You say to Darin, "You're in charge for now. I'll be right back."
He nods. "Don't get yerself killed."
"Aye," you reply. "That's the plan."
"Stay safe," your sister says, her voice wavering slightly as she looks out at the raging battle.
With a final salute to your three companions, you set out to the battlefield.
Your battleaxe slams against the rebel infantryman's shield. He stumbles back, and you follow up with a second strike that catches him across the skull. As he falls, you turn to the men behind you and cry, "On me, boys! Forward!"
You're standing at the very front of your shield wall, having ditched your horse before joining your infantrymen.
Outfitted in your gleaming armor, you make for a tremendous sight. You drop another rebel with one quick motion, his blood splattering across your plate gauntlets. Your lethality is only amplified by the exhaustion of the poor rebels that are unlucky enough to face you.
To your exhausted soldiers, you seem to be some angel of God. To the rebels, you're an angel of death.
Even you are alarmed at how quickly you're able to take life. You strike down a third rebel—and then a fourth—all in rapid succession. Witnessing such brutal success, your soldiers follow behind you, and the enemy pales before you.
You push on, crying out all the while, driving the wedge deeper and deeper into the enemy line. Your forces rush forward to exploit the gaps.
No man can stand before you.
Next
You're unsure as to how much time has passed. Five minutes? Ten?
Perhaps longer.
You've lost track of how many men you've killed. A dozen? Two dozen?
Perhaps even more.
There is no honor in it. There is no enjoyment or satisfaction within you at such loss of life. These men are nearly defenseless. Their arms are too tired to raise their shields in defense.
But the same exhaustion quickly creeps into you, as well. One can only fight in armor for so long.
You're standing shoulder to shoulder with the common infantryman. Inspired by your ruthless display, they push on, despite their own condition.
From within your helmet, the sound of violence is all-consuming. Weapons and shields meeting. The ringing of steel on steel. Cries of pain. The death rattle of a hundred young men.
And the constant labored breathing of soldiers pushed to their limit.
You nearly lose your balance as you stumble over one of hundreds of corpses lining the ground. You quickly recover and compose yourself, raising your battleaxe.