"Heave!" 

Haralt saw the watchmen and watchwomen in front press into their locked shields. Their comrades in the second and third ranks pushed into their backs, and the resulting force shoved the Porchlings back a few feet. A gap emerged, and suddenly it was dense with thrust spears. Haralt reckoned that in a split second, a dozen of the enemy had fallen.

But others soon replaced them, and he felt, more than saw, the crush of steel-plated bodies throw themselves into the line. A man in front, taller than he, shuddered backwards and fell into him. Haralt was strong, but he was not a wall, and soon the pair found themselves on the floor in a clatter of weapons. 

"Call yerself a fighter," spat the watchmen as he quickly scrambled to his feet. He gave Haralt a quick scorn, and then quickly moved back into the fight. 

"No," Haralt called after him. "Just a blacksmith, here to meet his end."

"You're in the right place," shouted someone; their voice sounded noble, and well founded.

Haralt caught the glimpse of a plumbed helm, turned slightly so that the edge of the visor caught him. A blue eye shone through it briefly, boring into him. Then the helm had turned to those who wished to smash it apart.

"Seems that way," Haralt sighed, and then he threw his weight against the first back he came to. 

"Heave!"