When limbs flew and blood spurted, Malcador had been too frightened to scream. Not so with the other men. They screamed just fine. He imagined it would have been cathartic for him, but it seemed he was cursed with mad panting and scrambling through the imperial lines. The more men between him and the orcs, the better. Unfortunately, every step he took, he could hear the wet squelch of iron cutting into men and the cries of anguish and pain that followed. He felt like he gained no ground, and a part of him felt an intense reproach about the potential Magister Zauberhaft dying from being cut in twain by an orc from behind. 

He stopped, and turned around as the rain began to wet the ground. What in Sigmar's name are you doing, you daft idiot? He thought to himself, but he did not listen. Before him, an Orc was run through by a spear, but another took its place, cleaving the spearman's head in half and kneeing the body of the man like a barroom brawler. The line was buckling, rifles discharged by his head, but he was too busy trying to recite the battle directives magister Uldof had tried to teach him. Very well, step 1. Pre plan his spells. He would just skip that step for now. Step 2? Don't panic. That would not work, either. Step 3? He forgot. 

"I'm dead," he said to himself as he watched a large orc shoulder past a falling free company man. Another eyed Malcador appraisingly, and another pair had just finished chewing the faces off of a pair of unfortunate riflemen. Behind the orcs, lightning arced. A foreboding sign for many, but to Malcador, it brought the lesson crashing back into his mind. He could hardly remember the majority of it, but he did recall how strong emotion could help him manipulate magic if used carefully, and when lightning was in the air, it made it that much easier to conjure. 

Another flash of lightning snaked across the sky, and another. They began to coruscate so rapidly, even the orcs stopped to notice. No sooner had the four looked up, that a bolt as thick as a sapling struck between them, breaking into four arcs and ensconcing each of them. Malcador held the magic in his shaky arms for another moment, and by the end of it, he could smell putrid, burning meat. The behemoths tumbled onto the blackened soil and rent grass, and he took a deep breathe. He inhaled half of it before a huge shoulder hit him like a lance from a reiksgard. His world went black, and he felt more than saw himself fly through a makeshift wooden wall that the soldiers had erected between the ruins to help block further arrows. The wood gave way instantly, and he hit the wet soil in a heap. The battle continued to rage around him as he tried to gather his wits, the magic keeping him a bit more crisp than most normal men would be in his position, but he had no more energy for it.   

Desperately, he began to crawl away. A pistol shot rang behind him and a roar rose up from a berserker orc. A riderless horse cantered a mere stride before him, disappearing into the woods like a wraith. He finally stopped, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. At the edge of his vision, he saw a woman with a brace of pistols staggering out of the melee, her earthy brown hair tied in a loose bun. She saw him, and he could tell she was deliberating something, before she stumbled to his position at the back of the battle. Malcador coughed haggardly, and grabbed a broken branch beside him, slowly pulling himself up to use it as a cane. 

"Wizard!" She said, roughly grabbing his robe out of desperation. "It's gone to shit! We have to-" 

"Agreed," He said tiredly. By the look in her eyes, she thought he might try to stand and fight valiantly. Ulric and Sigmar might bless them, but he'd rather some wine and Emmaline Von Morganstern on all fours. He jerked his head to the forest. 

"Let's get the fuck out of here, fraulein."