Chapter IV.

Waterloo Pt III.

Road to Wavre.

A long barrage began as both Francovian and Edenite artillery continued to fire and attempt to cause
as much damage to the Saderans as possible. The only problem was that the wily other worldly visitors
had so far, only marshalled at best, a few of their divisional sized formations in advance and had
mostly stuck to using cheap cannon fodder, their beasts and what seemed like units made up of
slaves, as shields against the artillery.

The enemy still held three major farmhouses on its side and the Francovians had only captured one.
D’Erlon had reported through a dispatch that his men were tired and had been staving off continuous
counter attacks.

So far, both sides were trying to fire upon the Saderan forces, but every time they tried, range became
their enemy, the commander would move his troops back to safer distances while keeping mostly his
enslaved penal soldiers as meat shields up front. So it was, that the ladies of the officers of the
Saderan army, watched the back-and-forth booms and firing of the cannon, obliterate entire
formations in one stroke.

The barrels belched great gouts of white smoke while the ground was churned into craters. The air was
alive with the sound of whistling shot. Screams cried out as innumerable souls were extinguished in a
flash.

On the road to Wavre, Marshal Grouchy and General Gerard continued on with their given objective.
Use the right wing to pursue Blücher and the Ulraznavians. So far, they hadn’t found them, but they
could hear the guns at Waterloo loud and clear, and a rift was already beginning to form with Gerard.

“By God, sir, the cannon are calling us. March to the sound of the guns!” Gerard urged as he rode
alongside Grouchy at the head of the column. The Marshal had in his lap, a wicker basket of
strawberries, from which every now and then, he took and popped one into his mouth.

“We are a third of the army.” Gerard continued. “Our duty is to—”

“Do not presume to teach me my duty, General Gerard.” Grouchy cut him off mid-sentence, popping
another berry into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it down before speaking to his junior.

“My orders from the emperor were precise. To keep my sword in Blücher’s back.”

“If you will not march to the sound of the guns, allow me to go.”

“And divide my force?” Grouchy questioned rhetorically. “Francovia would hang me. And maybe,
Francovia would be right.”

“La Bédoyère!” Bonaparte cried, and his aide came at once. The emperor was holding out his spyglass
as he stood next to Soult.

“Yes sire.” The young man took the instrument and put int to his eye as his Emperor began to point out
in the distance.

“What’s moving there?”

“I see men marching in column. Six thousand, maybe nine thousand.” He turned to his liege, who
looked slightly surprised, as was Marshal Soult.

“He’s right.” Another staff officer confirmed from behind them as he finished his own examination,
snapping his spyglass shut. Napoleon turned to look at him, then back to where he was staring before.
Soult looked to the Emperor, before realizing and taking the telescope and putting it to his eye quickly.
He looked out, and sure enough, those were men. But were they Grouchy’s blue and Blücher’s
Ulraznavian black? Or silver armored, like their foes. He looked closer again before informing the two
others.

“I see horses now.”

Bonaparte took the telescope from him after that short observation and moved forwards to take a
better look. “Horses? But who’s?” he mused, looking at the faraway column, stretching out like small
serpents. “The Francovians and Ulraznavians, or more Saderans?”

“I think its Saderan silver sir!” Delancey snapped out as he looked at the column. Wellington and
Uxbridge both put their telescopes down. Uxbridge looked at Wellington, their worst fears had come
true.

“It’s what we feared sir.” He gestured forward. “The Saderans have come across.”

A cannonball shrieked above, causing Wellington to turn and crane his neck to see where it landed. He
looked back once it detonated somewhere behind them and checked with his spyglass once more to be
sure. Uxbridge did the same.

“Damn it, it could be Ulraznavian black and Francovian blue!” he said. He snapped his spyglass shut
while Uxbridge and De Lancey continued to monitor with theirs and walked back, his hands clasped
behind. He soon came next to Lord Hay, the young man standing next to another aide. As smoke
drifted over them, Wellington opened the spyglass again and took a quick glance before putting it
down.

“Hay, your eyes are young. Tell me the color.” Wellington ordered, handing the younger officer his
spyglass, which Hay took and put to his eyes.

“I think there, I think they’re—”

“Saderans.” Napoleon said as Ney arrived, uniform muddy, taking out his own spyglass to look.

“That’s not necessary, That’s not necessary,” Napoleon made Ney put the damn thing down. “It’s the
Saderans. But as far as you and I are concerned, and the army here, they are on the moon. Is that
understood?”

“Yes sire.” Ney nodded his head, and snapped his spyglass shut.

“This otherworldly army commander wages war in a new way, he fights sitting on his ass. Well, we’ll
have to move him off it.” He turned his head to look at Ney. Before storming off to his table of maps
and charts that served as his headquarters, Ney following. Soult was nearby, drafting a new set of
orders.

“Where is Grouchy?” Napoleon asked aloud, angrily, as he bent down to look at the maps. Studying
one quickly, he tapped down on the location of another farmhouse in Saderan capture. “L’epee Sacre.
The one who wins the farmhouse, wins the battle. Go on.”

Ney clicked his heels swiftly before striding off. Bonaparte watched him go before looking back at the
map. He then began to walk away from the table and towards a patch of ground from where he could
look at the state of the battle. He looked onwards, forwards, at things others could not see. And
whatever he saw, it mustn’t have been good for he returned, slouching and bent, and his mood, fouler
than it had ever been during the course of this rapidly changing battle. He turned abruptly, as if in
disbelief, and walked back to the staff. He halted to look back at the battle before flinging out an arm.

“Where is Grouchy?” he turned again to spread both arms in disbelief and slight exasperation, spinning
on his heels and continuing his walk. “I need those men! Where is Grouchy? Why must I do everything
myself?”
The smoke soon reached them, and when it passed, some of the officers were running towards the
Emperor, for he was staggering and swaying. Dr Larrey, his personal physician was among those who
held on to him.

“Sire, are you hurt? Have you been wounded?” Larrey demanded swiftly. The emperor was on his
knees now, so Larrey continued, this time in a softer voice. “As your doctor, I advise you to come off
the field sire. Sire, you must lie down for an hour.” The doctor, and three other men including his ADC
helped him up slowly. His eyes were hooded low, almost shut, as he slowly brought up one hand and
clasped his forehead. Larrey and another man began to help him walk, the other two following behind.

“I’m alright…it’s just my stomach.” The emperor rasped out, as if the very words seemed to take
tremendous effort. Then, with his usual energy slowly returning: “I’m alright!”

He suddenly keeled, causing Larrey and the other officer to lean down to help him up, but he refused
the assistance, yet they helped him up anyway. Once he was steady again, the emperor stretched out
his arms to signal he did not need their help anymore, and Larrey stepped back. He held out his hand
for his bicorne, and the third officer handed it over, which the emperor placed on his own head.

