would have none of that. He let go of the sword, his left hand launching itself forward to grab at that red beard while the fingers of his right hand tugged his dagger free of its sheath. The beard was caught, causing the barbarian to wince, and Guthrie pulled down. As the face of his foe drew near, the sergeant stabbed up with his dagger, the short blade sinking into the throat of the barbarian. A wet swarm flowed across the sergeant’s arms and chest as he raised a foot to shove back on the dead man now draped across him.
Fighting all around, Guthrie slammed his dagger home in his belt and grabbed up the sword still standing at his side. With enemies everywhere, there was no thought to unveiling the heavy iron-headed mace hanging from his belt. The sword was there. The sword would do.
He brought up the heavy blade across his chest, ready to slash into a man in a wolf skin cloak on his right, the Dartague stabbing a short sword over and over again into the stomach of a young militiaman, the Ursian already dead on his feet but the continual stabs keeping him standing. Then three other barbarians sprang on Guthrie, coming from all sides. One on the left with a club studded with nails, another straight ahead with a curved sword, still another on the right shoving past his stabbing comrade to lunge at Guthrie with a long knife.
The back of the natural culvert pressing against the sergeant’s legs up past his thighs, there was no easy retreat for him, and there was little chance he could avoid a blow from all his attackers. He then saw the weakness of making a stand in the creek bed. The location had been excellent for sniping away with arrows, but was deadly for close combat.
With only thoughts of saving his own precious hide for the next few seconds, Guthrie allowed himself to fall backward. The knife and club slashed through where he had been standing a moment earlier. With the breath thrust from his lungs as he landed on his back, Guthrie brought around his legs now that he was on flat ground and rolled away from the creek bed. The curved sword jabbed at him and steel rubbed against his leather leggings but to little effect.
Now having room to maneuver, Guthrie spun around in the snow and jumped to his feet, swinging his sword out to keep away immediate attackers. The swing was a lucky one, catching a barbarian climbing out of the creek across the face, blinding the fellow and causing him to gurgle before pitching forward to spread a pool of red in the snow.
Backing away as his other two attackers pulled themselves from their lower position and onto the floor of the flatlands, Guthrie had a moment to take in the fight running up and down the gulley among the trees. Most of his countrymen were already down. The rest were dying by the moment, falling beneath multiple assaults by swords and axes and daggers and clubs.
At that point, Guthrie realized he had but moments to live. He could turn and try to run, hoping he could somehow find one of the fleeing horses, or he could stand his ground and fight to the death, taking as many Dartague with him before he fell. Flight seemed a silly option. He would never be able to get to a ride with nearly two score enemy remaining to fall upon him, and he had not the time to hunt the steeds down.
Fighting was his only option.
A boiling anger burst from inside him at that point, a pent up rage that had been swelling and growing for days, since he had lost his squad to the Dartague. If he was to die this day, then let it be remembered by friends and foes alike.
The man with the curved sword and the other with the club stalked forward, shaking their weapons out at their sides, their eyes hooded as they prepared to end the life of their target.
Guthrie did not give them an opportunity to exalt in any fear they hoped to bring their foe. He tossed back his head and cried to the heavens a bellow of pure hate and fury. Death to the Dartague! Death to those who would use magic to conquer
Fighting all around, Guthrie slammed his dagger home in his belt and grabbed up the sword still standing at his side. With enemies everywhere, there was no thought to unveiling the heavy iron-headed mace hanging from his belt. The sword was there. The sword would do.
He brought up the heavy blade across his chest, ready to slash into a man in a wolf skin cloak on his right, the Dartague stabbing a short sword over and over again into the stomach of a young militiaman, the Ursian already dead on his feet but the continual stabs keeping him standing. Then three other barbarians sprang on Guthrie, coming from all sides. One on the left with a club studded with nails, another straight ahead with a curved sword, still another on the right shoving past his stabbing comrade to lunge at Guthrie with a long knife.
The back of the natural culvert pressing against the sergeant’s legs up past his thighs, there was no easy retreat for him, and there was little chance he could avoid a blow from all his attackers. He then saw the weakness of making a stand in the creek bed. The location had been excellent for sniping away with arrows, but was deadly for close combat.
With only thoughts of saving his own precious hide for the next few seconds, Guthrie allowed himself to fall backward. The knife and club slashed through where he had been standing a moment earlier. With the breath thrust from his lungs as he landed on his back, Guthrie brought around his legs now that he was on flat ground and rolled away from the creek bed. The curved sword jabbed at him and steel rubbed against his leather leggings but to little effect.
Now having room to maneuver, Guthrie spun around in the snow and jumped to his feet, swinging his sword out to keep away immediate attackers. The swing was a lucky one, catching a barbarian climbing out of the creek across the face, blinding the fellow and causing him to gurgle before pitching forward to spread a pool of red in the snow.
Backing away as his other two attackers pulled themselves from their lower position and onto the floor of the flatlands, Guthrie had a moment to take in the fight running up and down the gulley among the trees. Most of his countrymen were already down. The rest were dying by the moment, falling beneath multiple assaults by swords and axes and daggers and clubs.
At that point, Guthrie realized he had but moments to live. He could turn and try to run, hoping he could somehow find one of the fleeing horses, or he could stand his ground and fight to the death, taking as many Dartague with him before he fell. Flight seemed a silly option. He would never be able to get to a ride with nearly two score enemy remaining to fall upon him, and he had not the time to hunt the steeds down.
Fighting was his only option.
A boiling anger burst from inside him at that point, a pent up rage that had been swelling and growing for days, since he had lost his squad to the Dartague. If he was to die this day, then let it be remembered by friends and foes alike.
The man with the curved sword and the other with the club stalked forward, shaking their weapons out at their sides, their eyes hooded as they prepared to end the life of their target.
Guthrie did not give them an opportunity to exalt in any fear they hoped to bring their foe. He tossed back his head and cried to the heavens a bellow of pure hate and fury. Death to the Dartague! Death to those who would use magic to conquer
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