No sooner had he killed his attackers than he received a powerful blow as a Pandesian clubbed him in the ribs—and a moment later he found himself falling sideways off his horse and into the throng of men.

Duncan shook off stars and gained his feet, sword in hand, ready to go, and found himself facing a mix of soldiers, some on foot, others on horseback. He reached up, grabbed a soldier by his leg, and dragged him off his horse; the man fell and immediately Duncan mounted his horse. He snatched his lance in the process and swung it around, knocking three soldiers off their horses and clearing a space.

The battle raged on. A seemingly endless array of Pandesian soldiers poured out of the barracks, and with each company of men that appeared, Duncan knew his odds were worsening. He saw his men beginning to falter: one of his younger warriors took a spear in the ribs, blood gushing from his mouth—and a warrior who had just joined his ranks took a fatal sword slash to the chest.

Duncan, though, would not give up; that was not who he was. There would be no retreat, whatever the odds. He had been through many a battle that had seemed bleak, and never once had he turned and fled, as had many of his compatriots. It was what had earned him his reputation, and the respect of the men of Escalon. He might lead them to death, they knew, but he would never lead them to dishonor.

Duncan redoubled his efforts: he charged forward, let out a great cry, and leapt down from his horse holding his lance sideways before him—and taking down several men. He charged, on foot, deeper into the crowd, using the lance and knocking over soldiers in every direction. It was a suicide charge, but he no longer cared—and in that moment of no longer caring, he felt a great liberation, a greater freedom than he had ever experienced.

When Duncan’s lance was chopped in half by a soldier, he used its jagged end to stab a soldier, then dropped it, drew his sword and swung with both hands, foregoing his shield and throwing caution to the wind. He slashed and hacked until his shoulders grew tired and sweat stung his eyes, faster than all the others around him—but quickly losing steam. It was a final death charge, and while he knew he would not make it, he took solace in the fact that at least he would die giving it all he had.

As Duncan’s shoulders grew tired and several soldiers charged him, as he knew he was looking death in the face, suddenly, there came a whistling sound, like an arrow, followed by a single thwack. To Duncan’s shock, the soldier before him fell on his back, an arrow lodged in his chest.