(I SLd this with a friend a long time ago and eventually lost touch. I've just recently pulled it out again and revised it. I'd love to finish it with someone someday....Anyway...I hope you enjoy. I don't think any of you would know him, but I feel like I need to mention his name anyway....FXHummel)
Destiny, one of the most vicious and splendid things that uide the divine light of men upon this tempestuous earth. From frivolity it bequeaths greatness and from greatness, it produces ruin. Man has but to accept it; to deny it, is to deny life. It can bring love, or decimate the heart. It can rule the absolute despot, or free the serf. That is the nature of it's double edged embrace. The sun would rise upon the field of battle in two hours. It had rained the night before, soaking the soil and transforming it from its pristine solid state, into a venomous slush upon which the readiness of the field artillery would eminently fail. In two hours, two warning nations would meet in the form of entire divisions, then battalions, companies, squads and finally soldier to soldier. This would commence as a formation and end as a spectacle of individual feats of courage on Death's chosen field. Did the generals pick this little field near Bresse to engage each other" No. Fate chose it. Fate has chosen the sacred earth upon which men have bled since the beginnings of time. Charles Darnier was Captain of the Red Battalion, 73rd Heavy Calvary, son of Lucien DarnierVisconte and Minister of Finance to the King, and it was on this day, on this field, that the beginning of that fate would intercede and send the young son of France into the lion's den, on an adventure that Odysseus could not have imagined. Two hours before the dawn of morning's light, Charles knelt to the north, towards the battlefield, his sword between his hands at the Lord's Cross, whispering softly, "O Lord and God above, give me the strength to lead my men, the strength to live and to avenge my household against these English tyrants. Oh Lord, give me the strength to avenge my Renee"my beloved Renee, against these swine. Grant me that alone, Lord and I shall never ask for anything more. Grant me this, so that I may die, upon this field, in happiness, knowing that vengeance has been fulfilled. Amen." Standing slowly, he slid his sword into its scabbard and stared into the darkness of the passing night; his eyes glowing with a sublime rage, born from the past, focused on a solitary being across the plain in the English camp" Lord General Reginald Warbuton. Two years before he had led the invaders as far south as Tours, he led his armies into the outskirts of Avignon , raping and pillaging as he went; among the victims, Charles" new bride, Renee. She had been defenseless, and alone. What Charles found when he returned from official business in Paris , the author cares not to repeat, but it left in him a sense of emptiness only equal to his thirst for Warbuton's blood. He would kill Warbuton or die at the head of his charge. Nothing less would satisfy him. Two hours later, the sun slowly crept over the tree line. Cannons had been placed as well as they could, despite the mud. Thousands of footmen stood ready in formation, their spears aimed at the sky. To the rear, the Red Battalion was mounted, their curved sabers sheathed, ready to be drawn the moment they received the order to charge. At their head stood Charles Darnier, in brilliant polished armor, a breastplate with his coat of arms; the crimson phoenix, covering a brilliant red tunic. His eyes were blue, though as pale as the eyes of death Himself, shone furiously in the morning rays. The French Army was ready for war. The first blasts shook the earth within thirty minutes of sunrise. They hailed from English 40-pound cannons and long-range guns, though they fell short of the lines. The march began. It was six thousand French men heading against eight thousand English. The clanking of armor and weapons resounded through the previously peaceful air. French cannon responded to English cannon. Entire companies were lost. Death was a veil behind the smoke of an exploding ball. The first companies met, engulfed in struggle and as a result, the ground stained red in a flash from the instant death of hundreds. A trumpet sounded. The English called for their heavy Calvary . The French responded in kind. Charles reared his horse about to face his men and issued a shout so vociferous that for a moment on the field of battle, silence seemed to fall and a vast gloom came forth from within the hearts of men. Only those near him heard what he said, "Il n"y a que vie; aujourd"hui on muert." What followed next was as if the gates of Hell itself had been thrust open. Charles swirled about, drew his saber and charged into battle on his black war steed, a demon of vengeance from another world. Behind him followed three hundred others, all servants to his bidding, all carrion swarm that in squadrons, engulfed company after company of English. Shrapnel exploded all around them, but still they issued forth from the boughs of the underworld with a spirit only found in the soul of a Frenchman who fights not for his country, but to avenge his soul against those who have wronged him beyond the