Edenite camp.
Morning of June 18, 1815.
The camp was alive as the sun rose up to the sky on a new day. Red coated infantrymen were milling around like ants and morning fog flittered near the ground as bugles and trumpets blared out the reveille.
To any observer far away, the camp site was red, literally. Union Jack and regimental banners fluttered in the wind as men lined up for breakfast. They could see their comrades at Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte setting up positions for the day and they grabbed their breakfasts quickly. No use delaying old Atty. Many took out their maggoty ship's biscuits and salted pork or mince beef, while some queued for fresh food made by the camp helpers.
Tomlinson walked aimlessly, Belgic shako in his hand, Brown Bess slung behind his shoulder, while his comrades talked with other men from other regiments.
"We're 140,000 men, we're not half of it." A man muttered cynically.
"That's counting the Francovians as well." His friend said beside him. "40,000 will be dead by tomorrow. Eat your soup while you have your belly."
O Connell, now a corporal meanwhile, was shuffling around as well as he walked around looking for a mirror. Behind him, the little "elvish" toddler followed him like a dutiful puppy. Some of the camp helpers had cleaned her up. Some of the women had clucked over her and had given her a simple navy-blue blouse, a skirt, some socks while a cobbler's wife had given some sturdy leather boots. O Connell hadn't noticed her following, though the denizens of the camp did. O Connell did not notice her skipping behind him as he chewed down on a rock-hard biscuit. "Have you seen our new Corporal? A Inniskilling asked as he saw O Connell pass, little girl following.
Upon spotting a mirror, being used by an officer as he shaved, O Connell stopped, before creeping closer and peering over the officer's head to take a look at himself.
"Morning Corporal!"
"He doesn't talk to the likes of us." Another infantryman snickered as he watched O Connell ignore the catcalls completely and continue his attempts to get a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Till the officer turned, shaving cream still on face to give him a glare. O Connell went onto his tippy toes before drooping, nodding in acknowledgement before he walked off, followed as always, by his "shadow."
The officer watched the two go with a smile before turning and spotting a friend. "Morning Ramsey!"
"Morning!" the Royal artillery officer on horseback responded with a salute. "Filthy night wasn't it?"
The door swung open, and Napoleon strode in, in a freshly pressed uniform of the Colonel of the Chasseurs a Cheval de la Garde Imperiale. He looked fresh, less sick, less ill. He drew open the curtains, his staff watching attentively.
He turned abruptly, giving a wide smile. "Morning gentlemen." He greeted.
"Good Morning sire." His assembled staff officers standing around a large, well-prepared table said in unison. A single steward in a plain uniform stood at the back with the breakfast on another smaller table. The officers on the right side stepped back as the Emperor walked through, inspecting the cutlery before walking over to the food. He removed one plate's cloche a little bit to inspect, before replacing it back and removing a smaller lid, and doing the same. He inspected the bread, before turning to look at another platter and removing the cloche of another one. He took a step back, gathering his thoughts before making up his mind.
"This one." He pointed to the group of plates in the middle, popping a profiterole into his mouth as he did. Looking around, he turned to Ney. "What are you all staring at?"
"Are you alright, sire?" Ney inquired cautiously. He was of course surprised at the quick change, the Emperor had looked like death last night and very ill too." Bonaparte raised a hand in a quick gesture.
"That was last night." He said, a smile and a laugh soon breaking onto his lips. The ensuing laughter made the other officers smile. "I've never felt better in my life! Come, we eat."
The staff officers, a mix of marshals, aides-de-camp, and senior commanders, cautiously took their seats. The table was set and the steward brought a modest but elegant spread typical of Francovian cuisine: freshly baked baguettes, golden and crusty, with small ramekins of butter and fruit preserves; a selection of cheeses, including brie, Roquefort, and Comté; and a platter of thinly sliced jambon de Bayonne. Bowls of café au lait steamed gently beside flutes of fresh orange juice and water. The young steward poured the emperor some black coffee, just like he liked it.
"I'm afraid this afternoon, you'll all need bigger napkins." Bonaparte remarked as he watched his officers ready themselves for breakfast. This elicited another round of light laughter. Bonaparte smiled again, raising his glass of coffee in a mock toast before taking a gulp.
"We attack at nine." He placed the glass to the next of him as he cut into some sausages. "What is the ground like?"
Soult shook his head before looking down at his breakfast. "It will not dry before noon, sire."
The emperor's eyes widened imperceptibly as he sat back into his chair.
"We've fought in mud before."
Napoleon nodded at Ney, who had said that remark, approvingly, "That's true." His eyes widened again for a moment as he thought he heard church bells ringing. "What's that?" he turned his head before his eyes swiveled to his ADC.
"Sunday morning." La Bédoyère answered with a smile. "The priest in Plancenoit won't give up on his mass."
Napoleon's eyebrows raised upwards as his eyes widened again in grudging…respect? "well, he won't have much of a congregation." He remarked, his expression changing. For a good minute, everyone was silent. Soult looked at him, as his eyes drooped downward, thinking up something that they could not see. Then his eyebrows lowered, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Abruptly with a grunt, he stood up, causing the silverware to rattle and stormed out of the dining room, leaving his befuddled staff. For a while, more stewards arrived, placing more food on their plates before slowly, they stood up, first Ney, then Soult, and La Bédoyère. They all quietly left the room; some hadn't even touched their plates.
An hour later, Druot was shown into the operations room to see the Emperor, removing his bicorne abruptly as his cloak swished around as the other members of the Imperial staff met him in the middle. Turning his head, he found Napoleon, seemingly asleep at the windowsill, map resting on his legs, which were propped on a chair. His lips moved. "I'm not asleep, Druot."
"Sire, we need four hours. The ground is to soft for me to move my cannon." He informed.
Napoleon's lips pursued. "Waiting four hours would have lost me Austerlitz."
"Wellington can be expected to hold these otherworlders back with his Edenite, Brunswickers and Batavians." Ney chimed in.