“La Bédoyère!” he called, and the young man followed.

This is how he now came to be, under a windmill, behind the smokey battlefield. He lay underneath the
remains of a roof, his coat serving as his bedding and his uniform, a pillow, undershirt unbuttoned.

Only Charles stood beside him, at his every beck and call. The emperor blinked, feeling sweat run
down his forehead. He was hoping to not have such complications with his diseased body today, but
his body was stubborn, like him. It wouldn’t rest till it got its way.

He shut his eyes again, they felt watery, it was the smoke no doubt, the smoke. He felt dizzy, the world
was spinning, or was it the windmill?

“You know, after Austerlitz, I said I would have, six more good years. And now, its ten years, and nine
campaigns later. Listening?” his eyes screwed, creating wrinkles and folds in the skin of his forehead.

“Every word.” La Bédoyère replied, voice low with awe and devotion. Napoleon continued on, the
young made the best audiences after all.

“After I am dead and I am gone, what do you think the world will say of me?”

“It will say you extended the limits of glory.”

He chucked slightly at that, smiling. Then his eyes were open, and the world went silent, save for the
creaking of the windmill, and he turned to look at Charles, his mouth open, but with no sound coming
out of it. He rose slightly for a moment, looking straight into Charles’ eyes with such intensity that he
flinched and bowed slightly. The emperor looked down, deep in thought, before lying back down.

“Is that all I’m going to leave my son?” he asked forlornly. “The limits of glory?” Charles had no answer
to give, so Napoleon closed his eyes again and settled in for a bit of peaceful rest.

He’s concentrating his infantry. His cavalry’s still sitting.

Those were Wellington’s thought’s as he looked towards where his enemy stood with his armies.
Smoke without fire. What’s he at?

Speaking of cavalry, it seemed like Boney’s was reorganizing, if the trumpeting and music was to be
believed, and what was being seen. The Francovian heavy cavalry, the cuirassier’s, carabiner’s,
hussars and other horse were preparing themselves, was Boney preparing for a sortie? It strangely
didn’t seem to alarm their otherworldly foe, for he made no attempt to reorganize his own troops.
The Saderans had captured, in a great stroke of luck, a battery of the Foot Artillery, the loss of which
had sent the officers fuming. Most of the shells were chronically and woefully inaccurate but now and
again, there were some lucky shots, as he saw with one cannonball explode just a few meters away
from where he and his staff stood. Another salvo rumbled after the first one, implying these fellows
were quick learners.

“A hard pounding gentlemen!” Wellington turned to say to his staff. He waved over Lord Hay, who
immediately trotted over.

“Yes sir?”

“Lord Hay,”

“Your Grace?”

Take yourself for a run. General Lambert will retire a hundred paces between the reverse slopes.”

“But your grace…” Hay’s protests died on his lips.

“Do as your told, sir!” Wellington snapped angrily, causing the younger man to flinch. Now was not the
time to question orders. He needed to think this through, and he needed to maneuver quickly. Hay
accepted this by riding off swiftly, and just in time as a round whistled down near the place he had
been standing, hitting a galloping rider who had unluckily strayed into the path, his horse screaming as
he was thrown off. “General order,” he informed De Lancey, who had arrived to replace Hay. “The army
will retire a hundred paces.”

“The army will retire a hundred paces!” De Lancey repeated the order to the large column of men
behind him. Trumpets began to hoot, and the soldiers began to turn around. More orders began to ring
out.

“The 27th will take position behind the Gordons!” an officer screamed as the men began to walk slowly
towards their new positions, unaware they were being watched.

From the saddle, of his brilliant white stallion, Zorzal el Caeser, rose slightly in his seat as he realized
(or though he realized) what was occurring. He could see the redcoats retreating! Their trumpets alone
were probably signaling a general retreat!

“Sir!” a man, that same corporal from last night, called him out as the Inniskilling marched past him.
“It’s a bad policy to stay near a tree in a thunderstorm. It attracts the bolts.” He waved his hand
towards the tree Wellington was halted next to. Turning his head to look, the duke was mildly surprised
to find it crackling in flames.

“I’ll take your impudent advice.” He said dryly, before reining Copenhagen and beginning to trot away
to his new position where his staff was waiting. Slight artillery fire blasted down near him at times. And
as he moved, he was watched, by a pair of Francovian and Saderan eyes…

Zorzal perked up as he saw the man on the brown steed with another funny hat and no armor ride
back, following the retreating redcoats—for this was nothing else but a full general retreat! The prince
foolishly assumed.

Standing on his white charger along with the rest of the thousand strong bodyguard of knights from
the Praetorian Guard. “The barbarian’s retreating! The barbarians retreating!” he cried. “Casa, follow
me!”

“We shall follow you, my liege! Charge!” the primus pilus, one, Sir Casca Andronicus bellowed as he
reined his horse, and a trumpet began to sing.

Zorzal let out a sharp exhale of breath before unsheathing his ornate longsword. “Onwards, Knights of
my Praetorian Guard! Break them, rout them! Charge!”
As the Praetorians charged and thundered off, following Zorzal, an unfortunate result of this, was that a
good chunk of the Saderan reserve cavalry joined him either under duress and due to his threats, or
due to foolishly assuming that the crown prince knew what he was doing. As a result, the Saderan left
was left woefully exposed and open to enemy attack.

Piña gasped in horror at the events unfolding in front of her. More and more horsemen began to ride
off, following Zorzal’s charge towards the enemy that was moving back. Some officers were trying to
restrain their glory-drunk subordinates, but their efforts were in vain. Lady Glory had sunk her claws
into all of them. And their lust had grown too strong.

The charge thundered down the smoky battlefield with the force of a tidal wave. Far away, their
audience cheered at the sight of what seemed like a successful Saderan charge to counter the
unsuccessful one of the barbarians.

Zorzal let his features twitch into a cruel smile. He could see himself getting closer and closer towards
their lines. Any moment now and his sword would taste fresh barbarian blood for the first time since
the campaign against the warrior bunnies! His personal mounted household guard kept an equal pace
with him as they traversed the smoky and cratered ground,

“Fyere!” a mounted enemy officer cried in his guttural tongue. The front burst into a cloud of white
smoke and the sky whistled and cracked as something warm whizzed past him, shocking him greatly.
The ground beneath the horses split open, burning hot. Brave men-at arms were flung forwards, some
landing on their necks with sickening cracks, while others were flipped off, and on the ground,
immobilized.

More knights now screamed as their horses suddenly began to slide down uncontrollably, throwing
their riders in the mud, leaving them hopelessly vulnerable. All while more and more knights, now
skillfully able to see the danger, maneuvered themselves into the holes, the horses’ hooves
dangerously close at times. Many a knight would perish, either suffocating from the heat, or getting
trampled down into the mud by the steeds of their compatriots.

