The Battle

Hot blood splatters on your face. You yank your sword from the snarling goblin's belly and behead it with a spin. It's long limbs thrash even in ****. By all the Gods these things die hard. You dive forward and stab a wolf preparing to spring. The enemy's horses are as useless as your own in this rocky terrain, but the Beastmaster's pets throw themselves at your men with abandon, killing more with fear, than fang.

You've been fighting nonstop for nearly an hour. It began well enough. Adrianna flared light and blinded the gobbos. Your archers rained down a half dozen volleys and the men threw caltrops to cripple the first wave. It wasn't enough, even as the mound of goblin bodies grew into a wall, it wasn't enough. Your legion brought steel and fire, but the gobbos had even more than your feared. You wouldn't enjoy the apology you owed to Sir Zachary, if you were lucky enough to survive, you'd throw yourself upon your knees with gusto.

The cursed little monsters poured out of caves and tunnels even now. Throwing themselves on the swords and spears of your men. Your horse died on the first charge, and you'd fought on the ground ever since. Your arm was so tired you could barely lift your sword. You were being pushed back, you could feel it. If your men retreated, they would be cut down like wheat and yet, on all sides of you men were falling; slowing but surely you are losing this battle.

Another stinking goblin charges, its gray skin covered in patches of foul leather you only hope comes from an animal. Unnaturally long arms hold two sharp cleavers overhead. Huge eyes squinting against the noonday sun, it stares at you with more than a touch of madness in its eyes. You struggle to **** your tired body into a defensive stance, stumble, recover just before its first swing.

Block. Whirl. Stab.

The hot flash of pain in your side announces a new cut. This gobbo was the quickest yet, or perhaps your are the slowest. Fear trickles into the back of your mind, but you push it aside. The best defense...

Dropping to one knee, you thrust at its groin. Parried. You drop your sword and tackle the beast, slamming your armored head into its gut. You carry it forward and into the ground, knocking men and goblins aside as you go. You take a deadly risk and release the goblin's arms to slam its head against the ground over and over again. You have no idea how long you pound it, only that once you stop the mush that remains is unrecognizable. Your hands are caked in yellow gore.

Another goblin towers above you with its crude mace raised. It snarls and- steel erupts from its neck. It falls, dead before its body hits the ground. Cutter stands beside it with your sword in his hands. He drops to one knee and returns your weapon. You squeeze his shoulder in thanks. There will be time for more thanks later, if you survive.

And now you feel it, as some do, the moment when a battle turns, if prompted just the right way. You feel the charge in your bones and use the momentary calm to survey the battlefield. Adrianna is surrounded by a half dozen of your best men. She's proved her worth before and certainly isn't holding back now. Streams of fire leap from her hands. Vines rise up from barren ground to **** the life from gobblins. Arrows fly at her and her men, but always seem to go just a bit astray, often sinking deep into the flesh of her enemies. But for all that Adrianna looks more tired than you've ever seen her. The blue in her eyes dulling with each moment. An arrow grazes her cheek and she nearly fall from her saddle in shock.

Across the battlefield, Sir Zachary fights one handed, but hardly encumbered. The man is a whirlwind. His blade opens goblin throats and slices bellies in two's and three's. His dance is ****, but what can one fighter, even as skilled as Zachary, do to turn the tide.

It is time to decide.