The Knight pivoted on his foot, swinging a backhanded swing that broke the collarbone of a cloaked fiend. He expected a squeal of pain, but the figure simply buckled under the blow, trying to swing a shortsword. Fortunately the fiend's arm did not complete its swing before the figure collapsed, floundering like a fish on the floor. It would have been sad if it was a normal man, but whoever followed this count was undeserving of mercy. 

As he swung and struck the thing, another assailant darted in swinging a club. Torm turned and raised his shield to block, parrying the blow before another swing of a cudle knocked the mace out of his weapon hand. It flipped in mid air and landed far in the background. Torm shieldrushed the fiend he blocked, knocking it off its feet as the others rushed in, sensing weakness. It was impressive with which the speed Torm unsheathed his Aculeus longsword, crucifix-hilted and robust of blade. Double fullered to make it lighter with a strong center suitable for cutting, it gently transitioned to a lenticular cross section at the last third of the blade. 

Needless to say, the first two attackers that got within range were cut down with one great swing. Torm felt the familiar resistance of the blade biting through bone and flesh. Had they been armored with more than cloth, it might have taken a bit more effort, but Torm was young and strong, full of vigor. His next stabbed missed, the fiend ducking under the jab. Instead Torm redirected his momentum and brained it with the circular pommel of his sword. The thing fell like a poleaxed ox, his field of view now more clear when the figure fell out of his vision. Torm suddenly realized a young, lithe woman was in the courtroom, acting unlike the others. He saw her scream and tear an old arming sword off the archaic suit on the wall. He recognized her as one of the musicians when he'd entered. She'd broken the spell! 

"Lycurgus!" He cried, the word not even fully escaping his lips before he felt the rumble of shodden hooves. Cloaked men and women were trampled by the destrier as the warhorse charged to his master. Torm slid his shield out of his arm and lashed it to the saddle. He clicked his tongue twice as the 1,500 pound horse reared up. With a whinny, it shot forward through the crowd, knives and cudgles not nearly enough to seriously harm a beast with such mass, particularly while it was garbed in a modicum of armor itself. 

"Take the shield and get on the horse!" He called across the court to her, swiping his blade two handed like a whirlwind of steel, keeping the servants and dancers at bay. He'd taken a vow to always honor a lady in need, and it rubbed him the wrong way when some of the female dancers sent knives at his throat. He would need to confess to a cleric once this was all over, and reluctantly he ran one through with his sword. The Count's mood was palpable, a pressure buzzing in the air from his displeasure at his servant's lack of success. 

"Come to me..." He ordered, gnarled hands turned to face upwards, fingernails half as long as daggers raised as he beckoned. Immediately Torm felt a thrilling, inexorable call in his mind to fall to his knees. To be subjugated. That all of his dreams and desires would come true in perfect harmony and beautiful music if he but give in. He nearly dropped his blade, backing up from the advancing horde that menaced him as he fought his inner battle. 

"Gods be with me!" He moaned in denial, breaking through slowly. Too slowly.