanks to the Edenite artillery being distracted by the Wyvern Corps, the Saderans two legions assaulting the farmhouse were able to traverse the battlefield intact, and with minimal casualties. And despite the muskets being a superior weapon to the spears, the Saderans had adapted their tactics for this approach.

Goblins were tiny creatures, no taller than a man's knee. And they were fast creatures, perfect for causing havoc and destruction behind the enemy if utilized correctly.

They were set loose almost immediately. Being stealthy creatures, the goblins were unseen by the Edenite and Nassau until too late. By then, the allied troops were fighting a two-front battle, with a large chunk of the garrison being pulled to deal with the goblins while the remaining attempted to keep up a strong resistance against the attackers.

But it was all for naught as legionaries jumped down on the ramparts after scaling up the ladders. With the garrison caught between a hammer and an anvil, the fate of the farm seemed sealed.

But, stationed to the opposite of the farm, was a battery of Batavian horse artillery.

It consisted of eight guns, two howitzers, and six cannons. And was commanded by a Captain Pretter, and it would soon fire in defense of the farm and screen the advance of the small detachments of Nassau Jägers and Landwehr from von Kielmansegge's 1st (Hanoverian) Brigade that had been stationed around the gardens of Hougoumont.

"Fire!"

The cannon shook heavily as it lobbed a canister shot into a clump of silver armored soldiers who just disappeared in a puff of smoke. When the smoke dissipated, there was a meaty ball of congealed flesh and limbs interspaced with glittering pieces of silver mixed in between. Somewhere from underneath the pile of horror, survivors cried out for help. Pretter swore he could see a lightly armored arm claw out, fingers moving like a spider's legs.

"Fire!"

The rest of the battery began to roar alive as well as the gunners had found their aim. With an almighty roar, like some great beast or indeed, a dragon, the entire battery's salvo obscured it from view. Smoke billowed and flowed like a cloak or shroud. Grapeshot, meanwhile, sliced through armor and even pierced the walls at times, wounding some of the defenders accidentally. Nothing remained of any unlucky goblins caught in the rain of steel, nothing but scraps of meat and bones.

"Kaapitan! The enemy has detached a formation to attack us." Pretter's second in command pointed out with a shout, causing the Captain's head to snap upwards. A company was forming up, mixed in with stragglers that could line up into a half-decent column before they began to trudge towards the battery. He grit his teeth, before urging his men to reload faster.

Meanwhile, further away, a Saderan junior centurion hefted an axe taken from the corpse of a dead orc. In a feat of great physical strength, he smashed open the North Gate of the farm complex and led his troops into the courtyard, thus beginning one of the most heated phases of combat in the farm as the centurion's company squared off against one of the four Edenite Guards companies stationed there.

"They're coming through! Hold men! Hold! Push them back!" Lieutenant Colonel James Macdonell, Coldstream Guards, cried as he led a sortie to meet the interlopers out in the courtyard.

Some of the men on elevated positions immediately snuck potshots at the armored legionaries while a few of the braver still, ran out from the safety of their positions inside the barns and farmhouse to make an attempt of reaching the gate to close the breach.

"C'mon Billy, you can make it!" a soldier encouraged from his post at a window before ducking as an arrow nearly missed him. He didn't see his friend die, shako, head and neck split in half by a pig-headed monster of a brute. Ultimately, the gate was closed, but at great personal cost with 30 men dying in the process. On the side of the assualters, only a young trumpeter survived, sneaking out before the gate was closed.

Wellington arrived at Picton's position immediately, halting beside the other general, who turned to look at him.

"Byland's brigade has broken, plug the gap if you please…"

Picton's response was a single salute, to which Wellington nodded before wheeling his horse around.

"Now's the time for the heavy cavalry I think?"

"By all means sir." The subaltern next to him replied before Wellington and his staff kicked their horses and rode off, leaving Picton alone, with Gordon.

"Gordon, get your bastards up onto that crest. I'll bring up the rest of the brigade.

"Don't hurry yourself Pic, my lads'll hold em, till you come."

"Get forward…damn your eyes." Picton spat, waving one gloved hand.

"The 92nd will advance! Greenslade! Mackenna!" Gordon bellowed out as rode out to his unit to sound the advance. Picton took another drag from his cigar. Arthur was correct. This would take careful timing indeed.

