On the battlefield, the clash of steel and screams rang out without end. It was like a small meat grinder, with someone dying every moment.
The edge of Loras's longsword had been battered and rolled. He picked up a sword lying on the ground and went on fighting.
His white armor was now spattered with blood, but he could not tell whether it belonged to his enemies or himself. A cut had opened on his left arm, and blood ran down it, yet he felt no pain.
His eyes stayed fixed ahead, on the enemies surging toward him. Only one thought remained in his mind: I must hold Storm's End for Renly.
"Loras." A voice came from behind him. Loras swung his sword a few more times, then turned toward the voice. The old knight from earlier rushed to his side, his face covered in blood. "Randyll has too many men. Our forces have been routed. We must retreat."
Loras looked around. Randyll's men were everywhere. His formation had been broken, more than half his two thousand men were dead or wounded, and the survivors had been split into isolated pockets, each fighting on its own.
"Then we die here today. We will not retreat," Loras said firmly.
The old knight looked at him, a complicated emotion flickering through his clouded eyes. He nodded to Loras, tightened his grip on his sword, and turned back to the fighting.
Another quarter of an hour passed, and bodies lay strewn across the avenue. The two thousand soldiers loyal to Mace had been all but wiped out. Fewer than a hundred remained, still fighting desperately.
Loras stood among the heaps of corpses, drenched in blood. Even the battle-axe he had just picked up had a rolled edge, but he still refused to lower