KNIGHTS ERRANT
Sir Bohemond tightened his grip on his lance as he spurred his charger through the spray of dirt and sulphurous smoke thrown up by
the Imperial artillery. His brother knights drew abreast of him, fewer now than when the had first advanced to meet the enemy. The
northerners were arrayed at the foot of a hill north of them, drawn up in ranks with swords and halberds ready, while their cannons
and mortars fired time and again from the hill's crest. The worthless Empire rabble had refused a challenge to battle on the open
field, so Sir Bohemond had led the pride of the Brettonian van forward to take the fight to the timid foe. Gauging the distance to the
foe, Sir Bohemond realized now that he would never be able to reach them. Those thrice-cursed guns and arquebuses would be the
end of them. Disappointment welled up inside Bohemond's breast as we cursed the Imperials for their cowardice.
Now the reports of hand-guns barked out. Sir Tancred toppled from his mount, and Sir Velus was thrown from the saddle as his
warhorse crumpled beneath him. Bohemond kept the reins steady, kept his steed galloping toward the enemy formations. He would
not flee. The northerners might blast his body apart, but they would never have the satisfaction of seeing him turn tail and rout from
the field. He would not flee...
The drumming of hooves and the beating of his Brettonian heart echoed in Bohemond's helm as he thundered toward the Empire foot
troops. Two hundred yards. Too far, too blasted far. One hundred and fifty yards. The next barrage would finish them. One hundred
yards...eighty yards...
By the gods! Why wouldn't the blasted guns fire and put an end to this waiting? Didn't Imperials have any decency at all? Through
sweat, tears of rage and the narrow slits of his greathelm, Bohemond strained to see what the northerners were up to...
Three armoured riders, white pennants streaming, were crashing through the stacks of balls and powder-kegs along the hill's crest,
riding down fleeing guncrew. Another trio of cavaliers topped the summit and descended on the handgunners. Knights Errant! The
heralds must have encountered these questing warriors and told them that Brettonia was in need. Quite decent of them, really, to
turn up at such a convenient time...
Thirty yards to go. Bohemond and his eight remaining knights couched their lances. Halberdiers grounded their weapons and
tightened their ranks as the pounding of iron-shod hooves grew deafening in their ears...
