The Battle Song filled his mind.
All his pain disappeared.
All the tiredness in his muscles disappeared.
His breathing steadied.
His heart beat slowed down, thumping steadily in his chest.
A calmness settled around him despite that battle that raged on.
He felt as one with his sword, like it was an extension of his arm.
He let the Battle Song fill his mind. And then he danced!
Everything seemed to move slowly around him. Everything but him. He danced like the Angel of Death among his foes.
He pirouetted on his lead foot, sliding under the slow-moving arc of the spear that had been aimed at his head. His sword slid upwards, piercing armor and flesh like it was not there, puncturing the chest cavity of the Spearman. His other hand clamped around the shaft of the spear, wresting it from the faltering grip of the man. And he continued his dance.
An arrow grazed his skin as he moved forward, a fury of pain as he lashed out with both sword and spear, virtually untouchable. Everyone moved in slow motion around him and he was able to read every move, understanding the bunching of muscles before they sprang into action. He was always a step ahead of his armored enemies, ducking and weaving among them. They stood no chance individually, but even with his Battle Song, their numbers were too great.
He had lost count of how many he had killed but now he was starting to tire, his wounds sapping his strength and his Battle Song began to falter. He paused, looking about him.
His village burned. His friends and family lay slain where they had fallen. Only a handful of his fellow warriors remained, fighting in a tight circle around their Chieftain. They knew they were all going to die but they would fight to the end, making the Armored men from the North pay for every inch of ground they gained.
Dargoths eyes locked with those of the Chieftain. A voice filled his head then and Dargoth simply nodded. Every fiber of muscle in his body screamed with pain and his heart burned with the passion to fight by his brothers side, to die with them. But the Chieftain had spoken and Dargoth was loyal to a fault. Dargoth had to survive. And he had to travel South.
Before he realized it, he had leaped clear of his last assailants and was running full tilt through the forest.
He did not know for how long he ran but even he began to grow tired. The Battle Song had long left him, leaving him feeling like his legs were made of lead and were on fire. A hundred scratches and cuts burned across his body and every muscle was on the verge of collapse. Every breath was a struggle and he knew he could not go on any further.
Dargoth fell to his knees, gasping for breath. And then she appeared, on the edges of his vision, before everything turned to black.