Guilliame de Tournelle's vision swam as he struggled to rise.
His breastplate was dented, his helm cracked along the cheek.
The cold bit at his hands as he reached for his sword, lying just inches beyond his grasp in the frostbitten grass.
Around him, the clash of steel echoed — muffled by the ringing in his ears and the thudding of his own heartbeat.
He could smell blood.
Not just his, but his men's, thick and hot and flooding the earth like wine from shattered barrels.
A strong hand grasped his arm.
"Lord!"
gasped one of his retainers — a boy of seventeen summers, face caked in dirt and blood.
"You must move. You have to—"
An arrow took the boy in the side of the throat mid-sentence.
He collapsed in silence, blood fountaining from his mouth as his eyes went wide before becoming still.
Guilliame stared.
Then, slowly, he grabbed his sword.
Around him, a dozen or so of his knights remained — the survivors of his personal guard.
