Ranald stumbled to the side of the gate’s entrance and leaned against the stone, then put his back to it and sank down. The lizard man panted silently in front of him, splayed out on its back. He stared down into its eerily large eyes.
“Can you fight?” It shook its head. He squeezed his eyes shut and sagged lower. “Listen,” he said, letting the beast focus its eyes on his helmet, “I may not come back. Understand?” It nodded. “There’s a town some days journey down the road. The paved one, I mean.” He thought for a moment then unbuckled his belt and stripped the surcoat from his armor. The creature’s head followed him as he placed the loose cloth on the ground next to it. “If you make it there without me.” It stared at him blankly. “Give it to them, I mean.” It nodded. He took it as confirmation of its understanding and stood to his feet using a protruding stone to help the process.
His limbs were already burning with the effort. He wobbled forward a step before he could properly mask his weakness. Every pace forward took a conscious effort on his part to move as if he wasn’t nearly incapacitated with weakness.
He rounded the corner sword sitting comfortably on his shoulder and measured the area. The sun which previously had been at the beginning of its arc was now at its zenith, shining down its odd light in constantly shifting patterns and just illuminating the gateway. Where the portcullis should have been there was nothing. No splintered wood or jagged pieces of broken metal, no bodies alive or otherwise. He didn’t stop to question why nor did his condition allow him to care.
An enemy banner stood where the fortress’s native flag stood before. His eyebrows knitted themselves together and further resolve blossomed in his gut. The disrespect of the invaders, both to the castle and the land itself, worked his choler into a whirling frenzy. He walked to the flag and raised his leg, kicking down on it until its shaft snapped and the flag fell. He took a grim satisfaction in the act though he knew it was at best a meaningless performance.
A flash of white steel and brown wood whistled past his head, embedding itself into the stone beside him. Energy shot through his body and the runes on his armor glowed slightly brighter in response, projecting their images onto the shadowed walls of the entryway. By reflex he leaned his left shoulder to the right, throwing his sword out in a warding cut. The next javelin streaked out but was intercepted by his blade’s arcing swing and bounced off into the light of the sun. Ranald used the momentum from his slash to circle his sword around, bringing it up over his head and grabbing onto the handle firmly.
His opponent was an armored figure that had been cloaked in the darkness, now only made visible by the reflection of the patterned runes on his armor. Ranald made his decision.
In three large steps he covered the ground between him and his opponent, swinging diagonally. Ranald’s adversary blocked his attack and attempted to counter with a strike that came from above, bringing its javelin up and stabbing at his face. Ranald parried the thrust then telegraphed another overhead strike, lifting his left leg up as if he were about to stomp down with force. His enemy saw this and tried a defense, lifting its shield once more and protecting its own left leg with its javelin. Ranald brought his sword down at its shin rather than its head and sliced through the wooden shaft of his opponent’s weapon. Bone crumpled underneath chainmail armor and his enemy fell to one knee, still sheltering behind its defensive bulwark. Another downward strike removed the shield and an upward cut with the blade’s false edge slammed into the mail on its chin, snapping its head upward.
Footfalls echoed in the enclosed space, and he pivoted, throwing up a guard above his head. A spear and an ax sped towards him in tandem, one glancing off his left pauldron and the other hammering into his counter, the force of which made him drop his guard. He attempted to back away when a previously unseen polearm slammed into his knee and made his footing unstable. Ranald roared and began to swing his weapon in large circular arcs, backing away from his opponents who followed at a safe distance. Both he and his opponents paused for a long, excruciating moment.
Time stretched onwards as the belligerents considered their next moves. Ranald shook and breathed heavily. His vision swam and his body ached, arms trembling as he held his sword pointed downward in front of him. Its point hovered above the ground and shook with the tremors in his arms. He attempted to raise it, dragging the blade upwards towards his aggressors. The act felt monumental; all at one his body was hot and cold, shivering even as his skin burned against the cloth of his armor. His blade fell for a moment. Visions of burned bodies and butchered friends flashed through his head, thoughts of inadequacy in failing to protect those around him ripping into his mind and taking hold deep within his psyche, eyes failing to focus on the figures in front of him. What good would living do now?
He shut his jaw with an audible clack and ground his molars together, drowning out the thoughts with images of revenge and triumph. The fire in his eyes, previously fading away in the cold wind roared to life again.
Ranald’s armor changed from a light blue glow to white hot, no longer kept restrained by its master. Boiling air poured from the steel into the area around it in roiling waves of heat that completely filled the massive enclosed space around him. He charged the Axman and lead with a rising cut, taking his left hand off his sword’s handle and allowing the blade to fly into the air. The attack missed; its target long since danced away from the strike, but it served its purpose. The spear snaked out once more and whistled through the air but found itself stuck in the hand of its target. Ranald strained his hand and wrist, cracking the spear’s haft but was unable to snap it. His sword came around driven by the force of his previous attack and hit his arm with its flat edge. The Spearman drew his weapon back to find it headless and declawed. Something struck Ranald’s guard, slamming into the blade that sat rested against his forearm. The force of the blow moved his entire upper body to the side, forcing his arms down.
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The axman closed the gap to take advantage of the opening, weapon drawn to its side for a brutal strike and gave no room for thought. Ranald stepped forward and threw his gathered momentum into a desperate punch, dropping his sword into the hand by the blade and rocketing the one previously on the hilt forward. He stepped into the blow and slammed into the axman with his body, both combatants failing to land their strike and bouncing off the other with a clang.
