Ralph and the Pixie

Head down in agony, he sensed through the ground the enemy’s charge, and somehow managed to lurch brokenly to his feet to meet them. There were too many! He couldn’t single out any one to engage. Ignoring the pain, spitting out that the blood that choked him while trying to draw breath, planting his legs and holding his shield before him like a wall, he waited until several Goblins thudded into his shield, tried to overpower him.

Past the point of desperation, past the point of hope, or even caring, he fought back with utter abandon, thinking nothing of trying to hoard his last reserves of strength.

Light-headed from shock, quivering with exhaustion, choking on his own blood and breathing stertorously, he became dimly aware that the defenders’ line was broken, that the enemy was everywhere and all around him. Suddenly he was on his knees, his head ringing sickly, a Goblin standing over him, sword upraised with both hands for the final, triumphant, killing blow.

The sword came down . . . and was slammed aside at the last instant! Ralph saw, in slow-motion, the surprised look of the Goblin as it turned to see whose sword had intervened . . .

Somehow, the Goblin fell dead. Ralph was sure that he too was dying as he slumped to the ground. As in a dream, he began rising into the air, as though he were part of the mists that floated above the field of battle; as though from a far and receding distance, he could hear the desperate sound of horns blowing wildly, the roar of horses’ hooves, and a deafening babel of voices shouting . . . the screams of the maimed and dying . . .