Another shout, and those accursed tubes of the barbarians belched their unholy flame. Armor was
flung off as if it wasn’t there, the screams of horses and men became one single, terrible harmony as
brave, chivalrous men were separated from their limbs, or lives, it didn’t matter if the man was
wearing the finest suit of armor that money could afford, or the cheap chainmail and cuirass that a ight
cavalryman wore, the unholy projectiles did not discriminate. The highest Patricians and Equestrians,
to common plebians and other folk that made up the basic citizenry and in turn, the bulk of the army,
expired on that field of horror.

Plumes of fire rose from the ground in hypnotic manner, dazing many a novice. Squires called for their
masters in the foggy, smokey cloud even as the rest of the cavalry thundered around them. Officers
called out trumpeters to sound signals to coordinate their broken formations.

“By Emroy!” a centurion breathed as he saw a knight with a quarter of his cranium separated from the
rest of his head. As he rode past, he watched the fair headed youth sit down, and watch on dazed, with
an unseeing gaze.

“Forwards lads! Death and Glory!”

“Death and Glory!” a squadron with the skull and crossbones painted on their armor and other
equipment chorused.

Sir Taros Echlithion, a newly knighted officer felt the wind grow suddenly warm and fiery and quickly
felt the world around him explode upwards, as if he had fallen afoul of a hex. He was barely able to
control his descent and was immediately thankful that he was at least wearing lighter armor.

Good heavens. He thought. That was terrific! Just terrific.

He removed his helm, sighing gleefully as cold air hit his sweat stained skin. It was as hot as an oven
inside those suits of armor.
He spied shapes, silhouettes cresting up the hill. Frantically, he began to wave and shout, pointing out
his location. “Over here!” he cried, waving his arms the best he could. When he was certain that he
had got their attention. He quickly got to work removing his greaves, pauldrons and other heavy pieces
of armor.

Once he was a little less burdened, he spared a glance to his would-be rescuers. His blood went cold as
he saw them more clearly as they came down the hill. They were wearing green uniforms, and each
man had gold colored straps crisscrossing his chest instead of the usual white. An officer armed with a
sword was leading them, and they were already raising their spellcaster rods.

A sharp crack echoed, and something screamed past him, striking the tree he was standing next too.
No! he screamed internally. They can’t be trying to kill me! Me, whom everyone loves.

But they were indeed trying to kill him. Already, some of the men had detached from their formation
and were walking up, casters raised, with their mounted spears aimed towards him. Such was their
pure strength; they were holding the enchanted weapon with ease in one hand. He had to run.

He threw his blade at one of the advancing men and just took off into a sprint, ripping of articles of
armor as he did. He gave a short scream as the other men gave a cry before beginning to run in
pursuit.

Meanwhile, Zorzal was still gloating in his apparent, soon to come glory. Despite the earlier mishap
when his assault had blundered into those treacherous potholes, most of the knights and Praetorians
had reformed themselves back into formation. They galloped on towards their enemies even as the
world split into fire and brimstone and comrades were flung from their steeds screaming. He smiled
even more.

They finally overwhelmed the thunder tube positions after a few minutes, taking out the wretched
weapons that were causing the good soldiers so much harm. He laughed at seeing the cowardly men
manning such infernal engines of war run in terror and fright at the sight of him and his host of
conquering heroes. He gave a triumphal scream as he lanced one of them through the chest, blood
running down the entirety of the weapon, coating it, in a sticky, crimson sheen.

He began to notice something strange. The redcoats here weren’t arrayed in lines but rather squares.
The survivors of the thunder tubes had run into them, disappearing behind their fellows. Strange, he
wondered. A square would usually be made with pikes and spears, and those knives affixed to their
thunder staffs weren’t even that long, so he was at a loss for words at what the barbarians were
attempting here.

“Withdraw to squares!” an artilleryman cried as he led his crew and a dozen others into the relative
safety of a square (the word safety here, was subjective as far as anyone was concerned.)

“Shoot at the horses!” an officer cried.

“Fire at the horses!” another officer, on horseback, repeated the order. In response, the infantrymen let
loose a volley at the incoming mounted knights (knights, bloody knights, some of them still could not
believe). Having gained so much momentum, the sudden loss of control over the body caused the
marauding horsemen to break their necks.

There were thirteen, tightly locked squares of infantry on the flank. And the cavalry split up into
several separate strands in order to deal with them all.

Suddenly, just like with the craters, men found their steeds dying under them with frightening
swiftness. And to make things worse, hidden units of thunder rods began to crack open the world
around them.
A man screamed as the chest of his horse burst open like a grotesque flower, spilling entrails all over
the place. He slipped, grasping at empty air before falling to the ground with a grunt, knocked out cold.

It had devolved into an unorganized mess, with everything falling apart everywhere. Men, knight,
horse, redcoat, their screams echoed in the air in a sort of twisted unity. A knight tried helping his
fellow kinsman only to see a hole filled with dark red blood, appear on his faceplate, and covering him
too. But the worst, was yet to come as the Saderans pressed on their messy assault.

“Wellington’s in trouble! Wellington’s in trouble!” Ney cursed loudly, voice ringing across the
assembled Francovian cavalry, an eclectic mixture of cuirassiers, carabiner’s, hussars, lancers
(including the mostly Batavian but also that single squadron of Maszowians) among others. If
Wellington were to falter here and leave the battlefield, then the enemy would be able to focus mostly
on them, and if that happened, then it would be simply catastrophic. Therefore, it was unacceptable,
that that Englishman should retreat, despite the rather strong opinion most of Francovia had of Eden.
“Nillion! Follow me!”

“We’re with you!” the other officer replied loudly just as the trumpeting began. “Charge!”

Ney crossed himself as they began to trot, before unsheathing his saber and pointing it forward at the
enemy. “Trumpeter, sound the advance! Charge!” he cried as another blue uniformed officer joined up
next to him, his bicorne falling of his head in the wind. And behind them, thundered the legendry
Francovian light and heavy cavalry that was so feared by all nations on Euronia, as well as imitated, by
others, such as on South Liberia, and in Central Liberia as well. The more elite among the cuirassiers
had plumes on their helmets and leopard skin covering the lower part of the peaks. If Ney’s
calculations were correct, they’d reach the Edenite in time to save them, assuming they didn’t break
that is.

As he rode among them, and weaved through formations, Ney met both familiar faces, and new ones.
Both, he greeted with energetic cheer.

“La Fevre, are you with me?” he shouted to be heard above all the noise.

“Yes sire!” the green uniformed trumpeter replied with giddy joy and enthusiasm like a schoolboy,
causing Ney to let out a heavy laugh. And they so they thundered along ahead, always looking
forwards.

