‘Prepare to engage!’
Ralph could only watch the stunning ferocity of the approaching Goblins with a sort of detached horrified fascination, as he tried in vain to mentally prepare himself to start fighting for all he was worth; in the same breath he had to force himself to realise that this was no dream.
As the dark shapes in the mist drew near, they not only grew darker, but seemed to grow more numerous, more real, and infinitely more deadly. At the last moment, there was no time to think . . . only to react . . . to fight or die. Despite his training, Ralph’s sword suddenly felt strange and awkward in his hand as the enemy closed the last few yards at a frenetic pace. Gritting his teeth, trying to clamp down on his terror, he raised his shield to fend off a serrated Goblin scimitar, before lashing out at his attacker with all the force he could muster
All down the line, the frenzied blackness was halted in its tracks by white raging fire. Black, serrated iron swords rang as they were broken, fierce Goblin eyes were daunted as they were cut down, helms cloven, shields riven, bodies rendered broken and bleeding.
Nothing could have prepared Ralph for the actual sounds of battle, nor the physical reality of maiming, death, and dying. A killing blow sent both enemy and defender alike falling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Everything seemed caught in a distorted and paradoxical web of unreality, made up of frenetic frenzy and slow-motion, as though time itself had become a thin membrane, stretched to the limit and about to rupture.