Dying like a man

As the three riders rode down on the small party, Wim knew they were in trouble. Spears had a better reach than swords and they could be thrown. It was clear that his wounded party was most likely going to die in the plains. The Duke had damned them to this fate by picking sided.

Since his childhood head learned the lesson that when you are wounded you fight out of desperation. Fighting out of desperation and fear meant most of the time you lose because you make mistakes.
“Form up,” he called to the men.
Trying to show some defensive posture to the attackers.

The riders had the advantage on them. Fresher horses, Spears have better reach and could be thrown and speed. A single bow would have given the men a chance. He wished he had the wagon and his stuff.

He kicked the grey mare to move forward to meet the riders drawing his sword. She gave him a walk, still nearly lame from the hard ride fleeing from the first attackers in what seemed like weeks ago. With his sword out and raised he gave a war cry and went to meet them. The first spear missed him by inches, the second came in short hitting the horse on the right shoulder making her stumble and roll.

Tumbling off the horse, Wim barely managed to keep hold of his sword. His leg and arm throbbed with a pain that he had never felt before. White light flashed in his vision as he tried to meet the riders. Tears fell from his eyes and the horse screamed in pain. Logic said he was going to die, but he was going to take those bastards with him if it was the last thing he ever did.

As the spear man drove at him, Wim waited. The trick here was not being impaled and driving the point of the spear down at the ground. Simple leverage would do the rest if he could hit the shaft of the spear. As the horseman rode in spear lowered, Wim waited. As the spear came in, Wim tried to spin and strike down using his good leg and arm. He misjudged the speed and the tip of the spear caught the side of his puffy shirt and cloak, which caused his sword to strike the rider’s leg and the flank of the horse causing it to stumble. The tip had dug in deep causing both to bleed. Wim was thrown from the force of the spear. Wim’s clothing tore leaving another hole. Wim tried to get up as the the next rider jumped from his horse. Wim managed to free the knife from his bad arm and throw it just before the man got to him. The knife hit him in the stomach taking him by supplies. The third man rode for the others who had managed to form a defense, the group responded.
Getting partway up to his feet, Wim watched. The first man threw himself on Wim’s back knocking him over again. Now it became a wrestling match. Wim had been in enough bar fights to know how to cheat and the tribesman had strength on his side.
It was the Mare screaming and the pain Wim felt that pushed him to fight on.
Rocks, dirt, knees and elbows, spit, every trick they had, the two of them used.

Finally Wim managed to get his sword while laying on his back with other trying to keep the weapon out of reach, Wim twisted the blade getting the tip into the man’s shoulder and pushed. It went about an eight of an inch then the man slashed Wim’s side with a blade from his belt. Wim brought his knee up causing the man to ball up and Wim hit him with the handle of the sword. Laying him out.

Wim laid on top of the man pinning him and laughed like a crazy man. He should have been dead.

Wim was not able to get up. His leg now felt like it had a fracture from Boyce’s sword and then the impacts. He was now sure that his wounds would now probably kill him before he ever got to the city.

He laughed, because his father would have been proud of him and because there was not anything he could do about it all now. His fate was now out of his hands.