Unlike the Saderans, the Francovians did not have to worry about potholes for there were none, the
artillery having been focused thankfully on the new enemy. So it was, that Ney’s formidable cavalry,
had a unremarkably smooth journey to their destination, the first (and only time) in history that a
cavalry charge had been allowed to go unhindered, just as it had been done in the training exercises.
They even faced extremely minimal casualties as well, which was even better.

Ney gave a short prayer of thanks above his breath as he and the cavalry reached, finding the Edenite
had not retreated, but were in squares. They were on time, and while the trumpeting had caused a few
of the knights to realise what was happening and wheel around to face them, most of the enemy had
been caught up in a bloodlust driven frenzy, and so didn’t not even notice Ney’s arrival. Making it all
the more satisfying when they were caught between a hammer and anvil when they crashed into
them.

If the engagement had been a confusing mess before, now it was just a quagmire. Sabers found gaps
in the armored suits; carbines punched through fine, gaudy helms like a knife through butter. All over
the field, men on horses were throwing themselves at each other with inhuman brutality and
unnecessary violence.

It was quite obvious who the officers were among the enemy, with their gaudy, flashy armor, and
plumes and painted icons all over themselves and the fact that theirs was in many different colors. So,
they became victims almost instantly, their armor dimming as they collapsed into the mud.

Zorzal could not believe what was happening. He refused to believe that he, the great conqueror of the
Warrior Bunnies and all the other enemies of the Empire, could be undone by a group of puny,
uncivilized barbarians! He growled angrily and grit his teeth, before raising his sword to rally his
personal guard around him. Some clattered up to him, closing the gaps quickly to protect him with
their body if the need arose.

“To me!” he yelled. “To me! Let us end this charade once and for all by cutting the head off of this
serpent!” his eyes tracked a horseman springing through this mess like a jackrabbit. With his red sash
and white lined hat, it became clearly obvious that he was the ringleader. He tightened his grip on his
sword. And he pulled the reins of his charger and urged it forward. His personal escort followed,
hacking a path through the mess of horsemen and foot soldiers that were unlucky enough to stagger
into the bath of his blade. It flashed in the sky, slicing through the flesh of equestrians and peasants
alike with equal fervor. He drove the sword down into the chest of a massive enemy horseman, the
silver breastplate giving way like a sea being parted by a mage. The wretch gave out bubbling, wet
gasps as he sank to the ground.

He could see the enemy commander, so close. He was right in his grasp. With a hoarse roar of rage, he
spurned his horse forward, slashing and hacking as he hammered through the enemies in his path.

What he didn’t notice, in the haze of battle rage and indignity, was that he had become separated
from his personal guard, which had become embroiled in its own duels and isolated from their liege.
Some knights attempted to break out and rejoin him but to no avail. Boxed off from the one they were
supposed to protect and being crushed by a hammer an anvil, the squadron of knights saw its
numbers culled down to five members, who retreated back with a few survivors from other units who
had managed to drag themselves out of the mess unlike their battle lusted comrades, who would
either be wiped out, or taken prisoner in the dark hours of the aftermath.

Zorzal el Ceaser, charged ahead without knowing this information. By this time, he had plunged deep
into the lines, carved a gulch for the rest of his knights to traverse and join him, they were competent
enough to follow his every beck and call, that was why he had chosen those fools because they
weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed! Not for brain power!

Unfortunately for him, the gap that his glorious charge had made had been quickly sealed up like a
wound stitched together by a particularly skilled surgeon. He did not realize he was alone, having
become intoxicated with the thrill of the fantastical levels of megalomania his simple mind brought into
view, screening his eyes, and blinding him from the truth, ever since he had been a child. All he could
see was laurels and heads, and nothing else. He was so close to that barbarian chief that he could
almost touch him with his greaved, crimson fingers. His features twisted into a knife-like parody of a
smile. Just as he had brought the Warrior Bunnies under his heeled boot and broke Tyuule and made
her his wench, he would break this blue coated ignoramus, who believed he could be civilized just
because he has a had a sash wrapped around his shoulder and middled, and gold on his shoulders and
plumes in that ridiculous hat he was wearing!

The sick squelching sound of a weapon burying itself somewhere in his body surprised him so much
that it brought his current train of thought screeching to an abrupt halt. With great difficulty, he was
able to turn his helmed head to look upon the insect, that had tried to attack a man blessed by the
gods! The bold cretin whom he would smite soon was dressed in a blue jacket, with a pink, or red front,
with two sets of buttons going down on the sides. His headgear, was surprisingly impressive and
complexly well made, a four-pointed crowned cap, the “crown” painted the same pinkish crimson,
metals stamped to the forehead of the cap showing a capitalized N or otherwise a single eagle, with
wings spread. But it was his weapon, that made Zorzal pause. The instrument responsible for his
mutilation, an extremely long lance, spear thin, with a wicked point that was now embedded deep into
his underarm, directly below his exposed armpit.

“You peasant!” he rasped, his voice low. He twisted his body to face him before another jolt of pain
sliced through his body. Another of those lance toting peasants had stabbed his infernal instrument
into his divine person. He growled weakly as they fell upon him like rabid dogs, and he gave a great
cry as pieces of his armor were ripped off and he was thrown from the saddle onto the ground.

“No…” he groaned, attempting to move his arm. “I am a demigod…I will not be undone by you
heathen scum!” his gasps were cut short as two more lances slammed into him and he blissfully went
unconscious. The lancers rode off, Zorzal forgotten on the muddy field of blood.
“That fool!” Marius ground his teeth in frustration as a few surviving praetorians, those who no doubt
got “lucky” and galloped away when they had a chance, thus saving themselves. “You there!” he
singled out an officer with a plume less helm. “Where is Prince Zorzal?”

“I don’t know.” The Praetorian said through swollen lips, which made him speak with a prominent lisp.
“He was deep in the combat with his personal guard last I saw.”

“Of course he was.” Marius scowled. He’d lost half his best cavalry due to this terrible blunder. “If he
lives after this, I will swear to make his life hell for the remainder of this campaign, prince, or no
prince.” He took a deeb breath, relaxing his body before grabbing the spyglass to look at the state of
the assault. The Prince’s charge was causing damage, though he was loathe to admit it, at the cost of
the heavy casualties it was making at the same time. For every redcoat killed, two knights went down
as well. And worse, he could not find the Prince anywhere, in the maelstrom of the melee. He did see a
redcoat officer fall from his horse from a longbow, but that was just one event, in the many that he
saw.

“Reform yourselves.” He snapped angeringly at the cavalry survivors that were now arriving in dribs
and drabs slowly, dragging themselves back. “And find me that Prince! I am going to have him
confined and sent back to the capital in shame, social class be damned!”

