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**TheGuitarist** · July 10, 2002, 09:54

Certainly does sound interesting!

I'm wondering where you're taking this: all-out war between the clans? Or dipomatic maneuvering and betrayal?

In any case, keep going.

**WTE_OzWolf** · July 13, 2002, 10:01

Battle of the Three Armies

The early morning mist still hung over the open plain; silver-gray tendrils that stretched out across the field like fingers. It was slowly dissapating with the rising of the sun, but the view was one of beauty. Beauty that would be shattered within the next few hours.

Prince Xerses, mounted on his warhorse looked over at Lord Alexander.

"I did not think the Americans could field such an army in such a short time." He stated, nodding towards the American forces forming up on the other side.

"Never underestimate them, my friend." Alexander replied. "The American clan holds a great deal of territory within the kingdom and they have a large pool of people to recruit from."

"You are right, of course." Xerses said. "But their factories must have come to a standstill for them to train these people."

"They could afford to do it." Alexander pointed out. "With the kingdom falling to war, they no longer had to supply the other factions with goods or weapons and what they were producing certainly out-stripped what they needed."

"It will be a tough battle." Xerses said, changing the subject to something easier to grasp and closer to hand. "Though we outnumber them, they have a great deal of modern weaponary compared to us."

Alexander looked down at the Persian and Greek armies arrayed around them. The Persians, who prided themselves on their horsemenship, only had a limited number of armoured horse and their defensive unit of choice was the spearmen. Horsemen, not much more than scouts in today's day and age, rounded out their mounted troop numbers. But the always-feared Persian Immortals bolstered what would otherwise be a lack-lustre army facing the modern American army.

The Greeks were the opposite to the Persians. They had no armoured horses and only a few horsemen they had managed to train during the short horse-gemstones trade that Xerses and Alexander had started. Swordsmen, whose armour could no longer be replaced, were the Greek's offensive weapons. But the Greeks countered their lack of offensive weapons with the Hoplite units, a unit that even the modern Americans would dread facing.

The armies were lining up against each other in northern Greece. Upon noticing the gathered American forces striking south for Greek territory, Alexander had immediately asked for Xerses' assistance in stopping a full-out invasion from their northern neighbours. Gathering what forces he could, while still protecting the Persian territories from other clans, Xerses had struck north, his column weaving their way north to meet up with Alexander and his forces and meet the Americans.

It had surprised Xerses to find Alexander leading his own troops into battle. The Greek clan leader was not who Xerses considered a warrior, nor someone that could command an army into battle, but it was not Xerses' place to question. He was simply there in the hope of convincing the Americans to return to their own territories.

"Are we going to try one last time for a diplomatic solution?" Xerses asked.

"I suppose we should." Alexander said.

Along with their respective battle standards, Alexander and Xerses trotted out from amongst their ranks and towards the centre of the battlefield. A single horse with the light blue American battle standards made its way towards them from the American army.

"Thomas Lincoln." Xerses said upon sighting who was the one in command of the American army. "So, the American clan leader sends his son to lead the invasion."

"Not surprising." Alexander replied as they trotted along. "Abraham is not so much the warrior anymore."

"He never was a warrior." Xerses grunted. "He preferred to stay behind the city walls or whatever keep or castle was nearby rather than enter into battle."

“Like a certain somebody else, my warrior Prince?” Alexander asked, wryly.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Xerses said, refusing to enter into the banter. “Come, let us see if we can stop this madness.”

The two respective parties met in the centre of the open plain.

“Thomas Lincoln.” Alexander said. “We assume you speak on behalf of your father, Abraham Lincoln, leader of the glorious American clan?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Alexander.” Lincoln said. “But, yes, I do speak for my father.”

“We wish for the American people to acknowledge the clan holdings of the Greeks and remove your army from our territory.” Alexander stated. “If you do so peacefully, you will not be attacked by Greek forces, so is my word.”

Thomas Lincoln looked at Xerses.

“And you, Persian,” he said, “what demands do you have?”

“I have no demands of the Americans.” Xerses said. “I am simply here to try and stop this madness.”

Lincoln chuckled ominously.

“I’m afraid you are too late for that.” He said. “You alone cannot stop this. There are too many head-strong and greedy people involved, my father included.”

“Then join us and help stop it, Thomas.” Xerses said.

This time Thomas Lincoln laughed out loud.