"I cannot answer for my cannon." Druot informed Napoleon.
"You are the cannon, Druot." Was the emperor's reply. "Have you coordinated with the Coalition?"
"Yes sire. And it would be better, to attack at twelve."
"Battles are lost and wone in the quarter of an hour." Napoleon said without opening his eyes.
"If the otherworlders were on the move, I would say, go now, but they are sitting, with the mud in their favor."
Napoleon finally opened his eyes and turned to meet Druot's. He blinked several times, but never said a thing. He looked down, deep in thought before he looked back up.
"In their favor?"
The atmosphere inside the tent was tense, to say the least. Already, Marius had ordered two legions to occupy four farms across the eastern ridgelines. Those legionaries were already marching out, cheered on by there comrades as they were sent off, followed by a veritable train of orcs and trolls, the dull brutes serving as cannon fodder and cheap meatshields, even if they did not know it.
He'd had Livia prepare his armor early, and was now wearing it as were all his other officers, senior commanders, knights and all the top brass that would make the complex mess of a military machine, like the Saderan Imperial Army, work.
"Have the two Legatus's reached their positions?" he asked a centurion.
"Yes sir, we have confirmation of that they have."
"Good, any question of our enemy, have they arrived on the field?"
"Not yet sir." The old veteran replied.
"Very well, but I expect hourly reports."
"It will be done."
With that out of the way, the next man who came forth was the Prefect in charge of the siege equipment, the catapults, trebuchets and ballistae.
"Sir, I have to unhappily inform you that my men can push the equipment no further!" the prefect had removed his plumed and crested Galea, holding it under one arm as a sign of respect.
"It's the mud, isn't it?"
The other officer nodded his head. "Yes sir, the mud bogs my men's feet deep into the ground and some of the engines have become mired in it, causing us to destroy them in case of their capture."
Marius let out a sigh. "Can you at least push your engines into one of the farms?"
The other man's face hardened. "I can try sir." He replied. "But I can give you no guarantees your excellency."
"Just do your best."
The Prefect nodded, saluting Marius before he placed his helmet back onto his head and marched out of the tent. Soon, the key officers of Marius's staff and senior formation commanders arrived for today's breakfast service. The men all in their armor and helms, while the women dressed in their finest dresses and perfumes, looking ready to go to a ball, not have what would likely be the last breakfast for some of them with their husband's and fiancés. Marius knew that many of the ladies were going to picnic on a hill overlooking the entire battlefield. It sounded like a very frivolous, and a very Saderan thing to do. Servants quickly fluttered in, removing maps, cartography equipment and other such tools needed to plan war and took them away, replacing them with plates, glasses, and silverware as the guests arrived. Zorzal was nowhere to be seen, but Princess Piña was striking up a riveting conversation with his wife, the rest of the Rose Order sitting at their chairs.
Dishes soon appeared, bottles of olive oil, bread salted and glazed with honey, omelets, in between slices of salted fish, bowls of ripe figs and dates, and pitchers of fresh milk and pressed juices. Bottles of wine—too early for Marius's taste—stood at intervals along the table, their seals freshly broken. Servants fluttered in and out, their movements deft and silent, clearing the remains of the map-laden war council and replacing them with delicate silverware and polished plates.
"It has been a long time, Legate." Grey co Aldo, Pina's personal knight in charge of her protection and instructor of the Rose Order, and an old friend of Marius's bowed.
"Ah, Grey, still kicking around I see." Marius smiled. "Such a thing as this, would have had the planners and ringleaders executed, back in the good old days."
"Hmph." Grey hummed in acknowledgement. "The rot's setting in isn't it? It seems small, but—"
"It will spread, give it a few decades of complacent rule and peace." Marius finished his old comrade's train of thought. "How goes training Princess Pina and her little troupe?"
"They are jittery." Grey commented. "Norma's looking very pale today, do you see?"
"Ah, yes, the first battle of the rose knights, they will win their spurs today…or will be annihilated. What are your thoughts?" Marius said with a look of interest on his face.
"Norma, maybe Nikolasha, Herm, even Calasta will die today, or maybe they'll all survive unscathed, unlikely as it may be." Was all Grey had to say.
"I see. Well, Here's to all of them surviving in one piece." He raised a glass in a private toast.
"I'll drink to that." Grey gulped the wine down in one sitting.
Meanwhile, Livia was busy eavesdropping on some of the younger ladies who were twittering about their plans for the day's events. It was all very interesting…if one was young and had not done much thinking unlike herself.
"I had my steward reconnoiter for a perfect place for us ever since we heard this Waterloo place had been chose." Lady Poppaea was advertising. " A small hill, of no strategic significance whatsoever, behind the places of our forces, but giving us a view that is unimaginable, of the entire battlefield. Why, I had some of my husband's engineer's rig us a small pavilion with plenty of shade so that our skin will not bronze since it seems that the dreadful rain will not return, and let us hope, indefinitely.. Plus everything will be clear!"
"It has the perfect view," one of the noblewomen agreed, her voice lilting with excitement. "We'll see everything—the charge, the clash, even the enemy lines!"
"Do you think their cavalry will really charge in full armor?" another asked. "How quaint! Like something from a storybook."
"Of course, I shall keep my sketchpad at the ready. Why, when this dreadful business is done, I might even have one of them pose as a model, politely of course."
A round of grating twittering followed, like songbirds. Livia sighed, smiling dryly. Those fools. Judging by what survivors from the earlier engagements said, it seemed combat here was a smoky, dirty and bloodier business than it was with sword, lance and shield.
"Mama, may I go with them?" Sabina said with a bright smile, "May I go, these are my friend's, mama. I will be safe. I won't look too much if that's what you're afraid of."
