Your heart pounds in your ears. A mix of hard liquor and adrenaline burns through you.
The rear of your camp, where the wounded are being kept, is a scene of chaos. Unarmed men sprint away from the scene. Meanwhile, you're part of a group of about a dozen that's sprinting toward it. Men nearly collide as they push through your line, retreating to safety behind your armed unit.
In the dim evening light, you can make out the forms of cavalrymen darting in and out and through your tents. Cries of terror and pain rise from the tents. Blood spills into the damp grass.
A surgeon attempts to assist a crippled soldier out of the bloodshed. Before he can reach you, however, a rebel cavalryman rides toward him. A few of your men cry out warnings, but you already know it's too late.
A spear darts forward, skewering the man before his dying body and his patient are trampled underhoof. The cavalryman continues on, rushing toward your small group. You have only a few seconds before contact.
But before you can even give the order to form up, one of the soldiers in your group grips his spear like a javelin and lobs the weapon at the enemy.
It strikes true.
The rider is thrown backward off his saddle, the speed of his charge only helping the spear to impale him.
His mount, however, continues on. You pull Darin to the side as the spooked horse runs through your line, quickly slowing to a stop a few yards behind you.
It presents an opportunity you cannot ignore. You dart toward it, shouting over your shoulder at Darin, "Keep the men moving in!"
Grasping the horse's reins, you quickly swing yourself atop of it. The animal is surprisingly cooperative. Aurora could learn a lesson or two from this one.
Sharp cries of pain tear you back to reality.
You charge forward.
Into the dark once more.
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