Late 16th Century; 1st Anglo - French war
Location: Dunkirk, France
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Powdered earth and limbs fell to the ground around Rictor as his regiment pressed forward, marching at a steady pace to the fife and drums in an almost pristine line of white uniformed soldiers who were now splashed in the blood and ashes of their comrades as magically enhanced cannonballs continue to rain down upon them. The murderous accuracy tore gaping human ruined holes in the line and Rictor was feverishly praying to God above that he would at least die instantly and without pain. As the regiment approached the silent ranks of the opposing army, Rictor could make out some minor details of the foe they were facing. There was a string of individuals no more than a hundred or so standing no more than 40 paces from the Anglo lines watching the advancing French nervously, for many of them this was their first time in combat in comparison to the battle hardened French. With a single glance Rictor felt a surge of hope that they might win this day yet for there can't be more than 10,000 of the wretched heretics on the field and already he could feel the excitement rise amongst his fellow compatriots as they ponderously came within reach of the thin red line that was the Mage Army of Albion even as the musicians to his far left vanished in a spray of blood followed instantly by an expanding ring of flames.
Almost vomiting at the stench of burning flesh, Rictor rigidly kept his eyes to the front, now marching in depressing silence which seemed to dragged at the men's morale. He cursed the witches' deadly spells and prayed to God above that he could at least stick his bayonet in one of their guts before he ends up as a cinder stick. There is no room in this world for these heretics and magic for it is only in the province of God to wield such mighty powers, not for the hands of men. Unable to hold back the vengeful grin on his face, Rictor halted along with his regiment as the colour sergeant screamed out the order, stopping suddenly 300 paces in remarkably superb discipline from their opposing number.
The surviving French officers yelled out as one, "Present Arms!" and in only a few heartbeats the front rank of the Regiment took aim at the ranks beyond the individuals before them.
"Fire!", came the next command and as one the French line became enshrouded in gun smoke as the muskets roared their hateful response.
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Lord Colonel Lionel R. Stonewall stood impassively in front of his 23rd Welsh Infantry Regiment as he watched the French army crossing the sundrenched wheat fields of some poor peasant farmer, his crops grounded into oblivion by the marching boots of the 40,000 strong advancing French soldiers. The combined Mage army was barely 8,000 strong itself and Lionel had to squash a silver of doubt that he wasn't going to be able to emerge alive from this confrontation. It was unbecoming of a lord. The orders given to the 7th Army of Albion was absolute, hold long enough for the refugee mage families of Europe to board the ships bound for across the channel to the safe haven that is his homeland. Tolerant and progressive of the mage arts, Albion was probably the last place on earth that still practice them as Europe finally succumbed to the suspicions and superstitions of the widely uneducated public. Mages were burnt at the stakes and huge genocide camps were set up all over the European continent, law and reasoning given way to fear and prejudice. The democracy that once touted liberties and freedom of their fellow man were now used to subdue a minority that once stood in the forefront of their respective nations defence.
Lionel resisted the urge to spit out in disgust as he allowed that thought to give him strength in the righteousness of their cause, eyeing the advancing French in disdain. It has been barely two weeks since they landed in France, part of a larger plan whereby multiple evacuation points were established all over Europe to allow the fleeing mage families to gather and set sail under protection although the continuous flow of refugees has slowed down to a trickle now as those caught on the road by the rioting mobs and their former countrymen were often brutally murdered and tortured in barbaric ways. Lionel had caught sight of such a scene whilst on patrol and today he vowed that no prisoners were to be taken or quarter given.
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As the French army halted and prepared to fire, the apprentice mages out front of the Anglo lines began chanting rapidly and as soon as the French unleashed a wave of lead toward their target, the musket balls were caught in an transparent shimmering wall that stretched the length of the Albion army. The French could only watched in horror as shot after shot that they poured into the Anglo's were stopped by that wall although a few began to pierce through it in several places as the strain took its toll on the young mages. Noticing this, Lionel turned to his fifer and ordered, "Play for me boy. Its time we got into the war". Pulling his sword from its sheathe, the spell of blue fire ingrained in its blade igniting and encasing the length of the sword as he raised it above his head point first to the sky as if challenging the False Corpse god. The eyes of his regiment were drawn towards him for only a moment before he dropped it forward to signal his regiment to advance, the entire army itself then following suit, the tune of the Albion Grenadiers drifting across the battlefield.
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The young mages advanced as well however this took a toll on their concentration and along the length and breadth of the line a few men started falling wounded to the ground or killed outright, Lionel ignoring the few bullets that did break through and whizzed past his ears to hit men all around him. Within 100 paces he called the halt, and like a well drilled machine, the front ranks took aim without an order given. "Ready!", he yelled, and the mages in front ceased their chanting and dropped prone to the ground, the protective wall instantly dissipating before he yelled out his next command, "Fire!"
With a report, the Anglo gun fire cut a swath through the French lines at such close distances that the French Reserve Regiments behind them took casualties as well, barely a shot missing followed immediately by cries of pain which joined the cacophony of war. Before the French could recover, the Anglo front rank was already kneeling as the second rank opened fire followed by the third. All this while, accurate cannon fire from the Albion gun lines continued their unceasing bombardment whilst the French were silent due to fears of hitting their own troops. Suddenly there was a huge explosion on the French right flank which ended in more than 200 men being instantly incinerated. Striding through the smoke and screams of terror, the silver grey armour of the Mage knights were caught in brief snatches through the fog of war, their double bladed staffs spinning in destructive arches as they maimed and killed with skilful fluidity, their spells literally leaping from theirs fingers with short chant bursts from their lips.
Lionel grinned as the three mage knights of the king were finally committed to battle. Turning to his men, he cried, "Onwards! For vengeance! Kill them all!". He was only greeted with an exultant cry as the men followed his charge into the beleaguered French.
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Rictor screamed in terror as the spectres stepped forth from the gun smoke, just three mage knights streaming forth lightning and fire in all directions, one nonchalantly swatting Rictor's friend Emanuel into the air who seemed to contort violently as he fell back amongst the regiment, only to explode in a shard of bloodied ice which fell all those caught in its radius. Rictor could only weep fearfully, the streaks of tears clearly visible as a snaking stream upon his dust covered face as he reloaded his weapon time and again to try to strike down these ghastly behemoths of war, undauntingly striding into the French lines and killing with contemptible ease. Already most of the French Grand Armee was in retreat however as members of the Old Guard, Rictor felt it was his duty to stand his ground.... that and there was no longer any point in running at all. We were all going to die anyway. With that thought flickering through his mind, the world seemed to go into a deathly quiet as his hands gracefully parted from his wrists and the musket fell in two severed pieces unto the ground, Rictor looking up to see a shining blade sweeping mesmerizingly slow towards his neck. The next thing he knew all he saw was the tumbling blue sky. Followed by darkness.