The land was in a decline towards the Ingram. They had left the main valley of the Eirim behind the day before, and could see the Ingram and the Osfold. They saw Auerburg too, though they decided not to stop there even to rest.
It had been three days since they left at night. Martin felt comfortable in his brown coat and cloak, following Sir Aibarus on horseback. They rode with haste. Whenever they stopped for the night, they'd wake up before the sun rose and continue. It was nice, in a way, seeing the sun rise above the Karlsmountains to the east. It was a familiar route: They had ridden southwards, following the road on the Eirim's eastern side. They were making good way, Aibarus kept telling him. In four days, he was assured, they would be at Imburg.
Martin hadn't felt safe in the valleys of the Hinterland since he came. The Karlsvale was mountainous, but the hills there were bare and stoney. Trees wouldn't grow altogether, but in small groups some called smallwoods. But the Hinterland pine trees rose from the ground, impaling the sky in a thousand different spots, like a phalanx of wood and leaf.
Martin wondered why he felt so. He had no doubt in the skill of Sir Aibarus. He had seen the man fight in the yard at Imburg, when one Sir Mattheas, a bannerman of Lord Vatrinus Opfen, insulted the Sir at supper. Martin didn't know what exactly was said during the evening (he was asleep then), but he received news that a duel was to be held in the yard. Martin feared for the Sir, but it became clear there was nothing to be feared once Aibarus knocked Mattheas to the ground and disarmed him. It wasn't a fight to the death, the kind Martin liked reading about, but he was not at all disappointed.
No, what bothered him was something else. He listened to the distant chirping of birds, the rustling of the Sir's chainmail beneath his white tabard, the one Martin had helped him with. He hadn't taken it off in their two days of travel. Martin had only worn armour once before. Father had told him he would have a set of armour ready for him once he returned, and had him wear Sir Arthos' sets. He remembered his excitement as his nine-year-old brother Amellus helped him wear it, the weight of the chainmail and the tabard, the chestpiece with the sigil of his House: three mountains with a star between them. Sir Aibarus wore the same armour with a helm, one that covered his neck, head, sides and nose. He hadn't worn a helm the day he wore the armour. Martin wondered what it was like to wear one, to be protected fully.
He certainly liked men like Sir Aibarus more than the likes of Sir Kolren: unlike Kolren, Aibarus was a soldier. Martin liked soldiers, he always had. The title Sir fitted quartermasters and stewards not in his eyes. The last day at Sarus he had spent around Kolren, but he hadn't even properly bid the steward farewell. He smiled at first, thinking of it as a mischief, the things boys would do. But then he stopped. This wasn't some lowly case of mischief, no, it was cowardice. The kind his father would mock Lords and bannermen for. He thought of it, returning home a coward. But whenever he looked back to the west, dread and fatigue filled the mind of the young boy.
"When will we stop?" Martin asked the bannerman as the road went downhill before continuing eastwards by the Ingram.
"When the sun sets." Aibarus said, sternly keeping his gaze on the road.
Martin had nothing more to say to that, so he looked back to where Auerburg would be, though the town was no longer in sight.
They rode on. Martin was again feeling that soreness of prolonged riding, though his companion seemed barely affected. The sun was setting behind them. The evening redness of the sky was always the signifier of rest for Martin, so he felt a short lived gladness that the day would soon be over.
They were now right by the Ingram. Martin was sure they were alone on the road, but then, the sound of hooves against stone were heard. Aibarus slowed down, his hand on his sheathed sword, and Martin slowed with him. There were horsemen approaching the two, Martin counted five men. They wore black coats over chainmail and flew no banners.
They came to a halt as the men got closer and closer. Aibarus glanced back at Martin, nodding at the boy. Martin knew what he meant. If they were robbers, Martin would turn his horse around and gallop to Auerburg. He grasped his reins tightly, his feet tense in the stirrups. He couldn't breathe properly, his focus was on the approaching riders.
The men came, and by then it was clear they were no threat. "Who are ye?" one asked as they approached.
Martin saw Aibarus look down, and though he didn't see his face, he imagined the Sir smiling and thanking the Lord above. He looked back up. "I am Sir Aibarus of the Karlsvale. I am on the way to Imburg. Are you men of Lord Opfen or Draafen?"
"Opfen, Sir," another man spoke, "We're here on the orders of Sir Maritz and Mattheas and the Guildmaster Arthos of Imburg."
"Are ye men aware that there is a heathen army in the Hinterland?"
"We are."