The march of the Gordon Highlanders certainly raised eyebrows among the Saderans. Indeed, the ladies watching the battle on their pavilion found them most interesting. A splash of color in the fog. Being so high up, they were far away from the horrors of this kind of warfare. All they saw was that sometimes, their brightly colored enemies fired, billowing out smoke and obscuring what was happening and some of the legionaries fell. And that some of the shots missed, that the blue coats were attacking, and that the other coated men were defending from a Saderan attack.

These soldiers drew a lot of curiosity from the more artistic of the ladies. Indeed, they seemed to be wearing skirts instead of trousers and furry hats with tassels and the same kind of pattern not similar to what some Warrior bunny tribes wore. And they had instruments, loud caterwauling flutes that rose loud against the terrible sound of explosions. Many of the younger ladies sent forth their stewards to converse with some Legionary officer heading to the battlefield, begging for one of these tall men to be brought to them alive so they may sketch them.

Roxanne, the bodyguard of her Mistress's daughter even conversed about it with another warrior, who had brown ears rising above black hair.

"It's like what we wore long ago…you remember right? Before she surrendered…"

Her friend didn't answer, overcome with emotion. That instrument sounded like the one her mother, a musician had owned. And hearing it again brought her to tears of such emotion that she couldn't bring herself to speak.

With Bonaparte himself, as he observed their advance through his spyglass for a moment before putting it down to muse. "Has Wellington nothing to offer them but these Amazons?"

The legionaries had now scaled the hill and were coming down in loose formation, their numbers filling the sheer emptiness and belaying the true size of the formation. The mud slowed them, as many trudged, plates clattering and making noise. A crested officer was holding his hand on his hip as he walked, boots sinking into the muddy ground, exhaustion plainly written on his face, he had grown used to by now, the explosions occurring around him, for he didn't flinch when a projectile hit the ground a few centimeters away.

The ones at the front of the column had spears raised and pointed towards their enemy in one hand, and shields in the other. Their comrades behind them had theirs at shoulder arms, to the point they almost resembled muskets, were it not for the armor and shields. Many of the older ones coughed, the smoke discharged by the impacts smelled utterly foul and burned heavily in their airways, a residue of whatever foul sorcery that enchanted the projectiles. And still, they strode on even as some of them fell gasping and walked over their already dead comrades. To their right, their formation's musicians let out sharp bellows from their large, curved brass trumpets and leathery drums. They were so close they could see the buttons shining off of their foes' raiment's.

"Fire!" the mounted Royal Horse Artillery officer sliced his saber downwards as he screamed out the order. The battery opened fire with a bang, canister shot slamming into a trumpeter whose arms went upwards, before one clutched his shoulder, his chest a tapestry of gore as fragments of his own instrument cut into him, before he fell down stiffly.

A second salvo signified the advance as regimental bands across Picton's divisions struck up a tune as they began to slowly walk due to the mud. The staccato cracks of musket fire interspaced themselves between the tunes of 'The Girl I left behind me'. Ponsonby watched with bated breath, as did the rest of the Scots Greys.

A cry arose from the men as they advanced, more and more opening fire. Picton was at the very head of them, urging them all with his foul tongue.

"On, you drunken rascals! You whore's melts! You thieves! You blackguards!"

Another cry rose at his shouts and the redcoats began to move a bit quicker. From the side of the stunned attackers who now realized what was happening, a crossbowman kneeled and took careful aim, a difficult thing through the smoke and smog. He could see a man on horseback urging them on, dressed in simple wear and a strange hat. It was confusing, for it seemed the enemy actually moved faster at his guttural screaming as if he were a high-ranking officer. Better safe than sorry, he steadied his arms and elbows. And pulled the trigger.

There was a whoosh as air whistled at high speeds and Picton felt something enter, and then exit his head. He was dazed, and his hat was ruined, but why was he feeling groggy and tired? He felt unsteady, swaying like a ship during a storm before his body went limp and he fell off his horse, hat remaining on till the last moment and setting itself off slightly, right in front of the marching redcoats…

Ponsonby turned his eyes away from the advance quickly as he saw the infantry were on the move. He turned back to the assembled cavalry, eyes wide with a childish candor.

"Now Scots Greys! Now!"

A trumpeter puffed on his instrument, bleating out the signal to charge. Ponsonby and everyone assembled unsheathed their sabers, and held them at attention, the blades resting on their shoulders. The cavalrymen began to kick their horses, a slow trot beginning as high-pitched neighs screamed out.