Livia's expression softened slightly, her heart aching at her daughter's simplicity. She walked over to Sabina, her gloved hands gently cupping the younger woman's cheeks. "I know you want to be with them. But I want you to understand something, Sabina. You are not ready for what you may see today. None of us are. This is not a game, not a spectacle. The things you will witness, the sounds of war, the pain, the blood—it changes you. And once you've seen it, there is no going back. The innocence that remains will be forever lost."
Sabina looked up at her, her eyes wide with a mixture of hurt and want for knowledge. "But why do they get to go? The others?"
Livia glanced back at the women, still consumed by their chatter and their petty preoccupations with food, wine, and the view. She could not bring herself to answer Sabina's question immediately. She knew the truth, but there was no easy way to explain it to a young woman like her.
"They don't know any better," Livia said finally, her voice tinged with bitter irony. "They are too wrapped up in their own little worlds to see the bigger picture. But we, Sabina… we must always be aware of what is real, even when it is uncomfortable."
Sabina's lower lip trembled for a moment before she bit it back, trying to hold in her emotions. She took a deep breath, her shoulders sinking as if the weight of her mother's words was beginning to settle over her.
Livia rose, brushing the dirt off her knees. She stood there for a moment, looking at her daughter with a mixture of sadness and resolve. "You will stay with me, Sabina. You will be safe here, where you cannot see the destruction that will come."
Sabina didn't argue, but her expression was clouded with a deep uncertainty. Her youthful dream of watching the battle, of being part of something larger than herself, had been crushed—shattered by the harsh reality her mother had tried to impart. For now, all she could do was nod, albeit reluctantly.
"Thank you, Mama," she whispered quietly, her voice barely audible against the low hum of the encampment. "I'll stay with you."
Zorzal had strode into the command tent, followed by two knights from the Saderan Praetorian Guard. The plates had been taken away, he was late for breakfast and as a result, in a foul mood.
"Are we finally moving, General?"
Marius looked up to the younger prince who looked red like a lobster with his set of crimson plate. "Why of course your highness, we were just waiting for you to arrive.
The look on his face, was worth seeing, rank be dammed.
The army was on the move finally towards Waterloo in a grand procession. The band was playing a renedition of La Victoire est nous as they marched past Napoleon's staff, passing regiments letting out a jubilant "vive la Francovie!" as they passed Napoleon's staff.
The Francovians stretched out as far as one's eye could look down the road. And there was a lot of them. They all were ready, to fight for their emperor, their country and the ideals of it all.
A great cheer arose from them as they marched towards the field for the day's fighting. They were cheering loudly too. And it was kind of grating on Bonaparte's nerves. He was sitting at a wooden chair in the shade of a small group of shrubs and bushes, head collapsed into his hands as the unholy amount of noise that was the footsteps of an army on the march, the cheering of the soldiers, and the drums and bands, assaulted his ears. Nobody on his staff disturbed him, giving him as much "privacy" as they could give him.
Wellington on the other hand, was already at the battlefield, sitting under the shade of a tree, a copy of the day's issue of The Times covering him.
Uxbridge, coughed lightly to grab his superior's attention. The newspaper rustled, signifying he had Wellington's ears, even if he didn't have, his eyes.
"Sir?"
Wellington's hands came up to remove the newspaper, removing it from his face and folding it up while he looked around, resembling a man who had been woken up from his nap before his eyes came to look up at Uxbridge, de Lancey and co looming above him. "Ah, Uxbridge."
Uxbridge, for his part, chose to ignore that completely and discuss the elephant in the room at the moment, a really important one too,
"As, I am your second in command." Uxbridge began, looking down at the Duke. "And in case, anything should happen to you, what are your plans?"
Wellington gave a look to Uxbridge as if he were surprised that he hadn't figured it all out himself. "To beat the otherworlders." He replied. "Then the Francovians if necessary."
And with that succinct reply, the newspaper returned to cover him, while Uxbridge and the others stood there, quite stumped.
From their positions, Marius, his staff, and every legionary and knight could see the two armies march to their places. Zorzal, still in a foul mood, had been impatient all morning and had been wanting them to start already. For the common Imperial soldier, armed with his trusty pilum and scutum, it was a strange kind of experience seeing the enemy assemble themselves on two different sections of the battlefield. Looking at the Edenite lines, as he inspected them through a captured telescope, he saw that the Edenite commander had, positioned his might by the right side, judging by the way he had arrayed his cannon, that marvelous weapon that made even the smartest scholar tear his hair out. Snapping the telescope back to its compact form, he strode over to where his staff were assembled over a makeshift table.
"He's got most of his strength on the right, the Edenite commander that is. We shall tease him there and see if he detaches any of his troops to support it, weakening his center in the process. We'll know what kind of commander he is, soon enough."
"And the Francovians?"
"Send Arminas and Vulpes's legions forward but keep them pinned with our ballistae. Once we've finished dealing with the Englishman, we will deal with this "Emperor. Do it once the Franks have their troops on the field."
Wellington and the rest of the Edenite commanders watched the Francovians arrive and take position on the areas next to them. It was all very precise and orderly, just how Boney liked it.
"Dramatic fellows, these Franks." Wellington commented before saying in a lower voice. "Music and banners. Quite beautiful." He turned to face Hay who also stood beside him with a smile.
"You're a lucky fellow aren't you Hay? To see such a wonder in your first battle. And they're fighting beside us together as well. What luck."
A score of trumpeting followed as the drums began to quieten down, heralding someone's arrival. The Saderan and Edenite command's both, watched with bated breath as the cheering rose in volume and tremor. And then, the band struck again, and the cheering grew louder. Napoleon had arrived. He rode past his troops, waving, wearing his trademark bicorne and grey overcoat over his uniform, not that the Saderans could tell. Infact, Wellington thought, to them, he might even be seen as strange, not realizing his significance. They might think he's not the emperor at all, a funny thing really, to not recognize Boney as a threat.
"Your grace!" Hay cried, trotting up, one arm outstretched, pointing towards the Francovian lines.
"What is it? Hay?" Wellington responded.
"Your grace!" Hay continued. "Over there, near the road! His white horse! The monster!"