The knight snapped a salute, before leading the remains of his company, to the relative safety of the
rear. He had to give them credit, Marius conceded grudgingly. Some of the Praetorians had really
shined today, meaning that not all of them, were nepots. But such brazen disobedience would not go
unpunished.

The chaos of the battle though, really showed the chaotic reality of war, to McConnell. He saw a piper
of the Gordons get cut down, the tune cutting off abruptly, save for a short blast that the man had
managed to blow before the rest was just the sound of air escaping the holes of the pipes. An officer
ran over in an attempt to grab him as he fell down, slumped to the ground, the bloody knight’s
attention drawn elsewhere to some other unlucky fellow.

“Come on you bastards!” McConnell cried as before he aimed his Brown Bess, the others at the front of
the square following. He was a corporal after all, and to a certain degree, powerful with the light weight
of his rank. Not a sergeant, but the other lads listened well enough as he led a volley, twenty muskets
going of simultaneously, knights falling left and right with loud impacts as they crashed into the
ground, weighed down by the suits they wore.

“Let me go!” a voice cried from behind, inside the square. McConnell turned his head to look back at
some kind of commotion unfolding. “For God’s sake leave me alone!”

It was Tomlinson, bareheaded, holding his hat in one hand, his unfired musket in the other. The blonde
was pushing through the square, to get to the front, and actually leave the squares confines, to the
alarm of his fellow soldiers who were crying out loud.

“Stop him!”

“Get back!”

“Get back here Dick!”

“Someone get him!” McConnell yelled as he returned his attention to firing.

“Let me go! Leave me alone!”

“Someone stop him!”

“For Jesus’ sake, stop him someone!”

Another concentrated volley broke up a charge, ripping into armor and flinging riders back. A
cannonball ended it as it crashed into the survivors, their screams ending abruptly, as if someone had
shut a lid on top to stop the noise.
“Private Tomlinson! Return to the square!” the company sergeant thundered as he saw the private
finally walk into the open. Tomlinson ignored the man, to focused on what was happening in front of
him, the carnage, that was happening in front of him.

Horses fell, their riders falling down sometimes only mere lengths away from one another, both
knights, or cuirassier. But the cuirassier usually got up, due to being lightly armored (than a knight at
least) and killing their encumbered opponents, some, who would raise their arms and beg in their pig
Latin, didn’t get any mercy either.

He walked a good few meters out into the open before stopping to look around. “We’ve never seen
each other! How can we, kill one another!” he cried, turning his head to look around at the devastation
being wrought. “How can we? How can we?” he waved his arms and spread them wide, howling out
words that were lost to the wind, echoing out but unheard by all present, in the terror of battle.

“How can we kill one another! How can we? How can we?” he threw down his hat and musket,
screaming mournfully to the air. “Why do we? Why? Why!”

His words made no difference of course. Men at their hearts, were beings lusting for the blood of the
other. The killing continued, wild and chaotic in its randomness. A knight screamed out like a maid as
the ground next to him erupted into a plume of smoke, causing his horse to whine shrilly, and almost
throw him off. A Francovian cuirassier thought of his children and young wife in Pariz, waiting
anxiously, and praying for his survival, as he led his horse into a leap over an enemy corpse. A veteran
Saderan equites equestrianis’s last thoughts, as he died with a lancer’s weapon buried in his chest,
was of his only daughter, whom he’d never see again and would have no way of protecting herself,
from the ambitious relatives who were no doubt waiting for news of his demise, and would be
sweeping down like carrion fowl, upon his estate like the wretched, greedy pigs they were. And a
Gordon Highlander simply remembered the fond memories of playing with his brothers during a
simpler time as a farmer’s son in the Caledonian highlands when he was a boy.

Tomlinson’s cry went unheeded, of course. Such things were lost to the winds in the heat of such a
battle. The killing continued onwards, Tomlinson himself getting knocked out by a rider slamming the
pommel of his longsword at his temple, silencing him immediately. Perhaps the one in the most agony,
was Prince Zorzal. He was lying on top of a pile of corpses, still alive, unable to move, the armor
rendering him immobile and in great pain not only due to the lances that had brought him down
minutes before, but also the large amounts of enemy shot detonating around him, covering his
precious armor with dirt and muck. Yet strangely, he didn’t cry out, he didn’t even scream in
indignation or like a spoiled princeling. Something had changed, something had occurred during those
painful moments when he was plucked full of lances like a hunted wolf. Even his mind, which would
usually be raging at the fact that his armor was being dirtied, was strangely silent

The farmhouse, the Sacred point burst into flames as the leave less trunks of the trees surrounding the
building were set alight from continuous shelling by the Francovians. The flames attacked the wooden
building with just as much ferocity as it had eaten the trunks, and so the garrison was split between
dealing with the fire, which was rapidly spreading around the whole complex, enshrouding it with
smoke, and manning the walls to defend against the approaching Francovian troops that were firing
volley’s as they tramped up to the complex’s defenses, disappearing and reappearing through the
smoke at random.

A gout of flame that had been crackling on the right-side building’s roof, hungrily burnt through more
kindling before suddenly swelling in size and strength, surprising the two legionaries fighting it. Like a
great angry gnat, it rose, crackling merrily, and becoming a sort of beacon that lit the foggy, smokey
cloud, allowing the defenders to see the incoming Francovians and the fusiliers to see the silhouettes
of the defenders for a moment. The fire surprised many from both sides, who looked up at it in awe as
they advanced or defended. The flame soon dimmed, and the fog’s heavy opaque blanket returned,
making it terribly hard to see anything at all.

The men of Bonaparte’s Grande batterie, were working overtime, in fact as of now, they were the sole
artillery force on the Allied side that was still intact, the Edenite having withdrawn their artillery slowly
back as they were pushed further and further by successful assaults by the enemy. Only Captain
Pretter’s battery, having been reduced to three guns, at Hougoumont, was still bitterly in the fight,
even as they fended off Saderan assaults twice their size. Hougoumont became the sole farmhouse
still in Allied possession, as the Saderans had already broken into La Haye.

“Aim!” a green uniformed officer of the 1st Nassau regiment bellowed. The men under his command
raised their muskets, closed ranks and waited. Manning the ramparts behind them, were men of the
Coldstream guards, also waiting with cocked muskets. Around the Nassau detachment’s feet, lay
corpses, Saderan corpses, a testament to the day’s work, but more were coming, if the blowing horns
were any hint.

Through the fog, Saderan light cavalry advanced on fleet footed horses. They moved in a disruptive
manner, a tactic learned after failed assaults. Using their speed, they would remain as separately
spaced as possible to minimize casualties. An intelligent tactic, but the lieutenant had been a student
at the infanterie-schule, in Salrzgräf, the capital city of Ulraznavia.

“Fire at your own digression!” he ordered. “Remember to aim carefully and fire only when you are
certain that you will hit the target!”

