All around Torm was screaming and fire and death. Knights knocked standing torches into tents and pummeled aside the haphazard resistance they had been greeted with so far, elbowing into pavillions and slaying half-dressed men as they hurriedly attempted to arm themselves. Torm knew a few scholars and noble men who would call the slaughter dishonorable, and perhaps they were right. A man had to follow his Captain's orders and fight alongside his brothers, to refuse that would also call for disgrace. Better to choose the shame that ensured victory than that of defeat. Better to paint the tent canvases with the blood of their enemies than stain the ground with your own. It had to be done, and they did it with brutal efficiency.  

The sentries that had been posted had fought bravely, having run forward to defend the camp at the first charge, but they were spread too thin to form a line or any organized resistance. The Knights and dwarves had run through them, shattering spear hafts and breaking skulls. Torm had grappled a spear with a horizontal shove of his own polearm and impaled the first patrol through his chest, the watchman's padded jack unable to repel the spike at the head of his poleaxe. Another sentry fell to the right, his leg cut off from a clean chop of Gunir's axe. It took only half a minute for the remainder of them to flee to gather help, leaving this section of the camp undefended save for its bewildered inhabitants. 

Torm and his men had scattered to wreak havoc as the dwarves took a different approach. The dwarves now walked together, no longer needing to guide the cavaliers through the gloom of night. The stout folk had formed a shield wall and moved with a slow, methodical march, shouting 'hoo! hoo!' with every heavy step. Torm watched them press forward three 'lanes' away from him, seeing them move like they were a great turtle. Their shields stuck with quarrels and arrows, the dwarves lifted them at regular intervals by a call from Gunir, donderbus gun barrels bare and discharging into the handfuls of men who had the bravado to rush them before the shields closed again as the riflemen reloaded. Torm marveled at the precision of their drill for a brief moment, almost missing the movement to his left. He flinched and turned, a man decked out in a brigandine and an open faced sallet running at him with a flanged mace raised over his head, having hoped to catch him by surprise. 

Torm raised his left arm, striking the haft of the mace with his armguard to halt the percussive force of the head mid-swing. He swung with his poleaxe in his right, but it was an awkward blow, doing little but banging into the side of his enemy's chestplate with the haft of the weapon. Likely it stung, but left no wound. "Silver Sword bastard!" His opponent spat, drawing back the mace for another strike. On instinct, Torm threw his head forward, the front of his greathelm smashing into the bare face of the soldier. Blood spattered from his broken nose, Torm using the pause to hook the fellow's leg with the hammer of his weapon and yanked back powerfully. The soldier fell onto his back, concussed. Torm moved his weapon in a circuitous movement, whipping it around to lift over his own head with a great swing, and the last thing the soldier saw in this world was Torm's axehead chopping down at his exposed face. Alongside him, sir Rennek of Waterwood with his longsword and a ferocious Mamluk of their outfit named Suleman fought a furious duel against three heavily armored soldiers armed with halberds. Torm tried to pull his poleaxe free, but the blade had bit into the steel of the man's sallet.

"Fuck," He breathed, pulling at it yet again. It wrenched, but not free. He let go of the weapon and pulled out his rondel dagger as he moved in to aid them. Suleman's macework was like a dance, sundering the helm of a man even as Sir Rennek was himself wounded by the axeblade of a halberd biting into the mail on his arm. He cried out and thrust his sword in defense, trying to find a weak spot in his foe's armor. More men came from around the burning tents past the melee, figures half obscured by smoke and flame. Torm had limited vision in his helmet as was- 

Sparks suddenly filled his eyes, and he felt a pressure below his visor-line. He glanced down to see a new dent in his breastplate where his liver was, raising his head to see the source was a pistolier scowling at him, moving to reload. He thanked the gods for his many near-misses tonight, and asked for their continual favor. Torm picked up the pace, charging not at the pistolier past the men, but the melee itself. The enemy men saw him coming to aid and flinched, Suleman laughing and taking the chance to press his advantage, weaving his mace around his defenses to splinter the shaft of the halberd. Torm was satisfied with his feint, subtly altering his bullish course to swerve right and rush the gunman. He wouldn't wear his armor if it wasn't bullet proof. Every breastplate was tested with a pistol shot from twenty yards away. But a bullet, a bolt, even an arrow could potentially pierce the thinner parts of his armor, and sometimes armor simply failed. He didn't give the pistolier a chance to fully reload, dropping the powder in his barrel just as Torm stabbed him through the eye with his rondel dagger. Juices and blood ran down the fops face as his legs gave way and he hit the dirt. 

