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Up on the cliffs, Fascimile fights for his life, adopting a flexible stance. He lashes out, but his opponent grew up with the spear. Was born to it. Probably stabbed his first enemy when he was younger than you'd believe. He flinches aside, parrying, rapping the sharp spear across Facsimilie's hand - a scoring blow against anyone not wearing company gauntlets and gear.
And then Facsimilie shifts his grip, just so, and wraps his hand around the spear-head and *pulls* and the whole artifice comes apart at the same, head sliding off, wood splintering. The Dunerunner yelps in surprise - first time he's made any noise - and rolls away from the lethal implements that is Fascimilie's hands. Then, thinking rather better of this fight, he swings down a hook-rope and dashes towards the village!
Facsimilie is left holding the heights, the victor, heaving and gasping for breath. Is this what victory feels like? The burning in your lungs?
--
Wicklighter would be able to tell, because Wicklighter steps under a longspear, shifts footing, and flicks a sharp edge acros a man's throat. He's dead before he touches the sand and then a shove-kick disrupts his allies and prevent them from spearing the cutter. The Blue Rats, seeing an opening, shift around and vault the rock to come down like a knife-hand.
The Resolute Crows (grumblingly) obliged and don't show their totally superior martial skill this time. They could have though. Instead they form up and block the Blue Rats flank and rear, defending them.
A Dunerunner slides off of a cliff and vaults another one, staring down at Wicklighter. Still *marked*. He will come for you.
--
In the fields, the Company Blades make an excellent showing of themselves though the wounded begin to peel off and fall back. Guided by the faintly remembered words of distant officers, they holler and charge and lay about - and Crushfist orders the Coldeyes to provide support. No more Windsworne here, than the few left standing.
--
Markhan shifts the grib on his halberd.
Markhan braces his feet.
Markhan starts swinging and people start falling - one - two - three - each blow shatters an arm, or breaks a leg or crushes a skull and the enormous halberd was made for this kind of violence, a heavy, brutal thing that weighs on your back for the all the long miles until it suddenly makes up for it with its staggering potential. The Standard doesn't waver once, and the Vanguard Breachers lock shields and for once in their service show they can be reliable as they begin a paced, careful extraction, guarding and linking up in front of Markhan, shielding him too.
And then, heavy visor makes it hard to see. Why aren't they coming? Why aren't they fighting -- they've broken away. Fallen back. A thin strip of land of the wounded seperate the two sides, awful terrain to fight in.
--
Elsewhere, shots ring out. Enormously, shatteringly loud, and then a braced pike formation follows up on that with a take-home charge. . .
