"From behind, I heard comrades scream as they were mown down by the crossbows. On the other flank, the Dwarves finally fled before our raging myrmadons, but that would not save us. So we were alone in the center, only four of us, and the Dwarven beasts bore down on us. Believe me, if the shadow of one of those horned horrors falls upon you, even the stoutest of heart, like me, may feel a little shiver, and there were three of them lowering their horns and coming our way. I commended my soul to the Gods and readied my spear..."
The setting sun tainted blades and helmets with the colour of blood. The few remaining fighters threw stark shadows against the coppery sand. The Dwarves, accustomed to dark places, squinted against the ruddy light. One repeating crossbow opened up across the open field at the newly-rallied spearmen. In the failing light, only one bolt found its mark, but the spearmen plain had enough. They had weathered this sort of barrage before, and were terrified of having to do it again. They threw away their weapons and ran. When the leader realised that neither cursing nor cajoling would do any good, he took one last look toward the towering Totems, shrugged fatalistically, and loped after his men. The Horned Legion in the center shook their fists as the Goblins vanished into the ditches and crannies.
On the right flank, Dwarves in heavy armour were tossed like chaff by the two raging Myrmadons and trampled underfoot. A sole Goblin who had miraculously kept his seat on one of the sweating beasts slashed down with his spear, cutting across the throat of the Horned spearmen´s leader. Finally, the legendary Dwarven stubbornness gave way to flight. Two battered warbands, Legion and Spearmen, turned tail and ducked into the deepening shadows. Disordered but grim, covered with sand and tacky blood, their remaining brothers doggedly closed ranks again and fought on, stabbing and slashing at the Myrmadons´ thick hide, but to no avail.
The huge arm of the catapult once again drew back and sent a missile across the field. The foremost Totem was suddenly ablaze, roaring in pain and terror. It bucked, bashing one Goblin spearman to the ground and crushing him against the rock needle, which crumbled from the impact. The flanking beast sent one more spearman flying, narrowly missing the next, who was slashed down by the riders´ swords a second later.
Suddenly alone, the remaining Spearman – the same one who had already weathered the attacks from two Horned Raiders without so much as a nick – stood rooted to the spot with terror. There was nowhere to run. The flaming beast was coming down at him, and the jutting rock pressed into the small of his back. He felt something wet and warm running down his legs. With the courage of despair and a thin wailing cry, he threw himself forward, flailing out blindly with his spear. He felt a shock running down the shaft and then a terrible crash.
Curled into a fetal ball, he thought he was dead for sure. Then, timidly, he opened his eyes, just a little. There was the smoking carcass of the beast, impaled on his spear by its own momentum. In an instant, he was on his feet, darting between the bodies, climbing up into the saddle. There was the Dwarven army banner, fixed on an iron pole. He cut at the leather thongs that held it, wrenched it loose from the socket, and ran for the shadows. Already he could hear the Dwarven horns calling back their brethren from the pursuit of the Goblins, as the last embers of the sun sank below the horizon and darkness fell. If he could avoid the Dwarven patrols he could make it back to the Blackblood lines with his trophy.