Well, we got back into the W column, and while it wasn't a win that filled me with a ton of confidence for our future schedule, I have to remind myself that teams can change quite a bit over a period of a few weeks, both for good or ill (hopefully in our case for good). Until then all we can do is keep rooting for the Buckeyes, and hoping for a victory over Michigan. 

Day the Fourth of the Eleventh Moon, Year Two Thousand Ten and Eight

Long after the drone of war trumpets and the booming thump of marching drums faded, long after the swords and spears were washed clean of blood, after the horses and fallen men were dragged from the field of battle, after the terms of Lord Frost's ransom were agreed upon and messenger badgers were sent scurrying forth to deliver said terms to the ministers and councilmen of the Principality of Lincoln, Lord Urban lingered upon the field. At his side were his firm friends and loyal officers, Lord Lawrence of the Firm Handshake, Lord Brian the Lion-Harted, Lord Ryan of Day, and Greggorious Schanius, master of secrets and (supposedly) the little understood science of tackling. 

None spoke to him, for Lord Urban was clearly of graven mind and ashen soul, doubled over, hands on his armored knees. It was not for many long moments before at last Lord Ryan of Day did durst to speak. 

"It did not go well, did it, my lord?" 

Lord Urban turned to him. "Verily? Thinkest thou so?" 

The assembled generals gasped, for never before had they heard such sarcasm, for indeed this was the moment of sarcasm's invention (well, rediscovery, for the Ancients of brooding, sand-swathed Egypt did dabble in the sarcastic arts before such arts were destroyed in the terrible Hyksos invasion). 

And then Lord of Urban of Meyer did swear upon the blood of his illustrious line that all iniquities would be addressed, all frailties ameliorated. 

No, neither he nor the generals believed it, for there was a rot that had set into the armies of Columbus, a pernicious lethargy that weaken'd the resolve and vigor of every man to the last, and perhaps only another chastening defeat such as that suffered to the forces of Purdue would dispel it. 

The signs had been there from the start that the weakness that unmade the army of Ohio in the fields of Purdue as yet still held sway when the men of Lincoln arrived with their not-quite-so-scarlet-as-that-of-Columbus's banners and pennants. The ranks of Columbus that assembled to oppose them were haphazard at best, the depleted formations replenished by farmers and pretend-soldiers. Even some of the veteran knights of Columbus had neglected to oil their swords (for in these times, swords requir'd regular oiling that they might properly serve the killing arts), and many more did not even present themselves at the field of battle, too concerned with a large train of dainty sugar-honey cakes that had not yet arrived, in absence of which they saw no proper path to victory. 

Worse yet, the men of Lincoln were furious from many disheartening and embarrassing defeats (such as the recent rout at the hands of a group of rather unpleasant squirrels in the Forest of Truths, who by dint of a hail of acorns had killed over a hundred men-at-arms, including several of Lord Frost of Scott's finest knights), and were thus unwilling to accept yet another defeat. Each one of them would fight with the strength of ten Nebraskans, which meant they would each fight with the strength of two badgers, twelve housecats, or nine-and-seventy songbirds. 

When the two armies clashed, Lord Urban behind the lines of Ohio and Lord Frost behind the Nebraskan lines, the two forces did break upon one another with terrible fury, shields and swords clanging and rending and breaking. Sir Haskins of the Strong Arm once more stood as leader of men, though at his side were the sworn brothers-in-arms, Sir Dobbins and Sir Weber. Those two bold knights, clumsy and timid of late, sprung to battle with renewed vigor, unwilling to allow themselves to be humbled once more by lesser men. Sir Dobbins in particular cut a deep swath through the enemy, killing a dozen knights, unnumbered men-at-arms, and at least three merchants who were not part of the Nebraskan host (and the murder of whom was very difficult and awkward to explain later). But despite the bravery of such knights, the defensive flank faltered against repeat'd pressure from the men of Lincoln, especially after the fall of Sir Fuller. As lines collapsed and men of Columbus began to run shouting of the End Times and a dark day of wolverines, an unlikely hero stepped forth. 

A commoner, a boy armed only with a branch of oak and a fire in his heart, did charge amid the fray, stepping in where the defensive flank had melted. By himself this boy did hold the line, beating back a horde of Nebraskans, killing a dozen at least by himself before others, men in armor with proper weapons, remember'd their courage and mettle and came to stand at the boy's side. Together, the Nebraskans were repulsed one final time, and they in turn were thrown into a rout from which there could be no recovery. 

When all had settled, Lord Urban himself did ride out to find the boy hero whose valour had restored faltering hope. 

"What is your name, my child?" Lord Urban asked. 

The boy, ashamed of his humble trappings, did avert his eyes. "Brendon, My Lord," the peasant said, "Brendon of the White River." 

"Nay," Lord Urban said, "you are much mistaken. Your name is Sir Brendon, Sir Brendon of the Noon." 

And with the sword of Columbus, Lord Urban did knight him then and there. And after such valor, he would certainly become an essential soldier in Lord Urban's army, and would most surely not be forgotten once Sir Fuller had returned--surely. 

And so it was that by the merest of margins that Columbus was saved. And yet not all was well, for darksome clouds did billow to the north...