Ahead, besides the torches, something was burning; it looked to be a bonfire. All about it, milling in the red light and semi-darkness like demon-centaurs, were Elven soldiers
‘What the bloody hell?!’
Ralph almost drew his mount up short, unable to make sense of the fray; he could not tell friend from foe; they all seemed dressed alike. At last, however, one thing caught and held his attention, a slight form held upright, hair pulled back, throat bared, trying vainly to cover herself with what remained of her torn dress, even as the Elven soldier who held her threatened to cut her throat.
Ralph didn’t know the first thing about swordplay or killing. Instead, he relied instinctively on what he did know. Spurring his mount straight at the girl, at the last moment veering ever so slightly to the left, close enough to graze her, leaning over, sliding his left leg over the saddle at the last possible second, he let his size and momentum do for him what he lacked in finesse . . .
. . . and slammed headlong into the girl’s knife-wielding attacker like a battering-ram.
‘Football and calf-roping . . .’ he thought dazedly to himself as the stars cleared. ‘Who’d have thought!’
To his horror, looking at the result of what he’d done, he found the Elf man laying dead at his feet. Seeing Ralph coming at the last moment, the soldier had raised his blade reflexively, and the force of the big Man’s momentum had turned his wrist and driven the point of the knife at his neck, even as his head snapped back, driving the long dagger up to the hilts into his brain.