The enemy had almost no horses left. We faced infantry, and we crashed into their ranks. The advantage of mass that cos from horse and rider imdiately made itself felt, along with the difference in the quality of equipnt 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 sothing, striking, slashing, stabbing, doing whatever I could and trying my best to work with the shield, recalling all the lessons Orm and Jai had taught . 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 helt 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 helt. The field of vision is far too narrow, and you begin to feel short of breath rather quickly.
A couple of tis soone managed to reach , 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 slamd 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 seed to sag, apparently beginning to regret leaving their good position on the hill so recklessly.
Our detachnt clashed in hand-to-hand combat once again. This ti it did not go so smoothly. The enemy managed to regroup, push their piken forward, and our montum stalled. And for a rider, movent is one of the main advantages…
Out of the corner of my eye I saw soone 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 mont 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 co to my senses. The damp, trampled ground lay right before my eyes, and for so 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, n shouted, swords clashed and scraped against armor. From sowhere off to the side ca wet, heavy blows—the sound of soone 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 so 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 . Soone grabbed my leg and tried to drag backward. Damn it, I slid face-first through the mud and soone's blood in the most un-kingly fashion!
Dozens of hands reached toward , each eager to take prisoner—after all, a king could bring an enormous ransom, and no one seed in a hurry to kill . The enemies seed sohow grotesque, impossibly huge, with snarling faces and mouths gaping in their shouts.
Our n struck back and managed to drive them off. Arys Oakheart rode around us like a madman, shouting sothing. His helt 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 n and several others.
"Your Majesty—"
Soone's powerful hands seized by the breastplate and with ease hauled 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 toward his own mount. Orm caught by the arm and helped 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.
"Co on, you bastards—one at a ti," 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 soone falling, and he worked on and on, steady and unhurriedly, like a lumberjack felling trees. One of our infantryn stepped beside him, and their reliable, loyal backs shielded from danger.
(End of Chapter)
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