realm of decency. The first hour of fighting seemed to favor the French. They fought with unparalleled skill and ferocity. The English retreated. Their lines broke. They were on the verge of defeat, but then the hand of destiny came forth to intervene. The night rain had not allowed the French to reposition their guns. They could not support the advance. Companies over-extended themselves, battalions became disorganized and scattered in the melee, the frenzy was upon both sides and it was the English who had the solid ground and the range. Fire reigned down on the French infantry. Their blue tunics were now camouflaged red with death?s lake of blood. The heavy cavalry, who were still gaining ground, fell under the fire of English guns. Rounds had exploded into their formation, ripping legs from horses and severing limbs from screaming men. Still, Charles Darnier, remained unharmed. His black steed's shiny coat had now dulled, caked with red gore from its victims. His saber's blade gleamed in the rising sun, as if it were the fell hand of an invisible force drawn toward one objective, now almost in sight. It would be unstoppable, until it could slice and dismember the being that had wrought this damned curse in the first place. The burning desire of revenge raged in the heart of Charles. He would kill Warbuton. At the beginning of the conflict, there were almost three hundred men. Through the English onslaught and by the third hour of fighting, their number had dwindled severely to a mere fifty. Yet, they closed in on the English observation point. All was in sight. It would be full charge, a mere sixty yards. Fifty. Thirty. It was then that the English general's guard rose up and sliced through them. Charles felt burn of steel slice through his left arm. It went limp. Still, he pushed onward. Onward to redemption and revenge. He felt renewed determination rise, giving him the strength he needed to sever the head from the English serpent and forever put to rest the face that tormented him in his dreams. Five yards. His saber came up high for the deadly strike. In a rush, he felt steel pierce his body and in that moment, he felt his mount drop to the ground with a shrill scream. It seemed to all happen at once. Through burning, bloodshot eyes, he saw his nemesis, his eyes hollow and white with fear, the face of death reflecting its fear into the bringer. Charles's uninjured arm came down with an unnatural force, his eyes filled red with rage, as he tore through his enemy's body and then all went black. Despite his courage, despite the terrible vengeance of his battalion, the French would lose this battle. They would however, not lose the war. As for Charles Darnier? Charles Darnier was not dead. He donned a new title: prisoner of war.
TBC
Destiny, one of the most vicious and splendid things that uide the divine light of men upon this tempestuous earth. From frivolity it bequeaths greatness and from greatness, it produces ruin. Man has but to accept it; to deny it, is to deny life. It can bring love, or decimate the heart. It can rule the absolute despot, or free the serf. That is the nature of it's double edged embrace. The sun would rise upon the field of battle in two hours. It had rained the night before, soaking the soil and transforming it from its pristine solid state, into a venomous slush upon which the readiness of the field artillery would eminently fail. In two hours, two warning nations would meet in the form of entire divisions, then battalions, companies, squads and finally soldier to soldier. This would commence as a formation and end as a spectacle of individual feats of courage on Death's chosen field. Did the generals pick this little field near Bresse to engage each other" No. Fate chose it. Fate has chosen the sacred earth upon which men have bled since the beginnings of time. Charles Darnier was Captain of the Red Battalion, 73rd Heavy Calvary, son of Lucien DarnierVisconte and Minister of Finance to the King, and it was on this day, on this field, that the beginning of that fate would intercede and send the young son of France into the lion's den, on an adventure that Odysseus could not have imagined. Two hours before the dawn of morning's light, Charles knelt to the north, towards the battlefield, his sword between his hands at the Lord's Cross, whispering softly, "O Lord and God above, give me the strength to lead my men, the strength to live and to avenge my household against these English tyrants. Oh Lord, give me the strength to avenge my Renee"my beloved Renee, against these swine. Grant me that alone, Lord and I shall never ask for anything more. Grant me this, so that I may die, upon this field, in happiness, knowing that vengeance has been fulfilled. Amen." Standing slowly, he slid his sword into its scabbard and stared into the darkness of the passing night; his eyes glowing with a sublime rage, born from the past, focused on a solitary being across the plain in the English camp" Lord General Reginald Warbuton. Two years before he had led the invaders as far south as Tours, he led his armies into the outskirts of Avignon , raping and pillaging as he went; among the victims, Charles" new bride, Renee. She had been defenseless, and alone. What