"Cowards, you pig rutting cowards," hissed Trinton.
The veteran shoved his way through a huddled press of bodies inside north eastern tower. He saw fear in the faces of those that tried to make way for him, and this sickened him as much as it troubled him. He wanted to have them all lashed a thousand times for just sitting there whilst a single enemy butchered their comrades. If just one of those savages being on the wall had this much of an impact on the garrison's morale, what would a score do? Outright surrender, more than likely.
Trinton approached the end of the corridor that linked the north and eastern walls. The large oaken door had been sealed shut in front of him, and a half dozen ragged looking soldiers held their weight against it. Their swords were drawn, but their trembling limbs told the Captain that they were hopelessly terrified. Once this ordeal was over, he was going to give the drill masters a good talking to about whipping the newer elements of the 13th Axillary into shape; this would not do. He wondered what Lord Polvark made of it all, or whether he even cared. The man came across as a bit vacant-minded sometimes, or so it seemed to the Captain.
"Move outta tha' way you scum, and open that door!" He shouted. His echo bounced from wall to wall, shocking the soldiers into action. With quivering hands, they removed the wooden planks they had bolted into position.
Not prepared to wait a second longer, Trinton kicked the door with his steeled foot. The impact sent shock waves through his temporarily-forgotten injured knee, and if it weren't for all of the terrified faces gawking at him, he'd of let free a whimper. The door swung open, crashing against the parapets on the other side. Trinton surveyed the situation; saw the dozen sentries mutilated and their blood running in small rivers over the edge of the wall and into the courtyard below. The saboteur stood, admiring his work calmly, even as a couple of arrows from the keep's ramparts whizzed by him. The rusted visor tilted upwards, to face the Captain, and without a word said, the man pointed at him coldly.
Trinton was having none of the bravado, "alright then you whoreson, let's have at ya!" he yelled, before surging forwards.
The man was tall - not quite as tall as the average savage - but easily a good foot over Trinton's meagre 5'6. He rushed forwards, to meet him with an overarching swing with a dull iron short sword. The weapon didn't appear like it'd been looked after well, and Trinton doubted it would cleave flesh, but it was still a lump of iron, and a man of that build could do great damage with it - no matter what kind of armour his victim was wearing. As the sword descended, Trinton stepped to the side, and the attack fell wide. The man may have been taller and stronger, but his size was against him, and his speed was lacking. Seeing the obvious opening left by his adversary's blundered strike, Trinton threw his steel-clad face into the saboteur's. His nose exploded with fiery pain, and he tasted blood in his teeth, but his opponent was stumbling backwards and struggling to regain himself. Looking to finish the fight, the Captain swung his longsword from left to right, cutting the saboteur deep across the stomach. The short sword fell from the man's hand, and Trinton followed up with a thrust.
His sword pierced the centre of the man's chest, and instantly blood frothed from the rusted visor. Before he could make good his victory however, the saboteur propelled both his palms with such force that Trinton was launched back down the wall's walkway. His armour sparked as he skidded along for several feet; in a daze, he felt around for his longsword, only to realise it was still embedded in his enemy's chest. The saboteur let fly a rasping chuckle, before promptly heaving the weapon from his ruined ribcage. He stalked towards Trinton, dragging it lazily by his side.
Trinton made to rise, but his busted knee had locked itself into position. Frantically, he beat at it with his mailed fists, but was rewarded only with a gut churning pain that coursed up his leg and into his pelvis. Realising that once again his historical injury was making itself heard, he drew his dagger - a simple blade of steel - and held it towards the saboteur. On his arse, and unable to stand, there was only one way this fight was going to end for him - this he knew. Unless one of those useless idiots helps me!
Turning, Trinton was dismayed to see the dangerous looking foreigner had failed to follow him. Cowardly swine poker! Not all hope was lost however, as his eyes soon fell upon the ghostly-pale woman he'd also brought along for his doomed adventure. Now he heavily regretted choosing her over all the other potential candidates. The poor thing looked set to have a heart attack, and Trinton reckoned if her hands closed around the staff of her halberd any harder, the thing would snap in two. Looking back at the saboteur, he realised he had perhaps seconds before he was skewered by his own sword.
The usual gravel of the Captain's voice was replaced with an almost womanish shriek, "don't just stand there you stupid bitch, kill him!"
