It was long, long, ago, when the Knowne Worlde was new, the air was clean, and the committee to name grass had just dismissed. In those eldrich days of yore, Meridies was a young Principality, guided by the gentle, wise, and experienced hand of Atenveldt. (Or ground under the Iron Boot of Atendveldt. It depends on who you are talking to, and who is listening.) Calontir was as yet un-colonized, and our own borders stretched from the East Kingdom, down to the southern shores of what would one day become Trimaris.That year, so many generations past and gone, did Rolac, dread Dragon King of the Middle Kingdom, did gather his huscals about him, and ride unto the East, to make red war. It is not remembered what provoked the King or why. It is written only that the host did cover the horizon. The Eastern King did look upon the vast multitude gathered upon his western border, and did speak, saying, "Aaaack! There sure are a lot of them. Call upon the Southlands. Send for the Meridians! For as all men know, Meridies breeds the toughest, strongest, and most fearless of all the warriors of the Knowne Worlde! The Meridians will stiffen our spines and strengthen our arms." And so it was done. A herald was sent forth unto the young, handsome Prince of Meridies. Sir Francios Duvent, primogenitor of the Meridian Royal House, was already a legend from wilds of Iron Mountain to Califia's Bay. Quick, like the tounge of a adder, he fought with shortsword and small kite shield. How many men among the warriors of today would dare to stride the hallowed lines of Crown List with naught but a shortsword? Eh? And the Eastern Herald, voice of the Crown, bespoke the prince. "Come for honor! Come for glory! Come for this really cool case of beer!" And the Prince did take himself apart from his court, that he might consider the Eastern King's plea. At length, he did decide, and petitioned the Aten Crown. "My King, they need us. Without us, they are sure to falter, and the ancient line of the East may crumble. We will do great honor to thy Kingdom and bring glory upon thy name. And you'll get to keep this cool half-case of beer." The Aten king did assent, and so that year, the silver stars of the Southlands did march under the banner of the Eastern Tiger. Many are the tales that are told of that ancient war, called by the sages, Pennsic War, Number 4. The fourth meeting of the Dragon and the Tiger did occur under the auspices of Thor, the thunder god. He rained for three weeks leading up to the event, and then rained for the entire week that everyone was at the war. It was not a gentle farmer's rain, or a highland mist that never faded away. Nay, it was a downpour the likes of which the world has never seen. Many tales are told of the Great Deluge. This is not one of them. Nay. This is a tale of fealty, and the stern duty that Knights owe their Prince. The war did not go well for the East that year. During the Woods battle, the time came to activate the Meridian reserves. The call came from the Tiger's lair, and Francois did face his troops. "Men," quoth he, "today, you fight under the banner of the Tiger. Over him, as you would me. I cannot be with you today. I am called to a higher duty. Fight well." And the sturdy militiamen shouldered their pikes and marched off into the rain. Francois is called the Fox by some, for though he is not renowed as a "mental sprinter," he is a "power thinker," a strategist of great and savage cunning. And this day, amid the booming of the thunder and the pouring rain, Francois had a plan. A plan of such lethal ferocity that, if successful, it would win the battle outright in a single thrust. It was simple, elegant, yet deadly. Francois would take the Royal House of Meridies, flank around the Midrealm line, and fall upon the command center of the Midrealm army, slaughtering the House of the Dragon to a man. And so it was done. Francois did gather his knights and squires about him, and strode forth into the rain. Now Francios and his house did number a score of men, and a handful besides. Worthy knights, skilled squires, and sturdy men-at-arms did fill their number. But the rain, the rain, the rain. It poured down in sheets so thick that the Prince could not see the tip of his own short sword. The trees loomed about them like giant sentinels, and the ground underfoot was as trecherous as California bedrock. One of the scouts reported in. "My lord Prince, I fear we have mis-stepped. Not very far off of our right flank I find a short cliff. It is not insurpassable, but should not be in our path. Nor would I care to mount it in a hurry." "Quickly," said Francois, "send scouts in all directions. Tell them to go no more than fifty paces in any direction. The rest of us will wait here." Soon the scouts returned, and they bore grim news indeed. Upon the left, as well as the right flanks were steep cliffs, taller than a man's head. To the fore the open ground narrowed to a ravine filled with rising water. Francois had led his people into a trap. "All right my friends, we're not dead yet. Let the scouts become the anchor; let the anchor become the scouts. Spin the battle line about; Meridians, we are leaving!" Quickly the team set up the new formation and proceeded back to the mouth of the ravine at a quick-march, when suddenly one of the scouts raced up to the Monarch. "My lord Prince," the man panted, "There are Midrealmer's out there!" "How many?" quoth Francois. "Ummm… all of them, I think." And then did Loki, the trickster, in a moment of whimsey, part Thor's deluge, and Francois beheld before him, all the vast Midrealm host, a thousand men or more. The curtain of water fell again. Francois wiped his brow. "Okayyyy….. Listen