Wrolf saw a dwarf die in front of him, arrows in his thigh and neck. Arrows from behind, from his own army's archers. A flurry of stones took two more, breaking the skull of one and knee of another. The charge had slowed enough that the second wasn't trampled, but no one stooped to help him up.
A figure charged through the dust. Wrolf, who had somehow found himself at the front of a group, held his dagger out and braced for the impact.
The charger bowled into Wrolf, making the dwarf stumble as the dwarf's dagger embedded itself in the charger's bowels. The brittle iron blade snapped off from the impact.
The fresh corpse flopped over Wrolf's shoulder, taking an arrow that otherwise would have pierced his flesh. It was taller and lighter than he was; the enemy was goblins then, he thought, at least until he saw the iron dagger in its hand: one of Thyrn's. He gasped.
Other figures were running towards them now. Some were more goblins, between the now-sparser groups of dwarves. Wrolf made out shorter silhouettes moving through the dust behind them, cutting goblins down with spears, swords, and axes, shields held high to catch arrows.
Wrolf replaced his broken dagger with that of the dead goblin as the enemy spotted his group. One pointed, and some dozen charged with spear and shield.
Their ranks were loose, thankfully, else the slaves would have been slaughtered. As it was, they lost some half their number before scattering, leaving only two wounded (one of those by Wrolf's new dagger.)
Wrolf stumbled through the dust, struggling for breath. Around him, similar battles carried out: a mob of enemies would savage some group of slaves with hardly a scratch. Thyrn's distant archers killed more enemies than the slaves did; 'Bitz, the enemy's own slingers killed more enemies than the slaves!
A trio of enemies saw Wrolf alone, moving in for what they thought an easy kill. He had been going towards the rear, dodging the odd arrow, but the front line had shattered and the new battle line was now in front of him.
Two with spears moved to Wrolf's flank. The third had a rattan shield and bronze axe, the former held carelessly at his side as he swung the latter at Wrolf.
Wrolf caught the blow with his dagger, blade biting into the wooden haft. The blow sent a jolt up his arm, but the axeman seemed more shocked than Wrolf. Not shocked enough to leave his shield at his side as Wrolf counterattacked, however.
The spearmen were content to let the axeman attack, but clearly didn't trust him with his own defense; they jabbed at Wrolf, preventing him from pressing the attack. He jumped back, panting, and coughed. The spears didn't press; instead, the axeman struck with a wide sweep. Arm still aching from the last block, Wrolf leapt back.
The spearmen advanced, keeping to either side of Wrolf. Growling, the slave charged the one to his right. Yelping, the startled man barely turned the blow aside with his haft, narrowly avoiding what the earlier goblin got. Wrolf whirled out of the way of a downward-swinging axe as a spear—initially thrust form behind, though now from the side—caught his beard.
Now the three were all in front of him, but shoulder-to-shoulder he couldn't take them on, so he turned and ran. Cursing, the trio gave pursuit. He was no threat, and there was surely easier prey, but now it was a matter of pride.
That pride was their end. Wrolf let the spearmen put himself between them and their leader, then turned to the he had attacked earlier, grabbing his spear and stabbing with his knife. Something snapped. He then spun on his heel—wrenching the spear from its late owner's death grip—to face the other spearman. He need not have worried, however; a squall of arrows had taken the other.
Now the axeman stood alone, far from any men of his own armies. The silhouettes of Thyrn's slave army stood around them, but none seemed eager to intercede.
The axeman looked around, then charged. Wrolf lunged as the axeman raised his axe; Wrolf thrust upward, stopping the axe before it could gain downward momentum as his own inertia slammed him against the axeman's shield, sending him off balance. They fell to the ground, axe and spear dropped.
With shield, axe, and bronze helm, the axeman had the advantage in an armed struggle, but in unarmed wrestling the advantage went to Wrolf, who had spent dozens of years lugging stone bricks and sacks of mortar clay. Yet the axeman clearly had training—or at least experience—wrestling, for he made a fight of it. It was too little, however, and Wrolf gained the upper hand.
So the axeman cheated.
A flash gave away the dagger, a ray of sunlight cutting through the fog of dust. Wrolf rolled off the axeman—the daggerman now, he supposed—and felt the knife glance off a rib. He indulged the pain with a grunt, maintaining proper dwarvish stoicism.
The daggerman knelt over Wrolf, bringing the blade down. Wrolf kicked his leg out from underneath him, bringing him down. A fierce struggle for the knife ensued, two dwarves rolling in the dust amidst herds of slaves, packs of warriors, flocks of arrows, and hails of stones.
And then the blare of a horn cut through it all: one short blast, a pause, then another. The retreat had been called, as if they weren't already routing.
The daggerman looked up as the slaves around broke into a run, careful to not be trampled. Wrolf took advantage of the momentary distraction, seizing the dagger and thrusting it into the now-disarmed dwarf's neck.