Wellington put the spyglass to his eye, seeing Napoleon galloping past his troops on a white horse, two of his commanders following him behind and bringing up the rear.
"So there's the great, thief of Euronia himself." The duke mused, continuing to track Bonaparte's journey. He was getting chills, just seeing the great enemy so close, and on his side today! But at what cost?
"By Emroy, what is going on?" a young noblewoman exclaimed as she watched the enemy lines from the safety of the pavilion erected for them. "Who is this short ugly fellow on that lovely creature?" she said in a disdainful tone.
"It's the stablemaster!" a woman who thought she was smart, cried out.
"Oh hush all of you." Livia ordered coldly. "It's getting to loud."
As he continued to look through his spyglass, he began to hear the first verses of a song being sung by his own troops.
"Boney was a warrior aye, aye, aye."
"Boney was a warrior, John Francois."
"Boney was a warrior, aye, aye, aye,"
Turning his head, he found his own troops belting out a tune in response to his arrival! Even when he was on their side!
"Brotherly business isn't it, de Lancey?" he said, "Killing."
"Shall I shut them up, sir?" de Lancey inquired.
"No, no, indulge it." He brought the spyglass back up to his eye. "Anything that wastes time this morning, indulge it." He brought the spyglass back down slowly. "Normally I don't like cheering. But there's always a time to cut cards with the Devil. Would you kindly announce me?" he asked. The young man trotted off with a smile, taking off his bicorne and setting off into a gallop down the red lines. He halted in front of one regiment abruptly before shouting:
"Who's the lad who leather's the Franks?" his arm went up to flourish his hat.
"Our Atty!" came the thunderous reply.
"Who's the boy with the hookty nose?" someone asked in a column.
"Our Atty!"
"I've no need of a white horse to puff me, by God!" Wellington mused in the defense of his beloved Copenhagen before trotting towards the troops as well. The rest of his officers joined him as they rode up for a review, following him.
"Who gives salt to Marshal Soult?"
"Our Atty!"
"Who gave Johnny Francois a jolt!"
"Our Atty!"
"Who will peck old Julius's bum?"
"Our Atty!"
He gave a salute and a smile as he rode on while the men continued to say their chant.
"Who makes the Parlez vous to run?"
"Our Atty!" the entire army chanted again
"Who's the boy with the hooky nose?"
"Our, Atty!"
"Who's the lad who leathers the Franks?"
"Our, Atty!"
"Who's the lad who kicked Boney's arse?"
The chant continued to ripple back through the lines, mingling with the clatter of cannon being repositioned and the occasional neigh of restless horses. Wellington could feel the anticipation building, a tension thrumming just beneath the surface of the levity. The men knew what lay ahead; they always did. But the singing, the cheering, the banter—it was their way of facing it. Not with despair, but with defiance. With grit. With humor.
The duke reined Copenhagen to a halt at a small rise, giving him a clear view of the battlefield. The Francovian lines were now fully formed, their banners fluttering grandly in the breeze. The Saderan pavilion shimmered in the distance, its occupants faintly visible as they gestured animatedly, no doubt still perplexed by their peculiar foes. And to the far side, the Saderan troops moved with an unfamiliarity that made them seem almost tentative—an alien army in an alien land.
Bonaparte continued on his little parade, the cheers getting more and more louder. The band continued to play its tunes and the men, continued to cheer him on, just like the old days when he had been a commander in the Revolutionary wars or in the peninsular campaign or Vostokvakia.
He stopped to dismount as a green coated aide and an officer ran up to assist him. His staff watched on attentively that as he tried to walk on his own accord, his boots got stuck in the mud.
"Come on, get me out! Get me out." He ordered as two officers in blue ran up and pulled him out before they slowly escorted him towards where his staff awaited. Druot was right. He thought, this mud may kill us. He soon got to walking on his own, unhindered. The only enemy I fear is nature.
"The battle orders, sire." Soult handed him a group of papers which he took and did a quick skim off.
"There are more orders here than there were for the siege of Troy." He remarked, handing them back to Soult. He then grabbed his telescope and began to walk forwards to observe the enemy positions. They glittered like silver jewels and flashes erupted from the rays of the sun being reflected off their spears and shields. Such an anachronistic army, now to see where this "Reman" had staked today's battle.
"He's captured four farmhouses." Bonaparte mused. "And he's depending the most on his heavy cavalry and catapults. And his archers, out of place they might be, but a bow and arrow will still do damage." He turned back and walked to the table that had been set up as his headquarters. "We'll tease his left and decimate their "artillery" in coordination with the English. Once we deal with that, and supposing he sends his dragons after us, they'll be in for a terrible surprise!"
"Gentlemen," Wellington raised his small wine glass. "Today's fox."
The rest of the officers gulped their glasses down before handing them to a soldier who was bareheaded, serving as a ad hoc steward with a tray. He walked off and left the commanders to their duties.
"Clever chap, your tailor, Hay." Wellington complimented the younger man's sharp and neat uniform.
"Dunmore and Lock's sir, in St James." Hay replied with a smile that Wellington returned.
"Remind me of that de Lancey, I like my men well dressed. For the enemy." He turned and directed the last remark at Picton, who gave a dirty look. He was still in his civilian suit and top hat because his luggage containing his uniform had been lost. They all turned to look at their foes and unlikely allies.
Napoleon stroked a miniature portrait of his young son as he sat at his wooden chair, his son was stuck in Ulraznavia. He would see him soon no doubt now that Ferdinand had returned and the deal with Wellington had been made.
He looked down at it, sighing while continuing to stroke it lightly. "La Bédoyère?' he called out softly.
"Yes sire?" the young man, who had been standing nearby at the table, and was now walking up to him swiftly.
"Do you have children?"
"Yes sire, I have one son." Charles's face split into a broad, proud smile. "very young, no taller than your boot."
Napoleon nodded lightly. "And would you want him to be with you today?" he asked.
