"Move! Move!" 

Torm's two-handed sword clove through the haft of a makeshift flail, opening the skull of a zealot even as he wailed to his god. The lieutenant shoved the corpse aside as it fell, having no time to catch his breath or celebrate the victory. Behind him, his men had dismounted to clamber over the trenches at the base of the pyre, the near 3 score knights now moving uphill, faces covered and brutal weapons in their hands. Even on foot, they moved in a rough wedge formation, Torm at the front, leading them ever forward through the throng. The zealots at the base of the pyre outnumbered them by a factor of four, maybe five, but they hadn't the skill or the arms to thwart them. 

What they had was time, however. Something Torm and the dwarves had precious little of. 

Sparks flew as a thick bladed axe banged into Torm's pauldron, eliciting a grunt from him. Torm elbowed the zealot in the face, splitting his lip and leaving him to get cut down by his fellows. Sir Robert Longfellow let out a warcry, impaling the fallen zealot with the spike of his poleaxe, blood gurgling out of the wound as he yanked it out, stepping past the still warm corpse. 

"To the death!" Gregor the Bold yelled as he fought alongside Malakum the Mamluk against a rearguard assault of flagellants and militiamen, side by side with two Cataphracti Torm could not quite identify in the din. Turning back to the fore, he saw a parting in the sea of foes as their numbers dwindled to but a few score, and past them, dwarves now aflame. Many struggled in their bonds, their beards alight. Some of them cried to their gods as the flames slowly but surely consumed them. Torm had been their enemy, but he appreciated dwarven honor and did not even wish this death on his enemies, though he now felt he would make an exception for the Priest-Queen and her bastard spawn. 

Torm wrestled his way to the top, shoving a zealot off the platform as his men-at-arms climbed up with him. He did not know how many dead or wounded on his side, hurrying to the pyres. Even in his armor, he felt the intense heat. Squinting, his eyes beginning to water, he rushed across the wooden platforms that were now catching fire along with the straw and their dwarven captives. He found burnt corpse after burnt corpse, one or two dwarves still moved their mouths even as their skin was charred black. The willpower of the stout folk was an impossible thing, he marveled. 

He only found one dwarf still relatively unharmed, at the edge of the flames and gritting his teeth, his hands burnt and his brow sweating profusely. He cut the dwarf's bonds and let him fall into his grasp, pulling him from the flames even as the dwarf cursed from the pain. 

"Sir Draufkrieg!" Sir Castor cried, running to him. Every knight was trained to live and sleep in their armor if need be. A man couldn't join their ranks if they could not sprint in their full wargear. Past him, the huge army still moved like a flood. Some tendrils of the vast army swept towards their position, deceptively slowly as an avalanche viewed from far away. "We have five survivors, six with yours." 

"Put them on the horses!" Torm called to him, helping his blonde bearded dwarf up. They had to move before they were stuck here, an island in a sea of enemies. "We must get back into the city!"