The day had disappeared, and night had begun to fall. In the midst of Woodhurst, Furley stood with Deorla, waiting for the Thane, Lady Haeneth and her Commander, Thorvall, along with a few others he'd just met. The air was beginning to cool, and he and De were starting to worry. "I don't like the feeling of this" Furley said, his companion agreeing, looking to the reddening sky.
Some time later, they had all arrived, and a small party had gathered, all armoured and ready for war. Pleasantries were exchanged, some charter read out about the King's peace in the Isen. A few announced their hereditary titles (to which Deorla's eye-rolling in disdain of the blue bloods made him grin), mentioned their credentials, and before they knew it they were saddled up, after the usual invigorating, rabble-rousing speeches from the Commander of the party. Reports had come of a caravan being attacked, and they rode out to investigate.
When they got there, it was a mess. The caravan had been upturned, there were few survivors, and several score more were dead, littered around the floor with varying degrees of wounds. It didn't look like it had been much of a battle, more a massacre. Suddenly, a feel of unease swept over him, and he began to survey the tree-line around him, feeling a familiar sense of dread, like they'd just walked into a trap. Nobody else seemed to be watching, more concerned with the survivors.
That was until the air hissed and cracked, and suddenly they found themselves under siege against a barrage of arrows and bolts, whipping towards their heads. Those that had shields formed their wall, and those that didn't hid behind. Those with ranged weapons began firing back, and soon the air sang it's deadly song, several wooden shafts flinging back and forth, desperate to puncture their targets.
Out of the long grass, the Dunlendings began to appear, and one would have skewered him if Deorla hadn't jumped out and skewered him first. Grinning to himself, he thought. "At 'em girl! You'll try and kill me yourself in a hundred ways, but damned if you'd let someone else take that from you!".
Chaos soon ensued, and Furley could feel himself getting more and more worked up, his adrenaline pumping higher and higher, and the world around him became a blur of noise, shouts, cries, whooshes, twangs, clangs and then fire, as their enemy had shot a fiery bolt toward the wagon, which set ablaze in an instant.
Suddenly, they saw where their enemy had been sheltering. Not only in the long grass but also in the farmhouse nearby. From then, a ranged barrage attacked anything and everything that moved in the windows, and they had their target. In the clamour and clatter of battle, Furley could barely focus, until he remember his mentor's fabled words.
"If you ever find yourself in a tight spot, lad, block everything out for it is all a distraction. Focus on the commander's voice, and whatever comes in reach of your sword. Think of nothing else".
Focusing on these words, he found the world became clearer about him, and he heard his Commander's voice above the din and deafening tones. "Those with shields, on me! Get ready to advance!". Without hesitation, he stood side by side with the others, and they began their advance.
Pumping himself up, forcing his fear into the back of his mind, he felt all those familiar thoughts creep in, but most importantly, he felt his anger. The hatred that he felt swelled up, and he began clattering his sword hilt into his shield, causing a metallic clang to echo out around them, and he began shouting and screaming insults, all the while keeping his body low to protect from fire.
"Come on then, you f**ks! Come on out here! I'll make you pay for Archet and Langhold you bastards!". Letting those memories fill him, the fear inside him retreated to the back of his mind, and all he could feel was the fire in his eyes, glowering at his target, mimicking the flames that licked at the wagon.
Suddenly, the farmhouse caught fire; one of his companions had set it aflame, in the attempt to draw their enemy out of their hiding spot. Shouts of panic and screams of wild terror began to come from the farmhouse, and it didn't take long for the place to catch, the dry thatch roaring as the fire consumed it.
"Come on out, bastards!" he yelled, almost foaming at the mouth, clanging his shield even harder and louder. "Come face our steel, or stay in there and burn, either is preferable! Come face your death at my hand, or the devil's!"
A few tried to escape, but from behind his head he saw as they were instantly felled as they tried to run. Still listening to his commander's voice, he ensured he kept his focus, but he was like a rabid dog, his feet itching, desperate to escape from the leash.
Finally, they emerged, and they were met with a wall of spears. The shield wall took the first impact, but Furley's shield was knocked and he lost balance, tilting forward, another blade piercing his shoulder as he narrowly dodged right, the artery on his neck mere milletres away from being cut. He fell almost to one knee, desperately trying to hold his shield up to fend off the blows, and keep it intact with the rest of the wall, as he blindly slashed with his sword hand.
But then, suddenly, his Commander's shield flung from his grasp, and Furley saw him step back. Reacting before thinking, he grimaced, holding the shield tight into him, and with all his might and fury, pulled it into his body and charged into the wall breach, using it as a makeshift battering ram. One opponent went down, and he stabbed down so hard he pierced the man's chest right through, almost unable to pull his sword back out of the carcass.
The impact of his ramming shield sent a shooting, crippling pain through his shoulder, and as he cried out, his pain became rage, and as he put his right foot forward, keeping his wounded shoulder behind him, he began raining heavy, unrelenting blows upon the assailiant. Driving the man back, away from the shield wall, giving it chance to recover, he hacked, slashed and relished the terror in the other man's eyes, and suddenly he licked his lips, growling maniacally, revelling in every moment he dominated his enemy.
Finally, beating the man back towards the doorway of the burning farmhouse, he broke through the man's guard. Time seemed to freeze a moment, the other man open, vulnerable. All Furley had to do was lunge and claim his victim.
Instead, smiling widly, his eyes beaming, he lifted his foot up and smashed it into the man's chest, sending him flying backwards into the burning building as thatch and timber fell, the man's terrified screams falling across his ears, but Furley didn't flinch. For a moment, he had forgotten the battle around him, as he stared into the flames and devastation before him, the smoke rising, choking out the rising dawn.
It was like something inside him had taken over, some strange monster that he had caged inside of him. Licking his lips, he snarled, turning to face the next one that dared step foot near him.
"That's for you, Utred, and for Langhold. Every one of those bastards that comes south into our lands will burn".