up. We're not dead yet. The ravine is narrow at this point. Get me my spearmen. I want an interlocking-shieldwall up here NOW! One the wall is in place, the rest of the household can retreat to the back of the ravine where the water starts to rise. They can climb out there and we'll live to fight another day. Let's move people!" Thus it came to pass that Francois and the mightiest of his Knights and squires formed a hedge of steel and rattan at the mouth of the ravine barring all lesser men from entering. They held the line until all of the Meridian royal house had withdrawn, until but six men remained: The Prince, two Knights, and three squires to hold the line. And hold the line they did. But above the booming of the thunder and the ever-present roar of falling water there came another sound: the sound of marching feet. For the Midrealm dragon is neither blind nor stupid, and seeing the easy kill slip away enraged it. The army of the Middle surged forward like a rising tide. Francois glanced about. "We're not dead year, my friends. Stay by my side. Lock your shields. Nobody can see more than three feet in this soup. We can retreat, stepwise into the rain, vanish at the back of the ravine, and live to fight another day." The Prince looking into the eyes of his Knights, and they understood. The prince looked into the eyes of the squired, and wonder upon wonder: they understood. There was a plan. The plan was good. Then Francios did take up short-sword and shield, and stride forth from amidst his warriors, and into the teeth of the Midrealm host; one man against a thousand. The Knights looked at one another askance, for this was NOT the plan. But the Knights did as Knights do, and they followed their Prince onto the killing ground. Squired, they do not follow kings and princes, for they get lost easily. But they know the colors of their Knights, and they know their duty. Without thought, they followed their lords straight into hell. And so it came to pass that day, a score an more years past and gone. Six men did charge a thousand, amid the flashing of the lightning, the booming of the thunder, and the pouring of the rain. And thus are legends born. They struck the Midrealm line like a thunderclap. Surprise was total, for six men do NOT charge a thousand.. The dragon army recoiled like an injured serpent. Oh, did shortsword and mace rise and fall that day. The dead heaped up in windrows like winter wheat. The mud ran red with dragon's blood. But there is, indeed, a reason that six men do not charge a thousand. And soon it came to pass the Francois did stand with but one loyal Knight to guard his back. A lucky thrust from a Midrealm spearman, and Francois did stand alone. Not even the primogenitor of the Meridian royal line can withstand a thousand men with none to guard his back. Indeed, had the Prince managed to get his back to the ravine wall, perhaps our story might have a different ending. But alas, it does not. Eventually, his mighty thews did tire. Alone, exhausted, and blinded by the rain, Prince Francois extended a blow just a LITTLE too far. He recovered just a LITTLE to slowly. And so fell the last and greatest of the Royal House. Weep, for Meridies, whose noble line lay dead, without ever catching site of the Dragon King that they had come to slay. But this was Pennsic. Cold, and wet, `tis true, but never the less, Pennsic, and the closest you can get to Valhalla and still have breath in your body. The dead did rise up and head back to camp, for mead, music, and dry socks. And so they met in the mead hall, for goode company and drink. Later that night, when one of the Francois' retainers achieved the magic moment of "more mead than sense," he approached his liege lord. "My Prince, this day you did great honor to the warriors of your house. To think that six men might charge a thousand is a wonderous compliment to our valor, our prowess, and our tolerance for pain…. But, my lord, if I might be so bold…. Why, oh why did six men charge a thousand this day? This was NOT the plan!" Francois looked down into his wineglass, as though seeing a higher Truth there, and then sighed. "Good Sir Knight," quoth he, "look to your boots. Tell me what you find there." The Knight sniffed the air, and then examined his boots with some care. Anon, he said, "My Lord, I find nothing save the golden spurs your noble kinsman, the Aten King did see fit to place upon them, six months agone." "Aye," said Francois, "I, too wear a pair." He gave them a desultory spin. "And this day, amid the flash of the lightning, the booming of the thunder, and the drumming of the rain, mine were stuck in the bushes. I couldn't move backward. I just needed to take one. Lousy. Step. Forward. And you all FOLLOWED me. I couldn't back up without abandoning you so I charged." Go to Chateu Duvent. Speak to Count Francios. Ask him when he last wore spurs in the woods. He'll tell you: "Pennsic IV. Woods Battle. I can be taught." Thus is the Tale of the Last Stand of Prince Francois, as I had it from my Master, Saher Faux, these days, a Companion of the Laurel. In those days, second squire from the left, with the short mace.
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The events related in this story are true. I had them from one who was there. It may be that I have removed the boring parts and rounded the numbers up for the sake of a good story, but if you have nits to pick, pick `em someplace else. Permission to reproduce this story in SCA publications is granted, so long as it is not for profit. A courtesy copy is requested. But if you make any real money off of this, I want my cut. – Bill McNutt
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