Another scream. An Ørkadian warrior stumbled as his legs were sliced beneath his shield. His enemy fell upon him and hacked at him with his ax. He Baelson's line was failing. They'd been torn to pieces by the better prepared Åscatorian shield-wall. They had barely even exacted a toll on their foe. Soon his own shield-wall would break and men would be running. Most would likely not get far. He had to do something, but what? He was no commander. Yet, here he was. in the centre of a shield-wall and very much in command. There was nothing to it. He had to regain the control of battle, or die trying.
