Lazette reeled amid the crush of warhorses, his mind still swimming from the impact. As the highest-ranking knight remaining on the front, he had reluctantly assumed command of this final cavalry charge against the Godman phalanx. Young and battle-virgin, he owed his cavalry commander's rank—a notch above ordinary knighthood—solely to his fair countenance and his patron's favor. Ironically, a mere five days past, he had been nothing more than a wine steward. Only when their charge had covered half the distance, with Godman forces advancing in triangular formation with twice their numbers, did Lazette truly regret mounting this barely-broken mare in heat for warfare. Though positioned securely within his formation's center, this protection did nothing to mitigate the bone-jarring collision when the battle lines met. As knights hacked and slashed at one another, Lazette found himself compressed by his own men—horses pressed flank to flank, armored shoulders grinding together, leaving him scarcely enough space to swing his blade. (Damn this war. Fucking war to hell.) He yanked his reins desperately, squeezing through a momentary gap between mounts, only to collide head-on with another rider. Three rapid heartbeats allowed mutual identification before the baron's wild, panicked swing unseated his opponent. His mare, still in estrus, delivered a vicious follow-up kick. (Around the map table, it's all talk of clever plans and grand strategies, neat and clean. Out here on the field, it's all just horseshit.) He raised his slender left arm, intercepting a whistling flail with his kite shield. (Die, you bastard.) He thrust wildly with his longsword, fortune guiding the tip into a gap in his opponent's skirted plate armor. The Godman cavalryman swayed three times before toppling from his saddle. (Trample him, girl. Good mare.) The mare shrieked and delivered another savage kick. (Perfect, southern filth. Today, Baron Lazette grinds you all beneath his hooves.)

  Before long, their numerical disadvantage manifested as agonized screams erupted from his flank. (We're being encircled...) Though he heard his comrades' dying cries, his expression remained impassive. "My lord, beware!" his adjutant bellowed, spurring forward to intercept a bodkin arrow meant for Lazette. The baron failed to call out his savior's name in gratitude—he simply couldn't recall it. The Godman horse archer cursed venomously while drawing his sidearm, but a single vicious swing from Lazette sent several fingers and half a palm spiraling through the air. "You dared slay my adjutant," he spat in common tongue. "Die, refuse." The Godman archer obligingly tumbled lifelessly from his mount.

  Cavalry pressed inward from both flanks, rapidly enclosing Lazette once more. "My lord!" a heavily armored knight shouted, his voice muffled within his visored bucket helm. "Their numbers overwhelm us!"

  "And?" Lazette ripped his visor upward. "What precisely would you have me do about it? Hmm?" The bucket-helmed knight, finding no adequate response, concluded the exchange by hefting his greatsword and burying it deep in a passing Godman light cavalryman's shoulder. Blood instantly transformed the steel bucket to crimson.

  (What would you have me do? Hmm?) Lazette twisted through the press of bodies, maneuvering behind an unsuspecting Godman knight. The enemy was methodically battering a Cynthian knight's shield with a spiked morningstar, the defender grimacing but maintaining his position. Lazette stabbed twice at the Godman's back, his blade scraping uselessly against plate armor. Abandoning subtlety, he simply seized the gold-armored enemy and dragged him bodily from his saddle. "Die." His mare administered two more punishing kicks, prompting visible relief on his beleaguered comrade's sweat-drenched face. (What more could you possibly expect from me? Hmm?)

  "Perhaps retreat is warranted, Lazette," another knight called nearby, immediately recognizing his impropriety. "They outnumber us overwhelmingly, my lord. At minimum two-to-one. Encirclement appears imminent..." When Lazette turned toward the speaker, he discovered the man's skull had been catastrophically crushed. (Gods, what a horrifying mess.) Terrified, Lazette just threw his shield up, blocking blindly at an enemy he couldn't even see. Fortunately, his opponent obligingly connected his flail directly with the shield's center. Only after another Cynthian knight dispatched the flail-wielder did Lazette cautiously lower his defense. The fallen knight's assessment had been accurate. Lazette couldn't bear to examine the unfortunate man's remains. (We cannot prevail. The numerical disparity is simply insurmountable.) He wrenched his reins, forcing his mare back within the protective Cynthian formation. "Withdraw!" he screamed hoarsely. "Sound the retreat!"

