The enemy had almost no horses left. We faced infantry, and we crashed into their ranks. The advantage of mass that comes from horse and rider immediately made itself felt, along with the difference in the quality of equipment and overall training—after all, however you look at it, the Kingsguards are among the finest warriors.
Adrenaline surged like a wave, and the world narrowed to the length of an outstretched sword. I was shouting something, striking, slashing, stabbing, doing whatever I could and trying my best to work with the shield, recalling all the lessons Orm and Jaime had taught me. At least that was how it was in the beginning—then the frenzy of battle wiped away any conscious thought…
I wore good armor—one might say first-rate: mail, a cuirass, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses, and poleyns. For this fight I had put on a Lobster-tailed pot helmet with a visor, a sliding nasal bar, and cheekpieces. No matter how much I trained, I never learned to feel comfortable or navigate well in a fully enclosed helmet. The field of vision is far too narrow, and you begin to feel short of breath rather quickly.
A couple of times someone managed to reach me, and an enemy blade scraped across my cuirass. One arrow grazed my face—a cut beneath the eye proved unpleasant, and blood began to drip onto the breastplate. The lion and the stag, stained with blood, looked unsettling.
Balon Swann led our wedge, and he did not lose his cool head. After breaking through their formation, we burst onto the open field, wheeled around, and once again slammed into the enemy along a wide arc. Our troops could clearly see the king's actions, and I realized they had taken heart, found their courage, and joined the attack.
More and more often I heard cries here and there—"the king is with us," "forward," "press them!" The enemy, on the other hand, hesitated and seemed to sag, apparently beginning to regret leaving their good position on the hill so recklessly.
Our detachment clashed in hand-to-hand combat once again. This time it did not go so smoothly. The enemy managed to regroup, push their pikemen forward, and our momentum stalled. And for a rider, movement is one of the main advantages…
Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone hook Balon Swann's armor with a halberd. He cried out as they dragged him from the saddle, and enemy blades began flashing rapidly over that spot.
At that moment Snow wheezed and began to collapse onto his side. I managed to yank my feet from the stirrups… but I could do nothing more. The ground proved unexpectedly hard, and I crashed against it with full force. My left arm cracked as I tried to break the fall, and my head rang after striking the earth.
I crouched there, shaking my head and trying to come to my senses. The damp, trampled ground lay right before my eyes, and for some reason my gaze fixed on a clear footprint with a crushed oak leaf pressed inside.
My head rang, and my left arm throbbed with pain. All around, the ground was strewn with the dead, the dying, and the wounded. Horses neighed, men shouted, swords clashed and scraped against armor. From somewhere off to the side came wet, heavy blows—the sound of someone being hacked apart or finished off. Nearby, a man in armor bearing the Frey sigil wailed in a long, shrill note. One of his legs had been completely severed, and the other was little more than a stump hanging by his trouser leg and a strip of skin. Blood gushed freely, yet for some reason he kept crawling… and crawling…
Through the ringing in my ears, as though it were happening very far away, I heard a new shout: "Protect the king! Everyone here!"
I shook my head, finally coming back to myself. The enemy pressed closer and closer around me. Someone grabbed my leg and tried to drag me backward. Damn it, I slid face-first through the mud and someone's blood in the most un-kingly fashion!
Dozens of hands reached toward me, each eager to take me prisoner—after all, a king could bring an enormous ransom, and no one seemed in a hurry to kill me. The enemies seemed somehow grotesque, impossibly huge, with snarling faces and mouths gaping in their shouts.
Our men struck back and managed to drive them off. Arys Oakheart rode around us like a madman, shouting something. His helmet had flown off, blood ran down his head, yet he kept circling and striking, circling and striking. Steffon Swyft helped him, as did Lancel with his dozen men and several others.
"Your Majesty—"
Someone's powerful hands seized me by the breastplate and with ease hauled me to my feet in a single jerk. It was Jon Cafferen—without his cloak, his armor scratched, but quite alive and vigorous. The dismounted Herald Orm helped him.
"Take a horse and fall back," he said, roughly shoving me toward his own mount. Orm caught me by the arm and helped me take a few steps.
I caught a glimpse of Snow—he was still alive, his legs twitching, but his belly had been ripped open and his entrails spilled out, steaming in the air.
"Come on, you bastards—one at a time," Cafferen growled, seeming to root himself to the ground. He tossed aside his sword and drew his favorite weapon—a formidable battle-axe—and set to work. With a long, booming grunt he cleaved into the first sinewy neck, planted his foot on the chest of the foe whose eyes had rolled back, pressed down, tore the weapon free, and began to swing it with terrifying skill. Almost every blow sent someone falling, and he worked on and on, steady and unhurriedly, like a lumberjack felling trees. One of our infantrymen stepped beside him, and their reliable, loyal backs shielded me from danger.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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