he was. There would be no retreat, whatever
the odds. He had been through many a battle that had seemed bleak, and never
once had he turned and fled, as had many of his compatriots. It was what had
earned him his reputation, and the respect of the men of Escalon. He might lead
them to death, they knew, but he would never lead them to dishonor.
Duncan redoubled
his efforts: he charged forward, let out a great cry, and leapt down from his
horse holding his lance sideways before him—and taking down several men. He
charged, on foot, deeper into the crowd, using the lance and knocking over
soldiers in every direction. It was a suicide charge, but he no longer
cared—and in that moment of no longer caring, he felt a great liberation, a
greater freedom than he had ever experienced.
When Duncan’s
lance was chopped in half by a soldier, he used its jagged end to stab a
soldier, then dropped it, drew his sword and swung with both hands, foregoing
his shield and throwing caution to the wind. He slashed and hacked until his
shoulders grew tired and sweat stung his eyes, faster than all the others
around him—but quickly losing steam. It was a final death charge, and while he
knew he would not make it, he took solace in the fact that at least he would
die giving it all he had.
As Duncan’s
shoulders grew tired and several soldiers charged him, as he knew he was
looking death in the face, suddenly, there came a whistling sound, like an
arrow, followed by a single thwack. To Duncan’s shock, the soldier before him
fell on his back, an arrow lodged in his chest.
There came
another. Then another. Soon the air was filled with the noise, and as the cries
of Pandesians rang out, Duncan looked behind him and was amazed at what he saw:
the moonlit sky was filled with arrows, a sea of them flying high overhead and
landing on the Pandesian side. Pandesians, pierced by the sea of arrows,
dropped like flies, falling one by one from their horses. Some fell back, while
others keeled over sideways from their horses, landing in the bloody field of
battle, their arming clanging and their horses, riderless, bucking wildly.
Duncan was
confused; at first, he had assumed that his men were under attack. But then he
realized he was being helped. But by whom?
Duncan turned
and looked to the source of the arrows and saw, high upon the ramparts of the
city of Esephus, scores of men, lit up by torchlight. They were, his heart
lifted to see, Esephan warriors, bows drawn, placing arrows and firing down in
a high arc toward the Pandesian side. Duncan cried out with joy. Seavig, after
all, had decided to risk it all and join him.
Suddenly, the
gates of Esephus opened and there appeared, with a great battle cry, Seavig,
riding out before hundreds of his men, all proud warriors of Escalon. Duncan
was thrilled at the sight of his old friend, a man he had ridden into battle
with countless times, riding at the head of his small army. Here was a soldier
who had been subjugated by Pandesia for years, and who was finally making a
stand. He had returned, was back to being the warrior Duncan once knew he was.
With a great surge
of momentum, Seavig charged forward and joined Duncan’s men, and they began to
push the Pandesians back. Duncan’s men let out a great shout, rushing forward,
invigorated, and Duncan could see the newfound fear on the faces of the
Pandesians. Clearly, they had expected the men of Esephus to toe the line and
roll over. They realized that Duncan’s force had just doubled in size, and they
were beginning to panic. He had seen it one too many times on his enemies’
faces—and he knew what that meant: now was his chance.
Duncan surged
forward, taking advantage of their fear, driving them back further as he led
his men. Whatever Pandesians were spared by the arrows, Duncan and his men
hacked down. Chaos began to ensue as the tide of battle began to swing the
other way. The Pandesians, faltering, began backtracking—and then turned
the odds. He had been through many a battle that had seemed bleak, and never
once had he turned and fled, as had many of his compatriots. It was what had
earned him his reputation, and the respect of the men of Escalon. He might lead
them to death, they knew, but he would never lead them to dishonor.
Duncan redoubled
his efforts: he charged forward, let out a great cry, and leapt down from his
horse holding his lance sideways before him—and taking down several men. He
charged, on foot, deeper into the crowd, using the lance and knocking over
soldiers in every direction. It was a suicide charge, but he no longer
cared—and in that moment of no longer caring, he felt a great liberation, a
greater freedom than he had ever experienced.
When Duncan’s
lance was chopped in half by a soldier, he used its jagged end to stab a
soldier, then dropped it, drew his sword and swung with both hands, foregoing
his shield and throwing caution to the wind. He slashed and hacked until his
shoulders grew tired and sweat stung his eyes, faster than all the others
around him—but quickly losing steam. It was a final death charge, and while he
knew he would not make it, he took solace in the fact that at least he would
die giving it all he had.
As Duncan’s
shoulders grew tired and several soldiers charged him, as he knew he was
looking death in the face, suddenly, there came a whistling sound, like an
arrow, followed by a single thwack. To Duncan’s shock, the soldier before him
fell on his back, an arrow lodged in his chest.
There came
another. Then another. Soon the air was filled with the noise, and as the cries
of Pandesians rang out, Duncan looked behind him and was amazed at what he saw:
the moonlit sky was filled with arrows, a sea of them flying high overhead and
landing on the Pandesian side. Pandesians, pierced by the sea of arrows,
dropped like flies, falling one by one from their horses. Some fell back, while
others keeled over sideways from their horses, landing in the bloody field of
battle, their arming clanging and their horses, riderless, bucking wildly.
Duncan was
confused; at first, he had assumed that his men were under attack. But then he
realized he was being helped. But by whom?
Duncan turned
and looked to the source of the arrows and saw, high upon the ramparts of the
city of Esephus, scores of men, lit up by torchlight. They were, his heart
lifted to see, Esephan warriors, bows drawn, placing arrows and firing down in
a high arc toward the Pandesian side. Duncan cried out with joy. Seavig, after
all, had decided to risk it all and join him.
Suddenly, the
gates of Esephus opened and there appeared, with a great battle cry, Seavig,
riding out before hundreds of his men, all proud warriors of Escalon. Duncan
was thrilled at the sight of his old friend, a man he had ridden into battle
with countless times, riding at the head of his small army. Here was a soldier
who had been subjugated by Pandesia for years, and who was finally making a
stand. He had returned, was back to being the warrior Duncan once knew he was.
With a great surge
of momentum, Seavig charged forward and joined Duncan’s men, and they began to
push the Pandesians back. Duncan’s men let out a great shout, rushing forward,
invigorated, and Duncan could see the newfound fear on the faces of the
Pandesians. Clearly, they had expected the men of Esephus to toe the line and
roll over. They realized that Duncan’s force had just doubled in size, and they
were beginning to panic. He had seen it one too many times on his enemies’
faces—and he knew what that meant: now was his chance.
Duncan surged
forward, taking advantage of their fear, driving them back further as he led
his men. Whatever Pandesians were spared by the arrows, Duncan and his men
hacked down. Chaos began to ensue as the tide of battle began to swing the
other way. The Pandesians, faltering, began backtracking—and then turned
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