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  "Unthinkable!" several knights protested vehemently. "We represent Pafaheim's final defense, Cynthia's last bulwark! Our oath compels us to fight until the last man falls!" Lazette silently wished his mare would knock some sense into their iron skulls. (This is brutal warfare, not some romantic fairy tale or knightly ballad.)

  Scarcely had these words been exchanged when a bestial roar erupted from behind—originating from the direction of the Cynthian encampment. (Merciful Goria, save us. My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Surrounded from behind as well—heavens preserve us. Surely our camp hasn't fallen too?)

  This thunderous roar ignited primal fear throughout both armies, affecting Cynthian and Godman alike. "Maintain composure!" Lazette snapped his visor down to conceal his trembling lips. "Before their encirclement completes, we must execute an orderly withdrawal! If circumstances permit, we shall reclaim the hillside encampment from enemy hands!"

  Those knights who moments before had sworn to stand their ground now fell silent, their courage evaporating at the mysterious roar. Confidence collapsed with the same rapidity with which it had formed. "..." Lazette still couldn't recall his adjutant's name. "Adjutant!" he shouted desperately to his nearby subordinates. "Signal the retreat!" The knights exchanged bewildered glances. "Adjutant! Sound the retreat, curse you!"

  "My lord," one knight indicated the ground solemnly, "Kuros lies dead. An arrow took him."

  (He intercepted that arrow for me...) Lazette's brow furrowed. (Now I must sound the retreat personally...) "Poor wretch, what abysmal fortune befell you."

  Meanwhile, a luckless Godman knight had stealthily infiltrated their defensive formation. His helmet had been lost amidst the corpse-heaps, his mount impaled upon an upright pike thirty yards distant after stumbling over fallen bodies. Thrown violently from the saddle, he had endured countless hooves trampling his inadequately armored back. Yet fortune had placed him within fifty yards of the enemy commander. Crawling through the chaos of legs and hooves, he inched closer to his target.

  With all attention focused on the encircling cavalry, he approached Lazette undetected. He lunged with his blade, but the baron turned at the critical moment, deflecting the steel against his kite shield. "Who in damnation are you?!" they simultaneously exclaimed, each in his native tongue. The Godman stabbed frantically, successfully dislodging Lazette from his saddle. Without hesitation, the attacker scrambled beneath the mare's belly, pinning the baron beneath him. He began reciting the Godman victory proclamation—a liturgy exceeding even the Prayers to the Three Goddesses in length. Tears streamed beneath Lazette's visor as the knight continued his interminable recitation—until a Cynthian spear abruptly terminated both his life and his oratory. For a long moment the dead knight stood impossibly upright, before toppling onto Lazette like a virgin spent after her first ravishing. The knight who had preserved the baron's life extracted his weapon. "You almost ran me through too, you fool," Lazette spat, kicking the assassin's corpse away. He gave his groin an instinctive scratch, and the sudden warmth told him he had pissed himself. "Exercise greater caution henceforth, dullard." The knight who had saved him received only caustic rebuke rather than gratitude, his heart hardening to ice. Lazette proceeded to his fallen adjutant, searching the corpse for his signaling horn. The filth-encrusted instrument elicited a disgusted grimace.

  Turning away, he raised his visor just enough to expose his mouth. He wiped the mouthpiece perfunctorily with his fingers, hesitated briefly, then blew. Unknowingly, he experienced his first taste of his own urine. Though untrained and having never properly observed his deceased adjutant's technique, his powerful, sustained note unexpectedly rallied the surrounding Cynthians. Momentarily, he found himself enveloped by shouts of renewed determination, sacrificial courage, and devotional loyalty. (Bloody hell, this is backfiring. Why'd you have to die so soon, you poor bastard?) Steeling himself against the repulsive taste, he produced a shorter, more staccato call. Gradually, the knights appeared to reassess their circumstances realistically—acknowledging Godma's temporary invincibility. Consequently, they now called for strategic withdrawal, reinforcing the bugle's signal, retreating to regroup and fight another day.