The consensus among the men is split. Some eagerly draw blades and axes. Others do so reluctantly. You even hear one man mutter, "It ain't my fault, Lord, for what we's about to do." Obren gives you a nod and draws his own blade. "What's the plan?"
You say quietly to the soldiers with you, "Form up on me. We'll only have moments before they see us. We rush in and cut the rebels down."
There are nods of understanding and agreement from the men. You continue, "When we charge, don't attack our own damn men. If they have the blue falcon on their person, they're on our side. If you recognize any of the symbols and know they're loyal, don't kill them, aye?"
They reply in the affirmative. You put your helmet on.
"Then let's move out."
Next
You and your men move quickly. You form a rough four-by-five formation, directly in the view of the foragers. Standing in the center of the main path leading toward this new crossing, it isn't long before you're spotted.
But you've already begun to advance.
You start out at a steady, slow march. After a few seconds, you break into a jog. And then, as you begin to close upon the enemy, you cry out, "Kill the rebels! Force them back across the river!"
You hope such a cry will inform the loyalist troops of your own loyalty. You then point your blade forward at the mixed party of foragers and cry, "Charge!"
The battle cries of your contingent resound around you as you sprint forward. You're among the first to reach the line.
The first man, with the royal insignia proudly displayed on his chest, turns to you in confusion. You dart to his left side and shoulder-check him out of the way. You cry as you press further, "Stand down, fellow loyalists! We're on your side!"
A blade whips down toward you. You take the blow to your shield and then throw yourself, shield first, into your attacker. You collide with him, sending him to the ground. You stumble for a moment before continuing your charge deeper into the chaos.
You don't have time to check for the fate of the unknown soldier as you charge into the next man. He wears the green dragon of House Mozoroff on his chest, the insignia of a rebel. His shock at seeing you is evident on his face.
You slam, shield first, into his torso. Your blade darts forward at the same time, impaling the man through his unarmored chest. You fall down with him, landing on your knees as you wrench your bloody blade free.
When you look back up, a second soldier stabs at you with his spear. You react instantly, swinging your heavy shield in an arc, knocking his spear to the side. You propel yourself from your knees forward, using this force to run your blade through the man's abdomen.
You cut off his death rattle with a quick flick of the sword and then turn to see the rest of the skirmish.
Your back faces the river as you survey the scene of the ambush. It is swift and brutal. Men are cut down dead, loyalist and rebel alike as your soldiers can barely tell between them. All three of your ambushing parties have easily torn through the group of foragers.
You take a few seconds to catch your breath. You don't even need to rejoin the skirmish.
It's already over.
Next