Men parted to allow Inka and his group to continue their charge. Their speed built, bit by bit. They fell into an arrowhead of their own, targeting the exposed rear of the Patrick forces, as they did all they could to reposition themselves.
"Slaughter, Firyr, you and I," Oliver said, "and all these men under us. We've the need to spill blood enough for five hundred men, and we've only a handful of minutes to do it in. Are you willing?"
"Willing?" Firyr laughed at the word. "Willing and wanting, Captain. I'm starving for a true kill. These purple helms hardly feel worth stabbing."
"What of the rest of you?" Oliver said, raising his voice to the final hundred belonging to Firyr. They were some of his most bloodthirsty men, and they were without question his wildest.
"""URRRRAHHH!!""" His response came in the form of a unified cheer, with a mismatched collection of weapons, from swords, to axe, to spears, all getting thrust up high into the air.