“I am sorry, Prince Xerses, but that is impossible.” He said. “I have my orders and I cannot accept your demands. The Americans will have this territory.”

Wheeling his horse around, Thomas galloped back to the waiting American army. Xerses sighed.

“Perhaps he is right.” Xerses said. “There are dark times ahead.”

“Enough gloom, Xerses.” Alexander said. “We have a battle to fight.”

“One which I was hoping not to.” Xerses said. “But if our wishes and hopes always came true, then life would become too easy.”

The two men rode their horses back to the waiting combined army. On the way, Xerses gave his signal to his Master-at-Arms and in short time, the long, bass call of the Persian war horns could be heard, floating through the air and dispersing mist like long dead warriors, returning to grant their descendants luck and fortune in battle. Battle standards were raised and fluttered in the wind. Xerses bid his luck to Alexander and rode over to his part of the army, unsheathing his weapon.

The great longsword, crafted by the Persians finest metal-smith from Persian metal, flickered with light as the early morning sun reflected off of the polished metal. His men, all hand-picked and battle-hardened, knelt before him.

“To our warrior god, we give thanks for his guidance and ask that he once again shine fortune and luck onto us during the coming battle.” Xerses said, raising the sword towards the sky.

The Persian soldiers rose and prepared for battle.

“Catapults!” Xerses called and he heard his command being relayed back to the siege and bombardment weapons at the rear of the army. “Fire!”

Like a giant breath of air, the Persian catapults unleashed their deadly loads: pots of burning oil, spiked balls and giant sacks of loose metal shards that exploded on impact.

“Archers!” Xerses called out. “Fire!”

With distinctive twang of longbows, thousands of wooden shards began raining down on the enemy. But it wasn’t all one-way traffic. The American army began to answer in kind. Catapult shot began to rain down on the Persian and Greek troops, along with as many arrows as what the Persians was sending over.

The cries of the wounded filled the air, along with the acrid smell of burning plants and flesh. Xerses breathed in deep, using the sounds and smell to fuel his warrior spirit. He let the anger at the pain his men were suffering swell the warrior spirit to the point where he thought he was going to burst. War lust burned bright within him and he knew what he must do.

“My soldiers!” He cried. “Charge the enemy and send them back to Washington!”

Raising his sword, he spurred his mighty warhorse forward and joined his legions of Immortals as they charged the American lines. As he passed the forward lines of the Greeks, he saw confused looks as the Greek soldiers and commanders tried to determine why the Persians were breaking the battle plan.

Xerses fell into line with his armoured horse as they lead the Persian charge.

“Fight well and the warrior god will reward you!” Xerses cried out just before his line of armoured horse clashed fully with a similar charge from the Americans.

The clash of steel on steel filled the air and the cries and yells of fighting men surrounded Xerses. Levelling his sword, he picked a target and swung, cleanly taking the enemy’s head off. Reversing his sword, he swung at a lightly-armoured American horseman. The longsword cut through that man’s armour with the ease of knife through silk.

The fight was joined by Immortals from the Persians and swordsmen from the Americans, adding a new element to the battle. Like a wraith, Xerses waded in amongst the American soldiers, recklessly slashing at anything. Blood dulled the gleam of his sword and was splattered over himself and his horse and yet they still kept coming.

Suddenly, Xerses’ horse disappeared from underneath him and he was dumped unceremoniously face-first into the mud underfoot. Rolling onto his back, he raised his sword and parried a killing blow, mere inches from his face. Grunting, he swatted the sword away, drew a slender knife, and slotted it in the spot under the swordsman’s arm where their was no heavy armour. The enemy soldier collapsed onto the ground.

Grunting, he tried to rise, but another enemy soldier attempted to strike at him. With a deft swipe, Xerses removed the enemy soldiers left foot, sending him collapsing to the ground, clutching his leg, any thought of the battle lost to his screams of pain.

Rolling out of the way of a horse, he climbed to his feet and blocked a sword strike over his head from behind that would have cracked his helmet and head wide open. Swinging around, he brought the blade across the abdomen of the enemy swordsmen. His breath came hard and he was perspiring hard. His long hair was clinging to his face, but with a warrior’s cry he flung himself back into the battle.

A shape loomed out of the mass and Xerses pulled up his slashing swing mere seconds before decapitating a Greek hoplite. Alexander had advanced his army into the battle, and his hoplites were effectively tearing the attacking Americans, deftly knocking down horses, riders and foot soldiers with their long pikes. Hoplites might have been an ancient era unit, but the Greek traditions and tactics still had pride of place in today’s armies.