The infantrymen relaxed slightly, and began to take careful aim, picking their targets carefully. The first
report nailed the officer leading the charge, his head splitting apart, and his body hanging on by one
stirrup.

They fired sporadically, picking their shots carefully when they knew their shot would land on their
target. They pushed back the Saderans yet again, but they had begun to feel the strain.

They were running out of ammunition. His men were down to ten rounds after this latest assault.
Pretter’s battery had been left with only to cases of round shot and a single canister round.

“Sir! We might have to abandon the guns!” a lieutenant cried to Pretter, who grit his teeth as he pulled
his gloves on again.

“No! Get the cannon hitched to the carts, we go take them inside!”

“But we’ve lost most of the carts in the attacks sir.” The youth removed his shako from his head,
fanning himself slightly.

“Then strip the others and repair the ones that are the most intact.” Pretter said, beginning to go into a
swift walk towards the farmhouse. “Get to it, I need to go see the commander at the farm.”

The youth tried to protest once again but whatever he wanted to say died in his throat when Pretter
aimed a glare at him. He snapped a rather ill-timed salute before jamming the shako on his head, not
bothering with the chin strap and heading to where the remains of the carts were to oversee the
captain’s orders, stepping over groaning wounded as he traversed the ground with a squeamish gulp.

On the Francovian side, the wind howled in despair, whistling like cannon fire, trying to blow the maps
on Bonaparte’s table off of it, but he had his elbows on them, as he watched, the sleeves of his
greatcoat rolled up. Soult turned to him, hat plumes flying in the air, “Ney requests infantry sire!” he
shouted, to get himself heard over the din. Napoleon just shook his head. All he had left was being
kept in reserve, and didn’t Ney know better than to move the cavalry without infantry support?

“General Lambert needs reinforcements, at Hougoumont!” a dispatch rider reported to Wellington. The
duke clutched his bicorne which nearly flew off, steadying the damn thing.

“I can only give General Lambert, my best wishes.” He replied back before turning back.

Napoleon stood up, to take a look at the state of the battle, raising an arm to protect himself from the
elements. Wellington on the other hand, after reviewing the situation through his spyglass, was making
a snap decision.

“De Lancey, move that battery down towards Hougoumont.” Wellington raised his outstretched arm
forth to point out the position. Before De Lancey could gallop down to follow through with the
command, a shell landed right behind him, a Francovian shell that had accidentally miscalculated its
range. The cannon sliced through his back, ripping his uniform apart, causing him to cry out, as he was
flung from his horse, landing on his stomach, groaning and writhing in pain. Wellington watched with
stoney silence, face empty as if carved from marble. He was going through aides like a baronet went
through muskets at a bird hunt! First it was Hay, wounded at the stomach via longbow and now laying
in the care of a farmer’s wife, and De Lancey too?

But William made an effort, dear William, his most faithful and brilliant aide de camp since the
Peninsular campaign in Iberia, gathered and channeled forth energy from some hidden reservoir that
all men seemed to hold in reserve for when they were wounded most mortally. He staggered to his
feet, an act which caused him great pain as he stood still, steadying himself, holding his arm out to
stop the three other men, two officers and a private, for coming to his aide. They stopped, watching
him with open fear and shock on their faces. Wellington too, watched with the utmost concentration,
as De Lancey slowly steadied his back and began to slowly, stand up straight, though still on shaky
feet, like a man who was way at sea for the first time. For a moment, Wellington dared to hope that
against all odds, William might somehow get on his horse to ride to Hougoumont to relay the order.

But De Lancey, was human after all. He soon lost all strength in his body and fell down limp, to the
ground, finally allowing the men to run up to his aide. As they crowded around him, one of them
screamed himself hoarse in an attempt to get a surgeon while De Lancey wept in pain, his mouth open
in agony while the other two attempted to comfort him. Stretcher bearers soon arrived, led by the
harried figure of a surgeon, who, supervised his transportation as they gently placed him onto the
stretcher and began to carry him away to the relative safety of the farmer’s house where Hay, among
other patients, lay.

La Haye Sainte fell finally into Saderan hands, They clambered over the walls, stabbing and slicing at
any unlucky redcoat or Kings Ulraznavian legionary in range.

Edenite infantrymen began to hastily evacuate from buildings as cannon balls rained around them.
Officers screamed as shot detonated right next to them. A door was blasted apart whole legionaries
ran around, mopping up the survivors. At approximately Six PM, an aquilifier planted the Saderan eagle
standard of his legion in the chimney, so it flew in the wind.

“The farmhouse is ours! Long live Francovie!”

“Soult!” Bonaparte turned to his chief of staff, who was now the only one with a hat, the rest of them
were all bareheaded.

“Yes sire.”

“write a letter to Pariz.”

“yes…”

“right now, and you tell them that…what time do you think it is?”

Soult turned to look up at the sun, how he could see through this smog was beyond Bonaparte. “I
think… about six o clock, sire.”

“Good! You tell them that, at six o clock—”

“Yes.”

“We broke the other worldly forces…”

“Yes, yes, sire.” Soult jotted the words down.

“And we won the battle, no, no.” he shook his head, motioning for Soult to stop. “And tell them that, we
won the war!”

“The farmhouse has fallen sir. We can’t hold them.” Wellington’s third aide of the day reported, leaning
in close to Uxbridge and Wellington.
“It appears, Uxbridge, that we are losing the battle on our side.” His eyes swiveled upwards. “Give me
night.” He intoned quietly. “Or give me Blücher.”

“Marshal the reserves.” Marius snapped. “I’ve decided to beat Wellington first now, seeing as we’re
winning on that side of this operation. I want the entire division on the move!”

A trumpeter and drummer began to play the general call to arms, making the legionaries get into
formation. At a shouted command, the instruments sounded the advance, and they marched forwards.

These legionaries were the crack veterans of Marius’s own legion that he had commanded during the
war with the Warrior Bunnies. Their armor was slightly better than an average foot soldier’s, and so
was their war gear. These were the troops that he always kept off the field until the last moment as a
potent strike and shock troop force. These crack troops would break Wellington’s line, allowing Marius
to focus most of his attention on the wily Bonaparte. He still had enough troops to hold the time till
either Prince Maximus, or Domitus Domitian’s armies arrived. He had these new worlder’s trapped, and
there was no escaping his net now.

He looked to the hill, where the ladies had made their pavilion, it was still there, though now that it
seemed that the battle was coming to a close, many were coming down to waiting carriages that
would take them to the Saderan camp. He let out a sigh and a grim smile. This was one of the worst
battles he had fought, but, he had come out on top.

I have him beaten, the enemy is bleeding to death slowly, Napoleon thought with a mental smile,
which did not transfer to his features. Now, move the Old Guard forwards, and on to victory!

