"Go! I'll draw them away!"
Furs hauled up a comrade who had tripped over a rock and twisted his ankle.
Clutching his ankle, the cavalryman broke out in a cold sweat. "Don't... don't worry about me. You go on."
"No. We're going together—"
Furs called the teammates ahead of them back, and together they carried him as they ran.
But carrying a Wounded slowed them down. Soon they had fallen to the back of the Legion. They could already smell the Ratfolk's rank stench and hear their shrill, chaotic cries.
"I'll draw them away!"
Furs gritted his teeth and made his decision.
"No! Don't do anything stupid! The others will calm down soon and set up a defense line ahead. We'll be safe once we reach them!"
"We won't make it. At this rate, none of us will get away!"
Furs glanced back at the dense sea of scarlet behind them. The nearest Ratfolk were less than a hundred Yard away.
They were Musketeers, ill-suited to close combat. Even warriors trained in swordsmanship would die if they fell into the Rat Tide.
"Put me down! Leave me!" the cavalryman with the twisted ankle shouted. He dared not struggle for fear of slowing his comrades further.
Thump!
Furs struck the Wounded on the back of the head. Stars burst before the man's eyes, and he cried out, "What did you hit me for?"
"Sorry. I was trying to knock you out..."
Furs felt embarrassed. At least the darkness hid his blush. "My name's Furs. My family died on the Northern Frontier a few years ago. If I don't make it back, send my death benefit to the Orphanage."
He spun around, fired a shot into the Rat Swarm, and ran off to the side. "Come on, you bastards! I can kill