"Rally, boys! Rally!" you cry as you ride Aurora behind the battle line, a bodyguard on both sides. You've taken your helmet back off to increase your situational awareness.
And also so your own damn voice doesn't keep resounding in your ears with every shout.
Blood runs down your spear point and shield. Your hair is matted and laden with sweat and flecks of splattered blood.
The blood of a rebel unfortunate enough to fall into your path.
You've been rallying your soldiers for almost twenty minutes now. Your voice is beginning to turn hoarse from all the yelling.
Yet still, you shout to the air, "I am with you! Steadfast! Do not waver!"
Your presence emboldens your forces. They now know that their commander is fighting alongside them. They know you're facing the same peril they are.
And your unfaltering presence keeps them from faltering.
The ferocity of the hand-to-hand combat has only intensified. The less disciplined peasants have begun to tire. Even the more skilled and professional knights have become winded from fighting in their heavy armor.
The roar of combat is deafening this close. The sound of metal on metal, the cries of the dying, the shouting…
It's a sound you know all too well.
Arrows from both sides continue to fly back and forth. They're mostly ineffective. The archers, both loyalist and rebel, are forced to aim for the rear ranks of the lines. Aiming for those in the front would result in friendly casualties.
Good for your men. Not good for you, riding just behind the rear rank. Arrows fall down around. Your arm aches from holding your shield above your head for so long.
Judging by the six arrows embedded in it, each shot a possibly lethal blow, you may just have to put up with holding it for a while longer.
You continue to rally your forces, despite exhaustion creeping in.
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