When Vilon opened his eyes, he was flat on his back in the mud.
His oak shield, which he had raised just in time to catch the momentum of the thrust, was nowhere to be seen. In its place, his iron-gloved fingers gripped only cold air and wet grass. His head swam violently; the world spun around him in a dizzying blur, leaving him as the only fixed point in a sea of grey and red. He could hear the soft cry of the river water....he was so close.
Get up or die.
The voice in his head sounded like his father's, harsh, relentless, calling him a fool as tall as a pine and twice as thick in the skull.
He blinked away the dark spots, and as his vision cleared, he caught the lethal glint of the spearhead driving straight down for his exposed chest, proably to finish what it started.
He threw his body to the side, rolling through the mire. Mud and wet grass clung to his mail.
Get on your feet or die. On your feet!