Turning back to the battle, Xerses let out a war cry and charge back in. His sword flashed and enemies fell. He trod over dead Americans, Persians and Greeks, at peace in death. The initial yells and cries of war that had filled the air at the first clash had been replaced with the terrified cries of wounded and dying men. Men who no longer cared about the outcome of the battle but only the outcome of their life.

The battle had thinned. Targets were less numerous and had started to lack the enthusiasm to fight. When the last of the American foot soldiers fell, Thomas Lincoln called for the retreat and the tattered remnants of his armoured horse fled the battlefield, along with the tattered pride of the American army.

Standing amidst the remnants of his own army, Xerses fought to catch his breath. His blood-splattered self was indistinguishable from the other Persian Immortals or Greek swordsmen. As he looked around, a party flying the Greek battle standards came riding up, Alexander at the head. If that wasn’t enough to tell Xerses that the battle had been won, the Persian war horns began calling the victory to the warrior god. Somehow, Alexander picked out Xerses and rode up to him.

“My, my, Prince Xerses.” He commented. “You do like to get your hands dirty. If you keep this up, the Persians could be without a leader once again.”

“The Persian Prince always leads his mean into battle, Alexander.” Xerses said. “That is why we always die young.”

“I doubt the Americans will be underestimating the fighting ability of the Persians in the near future.” Alexander stated. “Come, we must gather our armies and head north to crush the Americans once and for all.”

“I am going in the opposite direction, my friend.” Xerses said. “I came here to help you defend your territorial borders, not to join you in an invasion.”

“I’m afraid you do not see the greater picture, my friend.” Alexander said. “Lincoln knew I would ask you to help defend the Greek territories. He knew that the Greek army could not stand against the Americans alone and he knew you were my closest ally. Lincoln did not care if he won or lost here today. Either way, he could drag the Persians into battle against him.”

“What aim would that serve him?” Xerses asked, not liking where the conversation was heading. “The Greek territories are a buffer between America and Persia and our combined might could hold them indefinitely.”

“Because the Americans are in league with the Germans.” Alexander said. “Or don’t you remember our little meeting in Berlin?”

“I remember all too well.” Xerses said. “That is all the more reason for me to return. I am sorry Alexander, I must put the safety and needs of my people ahead of your desire for revenge or personal gain.”

“Personal gain?” Alexander said, laughing. “It’s got nothing to do with personal gain Xerses but it does have everything to do with survival. If we don’t strike at the American clan, they will attack us.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Alexander,” replied Xerses, “but the Greeks do not exactly have an offensive army.”

“That is why I need you, Xerses.” Alexander replied.

“I am sorry, but I cannot.” Xerses said. “I am returning to Persia, along with my army.”

Alexander shook his head and smiled sadly.

“I just hope this isn’t the end.” He said.

“It isn’t, my friend.” Xerses said. “The Persian forces will always provide assistance should you need them, we just won’t go to war with you.”

“We’re already at war together, Prince Xerses.” Alexander said but held up his hand. “Don’t, I know you’re set. We will part as friends. Luck in your endeavours.”

“And luck in yours.” Xerses said, grasping Alexanders offered hand. Gathering his soldiers, Xerses marched south, back to Persia and an unknown future.

**civman2000** · July 13, 2002, 10:20

great! Keep this up!

**TheGuitarist** · July 13, 2002, 11:03

Excellent!

**ChrisiusMaximus** · August 15, 2002, 17:21

This is very good

**Civ3King** · August 15, 2002, 18:25

This is gettting intresting keep writing. There is something about Alexander I dont trust.

**dnassman** · August 15, 2002, 23:33

This is just as good as the Nightmare and shame story you are writing. You gotta finish this one too.

**Verto** · August 18, 2002, 21:37

Very well written, as all you're stories are. Keep it up!

**trickey** · August 23, 2002, 19:24

are you gonna keep this one going? its great

**WTE_OzWolf** · August 23, 2002, 19:30

Yes...I've actually been writing the next chapter, however its taking a little longer than I expected (though the chapter isn't).

**trickey** · August 23, 2002, 20:36

Ok, just wondering.

**WTE_OzWolf** · September 17, 2002, 23:08

...continued...