"Yes." La Bédoyère replied with the same smile. Bonaparte turned his head, giving him a look over, looking up then down before looking away.
"Yes, Why?"
"So, he could see you sire." He responded. Napoleon let out a soft chuckle at that.
"See me…" he shook his head. "I have a son; I'd give anything to see him. I'd give my heart. My life. But not here." He shook his head again after a pause. "I wouldn't want him to witness this battle today." He returned to look back down at the little portrait in his hands. He looked back up again at Charles, before back at the portrait, before standing up and placing the miniature on the table with utmost care. He then grabbed the telescope and slowly began to walk.
"Wellington's main strength is beyond that hill. What he shows the Reman's is a façade. He is clever, very clever." He noted with a grudging respect.
The battlefield was silent as the wind whistled through the field. He turned and gestured to the Saderan defenses at the farm of St Loire. "We begin our attack there, at St Loire."
Edenite Lines.
Wellington, Gordon, and the others were now watching intently at their foes as the Francovians did the same. Nobody moved, not even the Saderans who were getting twitchy. The sun glinted off the bayonets and cannon barrels.
Then, a cannon from Napoleon's side opened fire, belching out white smoke like a chimney. The wind whistled sharply as the projectile hurtled through the air, slamming into the line of catapults and ballistae.
"Well, that opens the ball." Wellington remarked. Everyone had been looking at their ticking watches, timing the whole thing. De Lancey announced the time: "Thirty five minutes past eleven." Everyone looked down at the watches, stopping the watches exactly at that before closing them and replacing them back into their pockets and fobs.
"Thank you, gentlemen." Wellington said curtly. "Return to your positions."
There was a flurry and a whirl of movement as everyone kicked into their steeds and rode off to their required places for the duration of the battle, leaving Wellington alone with Hay, de Lancey and the necessary members of his staff as he continued to observe the proceedings. The bombardment increased in intensity as artillerymen called out for reloads and smoke billowed out from used barrels.
Within seconds, the rest of Napoleon's artillery opened up, Wellington's own artillery opening up in unison, targeting the unwieldy siege equipment. Trebuchet's crumpled and blew apart into fragments, their crew's crying out in horror. Ballistae were sent flying into the air as artillery from both sides pounded them into the stone age.
Some crews aimed at the columns of creatures standing next to the legionaries. They were ugly, misshapen things with the heads of pigs or large mishappen teeth. They were armed with simple clubs and spears. The resulting cannon fire set them into a riot as they were ripped apart. They ran wild, wreaking havoc on their own lines as their handlers tried to restrain them.
The dragons that had been holding position in the sky swooped down, their riders unsheathing their blades as they began to go into a steep dive, talons outstretched as they pointed their mounts towards some of the cannons. At the sight of the incoming creatures, an order was cried out all around the line as artillerymen at the very back, who had raised their guns to maximum elevation waited.
"Fire!"
The reserve battery opened up with a barrage of canister and grapeshot, which ripped up the first dragon's wings and turned its body into a bloody carcass. It gave a haunting, pained cry as it plummeted, missing the artillery all together and slamming into the ground way behind the battlefield.
"Fire!"
"Aieee!"
A rider was flung off his mount and down to earth, hitting the ground with the sickening crunch. His mount crashed into the ground, barely missing the Edenite by inches.
By now, the battlefield had devolved into a smoky killing ground. By the time orders came out to halt the bombardment, the Saderan siege lines was decimated down to a man. Dazed crews began to put out fires while there surviving comrades grabbed whatever weapon they could grab onto and joined into the infantry columns. Already, staff officers in plumed helms were galloping down and shouting out orders to advance, and two large formations had detached and begun to march upon English lines. Trumpets began to sound and the sound of bootsteps echoed through the air.
The Edenite's hadn't survived unscathed though. Artillerymen armed with buckets ran to extinguish the fires that had blazed into being thanks to a dragon, who's corpse lay sprawled over the wreckage of a nine pounder. Its rider, in armor reminiscent of the Maszowian Winged Hussars, lay like a limp puppet, his neck snapped apart by the impact of his crash, his lance in several pieces.
The entire battlefield soon became covered in spurts of white smoke while black inky smoke billowed out from the fires on the Edenite artillery. Redcoats watched with bated breath as artillery continued to fall and burn all over the battlefield. On the pavilion, Livia watched as the other ladies clucked over how the smoke was obscuring their view.
"Battalion, March!"
"Company, forwards!" the first of Bonaparte's attack began as soon as the artillery quieted up. Soldiers began to march up towards the farms of St Clair and L'épée sacrée .The musicians and drums roared anew as the advance began. The Francovians plan was simple. Dislodge the Saderan troops at the four farms they held and keep the pressure off of Wellington for long enough time, to allow Blücher and Grouchy to arrive and reinforce them. To this end, he was committing Foye's division for the assault. And off they went towards the fortifications, even as artillery burst around them and men screamed. d'Erlon's Corps (54th and 55th Ligne) marched forward in columns.
Other formations rode off to their various targets and objectives for the day, spread out all over the battlefield. Fantastic gusts of smoke were rising in the air like mushrooms and the wind pushed it often into the view of the armies, causing issues as their line of sight became obscured. Arrows flung by Saderan archers found their marks in many a officer in horseback, though the intensity of the showers of arrows decreased as they soon came under the cover of trees. These were men of the Middle and Young guards, grenadiers tirailleurs with red facings and braid on their shakos. They marched in open formation, spread out for more cover, intermixed with sappers and voltigeurs, the tall, stoic sappers hefting their axes, ready to chop of an unlucky trooper's head.
"Come on! Forward!" an officer on horseback urged, waving his sabre while his men ducked and walked low. "Forward's for Francovia! Forwards!" a boulder slammed into the ground, kicking dust around the men nearby, sending them coughing. Still, they advanced towards their objective with the iron focus and discipline that Bonaparte's armies were known for, even at this time and considering the currant state they were in, it was remarkable. They moved on regardless of the shrubs and roots obstructing they're path, they pressed on, ready to give their lives wholeheartedly to the cause of Bonaparte.