Ranald recovered first. He grasped the hilt again and pressed forwards, sword tip pointed at the ground, charging the axman and hooking the pommel behind its neck. He twisted his body and threw the stumbling warrior behind him, pivoting in time to see a sword already coming forward to stab at his eye. It hit his helmet just above the eye slit, pushing his head back and sliding upwards along its curve. Something impacted his belly hard, but he ignored the sensation and leaned his torso to the left, lip curling as he prepared to drag the sword in his hands up the back of the axman in front of him. The spearman grabbed his ally and wrenched him out of the way, moving both he and his friend out of Ranald’s range.
The brief pause in the assault was enough. He grasped the long tube shaped object from his waist and drew it, pointing it at the poleman that still pursued him. The explosion was enough to light up the entirety of the portcullis, creating a flash so bright Ranald saw it even through his shut eyes. He opened them quickly and was greeted by the sight of hope. The poleman lay collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath and clutching its cuirass. Ranald stepped forward and stabbed down towards the injured warrior’s head. It met with the chainmail of its arm instead, breaking through the links and impaled the wounded’s arm, eliciting a scream of pain that spurred its allies back into action. Ranald attempted to wrench the sword free to no avail.
The blade of an ax caught him on his helmet and wrenched his head to the side. He stumbled backwards stunned by the blow and was caught with a follow up blow from the spear turned swordsman. The consecutive attacks sent his head spinning and nearly sent him to his knees, leaving him open and vulnerable as his eyes became unfocused on the things around him.
A barrage fell upon him; each hit resounded with a clang that tore through the reserves of his strength and mental fortitude alike. His eyes regained some focus on one of the fighters in front of him, the other having already circled around to his rear. Everything slowed down. The axeblade cutting its way through the air towards his head seemed to stop midair, the soldier behind it snarling as he swung.
Emotions were the first thing he noticed. The pain overtaking his senses, the exhaustion begging him to stop and the fear. The fear of losing. The fear of dying when there was still more to be proven. Despair tore him down, whispering its hateful truths and disgusting facts. His life spent fighting, warring, for a gift he was never even certain of getting. Spent on meaningless battles and pointless frivolities, acting as others wanted him always listening and following and never speaking, never daring to tell others of what he really thought of them. His eyes snapped into clarity in that fraction of a second; the rage building up inside of him, the indignity of being attacked as he was, the annoyance of being unable to fight back the weak insignificant insects that hounded his heels. Why should he face death here? Why should he allow himself to be slain by enemies who’d not know or care of his name? Why should he let the world around him continue to play with him at its deranged and disgusting whims?
The rage boiled over inside of him, scorching the voice of despair in his head and burning it to ash, wiping away the fear in fire and ripping the pain in his limbs to shreds. The anger flowing through his veins forced his overtaxed and utterly drained muscles into use uncaring of the damage pushing beyond their limits would cause. His eyes came alive, veins bursting and leaking scarlet blood into his sclera, teeth and fists clenched in berserk fury that could only be expressed through violence.
He roared as he struck, diving forwards underneath the ax and propelling his fist over his head like the shell of a cannon. The impact was a gross mess of broken teeth and jaw and mangled skin. The axman’s face seemed to no longer be human, jaw ripped from its socket and nearly torn from his body entirely. The sheer brutality of it was enough to send the warrior crumbling down to the ground in a pile of armor and meat.
Ranald stumbled forward only able to stop his absurd forward momentum through the crackling of his legs. He pivoted and was met with a gauntleted fist slamming into his helmet snapping his head upward, rattling his brain and forcing any thoughts beginning to form out of his consciousness entirely. He swung wide fist arching over the swordsman’s head who stepped under it and stabbed upwards with its sword. It caught Ranald’s throat and shut his breathing through sheer force. Ranald ignored the sensation entirely and swung upwards into his foe’s head, failing to hit its target as it moved up and away but nonetheless cratering into the swordsman’s chest. Something cracked, and his opponent dropped their sword.
Metal sabatons clatter against the floor. Ranald pivoted around the fighter to its back, wrapping his hands around the stunned individual’s waist and pulling upward. Steel clanged against the ground and shattered rock clattered off into the darkness around them. The impact of two armored men slamming into the stone centered all its force around the stunned warrior’s conical helmet. Ranald slid out from underneath his opponent who spasmed on the floor. The rage drained out of him at the sight.
He grimaced at the very thing he’d caused. Mixed remorse and disgust flooded his mind and settled in his stomach. Ranald unstrapped the dagger from his hip and positioned himself kneeled by the side of his fallen foe. He poised the weapon just over its throat and breathed out shakily. The dagger trembled in his hand. He swallowed.
Perhaps by mistake, he glanced into the man’s eyes. They lay open staring at the ceiling, the orbs of brown faded but still filled with life. His lip trembled. Not an it. A he.
Ranald slid the dagger back into its sheath and stood. His mind wrestled with itself. He knew they’d kill him when they woke. He knew he wouldn’t have enough strength to even protest. He reached for his dagger again but stopped. Ranald made a decision.
When he turned to walk away, his legs failed him. He hit the cold stone with a clank and lay still.