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Canon Blackrush I

Rygan

Deathblade
Evil
Rygan_Deathblade
Rygan_Deathblade
Evil
The boy watched through his visor as the first wave of their cavalry charge began to spur forward. A large rock soared over the bay and landed against the enemy encampment's watchtower, crumbling it over onto the camp itself. He glanced over towards Uriel Valhart, waiting for signal. They were the second wave of cavalry. Adrenaline kept him alert and wired, knuckles turning white from gripping the spear he held. Screams of anguish snapped his attention back to the battle, the charge having made it towards the enemy line. Blackrush's forces had fallen upon the archers. The infantry had begun forward to contest them. Now was the time.

Uriel gave the signal.

His heart threatened to escape his chest as he tightened his legs to start the war horse towards the chaos, steed coming onto a gallop in time with the others of his wave. Wolfgang spotted his friend Sigmund's golden laurels veer right. The center was too thick with cavalry for him. He charged for the left, aiming his spear for a man in rusty maille's chest. It burst cleanly through the center of the man's mass in a spray of viscera. He never had time to scream, and the boy had no time to consider his first time killing a man. Time seemed to slow amid the screams. Death and blood were all about him, and he struggled to recall the plan. A second charge. Yes, a second charge. He wheeled to guide his steed through the camp to pass for a turn, before hearing a horrible shriek from the animal. Its gore splattered across the air as an invader opened its chest, and it threw him off with its death rear. His head rang in pain. The mud was cold. Get up. Get up! Wolfgang scrambled back, breathing heavily against the metal plate covering his face as a man twice his size stalked forth. The barbarian carried a rusted claymore, and the boy's blurring vision could almost make out a wicked grin. He made a hasty stand, throwing a desperate jab forward with the spear to gather more time to rise, the large man parrying it aside with ease. With a roar for his dark god, the claymore was swung down wildly to catch Wolfgang at the head. It narrowly missed as Harrister stumbled to the left, embedding in the wet ground. Without fear his enemy abandoned it, charging at him with powerful arms. A swing from the youth's spear shaft sent him stumbling back, teeth flying into the air. crimson following them. He looked back at Wolfgang with rage, only for the tip of the spear to thrust through his head a second later. It was embedded too deep. He had to leave it.

A stiff shuffle to his fallen horse allowed him to rip free his focus: a zweihander he had stored at the creature's saddle. Horsemen surged about the area, darting between tents and running down any unprepared man they could find. The battle was in full swing. His eyes shifted to find any man not of Blackrush to take on next. There is no time for fear, Wolfgang. There is no time for fear. He spotted James Varyn across the camp, cornered and struggling against multiple foes. The Anhalder made for him, flinching as a soldier on horseback blew past. Halfway to the Count a foe with dirty blond hair stepped forth, and another turned from battling James. Wolfgang threw a thrust for the man closest, prepared to fight his way free despite being outnumbered. He would not die here. Then suddenly the Prince of Hallon was there and with him the second barbarian's death. His wounds from the cavalry's passing caused him to fall face first into the mud at Wolfgang's feet as Sigmund streaked by. The first invader blocked the boy's thrust, clashing their blades and meaning to push him back with his greater strength. All the ward's training burst to life within his muscles, and he tilted his blade forth along the edge of the blond man's blade to rend his collarbone. Yelling out in pain, the attacker kicked out Wolfgang's leg, causing him to buckle. Yet his foe raised his sword too high to finish him off. Before the invader's wild slash could come out, Wolfgang made a swifter one of his own with an exerted sound. The older man's neck opened entirely and sprayed blood over Wolfgang and a passing horse. His chest rose with heavy, staggering breaths. Where was he going? James. James Varyn. The Count was still fighting. Harrister stumbled towards him, avoiding cavalry and flames. Someone had caught the camp on fire. Ash joined the mud and blood covering his helm and fur collar before he arrived. Varyn wrestled with a man, and Wolfgang rammed his blade through the center of the man's back, kicking it free a moment later. The man's screams ringed through his ears. Yet when James forced him to the ground, Wolfgang swung down upon his neck all the same. Chain links broke and crimson sprayed.

He regarded James Varyn for a moment, ears still ringing. What was he saying? Spare the man, spare the man. There was no point. Wolfgang had already killed him. The camp was an inferno at this point, flames raging and consuming everything that could catch. Corpses littered the field and the fighting had stopped. Had they won? The men remaining were on horseback, so they must have. He felt sick. He wanted to cry, he wanted to vomit, he wanted to run home and never leave. What now?


The first wave of arrows from the incoming longships gave answer.
 
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