A infantrymen went down with a shrill cry as a crossbow bolt slammed into his abdomen. His comrade collapsed next to him, arrow in his temple while a third shrieked, falling down in a pool of blood as a bolt pierced his neck.
Already, the muskets were firing back in response, creating clouds of smoke with each shot. An officer tried to get up from the corpse of his horse. Nobody helped him, everyone was too busy advancing towards the walled farmhouse complex, corpses of fallen legionaries already littering the ground. A crossbowman fell down with a rough impact, head and helmet, turned into a macabre flower, all pooling outwards. More and more corpses fell with sickening impacts and cracks intermixed with thuds that made some of the younger soldiers quite ill.
The outer walls exploded in a shower of smoke and sparks, throwing back unlucky defenders down to the ground, limbs flying in several different directions. A centurion's body lay propped up against the remains of a catapult, looking almost as if he were sitting and resting were it not, for the neck with no head but a bloody stump instead.
Many Saderan legionary's, the young ones especially, did not survive their trial by fire. They instead, lay on muddy ground, strangers in an even stranger land.
By now, the infantry had overwhelmed the frontal ballistae, and were already firing at the defenders or bayonetting those, unlucky fools who got too close. Napoleon and Wellington both watched the progress through spyglasses and were pleased with the way it was going.
More and more line infantrymen arrived after marching through the forest and were slowly beginning to encircle the farm complex slowly, trapping it and cutting it off from the rest. Three mounted officers arrived, bellowing for the men to move faster before one was struck, falling off his mount, while his two compatriots galloped off to the others.
The steed just trotted, forgotten as ladders were propped up and the first men began to scale them. Soon, more and more followed and the garrison began to slowly back itself into a corner. Men died, their scutum no help in protecting against the round projectiles propelled by gunpowder. Others died fighting in the intense hand to hand combat that was just starting.
Sappers growled as they fought off greyish green skinned beasts twice their size. A Saderan archer begged for his life before the fusilier ran his bayonet through him. Before dying to a Saderan he did not spot in time.
Some of the Francovians charged through the gaps the artillery had made into the walls, blundering into three large ugly specimens of Saderan cannon fodder. Six brave Frenchmen died before a volley took all three of the mishappen brutes down. An officer killed a plumed officer rallying his men with a single ball to the neck, causing a golf ball sized hole to erupt and the poor man to fall to his knees, choking.
"Allez, Allez!" an infantryman yelled down at his comrades who were climbing up from the firing step. A pigheaded brute's club saw him fly meters away, landing dead beneath a tree.
A cannon ball shattered a section of a barn where the Saderan wounded had been sheltering, allowing vengeful Francovians to get in and execute the unarmed noncombatants down to the last man.
Saderan lines.
The bloodstained rider galloped up to Marius breathlessly. "Centurion Junio reports: He is the last remaining superior officer at the front. And will rally the defenders of St Clair in a defense."
Marius grit his teeth as he spun his mount and looked through the spyglass.
"Damn it! By Emroy he must hold! Hold on at all costs! If that farmhouse falls, then the Franks get a foothold on the hill! Threatening the other three farms we've fortified. I'll send for support from the closest farms nearby, but it will be no use if Junio does not hold for long enough! You understand? Go quickly with all haste!"
The rider kicked hard into the sides of his horse, cantering as he went while Marius looked over at his operations map in dismay. He had been hoping to use his orcs, goblins and siege equipment to keep the Francovians busy but their damned thunder tube—cannons, he corrected himself, had made that impossible. Those blue coated bastards were now attacking him aggressively and were pushing upwards to his right. They were teasing him no doubt, but he didn't want to commit his forces on his other flanks in support or he would risk weakening his flanks even more. The sudden arrival of a purple cloaked Praetorian on horseback did not help his current situation either.
"General Marius, His highness, Prince Zorzal, wishes to charge the unholy instruments of death the barbarians are wielding. He and his knights can cut through their columns and destroy their weapons, thus freeing our men from being forced back."
"You will tell Zorzal to hold back!" Marius roared, spittle flying. "I will not have him bungle this battle up just because of his whims. There is already a strategy in place and his time will come! GO back to him and relay my orders! He is to remain at his position!"
"He will not like that, and neither do I." The praetorian pulled his reins before he began to trot away, an enemy projectile landed right near the youth. There was a mighty flash as his steed through its screaming off its back with a distressed whinny and gallop off unrestrained as Marius and his staff rushed over to him. And here, he saw firsthand just what "artillery" could do as the smell of burnt flesh and torn singed cloth filled the air around him.
The Praetorians once fine purple cloak was now a tattered rag, jagged and smoking slightly. The smell reminded Marius of roast meat, or pork. The young boy's face, once arrogant and self-superior, was now twisted in unimaginable agony, his mouth open in a silent scream as what came out were childish groans and choked gasps and moans of pain.
Two centurions helped him up as he staggered, swaying like a drunken man. Marius leaned close to inspect the damage, both horrified and frightened, and yet horribly interested at the same time.
The ball hadn't struck the boy directly, it had landed nearby, sending shards and red-hot debris at high speeds towards him, the fancy cape providing little to know protection and the fine armor he wore, crumpling easily as if it were thin as string. His body twitched faintly, the last vestiges of life fighting against the inevitable, before finally going still. His steed, now a distant figure, galloped frantically across the field, its panic mirroring the chaos of the battle.
Marius felt his stomach churn but he couldn't bring himself to look away. He wanted to look. He wanted to see, and he wanted to learn. And yet, what he saw made him wish he had never looked at it ever. He traced the path of the terrible destruction wrought on the poor soul's body, not even flinching as his skin touched unnaturally warm flesh and his fingers became covered in blood and ichor, too warm as well. He felt as if he were a scholar, studying some forbidden artifact. This was no ordinary injury made by sword, gladius, pilum or arrow. It was mechanical, strange, terrible, like some sick, ill god had decided to reshape the boy's skin, but forgot many of the key details in the process of it all.