Martin rode by Aibarus' side. The Sir took off his helmet. "What business is it of a Guildmaster when there is war in the Hinterland?"
"We've secured Kopsdorf, Sir. That's what the Guildmaster wanted of us. House Opfen will defend it for House Davia when the enemy comes."
"Kopsdorf? What business does your House have with Davian iron?"
"We came not to question, Sir. We'll defend their iron like it is our own."
Martin could see a suspicion on Sir Aibarus' face. "Who's in command of you lot, currently? I'll have a word or two with him…"
"Sir Maritz, Sir," yet another said, "We've set up an encampment by the road. You'd make it there by nightfall."
The riders passed them, and the Karlians followed the road onwards. Aibarus didn't wear his helm again, instead letting his brown, wavy hair out. Martin nudged his horse to follow the Sir.
"What was that about Kopsdorf?" he asked.
"Kopsdorf, the one village in the Hinterland of any worth," Aibarus explained, "Even more so than Sarus, I say. The forges of Sarus depend on Kopsdorf's iron every day."
"Then the road is safe? They said something about an encampment."
"Safe most likely. Not that you were unsafe with me around."
Martin laughed. "My uncle used to tell me the Hinterland is a fine place for robbers."
"He's right, but I doubt robbers use these roads. Those were Opfen men, but usually House Draafen takes the responsibility of these roads, despite not actually being their territory. Strange lot, the Draafen. Proud border guards. A bunch of dogs, they are…"
Martin laughed. "Perhaps that is why their sigil is a black hound? Not just from the stories…"
"Nah, I doubt it," Aibarus snickered. "They do love their black hounds. Huge beasts with red, hellish eyes... Never seen one, though I've been told none have seen them in quite a while."
"Laughable, Sir, very laughable. But there must be some truth to their stories, no?"
"Again, I doubt it. If one is to hear of a story of the Draafen and think that it was indeed a strange tale, they'll be surprised to find an even stranger one later on. Lord… Lord Olek, I believe, first Lord of the Ingram, he had those hounds. Three of them, apparently. And every night…"
"They'd go out to feast on Frozenfolk," Martin completed the sentence, "I've listened to my mother's tales far too often, Sir."
"Well, at least you know they're just tales. Members of House Draafen believe these stories as though they are gospel, as though there truly are black hounds loyal only to their house out there, somewhere."
They rode a little further without talking. Martin didn't know what to make of the Draafen. Very hospitable, sure, but what House of the North wasn't? Every feast, every celebration, weddings and even betrothals were displays of wealth. In Bergstadt, for instance, the day of St. Karl, the 22nd day of May, was a grand splendour, even more so than Saturnalia. But what else could be expected from a day dedicated to the man the province was named after? The streets would be cleaned, white flags raised above every building in the city. Dances, tourneys and plays were often performed for the peasants of the city. The Lord of Bergstadt strewing sesters for the folk, a fine act of charity. Hail Bercken, the crowds would cheer throughout that day. It was a day Martin looked forward to every year, and the thought of being there again that year made him happy, even as he fled the Hinterland.
He wasn't quite sure whether or not to feel guilty about leaving. Reason would have him believe he was doing right, but his heart thought otherwise. Why could his heart and his reason never come to a finer conclusion?
Everything around him reminded him of home. The hills of the Hinterland were rising up, trying to reach the Karlsmountains from the south. The waters of the Ingram were coming from the same mountain range, the road led them there as well. He thought of Konrad and Andreas Davius for some strange reason. Andreas had told him multiple times that Konrad hated it here, and Martin never understood why. If he felt so good about living by the mountains, why couldn't he bear some hills? But maybe Martin would hate it too if he lived in, say, Königsgrab or Löwensfurt, being far from his beloved mountains.
- - -
"I hope your journey here was… hasteful enough."
A singular bright golden ray of moonlight shone into the hall of the citadel, from a small window above Lord Draafen's seat. Konrad thought of it as a fine light, a light almost divine. He imagined the room without it, the banner of House Draafen, hanging from under the window down to the seat, illuminated only by torchlight. No, it wouldn't be the same, not even close. It would be worse if the torches weren't there: Then only the seat and the banner would be lit, the seats and doorways covered in darkness.
"It was, my friend." Lord Konrad Davius said. He couldn't hide his emotions, his fears, the turmoil in his heart. Not on his face and not in his voice could he hide behind the stoic mask. "My bannerman, Sir Meylin found me on the road. I was… horrified to say the least."