A slow drumbeat began to play, as Napoleon trotted forwards, behind him, the rest of his staff, and
following them, the entire Old, and the remaining Middle and Young Guard’s marching in precise step
behind them.

His face was impassive, emotionless as he led them all towards the death blow, truly, even when he
was back in the saddle, doing what he loved the most, he didn’t dare show anything on his features.
He could have sworn, that Wellington, might be seeing this, being an true Englishman from Eden, he
might be in the middle of washing his face even. Like a true gentleman that the English so loved to
claim that they were.

He remained calm, even as the fifes whistled around him and the boots of his beloved grumblers
slammed into the ground with harsh reports, he merely looked around, at what could be looked at, in a
smokey battlefield. Which wasn’t much, just smoke, and the smell of ash assaulting his nostrils, and
travelling deep into his throat at times. It would rain tonight probably, it seemed so.

Perhaps that was what they needed after all, rain. He looked up slightly to inspect the sky with the
same intensity that he used, with which to inspect his armies at a review.

Behind him, Ney, Cambronne, Larrey, and the rest of his staff slowly reached his pace, Larrey, choosing
this, as the time to displace some of his usual advice.

“Sire! If you go any further, you will be killed!”

“Where else should the general die but on the field?” Bonaparte began to retort before La Bédoyère
interjected with his voice pleading.

“Sire, you must go back, please.” La Bédoyère grabbed onto the reins of his liege’s steed and began
leading it into a turn. Bonaparte complied, allowing himself to be escorted to the safety of the rear.

The Guard marched forwards, tricolors hoisted high and morale even higher. Like Marius’s veterans,
these were Napoleon’s personal crack force, something to break the lines. These were all old
comrades, some having served under him as far, as when he was first consul. The stars of the Legion
of Honor glittered each six-foot-tall giant’s breast and each face was swarthy, and scowling, earrings
pierced into their ear, and single red plumes in their bearskins. Napolean, while heading back to safety
turned back to look just as the last of the fusiliers marched onto the field. He couldn’t stop his
emotions from revealing themselves now, pride swelling in his chest and his face cracking into a small
smile, before he turned back and rode away.

Wellington washed his face, thankful for the small luxury, of being able to clean the muck and ash off
of his skin with water from a bucket being held out by a bareheaded private. He straightened himself
to look at the state of the frontline, at the doom, his doom, not Bonaparte’s, his, currently marching
towards them, in the form of legions so disciplined, Caeser himself would have faltered against them.
He made up his mind quickly then at that notion.

“I’m abandoning my position on the left!”

“Sir?” Uxbridge questioned once more just to confirm the order.

“I want what remains of us, here!” Wellington pointed down at the ground. “Here!” he splashed water
on his face again while Uxbridge looked around. The two ADCs stood behind them like statues.
“Here…” Wellington was saying now in a much more quieter tone, before shouting: “Every brigade!
Every battalion! Here!”

The two aides snapped into action, running off as if burned. They jumped onto their horses and ran off
into the dust. Wellington watched them go before grabbing the towel and opening it with a flourish to
wipe his hands. “Put every gun to them sir…” he said to Uxbridge. “Every gun.”

Uxbridge simply responded with a nod and: “Very good sir.” Before he walked away.

“The lads are down to five rounds a man, Wellington.” Gordon, who had arrived only moments before
and had been sitting quietly on his horse, reported this news as he wiped his face. He turned to look at
the Colonel, who raised his arm in a placating gesture.

“Don’t worry, they’ll stand.” His Caledonian brogue made the letter d unintelligible. Wellington said
nothing at this, still wiping his hands again with the now moist towel. He perused his lips slightly,
opening his mouth as he looked at what was occurring in the front of him.

“If Marshal Blücher, doesn’t come through now…they’ll break every bone in my body.” His voice
cracked slightly at the end of the sentence, revealing the great amount of stress he was under. The
private held out his belt.

“Good beans Wellington.” Gordon interjected from horseback.

“If there is anything in this world about which I know positively nothing,” Wellington replied, pulling his
belt on and buckling it. “it is agriculture.” He revealed. Gordon nodded his head, and wheeled his horse
around to return to his unit. Wellington, now armed again as his sword was now in his belt and on his
side, walked forwards to see for himself, the curtain rising on this final act. It was spectacular really,
something to rival the works of Shakespeare and Marlow himself, they would have struggled to put the
events of what he was seeing down onto paper. The Old Guard, the grenadiers leading them all,
marched towards the enemy lines in a tight knit formation. The officers lead from the front, those that
he could see a bit far away slightly from the main group. Other officers on horses rode as well, holding
aloft unsheathed sabers, holding them presented, blades resting on their bullion covered shoulder’s

Behind them, gouts of flame burst into existence spectacularly, as if announcing their arrival with great
fanfare like a triumph of old. And there was fanfare, of that there was no doubt. For separate
detachments, consisting of marching bands, played a resounding march as they tramped over the
remains of Saderan siegeworks, the great wooden skeletal remains of them, blackened and scorched,
like the patches of ground and the corpses on them, that had been lost in the opening hours of the
battle, in the morning that seemed like it had been centuries ago now. The musicians were
spectacularly dressed, wearing the much older style of uniform with bicorne hats instead of the one
used mostly with the Bardin reforms. A bandmaster’s baton flashed every now again, popping up and
down like a groundhog. Those men were hidden, Wellington realized, a strategic act as they could not
be shot by sharpshooters armed with crossbows. A low whoosh erupted in the air and Wellington saw a
mass of arrow’s, loosed by enemy longbows. They whistled maliciously as they hailed down and struck
unprotected flesh. Entire bands were put ut of action and still, they played on. The Duke was too far to
hear their screams.

The enemy general seemed calm, as he marshalled his remaining forces, reserves and auxiliaries to
face the ranks of Boney’s Old Guard. Wellington was perplexed. Had the man actually become
overconfident? Had he finally let his guard down, now that he had Wellington at his mercy? Or was
something else at play here? By God how he wished to know more!”

Marius and his officers watched the progress with grim smiles and sighs of satisfaction. Finally, it was
done, the redcoats and their green and black coated allies were finished. Once he had plucked the
wasp, he would be able to turn his attention to the fox, and he would string him up too. And then, a
single march to the cities, and then, then the whole new world.

Behind them, the wounded were being tended to at ad hoc stations. Several of the men, some with
great souvenirs of their velour in slings and bandages, walked slowly to see, and cheer for their
comrades who were taking on the redcoats, and sing their praises of the Bluecoat elites, who had
already swept aside his pickets. The order of the rose were among those who had come to watch. It
seemed these would be respected foes; Marius had come to respect the bluecoat commander in the
grey coat greatly and saw the man as an equal worthy of respect. He had disappeared into the dust,
but he could still feel those eyes looking somewhere from the gloom.

