You exit with your shield raised. This proves to be a wise decision; as soon as you emerge, a soldier strikes at you from the side.
You catch the blow with your shield and thrust with your sword, skewering your assailant through the chest. You tear your blade free and turn to assess the situation.
A semicircle of roughly thirty soldiers has formed around your tent, each man armed with some kind of blunt weapon. They're wearing the insignia of House Stiedry on their shields and tabards.
And in the middle of them stands your brother, Vedran, with a blade pressed to Darin's throat.
The prince smiles.
"Hello, Arthur Hornraven."
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Chapter 6 - Lex Talionis
Darin looks as if he's been beaten. Blood is running from multiple cuts across his face. His hands are bound in front of him with rope. Vedran stands on his right side, pressing his dagger against the old man's neck.
Darin calls weakly through blooded lips, "Arthur Hornraven…"
You take a step closer, causing Vedran to pull Darin closer and place the dagger across his throat. "One step closer, Arthur Hornraven, and I'll cut his throat out."
Vedran chuckles darkly. "You may try, but it won't end well for your friend here."
The prince signals his troops to advance on you. The circle begins to slowly close in. You raise your blade and shield in front of yourself.
"Ya know, Arthur Hornraven… I'd be lying if I said this wasn't personal. Because it is. I would have had my men kill you… if Rade didn't need you." He presses the knife into Darin slightly, drawing a trickle of blood. "Surrender, or I'll make him choke to death on his own blood."
Darin stirs slightly before calling out to you, "Don't do it, lad. Don't… do it."
"And before you try asking for help, Elya's already been dealt with. And the army?" He chuckles. "Well… the army thinks this is a drill. And half of them work for me, anyway."
Darin calls out again, "Marshal… just run. Leave me."
The traitors are beginning to encircle you. You won't have much longer to react.
"Surrender, Arthur Hornraven! I won't say it again."
You stand virtually no chance against thirty armed enemies, especially without a mount or proper armor. You could flee. Your tent is toward the outskirts of camp, and the forests are nearby. If you make it to the forest, you could throw off your pursuers and potentially return to camp.
"I'll enjoy watching this." Vedran calls to you. He drags Darin away, blade to his throat as he shouts to his men, "I need him alive, but make sure it hurts!"
You raise your shield and adopt a defensive stance at the entrance of your tent. With the makeshift structure guarding your rear, you prepare to make your last stand.
The thirty rebels approach in a semicircle, clubs and shields ready. You have one distinct advantage, however: your enemy is trying not to kill you. You do not have such apprehensions.
You slam your sword against your shield and cry, "Come on! I haven't got all night!"
With your back to your tent, only four are able to attack you at a time.
And finally, the fight begins in earnest.
You strike first, darting forward and plunging your blade deep into the gut of one of the traitors. You twist and wrench your blade free as the man falls back, crying out in pain.
Shocked, your opponents freeze, the sign of the inexperienced. Seizing upon their confusion, you cut across the legs of another. He falls before you, looking up for a second before your blade cuts across his throat.
A club swings down at you from your left. You block the blow with your shield and counter-attack, slashing across your assailant's hand. You parry a blow with your blade and lash out at your final assailant, striking his shield and forcing him back.
He steps back, terrified of your assault. Already, two men lie before, bleeding out, while a third stumbles away cursing as he nurses his injured hand.
After a moment of pause, the ranks shift, the fallen are replaced, and the traitors move to attack you once more.
One on one, these soldiers would stand little chance against you. Especially if you were armored.
But there are too many.
You fight ferociously. Three more fall before you, but you've begun to slow. A blow catches you on the shoulder. You stumble back but quickly regain your footing and counter-attack. Your blow catches the rebel across the fingers, and he stumbles back, crying out in pain.
You seize upon your momentum and slash another across the throat.
Fueled by rage and adrenaline, you fight on, exhausted and soaked with blood.
You're not sure how much longer you'll be able to hold.
All warriors, no matter how skilled, have a limit.
And you've reached yours.
You're already exhausted from the previous day's battle. Adrenaline can only carry you so far. You reach muscle failure, and your arms simply give out.
A traitor lands a solid kick past your defenses and into your gut. You stumble back, the air forced from your tired lungs. A blow from a cudgel catches you on the side of the head.
You see stars. Dark spots dance across your vision. Your cheek presses against the soil. Blood runs down your face.
You stop fighting back as your weapon and shield are taken from you. You close your eyes, feigning unconsciousness. Best not to risk further head trauma for nothing.
While the traitors have won, you've made sure it was a pyrrhic victory. None of them cheer. You feel your hands get bound behind your back. Hands reach under your armpits. You're dragged away.
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