Beside the main avenue of White Rock City.
Olaf's battle-axe whistled through the air and smashed a Minisian Sword-and-Shield Fighter's skull, splattering blood and brains over half his body. He shook the scraps of flesh from his axe blade and looked around, breathing heavily.
The battle was going terribly for the Varangians.
Under Olaf's leadership, the Varangians had indeed torn a bloody opening through the alley mouth on the right, breaking the sword-and-shield formation.
But the cost had been appalling.
More than twenty Varangian warriors had fallen forever during the charge, their corpses trampled by the Minisian soldiers surging up behind them.
Everyone left, himself included, was wounded. Their armor was covered in blade cuts and spear marks, with deep dents in places seeping dark red blood.
Thick blood pooled into little streams across the flagstones, giving off a nauseating, rusty smell.
Worse still, they had not truly broken out.
Charging into this side street had merely meant jumping into a slightly smaller meat grinder. Minisian archers and Musketeers occupied the rooftops on either side of the narrow street, raining death down from above.
Hundreds of arrows clattered down. Shooting downhill made hitting the poor bastards below easy. Though every Varangian wore heavy armor and most arrows fired by the enemies above glanced off, some still slipped through gaps at the joints or struck helmet visors, drawing sprays of blood and muffled grunts.
Ahead of and behind the Varangians, more Minisian infantry advanced with spears, swords, and shields, driven forward by their officers' roars, trying to crush them in this alley of death.
"Fuck, we're going to die here!"
A Varangian warrior spat bloody saliva, smashed an approaching enemy soldier to the ground with his mace, then leaned against a wall to catch his breath.
"What are you afraid of?"