"That sounds like the most natural reaction to the news." Oldvar approached from behind, "Yes, Sir Meylin. I remember him. Came here before Sir Berten and your cavalry arrived."
Konrad was puzzled. "Sir Berten? My cavalry?"
"Yes, your cavalry. Sir Meyeren was with them as well. They were sent out by the Arrimvale to investigate and found the remnants of the watch. He told us Captain Marius would come here with boats so they would not slow the cavalry down."
"That would make sense," he said as he sat down, facing his friend. "What did they do here?"
The Lord shrugged. "They rallied the Ninth to defend Sarus."
"What?"
"Aye, they told us of the danger and the good General Borren did not hesitate to act. The Legion was ready to march in a day. You know how Borren is, a serious, dutiful man. So they left two days ago, they'll be halfway there at this time."
"Good…" Konrad said, though he was thinking hard about his bannermen. "So, Sir Olm is at Königsgrab, Sir Meylin… I sent him away to notify the Imperial court. Thank you for lending him those two lads and your seal, they volunteered to join him in the journey and deliver your letter to him personally."
Lord Oldvar nodded. "Good lads," he said. He sat down next to Konrad.
"I myself took the liberty to add my own seal to it."
"Smart move. Two seals will get the Emperor's attention better."
"That's true. Two of my bannermen will be at Königsgrab. Sir Berten and Sir Meyeren are with the Ninth; that leaves Sirs Kolren, Grasinus and Keven at Sarus…"
"All of your bannermen are doing their duties. Wherever they are."
Konrad felt a strange sense of pride and shame. His bannermen were out there, sticking out their necks to protect what was his. He tried not to, but he thought of his dead brothers. He hated thinking about the past. He hated the past, he hated the present and the future seemed dark too. "Damn it all," he let the words out of his mouth.
"Yes, damn it all," the Lord repeated, "The Emperor's Legions should arrive within three months."
"Three months?"
"The good General has assured me the Osfold would be safe with Auerburg's garrison. As long as the enemy has no boats, we'll be safe. The Ninth will make for Sarus, they'll keep your keep safe!" the Lord laughed at his own unfunny pun.
"For the love of God…" Konrad said out loud, now smiling too. "You're a strange man, Oldvar. How do you make me laugh when… when doom looms beyond the Ingram?"
"A family trait, I suppose. Us border guards need a good sense of humour anytime!"
Konrad shook his head. "I do not doubt the Ninth's proficiency and speed, though I do not know whether or not the same can be said of the garrison at Sarus."
"Your bannermen are good men, strong men. The Hinterland may be many things, but it is not a province for weak men." He then turned to a servant, awaiting orders to the other side of the hall. "Get us some ribs and water, will you?"
"Food?" Konrad said. "I can't eat, not now."
"Eating's good for the spirit. So is walking, breathing, taking a good shit…" Oldvar laughed.
"Damn it, Oldvar, twenty thousand Northmen are laying waste to my province and…" He shut up. He didn't want to continue, his friend had offered him a kindness. "Thank you. God, I really don't know what is happening to me."
"Bah, you're fine. I've seen men in worse states, and I'm sure you have too."
Konrad felt too sore and exhausted to even give a proper response.
"When I was a young boy, my father Lord Olek would take me hunting with my brother Alfred." Oldvar paused. Konrad saw his troubled face. It was a story he had heard of, but never from him. "It was just another one of those hunts, to the woods south of Urburg. I was fifteen then, I think. Anywho, you know where I'm going so I won't go into detail. My brother was mistaken for a deer, as one does, and…" He stopped again. He took a few breaths. "My father was worse then than you are now, I guess that's what I'm trying to say."
"He was more upset over the death of one than I am over the death of dozens." Konrad said.
Oldvar frowned. "That is cruel, my Lord. You never liked the Hinterland, I know. But you cannot live in the past either. What happened at Stefensburg was-"
"No." Konrad cut him off. His eyes shut, his teeth pressed against one another. His throat was at that moment drier than the dunes south of Tisia. He felt his stomach turn, either from his journey or the shadow the past cast. "Not now."
"Yes," Lord Oldvar pressed on. "Now. How long have you had your exile at mind? Your misfortune at Stefensburg? A tragedy, Konrad, but it's been a decade and a half."
Konrad shook his head violently, like a madman. He couldn't help it. "Does it bring you pleasure, torturing me like this? Reminding me of the bodies? The…"
"The ruin of your House, at the hand of House Arrinus."
