Duncan’s
sword hit, a great clang rang out and sparks flew, the first sparks of battle.
The soldier swung back, and Duncan, anticipating it, parried, then swung around
and slashed the man across the chest, knocking him off his horse and onto the
ground—the first casualty of the battle.
The night air
was filled with the sudden clash of arms, swords meeting each other, shields
meeting swords, axes, halberds, men shouting and groaning and shrieking as they
fell from horses and hacked each other to death. The battle lines quickly
became blurred as the two sides melted into each other, each fighting viciously
for survival.
Duncan saw
Anvin, beside him, swing a flail and saw its spiked metal ball knock a soldier
backwards off his horse. He saw Arthfael hurl his spear and pierce the throat
of a soldier before him, a broad man who had raised a sword for Duncan. He
watched one of his largest soldiers, swing his halberd sideways, chop a Pandesian
in his shoulder, and knock him sideways off his horse. Duncan filled with pride
at his men. They were all formidable soldiers, the best Escalon had to offer,
and they all fought fiercely for their homeland. For their freedom.
The Pandesians,
though, rallied, and fought back just as fiercely. They were a professional
army, one that had been on the road in conquest for years, and not a force to
be deterred easily. Duncan’s heart fell as he saw many good men fall on his
side, too, men he had known and fought with his entire life. He watched one
man, a boy barely his son’s age, fall straight back beside him as a spear
pierced his shoulder. He saw another lose a hand as a battle axe came straight
down upon it.
Duncan fought
back with all he had, cutting a path through the carnage, slashing soldiers
left and right, urging his horse on, forcing himself forward at all costs, way
deeper than all his men. He knew that to stop meant death. He soon found
himself completely immersed in battle, surrounded by the enemy on all sides.
That was the way he liked to fight—for his very life.
Duncan spun and
slashed from side to side, and he caught the Pandesians off guard; they were
clearly surprised to find the enemy so deep in their ranks. When he was not
slashing, he raised his shield and used it to block blows from swords, maces,
clubs—and to smash men sideways off their horses. A shield, he knew, could
sometimes be the best—and most unexpected—weapon.
Duncan spun and
head-butted one soldier, then yanked a sword from another’s hand, pulled him
close and stabbed him in the gut with a dagger. Yet at the same moment Duncan
received a sword slash himself, a particularly painful one on his shoulder. A
moment later he received one on his thigh. He spun and killed both attackers. The
injuries were painful, but they were all surface wounds, he knew, and he had
suffered enough wounds in his life to not let them startle him. He had received
much worse in his lifetime.
No sooner had he
killed his attackers than he received a powerful blow as a Pandesian clubbed
him in the ribs—and a moment later he found himself falling sideways off his
horse and into the throng of men.
Duncan shook off
stars and gained his feet, sword in hand, ready to go, and found himself facing
a mix of soldiers, some on foot, others on horseback. He reached up, grabbed a
soldier by his leg, and dragged him off his horse; the man fell and immediately
Duncan mounted his horse. He snatched his lance in the process and swung it
around, knocking three soldiers off their horses and clearing a space.
The battle raged
on. A seemingly endless array of Pandesian soldiers poured out of the barracks,
and with each company of men that appeared, Duncan knew his odds were
worsening. He saw his men beginning to falter: one of his younger warriors took
a spear in the ribs, blood gushing from his mouth—and a warrior who had just
joined his ranks took a fatal sword slash to the chest.
Duncan, though,
would not give up; that was not who
sword hit, a great clang rang out and sparks flew, the first sparks of battle.
The soldier swung back, and Duncan, anticipating it, parried, then swung around
and slashed the man across the chest, knocking him off his horse and onto the
ground—the first casualty of the battle.
The night air
was filled with the sudden clash of arms, swords meeting each other, shields
meeting swords, axes, halberds, men shouting and groaning and shrieking as they
fell from horses and hacked each other to death. The battle lines quickly
became blurred as the two sides melted into each other, each fighting viciously
for survival.
Duncan saw
Anvin, beside him, swing a flail and saw its spiked metal ball knock a soldier
backwards off his horse. He saw Arthfael hurl his spear and pierce the throat
of a soldier before him, a broad man who had raised a sword for Duncan. He
watched one of his largest soldiers, swing his halberd sideways, chop a Pandesian
in his shoulder, and knock him sideways off his horse. Duncan filled with pride
at his men. They were all formidable soldiers, the best Escalon had to offer,
and they all fought fiercely for their homeland. For their freedom.
The Pandesians,
though, rallied, and fought back just as fiercely. They were a professional
army, one that had been on the road in conquest for years, and not a force to
be deterred easily. Duncan’s heart fell as he saw many good men fall on his
side, too, men he had known and fought with his entire life. He watched one
man, a boy barely his son’s age, fall straight back beside him as a spear
pierced his shoulder. He saw another lose a hand as a battle axe came straight
down upon it.
Duncan fought
back with all he had, cutting a path through the carnage, slashing soldiers
left and right, urging his horse on, forcing himself forward at all costs, way
deeper than all his men. He knew that to stop meant death. He soon found
himself completely immersed in battle, surrounded by the enemy on all sides.
That was the way he liked to fight—for his very life.
Duncan spun and
slashed from side to side, and he caught the Pandesians off guard; they were
clearly surprised to find the enemy so deep in their ranks. When he was not
slashing, he raised his shield and used it to block blows from swords, maces,
clubs—and to smash men sideways off their horses. A shield, he knew, could
sometimes be the best—and most unexpected—weapon.
Duncan spun and
head-butted one soldier, then yanked a sword from another’s hand, pulled him
close and stabbed him in the gut with a dagger. Yet at the same moment Duncan
received a sword slash himself, a particularly painful one on his shoulder. A
moment later he received one on his thigh. He spun and killed both attackers. The
injuries were painful, but they were all surface wounds, he knew, and he had
suffered enough wounds in his life to not let them startle him. He had received
much worse in his lifetime.
No sooner had he
killed his attackers than he received a powerful blow as a Pandesian clubbed
him in the ribs—and a moment later he found himself falling sideways off his
horse and into the throng of men.
Duncan shook off
stars and gained his feet, sword in hand, ready to go, and found himself facing
a mix of soldiers, some on foot, others on horseback. He reached up, grabbed a
soldier by his leg, and dragged him off his horse; the man fell and immediately
Duncan mounted his horse. He snatched his lance in the process and swung it
around, knocking three soldiers off their horses and clearing a space.
The battle raged
on. A seemingly endless array of Pandesian soldiers poured out of the barracks,
and with each company of men that appeared, Duncan knew his odds were
worsening. He saw his men beginning to falter: one of his younger warriors took
a spear in the ribs, blood gushing from his mouth—and a warrior who had just
joined his ranks took a fatal sword slash to the chest.
Duncan, though,
would not give up; that was not who
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