I apologise for the gap in writing. Been doing other things, like going on holiday, work around the house, etc.

Anyway, the next chapter is finally complete.

The Forgotten French

The unlit night closed around the French fleet like an all-encompassing blanket, shielding them from the eyes of the enemy and ensuring their safe passage towards the mainland. Baroness Joan de Arc could not have asked for better conditions as she stood on the prow of the French galley Paris Triomphe.

The smell of the sea and the spray of salt water filled her senses and like everytime she was aboard her ship, she felt truely alive. The world and her apparent destiny lay before her when she stood on the prow and it felt good. Soft footsteps barely made themselves heard behind her.

With light feet, Joan dropped to the deck and looked at the ship's captain as he stood there.

"Yes captain?" She said in a hushed voice. At night, sound seemed to carry further across water and the last thing they wanted was to be stumbled upon by the enemy.

"All is well, m'lady." The captain replied. "Lookouts report all clear to the horizon and we continue our silent running well."

To further reduce the noise the French fleet could make, sails had been furled to stop them cracking against the wind and oars wrapped in cloth were being used to propel the thirty-odd vessels silently across the Strait of Sorrows towards the mainlands of the Great Kingdom.

"We have nothing to fear from the Germans." Joan said. "They have spent too many years relying on the English fleets to protect their shores. They have no significant fleet of their own."

"But what of the English?" Enquired the captain, out of curiosity, not fear. That was what Joan liked about her ship's captain, his level-headed thinking during battle.

"The English are of no concern." Joan said.

Which was true as far as the French were concerned. The English acted all high and mighty, convincing themselves that their fleet was the grandest within all of the Great Kingdom, but it was a farce. Joan knew this because none of the other clans within the Great Kingdom truely recognised the French as an equal member.

Hundreds of years ago when the last war had erupted over the crown, the French had occupied wealthy lands just north of Berlin. A thin strip of cities and towns dotted along the coast, it had brought much wealth to the French as the trading mecha of the Great Kingdom. But the French found themselves on the losing side, supporting a king that was destined to rule the bottom of grave. Leaderless and with her allies bending the knee to the new German king, the French had found their cities overrun by English and German armies, effectively banishing them to the Isle of the Lost, a desolate strip of land set aside from the Great Kingdom mainland.

The Germans had never trusted the French while they sat upon the throne, and with the German clan as the Royal Clan, the French had dared not retaliate for fear of reprisals from the other clans. But now, with the kingdom in turmoil, the French could strike back and repay the hardships suffered at the hands of the Germans and the English.

A commotion above made her look up. The vague silhouette of the lookout could be seen making hand signals. While Joan had trouble following what was being said, the captain had had years at see and had eyes like a cat.

"Unknown vessels seen approaching from the north, m'lady." The captain reported. "By the number of them, most likely English."

"What number are there?" Joan asked, weighing up her options.

"Approximately ten." The captain answered.

"Deploy the vanguard fleet." Joan said. "The invasion fleet will make landfall by day break."

The captain nodded and moved off. Soon, marine animal calls could be heard floating across the waves as the ships communicated. It fell quiet quickly, but Joan saw the twelve vessels of the vanguard fleet pull away and move towards the north. Even as she watched, they unfurled their black sails and picked up speed.

"God speed their sails, keep true their shot and keep their rams straight." Joan said, speaking a naval prayer out loud.

In silence, the invasion fleet continued its toil towards the mainland. No longer contemplating her future, but the present, Joan continued to watch the battle between the fleets unfold in front of her.

In unison, the deck catapaults lit their shot, momentarily creating beacons out in the middle of nowhere. Mere milliseconds after the catapault shot had been lit, they were thrown into the air. Like ash from the gods, the burning bundles dropped down into the English fleet, smashing into hulls, setting wood, sail and person alight.

The English fleet fell immediately into disarray. Joan smiled tightly to herself. Indeed the English had done a good job of convincing themselves they had the greatest navy. Caught unprepared, the English made no competition for the aggressive tactics of the French captains. The French ships closed on the English fleet, smashing into them with rams and letting loose a rain of firey death with archers lining the gunwhale. Joan turned away from the battle as it sunk below the horizon.

"How long captain?" She asked.

"Two hours m'lady." The captain replied.

"Two hours until we take back what is rightfully ours." Joan commented.

