Ryan towered over the defeated man, his chest heaving heavily.
Drops of mud dripped from his mace.
Ryan winced as he moved his shoulder.
Blood trickled from his mouth, to his lips, warm and metallic in taste.
Around him the rain continued its relentless assault.
Somewhere in the fog, Ryan could hear the clash of steel, grunts of effort. The wet thud of man meeting mud.
I need to help them.
Ryan tightened his grip on the mace and turned away from the blinded fighter writhing in the mud.
He moved forward slowly, boots squelching through the slick ground.
His eyes scoured what they could through the slit in his helm. Which wasn't much.
The sounds of combat grew louder to his right. Two fighters—maybe three—clashing somewhere close.
Ryan adjusted course toward the noise.
Then he nearly tripped.
A rock?
Ryan stopped and looked down.
No. A body.
A knight lay face-down in the mud.
Mud. So much mud.
It was impossible to tell what colour the plate had been underneath.
