Knights End

It was raining. A chill rain fell from the slate-grey sky to wreathe about the stocky watchtowers of Amiens. The noonday sun a mere smudge of light in the gloomy skies.

A lone figure walked the battlements. Tall and proud he stood, a bastion against the oncoming storm. The oiled links of his chainmail gleamed wetly in the faint light as a light breeze stirred his sable cloak. Pinpricks of orange fire light dotted the horizon, the faint glow mirrored in Calais cold gray eyes, as he gazed forth from the battlements at the army that encroached upon his homeland like some loathsome disease.

Calais had been a member of the Kings Knights decades now. After years of faithful service and victory the king had granted him the title of Knight General and had thus handed over command of the knights to him. “Victory” he thought ruefully, if only it where so. Casting his thoughts back he painfully remembered the fall of the land he loved. What had once been peaceful was now ravaged and war-torn, the green rolling hills of his youth now lay broken and blood stained as if to mock his memories of fairer days.

With the death of the Overlord the whole kingdom had disintegrated, having fallen prey to the wolves of internal strife and rebellion. The land holders and Barons had joined forces across the kingdom, and were now seeking new lands to master, leaving death and destruction in their wake. Turning his thoughts onto the current situation he let his gaze slide from the approaching enemy and descended the stairs that led down to the courtyard.

As he reached the lower steps he walked into the courtyard and joined his men. After mounting his roan a young squire handed him his steel gauntlets and plumed helm as another handed him a lance. Glancing down at the young man Calais tried to give the lad a reassuring smile but with the sickly grin the squire returned he thought he must have failed. With a sigh Calais gripped the reigns and urged his horse forward. The portcullis slowly opened with a steely squeal of protest. With one steel encased forearm Calais gave the signal to move out. As the last knight left the castle grounds the order to form ranks was given as the army rode on the winds of chance to greet their fate.

His job, he knew, was a simple one. He would take his knights and engage the enemy. The king had decided to keep his main force of pikes and swordsman within the vicinity of the castle and let the mounted knights harry the opposing force, hopefully bleeding the enemy enough to prevent a direct attack on the citadel itself. This is what Calais liked, a nice brisk ride with a fight at the other end. Seeing the vanguard of the enemy ahead he rose in his stirrups and bellowed the command to charge.

The wind whistled in his ears as his horse galloped toward the approaching army. The vermilion pennon that was affixed to the tip of his lance snapped wildly in the cold wind. Clamping down his visor Calais lowered his lance and set himself.

The resounding crash as the two armies met was fantastic. Calais watched with grim fascination as his lance disappeared into the chest of the soldier he was bearing down on. The stricken man stared down with shock registered on his pale features before he toppled to the blood wet grass. Relinquishing his grip on the lance he drew his sword with a flourish.

The sounds of fighting seemed to emerge from every quarter. A symphony of moans and screams assailed Calais ears with the sound of destruction. The knights charge had been successful , the advance of the enemy had been halted and had now been turned into a full retreat.

With broad overhead sweeps of his sword, Calais cut his way toward the centre of the opposing army, his knights seemingly steel angels dealing death in his wake. Suddenly, Calais was hurled from his horse with terrific force. Removing his helm he stared down at his chest in bewilderment. A thumb-thick quarrel stood out from his breast and thrummed gently with each beat of his failing heart. With trembling hands Calais gripped the bolt with both hands and gave it a feeble tug. As he pulled the shaft a gusher of blood fountained from his mouth and nose. Falling back heavily he stared at his killer, it was Sir Embrig, one of his knights.

“Foul Treachery” Calais gurgled weakly.

“Aye Captain” responded Embrig with an evil grin. “Before you die I just want you to know that you’ve failed your king and country, all that vaunted courage me and the boys have had to listen to about you from
that old fool that sits on the thrown still doesn’t stop a crossbow does it. But there’s no need to worry about our wise king”, he said with sarcasm. “The old geezer is getting his throat slit for him as we speak. Now do you see? Everything in this world is for sale, honor, love you name it and it has a price.”

“Why?” It was nothing more than a whisper.

“Well you see old boy, now that the Overlord is dead and his armies are scattering me and the other boys thought we might like to run the kingdom ourselves” With that said he stalked off and left Calais to die.

As the light receded from Calais he knew one thing. All that he had held dear was now gone and he was now gone with it. Without a tear he drew his last breath and fixed his gaze toward heaven.

Later that same day Calais’s body was found amidst the carnage, playing across the generals lips was the ghost of a smile.