Ponsonby felt a slow, prideful smile open his features as he led his beloved regiment. They were slowly, gaining speed as another signal was trumpeted out. He looked behind to both sides of him, before returning his head to look up front as yet another trumpet sounded its affirmation.

Now, a full gallop had begun as the regiment thundered forward up the hill. Ponsonby held his sword forward as did some of his other officers. The trumpeter trumpeted yet another signal as they charged, cantering down the path with all the force of a thunderstorm.

They stormed up the hill and began their charge down, causing a great shock to the Saderans. Marius was struck dumb for a minute or two as he watched them charge towards what little artillery he had left before uttering out orders for the knights to prepare for advance. Officers and legionaries watched in awe, as these brightly clothed, un-armored "knights", wearing fur hats and wielding curved swords and mounted on grey horses, streamed towards them at full speed.

Ponsonby held his saber aloft, while the trumpeter blasted another signal at the top of his lungs to keep the cavalry close. The rest of the regiment had become a storm, a sea, light flashing off their blades as they yelled and galloped towards the Saderan lines, kicking up dust and smoke. Haphazard enemy fire flew wildly from the enemy's side and claimed quite a few cavalrymen, their impaled corpses limp, their stiff features alive with the horror of their final moments. But it wasn't meant to be used against an enemy moving so swiftly, and many shots had missed their targets entirely.

"Tch." Prince Zorzal clicked his tongue with a growl of anger. The enemy wasn't charging near where he was stationed! Those blasted crimson-coated barbarians were instead, going to charge down center-left! Where his sister Piña was! That little wench! She would get the glory before him, the oldest, Crown Prince, Zorzal el Caeser! He wanted nothing more than to go forth and smite these impudent fools with his mighty fist but no, that idiot Marius was holding him back! No matter, he would get his time soon once Piña and her friends faltered and fell and he would swoop in and claim victory by pushing the horsemen back.

The Saderan legionaries standing in their lines felt their blood go cold. The horsemen were so fast, unburdened by the heaviness of armor and their curved swords looked utterly alien to the younger boys and men in the ranks. Many were whispering prayers again openly, praying to the Gods to keep them alive. Some of the more emotionally unstable screamed and attempted to break from their formations only for their officers to stop them and throw them back in line.

"Stand! Stand!" a decurion whipped out his longsword and held it forward in front of the group of quivering boys who were weeping quite openly. One fell to his knees, kicking and screaming and making a spectacle of himself.

And the Scots Greys came ever closer through the clouds of smoke and dust. Wellington and Uxbridge watched their progress with neutral faces on their horses with their staff. Bonaparte and a Colonel on his staff watched too, with stony expressions. The cries of the horsemen grew louder as they picked up more and more speed. The clouds they kicked up became larger, and some Saderans could actually feel the earth beneath them shaking slightly. Another signal was heard, and more speed gained, as the Scots Greys slammed onwards toward the Saderan lines unheeded, save for the smoke and explosions around them. Casualties were minimal, morale was high. They thundered on ahead, ready to bring their judgment upon their unlucky foes in their path.

"Those men on grey horses are terrifying," Napoleon said with grudging respect. The colonel beside him added his own explanation for the Emperor.

"They are the noblest cavalry in Euronia, and the worst led."

Napoleon merely nodded his head in confirmation. "That may be, that may be. But it seems the enemy will match them, with their knights. I see them marshaling right now."

There was a high-pitched shrill, trumpeting clamor as the Piña led the Rose Knights and followed Prefect Galba's orders. The young princess now wore a helm covering most of her features as did the rest of her comrades. Their first charge had begun, and yet, she couldn't stop the fear from taking control of her mind with its icy talons. Galba screamed out orders to ready themselves. Marius turned his eyes back from the battle to watch them.

There was one final round of trumpeting as the knights raised their lances and began their charge with a slow trot. Piña's only thought was for them to survive, and remember her training, though it seemed much harder now.

Still, the Scots Greys continued unheeded in their mad dash across the battlefield. Only now, did their casualties rise slowly, as enemy arrows began to rain down upon them, the sheer number loosed, making up for accuracy. Having picked up so much speed, men were flung from their steeds, falling and sprawling spectacularly onto the ground, limbs flung wide and askew. Many had multiple arrows sticking out of their arms and legs. Many still, were unfortunately alive, moaning quietly as smoke wafted over them.