"Shut up! Did my blood: my boys, my girl, my brothers, all of them… Did they deserve what happened to them? Is that what you say?"
He stopped, he wasn't at Auerburg anymore. He was there again. There at Stefensburg, watching his forces surrounded.
He lost his balance, he fell onto the ground from the seat. His head ached, his body, arms and legs moved uncontrollably. He wanted to scream, to cry out for help.
"Konrad!" He heard Oldvar's voice, it seemed too distant, too far.
He felt hands on his body, grabbing his clothes and hands and touching his forehead. Then he felt as though he was flying, as though he felt wind brushing against him. The Eastern Legions approached and approached from both the north and south. He could see Castle Stefensburg, as clear as it was fourteen years ago, rising from the other side of the river.
Then, he felt nothing. Then, comfort. He could feel his sweat piling up in the soft cloth to his back. There was a pillow behind his head, he was sure.
There was a haze of voices around him. "Demons!" he heard, "Demons in the Lord!"
"Let him rest!" a different voice, a deeper voice called.
And as the world faded into a silence, he had fledgling thought of his son, his last son. Andreas, poor Andreas, he thought as sleep took him into a tender embrace.
- - -
The sounds of feet hitting the ground in unison, the whining of horses and shouts of order were entrancing for Berten as he rode at the very front of the column. Deeper into the valley the Ninth marched.
"You seem to be in a good mood, General," he said.
"You are too kind, Sir Berten," General Borren said, "But this is mere duty." His expression was as cold as ice, but yet his eyes seemed to burn with a passion for his profession. "I cannot be in a good mood when I wear my armour and don my sword, that would be disrespecting my sacred profession."
"When you put it that way… I can respect that."
The General gave no reply. But he probably doesn't want my respect, Berten thought.
They had been marching for three days. It was a bit warmer than it was a few days earlier, short blades of grass were shyly growing from the ground, yet there were still clumps of snow along the road. The road was slightly muddy from melted snow too. Not exactly perfect conditions for a march, yet the best the Ninth would get in that time of the year.
They had passed Prent, a farmstead with half a dozen homes that morning. Sarus was two days away. He prayed that they weren't too late. But somehow he knew. Marius had given him an estimate, not a fact. A most terrible apprehension had the bannerman in his grips, not letting him go, no matter what. But perhaps his gut feeling was wrong. Time and time again, a fleeting sense of hope would wash over him, like a hot bath at the end of a hard day. How or why it came to him in those random times, Berten couldn't know. But he was glad it came to him, for he desperately needed hope now, more than ever. He was feeling one such wave of hope as he rode beside the General.
Hope or not, the Ninth marched on. The march reminded Berten of a funeral pyre. All marches were funeral pyres, in a way, but this time it was different. Every Legion in the North had a custom to choose a colour to bear their standards. The First had blue, the Fourth green, the Tenth white... The Ninth Legion, meanwhile, had chosen black as their colour. Legionaries wore black on their tabards and pants; their golden standard, a hound, stood above a black cloth with the white number IX on it.
Berten had seen the Ninth march once before, a parade when he was a boy, to celebrate the victory in the Western War. His father had been a legionary too, so he obviously felt great pride watching them then. He hoped to be a Legionary one day too, though fate had decided the path of a bannerman fit him better.
Other than the black, there was another thing bothering him about their march, the funeral pyre: the quiet. The wind was abnormally silent. There were over five thousand men there, and around seven hundred horses. Yet there was no bantering, arguing or fighting resembling a conversation. There were the delivery of orders and the neighing of horses, sure, but it was as though the Legion was as stern as their commander. Odd, Sir Berten thought as he looked to his right, to Sir Meyeren. He was riding atop his grey charger, watching the hills.
"I haven't asked you how you've been, Sir," Berten said.
"You need not to, Berten," Meyeren replied, "And you need not worry. I always watch the trees when I'm away from Sarus."
"That makes you smarter than most."
Meyeren shrugged, though smiled a little as well. "If I was smart I would have run off the moment we reached Auerburg."
"But that would have meant throwing away your honour. Honour and intelligence are two different things, Meyeren. You are smart, not trading honour for safety."
This time Meyeren smiled earnestly. "Thank you. Some would call me a fool anyhow."
"Then let it be known that those who would call you a fool are fools themselves!"
"Now I know why women like you."
"They do?" Berten said sarcastically, "I never noticed!"
The two laughed together till the Ninth's enduring silence killed and buried it for good. They rode a little further in silence before Meyeren spoke again. "But what good is honour when your throat is slit by a Norseman's dagger?"
