Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the saddle. Amid a punishing cannonade, he turned his horse in the direction where the enemy was advancing on the fleeing Prussians.
    Raile’s maneuver had been observed by his own men, who, inspired by his heroic action rallied behind him, their horses thundering across the field.
    The sun reflected off drawn sabers as a daring charge ensued.
    With his mount running full out, Raile reached down and scooped up the fallen Prussian flag attached to a lance. Without breaking his horse’s stride, he met a wall of French cavalry. One Frenchman, whose sword was already bloodstained, charged toward Raile. Without thinking, Raile plunged the lance into the enemy, driving it into his heart.
    There was a surprised look on the Frenchman’s face as he fell forward and slid from his horse, the bloodstained Prussian flag waving above his prone body like a banner of victory.
    The spectacle of seeing their flag flying atop a slain enemy caused pride to surge through the fleeing Prussians. They turned back, rushing down the hill to meet the French with renewed fervor.
    It soon became a struggle for supremacy, a hand-to-hand combat with Raile in the middle, spurring loyalty in the breasts of Englishmen and Prussians alike.
    At one point, Raile’s horse was shot out from under him, so he continued his fight on foot. Sweat and blood stung his eyes, and he didn’t know if he was tasting his own blood or that of the enemy, not that it mattered. Raile swung his sword, connecting with flesh and bone. He felt a sting of pain and glanced down to see blood spurting from an open gash on his leg. Ignoring the pain, he wielded his blade and met the enemy with a clash of steel.
    Time had no meaning—the only thing that mattered was to kill or be killed.
    Suddenly a cannonball exploded nearby, and Raile reeled from a stunning blow to his head. He staggered and fell to his knees, only to rise again. All at once, the ground tilted, and he felt himself falling into a black void.
    He was unaware that his men circled him like a protective shield, fighting to keep the enemy at bay. He did not hear the ghostly bugles that sounded the French retreat. He was unaware of the bedlam that broke out among the enemy ranks, or that the battle had turned and the French forces were being pursued by Wellington.
     
    Raile regained consciousness just as several men lifted and carried him toward the hospital tent behind the lines. Through a haze of pain he observed a land that had been turned into an inferno that would bear the scars of this war for many years to come. He thought for a moment that he was in hell.
    For the French, hope had turned to despair, and with despair came the knowledge that their mighty emperor had been thoroughly defeated. Raile watched as abandoned French flags were trampled beneath retreating boots.
    Oliver appeared beside Raile and spoke encouragingly, trying to hide his distress.
    “You’ll be all right, sir. Just a little nick, I suspect.”
    In truth, Raile’s face was a bloody mass, and the wounds on his leg and shoulder were bleeding profusely.
    Raile tried to rise, but the pain was so great he fell back weakly. “My command?”
    “Seven dead and twenty wounded. They did you proud today, sir,” Oliver assured him. “You mustn’t talk. The surgeons will expect you to lie quietly until they can tend your wounds—you’ll be up and about in no time, sir.”
    Raile drew in a ragged breath. Both he and Oliver knew he was gravely wounded.
    “Did we win today?” he insisted on knowing.
    “That we did, Colonel. Even though I’m told there are yet pockets of Napoleon’s crack regiment, the Old Guard, who stayed at their posts, determined to remain until the end to protect their emperor’s withdrawal. But they can’t hold out for long.”
    “Praiseworthy in battle, praiseworthy in defeat,” Raile murmured, still gripping the handle of his saber. His eyes moved to Oliver, and he said with considerable effort: “Today we are