Robert sat atop his horse in the middle of a storm that had already drowned his men. The battle was lost. He knew it.
He had known it the moment the javelins rained down like a storm of iron and death, the moment the cries of the dying drowned out the clamor of battle. And yet, here he was, barking orders into the abyss, trying to salvage a sinking ship with a bucket full of holes.
"Hold the line! Hold the fucking line!" His voice was raw from shouting, but it might as well have been the wind carrying empty words. The mercenaries scattered, retreating in droves, shoving past each other, tripping over corpses, their panic spreading like wildfire. Some still clung to their weapons, but their eyes had already lost the fight.