Lydia co Claudio had been one of the ladies on the Saderan pavilion overlooking the battlefield on a hill behind the lines. She was a brilliant artist, and the enemy cavalry charge had been the most spectacular event of the entire battle, the one they had been waiting for. It had been frightfully boring, all that smoke and fire obscuring the battlefield and leaving them blind to all the action, but now, now she had a glorious group of subjects dressed brightly and shining out against the gloom.

She had dipped her stylus in ink and began a draft sketch. Even from this distance, her eye, which had an unerring knack for remembering details, put the images her eyes had seen and were seeing, and transferring them onto the paper. The grey chargers, then their riders with their bright red jackets with gold middles and white sashes, straps and large gloves, those fur hats they wore, the white feathers stuck in them, the curved swords, the banners in some of the rider's hands, their trousers and shoes…

Many of the women around her complimented her skill, even Lady Livia, the Legatus's wife. Her daughter, a young maiden of marriageable age like Lydia herself, a beauty called Sabina too, was sketching out the enemy cavalrymen. Lady Livia offered to have some survivors brought to them after the battle, if there were going to be any, so they may get any details they did not see quite clearly, correct up close.

By now, the Scots Greys had nearly reached the enemy lines. Meanwhile from the left, the knights had finally begun their charge, trumpeting out their own signals to herald the arrival.

"We're the hard boys!" Ponsonby exclaimed happily as he led his regiment, and the squadrons followed the sound of the trumpets to keep up coordination amidst the yells and battlecries.

"Charge for the artillery!" he cried out his order as they finally were on the final home stretch, so very close to the artillery, their target, that was being an obstruction to the advance of the infantry.

Bozes hacked and coughed sharply as she inhaled the smoke. She was having trouble holding her lance as her eyes watered and closed as if something spicy had been thrown onto them. She heard Herm blast out the signal and she followed it, reining in her mare to close ranks.

Uxbridge and Wellington, since having the advantage of raised elevation, realized at once what was happening. Uxbridge immediately barked at the subaltern standing next to the. "Sound the recall!"

What followed afterward were the two minutes of attempting to recall a cavalry force already charging down the hill to the enemy lines. So overtaken were they with the thrill that seemed to enrapture all cavalrymen during a charge, that they didn't notice the threat converging upon their left. The poor subaltern kept on trying and trying without success. The duke was attempting to clean his ear before he turned to him.

"Stop that useless noise!" he shouted angrily, then, much kindlier, even going as far as to pat the subaltern's arm. "You'll hurt yourself."

Bonaparte's view was already obscured by black smoke being pushed in his direction by the winds, but he had seen enough to know what was going to be the end result.

The ballistae fired at the short range now, being used as a direct-fire platform. As the first cavalrymen reached and overpowered some emplacements, in full view of terror-struck infantry, three fired before their crews abandoned them. The large bolts burst through flesh and flying out, flinging the unlucky riders back and flaying them.

By then the entire regiment was bursting through the breach, putting the ballistae out of action while others charged on ahead. Saderan officers had already readied themselves and were shouting out orders for their troops to prepare. Men in the front of the column held out their spears upwards and shields tightened for anti-cavalry action.

Wellington and Uxbridge watched on stonily, knowing what was going to happen and knowing that their attempt at recall had failed.

"Back, Get back! Sound the recall!" Ponsonby cried as he realized what was happening on the regiment's left. The Saderan legionaries watched, some giving sighs of relief as the red-coated cavalrymen halted, wheeled their horses, and began to attempt to fall back as Prefect Galba's knights and heavy cavalry fell upon them.

A knight stabbed a redcoat with his lance, the man giving a shrill cry as he fell back and twisted down into the mud. The knight had no time to gloat or celebrate as another otherworlders curved sword found and slashed at gaps in his armor from behind, the knight fell forward, slumping over his horse before unceremoniously sliding down. Legionaries watched with wide eyes and awe as a knight and another sword-wielding foe met, crashing into each other, the knight flinging out of his saddle and onto the otherworlder grey steed. Both men continued to tussle still, in a dizzying, spinning dance. From the left, the full mail fist of Prefect Galba and his knights, came upon them as armor crashed and pushed unarmored muscle.

"Lancers and knights on your left!" a cavalryman warned sharply. Similar callouts began to be heard all along the column.

"Look out on the left!"

It had become a rout, plain and simple. The massive mass of cavalry was trying to beat a retreat now, galloping back to attempt an escape.

"Fall back boys!" an officer cried as trumpeters sounded the recall all over the place. Now, the sound of cries of shock and exclamations of horror became heard as the cavalrymen cried out in fear.

