Blows fall on you from every angle.
You take several to the head. Stars flash in your vision, blood drips down your face.
You catch one blow and sever a man's hand. You turn and run your blade across a man's gut, trailing your blade into the chest of his comrade.
An axe catches you on the neck, but it bounces off the mail. A second strikes you across the back, but your brigandine holds.
You spin around, lunging forward, running a man through. You use his dying body as a crutch to finally hoist yourself back to your feet.
A mace catches you on the vulnerable side.
You're knocked to the ground.
The air grows still.
The rebels watch your crumpled form for signs of life.