Berten shrugged. "No good at all, but then again I'm the wrong person to ask. You see, I'm not exactly the manifestation of honour in this beautiful world. Perhaps you should have asked our late Lord."
"You're wrong, Sir," Meyeren claimed, "He's the last person I would have asked. Don't get me wrong, I had and still have great love and respect for Andreus Davius, but I don't think his reputation did him any good."
This rubbed Berten the wrong way, though he chose not to show. "How so?" he asked.
"Well, the Lord's honour didn't prevent his exile, did it?"
"That wasn't his fault." Berten responded quickly.
"It was his sons' fault, I know. They paid the price of treason with their lives, except for Konrad, of course. But do tell me, if a man's honour matters so much, how come it never comes to his aid, to save him from peril?"
"Because treason is a crime, a crime that must be punished no matter what. If that simple principle weren't true, Sartha wouldn't rule the world."
"If a man steals a loaf of bread, is it right for his family's hands to be cut off as well?"
Before Berten could respond, a blast was heard. A blast, the blowing of a horn. Before he could blink, the valley erupted in chants and screams.
"Lines!" the General yelled with the voice of a commander, loud and clear. Berten swiftly turned his horse towards the hill to their west and the columns of men forming a long line. They didn't fear nor did they cower, they didn't yell or run; they stood, shields and spears in their hands.
"Cavalry! Stay behind the lines! Archers!"
It was then Berten saw the men coming at them. Tall men, ragged men with axes and swords and spears. All with different armour, like an army of robbers who had scavenged their armour off the land. Some had a helmet, some didn't; some wore a tunic, some wore chainmail, some coifs and so on. Hundreds, thousands of them, Berten couldn't count. There was the enemy.
"Forward! Drive them up the hill!"
The General bolted away from the Davian bannermen, waiving his sword in the air. With him, the infantry advanced.
"Berten, look!" Meyeren, that's Meyeren, Berten thought and turned his head, his horse still facing the lines. Meyeren was pointing towards the North, his face showing pure despair. "They're coming from there too!" The enemy was on the road, Berten could see. They were more organised than the ones on the hill, yes, the Norsemen had formed a shieldwall there. And they were approaching faster than he'd liked...
Without hesitation or thought, Berten's horse galloped away, following the General. "The cavalry!" he heard Meyeren's voice and he knew what to do.
He pulled his own shortsword from his sheath and waved it in the air. He passed men and horses, holding the reins so tightly he thought his hand would come off. "General!" he yelled as much as he could. By then the screams had gotten even louder, the first Norsemen were reaching the Ninth's line. "General! They're coming from the north!"
An arrow flew above him. Something was wrong, the arrow came from the east. That could mean only one thing. Berten turned his hand in a haze and saw them. There were Norsemen on the other side of the Eirim with bows and arrows. Then came arrows flying over him and going into the waters of the river. Those came from his right. They were being fired at from two sides.
"General!" he yelled again, and to his amazement General Borren heard his voice over the cries of thousands. The man turned around, his face still as cold as it was moments ago. Berten pointed towards the north, riding slightly away from the lines so he could see.
And see the man did. The General seemed speechless for a moment, only to regain his composure. "Captains of the cavalry! Praefect Lienus!" he yelled once more, pointing his sword to the north. "There is your enemy! Follow the road and get those fuckers off the road! Buy your comrades the time they need! If you cannot drive them or even stop them, show them how well Legionaries of the Ninth can die!" There were waves of cheers from the cavalry, the squadrons aligning with their comrades, riding behind the line by the Ingram. On, to form up on the road. Berten saw the Praefect of the Cavalry the General had called upon, Lienus, taking the cavalry's standard from one of the soldiers and ride to the line's side.
Berten joined them, his horse strutting as fast as all the others. By the time he reached Sir Meyeren again, a few dozen had already formed a line at the road. Berten turned around for a second or two to see how the line did. The slaughter had begun in earnest. The Imperial line could barely hold their ground, let alone force the Norse back uphill. More and more Norsemen were coming down from the hills. And with arrows coming from two sides, they were at a clear disadvantage. Their archers could barely fire back…
"The cavalry will charge immediately," he told Meyeren, now looking at the approaching shieldwall. A horse fell down right next to him, an arrow had hit the animal in the eye. Its rider fell with it. Then another fell. Standing still made them an easy target.
Praefect Lienus sheathed his sword and picked up his spear, strapped to his horse's side. "Forth!" he yelled, riding through the men, the standard in the air, knowing they'd follow him. "Forth men, ye dead men!"
