text: Adding your voice to the English battle cries, you advance on the fleeing Norman foot soldiers. In front of you, one stumbles as his boot slides through a patch of reddened mud. He only falters a moment, but it is enough. Your longsword lances forward, piercing the fleeing Norman's calf. He screams and falls, holding up his arms to futilely ward off your blade.
  
  
  You keep moving forward, using your heavy shield to shove the wounded Norman out of your way. Behind you, Orvyn's axe resonates with a heavy crunch as he finishes off the crippled soldier.
  
  
  Ahead of you, another Norman stumbles forward, a heavy javelin slamming into his shoulder. He manages one strangled yelp before your blade connects with his neck, a heavy swing that severs his jugular and jars against his spine. You wrench the sword free and keep moving. This charge has filled you with fresh energy, filling your mind with bloody courage, but now it is starting to ebb and your mind is working more clearly.
  
  
  There is something very wrong here. This retreat is far too organized, too simultaneous. The Norman foot soldiers are increasing the distance between themselves and the beleaguered English soldiers, the pounding of their feet grows fainter, but another pounding grows louder. Horse hooves.
  
  
  You turn to your left, Harold has thrown off his battered shield and carries only a Daneaxe, which he wields two-handed. He is completely out in the open.
  
  
  You turn and race towards him.
  > You say "Protect the King!"
  "Protect the King!"
  
  
  You cry, and several weary Housecarls bound into action, following your lead. You sprint towards him.
  
  
  He half turns towards you, and flashes one of his charismatic bright smiles.
  
  
  The single arrow that flies through the air surprises you more than Harold. Curving gently, it hisses downward and slams into his eye. He lets out a startled cough and staggers backward.
  
  
  You keep running towards your king, but a Norman rider canters in front of you, blocking your way.
  
  
  Turning his horse neatly, the Norman swings his blade and opens your King's throat, spraying blood.
  
  
  Harold falls to the ground, dead.
  
  
  You falter indecisively, filled with wordless horror and remorse.