Ponsonby watched as the retreat became a quagmire as the regiment became divided into two. He looked behind him to see six knights wearing different, stranger armer pursuing him and hot on his heels, lances held aloft. Ponsonby saw they were gaining on him and that his horse was becoming tired and would soon falter. He made his decision quickly. He urged his mount forward, gaining a burst of speed and putting distance between him and his pursuers.

Still, the enemy's horses were faster, and fresher, and they too urged their steeds and were soon catching up to him in record time as they advanced through the smoke and mist of the battlefield.

He risked another glance, they were still doggedly on his trail, and now, his own horse was at the end of its ropes. The two Edenite soon entered a muddy, wet part of the battlefield, the knights following.

He halted his horse next to the young man, both men's uniforms were spattered and dirty, covered in mud everywhere. He leaned over, holding out the tiny box of snuff and putting it in the held-out hand.

"Give these to my son. Ride on, save yourself." He gave a pat on the boy's back as he galloped off. His own horse gave a shrill whinny of protest and clamped its hooves down in the mud. It only moved slightly at Ponsonby's moving of the rains, hobbling on its legs. It had become stuck and wouldn't move. He unsheathed his saber again; he would die on his own terms. He tried again, to get his horse to move, kicking her sides lightly but to no avail.

The knights surrounded him, Ponsonby noticing and looking at their strange armor closely now. It was white with gold accents, ornate but very strange. It left gaps, unlike a body of full plate armor, revealing either a black undergarment that covered the whole torso, Large spiked shoulder pads (outrageously large) and gauntlets with same color scheme. And they were also wearing short, pleated skirts, the figure looked too trim, perhaps they were women? Not exactly the most advantageous thing for him for he had no idea what to do now.

They wore helmets with slits for eyes and held their lances in a manner that suggested they take him prisoner. And would have too, had they not seen the four Scots Greys riding out to save him.

It was much less painful than what he had expected.

Bozes looked out and saw that a single survivor was still galloping away. They had missed him, so focused were they on the officer with the large cross on his jacket and two-cornered hat. She clicked her tongue and urged her horse to move in pursuit. Beefeater cried out as she galloped off alone.

"Hey, where are you off to?" she shrieked.

Bozes did not bother with a reply, instead breathing and grunting heavily as she went into a canter, soon, she was very close to the enemy soldier. It was a very fine uniform, but impractical, why they didn't wear armor was a mystery to her, but it made her job easier. She could see the young man, around her age she guessed, turn, look at her and turn his head back to urge his horse to go faster.

She soon caught up and pulled her arm back to thrust her lance into his back. He gave a shrill, horrifying cry, high pitched in its intense as his body slid off his mount and splashed face down in the mud. The grey hose stopped before galloping off riderless with a shrill whinny. She took a moment to look down at her first kill. She felt sick. Blood dripped down her lance, like paint. She was breathing heavily.

In one overturned palm, was a little flat dish of some sort with colorful flowers or dust. Meanwhile, the officer lay, eyes deathless but open, his hat having fallen off as he lay on the ground. Bozes felt sick again. That old man had looked like a fine old gentleman, almost like one of her grandfather's friends. And she and her friends had killed him in cold blood.

She kicked her steed and wheeled it around to return to her comrades, wondering if she should vomit.

And there we have it folks, chapter three! Waterloo Part 2 was a pain to write, apologies for the slow update, school just started and I have loads of assignments to do so expect lower updates.

Author's Note:- The real Ponsonby was quite young when he died, and his father was a politician, alive and well in London. Obviously my version is based off mostly on the Waterloo movie version but I added details that were true, for example, he did indeed die when Polish Lancers saw a few Scots Greys attempting to save him.

In this chapter, we also see the Batavians (my world's version of Belgian and Dutch forces) in action. There was indeed, a captain Pretter who commanded a Horse Artillery Battery at Hougomont, and the events of the battle itself, the breaching of the farm by the company of Saderans, is based off of the account of Sous-Lieutenant Legros, wielding an axe, managed to break through the north gate. A desperate fight ensued between the invading French soldiers and the defending Guards. In a near-miraculous attack, Macdonell, a small party of officers, and Sergeant James Graham fought through the melee to shut the gate, trapping Legros and about 30 other soldiers of the 1st Legere inside. All of the French who entered were killed except a drummer boy in the desperate hand-to-hand fight.