You're physically thrown back by the blow. You lose your footing and stumble several paces back, slipping onto the muddy ground and rolling the rest of the way.
Through some miracle, you managed to barely hold onto your battleaxe for at least half of your tumble. It's resting in the mud only a few feet away from you.
You pull yourself to your hands and knees, coughing and sputtering. You pull your visor up to regain visibility. Glancing down, you notice that the top of your brigandine cuirass is noticeably damaged. Some plates are barely holding on, connected only by strands of fabric. If it weren't for your armor, you'd have had your chest caved in.
You can see the dire straits your ranger detachment is in. Your dismounted knights are able to hold their ground somewhat, with their superior armor and weapons. Obren, if he's still alive, is fighting with them.
The enemy cavalry, only forty in number, are still tearing through your unarmored rangers.
Worse still, Rade's line is shifting again. More cavalry have begun to ready themselves for another charge.
The rider who had struck you earlier slowly rides toward you, detaching from the main melee ensuing only a dozen yards away.
For a moment, you think he's going to charge. But he doesn't. Instead, he dismounts. And it's then you notice how unnervingly tall this man is. He would tower a solid foot above even Milon. Dressed in full plate armor, the man creates a terrifying image.
Walking toward you, he raises his visor.
He calls out to you, "Marshal Arthur Hornraven! King Rade Mozoroff has requested your death. I intend to grant it to you."