* * *

The tides were good to the French and they in fact arrived at their destination before the estimated two hours, and under the grey cover of early morning, they rowed their army ashore. Joan remained tense, expecting a welcoming party, but not once did they detect the presence of any German troops.

Joan snorted at the German's concept of high alert. She had vowed that the high-and-mighty Germans and English would regret their disdain and contempt for the French and it appeared they were going to hand her France's redemption on a plate.

With whispered commands, the French army consisting of horsemen, swordsmen, spearmen, archers and catapaults spread began snaking its way through the German countryside, enroute for the city that stood as the throne of the Great Kingdom for three centuries.

Half a day later, as the high walls of Berlin rose from the horizon before her, Joan's contempt of the German high families had turned to pity for the German people. The German leaders showed little regard for the safety of the German people, obviously keeping their troops within the city walls for their own protection. They had literally abandoned their own people.

"The Germans have grown complacent." Joan commented to General la Fayette riding at her side.

"They have spent three hundred years relying on English ships and Persian troops to protect them m'lady." la Fayette replied. "And now the Persians no longer provide them troops."

"And our fleet has always been the better over the English." Joan said, chuckling slightly.

Their short conversation was interrupted as drums began to beat from the city of Berlin and people outside began streaming in. The giant snake that wass the French army began to fan out, taking up positions around the city walls, well outside an archer's range.

"Catapaults ready!" Joan screamed, when after three hours the French army had arrayed itself into a siege formation. Heavily armoured swordsmen stood alongside spearmen, protecting the front of the formation. Behind them came the archers and the horsemen while at the back the catapaults loaded rocks and burning pitch onto their cradles.

Joan raised her sword.

"Lease!" She cried and with the twang of released tension, the catapaults flung their projectiles towards Berlin's walls. The heavier rocks smashed into the walls, some clearing them and crashing into buildings beyond. The burning pitch, much lighter and able to achieve greater range smashed into the buildings, spilling burning liquid over the thatch roofing, setting the German city alight.

"Reload!" Joan ordered.

As the French catapaults reloaded, German ones inside the city responded and rocks and pitch was inbound.

"Incoming!" Joan shouted. The army parted for the incoming projectiles, but there was no way for everybody to get out of the way. Screams rose from along the French lines as people were set alight by flames. Those that got hit by rocks did not get much chance to make a noise. Joan realised that the French army was as much a lucrative target to the Germans as their city was to the French.

"I want a breach in their walls." Joan ordered. "Use only rocks. All catapaults fire at will."

The constant sounds of firing catapaults filled the air as the catapault parties fired and loaded, fired and loaded. A continuous stream of rocks smashed into the city walls and slowly but surely, they began to crumble under the barrage.

"Come on, come on." Joan said to herself. "Fall, give us a door."

Another return barrage from the Germans crashed into the French ranks, but Joan watched with pride as nobody broke and ran. The catapaults roared again and were quickly matched by a different type of roar as her army cheered.

With a long, deep rumble, a section of the high walls of Berlin began to sag before collapsing completely, leaving a large breech in the walls.

"Forward!" Joan ordered and as one, the French army began to march towards their objective. Swordsmen and spearmen formed the front ranks while the swift horsemen prepared for a lightning strike from the flanks. Finally, the archers brought up the rear, firing as the marched.

Enemy archer fire began to fall like a new plague amongst the French soldiers as they came under range of the German bowmen, but like an unstoppable wave, the French army kept marching forward.

Within a hundred metres of the wall, German troops spilled out through the breach. Joan smiled slightly. The Germans had just made a grevious tactical error. As they charged the French formation, the front formation split apart and archers with drawn bows fired into the advancing enemy. At such close range, they could not miss. The Germans fell like wheat before a scythe and demoralised, they were set upon by the French swordsmen. The clash of steel and grunts of fighting men filled the air as the French troops made short work of the Germans.

The French army flowed into Berlin, streaming past the walls and filling the streets with shouting men. German soldiers rushed to meet them. Joan blocked a high-hack from a German swordsmen before elbowing him in the face and then bringing her own sword down and liberating him of his own legs.

With flawless swordsmanship, Joan twirled through the battle, her polished blade glinting from the sun as she swept through troops at an astonishing rate. Her men did not follow her simply because she was born into the right lineage. No, they followed her because she could fight and she could lead.

