I am Diethelm. Marred into my mind I will not forget long as I am idle the battle on that snowy hill. There is narry a man with will and boldness enough to withstand the orc charge. A noble brother, Leonhart chattered his teeth against the monstrosity. A visage of doom, the orcs were. Their teeth bared beneath metal and their eyes - Gods the eyes! A fantastic blackness in those eyes. Ferocity is an understatement when standing 'fore an orc clad in his mail.
A brother to my left and a brother to the right - Albricht and Leonhart. Albricht is still discontented about a quirrel long forgotten by my brothers. That was his way, but on the snowy evening the orcs fell upon us, I needed him close. I spoke underbreath 'Albricht you and I will have the time to meet Him another day. Not today, Albricht. Albricht are you with me?' The man bolstered seconds before the first orc came at me in a full tilt. Metal battering on wood and between the violence a long orcish blade swings and leaves a tall gash on my shoulder.
My shield was thrust back so quick, I lost myself a moment. There is a lot of weight in those greenskins.
Dazed and gashed I regain clarity fast enough to duck another's axe. Heart racing and adrenaline hit and oh my, nothing will light your lantern quite as quick. With my cleaver I swung straight and true, repaying the orcs their hatred. One, two. Exposing skin underneath. They can bleed after all.
Havard threw an axe from somewhere behind me, catching the first orc warrior who hit me. These things, these wretches - so foul and odorous - take everything without flinching. Albricht hammers another one while Leonhart works his Masterwork Manslayer, and shows that it's also good at slaying Orcs.
Another swing of the cleaver and another, the beast is too slow when he's up close. But there are more.
One in particular howls so loud and so deep he might be behind me and his immensity couldn't be mistaken. Sound like that liable to make Hans shit himself, the superstitious git. Mortgul, could it be?
No definitely please no.
I catch myself before losing focus. I cleave and I cut at everything behind those iron slabs only an orc could call a shield. I see him finally as he attacks from behind the wall he carries. Bloodstained and lost helm. He is hopefully broken. No time to think.
Dodge. Dodge. Thank the fates he is so clumsy and slow.
Suddenly the top of my shield splinters. Then I am naked before the storm.
I lead my cleaver to its throat. Unburdened by my shield, the cleaver does it's job taking the beast's head.
Accomplishment is short lived as his mass buckles and falls, for a terrible one takes his place. This must be him, Mortgul. Were I Albricht, I may have wavered here, but as long as there is one brother kicking behind me I shall never falter.
Mortgul carries a heavy excuse for a thumper, nails throughout its length. I am taken aback also by his armor. Gods! The thing adorned himself with heads. Fresh heads of men, blood still in, they leer with looks of terror.
An axe flies overhead. It catches the mark, and then another. Hans?
No matter, I bring my metal down with my full weight and damnit I had to miss.
My limbs are tired, and my shoulder gives when I attempt again to strike. Damn my body that it shouldn't be stronger.
Before me it seems are black iron walls and from behind an arm extends in a wild arc I didn't anticipate.
Ugh! the pain of ribs breaking and clobbered without being able to do anything is saddly too familiar. But this one was especially blunt and I feared I might meet my maker after all.
And the fates oh my lord oh my angel must've been watching. Or is it that my brothers on left and right flank had the best of their ugglies? Wouldn't you know it that Gisbert took hammer to the side of Mortgul. A clean dent breaks the armor and blood pools from somewhere within. Another hammer meets a severed head on the back of Mortgul, goes through that and into the crusted mail beneath. Sigfried, my savior.
And there are more of the axes. Three axe swings total and maybe a fourth in time.
I find strength somewhere within and cleave a coup de gras.
Mortgul staggers and staggers and falls.
There are no cheers. There are no hugs. Albricht is too fallen along with another. I don't remember the Greenhorn's name or his face.
Such is the life of a sellsword.