His victory was short-lived, however. Crossbow quarrels began to fly sporadically across the narrow streets of the camp and more of the enemy began to appear, stabbing and hacking at his men exiting tents or making their way across the battleground, vainly trying to group up with their brethren. Torm ran back to his poleaxe, placing his foot on the ruined face of the mace-man and finally pulling it free after another two tugs. Small measure it was. He watched with shock as Hugh of Auvergne was killed by an arrow to the neck on his first glance up, and across the tents he saw the body of what he guessed was once Frankfurt Swordhand, an axe having pierced his breastplate and his helmet sundered by the blow of some blunt weapon. He suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain at his hip. An arrow hung loosely from his chainmail between the gaps of plate. Gently he closed his hand around the arrow haft and pulled it free, but a warm, wet sensation told him he was bleeding freely. Idly he realized they needed to gather together. Their momentum was fading.

"To me!" Torm cried as shadows moved just outside his vision, certain it was troops gathering to repel their advance. He did something risky and pulled off his greathelm, raising his voice over the din. "To me! Silver Swords to me!"    

Suleman and the wounded Rennek approached, having just slayed their couple of soldiers. He saw sir William the Brave and Gascony Broadfellow, Rudi the Broad with his great hammer and Sir Brace, Knight of Thunder move into his field of vision from out of the smoke. John Hangman approached, bloodied but alive with Dimitris the Cataphract with his feathered helm and his doubled headed axe. As the moments passed, more and more of his cavaliers joined him as he continued to shout. Two dozen had gathered by the time his voice was hoarse, and he set them to form a line before placing his helm back on. A few scattered knights continued to appear, but Torm's eyes were on the enemy before them, who had now appeared within his eyeline. He felt fear grip him when he bore witness to the numberless ranks of halberdiers and crossbowmen marching with iron breastplates and grim faces toward their position. Torm couldn't see the end of the line from the left or the right. There must have been hundreds of them, roughly set in the size of a company. Even with the flames and the death toll they had wrought on the enemy, Torm and his men were still heavily outnumbered. Where the dwarves were, he didn't know, but they had as good a chance of surviving as any. The cavaliers needed to worry about themselves.

"Weapons forward!" He called, raising his poleaxe and lowering it as a lance. The men around him followed his movements, helms closed and heads down. A few of them gave great, wet coughs, but none of them fled. 

"We are with you, sir! To the death!" Gregor the Bold yelled. 

"We will hit them at the center and break them!" Torm called, knowing what he said was not possible. The line before them was growing stronger and more thick with men by the moment. All they would do would pierce the line just to get surrounded. But this entire escapade was his idea, and none of the men would run if he did not. He clenched his jaw, preparing to order the advance. 

A huge explosion suddenly erupted from behind the enemy line like an awakened volcano. The shockwave flew across the camp, wavering flames and whipping tent flaps in unison. It caused the enemy to stumble, and even Torm felt the breeze fly through his visor to kiss his skin. The halberdiers and crossbowmen and what swordsmen they had began to falter, heads turning back to look at the destruction. Wood fell in splintered heaps and even a cracked bronze lamp struck the ground from the dark sky, clattering across the camp floor to roll at a stop at Torm's feet.

"Now." Torm said, and realized this was their one chance. He began to move forward, his march transforming into a run. "Now! Go!" 

"For glory!" Someone cried, and the armored mass of thirty cavaliers charged headlong toward the now confused and uncertain enemy. Torm raised his hand and the men formed a wedge, as if they were on their bardic warhorses. With smoke around them, hiding their low numbers, the enemy who still gazed forward flinched with apprehension. From the sky, it would look like a great arrowhead flying towards the faltering ripples of a cloth. Torm and his men hit the line  and broke it in seconds, shoving aside their polearms and shouldering the enemy to the dirt. It would take minutes of hard battle, but Torm and his men slew thrice their number in the clamor and confusion. Now thinking they were surrounded on all sides and seeing the audacity of the bloodied knights, the Priest-Queen's company brokw, scattering across the camp in small, frightened herds as the knights continued to trash the camp and take what hostages they could, finding three lieutenants and their entourage amongst the rubble.