The German soldiers slowly fell back, quickly becoming outnumbered. But the French were no longer enmasse either, having split into pre-arranged sub-armies tasked with subduing the city and bringing it under French control. German archers, positioned in buildings, were chased down and killed. Marksmen archers for the French came up and picked off troops, archers and officers as the French progressed.

They reached the inner wall of the city quickly and it was here that Joan had thought the attack might stall, but the inner wall was no more than a cracked remnant of its former self. Joan summised that it had once been the city's original wall, but only the occassional support pillar and crumbling masonary was left to show that it had ever existed.

"Forward!" Joan yelled. The German troops were falling back quicker now, trying to form a last bastion at the palace and the quicker they fell back, the harder the French troops pressed their advantage.

The palace rose from the city before Joan, rare blackstone absorbing the sunlight, majestic in its size and architecture. All around the base of the palace and visible throughout the ramparts were thousands of German troops. Joan called a halt, allowing her troops to gather for the final offensive. As she waited, she sized up the palace. It had never been designed to be a stronghold. It was decorative. The inner wall was supposed to be protecting the inner city and palace, but the Germans, complacent in their over-confidence, had let that fall to the wayside.

It did not take long for the various army components to reach the palace at the centre of Berlin. With centuries of built up anger and resentment, the French army literally roared at the German palace, like an enraged mythical beast, ready to crush all before it.

"Attack!" Joan screamed. Even though there was no way her voice would reach every troop's ears, the sight of their fellow soldiers charging up the steps surrounding the palace would be sign enough.

Like a swarm of insects, the French army ascended the steps of the palace, covering it like a blanket. Arrows whizzed through the air, suddenly sprouting from the chests of nearby soldiers. Joan screamed and yelled as she ran up the steps, her sword raised high. He troops, roaring their own war cry followed close on her heels.

German foot soldiers appeared at the top of the steps, ready to meet the French onslaught, but they were not Persian warriors and lacked the finely tuned instincts that the Persian soldiers had, and they were grossly out numbered. The German soldiers managed to hold back the first wave, but the second wave smashed into them and they crumbled. Screaming men fell beneath the roaring onslaught of the French.

Joan ran through the passages of the palace. The structured defence the Germans has layed out fell to pieces mere minutes into the fight as the sheer numerical superiority of the French crushed any resistance with ease.

Joan slowed to a walk as she approached the throne room door. Unsuprisingly, it was locked and barred.

"Burn it." She ordered a nearby soldier. Oil was brought forward and placed liberally over the entire door. They moved back as an archer lit an arrow and fired it. With a deafening whoof, the door ignited.

The heat beat at Joan's face as they patiently waited for the door's integrity to reach a point where it could be knocked in. More and more troops were arriving as the palace steadily came under French control. Finally, she ordered a ram be brought up. Two swings of the ram and the flaming door fell inwards.

Stepping lightly through the flames, Joan emerged into throne room. Instinctively, she blocked an incoming sword to her right, raising her own sword above her head to fend the blow. She grunted as her muscles strained under the blow. Dropping her shoulder, he knocked her would-be assailant off-balance, giving herself enough time to drive her sword into the attacker's chest. The German soldier let out a startled hiss before collapsing on the floor. Joan spun around, but saw her own troops taking care of a second German soldier.

Cloak billowing behind her, Joan walked through the smoke and the throne loomed out of it. Seated upon it was Bismark, looking calmly at Joan as she walked forward.

"Baroness." Bismark said. "You dare approach the King after such a disgraceful display?"

"You are no King, Bismark." Joan said.

"Regardless," continued Bismark, "what is your purpose?"

"My purpose is to provide redemption for the centuries of dishonour that the French have had to suffer." Joan answered.

"You throw me in the dungeons and I will escape." Bismark said. "I will rise greater than you could imagine."

"You overrate your importance." Joan said, sneering her contempt.

"And you overrate your troop's loyalty." Bismark said, returning the sneer.

It took a moment for Joan to comprehend what was just said.

"No." Joan said, her eyes widening.

"Take her." Bismark said, flicking his fingers with disdain.

Joan turned to General la Fayette, who smashed her in the face with the pummel of his sword.

As vision left her, Joan heard Bismark speak to General la Fayette.

"Welcome back to the French-Germans General."

**civman2000** · September 18, 2002, 08:16

! Keep this up!

**dnassman** · September 18, 2002, 20:19

This is truly awesome. Well worth coming back to the stories forum.

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