A bloodstained, travel-marked officer galloped at a mad dash, caring not for the traffic in front of him.
Blood oozed down the side of his face and stuck to his eyes. He cracked his reins and arrived in the
presence of his superiors, snapping a quick salute before making a blood-chilling announcement.

“Sir! The blackcoats and bluecoats are in the woods!” he had ripped off his helmet with manic speed
and was now using it to gesture wildly. “The blackcoats and bluecoats are in the woods!”

Marius turned his head bluntly. “I made one mistake; I underestimated the locals again. They’ve
somehow avoided Maximus and Domitus completely and have brought fresh troops to the field here!”

A deathly chill passed the assembled officers as they wheeled their mounts and called for captured
spyglasses, copying their general. The Saderans had cast their die to quickly and rashly, Marius
realized. And now they were going to pay for their decisive gamble!

“Raise high the black flags, children!” Blücher announced with a growl as he halted his horse. “No pity!
No prisoners! I’ll shoot any man I see, with pity in him!” he removed his plumed bicorne with a
dramatic flourish before calling out to the Army of the Rhine, that which could make it to Waterloo.

“Onward!”

Officer’s in Ulraznavian black, with white breeches and trousers, Blücher’s staff officers in various
headgear, bicorne and shako’s, rode forwards, stopping only once to let their general pass in order to
lead them. Beside them, the mighty Ulraznavian cavalry, hussars in black, brown and blue rode in
formation, the lancers behind them letting their pennants flutter in the wind.

Behind them, the travel-stained line infantrymen advanced out of the cover of the woods. They were a
menacing sight in black, with either grey or white trousers, or simply black ones like the Brunswick
regiments. Mud splattered the hems of them, testifying to the speed and grit of their advance. And
behind them, came the forces of Marshal Grouchy and General Gerard, having received word of the
agreement in time.

The veterans of the 22nd Legion marched forward, unknowing of all of the happenings that had
occurred in the short span of time. They had gotten so close to the redcoat lines, that many could feel
like they could almost touch them with their fingers. They could hear detonations further in the back
but didn’t pay heed to them, the target was in front of them, after all. They advanced up the hill in
spite of the smoke that made their innards burn, in spite of the landscape which destroyed their
cohesion and discipline at times, and in spite of the damned wizardry of the barbarians. They took it,
soaked all of that pain like stoics, like a past emperor had once written in his book. He had been one of
the “good emperors” a statesman, and true soldier.
By now, the Ulraznavians had begun to gallop into the charge. And Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, at
the spry age of 72, lead them from the front of the column, bellowing encouragement as they
thundered towards the fight. “On, on my children!” the old marshal cried, one arm raised high, cloak
flying, the other down, hand wrapped tightly around the reins. The fresh forces set themselves on a
crash course towards the one place where they may make a difference, towards Wellington. By this
time, Grouchy and Gerard’s troops had detached themselves from the Ulraznavians and were now
fighting through a horde of lightly armed pickets to reach their Emperor.

Wellington seized this chance to put his final gamble into action. “Now Maitland! Now’s your time!” he
cried brightly, holding his hat securely on his head with one hand as the wind blew forth.

Hidden for most the battle behind a hill and in a golden field, 2000 men, two battalions of the 1 st Foot
Guards, commanded by Peregrine Maitland rose up like meerkats. They didn’t need to aim at this
range and let loose withering volleys with their muskets, firing en-masse. When one column had done
their shooting, they would dip back to reload, while the other column behind it fired.

The legionaries fell with terrible swiftness, chests or stomachs bursting into showers of blood and gore.
Armor was split into pieces, some suits flowering outwards in a macabre parody of growth. And the
cries, oh the cries were terrible, filled with shock, surprise and wonder, rage being the last emotion as
they fell down.

The formation began to slowly break apart, discipline shattering in an instant, despite the efforts and
attempts of their officers. Hardened veterans wept and were sent running from the hills, screaming in
despair. It was a black day for the legion. Officers on horseback tried to rally the now halted troops who
were slowly walking backwards, perhaps intent on turning it into a fleeting
rout but the loud noise had spooked their animals, causing many to be flung from the saddle.

The dam finally broke after Blücher arrived with the cavalry. Then, high pitched cries arose from the
broken column, high pitched and mad in pig Latin. The trumpets hooted mournfully as thy signaled a
retreat and the survivors slowly began to trudge back, even as their comrades fell stiffly, features
twisted in pain.

“Fall back! Lost! All is lost! RUN! SAVE YOURSELVES!” a younger man, now a lunatic, howled, tearing
his hair out as he sprinted back down the hill, the remains of two companies following him as if it were
a race.

“Up to them! Up to them!” a dirtied general bellowed, waving his sword as he pushed past soldiers
running back. Some, he forced to walk back and face the enemy, others, he could not at all.

In La Haye Sainte, the Saderan eagle was ripped off by a redcoat who replaced it with the Edenite
Union Jack at 8 PM in the evening. The general meanwhile, continued on his tirade, spitting and hissing
at the troops who ran now.

“Am I to fight alone? Stand with me! Are you Saderans? Stand with me, damn you all! Are you a Legion
of this army! One more hour and we have them beaten! Don’t you recognize me? It is I! Your
commander! Your general! Stand!”

The Ulraznavians swept the remaining stragglers aside, breaking them. And so, the entire remaining
allied army advanced, muskets firing. Wellington laughed slightly as he stood next to Uxbridge.

“Damn me Uxbridge, if I ever saw 30,000 men run a race before…The whole line will advance!”

“In which direction, your grace?” Uxbridge asked, tongue in cheek as he turned to look at the Duke.

“Why, straight ahead, to be sure.” Wellington replied, raising one white gloved hand to point at the
mass of humanity in red firing away as it advanced. They had set off at a running jog now, they were
sprinting!

He turned to greet Blücher, who was now arriving, his horse in a slow trot, von Gneisenau, and a few
others following him. His face split into a smile yet again.
“You’ve done it Field Marshal! By God you’ve done it!”

Blücher let out a long sigh before he took a whiff of his pipe. When he had exhaled the smoke, he
finally answered at once. “I told you I would come didn’t I? you’ve nearly driven poor Müffling to death
from exhaustion, you have been working him like a dog you know.”

“My apologies, Field Marshal.” Wellington dipped his head. “But I will make sure that Müffling is well
rewarded for his efforts. He won’t have to worry about anything soon.”

This set off a wave of laughter from the Ulraznavian staff officers present. Blücher let out a harumph,
before giving a light, small smile.

“Well, that is good…you have been surviving very well, Lord Duke. By the skin of your teeth.”

Before Wellington could reply, a large, flapping sound was heard, something blocked out the sun, and
when the assembled officer’s looked up, their faces blanched at the sight.