He pries the bloody halberd from his opponent, who collapses backward onto the man behind him. This soldier pushes forward, throwing the dying rebel to the ground.
He lunges forward at Milon, stepping over the body. His shield slams into the nobleman's chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. Milon stumbles back but is prevented from falling by the sheer weight of the men behind him. The rebel hacks at Milon desperately, but his blows deflect and bounce off of his incredibly powerful armor.
Milon presses back, wedging his halberd between the two of them, using the pole to press the rebel away and gain some breathing room. Milon doesn't hesitate, catching the infantryman off-guard as he rams his shoulder into the man's shield, pressing against it as he slashes for the rebel's legs.
The powerful weapon slashes deep through the man's leg. Quickly, Milon uses the pole of the halberd to slam against the side of the rebel's helmet. He falls to the side, joining the bodies which have begun to pile up.
But the fight does not end. The rebel behind this one shuffles forward, terror in his eyes as he faces down Milon. Milon's arms are now soaked red with blood. His muscles have begun to strain. His breath is loud in his own ears and hot in his helmet.
The loyalist infantrymen on his left is abruptly cut down, falling with a cry, but his place is quickly filled by the man behind him, fresh and ready for combat. Such a scene is repeated up and down the line.
Milon and the rebel struggle for a brief moment, pressing against each other. He chokes the rebel soldier for space, not allowing him to use his spear properly.
But Milon oversteps.
He manages to force the rebel back, but he does too effectively, accidentally pressing too deep into the rebel line. A mace from the man behind his current opponent lashes out, slamming into the side of his knee.
Milon lets out a cry, echoing in his own helmet, then he stumbles. One of the nobleman's heavily armored bodyguards in the rank behind him takes hold of his shoulder and pulls him back, filling the rank where Milon once stood.
He nearly trips, searing pain firing through his entire right leg. He cannot put weight on it. He keeps his leg slightly raised. The allied troops pushing against him from all sides keep his balance.
Even with an injured knee, there's no retreat for one in the front ranks.
He says a prayer as he readies his halberd for more.
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