Charles found when he returned from official business in Paris , the author cares not to repeat, but it left in him a sense of emptiness only equal to his thirst for Warbuton's blood. He would kill Warbuton or die at the head of his charge. Nothing less would satisfy him. Two hours later, the sun slowly crept over the tree line. Cannons had been placed as well as they could, despite the mud. Thousands of footmen stood ready in formation, their spears aimed at the sky. To the rear, the Red Battalion was mounted, their curved sabers sheathed, ready to be drawn the moment they received the order to charge. At their head stood Charles Darnier, in brilliant polished armor, a breastplate with his coat of arms; the crimson phoenix, covering a brilliant red tunic. His eyes were blue, though as pale as the eyes of death Himself, shone furiously in the morning rays. The French Army was ready for war. The first blasts shook the earth within thirty minutes of sunrise. They hailed from English 40-pound cannons and long-range guns, though they fell short of the lines. The march began. It was six thousand French men heading against eight thousand English. The clanking of armor and weapons resounded through the previously peaceful air. French cannon responded to English cannon. Entire companies were lost. Death was a veil behind the smoke of an exploding ball. The first companies met, engulfed in struggle and as a result, the ground stained red in a flash from the instant death of hundreds. A trumpet sounded. The English called for their heavy Calvary . The French responded in kind. Charles reared his horse about to face his men and issued a shout so vociferous that for a moment on the field of battle, silence seemed to fall and a vast gloom came forth from within the hearts of men. Only those near him heard what he said, "Il n"y a que vie; aujourd"hui on muert." What followed next was as if the gates of Hell itself had been thrust open. Charles swirled about, drew his saber and charged into battle on his black war steed, a demon of vengeance from another world. Behind him followed three hundred others, all servants to his bidding, all carrion swarm that in squadrons, engulfed company after company of English. Shrapnel exploded all around them, but still they issued forth from the boughs of the underworld with a spirit only found in the soul of a Frenchman who fights not for his country, but to avenge his soul against those who have wronged him beyond the realm of decency. The first hour of fighting seemed to favor the French. They fought with unparalleled skill and ferocity. The English retreated. Their lines broke. They were on the verge of defeat, but then the hand of destiny came forth to intervene. The night rain had not allowed the French to reposition their guns. They could not support the advance. Companies over-extended themselves, battalions became disorganized and scattered in the melee, the frenzy was upon both sides and it was the English who had the solid ground and the range. Fire reigned down on the French infantry. Their blue tunics were now camouflaged red with death?s lake of blood. The heavy cavalry, who were still gaining ground, fell under the fire of English guns. Rounds had exploded into their formation, ripping legs from horses and severing limbs from screaming men. Still, Charles Darnier, remained unharmed. His black steed's shiny coat had now dulled, caked with red gore from its victims. His saber's blade gleamed in the rising sun, as if it were the fell hand of an invisible force drawn toward one objective, now almost in sight. It would be unstoppable, until it could slice and dismember the being that had wrought this damned curse in the first place. The burning desire of revenge raged in the heart of Charles. He would kill Warbuton. At the beginning of the conflict, there were almost three hundred men. Through the English onslaught and by the third hour of fighting, their number had dwindled severely to a mere fifty. Yet, they closed in on the English observation point. All was in sight. It would be full charge, a mere sixty yards. Fifty. Thirty. It was then that the English general's guard rose up and sliced through them. Charles felt burn of steel slice through his left arm. It went limp. Still, he pushed onward. Onward to redemption and revenge. He felt renewed determination rise, giving him the strength he needed to sever the head from the English serpent and forever put to rest the face that tormented him in his dreams. Five yards. His saber came up high for the deadly strike. In a rush, he felt steel pierce his body and in that moment, he felt his mount drop to the ground with a shrill scream. It seemed to all happen at once. Through burning, bloodshot eyes, he saw his nemesis, his eyes hollow and white with fear, the face of death reflecting its fear into the bringer. Charles's uninjured arm came down with an unnatural force, his eyes filled red with rage, as he tore through his enemy's body and then all went black. Despite his courage, despite the terrible vengeance of his battalion, the French would lose this battle. They would however, not lose the war. As for Charles Darnier? Charles Darnier was not dead. He donned a new title: prisoner of war.
TBC