The remaining Ironborn did not hesitate either. They trampled straight over the still-warm bodies of their leader and the captain of his guards, raising their weapons and charging deeper into the cabin with savage cries.
Not a single guard budged. Many of Oliver's personal guards were squires who had received proper military training.
Now they stood shoulder to shoulder in the narrow passage, shielding Oliver completely behind them, their sword points angled toward the Ironborn pouring through the doorway.
The passage was not only narrow, with room for at most three men abreast, but short as well, so the Ironborn soon crashed into the guards' line.
The leading battle axe reeked of blood as it slammed into the oak shield at the front. The half-inch-thick shield split with a crack, but the guard behind it used his opponent's forward momentum to drive his longsword between the Ironborn's ribs.
Without his shield, however, another Ironborn slashed his throat with a shortsword, spraying scalding blood over the faces of several men opposite him.
Whenever a man fell at the front of the guards' line, the next stepped up to replace him. They still maintained some semblance of order, far more than the Ironborn did.
Yet with dozens of men crammed into the narrow cabin, they could barely raise their arms to swing their swords. Even so, every forward slash tore through enemy flesh, and every thrust gambled their own lives.
One guard had his helmet split open by an Ironborn's battle axe. Milky brain matter mixed with blood smeared his hand, yet sheer fighting instinct still drove him to plunge his longsword into his opponent's lower belly.
Another had his intestines hooked out by an Ironborn's axe and left dangling outside his armor, but he still clamped down on the enemy's wrist,