This was annihilation—swift, brutal, and incomprehensibly efficient. He had heard tales of the "thunder tubes" and their devastating power, but seeing their handiwork firsthand filled him with a mixture of horror and fascination.
An officer, his ravaged, scarred face pale, looking very close to vomiting broke Marius's trance like state. "General, you need to move. You aren't safe here and suppose their gunners fix their aim?"
Marius blinked, looking around as if waking from a dream. "Yes…" he said slowly, wiping the blood off his hands on the remains of the boy's cape. "Get me a dispatch rider. Inform Prince Zorzal that he is to remain at his position and stay there! And inform him that his messenger died too. Now!"
The efficient Saderan system worked like a dream and the rider was off in one minute, assuming he didn't die before he even had a chance to deliver.
Edenite Lines.
De Lancey spurred his horse to gallop faster as he rushed to Wellington's side. "He's committed a third division sized force of legionaries now sir! He intends to turn them us the right!"
"What the master seems to intend and what he does will be as different as white knight to black bishop." Wellington countered stonily.
"We could quickly move, the 95th down sir!" de Lancey suggested loudly, pointing out with his outstretched, spyglass clad arm.
"I do not intend to run around like a wet hen, there will be plenty of time soon." Wellington said grimly in response to de Lancey's loud exclamations.
"Sir, If I may." De Lancey began, snapping the spyglass shut with a sharp click. "The 95th could disrupt their command structure and formations. Even a moments confusion—"
Wellington cut him off with a curt wave of his hand. "The 95th have their orders. They are not to move until I say so. Their rifles are worth ten times their number, but only if they are where they're supposed to be." He turned his steely gaze toward de Lancey, his voice softening just slightly. "I appreciate your zeal, my dear De Lancey, but a premature maneuver is as dangerous as none at all."
The sound of cannon fire punctuated his words, dull roars and impacts that caused the ground beneath their horse's hooves to shake as if under an earthquake. Smoke obscured the battlefield, billowing out like a shroud and obscuring the enemy lines from their view, but they could still see and hear those who had sortied. The rhythmic tramp of thousands of feet of Saderan legionaries, their armor glinting in errant sunlight, but dull and dirty from all the soot and mud. Standard bearers with wolf fur on their shoulders and helmets clasped eagle's and square standards in their hands, holding them aloft high. Banners fluttered heavily in the wind, purple and gold with their sigils, stark against the now dark grey sky.
"But sir." De Lancey pressed worriedly. "If they press the right too hard, we risk being—"
"I am aware, de Lancey." Wellington interrupted once more. "We risk being overwhelmed. But we won't break. Not yet we won't. Observe again man. What do you see?"
De Lancey hesitated, before snapping open his spyglass and putting it to his eye. Once again, he could see the Saderan columns tramping ever closer, but now as he observed them with much more patience, he realized several things at once.
Firstly, the Saderans were marching in tight, close-knit formation. Even now, Saderan centurions marshalled the ranks closer, closing up any gaps. He studied their alignment with the terrain and the formations pacing, frowning after a long moment as he brought the spyglass down.
"They are marching too close together sir. Too tight for this terrain and such open ground."
Wellington nodded approvingly. "That's correct, my dear de Lancey. They march as if they are on the parade ground and not on the battlefield. They aren't trained for modern war, so they are improvising on the go. They're discipline is commendable, but it will be their downfall.
De Lancey turned toward his superior, brow furrowed, spyglass snapped shut once more. "You intend to wait till they are within the range of our guns?"
"Why not?" said Wellington with a shrug. "The guns are hungry, and those legionaries will feed them well enough. Their armor won't save them from round shot and canister."
Before de Lancey could respond, another officer arrived, face flushed and uniform covered in mud and soot. "Your grace!" the man cried, pulling his horse to an abrupt halt. "The enemy's dragons are reforming to our left. They're marshalling and circling for another pass at the guns!"
Wellington's jaw tightened. "So, they're not entirely without sense," he muttered. Then, louder: "Send word to the reserve battery. I want double charges of canister loaded and the horses ready to limber up. If the beasts come within range, give them hell."
The man saluted quickly before kicking his horse into a gallop and going back to his position to relay the order. De Lancey turned to Wellington, face stiff with worry after watching the man leave.
"Sir, the Saderans are pressing hard on both flanks. They will surely find a weakness—"
"The lines will hold." Wellington interrupted with a low growl. "And they will find nothing but musket fire and death." He put the telescope to his eye, scanning the battlefield. "He's already committed a third of his forces. See how he overreaches? Their center wavers, the master's eyes are too big for his appetite.
The distant crack of musket fire began as the Saderan vanguard marched towards the regiment standing towards the right. Soon, screams and cries began to be heard as the first line of Saderan troops crumpled under the withering fire from the well drilled Edenite troops. De Lancey saw a centurion's head burst as a large hole appeared on his forehead. The sharp reports of musket fire echoed through the din, punctuated by the occasional boom of artillery. Smoke drifted lazily across the field, masking the horrors unfolding within it.
De Lancey gazed at the chaos, his heart pounding. "Sir, if the center breaks, we might yet—
"The center will hold." Wellington shot back. "It must." He snapped his telescope shut and gave de Lancey a piercing gaze. "And if it doesn't then by god we'll make them pay for ever inch."
De Lancey nodded, swallowing slightly. The Iron Duke was keeping his wits about, even as his aides were panicking as the gravity of the situation pushed down on them all hard.
The fate of the entire battle—no the world, hinged on the center. And by God Wellington hoped it would hold. It needed to.
St Clair. 12:10PM.
By now, the Francovians were mostly in control of the complex. Regimental banners were being brought up the ladders to affix to the roof to signify the capture.
