1075th
Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Frost’s Dawn
Raston
An
axe swung down. His axe? An arm was severed. Blood spattered his face.
Hands pushed at his back. Another person dropped to the blood-soaked mud.
Corpse trampled by the press. Another axe swung. Sword stabbed. Shield raised.
Arrows peppered the field. Shields lowered. Axe swung. Limb severed. Blood
spattered. Corpse trampled.
Again.
Again. Again.
Axe.
Limb. Shield. Arrow. Corpse. Forward. Axe.
His
body was numb. His mind was numb. His world was a blur. Shouting and
screaming deafened him. He swung his axe, again and again, sinking its blade
into flesh and pushing forward. He slid his feet through the mud, shins pushing
against fallen enemies. Comrades? It became difficult to tell. His axe
came down, biting into flesh. Whose flesh? He could not always be sure.
The
world swirled around him. Shields went up. He ceased his forward push, ducking
beneath the nearest shield bearer. Arrows rained around them. His heart raced.
His skin tingled. Shields dropped. Axe swung. He pushed forward; fresh corpses
pushed aside.
His
world took on a red tinge, his arms began to tremble. He lunged forward,
pushing past the shield bearer to his side. He threw himself into the center of
the press. Swung. Swung. SWUNG! Arms numb. Head numb. Heart battering his ribs.
Blood and sweat and mud smeared down his face.
Arrows
rained down. No shields. He’d gone too far. Pain lanced through his shoulder.
He ignored it. Step forward. Swing. Pain forgotten. Body numb. Axe. Swing.
Sever.
It
was marvelous. He’d heard the tales from the old folk back home. Those that had
survived their life of raiding. Returned to the Isles of Glass to spin tales by
the campfires at night. They always told tales of their first voyage. The
stories were nothing in comparison.
Axe.
Blood. Push. Ignore the pain.
