A man ahead of him groaned and fell to his knees. An arrow stood in his eye. He pawed at it, rolled over, and Harald slipped in the blood that ran from his brain. Suddenly the enemy front was before him. He saw a face over a shield: thick yellow brows, big nose, coarse pores. The yeoman grunted and struck out with his ax. Harald caught the blow and lurched with the shock. He cut low, striking at the fellow's legs, and saw the calf flayed open. Harald pressed on. Teeth grinned at him, another man was there, where had the first one gone? Something clipped his helmet and he stumbled. Echoes flew in his head. He struck out wildly, catching an ax haft on his blade. The hilt was almost torn from his hands. Was this battle, he thought dimly—this trampling and slipping and hammering, in a mill of stinking bodies? Why... did you even know, at the end, whether you had killed anyone or not? The only answers were in the blood-soaked fields—and the wretched moans of the dead...
What do You think about TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn?