Still, Saderan remnants fought viciously in the last two houses at the farm. Many, had picked up muskets from fallen Francovians, those that had not been fired and were using them as single shot weapons. The artillery batteries were busy elsewhere so the combat was old school, hand to hand, in close quarters.
More and more infantry broke into the farms now abandoned defenses, rushing to support their comrades. A few of the walls were occupied by a few fanatics and were causing minimal casualties on the Francovians. Until a ladder propped up and they were soon overpowered by the veteran infantry scaling up towards them
Meanwhile, a second large column marched towards l'epee sacre, using the cover of the trees like their fellows had at St Clair during the start. They could hear the reports and sounds of the battle at St Clair and this made them move faster. If they were able to dislodge the second farm, they would have a foothold from which they could assault the remaining two.
Napoleon inspected this all with his spyglass, steadied on the shoulder of a Hussar. The battle was going exceptionally well on his side. Wellington's seemed to be in trouble, and that warranted further observation.
He hasn't moved. He's nailed himself to the ridge. This Englishman has two qualities that I admire, he thought as he walked back: caution and, above all, courage.
He snapped the telescope shut before returning to his staff. Soult was busily drafting out orders while the rest were observing. He stabbed the map sharply with his index finger.
"He hasn't moved. Now's the time to move all the heavy artillery against the Saderan center and left. Take some pressure off of Wellington."
Saderan Lines.
They are good. Both are very good. Marius admitted in his thoughts as he looked at the battlefield with his captured spyglass.
"Wellington's not faltering. He's an excellent commander." He mused, looking at his foe. He was giving Marius something that had been lacking on Falmart. A good challenge.
"Sir, we just lost one of our fortified positions to the Francovians." An aide reported, huffing and puffing and out of breath as he had ridden through hell just to inspect the status of the front.
"Relay the following to Legatus Legionis Otho. He is to take his Auxiliary legion towards L'epee Sacree and bolster the defenses there. I don't care if the demi-humans are unreliable, we need every man who can hold a weapon on to the defenses!"
The aide nodded, refastening his helm and tightening his cloak. Giving Marius a salute, he mounted his horse and galloped towards the rear where Otho and his legion were stationed.
Marius bent over his map, tracing a line that had been drawn down the battlefield. He did some quick calculations in his head, rapidly skimming over the map before coming to a decision.
"Tullius, come over here please." He ordered a Legatus Legiones to join him.
"Yes?"
"Time to move what remains of our heavy artillery towards this…Picton, yes Picton. Catapults and Ballistae will try to keep them suppressed for as long enough as you will need to get your legion close."
Outside, the sound of ballistae and trebuchet's being loaded were heard. Tullius looked unconvinced though.
"What if they do no effect and most of my legionaries die before meeting the enemy?"
Almost as if in response, the high-pitched shriek of a Wyvern's roar howled above them. The Wyvern corps, having reformed itself after its earlier disastrous, but slightly successful sortie against the Edenite, was now attacking again, fire glowing in some of the wyvern's open maw's.
"There's your answer, Tullius." Marius said grimly. "Go forward with your legion and with all haste and speed you can. The wyverns and the catapults will keep their thunder tubes distracted so you can traverse the battlefield easily. Picton's men won't move unless the brigade in front of them breaks, and it will soon. Link up with Andronicus and smash the bastards!"
Tullius was silent for a moment as he stared down at the map before giving a sigh of resignation.
"Very well sir. By Emroy I hope you are correct and we don't die with in minutes. It has been an honor though, sir." The legate held out an arm, which Marius clasped in his own.
"Hardy watch over you Tullius, you will survive, and I will see you rewarded for your troubles." Marius promised, though he was unsure if he could keep it.
"I'll hold you to that sir." They embraced, Tullius grabbed his helm and fastened his broadsword, giving Marius one final salute before he walked to a waiting horse and rode off into the dust.
Marius sighed, putting on his own galea and jumping onto his own horse. He set off at a brisk, swift trot, his escorts and some of his staff officers joining him. He needed to inspect Prefect Galba's cavalry at the left flank. A gut feeling told him that they would be used later on.
Galba was astride his horse in a suit of armor resplendent with sigils of his rank. The knight saluted crisply as Marius arrived, the general noting that some of the knights were sitting on stools, squires waiting with waterskins as the young men sweated.
"Galba." Marius greeted. "What's the situation?"
"Well, neither enemy has marshalled his cavalry for any sort of assault on us, but some of the lads here were killed when a stray projectile crashed into them."
"I see." Marius nodded, stroking his chin. "How are the Rose Order taking it all."
"Oh, they are surprisingly well disciplined, for a group made up of mostly teenaged girls and 3 young men and Gray, they've been remarkably patient down on the center left. Princess Piña raised the morale for several of my men when she and her order arrived. Same can't be said for Zorzal."
"Has he been causing you any trouble?"
"Oh, not too much, he's a damn impatient bastard. Nearly charged off with his praetorians until your rider arrived. He's been threatening to have my head cut off the moment we return to Sadera as well as exile most of my officers to the coasts. But I told him that he'll get his charge soon enough and that he'll be the tip of the spear in it."
"I see." Marius noted. "Well, in any case Galba, the reason that I came to see you is because you might soon be charging after all, in a few minutes give or take." He let his eyes scan the Rose Order, out of all the heavy cavalry, they seemed the most alert and attentive. They wore white sallet helms in white colors with goldish bronze accents just like their armor.
"Ah..I unterstand." Galba gave a slight nod. "Very well." He turned to his cavalry. "The knights will prepare for combat! Mount up and ready your weapons!" he bellowed out bullishly.
Marius kicked his mount, turning it sharply to return back to his headquarters, his staff following him and doing the same.
He was starting to hate this world more and more. It was raining still. Raining death and destruction.
second chapter up. Last chapter I'll post for some time as I am going abroad for two weeks for Christmas and winter break, so Merry Christmas and a happy new year to all. Review and comment please