[b]Saamir Syed,

Cowfallow Bridge[/b]

Saamir flailed the cleaver awkwardly in one hand; blinded as he was by the immense pain coming from his nose, and the minor concussion the Orc had gifted him. And then there was a sickening crunch, and Saamir managed to regain his vision. The Orc fell forwads with its head gruesomely cloven in two. Kordo the Ogre stood above him, flashing his stupid smile like a three year old taking to the chamber pot.

"Kordo, you big lovely thing," Saamir said, trying to smile despite the pain in his nose. "Such timing!" 

[b]"Saamir, Horace, Kordo give us a hand!”[/b] called a familiar voice from elsewhere in the melee. 

Saamir peered around, blood seeping through the fingers of the hand that covered his nose. His eyes fell on Mill Grayer; a fellow farmhand a few years Saamir's junior. 

Mill was in trouble, waving his scythe in an arc of not-death at an advancing band of Orcs. Other farmhands were at his side, trying to keep the greenskins from breaking through - but they were failing. Saamir knew that he'd have to take action now, or the battle would be lost in the blink of an eye.

And at that moment, Mill recoiled from a bone-shaking head butt from a greenskin that had managed to creep inside his scythe's range. Saamir cast aside the need for thought, and sprinted forwards, shoving a farmhand to the ground, and miraculously dodging the spear thrust from an Orc. 

He came upon Mill, just as the boy's adversary was about to deliver a mortal blow to his skull. 

"Turn Hell Hound, turn!" Saamir spat, holding his cleaver in both hands despite the burning pain in his face. 

The Orc spun, flashed its large yellow incisors, and then came at Saamir in a flurry of axe blows. Saamir hopped backwards as if dancing, moving his hips left and right in an attempt to avoid the massive swings from his opponent's axe. The Orcs had so far proven themselves fierce monsters, but they had little restraint in their attacks. This was something Saamir was quickly grasping. 

He moved aside an overhead swing that fractured the wooden planks beneath his feet - and it was time. With a quick but furious action, he pulled the cleaver across in a horizontal line, catching the Orc in the right shoulder. It bellowed some unintelligible curse, and pulled its axe free. Saamir felt he should move backwards again, but something else, some savage animal instinct abandoned long ago by his ancestors, whispered ever so slightly to him.

[i]"Kill"[/i]

Saamir stuck again, slicing apart the Orc's face. It screamed - maybe cried? - and staggered backwards, a flap of flesh hanging from its left cheek. Saamir did not let up, and hacked repeatedly until the beast finally went down in a pool of darkening blood. 

By now, the Orc line was faltering, and they were withdrawing from the bridge. The compact fighting environment was hindering their berserker-tastes, and they goaded the farmhands to follow them. The streets of Cowfallow were but mud and thatch, and gave wide birth for wagons and market stalls. They'd make excellent killing grounds for warriors who were used to slicing their way through a formation of men on the battlefield. 

"Careful brothers," Saamir said breathlessly, leaning against Mill for support. "They'll have the upper hand on open ground. Tread lightly."

And then he remembered his father was still in Cowfallow - if he yet lived. 

"On second thoughts," he wheezed. "Chase them down. If they see us halt our attack, it'll steel them. We don't want them to be steeled."