And follow him the Ninth's horsemen did. Berten rode too, he did it without realising. Thundering hooves graced the grounds of the road, through mud and snow. Berten screamed, he did it without realising. Many screamed with him. They would kill and die, for many it would be the last time they got to scream. Berten never felt finer in his life, couching his spear and waiting while the rest of them were all around him. The enemy line grew closer and closer, his horse was fast. Arrows flew against them, he ducked his head beneath his shield on his left. He closed his eyes, hoping his spear would land a blow...
And then it did.
He could feel something at the end of his spear, something soft. Flesh, Berten thought, opening his eyes and gritting his teeth. His horse had bumped into a shield, and he stopped, surrounded by enemy spears and swords.
The cavalry crashed into the line. He saw to his right men fall off their horses and die, spears pierce and shields break. He felt his horse continuing, trampling whomever it was it had crashed into. He pulled his spear out of the man and thrusted into the mass of men. He screamed, again, and again he felt flesh at his spear.
Then his horse stopped, then it reared. He fell onto the ground, feeling the cold earth, letting go of his spear and holding his shield to his face. His hand reached for his shortsword. He looked up, two horses were charging beside him, and he could see Norsemen falling over with him. One man with a great black beard and a sword was crawling towards him with a hunger for blood in his eyes. Berten quickly got up. His sword had seemingly left its sheath on its own, and met a blow coming from above. His sword flashed against the steel. Berten kicked the man down and looked around, seeing the unfolding battlefield. The Norse line was mostly gone, though the mass of Norsemen were still there, staying close in the fight. Berten needed to get back, somehow, anyhow. He had no time to waste and left the fallen Norsemen, instead running away, to the front of the line.
The charge had left clearings in the Norse line. More were coming, Berten could see, and hoped that was his chance to get to safety. But then he stopped. Safety, there was no safety. He turned around and raised his shield. There were enemies all around him, yet not approaching. They were banding together, forming small squares against the cavalrymen circling around them.
He couldn't charge them, not alone. He spotted a riderless horse at the riverside, and ran towards it. He ran over corpses of man and horse, over fallen shields and swords, until he reached the horse and jumped on top of it in a surge of spirit. The horse neighed from the sudden weight on top of it, but Berten took its reins anyway. He rode it away from the battle at first, then back into the fight.
The momentum of the charge had slowed dramatically though, and by then there was nothing left to charge: The Norsemen had clumped together, huddled against the hill and river. The horses wouldn't charge them, and their riders wouldn't either. The cavalry was pulling back, slowly, back to the hills.
"Cavalry!" Berten saw Meyeren ride from the south. He couldn't hear the man, the noise of battle was too loud. "Ride with me!" his lips read, "Ride with me!"
"Ride!" Berten yelled, hoping some would hear him. "To the south, south!"
And he was heard. Man after man rallied around him, and he swung his sword in the air. "South, lads, south!" He looked around, hoping to find the Praefect holding a standard. He found him, dead, at the central gap the charge had formed in the Norse line. He rode towards it in a haste, dodging an arrow or two, and leaned from his horse to grab the golden standard. Then he rode back, more had rallied around. "South!" he yelled again, louder, "South, save the infantry!"
He threw his shield away to hold the standard and sword, and then he rode, the cavalry following him instead of their commander. He could see the lines of infantry being pushed back, men dying by the score on both sides of the Imperial line, like a colossal wave engulfing them all. He would save them, all of them...
But then he heard something: horses, but not their own. He looked with horror to his right and saw them. Mounted Norsemen, outnumbering them at least two to one, coming down the hillside. They would crash into their cavalry and...
And they did. Horse crashed into horse, man crashed into man. It was all a frenzy after that; a disorganised, brutal slaughter.
"Retreat!"
The General's voice was heard from where Berten laid. He had fallen from his horse, dearly holding onto the standard. He felt the pain. His back, his front, his legs... He could taste the blood in his mouth. Mud was on his right cheek, on his lips. Fortune hadn't favoured him, he hadn't been bold enough, for an arrow had hit him right as he fell, in the back, right between his spine and shoulder. He felt the cold tip deep within, burning. Horses galloped, men died around him. A losing battle raged. His rush had worn off, he could feel the pain and the exhaustion. It doesn't matter at all, he wanted to tell Meyeren then, as an answer to his last question. His face sank into the mud. He closed his eyes. Olm, Olm... I've failed you. A losing battle raged.