Death of a King: Birth of a Nation

Nothing went through his mind apart from the need for blood. As he ran he pulled the sword from his back and let out a cry as he dived towards the enemy.

Then they met.

Like a rolling torrent they crashed together, rippling down the line. A crimson spray of blood exploded at the clang of steel on steel, the crunch of steel on flesh and bone. The burst of rage as the giants met poured from the basin.

Kaile was swinging his sword, severing limbs as he mowed down the enemy. He sent a great slash to an opponent's head. It was blocked. Kaile's blade shattered. As fast as lightning he wrenched his shield from his back. He swung it, hitting the man on the scalp; he fell as the bone cracked. Kaile dropped the shield and pulled the two short-swords into his hands.

The cavalry stood at the edge of the bowl, tarrying, watching for the right moment to charge. Enemy spearmen mustered, both units charging at a group of knights. Defender archers split into two groups, rushing behind the knights, releasing their mortal shafts at the spearmen.

With sharp breaths Astan pulled back and released his arrows, desperate to turn back the on coming spearmen. Trying to keep their last hope alive, trying to win the battle, trying desperately to save his land and his people.

Carrying steel tipped staffs the spearmen pushed on. The peppering increased until the men wheeled round to charge at the defender foot soldiers. A detachment struck each flank of defenders. After the initial charge the spears were useless, instead short-swords were pulled from scabbards.

The struggle induced. Both titan like armies trying to dislodge the other, before the knight entered the fray. Wind billowed. Howling. Causing the horses' mane's to flail, washing over the knights. The angles of death. Plunging headlong into their enemies. The knight smashed the back of the spear units, sweeping them back, a small knight force detached from both units, to harry the spearmen from the field. Like a battering ram shaking great oak doors they hit. Pushing, forcing the flanks into the centre of the battle, falling on them with animal ferocity. Lances punched through men's bodies. The snapping shafts slung to the ground to be replaced by a cool blade, dispatching with the skill of Death and cutting with surgeon's precision.

The harrying of the spearmen continued, pushing them away from the battle. Enemy archers shot at the knights, most of the shafts unable to penetrate the armour, but some took the great war horses from underneath them. The spearmen took the opportunity to wheel around, attacking the knights. The short-swords they now held were no match for the knights. The spearmen broke and ran. Once they were escorted from the field, the knights rushed back in aid of their comrades.

A single man was caught in a sea of enemies. Kaile was alone. Enemies surrounded him, along with a pile of bodies. A cut across his cheek, he fought on. His swords flashed about his body, light glistening from the blades. His army was getting closer. With a sudden burst he darted forwards, fighting with renewed fury to reach his comrades. He sent a slash to the left side of his first opponent, followed by a right thrust taking the soldier high in the neck. Parrying a sharp thrust, he spun round, his swords flailing out. The soldiers' body fell seconds after his severed head. Kaile dived through the small opening, the blood spattered breastplate failed to gleam.

Arrows were growing thin as the hunters took aim.