This great story was written by fellow Bretonnian C. C. Wilson, and is quite a good read. Enjoy!
Chivalry Passing
Written by C. C. Wilson
The first cannon shot split the morning silence like thunder and that was all the knights needed to hear. Marcus of Couronne saw Marshall Rodrik appear at the head of the knights. The Marshall reared his horse and cried out:
'Brothers, these men come to our land to kill us, loot our riches and enslave our sons, but worst of all they come to defile our land, the lady's land! Will you let them?
'No!' the knight roared.
''They will strike at us with cowards' weapons; with guns that spit fire into our ranks. But that shall not stop me! I shall rust their bullets with my blood if I have to! We fight them here and now, on this field, this day there will be no retreat and we shall never surrender! For the king, for the lady, for Bretonnia! Charge!'
All around Marcus, swords were drawn and lances lowered, bombarde notes rang across the field and the charge began. The wave of knights advanced over the green hills of Catalunia field towards the imperial gun line. The cannons came again their shots flew through the air turning any man they hit into red mist. Forced to break formation the knights ran like liquid over the bloody field. Like falling stars they were, shinning with righteous light. But the cannon fire came again and more starlight was eclipsed from this world. A horse fell ahead of Marcus, crushing its rider beneath; at full gallop he was forced to make his steed Barvia jump to avoid it.
But the worse was yet to come because now they were in range of the hand-gunners. Smoke ran down their lines and Marcus was struck. A lead shot had ripped through his plated left shoulder and the piping hot metal burned his muscle. He thought he would fall there, lose balance because of the pain, tumble to the ground and be trampled by the steeds' of his own comrades. But just as Marcus felt himself slipping from his saddle a white charger rode to his side; its was Roland riding helmet-less and directing his horse with his knees. Roland was a giant of a man with short red hair that suited so well his white heraldry field bearing a red lion charge. He reached out and with a great shove moves Marcus back fully into the saddle. The Knight of Couronne moved his shield up his arm and clenched the reigned tight. He then turned to thank his savour only to see him shot through the chest and fall to the bloody tomb that was the Catalunia. Marcus would be joining him soon enough.
'Damn,' he whispered.
A dozen more knights were shot down and flew under Marcus and Bravia, but it just spurred the young knight on, his knuckles whitened around the handle of his sword. He shot a glance to the left then right. The battle had turned greatly in the enemy favour. The men were dying in droves at least half of their numbers were gone. What manner of men were these, it could be easily seen they had lost, why did the not halt their fire the knights would be turned on their ranks and they would still take the day, did life not mean anything to them.
But the shots kept coming, Marcus dodged the pieces of flesh that had once been a horse, galloping straight at canon fire. He could see the enemy properly now, their blue and red uniforms, their dull lead muskets, the fear in their eyes. Their fear gave Marcus hope the pain in his shoulder had been forgotten about, if he was riding to his death then all he wanted was to take one of those bastards with him. Closer he came, closer with every second, but with every other another moment a rider would fall. Of the five hundred knights only about one hundred remained, and they were losing heart. Suddenly a single rider took lead; his shining armour almost blinded Marcus, It was the Marshall he threw down his helmet so every one could see him.
'We are not dead yet, Follow me brothers! Follow me to best death itself!' Like a mad man he was, galloping faster than Marcus ever could. Just then a cannon shot flew straight for him. When the smoke cleared there he was, still determined to meet this foe with steel. His shield held an astonishing dent but he merely threw it aside with what should have been at least a shattered arm and drew a second sword.
Banners were raised as the knights formed up again, ready to hit the lines, Marcus would get his revenge. But it was not to be, as by ill fate He was stuck by another lead shot, but this time through the throat the force knocked him from his horse and he hit the blood stained ground. From where he lay he dared to look back they had reached the lines and now it was the imperial's chance to be sent to their gods in masses, the knights were merciless they slaughter men left and right, but they fought back. Knights were pulled from their steeds and clubbed to death with muskets held at the barrel. Marcus saw one knight, as he tried to pull himself out of the muddy ground, beaten over the head by a cannon ball wielded by a muscular man. But the few knights who fell were nothing to the imperial losses, and more were cut down by the second. Marcus felt a tear run down his face and blood run down his throat, it seemed he had come to this place to see his fellows die in great numbers, killed by cowards. And in victory they become ruthless butchers whose lust for killing no amount of death would satisfy.
But his vision faded and his mind became hazy, he could almost have believed that it was a dream but he knew even as he drew his last breath he could have never imagined in his darkest of dreams the shame of this day.
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